"Gunther, please, you do not have to do this - no one blames you - I will petition - you can stay."

Jane is begging, pleading, and it is shredding his heart.

He can't though, stay. Jane is well aware - she'd been right there, after all.

She watches, horrified but unable to stop him, as Gunther empties the small trunk which had served as his wardrobe in the barracks. He stuffs the contents into his rapidly-filling pack without a word - biting his cheek to prevent himself from screaming at the unfairness of it all - not caring if the clothes he shoves in are disorganized or bunched or wrinkled. It's not as if any of it is even remotely in danger of being damaged by his rough treatment: he'd worn the nicest clothing he had on hand to his audience with the king. Everything else had been in his room back at his father's estate - and that was just as unavailable to him as if the manse had burned to the ground.

He almost wishes it had.

Gunther grabs a pair of well-worn socks and shoves them in. They've got holes, and need darning, but he can sort through all of it later, when he has put the castle behind him - far, far behind him. When he is alone.

Right now his only task is to get out, to leave.

There isn't a whole lot to pack - none of the knights keep much in the way of personal possessions - it's too much to carry, too much to care for, too much to dispose of when they meet their inevitable - and often sudden - ends.

"Please- " she tries again.

He ignores her. He can't look at her just now, won't. If he does, surely he'll stop to listen. Pause long enough to see reason, or Jane's version of such, at any rate; allow himself to be dissuaded. Gunther cannot allow that. Will not.

Having emptied his trunk, he drops to his knees to fish underneath the low ropes of his bunk.

She plops down on the bed where he is trying to work, inserting herself between him and the bed so he cannot ignore her, and plants her feet onto the rough planks that make up the floor. It's a ridiculous, silly attempt to prevent him from retrieving the items he's stored under his bed.

He sits back on his heels, annoyed at her interference. What, are they children again? Will she purple the tender flesh under his arm with a pinch if he ignores her? Should he lop off a bit of her hair to make her braids uneven when she does?

What does she hope to accomplish?

He gives her his fiercest scowl, which of course does nothing - she's far more stubborn than he is - so he reaches forward and pulls on the frame of the rickety cot, moving it, and her, out of his way. She digs in her heels, but there is not enough purchase for her to stop him.

Never one to be easily deterred, Jane crawls over the mattress and leans down until her face is level with his. "That life means nothing -" her breath is hot in his ear and her fingers clench and pull at - what used to be - his patchwork blanket. "It will be empty, hollow, and you will be miserable -" she sounds close to panic.

It hurts to hear her so. It was better, far better, when she had been angry. Indignant and screaming at the injustice of it all.

But she knows - had to know - that he was already miserable. Had been, for a while. Long, long before all this unpleasant (but not unexpected) business with his father.

Gunther retrieves his winter gear from under his bed. It's barely fall now, the leaves are just beginning to turn, but he has no idea where he will be in a week, or a month, or when the winter storms roll through. He has no horse, no hearth, no anything. Hell, they'd even confiscated the moth-eaten dress and stiff slippers which had been part of his mother's dowry. No doubt they've already been destroyed, pulled apart for the tiny, misshapen pearls that had adorned them.

He has next to nothing.

The only thing he has left of his former, pre-castle life - a life he had not identified with for years - is his father's signet ring. A sentimentally useless piece of jewelry which hangs heavily under his shirt. It had been given to him as a reminder of his father's - his grandfather's - his family's - treachery.

A symbol of the worthless name Breech.

He supposes he could pry out the jewels and trade them for winter lodging, melt the ring itself down and sell the silver for a half-dead horse - it may come to that, yet - but for now, he'll wear it.

Or, at least, let it thump against the hollow, aching, cavity of his chest.

Gunther sorts through the meager gear - he'd put off replacing the more broken-down items this spring, thinking he'd be able to do so in the fall - and after a moment's consideration, pulls out the bundle of his taurpaulin and bedroll, as well. Technically it belongs to the castle, as it is part of his knight's kit - or rather, had been - but to hell with the castle and its kingdom.

The king has taken everything, everything - including his honor. Gunther thinks the king, with his newfound wealth from his father's seized estate, can afford the gift of a ragged bedroll.

"You can't." Jane all but whines it, and for a confused moment Gunther thinks she's talking about the blanket and tarp. She's shaking her head furiously - her curls are working themselves free of her braid and fly about her in a reddish halo - as though the action itself will negate what has happened. As though either of them can change anything. "You can't."

For the first time since he'd stormed out of the throne room, since she'd started her one-sided, futile argument, Gunther meets her eyes. Her face is flushed, her eyes are red and swollen, and there are tell-tale tracks on her cheeks.

She's been crying.

Surely an unusual and unnatural state for his partner.

His former partner.

He's only seen her cry twice - three times now - once when she'd fallen off Dragon and broken her wrist, and the morning they had buried her mother.

God in heaven, it hurts to see her so.

"I can, Jane," he says. His voice betrays none of the emotion, the anger - the loss - which is boiling inside. "I am."

Gunther stands, and she scrambles up after him, blocking his way. She looks like she wants to hug him or slap him; possibly both. He steps forward, thinking she'll move out of his way, let him pass, but she does not.

Of course she does not. She is Jane.

The rest of the knights watch their small drama unfold from from around the room - some pretend they are not listening - most don't bother. Gunther wonders how many of them believe the fabrications, the lies Cuthbert has spread.

Gunther has no doubt the news of his father's treachery - his treason - are at the very least, based in fact. Magnus has never been above taking advantage of a business opportunity which promised to be profitable: even those that are morally questionable in nature. Or - if Gunther is being really honest with himself - blatantly seditious.

But the lies about his own involvement? Surely none of them actually believe the king's thinly-veiled accusations? These are men he's known for the better part of a decade; boys with whom he'd survived adolescence - then grown alongside into adulthood. Gunther has trained and served with them, fought and survived. They are men with whom he's made merry, nursed hangovers, mourned fallen comrades.

They cannot actually think he's guilty?

No, they do not. But they do need to protect themselves, and their families.

Jane doesn't seem to understand this concept. She is - always has been - loyal to a fault.

He moves to the left in an attempt to sidestep around her, but she mimics his movement, intent on blocking his path.

"I will not let you."

Gunther sighs.

He's already angry, so furious he can't see beyond the narrow tunnel of his forward momentum. It's almost as if he has on blinders, or is wearing a full metal helm, and he knows this strange calm which has settled around him will not last. Eventually, the shock will wear off and the indignant, righteous anger will win out, and he's not sure he can contain himself when the rage finally sets in.

Which is why he had desperately wanted to avoid this confrontation - wanted to slip away before Jane's own shock had worn off - because he does not want to direct his burning outrage - justified or not - at Jane.

She is the last person who deserves his ire.

He places his hands on her shoulders and gently, but firmly, moves her a few feet to the side.

A single, large tear drops from her lashes and onto the pale skin of her cheek. It catches the light from the window, and magnifies the freckles beneath.

Gunther feels his heart crack - she's crying for him, because he cannot cry for himself. The pain, the betrayal; she's taken them all on herself, and in true Jane fashion is feeling them for him.

He wishes she wouldn't - he may not be guilty or complicit in his father's crimes, he'd not even known what his father had been up to these last few years, but he is unworthy of her tears.

He is, after all, still a Breech.

Hands still on her shoulders, Gunther pushes her down, so she's sitting on the foot of his bed. He's surprised she doesn't fight him.

He tucks a stray curl behind her ear. Her braid is almost a total loss. "I am sorry, Jane." Gunther leans down, and before she can react, presses a quick kiss into the mess of her hair then steps away.

She sits there stunned - eyes blown wide and breath caught in her throat - any further protests completely forgotten by his sudden, unexpected, show of affection.

Desperate to escape before she recovers enough to ask What the hell was that? - Gunther grabs his pack, his bedroll, and his weapons. He's almost out of the castle - passing underneath the thin arrow slits that serve as the barrack windows - when her first broken wail cuts through the courtyard.