"Are you going easy on me!? You had better not be, Gunther Breech!"

Gunther mopped sweat from his brow, using the gesture to buy himself a few critical seconds before responding. Of course he was going easy on her – but there was no way in hell he was going to admit it. Despite his considerable shortcomings in the parenting department, this much could be said for Magnus Breech: he had not raised an idiot.

"Jane, it is too hot for this," he finally said. "If you are not ready for a break, I am."

"No!" she burst out in frustration. Dragon, lazing nearby in the sun, cracked an eye, glanced over to make sure things were all right, then heaved himself into a new position and resumed his nap. Three weeks had passed since Jane had awakened from her delirium, and he had been sticking uncommonly close to her in that time.

So, for that matter, had Gunther. And he was of the firm opinion that she was pushing herself far too hard. She had insisted on resuming their sparring sessions two days ago, despite his decidedly less-than-enthusiastic response to the idea… but as far as today went, they were done. The way she had her non-sword-arm wrapped hard around her midsection, pressed protectively over her ribs, absolutely sealed the deal as far as he was concerned.

Now he just had to find a tactful way of convincing her to end their practice. And it did not appear that would be an easy task.

"Do not do this, Gunther! I am fine, and I want to go again!"

He saw, with some alarm, that she actually appeared to be on the verge of tears. Jane didn't cry easily. She'd been so frustrated with herself during her convalescence, so impatient to get back into "fighting form".

And it wasn't fair – that was what killed him. She shouldn't be putting herself through this; she'd been through hell, absolute hell. She'd almost died.

But every time he tried to point that out, she shut him down. She didn't want to hear it. Stubborn, stubborn woman.

"Jane –"

Before he could utter another word, she gave an inarticulate little cry and launched herself at him, attempting to surprise him into engaging. He sidestepped and deflected her easily – far, far too easily – then caught her by the upper arms, being ever so careful to avoid grasping her shoulders. He was fairly certain that the wound, which in and of itself had been quite small, would be pretty well healed by now – but he was taking no chances. The memory of grabbing her by the shoulders as she lay on the dusty road – of her reaction to that – still loomed very large in his mind.

"Stop. Jane, stop."

"No, you stop!" She tried to wrench herself out of his grip, to no avail. "Why are you doing this!? Gunther, help me! I need – I need to –"

"To rest. Jane, you need to rest. This is not good for you."

She drew in a sharp breath and he braced himself, expecting that she was about to really light into him, just let him have it – and then she dumbfounded him by virtually crumpling in his arms and sobbing so hard it was as if her body were literally trying to shake itself apart.

Quite suddenly his grasp on her was the only thing holding her up any longer. Swearing under his breath, he first pulled her hard against him, and then sank to his knees with her, wrapping his arms around her, starting to rock her as she cried hysterically into his chest.