A/N: A HUGE shout-out to lareepqg, for heavy assistance with the dream sequence. You totally rocked it chica, thank you!
Nothing. There was nothing around her, nothing at all, for as far as she could see, and that was the first thing that frightened her.
She was in the middle of a flat and featureless plain; no variations in the landscape, no way to orient herself. No trees or hills or hazy mountains in the distance, just an endless expanse of tall yellow-green grass that waved slowly in a breeze Jane couldn't feel; a breeze that didn't actually exist.
Everywhere she looked it was the same, except… except for right where she was; right where she lay. Here the grass was dead, scorched; and it crackled dryly beneath her as she struggled against her bonds.
For she was bound; arms wrenched behind her and secured just as they'd been in the outlaw encampment. Everything about her current situation was different, and yet it was also all the same – and she knew, she KNEW, as her terror mounted higher and then higher still, that Hugh was here now, just as he had been then.
She whipped her head back and forth, trying frantically to locate him, to calculate the direction from which his attack would come… but she could not see him, not anywhere, despite her seemingly unobstructed view of her surroundings, stretching to the horizon on every side.
Laughter in her ear. A whisper, a taunt, a sharp tug on her hair. But every time she twisted to brace herself for his assault, he was gone – too fast for her to catch. She was helpless, helpless.
She was utterly immersed in her panic now; drowning in it.
And then suddenly he was there, solidly, inarguably there, squarely on top of her, pinning her down, and his hands were at her throat, cutting off the air to her lungs, choking her, he was choking her, he was killing her. The fat white clouds that dotted the vast bowl of the sky began to scuttle past faster and faster with the ever-increasing tempo of her desperate, terrified heart.
She was still trying to twist away, trying to wrench her hands free of her bonds, but it wasn't working, nothing was working, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe…
She was dying and she was all alone except for the monster that was on top of her, inflicting this horror on her, and she wanted to scream for Gunther, where was GUNTHER, but she couldn't. She couldn't and she didn't think he'd come anyway, he wasn't here. He'd abandoned her and she was alone, so alone.
Hugh's hands left her neck then, but the pressure did not; she still couldn't breathe and that made no sense; she thrashed against her bonds with all her weight, knowing that unless something gave, unconsciousness had to be minutes – no, seconds – away; but there was nothing she could do, her lungs were on fire, they were burning, and she'd never been so helpless in her life.
Darkness should have been closing in on her; she'd almost have welcomed it at this point. But it wasn't happening – everything was in sharp focus, perfect acute clarity, and with every desperate sucking attempt at pulling in air it seemed that she could see more clearly; could differentiate each individual blade of grass, shadows and lines in hard relief, sharp enough to cut.
And Hugh was still on top of her, pressing her into the blackened ground, and now he was ripping at her clothes with his hands and his, oh God, his teeth… and when he started to yank at her breeches the dry, scorched earth began to spread outward, away from her, and… and the plain was becoming a wasteland.
She was becoming a wasteland.
No. NO.
Jane virtually launched herself off the ground, arching her back with every bit of her strength, a final last-ditch attempt to buck him off of her, and it worked, sweet merciful God it truly worked. Hugh was thrown clear and she actually floated there, suspended in the suddenly viscous air for the space of a heartbeat, and then two, and then three – before SLAMMING back to the ground with terrific, bone-jarring force.
But her ordeal wasn't over, there was no respite to be had. Because as soon as she hit the ground she was inside the tent, that awful musty tent in the outlaws' camp, and Hugh was back again, pressing her down into the ground and that was so unfair! She was horrified beyond belief, traumatized past her ability to cope because now her clothes were gone, all of them, they were ALL GONE. She was completely vulnerable and Hugh was running his hands over her body and Gunther was shouting, screaming her name in a voice that was breaking with anguish; frantic nearly to the point of madness, and there was nothing she could do to comfort him, or to save herself. NOTHING.
Except…
Except that suddenly, somehow, one of her hands was free and there was a dagger clenched in her fist… and without a second's hesitation, without pause for thought or reflection, she brought her arm up in a swift, sure arc and buried the weapon hilt-deep in Hugh's hateful neck.
And only then, ONLY THEN, did the true horror actually begin.
Because as the blood started to fall, pattering down all over her exposed, naked body, she realized that it wasn't Hugh she'd stabbed at all, it was Gunther oh dear sweet God in heaven no GOD NO IT WAS GUNTHER, it was Gunther, his grey eyes enormous and shocked, not accusing or resentful but just sad, so sad, and NO GUNTHER NO, no no no no NO NO NO –
His blood was raining down on her, it was pouring, flooding, and Hugh was laughing again – she couldn't see him but he was nearby, his mad, delighted laughter echoing around her, coming from everywhere at once. Because this had been his intention all along; she'd played right into his hands, had done his dirty work for him, and now she was choking on Gunther's blood, it was filling her mouth, her nose, and she couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe COULDN'T BREATHE –
Someone was screaming. Frantic, breathless cries of unmitigated panic. They went on and on, and Jane experienced a moment of intense empathy for the screamer – her heart ached for whoever was making those awful, wrenching, hopeless, terrified sounds. She wished that she could fold that person into her arms; offer some degree of comfort, of security. But she could not. It was dark and she was alone and she could not… and the screams were not dying down or fading away, in fact the exact opposite was happening. The desperate cries were gaining in volume and immediacy and she became vaguely, distantly aware of hands on her shoulders, hands shaking her, and that was when she realized that she – she was the one who was screaming.
Oh, God. Those wholly panicked, nearly unhinged sounds were coming from her. Because Hugh was not dead and Gunther was – Gunther was gone, he was gone because of her, he was gone at her hand, and she'd never get him back – and Hugh had hold of her now and he'd never let her go.
He was going to torment her forever, for the rest of her days. He was going to choke her to death and then rape her back to life, over and over, ad infinitum, so no wonder she was screaming, of course she was screaming, her mind was breaking, it was breaking, it was –
"Jane! Jane! Wake up! Jane! Stop, come back! JANE!"
But she could not calm down, could not get hold of herself, could NOT. Hugh was on top of her, holding her down and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, and wasn't sure she even wanted to anymore because Gunther was dead, her husband was DEAD –
"Jane! JANE! Please!" The voice cracked on the word. There was so much anxiety in it, so much love. Whoever was calling to her was hurting for her – so how could it possibly be Hugh? Her eyes flew open at last, wide and disoriented.
Gunther swam into focus above her, looking every bit as frantic as she felt. His eyes were huge and frightened, so dilated in the dim light that they were nearly black. Only the thinnest coronas of silver rimmed the dark pupils.
Panting, shaking, she took in the fact that her hands were pressed with desperate intensity against his shoulders, bracing herself against him, pushing… she'd been pushing… him away…
Nightmare. It was a nightmare. It was just a dream…
She heaved in a great, shuddering gulp of air; then another, and another. Trying desperately to ground herself. Her eyes left his to skate quickly around the room, taking in her surroundings, realizing that they were home, in the castle, still in Pepper's old room right off the kitchen.
No eerie, endless plain of dying grass. No outlaw tent in the woods where the unthinkable had almost happened. Home.
Home.
She fixed her gaze back on Gunther's face. A tiny ribbon of blood, almost black in the dimness, was trickling from his lower lip. Oh God, had she hit him!? There was a cold, sick knot in her stomach as she continued to struggle with her erratic breathing.
She let her hands fall away from his shoulders, then raised one to wipe at the blood with trembling fingertips, eliciting a slight wince from her husband. She had hit him. Hard enough to make him bleed.
She was horrified, and the dream was still clinging to her, unwilling to entirely let her go. She could still almost hear Hugh's mad laughter, feel him ripping at her clothes. The panic was still there, right there at the periphery of her mind, subdued but not vanquished, just waiting for an opportunity to flare back up again. To reassert control.
She tried to literally, physically swallow it back; it sounded suspiciously like swallowing a sob.
Felt that way, too.
And suddenly her vision was blurring, her already shallow and rapid breaths were hitching, and she barely had time to gasp out "sorry – I… am so… suh-sorry, Gunther," and then the tears took her. They were wild, hysterical, all-consuming.
"Jane," he said. Just her name, just the once; he almost groaned it. Then he was gathering her into his arms, cradling her as she rode it out, and… and he was still so hurt and weak! He shouldn't have to play nursemaid to her while she wailed like some disconsolate child… and this thought only made her cry harder.
He held her, wordless, through it all.
