Gunther hunkered down by the base of the catapult and pretended to inspect the bolts on the wheel. There was nothing wrong with the bolts, he had inspected them just yesterday, and Gunther knew they were in no danger of shaking loose.

No, Gunther was eavesdropping, a most distasteful and dishonorable pastime, made doubly so as he was doing it at the command of his father.

Hadn't he done enough? Made enough poor choices and hurt the very people he was supposed to protect?

This was all his fault. Every last awful bit. He'd let his desire to best Jane and Dragon override his common sense and - he could feel the tears threatening - his need to please his father destroy what little honor he had earned.

"I am proud of you, boy."

Ugh, it made him sick - actually and truly physically ill - to think of it. His head pounded, his chest felt hollow, and nausea churned and roiled deep in his gut.

How could he be so ridiculously and irritatingly naive? To fall into his father's trap yet again, to let himself be used as a pawn in another one of his father's games? He was so stupid and trusting.

He knew better. Knew better.

Magnus loved no one but himself. He'd seen Gunther's weakness - his pathetically desperate need for validation - and twisted it into yet another scheme which had nearly cost Dragon his home and Jane her life.

But for what end?

Gunther would never believe his father's assertion that Dragon's expulsion was for the good of the kingdom - it was weak and vague reasoning, at best. No, no. Somehow Magnus planned to profit from the situation. How, Gunther had no earthly idea, but it could not be something as simple as impugned honor or a burnt cart.

He might not know what Magnus actually had planned, but knowing his father, it would not be pleasant.

And it would be his fault.

Just like everything - everything - that had happened today was Gunther's fault. The burned garden, the loss of three crop fields, Dragon being banished from the kingdom.

Hell, Gunther had almost killed Jane.

Bile threatened to rise again.

His father might have bade him to launch the horrid flowers into the air, but he - Gunther - had actually done it. He'd been the one to pull the cord. The guilt and the shame were nearly overwhelming. To think he had actually felt a rush of pride when the flowers had found their mark, only for it to disappear completely - washed away in a deluge of absolute horror - as Jane and Dragon fell from the sky, plummeting to the ground.

He couldn't even begin to describe the tumult of emotions he'd experienced in those brief minutes. The horror at seeing them fall, the cold dread as they'd lain unmoving in the tall weeds, the sudden swamp of relief he'd felt when she'd popped up out of the flowers unharmed. And the bright new surge of fear as Dragon had begun sneezing uncontrollably and Jane had needed to run for her life.

It had been heart-stoppingly terrifying.

And yet he was still here, fiddling with the catapult, listening in on Jane and Dragon's conversation because Magnus had ordered him to.

"This is madness," declared Dragon. "I would never burn the crops. Eat them perhaps, but I would never burn them." He was incredulous at the accusation.

Jane worked to calm him, only to be cut short. "It is the king's decree, Dragon-"

"Well he can decree and decry all he wants." Dragon said angrily. "I am a dragon, not one of his short-life subjects."

Dragon was quite right. The lizard was not subject to the king's commands, nor did he have any duty to Kippernia… but Jane did.

As did Gunther himself.

Gunther stood up from his crouched position and stared blankly into the bucket of the catapult. It was blackened, stained dark with the tar's residue. He reached out to touch the sticky substance, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers.

Was this what he looked like on the inside?

He did not want it to be.

Decision made, he took a deep breath and sauntered over to where Jane argued with Dragon. Slapping on the smarmiest smile in his repertoire, Gunther caught her attention.

"I know your game, Jane."

"Gunther, wait."

Gunther's shoulders slumped. He'd known Jane would seek him out, but Gunther had already had a very awkward conversation with Sir Ivon, and really did not fancy a repeat. Their conversation had been so unbearably uncomfortable, Sir Ivon lapsing into his thickest, most indecipherable brogue, Gunther couldn't even say what exactly they had discussed. He did know Sir Ivon was not angry with him - there had even been a horrifying moment when he'd been sure his mentor was going to hug him - but Gunther understood he would not be be assigned any additional duties for his supposed crime.

No one, it seemed, had believed his lie.

Still, he had hoped to slink off unnoticed. He should have realized Jane would never let him slip away without providing some sort of explanation for his behavior. "I am in a hurry, Jane. My father is no doubt displeased with my actions and will not like paying reparations to the farmer for the lost crops. It is better if I do not anger him further." He took a step, ready to make his escape.

"If you would… just hold for a moment?" She lifted one hand hesitantly, as if to stop him. "It will not take long, I promise."

He could just go. He should just go; ignore her entreaties and beg his leave to make the trek home to face his father's wrath.

Jane pressed her lips together, and tried again. "Please, Gunther."

It was the please which did it. Not so much the entreaty itself - Jane was always unfailingly polite, even when hurling insults - but her tone. She wasn't just being curious, or nosey, or displaying the oddly endearing sense of honor which often resulted in her chasing down some problem and worrying at it like a dog with a bone. No. The please had been fraught with uncertainty, and tinged with what sounded like genuine worry.

He could almost imagine she cared.

Whatever it was, it gave him pause. He took a deep breath and turned so that he faced her directly. "Yes, Jane?"

She let out the breath she'd been holding. "Could you tell me what all that was about?"

"I do not understand." Maybe if he affected bewilderment, played daft and dumb, she would leave it alone. Who was he kidding? Jane knew he wasn't stupid - even if she regularly proclaimed otherwise - and in the time he had known her, had never shown any propensity for leaving well enough alone.

"Why, Gunther, why did you do that?"

Of course. She was never one to mince words or dance about. Jane, as always, drove straight to the heart of the matter. On any other day, he might have respected her ability to be so forthright. Today, though? Gunther did not appreciate it in the least.

"I am expected home, Jane." He said, irritated. "I do not have time to play guessing games. Do what?"

Her mouth pulled down in a frown. "Are you being thick on purpose? Do…" her hands gestured helplessly as she searched for the right words, "all of it. Why, why did you help me, and then, if it really was your father, why did you defend him - just, Gunther, why?!"

Gunther took a deep breath before answering. "I do not know what you are talking about Jane. It happened just like I said."

She folded her arms across her chest, staring hard at his face. "Is that so."

He tugged at his sleeves and smoothed his tunic before meeting her eyes. "Yes," he said flatly.

"You set the fields afire just to see what a battle looks like." It wasn't a question. She practically oozed disbelief.

Gunther held her gaze and affected his haughtiest tone. "Did I not say so, to Sir Theodore, the king, and everyone?"

Jane was unimpressed. "You most certainly did. And they might - might - even believe such rubbish. But I do not."

Well, Sir Ivon certainly had not - which meant Sir Theodore had not. King Caradoc, the same man who had banished Dragon over a sneezing fit, had been surprisingly unruffled by Gunther's confession. His lack of censure -beyond the reparations his father would be required to pay- implied he hadn't believed Gunther's story, either.

Of course Jane questioned his veracity.

He should tell her the truth, put an end to whatever wild speculations were flying about her head, tangling in her untamed hair. He just ...he couldn't. Gunther tried once more to brush off her inquiries. Maybe she would just ...leave him alone?

"What do you want, Jane?" he snapped. "Have I not already confessed enough for one day?"

She actually stamped a foot, and Gunther would have thought for just the briefest moment - if he didn't know better - that she looked dangerously close to tears. "Gunther."

"I did set that field on fire, Jane. I got the tar, set the tension, aimed, and pulled the cord. I watched that field burn and did not say anything."

Jane drew in a sharp breath, clearly about to say something else, to call him on his complete and utter horseshit, but then released it instead in a shuddery sigh. "All right, Gunther. If you say so." She looked away from him, off toward the ramparts, then back again. Abruptly, she changed tack. "The sun is nearly down already. Perhaps you should just stay here tonight."

Wha- what?

"I cannot, Jane. It would be most imprudent to test the king's leniency by staying in the castle this evening." He let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Who knows what else I might set afire in the dead of night?"

"Gunther… the king would…" She trailed off and then shook her head. "I cannot believe you sometimes." She scrubbed her face with her hands and pushed her hair back before meeting his eyes again. "Just… be careful, all right? On… your walk home."

She didn't know. She couldn't know. Could she? Had she somehow intuited what sort of reception Gunther could expect when he made it home? The thought of it - her knowing how displeased his father really would be - made the feeling of dread which had settled in his chest positively burn.

At what point had their relationship changed? Twisted and turned and knotted about itself, so that despite their competitiveness and mutual dislike, her opinion actually mattered? When had Gunther started to care what Jane thought?

Feeling slightly desperate and much too exposed, he puffed out his chest and plastered a familiar smirk on his face. "Oh Jane, I did not know you cared."

She looked at him a moment longer, seeming torn. Then her shoulders drooped a little, and some deep part of Gunther twinged in protest at the defeated expression on her face. "I do, you know."

It was if she had kicked him in the chest.

He didn't deserve it, her concern.

"You should not. This whole thing - every last bit of it - was my fault."

"How could this possibly be your fault?" She nearly yelled the question. "No one- NO ONE- least of all me, believes you launched a burning barrel of tar at those fields."

He sighed. "Perhaps not, but I did not stop him either, did I?"

"He is you father. No one would have expected you to -"

Gunther raised a hand, stilling whatever well-intentioned yet pointless lecture she was about to commence. "I launched the flowers at you and Dragon, Jane. Not once, but twice. You fell out of the sky. You almost died, Jane. And then again when Dragon set the field on fire." Gunther ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I nearly killed you, and for what? A desire to win some stupid contest between Dragon and Sir Ivon? I showed my father the field of weeds, and everything that happened thereafter was most definitely my fault."

Gunther took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sir Ivon was far too lenient. I deserve whatever punishment my father doles out."

Jane's mouth dropped slightly open. She looked utterly poleaxed for a few seconds, then he watched the understanding click into place behind her eyes. "Oh, Gunther." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "You…"

Eye contact was suddenly much too painful. He needed to leave, escape, run. Gunther spun away, fists clenching, and started to leave. "I told you," he said miserably, without looking back. "I deserve whatev-"

And then he broke off, mid-word, as Jane caught his hand from behind - exactly as he'd done to her mere hours ago. He whirled in surprise, instinctively trying to pull free, but Jane held on, just as he had when their roles had been reversed.

He was startled all over again by the look on her face; intense almost to the point of fierceness… but not angry. Or at least, not at him.

"You have honor, Gunther Breech," she said with flat emphasis. "It is in there somewhere. I know it. I have always known it." A single tear streaked down her cheek, glittering in the fading light. "I just hope… I hope you know it too."

Gunther tugged at his hand, but she held fast. "I am not worthy of your faith, Jane." He choked on the words.

She didn't respond, but instead gave her head a single shake. Was it a denial of his statement, or an agreement? He didn't know. Looking down at their clasped hands, Jane gave his fingers a final squeeze before releasing him.

He turned and started away, unwilling to let her see the threatening tears.

"I wish you would stay, Gunther," she called after his retreating form, "the castle could be your home, too."

Gunther picked up his pace.

Maybe she was right. Perhaps one day it could be ...but not today.

AN: I just wanted to throw in a quick thanks to Lily here. Lily, you always gives the nicest reviews, but since you are a guest I cannot send you a thank-you note. THANK YOU for the reviews, they a make my day.