DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.

WARNING: Contains blood and violence, possibly some bad language.

Note: This is basically a fanfiction of Krya4's fanfictions. I love the way she brings the story into adulthood and thought I'd have a go at something similar. As a result this story is practically hers, only with the roles of Jane and Gunther reversed. Krya4 - you're awesome, please keep writing!

No matter how many times she washed her hands, she felt that she could still smell blood upon them. She could feel it under her nails and in the crevices between her fingers. She had washed the traces of the battle off, but she still felt that her hair smelled of gunpowder. She pushed it out of her face and flexed her hands, trying to convince herself that it was her imagination. It didn't really matter much.

The air felt rigidly silent, and so heavy that she didn't think she would be able to move through it.

She stood in front of her bed, staring down at her sword which still lay where she had left it upon returning. She had sat outside the camp for hours that evening until Dragon had returned, tired and irritable from his long flight. He explained the movements of the enemy army without commenting on the tear tracks on her cheeks, although his eyes moved numerous times to the bloodstains on her front. She absorbed his words blankly, understanding little more than the news that the kingdom was secure, that the night would be calm. Guards would be placed on the land's boarders, but they were merely a precaution. The day had been an overwhelming victory.

Dragon bent his head and she wrapped her arms around his large nose and pressed her face against his warm scales. His breath came in huge gusts against her chest and a gentle growl rumbled somewhere deep in his chest.

"Who fell?"

His question was tentative, unobtrusive, but she did not know how to answer it. Her tongue felt like a piece of lead. She wanted to remain there, engulfed by his familiar scent and his warmth, never to face the world again. But she could feel his concern increasing with every passing second of silence and drew in a breath, gathering her strength.

"Gunther is… was wounded."

Dragon settled on the ground, humming softly in understanding. How did he understand? How did he realise how much her heart was aching? She had never spoken of Gunther much, unless it was to mock him or complain of him. Gunther and Dragon had developed a companionable relationship over the years – their love of ridiculous jokes regarding dung, their shared passion for pranks. She could not have explained her feelings at that moment if she had tried, and yet Dragon seemed to know. His tail curled around them carefully and she closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of fire.

Eventually she had released him. He had offered to talk with her, but she could see how tired he was. She walked with him to the massive tent on the outskirts of the camp, erected specifically for him, and settled down beside him on the straw bedding that had been laid out. She did not know if she slept or not, but his cavernous body and steady breaths comforted her. She traced his scales where she lay against him, let her mind go dark. When daylight began to filter through the flaps of the tent she had risen to her feet in a daze, her limbs stiff, and bid him goodbye.

"Go and find him," Dragon had urged sleepily as she left. "Knowing is better than not-knowing, right?"

He was right. But she had not been brave enough. Instead, she had checked with the night watchman to ensure that Smithy, Rake and Jester had returned safely – the three of them had, apparently, sat up with the celebrating knights for some time before retiring. She had barely been aware of the festivities. Some were only now wandering to their beds, woozy from mead and humming victory songs. She had contemplated visiting them, but it was so early that she could not justify it – the sun was only just rising above the horizon. Instead she had made her slow way back to her own tent and cleaned herself up.

And now, she had nothing left to do but find out.

She left her tent, vaguely aware of the distant voices of the early risers of the camp. Fires were smoking here and there, burned out after a night of joviality. She found herself wondering if Rake had ridden back to the castle that night in order to reunite with Pepper – certainly she would be worried. He did not seem one for the raucous company of the soldiers. Somewhere near, someone was still singing in slurred, mumbling tones. She herself barely felt the victory: for her, it was bittersweet. The singing died away on the wind as she drew closer to the medical tents, aware of different voices carried on the breeze. She stopped outside the large tent, steeling herself. She wanted to be calm, to be untouched by the sight she would see, but her hands were already shaking at her sides. She balled them into fists. She had to be strong, for him if not for herself. She took a deep breath and reached for the canvas flap.

"Lady Jane!"

She flinched violently at the voice, turned. Sir Theodore was coming towards her, lifting a hand in greeting. She tried to smile in response but her lips were stiff.

"Sir Theodore, how are you?"

"Congratulations on the battle, Jane. Your plan was most inspired."

She inclined her head, not trusting herself to speak. Sir Theodore studied her for a few moments before gesturing for her to move, turning them away from the medical tent.

"This way."

"Sir, forgive me, I was hoping to… I was…"

She cursed herself for her stammering, faltering voice. She sounded like a lost child. Sir Theodore nodded calmly, placing a hand on her shoulder to steer her away.

"There was no space left here, Jane. Sir Gunther was taken to Sir Ivon's tent upon his arrival."

She let out a shuddering sigh that she did not know she had been holding in. For one horrible moment she had been sure of the worst. Sir Theodore's steady hand led her through the camp at a slow pace. The grey morning light suited him. Some years ago when he had become too old to continue knightly duties he had stopped wearing his dark armour and instead began to wear tunics designed for heads of state, still maintaining his courtly duties at the castle. He looked softer now, although his tone was still sharp when he passed her in the courtyard – Back straight! Defensive before offensive! She wet her lips cautiously, wanting so much to ask, uncertain as to whether she was ready for what he would say. Before she could muster the courage they had stopped outside Sir Ivon's tent, and Sir Theodore was drawing back the flap and urging her gently through the entrance, and she had no more time to steady herself.

He was alive. She could tell at once from the way his bare chest was shuddering up and down, drawing breath despite the film of clammy sweat that covered his skin, and some of the tightness in her throat eased. The tent was a little larger than her own, with space for a trunk containing some of Sir Ivon's infamous weaponry. It was now being used as a table – it was covered with bloodied bandages, various jars and vials, several mean-looking instruments… On the floor she could see the remains of the flag, now a rusty scarlet. Gunther lay on the single bed, covered to his waist with a sheet. The wound in his side was still a bright, angry red, although it no longer seemed to be leaking blood. Someone had stitched it closed with great precision some time ago – perhaps the someone currently dabbing a pale, greenish paste over it. Gunther flinched at every touch. His face was twisted away from her, but he did not seem to be conscious – he hadn't reacted to their arrival.

"Jane, may I introduce Shahid. I met him many years ago – he is a trusted friend."

The tall figure turned slowly. The man was perhaps a few years younger than Sir Theodore, with a grey-streaked beard and smooth, almond skin. He wore strange clothes – some kind of long, layered robe – and the thin hand he extended to Jane bore the ends of a dark tattoo that extended up his arm, disappearing beneath his sleeve. Jane returned the greeting dumbly, struggling to maintain her manners, her eyes straying to Gunther.

"I sent a letter to Shahid months ago, when we were first alerted to the possibility of war. He arrived only yesterday – in the nick of time, as it seems."

She knew that these added details from Sir Theodore were to give her time to collect herself, a nudge for her to speak. She inclined her head, trying to ignore the muted, painful noises coming from behind the physician.

"Good morning," she managed. "I am most pleased to meet you. You must have had a long night."

Shahid did not smile, but his tone was pleasant when he spoke. A slight accent filtered through his words. "Indeed. There have been many casualties."

He turned away to relieve her of having to think of a polite response. He retrieved some clean bandages and returned to his patient. Jane followed cautiously, keeping to the other side of the bed to give him room. Gunther looked terrible. Laid out on the bed he looked oddly vulnerable – she realised that she hadn't seen him ill before. His lean frame was shaking violently and his breathing came in sharp, shallow gasps. His skin was bloodless – the nicks and scratches on his arms blazed like fire ants. The graze on his forehead was now paired with a dark bruise, his face was lined with pain, his eyes screwed shut, his jaw tight. She had a sudden urge to reach out and touch him, take his hand or his arm… His own hands were balled into hard fists.

"How does our knight fare, Shahid?" Sir Theodore was saying. "He seems better."

Better? Jane couldn't imagine how Gunther had looked the night before if this was 'better'. He looked like hell. She watched Shahid secure a new bandage over the ugly wound in his side, wincing as Gunther's body jerked in response.

"He has lost too much blood to tell," Shahid replied softly. "I intended to give him longer to recover, but this needs taking care of."

He gestured to the arrow shaft, which Jane realised was still embedded in Gunther's shoulder. The skin around it was inflamed and sore, and seemed to be leaking a pale discharge. Shahid was inspecting it closely, his brow furrowed in concentration. Jane took the opportunity to search Gunther's face for recognition – his eyes were shifting beneath their lids, battling some unseen enemy. His name flickered on the tip of her tongue. She felt that, if she could only speak his name, he would sit up and laugh at her for being so girlishly emotional. It would all be a bad dream.

"Why is he… shaking like this?" she said instead, keeping her voice as level as possible.

"Infection is common where arrow wounds are concerned," Shahid replied, as if reading from a book. "It has already set in. We feared removing it last night would cause too much shock. But we cannot wait any longer."

He turned to Sir Theodore, who was still standing near the entrance to the tent. Jane tore her eyes away from Gunther, watching as Shahid placed the remaining bandages on the trunk.

"I will need fresh water."

"This way. Jane will keep watch until we return."

Before she could speak they were ducking out of the tent, their low voices dying away. She found herself once more surrounded by heavy silence, now punctuated with Gunther's ragged breathing and stunted moans. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, reassuring herself that he was not about to grow still and… stop. His hands had relaxed now that Shahid had stopped prodding at his injury, and she could see that the skin on his knuckles was bloody and bruised. Her arm moved of its own volition and his cold, clammy skin met her fingers. She traced his arm slowly from elbow to wrist, hardly daring to breathe. It was strange what seeing someone almost die could do to her feelings. She could barely understand what she was doing – she just had an unshakable urge to touch him, to prove to herself that he was there. She pressed down lightly, counted the pulse fluttering under her fingertips. Alive. It was more than she had expected after seeing him lying on the battlefield, after the way he had drifted away from her…

"J'ne…"

Her hand froze where it had come to rest over his. She lifted her gaze to his face, found his eyes open and fixed on her. He looked confused, panicked, blinking hard as if to bring her into focus. She considered withdrawing her hand, but there was a strange need in his face for comfort. He was scared, no doubt. And perhaps he would not even remember this moment later on when he recovered from the fever. So she smiled, tried to appear calm.

"How are you?"

He was trying to lift his head to better see what was going on but sank back heavily with a groan. His grip tightened shakily over her hand and she felt a surge of warmth.

"Wha… wha's 'ppned?" he whimpered, squeezing his eyes closed.

"You were wounded in the battle," she explained hesitantly, unsure of how much she should disclose. She did not want to panic him. "Sir Theodore and a friend are taking care of you."

He swore loudly. At first she thought he was responding to her – then she realised that he was reaching for his side, trying to feel for the source of the pain. She reached over to push his hand gently away and his nails dug into her skin, searching for a release. She imagined the agony taking hold of him as he swam back to full awareness and tried to draw his attention back to herself, hoping that Shahid would return soon.

"Gunther? Gunther, listen. You'll be alright, I know it is painful, but-"

"Y'here," he mumbled, suddenly blinking up at her once more. "Found you… s'dreaming…"

"I believe I found you," she retorted, smirking, attempting to make what sense she could of the confused muttering. "I suppose we know for sure now who is the better knight, hmm?"

"S'you," he said at once, rolling his head away. "Always you… J'ne…"

She had not expected that. She tried to laugh but it seemed out of place. His grip tightened on hers as his body tensed – she could almost feel him trying to swallow the sounds of pain. She looked again at the tent entrance, debating calling for help. Perhaps Shahid had some kind of tonic that would numb the pain… She felt useless just hovering over him like a mother hen, nothing of value to say or do. She did not exactly have a good bedside manner – it didn't suit her. Another tortured groan had her pulling her hands free and stepping towards the outside world.

"I'll fetch them, just stay-"

"Nuh, Jane…"

She turned in time to see him struggle upright, placing his weight on his uninjured arm. Almost at once his limbs faltered and he cried out in pain, snatching a hand to his side. She was back beside him in an instant, slipping an arm behind his shoulders before he could fall and laying him down as carefully as she could. His good arm surged upwards and his hand clenched in her tunic, holding her fast. She stared down at him in surprise, now standing at the head of the bed, trapped.

"Gunther, what… You will tear your stitches! You must stay still-"

"Don't," he managed thickly. "Don't go, please… J'ne, please…"

He was pleading with her. She had never heard him say 'please' in his life. She watched him fighting to keep his eyes open, the recent movement having drained him, despite his strong hold on her tunic. She reached for his hand, closed hers over it once more, brushed the strands of hair plastered to his neck free with the other. The motion reminded her harshly of the battlefield, when she had been screaming at him to stay awake. Now he leaned into her palm, his skin burning beneath the cold sweat. She could only stare. The fever seemed to have cut down his icy defence of sarcasm, and she felt as if she was looking at him for the first time. He was simply there, and his voice was cutting her to the bone. Something within her screamed every time he said her name. He was still muttering, his words slurring together, and she wet her lips.

"I won't," she said at last, and she felt his grip relax slightly. "I'll stay."

He finally fell quiet, still trembling. His hand grew slowly lax and she lowered their tangled arms to rest on the bed, skating her fingers lightly over his forehead. She could not allow herself to give in too much. He seemed confused, not quite himself to say the least, and she had to force herself to refrain from placing meaning on his words. There was no reason for her to leap to conclusions regarding his feelings, particularly when she barely understood her own. She did not know why her heart was thundering in her chest like horse hooves, or why her stomach felt light and fluttery. She was beginning to feel like a swooning maiden, and she was not enjoying it. And yet…

If I could choose… I would never leave your side.

She shook her head, attempting to drive the thoughts away. He had never given any indication of being… taken with her before, and she had certainly offered no encouragement. They were sworn enemies, after all. Not to mention that this was the most inappropriate time possible to be thinking of such things. Although it didn't help that she could see rather a lot of him at that moment, due to the light sheet and his state of undress. She felt herself flushing and blinked away furiously, relieved that he seemed to have fallen asleep. She contemplated making another attempt to call for Shahid, but did not want to risk provoking him into rising again.

To her relief, her ears snatched at the sound of approaching voices and a few moments later Shahid was back, Sir Theodore on his heels. Sir Theodore held a deep tin pail filled with clear water, while Shahid carried a bucket. Gunther's eyes drifted open at their footsteps – apparently he had not fallen asleep. Jane's fingers jumped away from his hair and she moved back, hoping to return to a more suitable stance, but he refused to release her other hand and she was forced to stop, unwilling to cause him any further distress. To her relief neither Shahid or Sir Theodore commented on their position – Shahid had already retrieved several of the instruments resting on the trunk and was bending close to the arrow shaft, frowning.

"How do you fare, Sir Gunther?" he inquired, lightly feeling the skin around the shaft. "I would have preferred you to have chosen a different moment to wake, this will not be pleasant."

Gunther simply stared at him vacantly, wincing with pain when the inquisitive fingers pressed too hard. He turned his head towards Jane, searching for her gaze, as if she were his lifeline. She wanted to smile but she could not – Shahid's words sounded too ominous. She ran her thumb across his knuckles instead, hoping to offer some comfort.

"You will, no doubt, feel unwell – we hope to have you on the mend soon," Shahid continued casually, as if discussing the cause of a minor cough. "We will get this over with quickly, so that you can get some rest."

He made a sign to Sir Theodore, who moved over to stand beside him and laid a careful hand on Gunther's arm. Shahid reached for the arrow shaft and felt it cautiously before twisting it experimentally. Gunther's muffled cry tore at Jane's heart and she reached for his uninjured shoulder with her free hand, trying to steady him. His body was taught beneath her hand, flinching away from the man's administrations. Shahid released the arrow, leaving him gasping raggedly.

"It will not turn," he said grimly. "We will have to retrieve it."

He removed a small knife from his handful of tools and held Gunther's twitching shoulder steady, shooting Jane a meaningful glance. Understanding, she tightened her grip. Shahid lowered the knife.

"I will try to be quick."

And then Gunther was screaming, and Jane was fighting to keep him flat on the bed. She had always resented how much stronger he was than herself; it was only due to his current weakness that she had any chance at all in overpowering him. She glanced quickly at the arrow – Shahid had opened the wound wider and was swapping his knife for a thinner instrument. He drew the wooden shaft free and, for one wonderful moment, Jane thought it was over. But the arrowhead was nowhere to be seen, and Shahid was retrieving a small pair of forceps and sliding them firmly into the wound, following the line of the probe. Gunther's screams turned to violent, hoarse swears.

"Gunther!" Jane hissed, struggling to maintain her grip on his arm. "Be still, please! It is almost done-"

"J-Jane… Jane, please…"

She released his shoulder and laid one hand against his face. His skin was slick with sweat, his whole body shaking with great spasms of pain. If she could have taken his place, even for a second, she would have done so in an instant. Instead she remained a helpless spectator. He met her stare, his eyes glazed with agony. He was beginning to hyperventilate, his lips rapidly losing what little colour they had. Fear closed over her head.

"Gunther, breathe. Remember? Try, please, it is almost over…"

He blinked, biting back his cries. She could hear him struggling to obey her, trying to even out his breathing. It was not working – every move Shahid made had his breath catching in his throat, his body jolting harshly. She searched desperately for words that would help, pushing her hand through his fine, dark hair. He needed something to fix his attention on, something apart from the pain, but there was nothing…

"Just look at me," she said at last, aware of the fact that her own voice was rising in panic. "Look at me, don't think about it. Gunther…"

He glued his gaze to hers obediently, his chest heaving as he struggled to draw breath, his grip crushing her hand. She squeezed back, holding his eye contact, trying to pour everything she felt into that connection. She tried to lay herself open, tried to offer him a pathway to her soul, tried to draw him off the metal teeth digging into his flesh. He seemed to almost fall into her, his face relaxing slightly. He was slipping away again; she recognised that terrible emptiness from the battlefield. She felt a rush of panic, moving her thumb over his cheek as his gaze grew distant.

No, no, no! She could almost hear her heart screaming. Don't do that, please, don't leave me… His fingers had lost their grip and she felt desperately for his pulse as his head rolled towards her hand lethargically. It took her a few moments to decipher the rapid, thready thumps beating against her fingers.

"Shahid?" Sir Theodore prompted, breaking the sudden silence.

She flinched – for a moment, she had forgotten that they had company. All that had mattered was calming Gunther, reaching him. She flushed at the thought of Sir Theodore and Shahid witnessing her acting like a nursemaid, straightened up stiffly. Shahid was bent over his patient, his eyes narrowed.

"I feel it," he said tightly. "It is easier now he is still… There."

With a sickening squelch, he twisted the forceps and eased the stubborn, barbed arrowhead free of its residence. He dropped it in Sir Theodore's waiting pail with a dull clank and snatched up the bandages the other man offered, pressing them hard against the blood that was welling up. Sir Theodore retrieved the bucket and together they cleaned the wound, moving quickly as if the whole task had been choreographed. Gunther's hand was limp in Jane's – she lowered it carefully, reluctant to let it go. But his face was still, and he showed no signs of waking.

"Will he be alright?" she managed at last, watching as Shahid covered the wound with a brownish paste and bandaged it rapidly.

"If he survives the fever," he replied. "The wound must be kept clean. I would suggest cauterising it, but I fear the shock would be too much."

Sir Theodore nodded ruefully in agreement. Jane searched for certainty in his words, and came up empty handed. She hovered beside the bed, unwilling to leave, unsure of whether she should stay. She watched Shahid gather his things together, shot a questioning glance at Sir Theodore. The older man raised his eyebrow.

"There are others who need care, I'm afraid," he explained. "Perhaps you would be content to keep watch over your comrade for now? Until I have time to organise our numbers…"

"Of course. I… of course."

"I will send water over," Shahid threw over his shoulder as he reached the entrance to the tent. "Get him to drink, if you can."

With a few parting words that washed over her numb ears, Sir Theodore followed Shahid outside before Jane could thank him. Left alone once more, she felt suddenly lost. Spotting a chair in the far corner, she dragged it over to the bed and sank down into it, her energy running out of her limbs. She pulled the sheet up to Gunther's chest, uncomfortably sensitive to the tremors rolling over him, listening to his shallow breathing, her hand resting on his wrist to count his rapid heartbeats.

Thanks for reading.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.