The situation had not improved by morning.
In fact, she'd had to clamp down hard to stifle a groan as she'd forced herself up and out of her bedroll. Her head had been swimming, her body had been leaden, and her shoulder had been throbbing miserably.
She'd made her way some distance into the trees to reassess the wound, fearing that infection could be setting in. But it hadn't looked infected. No puffiness, no discharge, no redness – at least, no more redness than had been there since the wound was first sustained. It made no sense.
It wasn't as if she'd wanted to discover the tell-tale signs of infection, but at least it would have explained what was going on. The wound was not serious, and apparently not infected either.
So why did she feel this way? This utterly and abjectly wretched?
At breakfast, she'd barely managed to choke down even a bite or two of food. Gunther had been staring at her from across the campfire with narrowed eyes, or she wouldn't even have attempted to eat.
When it had become clear that she would not be able to eat anything substantial at all, she'd forced herself to at least take a few sips of water - although she really hadn't wanted that either. Her body hadn't seemed to want anything, at least not anything that she was capable of giving it.
[Just have to get home, that is all. If we make good time today, we could be home by tomorrow noon. Then everything will be all right. Just get home.]
She'd gotten to her feet and gone to bundle up her bedroll, feeling the weight of Gunther's continued stare even as she'd walked away.