"I love you," he says aloud, and startles himself awake.
Maybe not completely awake, because he reaches over and is disappointed when he finds the sheets of his bed are cold and lonely.
Because he's not in his bed, he's huddled under his cloak. There was never anyone pressed warm and snug against him, and there are no sheets - there is only the frozen, rough ground between him and the nearly dead campfire. The sheets from his dream are, in reality, just the pathetically thin blanket which is all that separates him from the dirt.
Gunther clings to the dream, tries to remember the warmth and comfort it had provided, but it's fading faster than he can commit it to memory. There's the impression of a soft, supple arm, the scent of flowers - lavender - and the feeling of being wanted, loved.
A feeling of ...belonging.
He loses the shape and the smell of it almost immediately, and mourns its passing. But it's a dream that has no basis in memory or fact, so he can't categorize it, can't associate it, can't store it away.
Hell, it's not even a dream borne of imagination.
At least, not on a conscious level. Such thoughts had always seemed wrong, somehow unnatural, maybe even forbidden - so he's never allowed himself to fantasize about something so unattainable as comfort, family, or love. Those things are not for him.
This want - no, this need - for belonging is an as-of-yet unknown desire, a yearning, which has been pulled from his subconscious, unwilling. Before now, before all this horrible business with his father and the king, hadn't Gunther belonged? Hadn't the castle been his home, the knights his family, and Jane his best friend and partner?
Now, with all of that gone, all of it ripped away - that thing, that part of his life he hadn't thought he needed has worked its way free from his subconscious. A thorn which has surfaced and needs to be removed in order for the wound to bleed clear.
Such dreams have no place in the real world.
Not anymore.
Nevertheless, Gunther stares at the dying embers and wishes for the dream - the feeling of it - to come back, even though he knows it is gone. His insides feel raw, empty. He laments the cruelty of a life where a heart can keep beating, keep pounding away day in and day out as though nothing is wrong, even after it has been broken.
He hates the void it leaves, the sense of being empty, hollow. The numbness is worse than the anger, so he abandons his attempt to remember the dream and wills the anger back. Anything is better than this gasping vacuum that threatens to consume him.
It's easy enough to remember the anger, the fury. That wound is still fresh, and burns around the edges.
Thusly warmed, Gunther drifts back into an uneasy sleep.
The hall isn't silent, even though no one is talking. They dare not, lest they risk drawing the attention of the insecure and volatile child-king who occupies the throne. Even so, faint rustling can be heard from the stiff, formal attire of those present for the proceedings, as the wearers politely jostle for a better view.
Gunther understands - they aren't being voyeurs, they are protecting themselves. Like himself, they live at the castle as hostages of the king. Nearly all of them are offspring of Kippernia's nobles, wealthy elite, or military generals. The vast majority of them are little more than children; they are young, afraid, and know full well the capricious nature of their new monarch.
Knowledge is power, and here at court where they have so little power, it is the only thing they have to trade.
So they watch.
Even Jane is here, behind the throne with her father, gnawing at her lip. Gunther resists the urge to tell her to stop - she'll bloody it and leave it cracked and bleeding. She must know something he does not, she's wrapped around the thin frame of her father and all but crackles with some unknown emotion. The Lord Chamberlain looks similarly disturbed, and the white of his knuckles indicate he is holding Jane firmly in place.
Gunther reaches the dias and takes a knee to his king.
"Gunther Breech," begins the king, his tone practically dripping with disdain. He does not use Gunther's earned appellation of Knight; it's not entirely surprising, even as a child Cuthbert did not like him. "We have found your father guilty of treason. His estate and all of his holdings have been seized and are now the sovereign property of the crown."
Gunther's head snaps up- "What? What has he done?"
"His formal charges include fraud, sedition, collusion with enemies of the kingdom, and high treason. Naturally he has been sentenced to death...
What say you?"
Gunther is speechless - struck dumb - well and thoroughly shocked.
"I- I- I had no idea of my father's dealings - we haven't even spoken since last winter-"
"Somehow We find that rather hard to believe. The Breeches have a long familial history of greed and treason, do they not?"
"I am not my father. Or my grandfather, for that matter. I have served the kingdom, yourself, and the late King Caradoc with honor for all of these years."
The King affects a thoughtful, pensive mein. It's false, everyone here knows it's false - whatever decision he's made was settled long before Gunther walked into the throne room.
"You certainly put on a good show of loyalty, and We have not uncovered direct evidence of your involvement. So We are inclined to be merciful. Still We cannot have a trained killer, with a family history of seditious activities, positioned so close to the throne. You are hereby stripped of your title of Knight, and immediately relieved of your duties. You will remove yourself from this court and castle by daybreak tomorrow, and We suggest that you be very, very careful with your future endeavours."
Gunther is reeling. "May I see my father before I leave?"
"So that you can continue to plot and scheme? No. You are dismissed."
And with that - fortune secured and threat eliminated - the king has forgotten him.
Gunther stands, his hands are clenched into fists at his sides to hide the shaking, and glances over to where Jane is pulling, tugging at her father's grip, desperate to be free. He spins on his heel before she can catch his eye, and makes his escape with long, purposeful steps.
Gunther has no real destination in mind, no set direction to travel, and feels no compulsion other than a general, directionless need to get away. Truly the points of the compass mean nothing; thanks to the king's mishandling of public funds, there are opportunities for a man such as himself just about everywhere.
Brigands and bandits have become more commonplace in the last few years - he and Jane had been kept busy since their knighting. Their days had been filled with constant patrols, grueling marches, and aggravatingly depressing missions as knights of the realm. Thievery and preying on innocents is an awful, immoral, illegal means by which to survive - but half the time they'd flush a gang and find the "men" to be nothing more than starving children. Boys younger than himself, still without whiskers.
Duty, he'd told himself when he'd lain down at night only to see their thin faces and large, frightened eyes hanging before him in the dark. It was his duty as a knight.
Well, he's not a knight anymore, is he?
As a civilian, Gunther's skills could easily be put to to use as part of a town watch, a caravan guard, or - as Jane had so despaired - a mercenary. The first two are noble enough options, but the third - it makes him feel ever so slightly ill.
Hopefully, it will not come to that.
He would much rather protect innocents from brigands than become a sellsword, but hell, Gunther is skilled enough to start his own band of thugs, should he be so inclined. He's educated, knowledgeable, skilled with a weapon, and - according to the king - comes from a long line of scoundrels. Gunther very much enjoys the idea of raiding King Cuthbert's coffers and distributing the wealth back to Kippernia's people.
A good chunk of said wealth is actually his - or had belonged to his father, at least - and Gunther finds it hard to feel guilty for his ignoble daydreams.
It's not as if he would actually start his own gang. Still, the idea of the honorable thief appeals.
Jane would certainly disapprove.
Directionless, Gunther decides to head north, for no other reason than the kingdom's border is closer there, and the sooner he crosses into a neighboring country, the better - worse, his heart whispers, worse - he will feel.
He could have hopped on a ship in Kippertown and been in international waters within hours, but if he had tried the docks it was unlikely he would have gone unrecognized. Gunther hasn't worked for his father since his knighting, but his title - no, his former title - only makes him more identifiable. The dockworkers, and probably the sailors as well, would know him by sight, and likely string him up.
After all, it seems improbable that the king would have paid out the sailors' contracts before freezing Magnus' assets.
So Gunther goes north. He is without a horse and the roads are rough, and it is slow going. The route itself is almost entirely uphill; he's in the foothills by the first day, has sighted the first low mountains by the third. Occasionally he travels with others, but companionship becomes less frequent the further he gets from the castle. Such fellow travelers as he does meet along the way include small groups of traders, single men, gaunt and hungry-looking families; people who - like himself - are emigrating over the border in hopes of finding more opportunities, a better life.
He's happy to lend his sword as protection as they wander along, but he's wary of revealing too much about himself. More than once he's heard grumblings about a traitor merchant and his dishonored son.
It makes him feel guilty, and he sends up an unspoken apology to his friend, but Gunther introduces himself as Jethro, the fourth son of a kind and gentle nobody. He presents himself as a man who was apprenticed out to the castle - there had only been so much work at the pig farm - and had trained as a castle guard - but now…
No one ever asks any questions after that.
Everyone, everyone, has their own but now.
A family member who had been in service to the old king and since let go. A rich uncle who was swindled into poverty by the traitor. A son who was slaughtered by brigands. A young wife, lost because the husband could not afford a midwife. A farmer who could not meet the new taxes, and had his lease revoked by the king's men.
Common ground; a plethora of small catastrophes following the death of King Caradoc. They commiserate his loss, give a small prayer for the late king and his good-natured wife, and don't ask any further questions.
At night he camps alone. Doing so is foolhardy; he can't keep watch and sleep, and the people he sometimes travels with with could probably use the protection he'd be able to afford them. But he cannot bring himself, somehow, to share a camp with any of these acquaintances. He tells himself he doesn't want to reveal himself, that he wants the anonymity, needs the solitude.
But that isn't the true reason for his self-imposed isolation. Gunther knows it's not.
It is punishment.
Not that he hasn't been punished enough - he has, surely he has - but shouldn't he have recognized what his father was up to, shouldn't he have seen it and stopped it himself? Gunther had told the truth when he'd said it had been winter the last time they'd spoken - argued, really - it had been the final straw before he'd moved permanently into the barracks. Gunther hadn't even bothered to retrieve the few sentimental items he'd hidden away in his room - Jane had urged him to, but he hadn't. He'd just walked out and never gone back.
Maybe this was his fault.
No. No.
Gunther had never been Magnus' moral compass. Such thoughts were unfair. Self-flagellation.
If there was anything to feel guilty for, it was for leaving Jane so abruptly.
Not that he'd had much choice.