RESCUE


Gunther screams against his loss with every part of his being. These cries are not simply born of his throat, of his breath and voice; he is screaming with his entire body, with every hair on his head, with every organ, with every appendage, with every bone, his very marrow.

With his broken mind, with his shattered soul, he screams.

It seems to him that the force and fury of his grief is shaking the earth itself… as if the very walls of his prison are rattling with it. And it also seems to him, somewhat distantly, because coherent thought is a far-off realm at this point, that that is as it should be. If Jane is really lost, if she is… irrevocably… gone, that is a catastrophe that should rock the very ground. He actually finds a vague, fleeting sense of satisfaction in the idea.

It goes on, though. And on. Dust starts sifting down, and what… what is…? He takes a series of gulping, sobbing breaths, trying to figure out what is happening to him, around him. Has he been hitting his head on the wall again? Hard enough to knock loose these little showers of stonedust and debris? Could he accomplish such a feat and still be conscious? He doesn't… think so…

Another tremor hits, more powerful than any before, and… and this is not something that's emanating outward from Gunther himself; the ground is actually shaking, the fortress around him is shaking, and now that he's fallen silent again he can hear – he can hear –

"Dragon?" he croaks, bewildered.

Can it be true?

...It is.

Dragon is outside, making the entire structure quake with the force of his attack. And the screaming that Gunther had been hearing had not been his own maddened cries of sorrow - or at least, not only that. No, the wild rushing and roaring in his ears isn't the sound of his sanity cracking – wooshing away – but rather the sound of Dragon's wings and the roar of his fire as he shrieks his wrath at Jane and Gunther's captors.

And now Gunther is slowly becoming aware that there are other cries too; presumably the last pleas for mercy before Dragon or his compatriots – Gunther can hear the clank and clash of swordplay, can he not? – cut down the people occupying the fortress.

He sits up straighter, tightening his grip on Jane when she starts to slide downward in his arms. He's utterly dazed, still trying to wrap his mind around what's happening, when his cell lights up with a terrible, fearsome brilliance – brighter than the brightest noonday. One of Dragon's mighty gouts of flame must have hit close – perilously close – to Gunther's little window, and when the light fades again he's grateful. Grateful because that level of radiance would have hurt his eyes even under ordinary circumstances and now, having been without any but the faintest, most diffuse light for – a week, have we been here a week? – it feels like shards of glass have been driven into his skull.

Grateful because that brief illumination had shown him things he really would rather not have seen. Such as how tiny, filthy and miserable this little cell really is – such as the smears of blood on the floor where Jane had lain while he'd conducted his frantic, and useless, examination – such as how devastatingly lifeless she actually looks, cradled in his arms.

And grateful because it means that Dragon is going to burn this wretched place to cinders. Burn it until there is nothing left. Gunther hopes the ground itself will be blighted until the end of time. Nothing should ever grow or thrive here again, not after… not after…

He wraps his arms around Jane more tightly still.

Then the last of that spectacular sunburst vanishes, along with the sudden and intense heat that had accompanied it – (Gunther realizes that he'd forgotten what it felt like to be warm, let alone overwarm) – but the noise, the noise that Dragon is making does not.

It is actually getting louder, the building shaking harder, dislodging more stonedust and even, now, little bits of rubble. It sounds as if Dragon is directly above him, maybe climbing along the battlements, pounding at the walls. And actual pieces of rock start to fall next – no larger than pebbles at first, but then a chunk of stone hits Gunther's shoulder, and it's sizable enough to legitimately hurt, and – and – and what if it had hit Jane instead of him?

Horrorstruck, Gunther starts shouting in an effort to attract Dragon's attention – but even as he does so, he's aware that it's pointless. It's no good; Dragon will never hear him over the ruckus that Dragon himself is creating.

He curls himself protectively around Jane, shielding her with this body, and the noise is overwhelming, so it takes him a moment or two to realize that it's not all coming from outside the building – there's noise in the hallway as well.

Quite a bit of noise, actually; shouts of anger, cries of agony; the clash of swords, and the resounding bam bam bam of one door after another after another being thrown open, all down the corridor. And then –

And then his own door slams open and he's torn; should he curl in around Jane more tightly still, protecting her? Or should he go on the offensive, put her behind himself and attempt to mount an attack instead? His thought processes have become so grindingly, agonizingly slow.

But before he can galvanize his exhausted, traumatized mind into making a decision, he realizes that the figure now standing in his doorway, silhouetted by torchlight from the hall, one sword held at the ready and another sword, Jane's sword, clutched in his left hand – is familiar. It's one of the knights from his company. This is someone he knows, has fought beside; someone he trusts, considers a friend.

This is rescue.

Rescue.

He tries to process it; he can't.

The man crosses the room in a few long strides and drops to one knee beside him. "Gunther?" His voice is hesitant, unsure. Dragon has moved away now, on down the side of the building, or he wouldn't be able to hear him at all. "Gunther, is that you?"

Good God, is he actually that unrecognizable? Is he so filthy, his expression so twisted by his pain and grief, that despite their shared history as comrades in arms – a history that spans nearly half a decade at this point – his friend can't even tell with certainty who he is?

He attempts to croak out an answer, but his rescuer (Robert, Gunther's mind supplies haltingly, his name is Robert) isn't listening at this point; he's just realized what it is – who it is – that's bundled in Gunther's arms.

"Is – Jesus, Gunther, is that Jane? Oh, no. Oh, sweet bleeding Christ. I am so sorry. So sorry, Gunther. We tried to get here –" he chokes off for a moment, unable to continue, his face a picture of incredulous dismay.

Gunther says nothing. He still hasn't entirely come to terms with the fact that this is happening. That his cell is standing open, that his people are here, that they're safe now. They're finally safe.

And it's meaningless. What's the point? What in God's name is the point of being rescued now? Now, when the damage is done, now when Jane is… Jane is…

He's rocking her again, he realizes. He doesn't remember when he started back up. He drops his face back into her tangled, dirty, bloodied hair, and tries to suppress a sob. Feels a hand gently clasp his shoulder. It's startlingly, almost impossibly warm against his chilled skin.

"I am so… so sorry we did not make it in time," Robert says, his voice hoarse and constricted; it sounds as if he might be on the verge of tears himself. Well, why not? They are all close, the knights in his company. They are bonded through sweat and blood, through training together and marching together, sharing rations and making camp and standing watch together, drinking and singing and fighting together. And Jane is a part of that.

Jane is well loved, and not just by him. Of course she is. What's not to love? Jane is… Jane is extraordinary.

"Let me take her for a moment, get you out of here," the other man is continuing. Letting go of Gunther, he reaches for Jane, making as if to slip his arms around her shoulders, beneath her knees. Intending to lift her away from Gunther, relieve him of his burden.

"NO!"

Gunther jerks backward. There's really no place for him to go; he's already in the corner, but he wedges himself down more tightly still, now positively crushing Jane to his chest.

Robert hesitates, but does not draw back. "Gunther, just until we get outside. Let me help y–"

Gunther growls at him. Actually growls at him, like a trapped animal; a low, grating rumble emanating from somewhere deep in his throat. At this, the other knight does back off; he stands and turns, addressing two more of their compatriots, who are guarding the cell door, swords drawn, expressions grim. "Find Sir Ivon," he says, "and bring him here. Fast."

They've barely taken a step, though, when the walls shudder again – harder than ever this time. An undeniable smell of smoke is filtering into the room, and Gunther, his head snapping up once more at the advent of this new and alarming series of tremors, can see that the hallway outside his door looks hazy. Dragon's fires have taken hold. The fortress is burning.

It is probably only a matter of minutes – minutes at most – before they are overwhelmed by the smoke and flames.

Robert drops down to Gunther's level once more. "Gunther –" he rakes a hand anxiously through his sand-colored hair, "you do not want Jane to burn in here, surely? You want to take her home, lay her to rest in the soil she loved, that she fought so hard to defend… right?"

What little air had been left in Gunther's lungs is expelled in a sick sort of reverse gasp. "She is not dead," he rasps out, barely audible.

Robert scrubs a hand hard down his face, from forehead to chin, looks at Gunther sadly for a moment, then draws an unsteady breath. "Gunth–"

"She is NOT DEAD!" he screams, his voice breaking. The force of his denial, his frantic negation, threatens to literally rock him backward, but for the support of the wall behind him. "She is not. She is just… sleeping, she…" he swallows thickly. "They… Rob, they took her clothes – I have to keep her warm."

"All right, Gunther. All right." His friend nods in agreement – though even in his deranged state, Gunther understands that he is being placated. The other man doesn't believe him.

Deep in his heart of hearts, Gunther no longer quite believes himself.

"We have blankets outside," Robert continues. "And we can start a fire, warm her up there –" he has to break off for a moment; he's starting to cough from the increasingly heavy smoke – "but if we stay here, Gunther, we cannot get her any blankets." He sounds as if he is talking to a child...

Or a madman.

Perhaps he is.

But his words do manage, finally, to galvanize Gunther into action.

All this time he's been holding Jane pressed against him, directly skin-to-skin. Now he lowers her away from himself and gently, carefully, tucks the ripped edges of his shirt around her, wrapping her up, preserving her modesty as best he can under the circumstances. These men are Jane's compatriots too – the whole company is close, the whole company is loyal. But they don't need to see, to see...

Although the expression of horrified, of sickened, outrage on Robert's face suggests that he, at least, has seen already.

Then he's gathering her up and rising to his feet, and his legs are still halfway asleep, halfway or more, and he stumbles against the wall and almost falls… but when Robert reaches, again, for Jane, he shakes his head with grim finality.

He hadn't been able to prevent her capture. He hadn't been able to protect her when it actually mattered. He hasn't been able to revive her since. But he is goddamn well going to be the one to carry her out of this place. He is not going to just… hand her off like so much baggage.

Never. Never in life.

He refuses to let her down yet again.

So he grits his teeth and brings every bit of his will to bear, forcing his uncooperative legs to first support their combined weight, and then to move – and he carries her out of the cell, down the corridor, up a twisting flight of stairs, and through the burning fortress.