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Even after being branded a turncloak, traitor, and Drowned God knows what else, Theon doesn’t think anyone’s looked as accusingly at him as the untouched sheet of parchment on his desk.
It was Yara who had suggested writing a letter to himself about his time at the Dreadfort, under Ramsay. Something about getting the words out, dealing with his thoughts. Ironically, she hadn’t given him a chance to get a word out in response, brusquely shoving a quill and inkwell into his hands before turning to address one of the sailors under her command. He had melted back below deck, temporarily forgotten as she focused her attention on navigation and running her ship, but she had found him again later that evening, curled up on his bed as she set a small stack of parchment on his desk.
“Try it,” she had said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, not mentioning the way he flinched from her touch. “It might do you some good.”
Before Theon was able to ask her what the hell she had meant, Yara was gone, and he slumped back against the mattress, soon forgetting about the conversation as he drifted off into a troubled slumber. When he woke, though, the stationary was still there in his room, proof that he hadn’t dreamed of the exchange. He had ignored it for several days, until one morning, after a sleepless night marked by memories of hunting dogs and flaying knives.
So, Theon finds himself at his desk hours later, quill dipped in ink, the parchment untouched in front of him. He had sat at a table like this once, at Pyke, writing tirelessly in dim candlelight until his hand cramped, before throwing all his hard work away by taking the letter to a candle’s flame. Now, as his hands ache from old wounds, he sometimes wonders how his life would be different had he not let Robb’s trust evaporate into smoke, had he sent the damn letter, fled Pyke, and retaken his place by his friend’s side.
But, he supposes it’s too late to wonder about what could have been. Ramsay had made that much clear.
The parchment is still maddeningly blank, despite how long he had been staring at it for, and Theon finally admits to himself that he might just have to force himself to put the first few words down on the page if he wants to write anything at all. Finally taking the quill to hand presents a whole other issue, though, with his twisted and missing fingers making it awkward to write like he used to. He makes an effort to try, though, deciding to start with copying out his letters, fixing his mistakes when his hand shakes too much and pausing to readjust the grip on his quill every so often. Even confined in the dungeons, Theon doesn’t know if he could ever truly forget his letters, though the memories of his uncle guiding his hand with the quill and his mother reading to him at night feel far more faint now than they ever did before he met Ramsay.
When he becomes more confident with his writing, Theon switches to a fresh sheet, but hesitates before penning his name at the top. For some reason, it feels wrong to do so, even if he doesn’t try to correct Yara in a panic when she addresses him by the correct name anymore. After some internal debate, he decides not to, but that leads him back to his initial problem of not knowing what to write, and several minutes later, he puts the quill down, groaning as he rubs his forehead in frustration.
He doesn’t want to talk to Yara (or anyone) about Ramsay, he knows that much. Every time their conversations draw anywhere near the subject, Theon freezes up, coming to at the sound of his sister’s voice, or the feeling of her shaking him gently by the shoulders. Being alone with his own thoughts is somehow different, though. The night terrors still keep him from sleeping until dawn, and when he sees his marred skin while changing, a pang of some unexplainable emotion runs through him, but he knows himself, doesn’t have to explain himself when alone. Doesn’t have to explain Reek.
Theon doesn’t know how he could tell Yara that he sometimes slips back to Reek late at night, or when one of the Ironborn makes an off-kilter joke around him, or when he can swear he feels Ramsay in the shadows of the ship’s hull. The episodes aren’t nearly as bad as they used to be, almost unnoticeable as he slips out of sight to deal with them on his own, but he knows that Yara thinks him almost hale again, if not very shaken and scarred from his ordeals. She would never be able to understand, though she tries her best to support him, in her own blunt, very Yara way, and for that Theon is thankful.
The only person other than him that could understand Reek is Ramsay, Theon thinks miserably. Reek’s creator. His master. His god. Just thinking about him in detail makes Theon feel nauseous, and he shakes his head to try and chase the feeling away, concentrating back on the page. The letter he’s supposed to write. Yara’s voice, going it might do you some good. Ramsay’s voice, naming him. Maiming him.
Theon lets his head thump against the desk, exasperated with his own thoughts. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Putting his experiences to words. Having them somewhere that wasn’t his own troubled head. After a moment, he sits up, grabbing the quill. Leaning into his own discomfort, Theon begins to write.
The page soon becomes filled with awkward script, scratched out in places with a misspelled word, or particularly illegible handwriting, or where the quill slipped out of Theon’s grasp. It would probably be incoherent to anyone else reading, but to Theon it makes perfect sense - Reek’s mantras, Ramsay’s routines, scars, Ramsay’s dogs, flayed limbs, blue eyes, severed digits, Ramsay’s temper, flying from the ramparts. As he writes, he feels lighter, somehow, no longer the sole keeper of the secrets of his ordeal, though he will let no one but him read his letter.
His sister’s voice breaks him from his reverie. “Theon.”
Theon’s head shoots up, and his quill makes a large, dark line across the page in his shock. Even after weeks at sea, hearing his true name still startles him sometimes, but he keeps his face neutral as he turns in his seat to see Yara leaning against the doorframe, cocking her head as she asks, “Did I disturb you?”
“No,” Theon replies, clearing his throat before putting the quill down and staring back at the parchment, the messy, uneven scrawl of words. “I was just… busy.”
“Busy,” Yara repeats, following his gaze. “So I see. You’ve taken my advice.”
“Yes.” The air between them is thick with awkward tension, and anxiety rises up unbidden in Theon’s throat that she will ask to read what he has written, the most delicate, vulnerable pieces of his psyche that Ramsay’s flaying had uncovered. But he tamps down on this, instead asking with a small voice, “Did you need anything?”
Yara nods. “We’re about to dock in Meereen. I figured you should know.”
“Oh.” He clasps his crooked hands in his lap. “Thank you for telling me.”
She huffs, and they lapse into silence again. As Yara moves to leave, though, Theon opens his mouth again, still staring at his writing. “Where did you get the idea for this, anyway?”
Yara turns, before waving a hand flippantly. “Something the Reader said once. About confronting your fears, and being able to deal with them… I suppose it’s healthier than bottling everything up.”
Theon snorts. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” he says wryly, moving to stack the parchment and sequester it away in a desk drawer.
Yara laughs, short and clipped. “There’s your sense of humour!” She watches Theon, his movements stiff as he pulls the drawer open, and softens her tone slightly. “Has it helped, though? You seem less troubled.”
He pauses, staring at the secrets in the drawer. His secrets, able to be hidden from sight, unable to be read by anyone, not least the woman at his door. Reek’s secrets, kept safe as he gently pushes the drawer shut.
“Yes,” Theon says, finally, rising to join Yara and smiling wearily at her. “I think it has.”