Disclaimer: I own nothing related to King Arthur.
And warning: This chapter contains a few gruesome details.
Just as she had suspected would be the case, almost every muscle from the neck down was unimaginably sore when Breck awoke the next morning. The rigorous training Tristan had subjected her to had most certainly done a number on her. In fact, she was hard pressed to remember another time when she'd been this sore. She desperately needed to use her chamberpot and her stomach was growling with hunger, but as it was, there was absolutely no chance of her dragging herself out of bed just then – she simply did not have the physical ability to do so just yet.
So, instead, she laid there, waiting for the willpower to move to finally come along so she could function again as she thought back to her training with Tristan and what he had told her the day before. There is anger inside you. And you must learn to channel it.
The brute was right, of course. There had been a darkness resting over her heart since the day her pregnant mother had been killed right before her young eyes, a darkness that had only grown blacker and heavier when Cerdic came back to claim her father's life some years later. Any hope for a happy, normal, carefree existence had been stolen from her a long time ago, and she had been a different person ever since. She had to wonder, though, if there had ever been hope for a normal life. She was a Saxon. The daughter – the only living offspring – of one of the most widely known, widely feared Saxon warriors in this part of the world. Even if her family had lived, would they have ever been able to find true peace with the amount of enemies he'd had?
Breck frowned as she thought this over, able to recall countless times when she had found herself shunned purely because of her heritage. People feared her when they learned of her blood-ties, rejected her on the belief that because she was a Saxon, she must be nothing more than a bloodthirsty, malicious, black-hearted monster. Truth be told, she was these things to a certain extent. Not because there was evil in her blood, though – or whatever rumor people were able to come up with to explain the cruelty of her father's people. If she was bloodthirsty, malicious, and black-hearted, it was only because of the hardships she'd faced throughout her life had made her that way. And could she truly be blamed for that? If anyone else had suffered even half of what she had gone through and witnessed in her lifetime, she gathered they would have a darkness hovering over their hearts as well.
As all of these thoughts continued to swirl through Breck's mind, a memory suddenly surged forth. It was one that she had not allowed herself to think back to for a very long while. One that, to this day, still made a lump form in her throat and her heart feel as though it was heavier than an anvil…
OOO
Breck gazed out at the rolling, grassy plains of land around their small home, wishing and praying with all her might that her father would return alive and well. He had left for battle almost a fortnight ago and she had been driven nearly to the point of insanity waiting for him to return. What was happening? Was the battle still going? Had her father prevailed over Cerdic? Would they finally be able to live peacefully after so many years?
She looked around for one last hopeful moment, then turned away from the foggy, muggy landscape before her and went back into her home, taking a seat at the table and staring into the fire for a long while. The memory of Cerdic was still clear in her memory – she doubted she would ever forget him. She had never known him to be a nice man to any extent. He had always looked upon her as though she were vermin, a pest, a rock in his shoe that did nothing but cause him annoyance and discomfort. She knew that he hated her because of her 'tainted blood', something he had made all too clear when he had ordered the massacre of her family. She despised the man. Hated him with every fiber of her being and she hoped that her father would deliver him a slow, painful death in retaliation to his travesties.
Some time later, the sound of an approaching wagon finally made her ears perk up. She turned her head to listen better before deciding that there was definitely somebody approaching her home. With a rush of hope, she stood from the table and dashed out of the door, running out in the foggy afternoon weather before stopping to search for whoever was approaching. At once, she spotted a large wagon being hauled by two large horses. There were men that she recognized flanking either side of the wagon and she searched each face quickly, looking for the one she wished to see more than anything. But, with a sinking feeling, she soon realized that her father was not walking amongst them. And then she realized that the expressions the men wore were grave and mournful, some even turning sympathetic as they neared where she stood.
Breck knew it in her heart then. Kenrick had not survived the battle. He had not defeated Cerdic, had not avenged their family, would not be coming home to hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be alright. Her father was dead.
The man at the lead was the one who came up to her. He had a grim look on his bloodied, battered face and, for a long moment, he simply stared at her as though he didn't know what to say. Then, eventually, he sighed and placed a large hand on her skinny shoulder. "Breck…dear, young Breck…"
The tears filled her eyes at once and she sniffled loudly before turning her gaze on the wagon. There was no cover on it, so could clearly see where the body of her father rested underneath a dirty blanket that his comrades had placed over him. The men around her dead father looked uncomfortable and in as bad of condition as the man in front of her, but Breck could only stare at the blanket that covered her deceased father. With a numb feeling in her bones, she found herself moving towards the wagon so slowly that it felt like it took hours to reach it.
She was alone. She had no more family left in this large, imposing world.
"I would not…" one of the men started to suggest when she reached for the sheet to pull it back.
Breck ignored his warning and pulled the sheet away, wanting to at least gaze upon the face of her father one last time. When she saw what was left of her father, however, her stomach instantly turned with a sickened feeling. His vast arms, which had once been strong and a source of comfort and protection for her, had been detached from the torso, having been chopped off at the shoulder. His long legs held a similar fate, having been hacked off at the thigh. All of the limbs were placed in a neat row beneath her father's torso, which had a large, gaping wound right in the center of his chest, likely the blow that had delivered his death. His head, she realized with an increasingly sick feeling in her stomach, was not there.
She struggled to both breathe and comprehend what she was seeing. Why had they brought him to her like this? Why had they laid him out in such a way? Where was her father's head? Breck hadn't realized that she had actually voiced her questions aloud until one of the other men answered her. "The Saxons placed him this way…we were spared so he could be returned to you." The man paused, his face somber. "Kenrick's head now belongs…to Cerdic."
Breck's heart stopped for a moment. Cerdic had done this, had made sure that she would see her father slain in this horrendous manner. He had known she would still be living and had wanted to send her a message she would never forget. Breck looked to the man that had spoken but he couldn't hold her gaze for long, looking down at his feet instead. Did he feel guilty for his participation in this presentation of her deceased kin? Did he know that this was this Cerdic's way of telling her what he had in store for her and felt sorry for her?
"Leave me," Breck finally said, turning her eyes back to her father's disfigured body.
"Breck –"
"Leave me!" she screeched, the tears beginning to flow freely down her cheeks. That was enough to send the men on their way, the lot of them quietly turning away and leaving her so they could go back to their homes. Breck watched their retreating backs for a few moments before collapsing on the ground next to the wagon.
Breck must have sat and cried by the wagon for hours, weeping for her father, for her family, and for herself. What was she to do now? She had no one, she had nothing. She was now all alone in the cruel, unforgiving world. Breck felt at a loss, but if there was one thing she knew with certainty, it was that she couldn't stay there in the village anymore. If she didn't flee, there was no doubt in her mind that she would surely wind up dead – Cerdic had made it clear that it was his mission to kill every member of her family, including herself. She would have to leave everything behind again. The home she had made with her father, the life they'd tried to build, would now have to become a distant memory from the past, along with all the memories of happier times with her mother and father before Cerdic had destroyed their world.
Quite suddenly, she felt rage start to boil in her veins. Her entire life had been ruined because of the cruelty of one man. Cerdic was pure evil, and he had not only destroyed her life, but also the lives of countless others. He took what he wanted, gave nothing in return, and killed any who crossed him without regard or remorse, no matter if they were men, women, or children. He was a monster that needed to be dealt with, who needed to be stopped. And who better to see the job through than herself? She knew what he was like and what he was capable of, knew more about this army at her young age than men twice her age did.
Breck decided it right then and there. She was going to kill Cerdic. Even if it meant having to give her own life to do so.
With a newfound determination, she finally managed to pull herself together enough to bury her father. As Breck worked she handled Kenrick's dismembered body with as much care as she could, feeling dozens of emotions rushing through her as she buried him to the side of their small cottage. Somewhere along the line she had the brief thought that no thirteen-year-old should have to bury the pieces of their father's body, that it wasn't how things were supposed to be for someone her age. But, then again, nothing had ever gone according to plan in her life. She'd watched her pregnant mother be killed before her very eyes, had nearly been killed herself when she was only a child, and now…this. With each body part that she put in the hole she'd buried, she felt her resolve to kill Cerdic growing stronger and stronger, and felt the hate sinking deeper into her heart. She would kill him, she vowed in her head over and over again. And she was going to make sure his death was a painful one.
By the time Breck had finished burying her father, the sun was starting to set. As she sat in front of his freshly dug grave, she clasped a necklace that her mother had gifted to her father on their wedding day around her own neck, letting the heavy pendant rest against her sternum. She then reached for the sword that had belonged to her father, which his comrades had brought back with his corpse on the wagon. Others might have used it to mark the place in which his body now rested, but Breck only strapped the sheath around her waist and held the sword in her hand, claiming it for her own now and intending to use that very blade to end Cerdic. Breck eyed the glimmering blade for a long moment, then placed the sharp edge against her palm.
"I swear to you, my father, that it will be by this hand and this blade that Cerdic meets his end," she said firmly, her voice full of promise. Then Breck sliced the blade across her palm, opening up a wide wound that she barely felt in her numbed state. "If it is the last thing I do, I will avenge our family," she swore with determination.
Then Breck dripped her blood on top of the grave to seal her oath.
OOO
As Breck resurfaced from the memory, she raised her right palm up to eye level and inspected the long scar that rested there. That day had been the turning point in her life – it was when she had gone from a girl with normal hopes and dreams of marriage and a family and a peaceful life, to a woman full of hatred and anger and determination to see her fallen family avenged.
It had been a long while since she had allowed herself to reflect upon this memory and doing so had served its purpose – she felt her determination for her mission renew itself in a way she hadn't felt in months. Breck knew that coming to the Wall had been meant to be. The blind hatred and disregard for everyone she crossed had left her alone and unprotected for years, and her lack of training left her to make impulsive and reckless decisions. Yet coming here, being reunited with Arthur and befriending the knights, had opened up her mind and made some of her old self rise from the ashes – she knew what it was to trust and have allies again, and what it was to be able to feel something other than hatred. She knew that with Tristan's help and Arthur's alliance, she would be more prepared than ever for Cerdic when the time finally came.
And when it did, the man would have to answer for the crimes he'd committed against her.
The next session with Tristan went much the same as the first. Tristan seemed determined to push her body to its limit and, as he had the first time, seemed determined to try to make her as angry as possible. The pain was intense and her sore muscles protested every movement she made, but Breck forced herself to do as she was commanded and did not put up a fight, nor did she allow herself to be as quick to anger this time around. There was determination in her now after her inner-reflecting that morning. Cerdic was bigger, stronger, and far more experienced than she was and it would take a considerable effort to bring the Saxon down. She had to use her time at the Wall to her advantage and make sure she was in the best possible condition to defeat him, even if it meant allowing Tristan to practically torture her.
Tristan took notice of the purpose in her movements and pushed her even harder as training went along. Her lack of outward anger only seemed to spurn him on further too, and it wasn't long before he began circling her as she did the rigorous strength exercises, reminding her of all the ways she might fail and predicting all of her possible gruesome deaths. Breck didn't allow him to get under his skin this time around and did her best to disregard his words, forcing herself to think of Cerdic and all the ways she wanted to torture him instead of listening to Tristan's words.
A while later, when Tristan told her she could take break, Breck all but collapsed on the ground. She didn't care what she looked like just then, lying in the middle of the training arena as the sun overhead beat down on her with its warm rays. It just felt good to finally rest for a moment. The conditioning had not been any easier on her today – in fact, it was downright torturous on her aching body – but she knew that if they kept at it, eventually she would begin to see the benefits of the work she was doing. Breck just had to trust that she wouldn't wind up dead from exhaustion before that time came.
"You need nutrition," she heard Tristan say as he stood over her. Breck, whose eyes had been closed, cracked an eye open to peer at him, blinded momentarily by the bright sun that shone behind his head. "Eat," he commanded, holding out an apple to her.
Breck managed to raise her arm to accept it, but her grimace of pain as she did so didn't go unnoticed to him. He looked mildly pleased with himself, in fact, which made her wonder whether the rumors of his sadistic tendencies were true. She thought better than to voice this aloud and began eating the apple slowly as her body relaxed and her breathing returned to normal. Tristan turned to walk away and she watched as he went to collect the barrel she'd been lifting for the past two days, before he rejoined her and plopped it on the ground only feet away. With a groan, she pulled the apple from her mouth and gave him a hard look.
"If you force me to lift that barrel one more time…" she growled in warning, wondering if she'd have enough strength left in her limbs to throttle him to death should that be his intention.
Tristan smirked a bit, but did not say anything in response. Instead, she noted with a sigh of relief, he had only brought it over to use as a chair – he sat down on the barrel and started eating an apple himself.
Considering the fact that the past two days had been filled with nothing of vigorous training, insulting, and bickering at one another, it was a bit strange to sit in what actually felt like companionable silence with him now. Tristan had changed from the tough, no-nonsense trainer into a relaxed man, looking calm and comfortable as he snacked. Breck had to admit that it was a welcome change, especially given the way he looked when the sun hit him at just the right angle. She allowed herself the moment to appreciate his looks, finding that it took her mind off the pain in her limbs. Tristan may be insufferable and brutish, but he was a handsome man. That she couldn't deny, even though she vehemently wanted to.
"You are not as hopeless as I presumed," Tristan said slowly, breaking the silence but not turning his gaze from the apple in his hand as he cut off another piece and stuffed it into his mouth.
Deciding it would be better not to be caught ogling him, Breck took another bite of her apple and closed her eyes. "Is that so?" she asked him without much infliction, too tired to feel insulted by his backhanded compliment.
"Others may have succumbed to the pain of this conditioning by now," he told her. "However, something in you has…changed. I can sense your determination," he observed. "Your stubbornness may serve a purpose yet," he added.
Breck opened her eyes and couldn't help the pleased smile that worked its way onto her face. Had she heard him correctly? Was he actually impressed by her performance today? Had she proven to him that she was worthy after all?
"Do I find you impressed, Sarmatian?" she asked him cockily.
Tristan froze in his movements and shot her a sharp look that clearly told her not to get ahead of herself. She only laughed and shook her head, not too surprised by his response. Between stitching his injury when he had been wounded, him saving her on Arthur's birthday, and the training they were now doing together, Tristan had slowly, reluctantly begun to open up to her. It was obvious, however, that he was hesitant to let her get too close. That wall he'd craftily built so long ago to keep people out was still intact, though it was starting to show a few cracks in the stonework – Breck knew she had her work cut out for her if she wanted to befriend Tristan, but she was certain that, given time, it could be done. And their time training together, alone, would be the prime opportunity that she needed to take full advantage of. She would just have to tread carefully and choose her words wisely. Otherwise, she suspected, Tristan would very quickly revert back into his shell and shut the door on her forever.
Tristan turned his eyes away from her again to focus on his apple and he was silent for so long that she didn't think he would speak again at all. When he did, the question he directed at her caught her off guard. "How many have died by your blade?" he asked.
Breck frowned and began to think. She had never really kept track of such a number since she hadn't deemed it important, but there had been plenty of men and women she'd been forced to kill whenever travelling throughout the foreign countries that the Saxon army had lead her through. At first, she had found killing to be quite bothersome, and perhaps that was the real reason she had not wanted to keep a tally. But, eventually, as more people died by her hand, she began to grow accustomed to the feeling of ending another person's existence. As it was, everyone Breck had killed had either tried to kill her first or had wronged her in some way – she did not feel guilty about her actions anymore and hadn't in years.
"I do not recall now," she finally said with a shrug. "Perhaps…fifty? Maybe sixty?" she estimated. With a wince of discomfort, she managed to pull herself up into a sitting position, her muscles protesting the whole way. She was positive that she saw Tristan smirk to himself again as he watched her, but she said nothing about it and began massaging her legs, trying to ease the tension out of her muscles. "What of you?" Breck asked, looking at Tristan curiously.
"What of me?" he countered.
"Well, surely you know the stories told of you," Breck responded matter-of-factly. "I have heard countless rumors of your skills in battle and your thirst for blood." The statement earned her a quirk of his eyebrow but she brushed it off, looking at him quizzically. "How many have died by your hand?"
Tristan chewed on his bite of apple slowly and regarded her for a moment, looking as though he wasn't sure whether he wanted to answer her or not. "Hundreds," he finally said after a long pause. "More than can be counted."
Breck wasn't surprised by the answer. Tristan had been fighting and killing by Arthur's side for nearly fifteen years now, had faced countless foes in his years of servitude. She studied him, taking in his unremorseful expression, and found herself wishing that he would let her in. What had he seen in his lifetime? How many times had he been close to death? She remembered the scars she had seen on him when she had been stitching him in the infirmary and wondered how he had obtained them – she also wondered how many more he had concealed underneath his clothes. Breck looked down at her scarred hand pensively, which was only one of the many that she had on her own body, and realized that she and Tristan may be more similar than she had originally thought. Both of them had lived hard and difficult lives and both had been forced to become cold, ruthless killers. Maybe they had more to offer one another than either of them realized.
"You have Saxon blood in your veins," Tristan spoke up, interrupting her thoughts and drawing her attention back to him.
"Aye, as you well know," Breck confirmed, discreetly reminding him that he had pointed out this very fact more than once during their sessions together, using it as more of an insult than anything else. It did make her question why he continued to bring up her lineage. "Is this something that bothers you?" Breck questioned with a quirk of her brow.
Tristan shook his head. "No. It merely adds to the mystery of your story," he explained.
Breck almost laughed at that. Tristan, the secretive Sarmatian man that she had absolutely no hope of figuring out and who had thrown her for a loop more times than she could count, thought her story was mysterious? She didn't know what surprised her more – that Tristan was interested in her past or that he had, more or less, admitted such a thing to her. "And how much of my story have you learned?" she asked. "How much has Arthur revealed to you?"
The look he sent in her direction next made her stomach begin to flip over nervously. His expression turned very serious and, if she wasn't mistaken, she thought she spied something in his dark eyes that looked a little bit like sympathy. "I have learned enough," he said slowly, his piercing gaze keeping her rooted to the spot. "Enough to know that there is more to you than meets the eye."
They stared at each other for a long moment, the air around them feeling a little thicker now, until Breck cleared her throat and gave him a half smile. "I believe the same may also be said for you," she said. "Sarmatian," Breck couldn't help but add.
Tristan smirked a bit, then went back to eating his apple, leaving Breck to stare at him in wonder. If she dared to think it, he was almost being…friendly to her. Was this the side of Tristan that he normally reserved for his fellow knights? The side that he showed to the few friends he had? Maybe, finally, Breck had proven to him that she was someone he could trust. He had never conversed with her as much as he was now and she had certainly never seen him so open with anyone other than the men he fought with. Had they reached an understanding just then? Were they finally starting to reach some sort of level ground with one another?
Tristan suddenly lifted his gaze to hers, but Breck couldn't bring herself to look away – she couldn't tell if the gleam in his eyes was a look of approval or if he was still trying to determine what was going on inside of her head, or both, but it wasn't long before the intensity of it began to make a strange feeling bloom within her belly. When her heart began to beat a tick harder and a tick faster, she thought it'd be a good idea to break the moment and slowly stood up, grimacing when her muscles fought against the movements. She could feel Tristan's eyes on her as she began stretching and did her best to ignore him, concentrating instead on trying to relieve the ache that had settled in her body from the exercises. With a small wince of pain, Breck rotated her right shoulder a couple of times, already feeling the stiffness beginning to settle there. She had injured the shoulder in the past, and though it had healed, it had never quite felt completely normal. It wasn't uncommon for her shoulder to give her trouble every so often.
Tristan, of course, noticed her moment of discomfort. "Are you injured?" he asked, standing up from his seat and walking over to join her.
Breck glanced over at him, feeling her heart thump against her ribs yet again when she saw his handsome face up close. "No," she said, shaking her head quickly. "But my shoulder may have reached its limit for today," she explained, trying to ignore the feelings within. "It came out of place three years past. It healed long ago, but every now and again it gives me some trouble."
Tristan 'hmph'ed and then stepped even closer. She wasn't sure what he was planning on doing, but found herself sucking in a deep breath when his much larger hand lifted to her shoulder, his fingers feeling the tendons and joints as he studied her with a concentrated expression. His touch immediately sent a jolt of awareness through her, leaving her to feel a bit warmer than she previously had. Breck wondered if this was going to become a habit of his, since this was the second time in two days he'd to come into physical contact with her. She couldn't say that she would necessarily mind if it did…
"You say it was fixed?" he asked as he inspected her shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the reaction she was having to him.
Did he really have no idea what his proximity did to her? Was the man really that daft? "Aye," she managed out. When he suddenly pulled her arm at a funny angle to test its movement, making her wince, she forgot about the feelings he'd ignited in her and found that she could only focus on the discomfort in her shoulder. "It is only bothersome from time to time. During very cold weather, when overworked…" she said through gritted teeth as Tristan continue to mess with her shoulder. "When someone irritates it," Breck added scornfully when he didn't stop his prodding, hinting with her words that she would prefer it if he stopped.
Tristan didn't say anything to that, simply placed his other hand on her back to brace her and then began stretching her arm even further. The movement was painful, but one of those good pains that lets you know you're making progress with easing a troublesome injury. Breck squeezed her eyes shut against it and pressed her lips together, holding her breath until he finally released her. Almost immediately her shoulder felt better, and though she didn't want to prove him right yet again, she finally looked over at him and reluctantly grumbled out her gratitude.
"Thank you," she said, rotating her shoulder again. This time it didn't bother her so much. "It feels better."
"You should allow Dagonet to inspect it," Tristan suggested.
She was about to say that it didn't seem necessary to involve Dagonet when she realized that she and Tristan had acquired a small audience. Galahad and Gawain had just walked through the gate to the arena and, judging by their expressions, she could only assume they had just witnessed the interaction between her and Tristan. Gawain was looking back and forth between the two of them fairly rapidly, looked displeased, while Galahad looked downright uncomfortable, his eyes bouncing between all three of them apprehensively. Breck noticed that Tristan stood a little straighter as his comrades approached, leaving her puzzled for a moment, but she brushed it off and smiled at her friends in greeting.
"Galahad, Gawain, good morning," she said pleasantly once they were in front of her.
"Hello, Breck, Tristan," Gawain responded with a nod, wiping the troubled expression off of his face to offer her a smile before turning a look on Tristan. "I trust you did not hurt the lady?" he asked, his smile staying in place but his right eyebrow lifting a tad. The look on his face, to most, would appear to be teasing and good-natured, but the edge in his voice hinted that he was being entirely serious about his inquiry. "I ask because we saw you tending to her shoulder just now," he added for clarification.
"No, he did not," Breck answered before Tristan could say anything. "He was merely helping me relieve an injury obtained a very long ago."
"Never fear, friend, Breck is not as fragile as she appears," Galahad cut in, overdoing it on the jovialness a bit. "Brave woman, you are, training with the likes of this one," he then said good-naturedly, clearly trying to ease the tension by slapping Tristan on the back in a friendly way.
The scout spared Galahad a brief look, but the tension didn't leave his shoulders. The way that he and Gawain were currently eyeing each other was making Breck feel just as uncomfortable as Galahad had looked moments ago, and she decided she didn't like the situation at all. She'd never seen the two act this way around one another – there was a tension between them now that she was certain had not been there before. It was hard to say what the expressions on their faces meant in that moment, but Gawain definitely didn't have the same air of friendliness that he normally had with Tristan. And though Tristan's expression was difficult to discern, she knew that whatever it meant, it couldn't be anything good.
"Aye, well, training with Tristan tis not so horrible," she told Galahad with a laugh, also attempting to lighten the mood. When it didn't quite seem to do the trick and the two Sarmatians continued to stare one another down, she turned to Tristan. "I require food. What say you to leaving these two to their business and accompanying me in the tavern?"
Tristan looked to her, nodded once in agreement, and then stepped past Galahad and Gawain without a word, heading toward the exit of the arena. The three of them watched him go for a moment, before redirecting their attention back to each other.
"Forgive us. We did not mean to disturb your session," Gawain told her, though the apology was a little lacking in sincerity, as though he wasn't that remorseful about it at all.
"Worry not. We had finished for the day," Breck told him. When she glanced after Tristan again, she saw him lingering near the gate, clearly waiting for her. "I should be on my way. I shall see you both at supper?"
Once Gawain and Galahad both nodded in confirmation, Breck said her goodbyes and then jogged to catch up with Tristan, wincing at the pain this caused her aching body. When Breck caught up to him, he gave her a brief look before they left through the exit and set off for the tavern, neither of them saying anything about the exchange they'd just had with his two comrades. They didn't say anything to each other at all, actually, merely walked in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts.
Just before they lost sight of the arena, Breck looked back one last time. Galahad and Gawain, she noticed, seemed to be having an intense looking conversation now that she and Tristan were gone. And even from how far away she was, she could tell that Gawain was watching them leave. Breck turned forward again, frowning to herself. Was Gawain jealous? If yes, then perhaps leaving with Tristan hadn't been the best thing she could have done in that moment. But what else was she supposed to do? The situation had been uncomfortable and the two of them had been acting strangely. Separating the two men before anything had the chance to turn into anything more serious had seemed like the best thing to do.
At that thought she frowned deeper. She didn't like the way the two friends had acted around one another. Gawain's response she supposed she could understand, seeing as he seemed to have some attraction toward her and would likely not be overly pleased to see her with another man. But Tristan? Breck snuck a glance at him from the corner of her eye, but his gaze remained forward and his expression quite indecipherable. He was a difficult man to read, yet his actions had felt strangely defensive and he had not looked at Gawain like the friend he was, but rather as if he was some sort of rival. Why would he behave in such a way, though? Certainly he was not interested her in the way Gawain was – they were hardly even friends, for heaven's sake.
She had no idea what motivated him to react the way he had, which wasn't surprising seeing as she had no idea what motivated the man to do anything he did, but she did know this – no matter what either man might or might not be feeling toward her, the last thing she wanted to do was come between them or pose a threat to the friendship they'd formed long before she arrived at Hadrian's Wall. Whatever this odd behavior was all about, it needed to stop. If it continued to happen, Breck feared that something would have to be said about it.
And that was not a conversation that she was ready to have – or even wanted to have – with either man.
Review!