Cold. That was the first thing that she registered; she was horribly, bitingly cold.

A quick second was that she seemed to be… seemed to be… lying atop a… person? Draped bonelessly, face-down, over… someone… with her head resting high on his chest, face nestled right under his collarbone. It was Gunther, of course; she recognized him immediately, despite being barely half-conscious. She'd know him anywhere by scent alone; and years of close physical contact while sparring had given her more than a passing familiarity with the hard contours of his body, as well.

And third, it seemed that they – both of them – were, for the most part at least – underwater!?

She opened her eyes and struggled to bring them into focus, with only limited success… she could make out a shoulder, the metal rim of the basin they were in; a suggestion of dark, damp hair. She had the impression that his chin was resting on the top of her head.

She flexed her fingers; found that her hands were draped over his shoulders; almost, but not quite, linked round his neck. They obeyed her, though they were stiff and ached with cold. All right, then. So far, so good. She tried to lift her head a bit, next.

At this, she failed spectacularly. She managed to raise her face maybe a quarter inch off Gunther's chest, if that – then had to let it fall, clunking gently back against him.

At this, Gunther's arm, which was loosely encircling her waist, tensed for a second, giving her a brief squeeze… but nothing more.

Inwardly, she frowned. She'd been expecting… well, she wasn't sure what, exactly, but a bigger reaction than this.

Something was wrong here.

She tried to speak his name; managed only to produce an unlovely sort of a whispery croak. She swallowed hard. Collected herself. Tried again.

"Gunther?"

Again that lethargic half-squeeze, this time accompanied by a hoarse, rather cryptic statement; "stay with me, Jane."

Now she was really starting to worry. Stay with me, Jane? What did that mean?

"Gunther!"

"Don't leave me. Fight."

His voice sounded croakier than hers. And he wasn't making any sense at all. Stay with him – don't leave him – but she was right here. And she was in icy water from her chest down, soaking wet and freezing cold and hurting in a variety of places, and confused, damn it all, and she really didn't need him to be scaring her like this.

"Gunther… please."

"I love you, Jane…"

That statement sent a shock right through her, just as it had when she'd heard it carried to her on the wind in her… dream?

No. That was no dream. That was something far more powerful.

Already the vibrancy and immediacy of that experience was fading from her consciousness, but there was not a single shred of doubt in her mind that it had been no ordinary dream… not even a fever dream. It had been something… else.

And it had been those words from Gunther; those astonishing, precious, and wholly beautiful words, that had brought her out of it, whatever it had been.

They had given her strength then, and they gave her strength now. She tried to lift her head again, and this time she succeeded.

What she saw made her breath catch. Gunther looked… simply awful.

His face was beyond pale, beyond ashen; it was a horrible, chalky shade of grey. The circles beneath his eyes were so dark and prominent that they looked for all the world like bruises. His jaw was clenched – probably to keep his teeth from chattering, she realized, just as her own started – and his lips… they were actually, honestly, blue. She had never seen anything quite like it.

"Gunther," she breathed. This time there was no response at all.

A lightning-quick glance around showed her that she was in her own room, with the puzzling addition of the basin of water in which she and Gunther were…

Were what? Exactly?

Freezing. We are both freezing. We have to get out of here.

The same glance ascertained that it was night, and that two other people were in the room, both appearing to be soundly asleep. Jester was snoozing half-propped in the corner near the hearth; giddy relief crashed over Jane at the sight of her friend, for all that his left leg was heavily bandaged and his right arm in a sling. His head was cushioned on a pillow evidently purloined from the bed … and then, on the bed itself, lay a figure that looked suspiciously, wonderfully, like her –

"Mother?"

It was her mother, she was almost sure of it; but her voice was too weak to rouse Adeline from her exhausted slumber.

She had to rouse Gunther instead. She had to.

"Gunther," she rasped again, returning her attention to the person who was in closest – by far – proximity to her. Her teeth were starting to rattle hard now. "Guh-hunther… come on… puh-please."

"Jane… fight it… stay… stay with…"

What was the matter with him!? It was as if he was going on rote. She had no way of knowing, of course, that she had spoken, cried and screamed his name literally dozens of times while in the throes of her delirium, and so, in a very real sense, that was exactly what he was doing. His own senses dulled by the ice-cold water, and somewhat less than half-conscious, at this point, himself, he had failed to take notice of the fact that her voice, and her movements against him, had real purpose and meaning now.

He didn't understand that the fever had broken; that the battle had been won. And so he persevered, repeating the same cycle of words over and over again; his desperate plea that she not leave him behind.

Drastic action was called for. How could she get through to him?

Then it came to her; simple, powerful, and unquestionably, instinctually right. Of course – it was so obvious. She could do it in the same way he'd gotten through to her in… in the Other Place.

And she'd better get it right the first time, because she could feel both her strength and her lucidity failing her. She knew with calm certainty that she was going to slip back out of consciousness again in a moment – she didn't have much time.

She took a shaky breath and let her eyes fall shut in the moment before gathering herself to act; her cheek resting on his cold, damp chest… and gathered what strength she could from the sudden rush of memories that flowed like a river swiftly past her closed lids.

Gunther at fourteen, sprawled in the dirt of the training yard, glaring up at where she stood triumphantly above him; his eyes ablaze with resentment and something very near to hatred.

At sixteen, standing on the castle ramparts and shading his eyes with his hand, face inscrutable as he'd watched her and Dragon lift off for patrol… until a rogue gust of wind, completely unexpected, had very nearly knocked her right off Dragon's back. Glancing back again once she'd righted herself, she'd been shocked at the change in him. White as a sheet; his face, which had been so expressionless mere seconds before, a picture-perfect study in abject horror. Then it had been over, almost before it had begun – but she'd been left shaken to the core by what she'd seen in that instant. He hadn't spoken to her after that for a week.

Then the sight of him at nineteen, strolling through the town square arm in arm with a pretty girl on the evening of some early summer fair. Oh, with what furious determination she had tried to stomp down the ugly wave of envy that had threatened, in that moment, to overcome her. Then, in an instant, everything had changed. Gunther had caught sight of her through the crowd as she'd struggled to hold in the stinging tears that had wanted, so suddenly, to fall - tears she'd insisted to herself that she didn't even understand. Locking his gaze on hers, he had first rolled his eyes dramatically heavenward; then given a mighty and deliberately exaggerated yawn (his companion, completely engrossed in a ribbon-seller's bright wares, had never even noticed.) And just like that, everything had been right with the world again; she'd been able to pull a rude face at him, and then move on.

And Gunther a year ago, holding Rake and Pepper's baby for the first time, looking uncertain, a little bit frightened (as Pepper had laughingly reassured him that he was doing just fine) and oddly, amazedly tender all at once.

All this passed before her in a matter of seconds, and it gave her the reserves of strength and will that she needed. Her lips curved upward in the barest hint of a smile against his chest as she realized, I loved him all that time - ALL that time back to the very beginning - and then she was moving; locking her hands together behind his neck and using that grip for leverage against him; pulling herself up with single-minded determination until her face was even with his, so close their noses bumped as she rasped out, her voice shaking only a little bit, "Gunther… Gunther. Gunther Breech, I love you. I love you, and I need you to open your eyes!"

And she pressed her lips against his; briefly, but hard.

She felt the entire length of his body tense beneath her just a split second before his remarkable slate-colored eyes flew open, focusing on her in frank, astonished disbelief. Even sunken in a face as haggard and grey as his was at the moment, she found those eyes, this close up and unguarded, to be almost dizzyingly beautiful.

"Jane," he croaked. "Oh, my God." And then a second later, more loudly; "Oh my God, JANE!"

He bolted upright then; from the mostly reclining position he'd been in, his head resting against the lip of the tub, he sat up so suddenly and so fast that water sloshed everywhere and Jane, who lacked the coordination to right herself against him, very nearly slipped under the surface.

Then he had her, one arm darting around her waist, holding her to him and making her gasp – the welts there were still terribly fresh – the other hand slipping behind her head, fingers splayed in her damp, bedraggled curls, the bottommost tips of which were now floating in the water, holding her face close to his own

"Jane," he was whispering hoarsely, almost feverishly; "Jane, Jane, Jane, oh Jane."

She smiled again, or tried to; but she was shaking hard now. She'd used up everything she'd had in her bid to capture his attention and could no longer hold the shivering at bay. It was intensifying with every passing second.

Through teeth that were now rattling violently she managed, "Gunther, cuh… could we get ow-hout nuh… now? I think I nh… n-need to lie duh-hown."

She felt him bunch against her and then he was standing, water pouring off both of them as he shifted her in his arms, gathering her closer… and he was shouting but everything was sliding out of focus again and she couldn't make out for the life of her what it was that he was saying.

There were other voices now, too… the room's other occupants had awoken at last, it seemed; she even thought she heard Dragon's voice from the direction of her window. She felt herself being eased gently down onto her bed; it was as soft and familiar and welcoming as she could have hoped for, but she was still so cold, so cold…

Vaguely, distantly now, she felt both of Gunther's strong hands coming up to frame her face, the thumb of one stroking her cheek as the fingers of the other brushed her sopping hair off her forehead. The last thing she heard was his voice, murmuring her name again and telling her to hold on, they would have her warm in no time; even though his voice was shaking and she knew he had to be just as wretchedly, torturously cold as she was…

Then she gave a great, shuddery sigh, and everything went dark again.