Thank you, sally n, for the follow and favorite! I really appreciate it, and I appreciate all of you for taking the time to read this story! Hope you're enjoying it!

CHAPTER TWELVE

Though the bruises from the attack began to fade after a few days, talk of the incident did not.

For the most part, she had been treated with kindness and sympathy in the aftermath of it all. And many, she was pleased to report, seemed to have a new level of respect for her – not just for surviving the attack and defeating Gerland and his cronies, but also because she had moved on with her life as if nothing had happened to begin with. Because if there was one thing Breck absolutely refused to do, it was waste anymore of her time by thinking about her attackers or letting what had happened have a lasting impact. She had already spent the past several weeks constantly looking over her shoulder, always on the lookout for Gerland, always waiting for trouble to come along. Now that Gerland was dead, it was over and done with. End of story.

However, not everyone was so kind, nor sympathetic.

Other people seemed frightened of her now, thought her dangerous now that she had shown everyone that she was perfectly fine with killing someone and then carrying on with life without missing a beat. And others, well…others, for reasons she couldn't quite fathom, seemed to believe the whole thing was a lie, which had resulted in a wild rumors spreading throughout Hadrian's Wall.

Despite Arthur's address to the town after the attack, some people had gotten it in their heads that his recount had not been accurate, that he had merely been covering for Breck and Tristan out of friendship and loyalty. Breck had caught wind of some of those rumors, each of which was more ridiculous than the last and none of which painted her in a good light. One rumor was that she had killed the men simply for the sport of it – another rumor, so outlandish that it was actually insulting, was that she had tried to seduce Gerland, then had gone into a rage when he had rejected her. Perhaps the most ridiculous one she had heard, which just so happened to be the one most believed, was that she had not been attacked, but that she and Tristan had killed Gerland and his men as a sacrifice to Pagan Gods. Never mind the fact that Breck was a Christian and had been very open about it, which seemed to have been conveniently forgotten or ignored.

There were some other rumors she had begun to hear as well, though these had little to do with the attack and far more to do with her personal life.

It seemed more than a few people had been taking notice of how she spent her personal time – or rather, whom she spent that time with. The way Gawain seemed to always be around her, and especially with how flirtatious he had been at the celebration, had roused much interest amongst the townsfolk. And after Tristan had come to her rescue, how readily he had protected her and how willing he had been to kill for her, that had certainly raised some eyebrows. It seemed many people in town apparently believed that Breck was romantically involved with one of them – or, according to some, both of them.

These rumors she did her best to ignore. People could say what they wanted about the attack – they had told their story truthfully, and if people did not believe them, then that was no problem of hers. But she did not care to hear what anyone had to say about what she did in her free time, or who she spent her time with. That was absolutely nobody's business but her own.

All the rumors aside, however, life had more or less gone back to normal. There was no need to check over her shoulder everywhere she went anymore, no threats lurking in the shadows. She very much doubted anyone would be foolish enough to attempt anything like what Gerland had done, especially after seeing what had happened to him and his men. It felt freeing, knowing she was safe again, not needing someone to chaperone her everywhere. Even Tristan had ceased acting as her shadow now that the threat had been eliminated – she had only seen him a few times, usually when having dinner with the men at the tavern, or passing him in the street when going to and from her quarters.

His lack of presence, admittedly, had felt very odd to her, simply because she had gotten so used to him always being close by. She did not fret over it too much, however, especially given the fact that they would likely start their training sessions together very soon, and then they would be around each other plenty.

She had been trying not to think about that, though. The thought of training with Tristan was too intimidating, made her more nervous than she would ever dare to admit aloud…and the thought of spending so much alone time with him made her feel something very different, something that made her stomach flip over on itself.

Breck had tried not to think about that, either. Even though she was attracted to him, he had given no indication that he felt the same, so she had been doing her best to try to ignore it. That, unfortunately, was proving to be far easier said than done.

"Have you moved the sage?" Breck asked Dagonet as she eyed his supply shelf in the infirmary, trying to find the jar in question.

It was a rainy afternoon, and since there were no chores to tend to in the stables and because Arthur had relieved her of her teaching duties, Breck had found herself with an entire day free of obligation. There had seemed no better way to spend her free time than by visiting with Dagonet, whose calming presence quieted the racket that always seemed to be going on in her head these days.

They'd gone to the fields to pick herbs before the storm came in, then hurried back to the infirmary to avoid getting drenched. Upon returning, they'd found Bors waiting on one of the beds, grimacing with pain and looking as though he needed some medical attention. Dagonet was now finishing up tending to his stitches, which had gotten a mild infection, while Breck stored away the herbs they'd brought back.

"Top left, next to the poppy," Dagonet answered without looking away from the wrap he was making around Bors's torso to cover the wound. "Now keep this covered proper," he instructed Bors firmly, pointing a large finger in his friend's face. "It shall never heal if you do not keep it clean."

"Yes, mother," Bors drawled in response.

Breck smirked to herself as she listened to their conversation, standing on her tiptoes to fetch the small jar of sage and stuff more herbs inside. When Dagonet said nothing in response, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him giving Bors 'The Look' – the stern and wholly unamused expression Dagonet often wore whenever he did not appreciate what someone was doing or saying. It was a look that meant business, and even Bors knew that. The man changed his tune quickly, begrudgingly grumbling out a more proper response to Dagonet's instructions. Dagonet nodded once, seemingly more satisfied with that answer, and stood to wash his hands in the basin.

"If you do not mind," Bors said, stretching back out on the bed and comfortably crossing his legs at the ankle, "I think I may stay here and rest for a while."

Breck quirked a brow at the man, not bothering to hide her disapproval as she turned to pin him with a stare. "Do you not have a hard-working woman and nearly a dozen rowdy children to look after?"

On rainy days like these, everyone usually stayed cooped up inside – she could just imagine poor Vanora stuck at home, outnumbered by her bored, disorderly children and on the brink of being driven to madness.

"Aye, I do," Bors said without opening his eyes. "But between these damned wounds, my hard-working woman, and my rowdy brood, I've not got much sleep as of late. If I am to heal, I need to rest." Now Bors opened his eyes and lifted his head to shoot her a smirk. "Healer's orders," he said, nodding his head in Dagonet's direction before lying back down and closing his eyes again.

Breck shook her head and decided it would be less of a headache to just drop the subject altogether.

Within moments Bors seemed to have fallen asleep. Dagonet appeared by her side soon enough to help her with the rest of the herbs. She offered him a smile as they worked in companionable silence, once again soothed and calmed by the presence of the large, humble-natured Sarmatian. Breck still wasn't sure what exactly it was – maybe it was his size and stature, maybe it was his mannerisms, or maybe it was how gentle-natured he was in everyday life – but he often reminded her of her father. The more she got to know Dagonet, the more alike the two men seemed.

"Tell me Dagonet," Breck said to break the silence, looking over at him. "How fares that woman from the celebration?" she asked, curious to know if he'd further pursued the pretty woman he'd spent a large portion of the night with.

Dagonet paused, quirked a brow at the raucous snore Bors emitted from where he napped, then looked down at her. "I presume Venna fares well," he answered, shifting his gaze back to the herbs as he placed another jar on one of the higher shelves.

"Venna is her name?" Dagonet nodded in confirmation. "Pretty name for a pretty woman," Breck mused aloud. His choice of wording, however, had not gone unnoticed, causing her to lift a skeptical brow. "If you presume she fares well, does that mean you have not spoken to her?"

"I have not," Dagonet said without looking at her.

"Dagonet…" Breck sighed, her lips pulling into a frown.

Honestly, the man was completely hopeless. Dagonet seemed so confident in every other aspect of life. Bring him an injured person, and he knew what to do without hesitation. Put a blade in his hand, and he could probably cut his way through an entire army without batting an eye. But when it came to a beautiful woman he was interested in? He acted as though he would rather be thrown into a pit of vipers than actually speak to a potential romantic prospect. Breck just didn't understand why – he was handsome and kind and intelligent, and she'd seen plenty of women staring after him with longing eyes whenever he made his way through town. Something he never seemed to notice, no surprise there.

"You are one of the most fearsome warriors in all of Britain," Breck reminded him. "Certainly approaching a woman you are interested in should not be a problem."

Dagonet shook his head, looking grave. "It is not that," he said.

"Then what is it?"

"It is just…" He trailed off and sighed. "All these years, with the Romans controlling my life and controlling my destiny, falling in love and taking a wife simply has never seemed…feasible."

Breck frowned at hearing that, even though she supposed she should have suspected that this would be the reason behind his hesitation. After all, Gawain had said something very similar to her when they had first met, not to mention the fact that all the knights – except for Bors – were unattached, leading her to believe that they shared the sentiments as well. Still, all of the men had sacrificed so much over the years for a cause and people that were not their own. Why should Dagonet not be allowed the luxury of having a beautiful woman that cared for him and made his time of servitude easier? Better yet, why not all of the knights? Bors had Vanora and it had worked out well enough for them. Surely the others had earned the right to such a companionship as well.

"But your servitude to the Romans will soon be done with," Breck reminded him pointedly, causing Dagonet to pause and look down at her. "Then you will be free to do whatever you want. Do you not want a wife? Do you not want a family?"

Dagonet sighed again. "I do," he told her. "But you must understand something, Breck. Since I came to serve under Arthur, I have watched countless brothers in arms die around me. With nearly every mission I have gone on, I have departed with the expectation that perhaps I would be the next to return lying dead across the back of my horse," he revealed. "I have allowed myself to contemplate a future beyond my servitude now that it is almost finished, I will admit that. But I never did before because I truly did not believe I would live long enough to have a future." He smiled grimly. "So you see, the idea that I could have a life away from Rome's control now, that I could have a wife and family is…rather a strange thought," he explained. "One that still gives me pause, even now, at the end of my servitude."

Breck nodded her head in understanding, though she couldn't help feeling a strong rush of sympathy for Dagonet – for all the knights, really. "Well, you have only a short while left, then you are free of Rome," she said firmly, hoping she sounded encouraging. "The way I see it, your life is only just about to begin. As an old friend used to often tell me, God has a plan for us all," she continued, smiling up at him. "I believe God has quite a plan for you yet, my friend."

Dagonet looked torn between feeling grateful for her support and doubtful of her words about a deity that he himself did not worship. "So it was your God's plan for me to live fifteen years of my life fighting at the bidding of others, watching my friends die, and slaying those who only wish to defend their land?" he asked, unable to completely hide the bitterness in his voice.

Breck was a little surprised by his tone. She had spoken with the knights about their travels and the battles they'd fought over mugs of ale in the tavern, and she had heard them all speak ill of the things they had to do for Rome, but this was the first time she had heard such a thing from Dagonet. Perhaps it seemed especially surprising because he was usually the first to see any command given to him taken care of, absolutely no questions asked.

She had to think for a moment before responding. "God works in mysterious ways, Dagonet," she finally answered, turning her gaze back up to the healer. "But He never challenges us with anything that we cannot overcome. Our hardships teach us how to be stronger, smarter, better – they make us into the people we are meant to be," she answered. "Though the road we walk may be long and hard, it is all merely part of something much larger, much grander," she continued. "There is a promise of a better, happier life ahead of you. Ahead of all of us. We need only trust that God will lead us down the right path."

Dagonet stared at her for a long moment, then smirked fondly. "You sound like Arthur," he told her, making her smile. "What of your plan, then?" he asked next, shifting the conversation to her. "Why did your God bring you here? What does he have planned for you?"

Breck fell silent as she contemplated his questions.

To be honest, she wasn't so sure she knew what God had planned for her anymore. For a long time she had believed that she was meant to walk the path of vengeance. Cerdic had taken her family from her, robbed her of any semblance of a home, robbed her of a chance at a normal life. Breck wanted to end him, wanted to avenge her family, wanted him to know what it felt like to lose everything that he held most dear.

But things had changed once she had come to Hadrian's Wall. Her new home had presented obstacles she hadn't been prepared for. And, to her chagrin, her stay here had taught her things she had never expected to learn. The path was unclear again, a giant question that she couldn't seem to find the answer to just yet.

"I am not entirely certain anymore," Breck finally answered, being completely honest. "Hopefully that will be made clear to me soon."

"Ya know," Bors suddenly piped up, surprising them both. "It is rather challenging to sleep with you pair blabberin' away about wives an' Gods an' Rome, or whatever it is you two continue to yammer on about," he said huffily, very much awake and looking highly irritated because of it.

Dagonet turned toward Bors, completely unaffected by his friend's attitude. Having known Bors for so long, he was probably very used to the man's tendency for temper-tantrums by now. "Bors, if it is peace and quiet you seek then perhaps this is not the best place to search for it," he suggested neutrally.

The grumpy Sarmatian sat up with a wince and then climbed to his feet. "Splendid idea, Dag," Bors said gruffly, starting for the door with his chin jutted proudly in the air. "I shall do that right now." And with that he left, grumbling under his breath as he stepped into the rain before roughly shutting the door behind him.

Breck, rather uncertain what to make of Bors's abrupt departure, raised her eyebrows at Dagonet. He just shrugged a broad shoulder. "His wounds are hurting him," he said. "It is not uncommon for Bors to be…temperamental…when he is in pain." Dagonet turned to grab another herb jar to refill. "Once the pain ebbs off and he has calmed down, he will come and apologize for his curt manner and all will be well again."

Breck couldn't help but smirk in amusement. "It would seem this has happened before," she commented.

"Far too often," Dagonet confirmed.

Their conversation lulled for a few moments as they worked next to each other in comfortable silence. Breck listened to the rain as it pattered against the roof of the infirmary and smiled to herself. She'd always liked rain – the smell of it, the sound of it, the taste of it. Rain was refreshing and revitalizing. It cleansed the earth of the filth that accumulated on it and left everything feeling new again.

"Breck," Dagonet spoke up as they finished putting away the herbs, breaking the silence. "May I ask you a question?"

Breck looked to Dagonet and nodded. "Of course."

Dagonet turned to face her fully, his eyebrows coming together in a serious expression. "Why will you be training with Tristan?" he asked, catching her by surprise. "And do not tell me it is because of Gerland, because I do not believe that to be the case," Dagonet added, giving her a meaningful look.

How did he know she'd be training with Tristan? She hadn't told any of the other knights just yet, and so far as she knew, Arthur had not either. They had both known that telling the men of her upcoming training would only result in questions they might not want to answer being asked, so they had kept quiet about it for the time being.

But now Dagonet knew, and Breck stared back at him with her lips pressed together as she contemplated whether she should tell him the truth or not. Thus far, only Galahad knew about her past, and only Tristan knew of both her history and her mission. She had been hesitant to tell anyone else, but the thought of lying to Dagonet just felt…wrong. He had always been so open and honest with her. It seemed only fair of her to be open and honest in return.

Breck sighed and turned to face him fully. Her expression must have stated how serious the conversation was about to be, because he stood a little straighter, giving her his full, undivided attention.

"As I am sure you are aware of, my family is dead," she started.

"Yes," Dagonet confirmed. "Though I have never heard the details surrounding their deaths."

Breck sucked in a deep breath before speaking again. "They were murdered," she stated bluntly, much to Dagonet's surprise. "My father and my pregnant mother were killed in cold blood. And by someone that my father believed to be his friend and ally for many years, no less." She paused and sent Dagonet a serious look. "That man is the reason I am to train with Tristan. I intend to kill him and avenge my family," she revealed, seeing no point in beating around the bush about it.

Dagonet first looked rather taken aback, before his expression shifted to one of concern. "That is a dangerous task for anyone to appoint themselves," he said gravely. "Does Arthur know?"

"Of course," Breck said with a nod. "He was the first to know." She purposefully did not tell him about Arthur agreeing to help her kill Cerdic, though.

Dagonet crossed his large arms over his chest. "Who is this man you hunt?"

Breck hesitated before answering. "Cerdic of Saxony."

Again, Dagonet looked stunned. His shock quickly melted into realization, however, his eyes flickering over her as he suddenly made a small noise of understanding, as if he had just managed to find missing pieces to a puzzle. "I should have been able to make the connection," he said. "Cerdic's second in command for many years was a Saxon named Kenrick. I have heard tales of him and the battles he has fought by Cerdic's side." Breck saw the realization, the recognition, in his eyes. "Kenrick was your father."

"He was a far better man than those stories painted him to be," Breck defended at once. "I will admit that he may have done things in his youth that are not considered honorable," she continued, "but he was a changed man after he met my mother. My father was not the monster his enemies have made him out to be."

Dagonet held a gentle hand up to interrupt her. "I did not think otherwise, friend," he reassured her. "If he was anything like you, I have no doubt he was a good man." Breck relaxed at once, placated by his response. "I will admit that hearing of this task disturbs me," Dagonet continued, making her frown. "But it is not my place to tell you what you can and cannot do, either." He paused before firmly stating, "If killing Cerdic and avenging your family is what it takes for you to find peace, then I shall support your campaign without question."

Breck felt a strong rush of gratitude for Dagonet and barely refrained from hugging the large man. Kind and gentle as he was, the healer was not known to be affectionate – Breck thought such a bold gesture of friendship on her part would make him feel awkward. So, instead, she smiled and reached out to squeeze his shoulder, trying to convey to him with these small actions just how much his support meant to her. Dagonet seemed to understand, because he gave her a tiny smile and nodded his head in return.

Dagonet turned to start cleaning up some of the things he'd used while tending to Bors. While he did this, Breck went to the lone window in the room and peered out at the sky. It was starting to lighten back up and the rain didn't seem to be coming down as hard – it probably wouldn't be much longer before the storm was over.

"Dagonet?" Breck asked, suddenly struck with a thought. When he looked to her in silent question, she tilted her head in curiosity. "How did you know I will be training with Tristan?"

"Tristan visited me this morning, just before you came by," he explained, the dirty tools in his hands momentarily forgotten. "He asked me to check the progress of his wound. When I asked why, he revealed he would begin training you and that he needed my clearance to do so."

Breck's eyebrows shot upward, while her stomach almost immediately knotted in on itself. "He asked for your clearance to train again?" she asked, unable to hide her growing nervousness.

"Demanded, more like," Dagonet responded, his brows ticking upward. "He was very…adamant about wanting my authorization as quickly as possible."

Breck didn't know what to think about how persistent Tristan had apparently been. She started to ask Dagonet what he thought it meant, if he had any idea what might be going through Tristan's head, but the questions died on her lips as he held up a hand to stop her.

"Do not ask me to decipher his actions," he said, as though he had read her mind. "Tristan is a difficult man to read – even for me, his comrade of fifteen years. Whatever Tristan's intentions are, he will let it be known in his own time and in his own way."

Breck wasn't sure if she was just reading into it too much, but the way Dagonet spoke and the knowing gleam in his eyes made her feel like his words held a double meaning. Perhaps like Gawain and Vanora and Bors, Dagonet had also noticed the shift between her and Tristan. Only unlike the others, he was far too respectful to pry. He had said his piece, had given her advice without being overbearing about it, and that was that. Once again, Breck found herself feeling rather grateful toward Dagonet.

Unfortunately, her good feelings began to quickly diminish when her thoughts shifted to Tristan.

It was a little unsettling to know that Tristan was so eager to start training her. The thought of spending so much time with Tristan – alone – was something that made her feel nervous, yes, but it also left her feeling almost excited, simply because it would present the perfect opportunity for them to get to know one another better.

Even so, Breck certainly had some concerns. Tristan wasn't going to go easy on her, she was fairly convinced of that, and she was a little worried about how all the time spent with him might affect her. It was hard enough not getting distracted by him when doing daily, mundane things. She could not afford to be distracted by him when she was training for something of such great importance to her.

"Well?" Breck finally asked, her tone tentative. "Did you grant him clearance?"

Dagonet looked at her over his shoulder, then nodded. "Yes, I did," he confirmed, making her stomach flip. "As it so happens, Tristan had a very speedy recovery."

Why was she not surprised? "Of course he did," Breck said sardonically.

Dagonet merely smirked in response.

OOO

The storm finally came to an end about an hour later, but Breck lingered in the infirmary for as long as she could regardless. Now that she knew Tristan had been cleared, it was only a matter of time before he came looking for her – and since she was absolutely dreading the first session with him, her plan now was to stay out of sight and lay low in hopes that it might delay the inevitable for just a little while longer.

She had a feeling Dagonet knew what she was up to, but the man graciously said nothing of it and let her stay – or rather, hide – for as long as she wanted.

But for as much as she would have loved to stay safely tucked away in Dagonet's infirmary for the rest of the day, Breck eventually had to admit to herself that she couldn't hide in there forever. When an ill man came in to receive treatment from Dagonet, she finally ventured out and immediately started for the stables, hoping and praying that she would be able to make it through the rest of the day without having to start her training.

Unfortunately, fate had other ideas. When Breck arrived at the stables, she found Gawain waiting there for her, leaning back against the stables wall with his arms crossed and an odd expression on his face, one that seemed caught somewhere between confused and…something else she couldn't quite place. When he noticed her coming, he immediately pushed away from the wall to meet her halfway.

"Gawain? Everything alright?" Breck asked unsurely.

"I just spoke with Tristan," he informed her. He crossed his arms once again, his brows furrowing together. "You are to begin training with him?"

Breck pressed her lips together and nodded. "Aye, I am."

"May I inquire as to why?"

Breck let out a quiet sigh. Even though she had told Dagonet the real reason, she did not particularly want to tell anyone else just yet. Part of her reason for wanting to keep it a secret still was so that she would not worry the men, who would undoubtedly have strong feelings about her embarking on such a dangerous mission, if how protective they had been of her since Gerland's attack was anything to judge by.

Yet, she had also wanted to keep a secret out of fear that the other men might try to involve themselves the way Arthur had. Her fight with Cerdic was hers, and though she had come to accept the fact that Arthur would be with her on this mission, she did not want the other men to be. With how close they were to freedom, with how much they had already endured and sacrificed, she could not stand the thought of any of them taking on this dangerous mission.

And it just so happened that the one she most wanted to keep in the dark when it came to her mission to kill Cerdic was the very man standing before her. Breck did not know how deeply Gawain's affections ran, but she had a feeling they were no passing fancy. And if he cared about her as much as she thought he might, she didn't think it too farfetched that he might try to volunteer to help if he knew what she had planned for that monster across the sea.

"Arthur was…worried, after Gerland's attack," she said. "He wishes for me to train, hone my skills, so that I might be better equipped to protect myself against any enemies who might cross my path." It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't a complete lie either, which made her feel at least somewhat less guilty about not being wholly honest with him about it.

Gawain, if possible, frowned even deeper. "And you chose Tristan to train you?" he questioned, and she could hear in his tone the question he did not voice aloud – Why did you not ask me?

"It was Arthur's choice, not mine," Breck quickly informed him.

That, at least, made the tension she had spied in his shoulders dissipate some. "I see." Gawain stared at her for a moment, then finally blinked and uncrossed his arms. "Well, he was going to the arena when I found him. He wished for me to tell you to meet him there, so that your training may begin."

Breck felt her heart sink a little. There would be no avoiding it, then. "Very well."

"I will escort you there," Gawain said next, leaving little room for argument about it.

Breck nodded, and they started off toward her quarters first so that she could collect her weapons. Though they walked side by side, they did not speak. Gawain seemed lost in his thoughts, and Breck, admittedly, was lost in her own.

Why did the fates continue to torment her? She had hoped – in vain, she now realized – that she would be able to put off her training for at least another week. That she would have more time to mentally prepare herself for the time to be spent with Tristan. But, luckily for Tristan – and not so luckily for her – he seemed to have obtained the miraculous ability of quick healing sometime over the past few days, and now her training was to start much earlier than she had anticipated. They hadn't been alone since the night of the attack and, after everything that had happened, Breck had no idea what to expect from him.

At Breck's quarters, Gawain lingered in the doorway while Breck collected her weapons. Breck snuck a few glances his way as she strapped her sword around her waist and slung her bow and quiver of arrows across her back. Gawain, however, still seemed preoccupied, his eyes turned elsewhere and that frown refusing to budge from his attractive face.

He seemed very bothered by the fact that she was going to be training with Tristan. She wanted to believe that perhaps it was only because he wished to train her himself, that he was unhappy about the fact that the task had been appointed to another. But…deep down, something told her that was not the case. She had a feeling that had she been ordered to train with Galahad, or Dagonet, or even Lancelot, that Gawain would have had a much different reaction, that he probably would have said nothing at all about it.

She wanted to ask him about it, wanted to know why her being on better terms with Tristan, why her training with him irked him so much, but as they left her quarters and continued on, she was too cowardly to broach the topic. She was afraid that the answer he would give would only make things more complicated.

So Breck kept quiet, and they made the journey to the arena in awkward silence.

Tristan was leaning against the fence of the training arena when they finally arrived. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world, lounging about like he owned the place and casually eating a bright green apple. His eyes were on her, though, watching steadily as she approached. They then slid to Gawain, who was holding himself taller now, his chin lifted just slightly.

Before they were within hearing range of Tristan, Gawain stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. "I am certain Arthur had his reasons for choosing Tristan to train you," he said lowly, his blue-eyed gaze fixed on her. "But he is a merciless fighter, even in the sparring ring. If at any point you find yourself disliking his training methods, if he goes too far or makes you feel…unsafe…just say the word, and I will step in. Alright?"

Breck couldn't decide how to take his words of warning, nor his offer to help if training with Tristan didn't go well. It was nice, she supposed, that he was looking out for her so adamantly, even though she was certain he had some ulterior motives in wanting to train her in Tristan's place. But she had already been anxious about training with Tristan, and now she felt even more so after hearing what Gawain had said, unable to help wondering if she was in over her head with the quiet scout.

She glanced toward Tristan, who was still watching them unblinkingly, still eating that apple. Then she looked back to Gawain, who was waiting for a response. "Alright," she agreed.

Gawain nodded once, then they carried on to where Tristan was.

Breck noticed, with a bit of confusion, that he didn't seem to have any weapons on him at the moment – or at least, none that she could see. He was, however, standing next to a small wooden barrel that she could not recall seeing in the training arena before. Try as she might, she couldn't remember a time where she had seen Tristan unarmed. It made her wonder just what sort of approach he was going to take to this training.

"Tristan," Breck said in greeting when they reached him. "Good day."

He did not return the greeting, merely looked at her for a moment before shifting his attention to Gawain. "You have my thanks for finding her so quickly," he said to Gawain, so cordial it seemed almost cold, unfamiliar, as if they were mere acquaintances rather than the comrades they had been these past fifteen years.

"I trust you are going to treat her well during these sessions?" Gawain countered, his brows lifted as he gave Tristan a pointed look.

"Trust that I am going to train her however I deem necessary," Tristan replied without missing a beat. Then he nodded his head to the side. "You may leave now."

The dismissal was borderline discourteous, making Breck look between the two with a frown. In fact, nothing about the way they were interacting with one another seemed right. Where had their friendliness gone? Why were they regarding one another as if they were suddenly enemies?

Perhaps there was something else going on, Breck reasoned. Maybe they had had a disagreement over something, or gotten into an argument while she had not been around. As much as the men cared for one another, they still had their fair share of tiffs. They argued like they were brothers, and argued often enough that Breck that it entirely reasonable that that was exactly what had taken place between the two knights before her.

Gawain did not seem pleased with the abrupt dismissal, and looked very much like he wanted to insist on staying. When he met Breck's gaze, however, she gave him a small smile and a subtle nod, silently urging him to go. It seemed better for Tristan and Gawain to be away from one another. "Very well," he agreed reluctantly. He placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Breck was acutely aware of the heavy weight of Tristan's stare on them – on where Gawain's hand was. "Remember what I said."

Breck just nodded again, and with that Gawain finally left.

Now alone with Tristan, Breck gave the scout her full attention. If he was curious about what it was that Gawain had said to her in private, he did not show it, nor did he ask. He just took another bite of apple, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Shall we?" Breck asked to get things moving along, her hand moving to the sword at her hip.

"You will not require a sword today," he said, making her pause. "Nor your bow."

Breck frowned with confusion. What was the point in training her to fight if they were not going to use weapons? Still, Breck began to slowly undo the belt keeping her sword on her hip so that she could set it off to the side. "I do not wish to presume to tell you how to proceed with our training – " she started to say.

"Then do not," Tristan cut in, ending her statement abruptly.

Breck stiffened and felt a familiar flash of annoyance. She tried to ignore it as she continued removing her weaponry.

"You know better than any other the strength of the Saxon army," Tristan continued slowly, watching her every move. His intense stare made her heart beat a little harder beneath her ribs. "Drawing Cerdic into one-on-one combat will not be an easy feat. You are a woman, and you are weaker than the man you hunt," he said pointedly. "More than likely, you will be killed before you can get close to him. And if by some miracle you can get to him, then you will still likely be killed anyway due to your lack of experience."

Breck pulled a face at his blunt, pessimistic view on the situation. "Your confidence in me is positively astounding," she couldn't help but shoot back at him with a quirked brow, feeling more than a little insulted by his words.

"And your sarcasm will get you nowhere," Tristan countered without missing a beat.

Breck had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something snarky in return. Cordial as they had been a few days ago, all of that appeared to have flown out the window now. He was back to being the irritating, annoying Tristan who liked to talk down to her and thoroughly infuriate her. It made her immediately miss the nice, friendly Tristan who bought her ale and let her play dice with him.

"If you wish to defeat Cerdic, you need to gain strength with your mind, your body, and your weapons," Tristan continued. "We will train until I deem you ready to face Cerdic. You will do what I tell you, when I tell you to do it – and if you argue with me or challenge my authority, there will be repercussions," he proceeded to explain. "Have I made myself clear?"

Just as she had suspected, Tristan was not going to go easy on her. That much was obvious enough just by his rough words and no-nonsense attitude. The stubborn, rebellious side of her wanted to ask just who he thought he was and what gave him the right to speak to her in such a way, but somehow she managed to hamper down the urge. The fact remained that she was going to be training with him for the foreseeable future whether she liked it or not. If she wanted things to run smoothly – and if she wanted to make it out alive – she'd have to set her stubbornness aside for once and just do as she was told.

"Very much so," she finally answered as patiently as possible.

If Tristan was surprised that she didn't argue with him on the matter, he didn't show it. Instead he just gave her an appraising look before tossing his half eaten apple aside. "Let us begin, then," he said, before turning to face the arena and making a circling motion with his hand. "Run the length of this fence until I give you the signal to stop. Then," he said, picking up the barrel, "you will lift this until I say you are finished."

Tristan took a moment to show her how he wished for her to proceed with lifting the barrel – squat, extend the barrel out and hold, then stand, lifting and lowering the barrel overhead five times. Then repeat. She watched him do this with a bit of skepticism, unsure how to feel about the exercise. Having spent the majority of her life being raised by a man, Breck had been taught how to hunt, how to survive, and, most importantly, how to wield a sword. But her father had never put her through any type of conditioning like this. It all seemed very silly, which gave her the distinct feeling that she was about to make a very big fool out of herself – the exact thing she'd been afraid of, and the one thing she had been hoping to avoid.

"Well?" Tristan barked when Breck didn't immediately jump into action. "What do you wait for? An invitation?" he asked next, quirking a haughty eyebrow at her.

Breck sent Tristan an unimpressed look, which he ignored, then started off at a jog as he had instructed.

"Faster!" Tristan called after her, apparently not satisfied with her pace.

Breck called him something ugly, glad he wasn't close enough to hear it, and pushed her legs a little faster.

Running had never been much of a challenge for Breck. She had always been on the slender side, so her strong point in fighting had never been her physical strength but her speed and agility. She ran the laps easily, her endurance so great by now that she could run for quite a long time without getting tired or winded.

But as she circled around and passed by Tristan again and again, Breck felt her frustration grow as she realized he wasn't even paying attention to what she was doing. Tristan had instead taken to inspecting her weapons, picking them up and turning them this way and that. She couldn't tell if he was being critical of her equipment or not, but either way, she didn't particularly care for the way he was eyeing her precious, cherished weaponry.

Breck ran for at least a quarter of an hour before Tristan finally turned his attention to her and whistled for her to stop. Knowing what was expected of her next, Breck took a second to catch her breath and then proceeded to the barrel.

Because of how easily and effortlessly he had lifted it, she expected it wouldn't be all that heavy. She very quickly learned that was not the case, however. When she pulled the blasted thing off the ground, it was far heavier than she had anticipated. Almost immediately she felt the strain of the added weight all through her body. But Breck, determined not to look weak in front of Tristan, gritted her teeth and proceeded with the exercise, somehow managing to lift it up the way he had.

Tristan did not appear to be an overly muscular man, but he was apparently much stronger than she had given him credit for. Breck struggled to get the thing over her head without her arms buckling, her back and arms and legs whining with protest, and barely managed not to drop it on the ground with each squat. Tristan, however, had maneuvered the barrel as though it weighed nothing at all. Had she not been struggling with the exercise, she might have been impressed.

As it was, it didn't occur to her to feel impressed with his apparent strength, especially not when he began to circle her, watching her every movement with judging, critical eyes.

Breck did her best to ignore him, instead concentrating very hard on not toppling over or dropping the damned barrel on her own head. She had thought, given how much manual labor she did on a day-to-day basis, that she would have more strength in her body. Once again, she had been proven wrong. It wasn't very long at all before her body began to scream in protest, and out of fear of seriously hurting herself – or collapsing on the spot – she finally let the barrel drop to the ground before her whole body gave out, desperate for a break.

As she bent over and gasped for breath, hands braced against her knees, Tristan came to stand before her. "Did I say you could rest?" he asked sharply, his expression hard and thoroughly unimpressed as he stared down at.

"I must…take a break," she managed between heaves for air. "That blasted barrel…weighs more than I do!"

Tristan leaned over so he could peer directly in her eyes, making her tense. "There is no respite on the battlefield, woman," he practically growled. "One moment of rest leads to an eternity of darkness."

Then Tristan picked up the barrel and none-too-gently shoved it back into her arms. Breck had no choice but to accept it, her hands scrambling for purchase as she grabbed hold of it before it could fall and crush her toes.

"Again," he ordered.

Breck was suddenly overcome with the urge to throw the damned barrel at him, but, with a great deal of willpower, she managed to hamper it down. With a growl, she resumed her task, heaving the barrel up again. Every time she repeated the moves he had instructed her to do, she thought her body would give out from the exertion. Her muscles screamed with pain and her limbs trembled, but she gritted her teeth and fought her way through it, stubbornly refusing to give up. The way Tristan watched her hinted that he didn't think she could handle the training – she was determined to prove him wrong, no matter what.

"Enough," he finally said.

Breck immediately dropped the barrel onto the ground, resisting the urge to throw herself onto the ground next to it.

"Run," Tristan ordered next with a jerk of his head.

The running wasn't as easy in the aftermath of the strength training, but she somehow managed to make it through another quarter hour of laps. When Tristan instructed her to stop running and resume lifting again, it was all she could do not to groan with dread. Her muscles were still burning from the first round – at this rate, she was afraid she wouldn't be able to move the next day.

Breck started lifting the barrel again, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, her eyes locked on a tree in the distance for something to keep her mind off the pain. Her arms shook almost violently with every upward lift, and her legs wobbled as unsteadily as a newborn foal with every downward squat. Her lungs burned and her body screamed with discomfort, but Breck kept pushing, sternly telling herself that she was not allowed to admit defeat in front of Tristan.

The scout himself was watching her in silence, offering no words of critique, nor encouragement. In fact, when Breck chanced a glance toward him, he was starting to look a little bit…bored. She scowled at the possibility and lifted with renewed vigor, fixing a narrow-eyed glare on the stoic Sarmatian standing before her.

"Stop," Tristan finally instructed. Breck was all too happy to let the barrel fall to the ground. "Another round," he then said, motioning for her to run again with a nod of his head.

Breck continued to glare at him as he went to lean against the fence with all the casualness in the world, crossing his legs at the ankles as he settled in. When he raised his eyebrows at her, clearly not understanding why she was taking so long, Breck started running again.

Some teacher he was, she thought huffily to herself. Arthur had said Tristan was his best warrior – she had expected him to teach her new fighting techniques or show her some impressive moves with his sword. She had even thought, given how civil they had been as of late, that they might consult with one another beforehand to discuss her strengths and weaknesses and determine which area she truly needed work in.

But no. The know-it-all had simply thrown her out into the muddy arena, told her to run around a bit, and seemed to be trying to kill her via barrel lifting – and now he had the audacity to look bored with what they were doing?

The thought made Breck's anger begin to boil.

"Stop," he commanded as she neared him. As she came to a halt, panting heavily for air, he nodded to the barrel. "Lift again."

By this point her throat was parched, her muscles were close to failure, and there was sweat seeping out of nearly every pore on her body. She felt if she didn't drink water soon, she might possibly keel over. However, she hadn't thought to bring water with her, and it did not look like Tristan had either.

"I require water," she told him breathlessly.

With a quirk of an eyebrow, Tristan simply asked, "You expect your enemy to provide you with drink while fighting?" Then he motioned for her to proceed with what he instructed her to do.

Breck pulled a face at him in pure frustration, not even attempting to hide how angry he was beginning to make her. Even though he had saved her from Gerland, and even though he was taking time out of his schedule to help her prepare for the most important mission of her life, Breck's patience with the man that so often occupied her thoughts was running very thin. She understood if he wanted to be tough. But at this rate, he would kill her before Cerdic or any other Saxon was ever presented with the opportunity – and it was still only their first day training together.

With a grimace, she managed to get the barrel up again and began repeating the now excruciatingly painful moves. Her pace had slowed down considerably by this point and she was barely managing to execute the moves. Once or twice the barrel almost slipped from her hands and onto her head, but she managed to keep it grasped as steadily as her aching fingers would allow. All the while she glared at Tristan as he stood before her, watching her work with an unimpressed look on his face.

"Faster," he barked at her.

"To hell with you," she growled out through gritted teeth, letting her temper get the better of her. "Bloody irritating, insufferable Sarmatian!"

Tristan quirked a brow and pushed off from the fence, walking toward her as she continued to lift with what little energy she still had. "Are you angry?"

Breck ignored him, closing her eyes against the pain and trying to concentrate on not failing miserably at the task he'd appointed her. Squat, extend. Stand, lift and lower and lift and lower, and so on and so on. Then repeat. She was not going to hit Tristan, no matter how appealing it sounded. She was not going to hit Tristan. She was not going to hit Tristan.

"I asked you a question, Saxon," he shot at her when she said nothing in return, spitting out her lineage as if it were a curse word. She was not going to hit Tristan, she told herself again. "Are – you – angry – woman?"

She was going to hit Tristan.

Something in Breck snapped, and with a cry of anger, she pulled the barrel into her chest and then launched it at him with the remaining strength she had. To her dismay, he caught it with ease. Breck had half a mind to launch herself at him next, thinking it might make her feel better to land a few solid hits to his annoyingly handsome face, but her body simply wouldn't allow it. The throw had depleted what was left of her energy. All she could do was hunch over, hands braced on her knees, panting for air as her whole body threatened to collapse.

"Aye, you infuriating oaf – I am angry!" Breck snapped at him around heaves for air. "Pleased with yourself?" she demanded, glaring at him.

Tristan tossed the barrel away carelessly and then moved closer, hooking a hand underneath her chin and then pulling upward, forcing her to stand up to her full height. Despite her irritation with him, despite the torture he'd just put her through, his close proximity and his touch against her skin sent a wild jolt of awareness throughout her entire body.

They stared at one another in silence for a long few seconds, the air around them thick with tension. Tristan let his eyes roam over her face, until his amber-flaked gaze locked with hers. "There is anger inside of you," he said slowly, the gravelly tone of his voice sending shivers through her. "You must learn to channel it. Learn to use it. You may find, when all else fails, that it shall save your life."

He released her after that and took a step back. Breck let out a shaky breath, watching in silence as Tristan turned on his heel to leave.

"We will continue tomorrow at noon," he called without a glance back at her. Then he was walking away, leaving her to stare after his back in dumbfounded silence.

See you next Friday!