The Iron Thorn | Theon Greyjoy

61.

Massey

   Finally breaching the mouth of the cave once again, I could see that Jon and Ser Davos were making their way down to the shore with a scattered few Dothraki and Missandei following closely. I thought it best to catch up with them, perhaps they had more information than when I had left the castle. Simultaneously, the small boat I'd seen was making its way toward the shore, its ship bobbing at sea with its sails rolled up. A handful of men fought the waves to bring themselves to land, but I didn't pay them much mind. With Jon near, I felt safe enough to approach all the same. When it finally ran aground, the occupants found themselves face to face with Jon. I picked up my pace, walking as briskly as I could without calling it running. As I grew nearer, it was plain to see that the tensions within the encounter were rising. Jon had grabbed one man by the neck of his shirt and pulled him in close, saying something I couldn't hope to hear from such a distance. I swore for a moment that I had recognized the man. With nothing else on my mind, I hurried even more quickly toward the scuffle. The clothes the men from the boat wore were very familiar to me. They weren't entirely unlike what I was wearing myself.

   Ten yards away, now.

   My eyes were playing tricks on me. The breeze along the water was gentle, while the only sound falling on my ears was the crashing of the waves. My sight of the men that Jon wasn't holding on to faded into the background as Jon's voice dropped even quieter.

   Five yards.

   It couldn't be. Men from every corner of Westeros must have looked the same from behind. Besides, I couldn't have even been sure what he looked like after all that time. Jon caught sight of me over the man's shoulder. Though still clenching his jaw, his eyes softened as he released his grip. The man stumbled back toward the shore a few steps, looking all the more familiar as he did. I didn't move a muscle. I'm not sure I was even breathing. My heart couldn't handle another disappointment, so I didn't allow myself to believe what I had hoped was in front of me. He turned slowly toward me, his gaze fixed on my feet as though he couldn't bring himself to look me in the eyes. I remained as I was, frozen there with clenched breath and unblinking eyes, until he finally saw my face. It couldn't be. But, it was.

   Theon.

   Standing there, saying nothing at all, not moving one muscle, he was a shell of the man who had sent me away all those years ago. A tangled mess of both friend and stranger. Cut, then healed. Maimed, then broken. A man reassembled from shattered pieces.

   A ghost. Gone and brought back, maybe. Like Jon.

   I couldn't wrap my head around the idea when Ser Davos tried to explain it to me, but looking at Theon in this state made it clearer somehow. There was nothing but shock behind his eyes. If I looked long enough, perhaps a glint of fear. Even fully clothed for a journey at sea, I could tell he was thinner. His clothes fit more loosely, like a child playing in their father's wardrobe. Like he wasn't pretending to be something he no longer was.

He used to be so strong, I thought. He used to smile.

Words failed me, and from the looks of it, they failed Theon as well. He began to speak as he took a cautious step toward me, but instead just swallowed his words. He shook his head as if to deny himself his instinct to cower, planting his feet still once again.

   "Massey," he finally spoke in a hushed tone, his voice almost cracking as though my name pained him to say. Maybe he'd forgotten me. Maybe Ramsay had made him forget. Maybe he didn't want to remember.

Yet, for some reason, the moment my name left his lips, my shock turned immediately to anger. I felt it in my gut, felt my cheeks turning red.

"I...I don't know what to say. I'm so—"