I will not look. I cannot see if I do not look. I will just lie here. I will not look.
Jane lay curled into the tightest little ball she could manage, there in the ravaged battlefield that existed in her tormented mind. Knees to her chest, face to her knees, arms crossed over her head, eyes tightly shut, she hid. She had learned the routine well enough by now to know what to expect; if she opened her eyes she would be subjected to watching Gunther – her Gunther – die again. And again.
And again.
So she stayed tightly curled in her defensive little ball and when she imagined that she heard his voice calling to her on the wind, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to ignore it.
What she couldn't ignore was the fact that it was getting colder, and the wind was picking up.
In fact… it was getting a lot colder, and the wind was picking up FAST.
It was whipping her hair across her face, rushing in her ears, and… beginning to almost… tug at her?
Yes, she thought, that was right. Odd, but right. It felt as if the wind was… it was difficult to explain, but as if the wind had a conscious, articulated desire to carry her away – and was simply building up the necessary forcefulness to do so.
And it didn't feel as if it had far to go to get there.
Which raised the next logical question; did she want to be carried away?
Well, anything was better than this, right? She had no idea where this strange, somehow intelligent wind wanted to take her, but it couldn't possibly be worse than this. Being trapped in this wasteland of her mind where everyone and everything she cared about was dead. Anything had to be better.
Jane!
She scrunched her eyes even more tightly closed. So it wasn't her imagination, as she'd been hoping. He WAS calling her. This was something new. Gunther had never called out to her before. He had simply died silently, over and over and over again. It was hard enough to watch. She didn't think she could stand to hear his death too. It was just too cruel, too hideously cruel. She'd rather die herself.
And then she understood. And understanding, raised her head and opened her eyes at last.
She did not look backwards, in the direction of Gunther's voice. She was very careful to look only in the direction that the wind was moving her – and it was moving her, now. Only a little, inch by inch, but she had the impression, somehow, that it had only just begun to gather momentum.
Her hair was being whipped madly about her head; snapping in front of her eyes and obstructing her view almost completely – almost, but not quite.
She could see enough.
The landscape of her mind, which had up until now seemed to her to be a real, solid battlefield laid waste, had suddenly become wavery; indistinct. It was shimmering and fading. And right dead center in the middle of it…
In the middle of it…
She gulped in a shuddery breath. It was like nothing she had ever seen. And yet she knew exactly, instinctively, what it was.
The wind was swirling in front of her into a vortex; a tunnel. It was very long and very dark, and not a little frightening. And yet she thought – no wait, she didn't just think, she was sure; absolutely, wonderfully, beautifully sure – that there was just the smallest glimmer of light at the far end of it. No bigger than a spark, and yet the most stunning, most powerful thing that she had ever seen.
Better than this? Oh yes, whatever was in that light was a thousand times better than this… and the wind would take her there. It had already begun. All she had to do was let it. Just give herself over to it with the full acceptance that once she made that choice, there would be no turning back.
Jane! JANE!
"No," she whispered. It came out somewhere between a sob and a groan. Why was he doing this to her? Why, why!? This shouldn't be a difficult decision. Torture versus peace… and there would be peace in that light; she was certain of it. It should be a foregone conclusion. And yet Gunther… Gunther…
Why did he have to complicate everything!? He always had – all her LIFE he had. Nothing was ever easy with Gunther around.
"Go away," she whispered raggedly. "I cannot – I will not – watch you die anymore. Just leave me alone, Gunther. Let me go."
Jane! Jane, Please! Damn it! I LOVE you!
She froze. Very, very slowly, she raised a shaking hand; pressed it to her temple, pinning at least some of her hair back, out of her eyes.
Had he just said what she thought he'd said? He couldn't have… could he?
And even if he had… was it worth turning around for, knowing what she would see?
"I cannot. I cannot watch that anymore, I can NOT!"
The wind was increasing every second now; catching at her clothes, her limbs. She was moving faster now, being pulled along as though she were caught in a river's strengthening current. She was no longer sure she could stop this process even if she wanted to. So why put herself through the agony of turning around? It would not – could not – make a difference at this point anyway.
Jane! I know you can hear me! I KNOW you can! Jane, you can fight this! Since when do you surrender so easily!? Damn you, woman, FIGHT!
"Gunther…" His name was torn out of her; half a curse and half a prayer. How could he do this to her? Ask this of her? Hadn't she endured enough? Didn't she deserve to rest?
She dug her fingers into the ground; it made no difference, she was being pulled along at a right good clip now. Her nails left little gouges; narrow tracks in the dirt. Ahead of her the vortex yawned and that tiny glimmer of light, no bigger than a grain of sand, beckoned.
Behind her, Gunther shouted again in a cracked, panicked voice.
Jane! Are you really just going to give up!? JANE!
"Gunther, it has already begun!" she cried, still refusing to actually look in his direction. "I could not stop this now, even if I wanted to! It is stronger than I am, and it is already in motion!"
She clenched her hands in the powdery dirt, digging her fingers in deeper. The wind just pulled her harder. The next time Gunther spoke, she found she could barely hear him. It was as if some unfathomably vast distance had suddenly opened between them; as if in the few seconds since he'd last shouted out to her, the wind had moved her not inches, not yards, but miles.
Then I guess I have to let you go, his voice drifted to her. It was barely audible now, over the rising howl of the wind, but the sadness in it… that much came through loud and clear. That much was unmistakable. You cannot be the Jane I knew and loved, at any rate. She would never say such a thing; she would fight to the bitter end. She was not a weakling or a coward, and you, it seems, are both. So go then; go on. My Jane… My Jane must already be dead.
And then – of course – she got angry.
"God damn you, Gunther Breech!" she shouted furiously, but there was no answer this time; no further sound at all. Finally, slowly, again holding one hand to her head to keep at least some of her hair in check, she turned and looked behind her.
There was nothing there.
No hideous death scene playing out before her eyes; nothing at all anymore but swirling darkness.
"Gunther! GUNTHER!?"
…you, Jane...
There. He had said it again. His voice was no more than a whisper on the wind now, but he was still there, somewhere, and he had said it again.
"Oh, God," she choked out, "what do I DO?" Ahead of her was warmth and peace and light and respite, and the easy way out.
Behind her was cold, and hurt, and the fight of her life.
And Gunther.
Gunther-Biscuit-Weevil-Breech, her life's single biggest inconvenience since… well, since forever, it felt like. Arrogant. Infuriating. Hurling insults and declaring his love for her, alternately.
Oh, hell and maggots.
There was nothing for it.
She had to go back.
Back to her family; her friends; back to Dragon… back to Gunther.
And it was not going to be fun.
Clenching her jaw, bunching her muscles, she steeled herself… and then twisted her body so that she was facing directly back into the wind. On her hands and knees now, the wind gusting directly in her face, she tried to scrabble to her feet; failed; tried again.
Failed again.
She was still losing ground. Still being tugged the other way.
"No," she whispered through gritted teeth into the maelstrom that was whipping powerfully, insistently around her. "I am… not… ready. This is not… my… time."
She dug her hands and her feet into the soft, yielding earth. And then inch by inch and foot by foot, she began to fight, to crawl, to scrabble, to claw her way back.