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!

Over the next few days the camp would begin to dismantle and return soldiers and weaponry to the castle. The threat of another attack was low, and Dragon's routine scouting out ensured that they could not be taken by surprise. Their enemy seemed to have retreated back to their own lands, leaving them free to return to their everyday lives, and King Caradoc had sent out a peace treaty to ensure no further aggravation. It seemed, to all present, that the war was coming to an end.

The days moved slowly for Jane. She alternated between keeping watch over Gunther and speaking with Dragon about what he had seen and heard during his flights. She tried not to be away for long – she could pretend it was because Gunther was without fail more agitated after she had been away, but her fear that he would take a turn for the worse while she was chattering about battle plans kept her departures short. She felt justified in her concerns – his fever had grown steadily worse over the first day she had spent with him and after the first night had reached an unbearable level. Shahid had no remedy for it aside from a clear, amber-coloured tonic which did not seem to help much – it was more trouble than it seemed worth getting Gunther to swallow it in the first place. Shahid himself appeared twice a day to clean and re-dress the wounds before vanishing once more, having other patients to attend to. Several died during that first night – Jane smelled the funeral fires burning, and reached for Gunther's hand.

That night had gone so terribly – filled with Gunther's moans and cries as he struggled through dreams she could not see and wasted energy he could not spare fighting off hallucinations and ghosts – that in the morning she eventually asked for a bucket and a cloth. She had been trying to restrain herself from doing so, hoping not to give herself away more than she already had, but Gunther's pain eventually drove her to it. She could not place her reputation and fears at a higher cost than his welfare. So she asked a passing soldier to fetch her the water and fidgeted anxiously as she waited for it, feeling oddly nervous. At that moment Gunther was engaged in some dream, muttering and shouting incoherently at various intervals. He had clenched his fists so hard the night before that his nails had drawn blood; now she took care to push the sheets into his grasp instead, hoping to prevent any further damage. The precaution left tiny, wobbly semi-circles of blood on the linen. She tried not to look at them.

She was still staring over at him, chewing anxiously on her lip, when the water arrived. She took it with a short acknowledgement, and then stopped herself as she realised that the bearer had somehow become Jester. He handed it over slowly, his gaze shifting past her into the tent.

"Hello, Jane," he said, his voice quiet. "How are you?"

She blinked at him, still stunned at his sudden appearance. She had not seen any of her friends for the past twenty-four hours – perhaps that was why he was visiting. She nodded, searching for words.

"Fine, I am fine."

Jester nodded at the bed behind her, his face twisted. She hesitated.

"He is… less fine."

"I see." Jester's hands were wringing together in front of him. If he had been in his usual attire they would have no doubt been fiddling with the bells on his hat. As it was, he looked oddly small without his usual bright clothing. He made a strange movement between a shrug and a shiver. "I wanted to… well, to thank him, but… Perhaps another time…"

"Thank him?"

Jester nodded sadly. He did not seem to want to look her in the eye. "It was my fault, after all. I was surrounded and he was trying to help, but I wasn't looking and…" He broke off, his lips tight. "I should have warned him," he said finally.

Jane reached for his arm, shaking her head. "It wasn't your fault, Jester, you did your best," she replied. She tightened her grip until he looked up at her. "He would have done what he thought best, no matter what warnings or advice you gave. Beef brain."

Jester managed a small smile. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but at that moment Gunther let out a ragged cry and moved as if to get up. Jane flinched into action, crossing to him in two fast strides and pressing her hand down on his uninjured shoulder to keep him still. His eyes were open but they could not see her – they were roving wildly from side to side. She deposited the bucket by her feet, dipped the cloth into the cold water and wrung it out as best she could one-handed.

"J'ne… Jane, run…"

"It's not real," she told him steadily, pressing the cloth against his face. He jerked violently at its contact, lifted his hand to swat it away. She caught his fingers and held them firmly. "It is not real, Gunther. It's alright."

He was blinking hard, and she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He stared at her as she wiped at the sweat on his face and neck, his face softening somewhat. He muttered something she could not understand and his eyes closed. When she finally looked up, satisfied that he was calm again, Jester had gone.

She had a few more visitors over the next night and day, although Gunther barely seemed conscious of it. Aside from Shahid, Sir Ivon and Sir Theodore dropping by to check on them, Dragon's huge nose appeared at the tent opening that afternoon. She carefully unhooked her arm from Gunther's grip and went over to meet him, grateful for his familiar, light-hearted tone. He rubbed his head against her open palm.

"I thought you'd gone into hibernation. Are you ever coming out of there?"

She smiled at him, pushing his nose down. "I said I would keep watch."

He 'humph'ed quietly. "How is the moody little shortlife?"

"Shahid – the doctor – says his fever must break soon, or he will not survive." The words were suddenly terrifying to her and she had to pause to collect herself before continuing. "He said he has lost too much blood to fight off the infection."

Dragon's growl rumbled and he pushed his head forwards – she lifted the tent flap to help, grateful that his huge head would block out the tears stinging her eyes from any passers by. She rested her forehead against the warm scales of his snout.

"Sorry," she mumbled, sniffing, trying to compose herself. "It seems I am not behaving very… knightly these days."

"You are behaving very human-like," Dragon replied smartly. "Shame shortlives are so delicate, eh? What you need is some thick Dragon-skin."

"With all the itchy scales? No, thank you."

She brushed at her face, clawed her hands through her hair, stepped back from him. He tilted his head, searching her face, silently asking her if she would be alright. She nodded, pasted a smile across her face to convince him.

"Do you need any help with the camp? Are they troubling you?"

He shook his head. "I am to help them carry some of their inferior shortlife weaponry back to the castle. I cannot wait."

His sarcasm felt like home. She glanced over her shoulder at Gunther and saw that his eyes were screwed tightly shut. She had become so used to his episodes of motion and panic that she could almost spot them coming now.

"Do you need any help?" she asked Dragon, knowing that she had neglected him, praying that he would decline all the same. "I could call someone else to…"

He was shaking his huge head, withdrawing from the tent. "In fact, there were some cows not far off I hoped to visit – kindly stop deterring me!"

She smirked as his huge foot-falls thundered away, returning to Gunther's side. She reached for the cloth and ran it over his face, trying to stave off the oncoming fight.

"Ja-Jane."

"I'm here."

Shahid came by once more that evening, although his grim expression did nothing to comfort her. She felt the terrible dawning knowledge that they needed to see a change soon, or it would all be for nothing. She would lose him for the final time, and part of herself would go with him. She watched him jerk sporadically, watched his eyes flicker wildly. His breathing had grown shorter throughout the day and his outbursts were becoming less frequent. The day before he had responded when she reached for his hand – now he barely seemed to feel her. She was watching him fade slowly away, powerless to stop it, now even unable to offer comfort. Shahid re-dressed the arrow wound slowly, and she waited for him to speak. She wanted news, good news, something to indicate that it would not all have been for nothing… He glanced up at her briefly.

"I will tell Sir Theodore to send for his father," he said at last. He inclined his head to her before leaving, as if as an apology, and she had to remind herself to breathe as he left.

Send for his father. Send for Magnus. So that he could say his farewells… She felt something in her gut twist and sat down heavily on the chair. Gunther's body twitched and whimpered next to her – it barely seemed to be him anymore. Some quality that made him familiar had slipped through her fingers. She found herself starting at his hand where it lay on the sheets, finger nails dirty, knuckles rough with dried blood.

"Gunther?"

He did not answer her, and she fastened her teeth on her lip to bite back a sob. She would have given anything at that moment for a response, coherent or not, just something to indicate that he was still with her. She laid her hand carefully over his, conscious of the heat his skin was giving out. His fingers bent compliantly beneath her grip.

"If you are doing this to spite me, Gunther, I will be very cross. It is not at all funny."

She lifted his hand, holding it gently between her own, glancing over at him. His eyes had opened, still as sightless and empty as glass, gazing off into space. She waited patiently, but after a few moments they simply closed again, abandoning her once more. She let out a breath, trying to face up to the truth of it. He was going. And she would never get the chance to explain, to understand what the hell was going on between them, because it had become so infinitely complicated by now that she could not pick it apart on her own. She felt tied to him, as if by chains, as if a line stretched between her heart and his, and tugged at her painfully whenever she tried to draw away. Before she could think better of it, she turned her head and pressed her lips against the back of his hand. For a few long moments, she was acutely aware of his skin and his smell, of the minute twitches still rolling through him… She drew back before she could be caught by more unexpected visitors, keeping hold of his hand.

"Just… don't, Gunther," she muttered. "Please, don't."

He had never listened to her before, and there was no reason for him to do so now. But she remained curled on the chair, holding on to him as if she could pull him back from the edge as the sky grew dark outside the tent. She could only see now by candlelight. Some time later she heard a soft 'wh-whump' outside and glanced up to see Dragon's amber eyes peering through the tent.

"Bad?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Dragon huffed quietly and disappeared from view. She heard him moving softly around the tent and settling beside it – she could see his great, arching back through the canvas. She reached out and pressed against it, felt his warmth through the material. He was there.

The night drew on. She was tired. She had only been able to sleep a couple of hours the night before, not wanting to be away in case she was needed. Now, she did not dare close her eyes in case something happened, should he need her or… or suddenly depart. None of it felt real. She wondered if maybe she had been wounded in the battle instead, and this was all just some hallucination, and she would wake up in her tower in just a few hours to the dull thumps of arrows hitting their target in the training yard… She would cross to the window and see him straightening up, his arm perfect as always, drawing the bow taught to let another one fly, and he would glance up at her with that stare halfway between smirking and scowling… She realised that her head was nodding forwards and shook herself awake, looking him over in a sudden panic. He had moved slightly – his head was turned towards her and his other arm was resting over his stomach, as if in mid-reach for her. She moved it carefully away, preventing it from placing weight on his side, and he made a small noise in the back of his throat. She leaned forwards, fear and relief mingling in her chest.

"Gunther?"

She reached for the cloth on his forehead and turned it over, cool-side down. His eyes cracked open and focussed on her at once – she paused, resting her hand briefly against his face. She didn't know what she should say, so she remained silent. He simply looked at her, breathing softly through his nose. His eyes ran over her as if memorizing her face, as if he expected to be quizzed on the exact contours of her features.

"Don't die," she found herself saying dazedly. "Please."

He watched her a moment longer, his lips parted as if he were about to speak, and then his eyes shut once more and he was gone again. For the first time in the past few days, she allowed herself to cry for a few minutes, her hand pressed over her mouth to muffle the sound. Dragon was right outside, and she did not want attention at this moment. She sucked in a few jagged breaths, wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve, tried to gather herself. She was so intent on chasing away her tears that she did not notice that his temperature had cooled slightly until an hour or so later.

When she did notice, she did not dare speak should she break the spell. She kept her mouth firmly shut, running the damp cloth carefully over his face and chest, her ears pricked. His breathing had evened out slightly, was even less shallow than before. The candles burned out but she did not go for more – she could not leave. As the pale, cold light of dawn began to filter through the gaps in the tent she trailed her fingers through his hair, leaned as close as she dared. He still flinched slightly now and again, but she could not feel that horrible, blazing heat that had overrun him the day before and his face was no longer tense. She shuddered with a great sigh of relief, shut her eyes tightly.

"Thank you," she whispered.

And she put her head down on the bed beside him and let herself sleep.

She was awoken a while later by Sir Theodore entering the tent. He looked as if the past few days had aged him some years, his face weary and his pace slow. But he smiled widely as he took in her expression and then Gunther's subdued air. He retrieved a thicker blanket from the trunk and she helped him spread it out, sharing in his relief.

"Perhaps you should take some rest, Jane," he suggested as she settled back in the chair once more. "I believe Sir Gunther is out of any immediate danger for now."

She nodded, but did not rise. She could not explain it, but she had been beside him for so long now that it seemed wrong to leave. She had a horrible fantasy of him waking up alone, trying to get up, falling, no one present to steady him… Of course, Sir Theodore would not leave him unattended, but her heart would not allow her to leave. She took the bread roll Sir Theodore had brought for her, realising dimly how hungry she was. She wondered how much of the camp had been dismantled, and posed the question to her mentor.

"Most of the weaponry and armoury has been returned to the castle," Sir Theodore replied. "We have begun to move the villagers and the wounded home, but some cannot be disturbed yet. Tomorrow, perhaps, we will manage to leave."

Tomorrow seemed so soon to be asking Gunther to get up and walk. She imagined there would be horses, wagons, carts, but when she thought about how close she had come to losing him the idea of jostling hooves and bumpy roads seemed out of the question. She suggested remaining behind for a few days more, but Sir Theodore declined her.

"There will be better facilities to care for the wounded back at the castle," he said firmly. "And we are far too exposed should the enemy launch a surprise attack. We must return as soon as we can."

Of course, he was right. She imagined trying to fend off an army in her current state and quickly gave in. Remaining behind would only endanger Gunther more – the sooner they returned to the castle the better. She found herself wondering if Smithy, Rake and Jester had gone home yet. Rake almost certainly must have – perhaps Smithy and Jester might have remained behind to help. She glanced over her shoulder at the canvas wall where Dragon had slept last night – he had gone. She owed him a visit and her thanks. She felt sure that, had he not been there with her during the night, she would have crumbled.

She was about to ask whether Shahid would be joining them when she caught approaching footsteps and glanced up at Sir Theodore questioningly. The older knight looked oddly serious, his eyes narrowed. He shot her a strange glance, as if in warning, and even as she opened her mouth to question it the tent flap opened and two large figures appeared. One was Sir Ivon, finally out of his armour and free of his duties for a moment – the other was the hunched, pot-bellied form of Magnus. Jane's stomach dropped away and she rose to her feet, cursing under her breath. She had forgotten that he had been sent for. Over the years Gunther and his father seemed to have drawn farther apart – she barely ever saw them together now, unless Gunther was required for some heavy-lifting job down at the docks that he could not escape. Their relationship did not seem exactly friendly – there was always a strange iciness between them, a kind of silence, that neither seemed to wish to remedy. She could not imagine that his presence would be helpful now.

"You have fine timing, merchant," Sir Theodore said as the large man lumbered forwards. "Your son seems to be recovering, at last."

Magnus' small eyes shifted to the bed and then up towards Jane. She folded her arms, her face darkening despite her best efforts to appear polite. He smirked coldly, looking her up and down.

"Lady Knight," he said in greeting. "I see Miss Hot-Head has emerged from the battle without a scratch."

He spoke venomously, as if she had used Gunther as a human shield to survive. She clenched her teeth to avoid offering him a retort – she did not want to fight over Gunther's prone body when he had only just begun to pull away from death. Magnus glanced down at his son once more.

"His arm," he said abruptly. "Will he recover its use?"

"I believe so," Sir Theodore replied. "My friend is hopeful that, now that the fever has passed, he will heal as normal."

"There is that, at least, then," Magnus said coldly, turning away with a scowl. "If he cannot be a decent knight he will at least remain useful at the docks."

"I think you must be confused," Jane broke out, unable to bite her lip any longer. "Your son almost died last night, merchant. It is only due to his strength of character that he is alive now."

"If he had been a better swordsman, he would have saved you all a lot of bother," Magnus replied, smirking. "As it is, he has managed to fail me yet again."

"He fail you?"

Sir Theodore was lifting a hand, attempting to silence her, but she could not let it go. Not this time. She strode around to the other side of the bed and planted herself face to face with Gunther's father, her face blazing with fury, her arms tensed as if to punch him. God, she wanted to punch him. But even if she could not stop her tongue, she could restrain herself from starting a brawl in Gunther's sick room.

"As you seem to be completely ignorant of the situation, I must point out that it is you who has failed him," she snapped, squaring up to him even as he drew himself up to his full height. "You are utterly despicable to speak of him like this. He was wounded saving others less able than himself, we have fought day and night for his very life, and all you can do is sneer and complain? He is ten times the man you will ever be, and he deserves your respect, merchant!"

Magnus' lip curled and he drew closer. She felt Sir Theodore's hand on her shoulder but she did not care – she would not back down. Magnus had gone a bright, beetroot-red and was huffing furiously.

"You insolent little – How dare you – a child pretending to be a knight, speaking to me in such a manner-"

"You will mend your attitude, Magnus, or I shall mend it for you-"

"Enough!"

She bit off her words at the cry. At some point in the last few seconds Shahid had entered the tent, and his face was stony. He looked from Jane to Magnus and back again, daring them to speak again. When he did open his mouth his words were like thunder, and Jane felt her rage shrink into shame.

"What on earth you think you are doing is beyond me, carrying on in such a way, here of all places. In case you have forgotten, I have a patient resting here. I suggest you take your quarrels elsewhere. Now."

Magnus laughed icily and turned on his heel. "I was just going," he threw over his shoulder. "This place stinks."

Jane watched him leave, managing to refrain from chasing after him and clapping him over the head with the nearest blunt object she could find. She tore her gaze away from him to find Shahid glaring at her.

"And you, Lady Jane. I suggest you get some sleep."

She opened her mouth to object but Sir Theodore's raised eyebrow stopped her. She cursed herself furiously – she had lost her privilege of discovering Gunther's welfare, and all because she could not hold her tongue. Still, she could not be sorry for her words. She had meant every last one. She floundered helplessly for a few moments, trying to think of an excuse to say, but Shahid's face was unrelenting. She drew away slowly, dipping her head in acceptance.

"Yes, Sir. I apologise."

She hesitated in the entrance, watching as Shahid crossed over to the bed. Gunther had not stirred once during the whole exchange, and she feared suddenly that something had gone wrong. But she could sill see his chest rising and falling rhythmically, she could see pallor of his skin still flickering with life. She forced herself to turn away, letting the canvas flaps fall and hiding him from sight.

"Just as well," Sir Ivon's voice said, filtering through the tent walls. "If she had not seen to that ugly beast I feel I would have."

The words made her smile, at least, as she took her leave. She felt suddenly heavy, as if she had spent the last of her energy in the argument with Magnus. He was gone now, returned to his precious cargo at the docks, no doubt. She breathed in the cool morning air, screwed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She ached. Her pace slow, she returned to her tent and dropped down on the bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Thanks for reading.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.