Gunther loosed a hoarse cry of mingled rage and despair – then rocked back on his heels and went for the dagger at his hip. He had just time enough to register that it wasn't there – he'd left it lying beside Jane – when two of his men, realizing his deadly intent, virtually tackled him and wrestled him to the ground.

"Sir Gunther, no! Do not, the filth is not worth it! Let the king deal with him!"

He shook them off, but did not lunge for the outlaw again. Just sat up, pulled up his knees, planted his elbows on them and dropped his face into his hands, a textbook illustration of hopelessness incarnate. Behind him, one of the men delivered a swift kick to the still-snickering outlaw's ribcage, effectively silencing him.

There was no telling how long Gunther might have sat there like that, but then the last of his men, who'd gone to kneel by Jane when Gunther'd left her side, shouted his name in a voice that sounded just barely on the near side of panic. Gunther raised his head; his hair hung in his eyes until he pushed it back with an absent, almost mechanical gesture. He gulped in a shaking breath, focused on the man who was calling him; then shifted his gaze to Jane.

And then he was moving, scrabbling over the few yards of roadway that separated them. She had curled into a tight, wounded little ball on her side, knees to chest as close as she could manage. The man beside her was holding an open waterskin, but he answered Gunther's questioning look with a resigned shake of his head. "I tried, but… she will take nothing." It seemed to Gunther that he could actually, physically feel his heart twist within his chest.

"Jane." He pulled her into his arms, arranged her crossways in his lap. God, she was hot. She was baking. She was radiating heat. She whimpered and buried her face in his shoulder, and an awful, enveloping sense of inertia crashed over him. It was stealing his breath, suffocating him. He could hear someone muttering – "No. No. No no no no no Jane no."

Oh, wait.

That was him.

What was he supposed to do now? What, what could he do? He couldn't think, he couldn't… move, he could barely draw breath. He could sense time stretching out ahead of him – days, weeks, months. Years. Time that, according to the laughing bandit, wouldn't include Jane. He didn't want it. He didn't want any of it, not a single, solitary minute. The weight of all that unwanted time was smashing him into the dirt, grinding him down, down.

He dipped his head, dropped his face into her wild corona of hair. Inhaled her scent. How much poison was spreading through her body right now? How much, coursing through her veins? He found himself suddenly, ravenously greedy for it. It was supposed to be his, after all – she had, in effect, stolen it from him! Stupid, thoughtless, impulsive, reckless…beautiful, courageous, loyal Jane.

Was there any way he could take it into himself, enough to do the job? Enough to go with her? If he sealed his lips to hers the way he had three nights ago, if he kissed her like that again, deeply, sucking on her lower lip, nibbling it, making her gasp and moan and dig her nails into his flesh the way she had that night, could he glean enough poison then? Or if he dragged his lips lower, from the corner of her mouth to the line of her jaw, and then down her neck to nuzzle at the hollow where her shoulder met her throat? Would it be enough then? She'd been burning in his arms that night and she was burning in his arms now but how much, how very much, had changed.

A great, shuddering, hitching gasp ripped through him and he realized, almost detachedly, that he was crying.

[Stop it. Stop it. Pull yourself together, she is not dead yet!]

Well perhaps not yet, but it was obviously only a matter of –

[Why are you thinking like that? What is the matter with you!? She took that wound for you, she is dying for YOU! And you are just going to give up on HER!? That is the best you can do, that is all she deserves? She would never give up on you – NEVER!]

Slowly, shakily, he raised his head. Dragged the back of one grimy hand across his eyes, scrubbing away his tears, faintly astonished by how many tears there were. He sought the eyes of the man kneeling beside him, swallowed hard. His thoughts were so scattered, the sense of helplessness pressing down on him so great. He had no idea if he was making the right choice, or a catastrophic one – but any choice was better than none, right? Any action taken had to be better than hopeless inertia. Had to be.

"Take her," he said. His voice was so croaky that he had to stop, clear his throat, start again. "Take her for a moment. There is something I have to do."

OOOOO

(A/N: The Laughing Bandit: Best. Pub name. Ever. Am I right? :)