All of Jane and Gunther's men had dismounted by now. "Get him down!" Gunther barked at the one nearest to the prisoner. The man hauled the brigand, none-too-gently, off the horse he'd been riding, and a second later Gunther was nose-to-nose with him.

"What are you talking about?" he grated out through clenched teeth.

"Green Jack is what I am talking about," the outlaw replied, an infuriating smirk playing about his lips. "Or who. See, 'twas Jack that shot the girl there, and Jack, well, he is a queer one. Likes to add a little something special to the tips of his arrows, does old Jack."

Gunther literally staggered where he stood, as if he'd been struck a physical blow. "You… are you talking about –"

"Poison, aye." The man giggled again; a high-pitched, girlish, and decidedly unbalanced little sound. "One of Green Jack's arrows so much as scratches you, it matters nothing if he hit you in the heart or in the toe. Sooner or later, well," he gestured toward Jane, lying where Gunther had left her on the ground. "There you go. You ought to be singing praises to all that is holy – it was meant to be you!" And he broke into those horrible, unsettling titters again.

Both of Gunther's hands rose up, seemingly of their own volition, to clench in his already-mussed hair. He had no conscious awareness of this fact whatsoever. He was… he was…

There were no words. No words for what he was, none.

He was trying to assimilate this barrage of information and he couldn't, he just couldn't, could not process it, could not make sense of it, could not come to terms with it, no, not in a million years, come to terms with this? No, no, no, no. No.

Poison – a poisoned arrow and – him, meant for him and – and someone had been aiming a bow and arrow at him and he hadn't seen!? How could he not have SEEN!? Archery was… was his… he had always been gifted at it, had always been better than Jane, a source of considerable smugness for him when he'd been younger, and so if anyone should have noticed there was a goddamned archer present it should have been him and yet… and yet he hadn't seen and she had, she had, and…

And then she hadn't told him, why, why hadn't she told him, and the answer was there, of course; right there, ready and waiting, just begging for him to pick it up and examine it like some colorful bauble found in the street, something that he simply must get a closer look at even though he knows, he knows, that it's dangerous, and razor-sharp and… and poisoned. She hadn't told him because he'd shut her out that morning, he'd made it crystal clear that he hadn't wanted to speak to her, and he'd only been doing it in an attempt to protect her, but still, he was the one who'd set the tone for their communications that day – or lack thereof. Oh God.

And the way he'd been treating her since –

Oh, GOD.

It occurred to him, much much too late, to wonder what his actions must have looked like – must have signified – to Jane. The ability to step outside his own experience and understand how others might be interpreting his actions was not a skill that came easily to Gunther. He was not, by nature, terribly empathetic. And he honestly hadn't even considered how Jane might respond to his rejection – because he personally knew it hadn't been a rejection at all.

He'd only been trying to protect her! That was all he'd wanted to do. But he'd been misguided, so misguided, fatally misguided if the outlaw was telling the truth. And Gunther thought that he was. His words and manner had a distinct and unmistakable quality of insanity to them – but they also had a quality of truth. Mad he might be, but not a liar – not about this.

God help him. God help Jane. Please, oh please…

He quite suddenly found himself fighting back a wave of bile. He literally felt in danger of throwing up.

Gasping like a drowning man, he had to drag in several deep, hitching breaths before he felt capable of even attempting to speak again.

"You knew… all along… from the moment it happened… and did nothing, said nothing!? You just watched – watched her sicken – knowing full well… and kept it to yourself!?"

The man shrugged a little; gave Gunther a lopsided grin. "Entertainment, my friend. And you… the way you have been… haranguing her! And her suffering in silence all the while - that girl has enough stubborn pride for ten people! Best entertainment that has come my way in a very long time. Maybe ever."

Gunther roared – there was no other word for it; he actually, literally roared – and a split second later the prisoner was flat on his back in the road with Gunther on top of him, straddling him, both hands fisted in the grimy material of the man's tunic, faces so close together that their noses nearly bumped.

The man's breath was fetid; it rolled over Gunther in a stinking, greasy wave.

So perhaps it was a good thing that Gunther was breathing at the very top of his lungs – shallow, rapid, panting breaths that betrayed the depth of his absolute panic.

"Tell me," he gritted out, "how to fix this. You tell me how to help her because I promise you, I promise you, if she dies you die, so help me God."

The man stared up in silence for a moment. It almost looked, for a space of heartbeats, as if he were starting to grasp the gravity of his situation… but then he merely began tittering again.

"You actually love that girl, eh?" he demanded. "Runty little thing like that!? I think that awful orange hair must weigh more than all the rest of her put –"

But he was cut off as Gunther grabbed him by the collar, yanked his head several inches up off the ground – and then slammed it back down again, hard.

"TELL ME! HOW DO I SAVE HER!? WHAT DO I DO!?"

The man dragged in a hitching, labored breath. Grimaced; spat sideways. "That," he said at length, "is the best part of all – the very best. Because Green Jack, as I said, is a queer one. Every poisoned arrow in his quiver has the antidote built right into it – a secret chamber inside the hollow shaft. You simply remove the arrowhead, tip the contents of the shaft down the victim's throat, and as long as nothing vital was pierced, behold; all is well! It amuses Jack to play God that way. To have the power of determining someone's fate not only when he decides whether to shoot in the first place - but then again a second time, after the person has been shot. So if the arrow were here, well, I cannot say for certain; the girl is already far gone. But there would at least be a chance of saving her. Except… except… except that the arrow is not here because she pulled it out and threw it away because she did not want you to know she had been shot! Shot instead of YOU! It is just… too… funny!" And then he was gone in laughter again, braying great hearty gusts of it up at the sky.

OOOOO

(A/N: Well. It's all out in the open now! Longest chapter yet :)