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It has been a fortnight since their, frankly extremely unlikely, escape from execution, as the sun rises on the horizon.
After that first glorious, deliriously happy day of basking in their love and freedom, together at last without chains or imminent death hanging over their heads, they made the decision that they have to fight. That they can’t leave Mary on the throne, daily increasing persecution and expanding Division Laws, filling the fields and rivers of England with the blood of Ethians and their supporters. They concluded that their safety was in numbers and set out to find Edward and the Ethian camp.
Correction. Jane had decided. Guildford had no choice but to agree. All he wanted to do was take her hand and never let go of it. Lead her away, board a ship and leave the horrors of their past behind them. He'd swim her across the Channel on his bare back without a moment's hesitation, if she would just allow it. But his brave, beautiful, righteous wife cannot look at the injustices of life in England and look the other way. She cannot turn a blind eye to her countryfolk’s suffering, even if it means putting herself back in the fray and the line of fire. And Guildford, well, he will follow her into Hell itself, for a chance to spend every remaining second of his life by her side. He will fight alongside her, he will protect her life with his own, he will do whatever she asks of him for as long as they both draw breath.
They will be okay, Jane reassured him as they traversed the countryside in search of the Ethian camp.
They are doing the right thing and they will be okay, she whispered against his lips as they found Edward and pledged once again their loyalty to the rightful King.
They are safe and together and they will be ok, she promises as she allows exhaustion to take her after he has worshipped every inch of her skin in their makeshift tent in the camp. After he has rendered her incoherent with desire and brought her to climax with his fingers, then his mouth and finally his cock.
She drifts off to sleep in the circle of his arms, and Guildford holds her through the night.
They establish a routine.
Mornings are dedicated to strategic meetings and planning, establishing who their allies might be and how to secure funding for their cause. Guildford finds a surprisingly easy camaraderie with King Edward, which he has never expected but welcomes nonetheless. His Majesty (though he hates being called that and insists on simply Edward) is open in his respect and appreciation for Guildford’s knowledge on the English nobility and who they may be able to trust, acquired through years of watching his father manoeuvre life at Court.
In the afternoons, Jane and Susannah gather herbs and make salves. Jane often laments the loss of her medicine book, burned by Frances, which never fails to immediately put a damper on her mood. There is no news of the fate of their families, and both are restless with concern. During those hours, Guildford changes into his horse form and goes to run around the perimeter of the camp, on scouting missions - or so he calls them. The day before he trotted into a nearby village just to listen in and hope to hear some news from the palace.
At night, they eat modest dinners with the pack, and retire to their tent. There, they live as husband and wife for the first time, together and in love. Guildford makes it his life’s mission to learn everything there is to know about her. He prods her for stories of her childhood. The big events - her father dying, her cousin becoming king - those that have altered the course of her life. The small and seemingly insignificant ones - like picking flowers with her sisters or sneaking sweets out of the kitchen - that have shaped her into the woman he would give his life for.
He learns her body like it is his own. He knows the constellations charted by the freckles on her back, the beauty spot on the inside of her upper thigh, the star-shaped birthmark on her ankle. He knows the frustrated little sounds she makes when she is desperate for him, the breathy pleas when she is done with his teasing, the cries of relief when he finally gives her what she craves most. He lives for her screams of release in the dead of night and finds redemption in her eyes when she tells him that she loves him.
He holds her close at night and watches over her as she sleeps.
He, however, hasn't slept in days. Not since that last night in Seymour’s prison, on the cold hard ground of his cell, consumed with grief and guilt and regret, escaping into the realm of sleep instead of the nightmare of their reality. But he has not slept since. He tries, he truly does.
He lies in bed with Jane beside him, but every time he closes his eyes, he is back at the Tower, strapped to the pyre. Every time his mind drifts into unconsciousness, he sees her on the gallows. The Executioner's axe is raised above her head, but no hawk comes flying to the rescue. He is there watching, helpless, powerless, filled with guilt and shame, as in one swift stroke the axe is down, and Jane’s head is severed from her body. A guttural cry escapes his soul, he screams her name but she cannot hear anymore. She is gone, and life is over. Then they light his pyre, the flames engulf him and the last thing he sees is his wife's frame, crumpled bloody on the ground beside the block.
The first few times he'd woken with a scream, his body ablaze as if he's burning from within. He’d jolted Jane from her dreams, her concerned eyes boring into him.
“What is it?” She had asked, distressed.
He’d had the presence of mind to draw her lips into a kiss and rendered her speechless soon after.
Now, Guildford no longer tries to sleep. At least not in human form. He lies awake at night, listening to the sound of Jane’s breathing, assuring himself that she is with him, she is safe, she is alive. He goes through the motions in the mornings, and then, when the time comes for his scouting missions, he shifts into his equine form, disappears from camp, and allows himself to sleep for an hour. “Boundless energy, horses,” he’d told Jane once, and it is true. While he never feels rested, he’s managed to prevent displaying outward signs of his insomnia.
He fears Jane will send him away, that she will decide he is not worth keeping around. He’d failed her, after all. He had been weak, and useless, possessed by his need for a cure. He’d left her alone at the palace, surrounded by vipers, and gone off to heal himself. He’d been an utter loser when it mattered most, and then he’d gone and gotten himself caught, and had them both condemned. He knows, in his soul, that he does not deserve her. That Jane would be better off without him. But he is also selfish, and can’t let her go.
Guildford walks into the camp that night, and the shadows from the fires seem to be contorting into the figures from his nightmares. He’s feeling dizzy, the ground is shaking, and he can’t see Jane anywhere. He starts running, frantic, screams ringing in his ears, and the tents around him explode into flames. The rancid smell of burning flesh surrounds him, and he is clawing at his windpipe to draw a breath through the smoke.
He sees Jane, at last, but she’s lying motionless on the ground and Mary is there, strangling her throat and cackling maniacally. He must help her, but he can’t reach her in time. He’s running as fast as his legs will carry him, but she is not getting any closer. He won’t get to her in time, he knows. Before Guildford can even stop to think, he’s drawn a dagger from its sheath and is flinging it at Mary’s form. He sways, collapses, and descends into an abyss of darkness and despair.
He comes back to consciousness in a burst of light, blinking rapidly to clear the fog from his head. He’s lying in his bed, the sun streaming through the opening of their tent. Jane is sitting quietly next to him, reading a book with a title he doesn’t understand. He shifts his body to see her better, and her eyes immediately drift to him.
“You are safe, you’re okay.” She says, a tilt to her voice he’s never heard before. There’s concern there, and an edge of anxiety that makes his stomach turn.
He is immediately set on edge and sits up straight in bed. He reaches for her, tilting her neck to check her over for the injuries Mary had inflicted.
“Jane! Are you okay, what happened? How did you escape?” His questioning frantic, he draws her into his arms and holds her as close as she will go.
Jane returns his embrace for a moment, and then gently pulls away to look into his eyes. She is looking at him with that concerned gaze again, and confusion is starting to set into his foggy mind.
“Guildford, what is the last thing you remember?” She asks, patiently, quietly, as if she is terrified of the answer.
That is a strange question, he thinks, but searches through the echoes in his mind.
“The camp was on fire,” he starts slowly. “I saw Mary, strangling you. I was trying to get to you, but I couldn’t run fast enough. I threw a dagger at her but it missed… After that, it’s all a blur of flames.” The reality of their survival is starting to set into his consciousness, but he is unsure how they could have made it out of the inferno.
“How did we escape?” He asks again.
Jane seems to be struggling to find the words, and that, above everything else, tells him something is very wrong. His wife has never been one to mince her words, nor to hesitate to deliver the most eviscerating truth to his face. So why is she being so careful now?
“Please, Jane, tell me what happened.” He implores with a whisper, but he fears he already knows.
“Guildford…” She starts and takes a deep breath.
A sinking feeling has settled in the pit of his stomach, and he hates how gruff his voice is when he says, “None of it was real, was it?”
“You came into the camp, you were so pale, I just knew something was wrong. I called your name, but you looked like you were in a trance of sorts. I reached out to hold your hand, and you were burning in a fever. And then you let out this strangled scream and started clawing at your throat… You were sobbing and it looked like you couldn’t breathe. You ripped your necklaces off your chest and then you screamed Mary’s name. You took your dagger out and flung it into a log by the fire, and then you collapsed.”
She gets this out in a manic rush, as if she needs to get it out in a single breath or she might not be able to continue. He feels like he’s going to be sick, but the bile does not rise to his throat.
“Guildford…” She starts again. “I know that you’ve been having nightmares… When was the last time you slept?”
And there it is. He’d thought he was so clever, hiding his nightmares from her, distracting her with his lips, and his tongue, and his touch. He’d thought he had it under control, allowing himself to rest in his equine form when nightmares couldn’t reach him in the same way.
For a second he considers trying to evade her question but realises there is no point in hiding. She knows. Of course she knows. This is Jane. She is more observant than anyone he’s ever met, and more in tune with him than he is with himself.
He braces himself for the confession, takes a deep breath and rushes on.
“The last time I truly slept, in human form, was the night before our execution.” He sees a shadow of horror cross her face, but she schools her features quickly and takes his hand in hers. She gives him a gentle squeeze and urges him on. I am here, her touch is saying. You can trust me, I love you, please let me in, he feels in the heat of her skin against his. And so he does.
“I can’t sleep. I have these nightmares, that we are back there, and the Pack doesn’t come to save us. And I lose you…” He’s never spoken these words out loud, he’s never even dared to acknowledge them. He pulls her closer to his body and brings his forehead to hers, drawing a shuddering breath. “I can’t lose you, Jane. I can’t close my eyes… Whenever I do, I see you dead, and I cannot do it. And it’s all my fault! You were on the gallows, and it was all my fault. If the Pack hadn’t come to the rescue, you would have been dead, and it would have been on my conscience. I was so powerless to stop it, and you were standing there, brave and resigned and beautiful. And I couldn’t save you. In my dreams I can’t save you. I can’t lose you…”
Guildford feels like crying, tears of anguish pricking behind his eyes. He is determined to hold them in, and yet one makes it past his defences and drops onto their entwined hands. He’s gasping for breath, feeling like he’s floating out to see, but then Jane squeezes his fingers, once, twice, and moors him back into the present.
“I love you, Guildford. You are not going to lose me!” She says this almost sternly, as if trying to convey the depth of her determination.
She holds him through the pain, the only solid thing in their entire universe. The feel of her warm body against his, wrapped around him, keeping the despair at bay and lulling him to sleep.
“You can rest now. You are okay. We are together and it is going to be ok.” She whispers like a mantra against his skin, until he finally believes her, and allows himself to drift.
He wakes with a start, the feeling of the fire still burning at his feet, and jolts Jane into alert. She looks at him, a sort of resigned determination settling into her features.
“You have your thinking face on.” Guildford tries to joke, but it falls flat with the aftertaste of ash and his nightmare still in his mouth.
“I have been reading an Ancient Greek text about the stains on the psyche caused by exposure to a traumatic event.” She says, pauses, then rushes out, “Do you trust me?”
Guildford gives her a look that, under normal circumstances, would convey a message along the lines of “Does a bear shit in the woods?” She is still waiting for a verbal confirmation, so he nods his head and says:
“Of course I trust you. With my life, with my fucking soul, with everything I am and ever will be.”
She seems reassured and bolstered by his empathic statement, and so she explains.
“I have this idea, I think it will work. I’m sure it will work. The research is not exactly thorough, but the logic is sound, so it brings to reason that it will work.” She is rambling, and he’s starting to wonder what can possibly have her so rattled.
“Jane.” He says her name gently, reverently, and kisses her. That seems to do the trick, and she smiles against his lips. “Breathe.”
“Sorry, I’m a little nervous. You see, I read about a theory, replacing traumatic memories and associations with a pleasurable, euphoric experience…”
“What are you saying?” He is starting to get more and more confused, as this is certainly not where he had expected this conversation to go.
“I want to tie you up to a pyre. I want to tie you up to a pyre and then elicit a sexual response, and replace the association of helplessness and fear, and death. With, you know... Sex. I want to make love to you while you are tied up. I think it will help you erase the memories of that night. But you must trust me fully. Implicitly. You have to know that I will never do anything to harm you”.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her face is getting redder and redder the more she speaks. Guildford fears she might pass out from the mad rushing tumble of words and breath coming out of her mouth. Him, on the other hand, all the blood seems to have rushed from his head and straight to his cock.
“You want to strap me up to a pyre and have sex with me? As a cure for my nightmares?” He’s incredulous, and incredibly aroused. Because he does trust her, unconditionally, with everything that he is. And there is nothing she could ask of him that he would not give. His mad, wonderful wife, is willing to try some very unconventional methods, all so she can help him heal.
Jane nods at him with the smallest tilt of her head. She is looking at him with a lustful glint in her eyes, but more importantly with all the love, concern, and devotion that he had never imagined possible at the start of their marriage, and he knows that he will allow her anything she could ever ask of him. Considering recent events, sex on a pyre sounds like quite a bargain, actually.
“Okay,” he says, and bends his head down to kiss her lips slowly, luxuriating in the taste of her, alive beside him. “When do we start?”
The actual logistics of what they are about to attempt prove somewhat challenging, but Jane is nothing if not resourceful, and certainly committed to the task at hand.
She insists that he must not be involved in the preparations, that relinquishing his control of the situation is vital to the success of their endeavour. She disappears from their camp alone, despite his protests or pleas to at least take Susannah with her. But with a kiss to his lips and a stern assurance that she can look after herself, thank you very much, she is off, and much to his ever-growing agitation, does not return for several hours.
By the time she does come back, he is half mad with anguish, convinced that something has happened, that she has been captured, that she’s halfway back to Tower Hill already. He tells her as much when she returns. Her only reply, with a mischievous gleam in her eye, is, “Have you always been this melodramatic?”
That effectively shuts him up, because, yes he has, and perhaps she’s right and he ought to put more faith into her skills. This is the woman who bested Capo Ferro by the age of 8, who disarmed him in less than fifteen seconds flat. He knows she can take care of herself, and he knows that the creeping anxiety inside him has a lot more to do with his lack of sleep than any shortcomings on her part.
They spend the day working together in silence, carving arrows side by side, never discussing what will happen. With the exception of a few (accidental on Jane’s part, fully deliberate on his) brushes of their fingertips, they do not touch. Guildford’s body is a taut string of agitation and frustration. Agitation, because he trusts her, of course he does, but giving up his control is not something he has ever felt comfortable doing and he is apprehensive of how he will react when the time comes. And frustration, because he’s also excited, intrigued, aroused at the thought of being at Jane’s mercy, and he wants to ravish her already, Gods be damned.
The more he thinks about it, the tighter his body is winding itself up, until he feels like he will combust from the smallest touch of Jane’s skin against his. As night falls, Guildford watches as she squares her shoulders in a steely display of quiet determination. She stands from her place by the fire and offers him her extended hand, a question in her eyes. Oh, he’s ready alright. While a part of him is still nervous, he is also at his wits end with desire, an animalistic need that has been smouldering from his groin and has now grown into a raging inferno. And that part of him is much louder and insistent. So, he takes her hand and allows her to gently lead him away from the fire and out of the camp.
They walk together to a small clearing in the woods, where Jane has clearly been busy. He understands now why she had been gone for so long that morning. In the middle of the clearing is a singular tall pine tree, its trunk no wider than the pole Guildford had been tied to in the Tower’s courtyard, the crown of it towering high above them. Lit torches have been placed around the tree, surrounding it and throwing flaming shadows in the woods surrounding them. She has gathered broken branches and sticks, and arranged them in a circle at the base of the tree, and there is a large metal loop nailed into the trunk of the tree, sitting just above where Guildford’s head reaches. The thick rope hanging off the loop gives him pause, and the whole scene in front of him causes his breath to hitch in his throat.
“What is this?” He chokes out, and then his breath is coming out in quick bursts from his lungs and his head is spinning. He tumbles to the ground, great big tremors wracking his body. Panic engulfs him, and he’s plunged into a myriad of visions from his nightmares.
The only thing he can feel is terror, and the rough coldness of the forest floor beneath him. The forest floor. A creeping thought emerges into him upon the realisation that he is standing on a soft bed of moss and dirt, and not the cold and unforgiving rock which had been the sight of his impending demise. And then he feels Jane, the touch of her skin against his.
Jane, holding him through his panic, stroking the curls on his head away from his eyes. Jane, whispering softly against his skin, quiet words of comfort and affection. Jane, shifting until she is kneeling before him, putting her hands on both sides of his face and placing her forehead to his. They stay like this for what feels like hours, but is probably only a glimpse of a moment, until the his body is no longer shaking and his breathing slowly returns back to normal.
Jane is there with him. She is here, she loves him, she is trying to help him. And Guildford feels the agitation steadily washing from his body and dissolving into oblivion.
“I trust you.” He finally says, when the demons of their past are no longer swirling around in his mind, and he’s back in a clearing with Jane’s arms around his body. “I trust you.” He vows, as he allows her to lead him to the makeshift pyre.
“I love you and I trust you.“ He speaks clearly, as he raises his arms above his head and waits for her to bind his wrists to the metal loop attached to the trunk of the tree. He relinquishes control to her, and it feels empowering. She has not taken dominance over his body, it is him who gives it to her freely.
Jane is flushed, but there is a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. I hate not knowing things, he’s reminded of her quiet admission in the stables weeks ago, and realises that this is also new territory for her. She has taken the lead in their lovemaking before, when he’s driven her within an inch of insanity with lust and desire, when his touches have served to entice her, but not satisfy her. And when she can take the teasing any longer, she takes matters into her own hands to bring about their completion. But she has never done this. She has initiated sex before, but not like this. Not with him completely at her mercy, unable to touch her, to bring her pleasure, to drive her incoherent with his lips on the side of her breasts, place his tongue against her clit, and have his fingers buried inside her.
Despite his limbs being incapacitated, Guildford still has full control of his words and talking is something he is proficient in.
“Now that you’ve got me here, what are you going to do with me?” He rasps, his voice suddenly deeper than usual with the need to make her understand how much he wants her. How much he always wants her.
She takes her heavy cloak off and steps into his space, her white dress glinting against the moonlight and flickers of the torches around them. Her face is illuminated, her cheeks are flushed as though to look like she is glowing from within. She is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, and he wishes he could bottle the look in her eyes and hold it in his heart for all eternity.
Jane ruffles through the folds of her dress and brings out something in her hands. He catches a flicker of light against metal and realises she’s holding his necklaces in the palm of her hands. She places them against his chest, reaches out behind his neck and fastens first one, and then the other.
“You ripped them off last night. I had them repaired. I’m very attached to them, you see,” she says by way of explanation and draws a finger from the side of his neck along one of the necklaces, then fists them both and pulls, drawing him into a bruising kiss.
At the first gentle flick of her tongue against his he feels like the world explodes into light. He’s been yearning for this, he realises, all day, whilst she’d been keeping an arm’s length between them. Now he understands, patience is a virtue. Every nerve ending in his body is alive, a crackle everywhere her skin touches his, and he feels like he might die if she stops kissing him even for a single moment.
Jane breaks the kiss, and trails her lips across his chin and up, placing gentle kisses along his cheek, up to his eyes. She strokes a finger across his eyebrows, dropping a few kisses to each arch and works her way back down to his mouth. Mouth parted, she dips her tongue and licks along the seam of his lips, and begs for entry, which he is all too willing to provide. She kisses him deeply, flicks her tongue in and out of his mouth, a teasing dance designed to make him lose all sense of time or place.
She licks a trail along his neckline down to his collarbone, and the effect is dizzying. His knees buckle, and he slacks against the binds that keep him upright, the rope digging into his skin and adding to the feeling of helplessness. Yet, he is absolute in his surrender to her power over him.
Soft hands have slipped into the waistband of his breeches and have freed his shirt from its confines, slowly drawing it up and over his body. She pulls it over his head and tries to yank it off but is hindered by his hands strapped to the tree. She huffs a little irritated sigh, bunches the fabric in her first and pushes it behind his head.
“Fuck, I didn’t think this through,” she murmurs, and he finds her vexation endearing, but in the next moment her lips are back to mapping a path along his chest and his mind goes numb.
She circles her tongue along his left nipple, and he shudders in pleasure. Her hands skim along the sides of his body, pushing him against the tree. She places a trail of wet kisses from his belly button down, tracing along the hair of his lower abdomen, and he is writing against the trunk. The skin of his back scrapes against the tree, and the pain is a sharp contrast to the pleasure Jane is eliciting with each touch of her mouth.
And then her frantic hands are on his breeches, unbuckling his belt, undoing the buttons on the side with a singular determination he has come to expect from her in all aspects of life. She pulls the fabric down and exposes him to the cool night air. She trails her finger along the inside of his thigh, scrapes her nail along the base of his erection, all the while looking into his eyes with unbridled lust. Jane looks drunk on her power over him, soaking up every sound that comes out of his mouth beckoned by the slightest touch of her skin against him. He is reminded that this is a Queen standing before him, that she was never born to rule, that she was reluctant to do it, but once she was on the throne she was more regal than any monarch England has ever known.
Guildford has spent his life being strong, in charge of his affairs, holding himself together. He should feel powerless, weak, vulnerable in his relinquish of control, but instead he feels stronger for it. He feels like he is floating, like he is invincible and more alert than he’s ever been. He has underestimated the allure of her hands, unaware of where they will visit next, and he feels free.
She places a kiss to his lips, and then another to his chest, her nose brushes against the glint of metal on his neck. She drifts down, tongue caressing along his torso, then lower still, drags her teeth along the speckling of hair on his midriff, and continues her descent. There isn't a single part of him that her hands or mouth don't explore, treating his body as a treasure trail to undiscovered truths. Lips drawn in ecstasy, he is sure nothing has ever felt so good, and nothing ever will, this is until her lips are on his cock. It’s like a supernova has exploded in his brain and has rewired him completely. His hips buck against her mouth, and it isn’t until his stomach collapses on a breath that he realises he had been holding it in anticipation.
He wants to hold her, but the ropes dig into his skin when he tries to move his hands. He looks at her instead, her mass of curls illuminated by the torches, as she brings her hands to hold him at his base and wraps her mouth around him.
She starts at a slow pace, drawing him into the warmth of her mouth then sliding back out, holding his weight in both hands so that the entire length of him is covered by her. He’s writhing against the tree, desperate to touch her, to feel her, to hold her, all the while she is pumping him in her tight fist, her lips wrapped around his cock, and her hands squeezing along him.
Guildford knows he’s speaking, but he has no control over the words spilling out of him. He’s but a servant, he swears. He shall worship on the altar of her hips for all eternity, he vows. He pleads with her to let him touch her, to return her pleasure. She simply hums and draws him deeper still, and then his head hits the back of her throat. She moans and does it again, and he loses all hold on his sanity. At this moment, strapped to a tree, with his wife's lips and mouth and hands wrapped firmly around his dick, he is indestructible. He will conquer everything, he will slay Mary himself, he will climb the highest mountain and shout for all the world to hear. Because Jane, the most magnificent woman to walk the earth, loves him and wants him, and is finding pleasure in pleasuring him.
She finds a rhythm that is driving him higher and higher, and it is the best feeling in the world. Nothing else exists, nothing matters but the feeling of her wrapped around him, and the pleasure she’s eliciting from his body. He is powerless in her hands but feels all-powerful at the same time.
There is a tightening in his abdomen, at the base of his erection, all around his body and he surrenders to the feeling of utter and complete freedom. One of her hands reaches up across the expanse of his chest to pinch his nipple and a groan of approval comes from somewhere deep in his throat. Her delicate wrist is wrapped along the base of him, squeezing the bottom of his shaft. His breath is coming out in quick pants and he’s struggling to hold himself together.
“I’m going to come,” he finds the strength to warn, and she glances up at him from her spot between his thighs. The look she gives him says, “Isn’t that the aim here,” and it’s so tantalizing he barely restrains himself from thrusting his hips forward.
With a final twist of her wrist around the length of him, he releases a guttural groan, his world shatters and he begins to pulse hot and heavy into the recompense of her mouth. All muscles tense at once, he loses all control of his body and is plunged into a pool of ecstasy unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, the pleasure blinding him behind his closed eyelids.
When he regains full awareness of the world around him, Jane is looking at him with a mischievous and self-satisfied smile, and he wasn’t already married to her, he’d beg her to wed him this instant. She pulls at the ropes around his wrists once and it falls undone, freeing his hands from the binds. His body sags against the tree, and the flush of her against him is the only thing keeping him upright.
“Where in the Gods did you learn to do that?” He says, his voice rough, coming somewhere from deep in his throat. He is overcome with delirium, all logic fleeing his mind.
She giggles, an attractive little sound he’s never heard from her before and says, “I may have asked Susannah for some tips.”
His eyes widen in surprise, and he can’t help but playfully remark, “Remind me to thank her later.”
She brings him away from the tree, places her cloak as a bed on the ground and pulls him down to lie with her. Guildford kisses her deeply and tries to bring his hand between her legs, to feel her wetness, to thank her for what she has just done in the only way he knows how. She playfully taps his hand away, and whispers “Later.”
Her hands are rubbing soothing circles on his wrists, and he is vaguely aware of the bruises that are beginning to form. He must have been straining against his binds much harder than he thought in his desperate attempts to break them and touch her. She promises to make a salve to heal him, and places kisses on the darkening skin.
A dense fog is enveloping his mind, causing him to lose his grip on consciousness. The feeling of her lithe body wrapped around his under the heavy weight of his cloak is the last thing he remembers as he slips into oblivion.
He wakes to the feel of her lips against his shoulder, and the warmth of the sun streaming through the trees. He luxuriates in the light of day and relishes in the press of her body against his, and then he realises he has slept through the night. In fact, he feels more rested than he has in weeks, months, maybe even years.
“No nightmares?” Jane mumbles the question against the bare skin of his chest, her fingers fiddling with his necklaces.
“No nightmares,” he affirms as he draws her flush against his body and tilts her chin up so he can meet her lips with his own.
“I may have enjoyed last night,” she says sheepishly, and Guildford sets about to show her just how much he enjoyed it too.
Later, after they've both reached their climax (Jane several times, thank you very much), Guildford feels he has redeemed his pride for falling asleep on her the night before. They dress, scatter the tree branches from the base of the tree, and make their way back to camp. As they walk, Jane entwines their fingers together.
“I knew that you were struggling, but I never understood the extent of it until you collapsed on me. Why did you hide it from me?” Her voice is unusually small and uncertain, and his heart aches for having been the cause of her distress.
“I didn’t want to show you how weak I had become. I wanted to be strong for you, to help you, to make up for all the pain I put you through. I thought that if I could just get past it on my own, you wouldn’t have to know how afraid I am.” He stops himself, but then remembers that hiding things from her has never ended well, and honesty is his best policy when it comes to her. He takes a moment to find the courage within himself and goes on.
“I know you want to fight, my love, and we will fight. We will fight and we will defeat Mary, because it’s the right thing to do. But I am terrified of losing you. I couldn’t live with myself if something happens to you. And in my dreams, that’s exactly what would happen. So, I’d lie in bed and listen to you breathing, and I thought that this is enough, that the sound of you alive is enough to sustain me. I was an idiot, a fool. I truly am sorry.”
She stops walking and holds his gaze for a long time, considering his words, before she finally says.
“I cannot promise that nothing will ever happen to me, nor to you. We live in a dangerous world. What I can promise you is that we are in this life together, the good and the bad - we will face it as one. You help me every day, I draw my strength from you, I fight and plan and think of you. But you do not need to be strong all the time. Perhaps, at times you may lean on me for support?”
“Perhaps I can,” he concedes, a playful smirk pulling at his lips.
“Promise me you will tell me when you are struggling!” She demands, and the exchange is oddly reminiscent of their first conversation after she found out about his Ethian form.
“I do,” he vows, and dips his head to hers to seal the promise with a kiss.