She freezes. She burns. She freezes again. Successive waves of heat and chill crash over her – there is no time in between to catch her breath, to gather herself, to prepare for the next onslaught.
The fever rages and she tries to hold her own against it but it is a losing battle. She can feel her reserves of strength giving out, when she is aware enough to feel anything. It is so exhausting, and it feels so futile, to even attempt to mount a defense.
This is bigger than she is, so much bigger.
[You keep on fighting this.]
She just wants it over.
[Do not give up.]
She just wants to rest.
[Only weak little girls GIVE UP!]
Those words… in Gunther's voice. Did he actually say them, or is it just hallucinations, her mind playing tricks on her? She doesn't know. But she's not weak. Not weak, she's NOT. She decides to try and hold on a little longer.
OOOOO
And then he was there. Incomprehensibly, impossibly, but inarguably there.
She was shivering all the time now – sometimes from heat, sometimes from cold, but shivering constantly either way. Although neither the heat nor the cold seemed nearly as intense anymore. Truth be told, nothing seemed intense anymore. Everything seemed… muffled, somehow. Removed from her. Or maybe she was the one being removed form everything around her – including the sensory feedback from her own body.
She'd been drifting in and out of consciousness – even those periods that could loosely be referred to as her "awake times" had a dreamy, surreal quality to them.
It was during one of these intervals that she heard a commotion in the courtyard, and her mother, who'd been sitting at her bedside, shot to her feet and bolted across the room and out the door, leaving Jane briefly alone. She was bewildered… but only distantly, passingly so. So little that went on around her seemed to matter anymore.
A moment later came the sound of someone virtually hurtling himself up the steps of her tower room. Lying on her back, she turned her head toward the door just as he came bursting through it. Her eyes widened, becoming a little more aware, a little more alert, at the sight of him.
Dear God, he was a mess. Filthy; exhausted; dirty hair hanging in his eyes, and his eyes themselves – they were haunted, and bore dark smudges of fatigue underneath. He looked as if he'd aged ten years since she'd seen him last. Come to think of it, when had she seen him last?
"You look… terrible," she whispered as he crossed the room toward her. Her voice was nothing more than a painful, raspy croak.
He was actually brought up short – for a second or two, anyway – by the complete unexpectedness of her remark. He stopped in his tracks, staring at her, drinking her in with his eyes, the fact that she was still alive – still coherent, even. His whole body sagged with relief then; he actually looked in danger of falling to his knees in that moment. But then he seemed to gather himself, shook his head and sank slowly down on the edge of her bed, an awful, grim little smile twisting his lips.
"To be perfectly honest, I have seen you looking better yourself, Jane Turnkey. But here – I have brought you something nonetheless."