This is a chapter that I've been very anxious to get out to you guys, but also one that I've been very nitpicky about. This whole thing is from Tristan's point of view, and I really, really, really wanted to get it right, hence the longer wait between chapters again. I sincerely hope you guys enjoy this one, and I also really hope that I didn't take Tristan completely out of character.

Thankfully, there shouldn't be any more major changes to upcoming chapters, which means I can hopefully get updates coming a little more frequently again. I thank you all for your patience, though! Also, thank you to Kimare999 and BS1 for the follows, and thank you to Genius892050, MCR817, and camelotprincess1 for the favorites!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tristan was not unaccustomed to a night of very little sleep.

Being the scout under Arthur's command, it was his duty to be out scouring the road and the lands, ever on the lookout for any enemies or danger that might decide to come their way. It was not uncommon at all that while the men rested, he was out patrolling with his hawk, always the last one to sleep and usually the first one to rise.

This was something that had never bothered him. He had never been one who needed much sleep to function on a day to day basis to begin with, generally only needing a handful of hours to feel thoroughly rested. Besides that, there was something about the quiet and stillness brought on by the nighttime that he had always enjoyed. Even when he had been a boy, he had often stayed up until the moon was well overhead, reveling in the fact that he could be alone, with only his thoughts and the stars for company. He had preferred it, actually, and that had stuck with him through adulthood.

This night, however, was anything but enjoyable, and a long sleep would have been preferred. But alas, it was the small hours of the night and he was still wide awake, sleep eluding him even more than usual. He sat by the hearth in his quarters, watching as the last of the deep, orange glow from the dying fire began to fade away. He had debated going to fetch more wood to bring it back to life, but had since decided it would not be worth the effort it would take to actually do so. Not when his ribs hurt every time he breathed, and not when his face seemed to keep throbbing in time with his own heartbeat.

He dipped a rag in some cool water and then pressed it to a particularly sore spot right at his brow, the initial sting quickly wearing off and making him close his eyes at the momentary relief the cool water brought on. He repeated the process, pressing the rag to his lip next. The pains in his face, thankfully, could be managed to an extent, but there was little to be done about the throbbing in his ribs, unfortunately. It was unlikely anything was broken, but he was fairly certain his ribs were bruised. The pain there was especially bothersome, too, because Gawain had pummeled him right where the Woads had tried to slice him open just a few weeks ago, the mostly healed wound now feeling more tender than it had in several days.

After spending the past fifteen years fighting at Rome's every beck and call, being injured was a normal occurrence – and he had scars all over his body to prove it. Even still, he was hurting just enough so that even though he did want to sleep, it didn't currently feel like a possibility.

Of course, if he were to be honest with himself, his aching body was far from being the only reason that sleep was evading him. After all that had happened that day, after all that had been happening for weeks now, his mind and his jumbled thoughts were just as much to blame for why he was currently brooding by his hearth.

There was no denying that life at the Wall had grown…complicated, as of late. And it had all begun the moment he had first lain eyes on Breck.

He had been going about his business on an otherwise completely normal day, making the trek to the stables so that he could take Azia out for a ride. He'd nearly made it through the courtyard in front of Arthur's estate when he'd been met with a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks. A woman sitting atop a tall horse, her red curls blown wild from the wind and her nose and cheeks tinged pink from the crisp air. Her clothes had been dirty and worn, she'd looked in need of a good rest and a decent meal, but as she'd sat there scanning the courtyard with a fond little smile pulling at her lips, Tristan had felt like he'd been socked in the gut.

She had, without question, been the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

He remembered tucking himself from sight before she had seen him, his curiosity about her getting the better of him. He had known straight away that she was not from Hadrian's Wall – there wasn't the faintest possibility he wouldn't have remembered seeing her around town before, not with a face like that. But who was she? Where did she come from? And why had she been looking at Arthur's estate like it was a home away from home?

He'd gotten his first answers when Arthur himself had appeared, and the two had embraced like the oldest of friends. Clearly they knew one another. He'd gotten more answers the next day, when he'd bumped into a very hungover Galahad making his way to the tavern for breakfast.

Did you hear? Galahad had asked him that morning. Remember Arthur's childhood friend? The girl he always spoke about when we first arrived at the Wall? She's returned! She will be staying for the next few months!

He had been able to recall Arthur speaking at great length about a friend who had left the Wall shortly before his service to Rome had begun. At the time, he'd thought nothing of it. Dismissed it as Arthur merely mooning after some girl he must have had an enormous crush on for him to miss her as much as he did. Arthur had adamantly denied having any romantic feelings, of course, to which none of them had ever really believed him – most of the men had not even believed she was actually real. They'd spent years teasing Arthur about her to the point that the name Breck eventually dropped from conversation altogether. Whether it was because he had forgotten her, or simply grown tired of the teasing, Tristan had never been entirely sure.

Of course, now he knew that Arthur had never forgotten his childhood friend. That much had been made obvious by the way the man had welcomed her back into his life with open arms. And he was not the only one to do so, either.

Tristan had actually gone to the tavern that night, when she had first been introduced to the rest of the men. He'd taken one step inside, seen the way she was laughing and smiling with his comrades, how quickly friendships seemed to be forming already, and turned right back around to leave.

Because even then, without having spoken a single word to her, without her even knowing that he existed yet, he'd known she was going to be trouble for him.

In all his time at the Wall, Tristan had strictly avoided becoming involved with anyone. His wretch of a father had raised him to believe that love was a weakness. That it clouded one's judgement and made them unnecessarily vulnerable. To love is to give people leverage over you, his father had told him often when he'd been just a boy. Do not give them that power. They were words he'd taken to heart as an impressionable child, words that had resonated with him even once he'd found himself in Britain serving under cruel Romans.

Bors was far from the only knight who'd found a woman to love and start a family with. Plenty of his comrades over the years had found women to share their time with, many of them even going so far as to marry and begin planning for a life after servitude. But one by one, his friends had died on mindless missions for the tyrants that ruled over them, leaving their women behind to weep over their graves as their futures were ripped away from them.

If his father's teachings hadn't already been enough to deter him from finding a woman of his own, witnessing the heartbreak of his comrades' widows certainly would have done the trick.

So he had kept to himself. Sure, he had allowed himself to make friends, had opened up to Arthur, his comrades, and one or two select folk around town who had managed to earn his friendship. But if a woman looked at him in that tell-tale way, he ignored it. If a woman ever approached him, he rejected her. And if he ever needed a release, he went to the brothel, where the women knew better than to hope for anything more than a few coins to pay for their services.

For fifteen years, he had successfully avoided forming any sort of attachments or romantic feelings for anyone, a feat that had, admittedly, been made easier by the fact that there had never really been anybody who had caught his interest anyway.

But Breck had certainly caught his interest. Far too easily. He'd spent too many moments thinking about the softness of her vibrant curls, the pretty smile that lit up her entire face, the curve of her hips and her breasts that she couldn't quite manage to hide underneath the tunic and trousers she often wore. But it was her eyes that had always stood out to him the most. Breck was a passionate woman, and it showed within the depths of her blue eyes. Whether alight with excitement, or aflame with anger, or glossy with desire, there was always a spark of life and energy within her gaze that was absolutely captivating.

There was far more to her than just physical beauty, though. She wasn't like any woman he'd met before. She had fit in well with the men from the start, able to handle their crude jokes and boorish behavior without even batting an eye – she could outdrink even Bors if she tried hard enough. Breck worked hard and fought hard, was fiercely loyal to those she cared for, was not afraid to get her hands dirty, and always seemed to surprise him in some way. There was simply a forthrightness about her that commanded attention, whether she knew it or not.

Tristan had felt magnetized to her, and though he was not a man who frightened easily, that instant, palpable attraction he had felt to her had scared him.

It felt like his world had been upended. He'd found himself behaving in ways that were unlike him, found himself questioning far too much of what he had been raised to believe. That, in turn, had angered and frustrated him. He had felt at a loss as to how to handle it, so he had decided to do what seemed like the most sensible thing to do.

He had pushed her away.

Tristan had done his best to make her hate him, believing that if he did, then it would make it easier for him to resist the call of his own personal siren. He'd even tried to convince himself that he hated her in return. That she was nothing more than a thorn in his side, an unwanted disruption to his life. Maybe if he believed the hatred was real, that pull he felt toward her would go away.

But for as much as he tried, he could not hate her, nor could he keep his distance. Arthur had made sure of that by ordering him to follow her so that he could protect her from that vermin Gerland, which meant he quite literally, couldn't keep his distance. Though, truth be told, he hadn't needed to be ordered in the first place. Tristan had always despised men who took women by force, did not even consider them to be men but rather animals. He'd felt a flash of fury the moment Bors had told them all of what he had heard, a fury that had probably burned hotter considering who it was that was being targeted. Tristan would have protected her anyway, regardless of any orders, which was why he had still watched out for her even after Arthur had relieved him of the duty.

The entire situation had put him in a strange position, though. He'd been close to Breck as he protected her from Gerland, but certainly not on friendly terms, trying to convince himself that he wanted nothing to do with her and yet unable to stay away all in the same breath. And she had genuinely seemed to hate him, just as he had been trying to make her do. Back then she had practically spit fire at him anytime she locked eyes on him, but even that hadn't been enough to quell the feelings that kept growing in his own chest against his will. If anything, seeing that fighting spirit of hers, seeing the way she met his challenge head on, had only made her even more attractive to him.

But Gerland was not the end of it. When Arthur had asked him to train Breck, he could have easily told him no, told him to find someone else to do it. That would have been the wise thing to do, anyway.

But, once again, he'd found himself incapable of keeping away from her. So he had begun training her, and then they had begun to spend even more time together outside the arena. And the more he got to know her for the smart, stubborn, witty woman that she was, the harder it became to ignore the truth practically glaring at him.

Breck was everything he had spent decades telling himself he would never want. She was beautiful and intelligent and fierce. She was not afraid of him in the way so many people at Hadrian's Wall were, and never hesitated to speak her mind or put him in his place. She would have had every reason not to ever befriend him after how cold and callous he had been toward her in the beginning, and yet, she had done just that. She had forgiven him for his behavior, put her trust in him, accepted him just as he was, and truly seemed to understand him in a way that so few did.

The truth was that this attraction he felt for her went far past just physical desire.

Tristan had fallen for Breck.

Swiftly, deeply, and completely so.

It was a realization that had brought him no happiness. His mother had died when he had been too young to remember her, which meant he had spent his boyhood being raised by his father, a cruel bastard that had done his best to beat any sort of soft feelings out of him. Then he had gone on to the Wall, where Rome had proceeded to weed out anything soft that might have been leftover. Growing up in such unloving environments meant that he did not know the first thing about romance or love, so all these new feelings he had for Breck were completely foreign to him.

He hadn't had a clue what to do about his affections for her. They were too strong to ignore, but acting on them had seemed like it would be a big mistake. Not just because he didn't know how to go about romancing her in the first place, but also because he was not the only one to be having such feelings for Breck.

Which was where the problem with Gawain came into play.

The man was utterly smitten with Breck, that had been obvious from the start. And until very recently, Tristan had been fairly convinced that Breck returned the sentiment. The two of them had been flirty with each other from the very beginning, and she seemed to very much enjoy his attention, much to his displeasure. Not that Tristan could blame her for fancying Gawain – he had a good heart and plenty of charm, and he had left a trail of countless swooning women in his wake over the fifteen years they'd been at the Wall together.

With how much Breck and Gawain flirted and how well they got along, them being together romantically made sense. The rest of the men seemed to think so too, given some of the conversations that had been had whenever Breck wasn't around.

So Tristan had watched these past weeks as Gawain did his best to charm her, as Breck seemed to be falling for those charms, doing his best to conceal how much their connection bothered him. From the way she smiled and laughed when she was with Gawain, to how they had been together at Arthur's birthday celebration, and then, finally, to the moment when Gawain had begun serious attempts to court her, jealousy had been spreading through him like an infection that couldn't be cured.

As much as he cared for her, as much as he desired her for himself, Tristan had told himself that if she wished to be with Gawain, then he would not interfere. He might not have liked seeing Breck and Gawain together, but if that was what made her happy, then it was not his place to stand in the way of that. It would be for the best anyway, he had tried to convince himself. She would be with Gawain, happy and taken care of, and he would be free to go about his life just as he had always planned – alone, with no one to worry about but himself, ready to live a quiet life away from everyone else.

But then, just when he had convinced himself that the matter was settled, things had begun to change between himself and Breck.

He supposed it had started that one evening in the tavern, when Gerland had first approached her and Tristan had scared him off. He hadn't meant to stand there staring at her like an imbecile, but she had just looked so beautiful in the light of the sunset. He'd been awestruck, completely enamored by her as he drank in the sight of her, those blue eyes made even brighter by the waning sun, her wild curls looking the color of fire and those pink lips he found himself staring at far too often looking even more tempting than usual.

It had taken too long to realize she was staring right back at him in a way she never had before. Not angry. Not annoyed. Not exasperated. Not as though she were plotting every horrible, gruesome way in which she wished to kill him. She'd seemed…like him. Awestruck. Mesmerized. Like she had seen something in him that she never had before.

Tristan had told himself it wasn't anything. That he had just been imagining things. Back then, they had still been so at odds with one another – certainly she would not find anything about him appealing, considering how cold and cruel he had been to her at that time.

But then came that disastrous mission, when Bors had nearly died and when he had nearly had himself cut wide open by the Woads. Breck had taken care of him, with no reason or obligation to do so, being so gentle and kind that it had almost taken him aback. And while she had been tending to him, the pain of his injury paling in comparison to the sweet torture of her touch against his skin, he'd seen the way she looked at him, with the flush in her cheeks and that spark of something in her eyes.

Things between them had only changed even more after they had killed Gerland and his men together. Suddenly there was trust, and respect, and comradery. They grew closer, more comfortable with one another, became friends. But even so, it was hard to miss the looks she sent his way when she thought he wasn't looking, the way her behavior around him seemed to differ just slightly from how she was with the other men.

Arthur and the other knights she treated like brothers, but not him. Never him.

Slowly but surely, Tristan had allowed himself to start believing that maybe this attraction that he felt for her was not one sided. It had begun to feel like something was growing between them, unaddressed thus far but also something that would not be able to be ignored for much longer.

Yet, even as his hope grew, he could not forget that Gawain was still pursuing her, and that Breck hadn't been doing anything to deter that, which still left him questioning whether she truly did feel something for him, or if it actually was all in his head.

He had finally gotten an answer after that incident in the tavern with Orella.

He'd already been in a foul mood after returning from their most recent mission. It was on that mission that Gawain had announced that he had told Breck of his desires to be her man and have a life with her. That was also when Gawain had pulled him aside to, more or less, stake his claim and tell Tristan to stay away from Breck. They could train together, Gawain had told him, but could have no friendship outside of the arena. As if he had the right to command Tristan about. As if Breck was some sort of pet he owned and not a woman who could make her own decisions as to whom she wanted to spend her time with.

He had been angry at Gawain because of their argument and jealous over how his comrade had seemed so confident that Breck returned his feelings, making Tristan, once again, question whether he had lured himself into some sort of false sense of hope. Between the confusion and his anger and his jealousy, his levels of frustration had grown to impossible heights. So even though he shouldn't have, he had lashed out at Breck, been rude and cruel and pushed her away like he was so good at doing. Then he had used Orella against her, knowing that if she did have some sort of feelings for him that seeing him with another woman would, hopefully, bother her – the same way he was always bothered when he saw her with Gawain.

Tristan had expected her anger, he'd expected her confusion over the change in his behavior, and he'd even anticipated the possibility of jealousy.

It was the hurt that had caught him by surprise.

When she had seen him with Orella, she had looked crushed, as if someone had just seized her heart and smashed it into tiny pieces. It was the first, true indication that her feelings for him went beyond the friendship they had achieved. That maybe what she felt for him ran deeper than he would have ever dared to believe.

He hadn't thought twice about dumping Orella off his lap and going after Breck. He'd had no plan on what to say, no plan on what to do. He had gone purely off of instinct, off his need to be around her, his desire to finally confront whatever had been brewing between them. And when he'd finally caught up to her, as she'd stood there, angry and jealous and ranting at him, looking so beautiful that he could hardly breathe, he hadn't been able to stop himself from finally finding out if those pink lips of hers tasted as sweet as they had always looked.

And they had. By the Gods, they had.

He had half expected her to slap him for kissing her, but she hadn't. Breck had kissed him back with an enthusiasm and hunger that had sent his heart racing. Even now, with the pains in his body still ailing him and his mind a jumbled mess after all that had happened over the past day, just thinking about her lips on his made his insides clench. He wanted to kiss her again, and again, and again, certain he would never be able to get his fill of her.

Breck truly could not be more wrong in her belief that he regretted what had happened between them. That couldn't be further from the truth.

Of course, he could not blame her for believing otherwise. Not after how he had acted in the arena following their kiss.

He hadn't meant to be quite so tough on her, but he had not exactly been in his right mind either. There had been a part of him that still doubted where Breck's feelings stood, that thought it might be good to distance himself until she finally made her feelings – either for him or for Gawain – known. There had been another part, however, that had been far too distracted, that kept thinking back to the taste of her lips and the warmth of her body, and it had taken every ounce of his self control not to simply grab her and kiss her again, to taste every single inch of her mouth and feel her body beneath his hands once more.

Between his uncertainty, his distraction, and his desire, he had forgotten himself. He had gotten his blade past her defenses, had injured her. And he had not even apologized for it, even though he loathed himself for having caused her any kind of pain. That was what he regretted. Hurting Breck. Not just by going too hard on her in their spar, but also the hurt she had undeniably felt when his own foolish actions had led her to believe that he felt nothing for her – or, in her words, that he was punishing her for their kiss.

Her injuries never should have happened. That entire interaction should never have happened. If he had merely spoken with her, if he had just been honest with her about how he had been feeling, then perhaps everything would be better, and he would not be sitting alone at his hearth like the miserable sod he currently was.

There was one more regret he felt, though, and that was his fight with Gawain.

These past weeks had been…difficult, to put it mildly. Tristan might not have admitted to anyone else how he felt about Breck, but somehow, someway, Gawain had seen it. Knowing that they were both pining after the same woman, and seeing as said woman seemed to have been struggling to decide where exactly her affections lay, that wedge that had formed between them had been difficult to avoid. Things had never been so tense between them. Never before had they sniped at each other so much, argued so much, been so at odds with one another. And they had certainly never fought, but now here he was, with all sorts of aches and pains, all while Gawain was only a few doors away likely sporting just as many scrapes and bruises as he was.

Given the tension that had been mounting already, it was no surprise that Gawain had attacked him in the training arena. The man claimed he had thought he was defending Breck's honor at first, but Tristan was fairly certain that Gawain would have pummeled him into an oblivion either way. Not only had Gawain found Breck injured, but now he knew that Tristan had kissed her behind his back, despite knowing exactly how Gawain felt for her. That alone would have been all the incentive needed to bash his face in.

Tristan hadn't intended to really fight back. Protect himself, yes, but given the circumstances, he thought maybe he had earned himself a few hits from Gawain. It wasn't until he had seen Gawain putting his hands on Breck during that brawl that he'd started throwing punches of his own. It had happened so fast that he hadn't even been entirely certain what had happened – one moment Breck was there, trying to separate him, then, in the next, Gawain had turned on her and all Tristan had seen was Breck falling to the ground.

Even if he'd hurt her during their spar, even if he hadn't had much of a leg to stand on himself, he'd still seen red. Had wanted to beat Gawain to a pulp for getting physical with Breck.

The fight had been ugly and brutal, the evidence of that plain as day in his battered face and aching body. In the moment, it had felt almost cathartic – a release of that tension that had been building up between them. Now, however, he wished it had never happened, that it had never come down to this, that he and Gawain had handled things differently.

Gawain was his friend, practically his brother. They had fought and lived side by side for fifteen years, had always cared for and respected one another. Perhaps if they had remembered that, perhaps if they had talked things through the way the men had suggested, they would have never ended up throwing fists at one another.

Unfortunately, talking things through with anybody had never been Tristan's strong suit. Once again, being raised by a father who saw any kind of emotional vulnerability as weakness had made it so that he did not open up to people easily. He had always played things close to the chest, had always kept most of his thoughts and feelings to himself. It was a learned habit that, to this day, was difficult to let go of.

But he would need to talk now.

This problem between him and Gawain could not be left to continue to fester. It had gone on for long enough. Maybe now that they had gotten this altercation out of the way, they would be able to find some sort of common ground to stand on so that they could find a way to mend their damaged friendship. After all, there was not much time left in their servitude, and Tristan did not want their remaining time at the Wall to be spent at odds with each other, nor did he want to part on bad terms. Their long friendship deserved better than that.

Even more importantly, and more terrifyingly, he would need to speak with Breck.

This back and forth, this uncertainty and confusion, needed to be put to rest. It seemed all too clear to him now that Breck had no romantic interest in Gawain anymore, and that it was him that she cared for now. Afterall, she had told Gawain that she had wanted that kiss they had shared, and she had seemed genuinely hurt at the idea that he did not want her.

But Tristan did want her. Not to warm his bed or distract him from his servitude, but to be his woman. He knew practically nothing about being romantically involved with someone, but he did know this – the only life he wanted now was one that involved Breck, and it seemed the time had come to push past all his doubts and fears and finally tell her that.

He just had to hope now that his courage would not fail him, and that she would even still be willing to consider being with him after his idiotic behavior.

Tristan was finally pulled from his thoughts when he thought he heard someone walking past his quarters. He turned his gaze to the window, over which he had hung a cloth so that he could have complete privacy. After straining his ears, he was confident somebody was walking around outside. Odd, considering it had to be the small hours of the night now.

He had half a mind to go to the window to check, his scouting instincts wanting to ensure there was no danger around. But soon enough the footsteps faded away and the world outside went quiet again. Tristan decided it was likely just a Roman guard out on a late night patrol.

It took a great deal of effort, but Tristan finally stood from his seat by the hearth and made his way over to his bed, where he gingerly kicked off his shoes and then laid down without changing, since the process of it sounded like it would hurt too much. He sighed, his bruised body relaxing as much as it could given its current state, his mind still drifting back and forth between Breck and Gawain.

Daunting as the task seemed, he knew he could not avoid discussing these matters anymore – with either of them. He wanted this feud with Gawain finished, and he no longer wanted this confusion and these unspoken feelings between him and Breck.

The time had come for to finally try to make things right with Gawain, and to finally be honest with Breck.

OOO

A few short hours of sleep later, Tristan awoke feeling even worse than he had the night before. His left eye was swollen to the point that he almost could not open it, his bottom lip felt twice as big, and his ribs practically screamed at him the moment he moved. But he gritted his teeth and dragged himself from bed, then forced himself to change his clothes, even though the process was difficult and painful.

If he was going to face Breck and finally tell her the truth about his feelings toward her, he wasn't going to do it while wearing clothes that reeked of blood and body odor.

He had just finished changing when there was a knock on his door. He looked that way, wondering immediately if the person on the other side was Breck, unsure if the nervousness that bloomed in his gut was because of hope or of genuine fear. He hesitated only a moment before pulling the door open, then swiftly felt himself deflate.

Dagonet stared back at him, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other, a frown already pulling his lips downward as he scanned the mess that Gawain had made of his face the day before.

"You look as though you were trampled by a horse," he said bluntly.

"I imagine being trampled would not feel too dissimilar from how I do now," Tristan responded.

Dagonet huffed through his nose. "You should have come to my infirmary."

It had crossed his mind, but going to Dagonet's infirmary came with too great a risk of running into Breck, Gawain, or both. With all that had happened yesterday, Tristan had thought it better to stay in his quarters, where he could be away from everyone else and avoid any further conflicts with anyone.

"When have I ever willingly come to your infirmary?" Tristan said, not wanting to admit to Dagonet that he'd, more or less, been hiding in his quarters.

"Only when you find yourself nearly gutted by a Woad, it seems," Dagonet said. "Stubborn bastard," he added. He then let out a sigh before motioning Tristan to step aside. "Since you will not come to me, I have come to you. Now allow me entrance, so that I may have a look at you."

"That is not – " Tristan began to say.

Dagonet, however, ignored his protests and gently ushered him out of the way with a hand on his shoulder so that he could come inside without waiting for permission. Knowing Dagonet as well as he did, Tristan knew that the healer would likely not leave him alone until he'd looked him over, which meant arguing with him about it would be of little use. And since it seemed very likely that he would find himself in an argument with someone that day already – or two someone's, depending how the day went – doing so with Dagonet did not sound appealing in the slightest.

Silently admitting defeat to himself, Tristan closed the door and went to sit in the same chair he'd occupied the night before, trying – and failing – not to wince as he did so. Dagonet noticed, of course, and made a face that was both unsurprised and disapproving at the same time, as if he'd already suspected Tristan was more hurt than he'd let others believe and was annoyed that he had just been proven right. The large man finally looked away to set down a small pack that Tristan recognized – one that was filled with healing supplies that he always brought along whenever they left for a mission. Dagonet then went to the window to draw back the curtain, allowing light to pour into the room, grabbed another chair, and joined Tristan by the hearth.

Tristan did not say anything as Dagonet turned his head so that more light shone on his face, his gaze sweeping over all the swelling, the cuts, and the bruises. He gingerly touched a few spots, likely to make sure nothing was broken. Tristan cringed a little, but otherwise did not vocalize any discomforts.

"I am unsure who looks worse. You, or Gawain," he commented as he kept prodding at his face.

The mention of his comrade made Tristan's shoulders tense. "You tended to Gawain?"

Dagonet reached for his pack, producing a small vial of his signature cleansing medicine and a cloth. "He, too, was doing his best to avoid me," he said, dousing the cloth in the medicine and then getting to work cleaning the cuts on his face. "Nearly had to break down his door last night in order to check on him." He pressed on a particularly tender spot that had Tristan hissing through his teeth. "It seems the pair of you did not hold back in your brawl."

No, they certainly hadn't, he admitted to himself with a hefty sum of guilt. "How is he?" Tristan asked after a moment.

Dagonet paused to give him a look, then shook his head. "Physically, he shall be fine. The swelling will diminish, and the cuts and the bruises will heal." Dagonet frowned again. "Unfortunately, I believe the injuries you have inflicted on him pale in comparison to the one that was inflicted on his heart last night."

Tristan frowned uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

Dagonet turned to grab a fresh cloth, soaked it in the same cleansing medicine, then began working at the split knuckles on Tristan's hand. "You may be interested to know that Breck formally rejected Gawain last night," he revealed.

Tristan's gut jolted at that news. It was one thing to believe that Breck no longer held any interest for Gawain – it was quite another to hear it confirmed aloud that she had, indeed, rejected him.

As badly as he felt for Gawain – and he did feel badly for him – he also couldn't help but feel encouraged and pleased for himself.

"He was understandably upset," Dagonet continued on, still working at Tristan's knuckles. "But it is good that she finally told him, so that he may begin to move on."

Something about the way he had said that made Tristan tilt his head with curiosity. "Has she spoken with you about her feelings toward Gawain?"

"We spoke at length about it yesterday," Dagonet told him. He finally looked up to meet Tristan's eyes, one eyebrow quirking upward. "We also spoke at length about her feelings toward you."

Tristan sat straighter at that, his interest certainly piqued even as a knot of nervousness tied its way into his belly. He could not decide if the tone in which Dagonet had said that indicated something bad, or good. "Do you wish to enlighten me?"

"No, I do not," Dagonet answered without hesitation. "Breck spoke to me in confidence, and I will not betray her trust."

Tristan released a quiet sigh, disappointed that Dagonet would not tell him, but unable to help respecting him for his unwavering loyalty.

"I will, however, say that she was not in the greatest state," Dagonet continued. "She was riddled with guilt and horribly confused." The healer now paused working on Tristan's hand, lifting his eyes so that he could stare straight at him. "I will confess that I, too, am rather confused myself."

"About what?" Tristan asked with a hint of hesitation, even though he already had an idea.

Dagonet released his hold on Tristan's hand so that he could cross his arms over his chest, the expression almost one of irritation. "Why, when it has seemed quite clear these past few weeks that you wish for Breck to be your woman, are you behaving like a complete and utter arse?" he asked bluntly.

Tristan nearly gaped at him, he was so taken aback. That he had just called him an arse would have been surprising enough, since Dagonet was not usually one to resort to name calling when he was angry with someone. But it was what he had asked, and how matter-of-factly he had done so, that caught Tristan completely off guard.

He had known that Gawain already suspected him of having feelings for Breck, but he had not realized anyone else had noticed as well. He had thought, foolishly it now seemed, that he had been better at hiding his growing affections for the woman in question, that the other men had had no idea what his feelings for Breck really were. Dagonet, however, was a very perceptive man. He had a knack for picking up on things that others did not, almost to the point that Tristan sometimes thought that if his talent for healing had been nonexistent, he might have made a decent scout.

Perhaps he should have expected that Dagonet would figure him out. But he hadn't, and to be questioned so bluntly about it, and hear how confident Dagonet seemed in his belief of what Tristan's true feelings for Breck were, rendered him speechless.

When Tristan took too long to answer, Dagonet sighed. "I am not blind. I have seen how you look at Breck. I have seen how you are with her. You clearly care for her. And I think your feelings for her began to take root from the moment she arrived here at Hadrian's Wall." Dagonet raised his brows. "By all means, correct me if I am wrong."

Tristan opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then shook his head. "You are not wrong," he finally admitted.

Dagonet nodded, his brows furrowing pensively. "Then I ask again – if you wish to be with her, why are you behaving as you have been?"

Tristan let out a deep sigh, his eyes turning elsewhere. He had not even begun to think about the words he would use to explain himself to Breck – he certainly did not have any in mind now that Dagonet was confronting him about it. The urge to tell Dagonet that it was not his business and kick him out of his quarters was strong, but…what good would that do? He had already potentially lost his friendship with Gawain and angered the few people in this world he actually cared about. Dagonet was his friend, and despite everything, he was still there, willing to help. Pushing him away now would only cause more strife, and he had plenty of that on his plate already.

"This is all…confusing for me," Tristan finally admitted, his eyes still turned firmly elsewhere. "I knew nothing about love and affection as a boy. I never even cared for anyone until I came here and befriended you oafs." Tristan paused, then shook his head. "What I feel for her is…unlike anything I have felt before. It is unfamiliar, and it is strong, and it…"

Tristan trailed off, unable to get out the last two words of his statement. But Dagonet seemed to understand what he was struggling to admit. "It frightens you," he provided gently.

Tristan looked at him, then nodded once. "I tried to push her away. I tried to ignore what I felt. But I could not keep away from her, and eventually there came a day where I could no longer deny the truth of my feelings." Tristan paused, then finally admitted it aloud for the first time. "She is the one I want."

"And yet you have not told her so," Dagonet stated.

"Until very recently, I had convinced myself she wished to be with Gawain. If that were true, I did not wish to interfere," Tristan said. And while yes, that was a reason as to why he had kept his feelings to himself, that was certainly not the only reason. "And I have been…cowardly," he added.

Dagonet made a humming noise. "And now that Breck has made clear that she does not wish to be with Gawain? What do you intend to do?"

There was still a part of him that wanted to continue to be a coward, that was even more unsure in his footing now that he knew there might be an actual chance for he and Breck to be together. But the time for cowardice and excuses was finished. The time to be honest had come, no matter how intimidating it was.

"I intend to talk to her," Tristan told Dagonet. "And I intend to tell her everything. Following that…I do not yet know."

Dagonet's expression finally eased. "Talking is a very good start. The rest can be determined later." He paused for a moment, then smirked slightly. "As unfavorable as your fight with Gawain was, at least one good thing came of it," he said. "It would seem you finally had some sense knocked into you."

Tristan couldn't find the humor in his words, his own guilt over the situation still too fresh, too strong. "It should have never come to that," he said. "It is another wrong that needs to be made right."

Dagonet nodded in agreement. "Well, then it seems you have quite the busy day ahead of you," he said, finally uncrossing his arms so that he could grab for the cloth he had been using to clean Tristan's knuckles. Before he got back to work, however, he paused and placed a hand on Tristan's shoulder. "I know that none of this has been easy…for any of you," he said. "But I am hopeful that all of this will end well." Dagonet offered a smile. "And know that I am happy, for you and for Breck. If there are any two people who deserve this happiness, it is you and her."

Tristan appreciated the man's optimism and support, but could not quite bring himself to feel so encouraged. The last he and Breck had seen one another, he had left her confused, injured, infuriated, and believing that he did not want her in any way. With how he had been acting and with all he had put her through, he had to wonder if she would even wish to be with him, or if she would simply decide he was not worth the trouble and wash her hands of him.

"She has not accepted me yet," he reminded Dagonet.

Dagonet, however, was not going to be deterred. "She will," he said confidently.

That he seemed so certain of it ignited a spark of hope in Tristan. He might not know what was said between Breck and Dagonet, but the way the healer was speaking made it seem like whatever it was, it must have been at least somewhat good. Maybe, hopefully, he had not ruined things beyond repair with her after all.

"Oh, and one last thing," Dagonet said, that stern look back on his face. "Training or no, I do not ever want to see her in my infirmary sporting wounds that you have inflicted on her ever again," he said bluntly. "In fact, if you ever hurt her, in any way, I will make you regret it," Dagonet threatened.

Tristan pressed his lips together and nodded firmly. "I will never hurt again. I swear it."

Dagonet finally relaxed again. "Good," he said with finality.

Then he reached for Tristan's hand to resume working.

OOO

After Dagonet finished tending to his wounds, the healer clapped him on the shoulder, wished him luck, and then headed off. Alone in his quarters again, Tristan went to his wash basin to clean his hands and splash his face to get rid of any blood that may be lingering behind, being careful not to aggravate any of his injuries.

It was a step, perhaps, that was not entirely necessary, considering Dagonet had just cleaned him up fairly well. But Tristan could feel nerves starting to gnaw away at his belly already, and the extra process of cleaning up all over again gave him just a few more moments to linger in the safety of his room before having to go and face the world once more.

Yet, he could not stay there forever, and finally, after taking a steadying breath, Tristan stepped out of his quarters.

It was a gloomy and grey day, which certainly wasn't uncommon for Britain but still somehow managed to feel ominous. Tristan stood outside his quarters for a moment, his eyes trained on the door to Breck's room. It seemed that the sooner he spoke to her, the better, and yet…he still did not quite know what to say, or how to even go about approaching her. There was also a very good chance that she was angry with him – for all he knew, she might very well slam the door in his face the moment she saw him.

But facing her anger was certainly nothing new for him, which meant that was no excuse not to try to speak with her.

So Tristan finally squared his shoulders and walked straight to her door, knocking firmly twice.

He waited, hoping for the best all whilst bracing himself for the worst. Yet, several moments passed, and she did not answer. Stepping a little closer and leaning his head in toward the door, he listened out for any sounds of movement, but there was nothing. No creaking of her bed, no footsteps on the floorboards, not even that annoyed sound she sometimes made whenever he came to rouse her from her bed before she was ready to start a new day.

Tristan knocked once more, thinking that perhaps she was merely still asleep and had not heard him the first time. But still…there was no answer. It seemed she was not there.

He took a step backward and looked up to the gloomy sky, where he could just barely make out the position of the sun behind the grey clouds. With how long it had taken Dagonet to see to his injuries, he had left his quarters much later than he usually did. Perhaps Breck had already awoken. Perhaps she was not in her quarters because she had gone to the tavern to eat, or had begun her work in the stables.

With that thought in mind, Tristan left and made his way to the tavern, thankful for the extra minutes he now had to try to figure out just what in the world he was going to say to her.

Apologizing would be first on the list – not just for confusing her, but especially so for hurting her during their spar. He would assure her that it would never happen again, that he had never meant for it to happen at all, and that he would handle her with more care from this moment on. And then…well, then he supposed all that would be left to do then would be to confess to the fact that she had enraptured him from the moment she had arrived at Hadrian's Wall and that he could no longer envision a life that she was not apart of. That his heart, inexperienced and jaded as it was, had decided that it beat only for her. Then he would just have to hope that she would return the sentiment, and that they could begin to navigate this new, unexplored territory together.

Even just the thought of saying such things aloud, of putting himself out there and making himself so vulnerable, made his nerves eat away at him all the more. But he resolutely ignored the feeling, and trudged ever onward.

Tristan finally arrived at the tavern, and the moment he stepped inside, his eyes did a sweep of the area, searching for a tell-tale mane of red hair. A flash of red coming toward him caught his attention and he immediately stood straighter, his heart doing a funny little jump in his chest.

But it was not Breck coming toward him. It was Vanora.

The woman gave a sympathetic smile as she stopped before him, balancing a few empty plates in her hands. "Good morning to you, Tristan," she greeted. He did not miss the way her eyes lingered on the worst of his bruising and swelling. "Are you…are you well?"

"Well enough," he answered with a small nod.

"Would you like something to eat?" she offered.

Tristan shook his head, then turned to do one last sweep of the tavern.

"She is not here," Vanora told him, making him look back to her. "I have not seen her all morning."

He did not bother asking how she already knew who he was looking for.

"If Breck comes by, shall I inform her you wish to see her?" Vanora asked, raising her brows.

Tristan hesitated, then nodded. "That would be helpful. Thank you."

"Of course," Vanora said. She then reached out to squeeze his forearm for the briefest of moments, that sympathetic smile returning. "Do try to get some rest. I mean no offence, but…you look quite awful," she told him gently.

Then she released his arm and walked off to resume whatever task she had been doing before he had arrived.

Tristan watched Vanora leave, then stepped out of the tavern. Perhaps he could have stood to rest a little longer, just as Vanora had suggested, but that was the last thing on his mind. He was still determined to find Breck. If she was not in her quarters, and if she was not in the tavern, then he knew that the next best place to look for her would be at the stables.

He began to head that way, weaving his way through the busy morning crowd. He had only made it a handful of steps, however, when a shout in the crowd caught his attention

"Sir Tristan! Sir Tristan!"

Tristan stopped and turned, watching as a young lad that he knew was a messenger for Arthur emerged from the crowd and came dashing toward him. "What is it?" he asked.

"Lord Arthur has summoned his knights to his estate. He wishes to have council with you all," the boy announced.

Tristan immediately frowned. Council? For what? If it were in regards to a new mission, the boy likely would have said so. Gods, Tristan thought with a sinking feeling, was he about to get another earful from Arthur? Seeing as he had already been on the receiving end of a lengthy lecture the day before, he was certainly not looking forward to any continuations of that reprimanding today.

Still, Tristan knew he could not ignore the summons, that it would only make Arthur even angrier with him than he already was. He had no choice but to go. "Very well," he told the boy.

As the boy ran off and disappeared once more, Tristan sent a regretful look in the general direction of the stables, even though he could not actually see the structure from where he was. His talk with Breck, unfortunately, would have to wait.

He changed directions and took the fastest route to Arthur's estate instead. When he arrived there, he did so at the same time as Bors, who immediately clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Gods," the man said, giving him a once over. "You look like shite."

"So I have been told," Tristan responded without much inflection.

He and Bors let themselves inside and made their way to Arthur's council room. When they arrived, they found that Galahad and Gawain were already there. The two had been standing near the table, talking quietly with one another, but their conversation ceased upon them spotting him. Galahad frowned a little to himself, looking immediately uncomfortable, while Gawain stood straighter, his eyes narrowing into a glare.

Tristan lingered in the doorway with Bors, his gaze locked on Gawain. It was the first time seeing him since Arthur had lectured them the day before, and the time apart had not improved the man's appearance at all. He had a swollen eye, just like him, a nasty cut surrounded by a purple bruise on his cheekbone, and a split lip.

The temperature in the room felt as though it dropped, and for a moment nobody moved. Tristan and Gawain continued to eye one another, while Galahad and Bors looked back and forth between them, as if they expected another fight to break out at any moment and were preparing themselves to intervene.

The tense silence was only broken up by the arrival of Lancelot. The man breezed past Tristan and Bors, stopped to glance around at everyone, then huffed through his nose.

"Good to see we are all in better spirits today," he quipped sarcastically. He glanced between Tristan and Gawain again. "Not sure who looks uglier – you, or him," he added.

Then he went to sit down, though he glared at both of them as he did so, as if silently daring either of them to do anything foolish. The rest of them decided to follow his lead, everyone finding their usual seat at the table. Tristan watched as Gawain eased down into his chair, noting that he did so gingerly, as if there were further aches and pains in his body. Injured or not, however, that did not stop the man from continuing to glare daggers into the side of his head.

Dagonet arrived a handful of minutes later, taking his seat on the other side of Bors, and then all there was left to do wait for was Arthur.

Usually, in situations like these, he and his friends would have passed the time with conversation and laughter, maybe even a drink or two if Arthur had left any wine unattended. But on this day, there was none of that. For several minutes, they sat in uncomfortable silence, the events of the previous day hanging over them like a dark storm cloud. Nobody spoke, nobody did much of anything, the lingering silence in the room only broken up by the occasional creak of someone shifting in their chair or the impatient tapping of fingers against the wooden table.

"Well," Bors eventually said, and the fact that he had kept quiet for as long as he had was honestly impressive. "Glad this meeting is not off to a horribly uncomfortable start."

It was an attempt to lighten the mood, but it didn't work. The joke was only met with more silence and a slightly exasperated sigh from Dagonet, as if the healer did not think this was the time – or place – for Bors's sarcasm.

Finally, Arthur walked into the room, but the arrival of their commanding officer did nothing to ease the atmosphere. He still looked as unhappy as he had the day before, the deep frown he wore only drawing more attention to the premature age lines he had acquired over the years. He calmly went to stand at his own chair, his eyes looking from Tristan to Gawain, then to the rest of the men.

"Knights, I thank you for answering my summons so quickly," he said first and foremost. "My reasoning for calling you all here today has nothing to do with Rome, nor any missions we may have been assigned." He paused, his eyes, once again, flitting between Tristan and Gawain. "Today, I have assembled you here to speak of brotherhood."

Tristan pressed his lips together at those words. He had already received quite the lecture about brotherhood from Arthur the day before. Now, unfortunately, it would seem he was going to be subjected to another.

"I understand quite well that your time at the Wall has come with its fair share of hardships and challenges. This life is not for the faint of heart." Arthur leaned forward to brace his hands on the table, his eyes moving from one man to the next. "But in all of these years we have served together, I believe we have all found comfort in knowing that we can depend upon the man who sits next to us. A man who is no mere comrade, no mere friend, but rather a brother. A brother you have lived with, fought with, bled with for fifteen years now."

Arthur took a breath as he stood straight again, his hands now clasped together behind his back. "As is typical amongst any brothers, disagreements will arise. That is simply the way of life. And when those times come, I would expect that we all could settle our problems like men. Men with honor. Men who respect one another." He paused and let out a long exhale. "Unfortunately, I have been proven wrong."

Arthur's stern stare turned to Tristan yet again, then proceeded to slide back and forth between him and Gawain. Tristan did not shrink under such a look, as many other people might have done, but rather met his commander's eyes steadfastly. "There is not a man in this room who has been unaware of the strife that has been building between you pair these past weeks," Arthur stated bluntly. "We have watched your troubles mount, and I think I may safely speak for us all when I say that we hoped you would find a way to solve those troubles honorably and maturely. Instead, you chose to stoke that angry fire burning between you, and then resorted to using your fists instead of your words."

Tristan couldn't help the shame that shot through him, not just because of his regret over the entire situation, but also because of Arthur's more than obvious disappointment. He thought perhaps he would have rather had Arthur angry again, as at least that was easier to stomach than this.

Arthur stared at them for another moment, before turning his attention back to the other men. "Outside of these walls, you have enemies abound. Woads. Romans. People who would gladly do you harm simply so that they may be able to boast about besting a Sarmatian Knight. You cannot make enemies of each other, no matter the reasoning for it. What happened yesterday can not happen again. Not now. Not when you are very nearly at the end. You are all more honorable than that. Your brotherhood deserves better than that."

Arthur opened his mouth like he was going to speak again, but suddenly there was a shout outside the council room doors, which made him pause. Every man in the room turned to look when the doors banged open a moment later, revealing a very alarmed looking Jols. A servant was right on his heels, stating loudly that there was a meeting in progress that was not to be disturbed, but Jols was not listening.

"Arthur. We must speak," he said at once.

"Jols? What is the meaning of this?" Arthur demanded, his expression caught between annoyed over the interruption and concerned over the manner of it.

"Breck is gone."

For a moment, nobody reacted. They all merely stared at Jols in confusion, as if none of them could make sense of the words he had said.

"Gone?" Arthur asked. "Gone where?"

"North," Jols answered

"What do ya mean north?" Bors immediately demanded.

"Surely you cannot mean she has left Hadrian's Wall," Galahad chimed in, looking aghast.

Jols ignored the two and crossed the room to where Arthur stood in silence. "I found this in the stables just before I came here. I do not know when she left it, but it is clear it was intended to be found long after she had gone."

He then passed Arthur a scrap of parchment, which Arthur quickly unfolded and read. Lancelot got to his feet so that he could read what was written over his shoulder, his brows pinching closer and closer together with each word he read aloud.

"I have travelled north to meet with a contact. I will return. Please, do not put yourselves at risk to come searching for me," Lancelot said. "Look after one another, and stay safe. Until we meet again, Breck."

Again, there was silence for a heartbeat.

Then, there was chaos.

Bors and Galahad jumped from their chairs, both converging on Jols to try to demand more information from him. Dagonet stood and began to pace, running his hand over his face and his closely cropped hair in obvious agitation, looking more unsettled than anyone had seen in a very long time. Gawain rounded the table to take the parchment from Arthur, his eyes quickly scanning it over time and time again, as if he thought there would be more to it than what Lancelot had read. Arthur himself sank into his own chair under Lancelot's concerned watch, his expression still one of stunned disbelief, only now there was worry and even what looked to be a tinge of betrayal beginning to creep its way in.

As for Tristan, for a moment he could not move, could not think, could hardly even breathe. His entire body had gone so cold he felt like he'd been thrown into icy water, and he found he was struggling to make sense of the situation.

Breck was gone.

But why? What in the world had prompted her to leave so abruptly? Was it because of what had happened with Gawain? Or, he wondered with a sinking feeling in his gut, was it because of himself? Had his actions and behavior been so unforgiveable that it had driven her away completely?

He sat in silence, feeling confused and taken aback, and even a little angry over the fact that she had left so suddenly, and without even bothering to tell anyone about it ahead of time. Oh Gods, he suddenly remembered with a jolt. The footsteps he'd heard outside his quarters the night before in the middle of the night. Had that been her? Sneaking away at a time that she had known nobody would be around to stop her?

That was when something else began to take hold of him, began to sink into his very bones.

Fear.

Going north meant going into Woad territory, which was dangerous enough on its own. The Woads were an unfriendly bunch who did not tolerate any foreign people on their lands. And beyond that? There could be any number of terrible things – and people – awaiting her. There were wolves and burglars, and all manner of dangers that she could potentially encounter. Out there in the wild, all on her own, there was no telling what could happen to Breck. She could get hurt. She could get killed.

No.

He could not let something like that happen. He would not let something like that happen.

Suddenly, Tristan was moving. He stood from his chair, turned away from the chaos still reigning in the room, and swiftly made for the exit without saying a word to anyone. He did not see if anyone noticed his departure, nor did he care. He walked straight out of Arthur's estate, went directly to his quarters to retrieve his weapons, then determinedly made his way to the stables.

There wasn't a chance on this green earth that he was going to stand idly by at the Wall while Breck went off to only the Gods knew where, facing only the Gods knew what. Even if she had spent years on the road, facing all sorts of dangers before they had met, even though he already knew she was a capable woman that could take care of herself, that did not matter to him. Breck meant far too much to him to allow her to put herself at risk like this. He was a scout with years of experience under his belt. He would find her trail, he would catch up to her, and then if he could not convince her to come back to the Wall with him, he would go with her to wherever she had planned, Rome and his servitude be damned.

Devran was in the stables when Tristan made it there, trying to carry out his work as usual but looking undeniably anxious as he did so. Tristan could only surmise that the boy knew that Breck had gone and was likely just as confused and worried as all of the rest of them now were.

Upon seeing Tristan, Devran tensed, watching silently as he went to retrieve his saddle. The boy took in the fact that he was armed to the teeth, then frowned unsurely. "Sir Tristan?" he asked hesitantly.

"Fetch Azia," Tristan ordered.

Devran did as he was told, opening up Azia's stall and bringing the mare out. Tristan immediately began saddling her, aware but uncaring of the fact that Devran was standing by, watching his every move.

"Are you leaving to find Breck?" the boy finally asked.

Tristan secured a buckle with a swift, firm yank. "Yes, I am," he answered resolutely.

"No, you are not," another voice chimed in immediately after.

Tristan and Devran both looked to the door, where Dagonet now stood. The healer was frowning deeply, looking very displeased as he stepped further into the stables.

"Leave us," he said to Devran.

The boy was all too happy to obey, practically kicking up a cloud of dust with his hasty retreat. Once they were alone, Dagonet took a few steps closer, his strong arms crossing over his chest.

"I knew, as soon as I realized you had disappeared, what you would be leaving to do. But my friend, I will tell you this now, you will be going nowhere," Dagonet told him.

Tristan stood straighter, his shoulders squaring confrontationally. "You have no authority to be giving me orders," he reminded him brusquely. "And you will not be able to stop me from leaving."

Tristan turned back to Azia to work on the next buckle, still resolute in his decision to find Breck, a mission that nobody would be stopping him from fulfilling, not even Dagonet.

"I do not wish to resort to restraining you, but if that is what it will take to keep you from leaving this fort, then I will do so," Dagonet told him steadily.

Tristan scoffed darkly. "You intend to take me captive then?"

"If that is what it takes to ensure you remain here, yes, I will," Dagonet said bluntly.

Whatever shred of patience he had left in him was rapidly slipping through his fingers. As much as he liked and respected Dagonet, his only concern at the moment was finding Breck and making sure that she was alright. Dagonet was now trying to stand in the way of that, which meant he was presenting a serious problem.

"Dagonet, you are my friend…but if you do not leave me be and stand aside, we are going to have troubles of our own very swiftly," he warned.

Suddenly Dagonet pushed his way between Tristan and Azia, standing to his full height and squaring his own shoulders, looking twice as big as he glared down at him with resolute eyes. "And if you do not heed my words and listen to reason, I will not hesitate to resume the fight that Gawain could not end yesterday," he threatened.

Tristan clenched his fist at his side, anger sweeping through him. "You are wasting precious time. Time that could be spent searching for her and ensuring her safety," he growled. "Do you not care that she is in Woad territory, alone and unprotected?"

Something dangerous flashed through the healer's eyes. "Do not insult me with such accusations," he countered swiftly. "Breck is important to us all. I would give chase right this moment, and I would not stop until she had been found and brought safely back to Hadrian's Wall."

"Then why do you attempt to stop me now?" Tristan demanded.

"Because your affection for her and your fear for her safety has clouded your judgement," Dagonet told him. "What do you believe will happen when you find yourself in Woad territory? They know who you are, they know what you look like. If they found you, they would not just kill you. They would torture you simply for the pleasure of it, and they would ensure that your death was as agonizing as possible." Gruesome as that possibility was, Dagonet was not finished. "Even if you survived the Woads, what do you believe the Romans would do? You are still their property, and if you leave now, they would label you a deserter." Dagonet gave him a meaningful look. "We both know what the Romans do to deserters."

Tristan turned his eyes away, his mind drifting back to the tales he had heard of previous Sarmatian Knights that had attempted to flee their post at Hadrian's Wall. They had been hunted down like dogs, then humiliated, tortured, and executed in a public, brutal way, made an example of to frighten any other Sarmatians who might have had thoughts of trying to escape their servitude prematurely.

The thought of enduring such a painful death, either at the hands of Woads or of Romans, certainly sounded unpleasant…but even that did not strike fear in him the way the thought of something awful happening to Breck did.

"I cannot simply leave her to face untold dangerous alone," Tristan said with a shake of his head.

"You have to," Dagonet argued. "She made the choice to leave, and she told us not to pursue her because she did not want any of us putting ourselves at risk for her." Dagonet reached out a hand to brace it on Tristan's shoulder, his expression grim. "Think about it, my friend. Think of the risk you are taking. Think of what it would do to Breck if you tried to give chase and ended up dead because of it."

Tristan cast his gaze downward at that, a heavy breath escaping him. Breck might not have been completely forthcoming about all of her past, but he knew enough to know that she had lost many people she had cared about. Even if he still didn't know what the extent of her feelings for him were, if she did care for him the way that he did for her, then did he truly wish to be yet another person that Breck had taken away from her?

He suddenly thought back to all those widows who wept over his comrades' graves, only now Breck was one of them, weeping over his grave. The thought if it made him feel ill.

"I understand why you wish to go after her, I do," Dagonet continued, this time in a gentler tone. "But you must remain here, and you must trust that Breck can look after herself." The man squeezed his shoulder again. "She will return. And trust when I say that she will be much happier when she does if you are still alive."

As much as he did not want to admit it, the more he thought about it with a rational mind, the more he realized that Dagonet was right.

Going north of the Wall, alone, was suicide. And even if he did miraculously evade the thousands of Woads that occupied that territory, his life would still be forfeit. Disappearing from the fort for an extended period of time would make him a deserter in the eyes of the Romans, which meant he wouldn't be able to come back to the Wall. If he did, he would surely be taken as a prisoner and executed on the streets, and even Arthur would not be able to save him from a fate like that. He would have no choice but to run, and the Romans would never stop hunting him, which meant he would have to bid goodbye to everyone he cared about, simply so that they would not have a target on their backs as well. No more friends, no more Arthur. No more Breck.

It went against every instinct he had, but he finally came to understand that he couldn't go after her. Not if he still wanted to live long enough to have a chance to be with her, not if he wanted a chance at a normal life with her by his side. She had said she would come back, and he would just have to trust that she would.

And that, unfortunately, was that.

Tristan let out another heavy breath, his shoulders slumping with defeat. "Very well," he finally conceded.

Dagonet made a small sound of relief. "Good man," he said quietly. It may not seem like it now, but…you are making the right decision," he said, his attempt to console him admirable, even if it was not working. "She will come back," he said once again. "I do not know when, but she will."

Tristan merely nodded once, finding that he was no longer in the mood for conversation. Dagonet, thankfully, seemed to sense this, because he clapped him on the shoulder and then ushered him toward the door. "I will have Devran remove your saddle and put Azia back in her stall. For now…perhaps you should get some fresh air."

Again, Tristan nodded, and without a word he stepped out of the stables, leaving Dagonet behind.

He set off down the road, hardly noticing the other inhabitants of Hadrian's Wall, who were all going about their day, completely unaware of the fact that Breck was even gone in the first place. He avoided going back to his quarters and he steered clear of the tavern, not wanting to potentially encounter any of the other men just yet. He especially did not want to encounter Arthur. They would all just want to talk about Breck, which would only make that fear in his belly worse and make him second guess his decision not to go after her.

No, he just wanted to be alone.

So he left the heart of Hadrian's Wall behind, his feet carrying him northward, toward the massive wall that separated them from the northern territories, protecting them all from the dangers on the other side. There were only Roman guards on patrol there when he arrived, and though the gate was closed tight now, the way the ground near the base of it was disturbed was clear evidence that it had been opened recently.

Opened, unfortunately, to allow Breck to leave.

He reached the wall, then climbed the stairs to the battlements on top. The Romans seemed curious as to why he was there, but nobody questioned him as he found an unoccupied space and leaned his elbows against the wall, his eyes trained on the plush, green landscapes and miles of forest stretching to the north.

Breck was out there somewhere, unprotected and unreachable. It was a thought that made him sick to his stomach, that made him wish with everything in him that he was a free man so that he could go after her.

But he could not, and there was nothing for him to do now but cling to the hope that she came back to him in one piece.

And until she did, this was where he would be. Watching, waiting, and spending every moment they were apart praying to the Gods that she would be alright.

I hope it was worth the wait! See you at the next one!