So it was that she'd found herself huddled on the edge of the firelight that evening, apart from the others, folded in on herself, trying, with only limited success, to process everything that had happened on that long, traumatic day.
And still she hadn't even begun to understand just how wrong things actually were. Her first real inkling had come hours later, in the dead of night.
OOOOO
"Jane." A hand on her shoulder, giving her a brisk, peremptory shake. If he'd chanced to grab the injured shoulder, she would almost certainly have cried out, and the whole deception would have ended right there. But that's not how things had fallen out, for better… or worse.
"Jane." His voice again; brusque, impatient.
"Wha…what izzit?" she'd muttered, fighting her way up from a sleep that had, apparently, bordered on downright unconsciousness. It hadn't wanted to let her go. "Gunther…?"
"Your watch," he'd said shortly, already turning and moving away through the dark, around to the far side of the almost-burned-out fire, where his own bedroll waited.
She'd struggled into a sitting position, pushing a sleep-tangled mass of hair out of her eyes, trying to get her bearings. It had been right at that moment that she'd registered the earth seemed to be spinning beneath her; a constant slow, lazy, sickening rotation.
And that was definitely not right.
But it had been a moment later, once she'd actually gained her feet, that she'd realized just how wrong things were. Because she'd understood instantly, and without a shred of doubt, that she was about to be ill – very, very ill.
She'd bolted for the edge of camp, groggy and disoriented, managing to make it a short way into the undergrowth before falling to her hands and knees, her whole body suddenly heaving as she retched. She had tried frantically to keep quiet, but there's only so much control that one can exert over that kind of… activity.
And she hadn't been successful.
Muted, under-breath curses from the other side of the campsite, followed by quickly approaching footsteps. She'd groaned despairingly, wishing herself anywhere, anywhere else, and then a new wave of nausea had surged through her and she'd been retching again, no longer capable, for the moment, of coherent thought at all.
So she hadn't really even been able to react when, seconds later, a strong arm wrapped snugly around her waist from behind, holding her steady. Gunther had been on his knees with her, saying nothing for the moment, just lending her his strength and using his other hand to gather her sleep-mussed hair back, out of her face.
It had felt like it lasted forever, and when it had finally ended, she'd been left shaking and coughing, utterly spent. She'd slumped back against Gunther, not because she'd wanted to, but because she'd literally had no choice.
"Here. Drink."
She hadn't even realized that her eyes had fallen shut until he'd spoken. She'd opened them again, dazed, and looked down to see something in his hand. "You must be joking," she'd said, her voice little more than a rusty croak.
His voice had been unmistakably tinged with amusement, despite everything. "It is water, Jane."
She'd blinked. On closer inspection, yes, it was a waterskin – not that ever-present, dangerous little flask of his. She had come to really dislike that flask. This, on the other hand –
She'd upended it, and proceeded to drink it dry.