I just want to say a big, huge thank you to vermilion aura again, who has basically turned into my official hype-man! You're always so kind and encouraging, and I just want you to know I really appreciate you!

Enjoy the chapter everyone!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Breck could not have been more relieved to flop onto her bed that evening.

Utterly exhausted and with practically every muscle in her body completely spent, she welcomed the embrace of the lumpy, squeaky bed and let out a loud, relieved sigh. Her training with Tristan had been so brutal that she had barely had it in her to find her way to her favorite pond for a bath to scrub off all the sweat and dirt that had covered nearly every inch of her. She definitely hadn't had it in her to dine and drink with the men in the tavern, though, and had only stopped by long enough to say a brief hello to her friends and get some bread and cheese to go from Vanora, before making her way back to her quarters to eat and rest.

Tristan had been in the tavern, of course, and when she had wobbled over to the men's table, so stiff she could barely move and grimacing every other second, she could have sworn she'd seen a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, as if her pain amused him. Breck had had half a mind to say something snarky, just to wipe that smirk from his face, but had thought better of it. For one, she was too tired for any argument that might ensue if she sassed him. More importantly, she hadn't wanted to do or say anything that might result in Tristan punishing her for it through their training. So she had wisely kept her mouth shut.

Breck fully expected sleep to come to her quickly, but it did not. Instead, she lay there in her bed, the only sound that of the fire crackling away in the hearth, her eyes fixed on her ceiling as she found herself replaying their first training session together. Tristan had been tough, yes, and every bit as merciless as Gawain had warned her he would likely be. But she was not thinking about how hard the training had been, or how much she now hurt because of it.

No, she kept hearing Tristan's voice in her head, his words circling over and over again.

There is anger inside you. And you must learn to channel it.

The man was right, of course. There had been a darkness festering in her heart since the day her pregnant mother had been killed right before her young eyes, a darkness that had only grown blacker and heavier when Cerdic had come back to eventually claim her father's life, too. The trauma she had endured had robbed her of any chance for a happy, normal life. It had changed her, turned her into a very different person than she had once thought she might be.

Part of her had to wonder, though, if there had ever been hope for a normal life. She was a Saxon. Furthermore, she was the daughter – the only living offspring – of one of the most widely known, widely feared Saxon warriors that had ever lived. Even if her parents had lived, even if Cerdic had never been able to get to them, would they have ever been able to find true peace?

Breck frowned as she thought this over, able to recall countless times when she had found herself shunned purely because of her heritage. To the world, Saxons were frightening. Saxons could not be trusted. People feared her when they learned of her blood-ties, rejected her on the belief that just because she was a Saxon, then surely she must be nothing more than a bloodthirsty, malevolent, black-hearted monster.

She supposed, to some degree, that she was all those things. Not because there was evil in her blood, though – or whatever reason people conjured up to try to explain the cruelty of her father's people. No, if she was bloodthirsty, malevolent, and black-hearted, it was only because the hardships she'd faced throughout her life had made her that way.

And could she truly be blamed for that? If anyone else had suffered even half of what she had gone through and witnessed in her lifetime, she gathered they would have a darkness festering in their hearts as well.

In fact, Breck could vividly remember the very moment that had sent her down the path she had been walking for all these years, the very moment that she had finally embraced that darkness. It was a memory that she tried not to think of, simply because it still broke her heart to do so. But as she lay there in the quiet of her room, there was nothing she could do to ward the memory off…

OOO

Breck gazed out at the rolling, grassy plains of land around their small home, wishing and hoping with all her might that her father would return alive and well. He had left for battle almost a week ago and she had been driven nearly to the point of insanity waiting for him to return.

What was happening? Was the battle still going? Had her father prevailed over Cerdic? Would they finally be able to live peacefully after so many years?

She looked around for one last hopeful moment, then turned away from the foggy, muggy landscape before her and went back into her eerily quiet home, taking a seat at the table and turning her eyes to the fire burning in the hearth.

The memory of Cerdic was still clear in her mind – she doubted she would ever forget him. How her father had ever been friends with him was still a mystery to her, and probably always would be. Where her father, Kenrick, was kind and warm and good, Cerdic was the exact opposite. He had always been cruel, had always been cold and merciless, a tyrant through and through.

For as long as she could remember, she had been afraid of him. He had always looked upon her as though she were an abomination, a rock in his shoe that did nothing but cause him annoyance and discomfort, a pest that needed eradicating. Even before he had ordered the massacre of her family, she had known very well what he felt toward her. The man hated her.

By now, Breck's fear of him had changed and morphed into something very different. Breck hated him just as much as he hated her, and as she sat there in front of the fire in her little home in Ireland, thinking about the battle that surely must have been over by now, she hoped desperately that her father had finally ended him. And after all the evil he had done, both to her and to countless others, she very much hoped that the death had been a slow and torturous one.

Some time later, as Breck was eating a quiet meal by herself, the whinny of a horse and the sound of an approaching wagon finally made her ears perk up. She turned her head to listen better, before deciding that there was definitely somebody approaching her home. With a rush of hope, she stood from the table and dashed out of the door, running out into the foggy afternoon weather, before stopping to search for whoever was approaching. At once, she spotted a large wagon being hauled by two large horses. There were men that she recognized, men from their village, flanking either side of the wagon.

Breck searched each face quickly, looking for the one she wished to see more than anything.

But, with a sinking feeling, she soon realized that her father was not walking amongst them. And then she realized that the expressions the men wore were grave and mournful, some even turning sympathetic as they neared where she stood.

Breck knew it in her heart then.

Kenrick had not survived the battle. He had not defeated Cerdic, had not avenged their family, would not be coming home to hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be alright.

Her father was dead.

The man at the lead was the one who came up to her. He had a grim look on his bloodied, battered face, and for a long moment, he simply stared at her as though he didn't know what to say. Then, eventually, he sighed and placed a large hand on her skinny shoulder.

"Breck," he said grimly. "Dear, young Breck…"

Tears filled her eyes and she sniffled loudly, turning her gaze on the wagon. There was no cover on it, giving her clear view of a dirty blanket, which was very obviously covering a body as if to protect it from the elements. Her father's body.

The other men around the wagon shifted, looking uncomfortable and in just as bad of condition as the man in front of her. But Breck could only stare at the blanket that covered her deceased father. With a numb feeling in her bones, she found herself moving toward the wagon, so slowly that it felt like time itself was slowing down with her.

"I would not – " one of the men started to suggest when she reached for the blanket to pull it back.

Breck ignored his warning and pulled the blanket away, wanting to at least gaze upon the face of her father one last time. When she saw what was left of him, however, her stomach turned so violently that she thought she might vomit right then and there.

Those barbarians had quartered him.

His arms, which had once been so strong and such a great source of comfort and protection for her, were no longer attached. They had been cleaved off at the shoulder. His legs held a similar fate, having been hacked off at the thighs. All of the limbs were placed in a neat row beneath her father's torso, which had a large, gaping wound right in the center of his chest, undoubtedly the blow that had delivered his death. His head, she realized with an increasingly sick feeling in her stomach, was not there.

She struggled to both breathe and comprehend what she was seeing. Why had the villagers brought him to her like this? Why had they laid him out in such a way? Where was her father's head?

Breck hadn't realized that she had actually voiced her questions aloud until one of the other men answered her. "The Saxons placed him this way. We were spared so he could be returned to you." The man paused, his face somber. "Kenrick's head now belongs to Cerdic."

Breck's heart stopped for a moment.

Cerdic had done this, had made sure that she would see her father slain in this horrendous manner. He had known she would still be living and had wanted to send her a message she would never forget. It seemed especially cruel, even for a sadistic bastard like him.

Breck looked to the man that had spoken, but he couldn't hold her gaze for long, looking down at his feet instead. Did he feel guilty for his participation in this presentation of her deceased father? Or could he not meet her eyes because he knew that this was Cerdic's way of telling her what fate awaited her if he found her?

"Leave me," Breck finally said, turning her eyes back to her father's disgraced body.

"Breck –"

"Leave me!" she screeched, the tears beginning to flow freely down her cheeks.

That was enough to send the men on their way, the lot of them quietly turning away and giving her the privacy to grieve however she needed to. Breck watched their retreating backs for a few moments before collapsing on the ground next to the wagon.

That was it. Her father was dead.

She was completely and utterly alone.

Breck must have sat and cried by the wagon for hours, weeping for her father, for her family, and for herself. She had no one. She had nothing. She was now left to face this cruel, unforgiving world, all while she still had a target painted on her back by one of the most evil men to ever exist. How was she supposed to live? What was she supposed to do?

Breck did not know, but somehow, through the fog of grief and despair, some rational part of her brain began shouting that she could not stay in the village anymore. If she did not flee, there was no doubt in her mind that she would end up dead, too. Cerdic had made it clear that it was his mission to kill every member of her family, and there was no doubt in her mind that he would be coming for her next.

She was going to have to run.

Breck looked to her home, where she had spent so many happy days with her father. For a short while, life had actually seemed…normal. This home had given them safety and warmth, had made her believe that perhaps they could finally put Cerdic behind them. But she should have known better. Cerdic had come anyway, and now she would have to leave everything behind again. The home she had made with her father, the life they'd tried to build, would now have to become a distant memory, along with all the memories of happier times with her mother and father before Cerdic had destroyed their world.

Quite suddenly, she felt rage start to boil in her veins.

Her entire life had been ruined because of the cruelty of one man. Cerdic was pure evil, and he had not only destroyed her life, but also the lives of countless others. He took what he wanted, gave nothing in return, and killed any who crossed him without regard or remorse, no matter if they were men, women, or children. He was a monster that needed to be dealt with, who needed to be stopped.

And who better to see the job through than herself? She knew what he was like and what he was capable of, knew more about this army at her young age than men twice as old as her did.

Breck decided it right then and there.

She was going to kill Cerdic. She was going to avenge her parents. Even if it meant having to give her own life to do so.

With a newfound determination burning through her, she finally managed to pull herself together enough to bury her father. As Breck worked she handled Kenrick's dismembered body with as much care as she could, feeling dozens of emotions rushing through her as she buried him to the side of their small cottage. Somewhere along the line she had the brief thought that no thirteen-year-old should have to bury the pieces of their father's body, that it wasn't how things were supposed to be for someone her age. But, then again, nothing had ever gone according to plan in her life. She'd watched her pregnant mother be killed before her very eyes, had nearly been killed herself when she was only a child, and now…this.

With each body part that she put in the hole she'd buried, she felt her resolve to kill Cerdic growing stronger and stronger. Felt the hate sinking deeper into her heart. She would kill him, she vowed in her head over and over again. And she was going to make sure his death was a painful one.

By the time Breck had finished burying her father, the sun was starting to set. She sat in front of his grave, toying with the necklace that her mother had gifted to her father, which had miraculously made the journey back with his mutilated body. Breck finally clasped it around her own neck, letting the heavy pendant rest against her sternum. She then reached for the sword that had belonged to her father, which his comrades had brought back with him on the wagon.

There would be no burying the blade into the ground to mark the place in which his body now rested. No, Breck strapped the sheath around her waist and held the sword in her hand, claiming it for her own and intending to use that very blade to end Cerdic.

Breck eyed the heavy sword for a long moment, then placed the sharp edge against her palm.

"I swear to you, my father, that it will be by this hand and this blade that Cerdic meets his end," she said firmly, unfaltering. Then Breck sliced the blade across her palm, opening up a wide wound that she barely felt in her numbed state. "If it is the last thing I do, I will avenge our family," she swore with determination.

Then Breck dripped her blood on top of the grave to seal her oath.

OOO

Breck blinked, and the memory faded away.

She raised her right palm up to eye level and inspected the long scar that rested there. That day had been the turning point in her life. The day that she had buried her father's mutilated body was the day she had gone from a girl with hopes of a normal, peaceful life, to a girl full of hatred and anger and determination to see her fallen family avenged.

Even if thinking about that day made her heart feel heavy with grief, it also sparked something back to life within her. Made that determination for her mission renew itself in a way she hadn't felt in months.

Breck decided in that moment that coming to the Wall had been meant to be. The blind hatred that had driven her, her inability to trust people and lack of desire to even attempt to make allies, had left her alone and unprotected for years, while her lack of training had caused her to make impulsive and reckless decisions that had gotten her into trouble too many times to count. That version of her, she knew now, would have never stood a chance against Cerdic.

But being back at the Wall, being reunited with Arthur and befriending the knights, had changed her. It had opened up her mind and made some of her old self rise from the ashes. She knew what it was to trust people again, to have friends again. She had finally remembered what it was like to be able to feel something other than hatred. She felt more empowered than ever, and with Tristan's training and Arthur's alliance, she knew she would be as ready as she could possibly be for Cerdic when the time finally came to face him.

And when it did, Breck thought to herself as she squeezed her right hand into a fist, the man would be punished for all the horrible things he had done.

OOO

Just as she had suspected would be the case, almost every muscle from the neck down was unimaginably sore when Breck awoke the next morning.

The rigorous training Tristan had subjected her to had most certainly done a number on her. In fact, she was hard-pressed to remember the last time she had been this sore. She desperately needed to use her chamberpot and her stomach was growling with hunger, but she had very serious doubts about her ability to get out of bed. She was fairly certain her legs would give out on her the moment she attempted to stand up.

It took far longer than it should have, but with a great deal of effort and several colorful curse words, Breck managed to get to her feet. She hobbled to her trunk to find fresh clothes that did not stink of sweat, hissing and wincing as she pulled off her nightgown to change, even the smallest movements proving to be a challenge with how much her muscles ached.

She had finally managed to dress and was just pulling on her boots when there was a knock at her door. Breck looked that way, already dreading the feet she'd have to walk in order to get to the door, and stiffly made her way there. It was probably Galahad wanting to have breakfast with her, as he normally did. The thought of walking all the way to the tavern, however, sounded like nothing short of torture.

"Galahad, hungry as I am, I truly do not think – " she began to say as she opened the door.

She stopped short, however, when she saw that it was not Galahad.

Tristan stared back at her, hands clasped behind his back, wearing his signature stoic expression.

"Oh," Breck said with surprise. "You are not Galahad."

Tristan's brows lifted the tiniest fraction. "At least I know I need not worry about the quality of your eyesight," he quipped.

Breck was still too taken aback by his unexpected appearance to pay much attention to his comment. "Why are you here?" she asked, internally cringing when she realized how rude the question had sounded. But Tristan had never come to call on her at her quarters, and she had never, in a hundred lifetimes, expected that he would. If he was there now, she could only think of one reason as to why, which left her with a distinct feeling of dread. "I sincerely hope you have not come here intending to drag me to another training session earlier than planned." Could the man not at least give her a few more hours to recover?

"No, I have come to drag you to the tavern," he told her. "For breakfast."

Breck blinked at him dumbly, as if he had spoken in a language she did not understand.

Tristan wanted to have breakfast? With her?

Now Breck was utterly gobsmacked.

"Erm…" she said, her brain refusing to conjure up the correct response. Or any words at all, for that matter.

Tristan was starting to look at her as though she were touched in the head. "You did say you were hungry, did you not?"

"Aye?" Breck offered up lamely.

"Then let us eat."

Tristan then turned and headed off, as if he fully expected she would follow him. And since Breck was too stunned to even think properly, she did just that.

Once she had fallen into step with him, she could not help but look up at him as though she were seeing him for the first time. Why, when they had never shared a meal in the presence of one another unless the other men were around, was he suddenly wanting to have breakfast with her? It seemed very out of character for him, especially seeing as they had barely spent time together, just the two of them, unless it was because they had been ordered to or out of necessity.

"Are you going to ask your questions, or are you merely going to stare at me?" Tristan asked, his eyes staying locked straight ahead.

"Since when do you wish to break your fast with me?" Breck blurted out.

"Becoming a formidable warrior extends beyond the training arena. You must take care of your body. You must fuel your body. So I am going to ensure that you are getting the sustenance you require to gain strength," he stated frankly.

It was a very practical reason, one that made a great deal of sense when he put it that way. Still, a small hopeful part that she hadn't even realized had sparked to life was immediately snuffed out.

Perhaps it was her own fault for being foolish enough to think he would ever spend time with her simply because he wanted to.

Breck nodded and turned her attention forward, and for the rest of the walk to the tavern, they did not speak. It was awkward, there was no denying that, but at least his presence served to distract her enough to the point that the pain in her muscles wasn't quite so overwhelming anymore.

At the tavern, she and Tristan walked up to the bar where, for once, Vanora was not the one working. Tristan ordered two breakfasts comprised purely of large helpings of eggs and meat, then handed her a plate and guided her to a small table off to the side. Tristan eased down into his seat, and Breck tried to do the same, only her legs didn't want to work as they should have. There was no containing the hiss that escaped through her teeth as she barely managed to find her seat without falling into it.

Tristan heard, of course, and lifted his brows at her. He didn't have to say anything for her to know that he was, once again, finding a little too much humor in her aching muscles.

Breck narrowed her eyes a little as she picked up her fork. "I am glad you find my pain amusing," she said dryly.

"I said nothing of the sort," Tristan replied, shoving a big bite of eggs into his mouth.

"You did not have to say it," Breck rebutted. "Your expression speaks volumes."

Tristan blinked at her for a moment, then indicated toward her plate. "Less talking. More eating."

Breck did as she was told and started to eat.

It was difficult to ignore how nervous she felt. It was one thing to sit at a large table with Tristan and the men, and quite another for them to be at this tiny table alone. She was acutely aware of him, the table putting them so close together that when she shifted her legs she could feel her knees brushing against his. She tried to distract herself by glancing around at the other patrons in the tavern, but it was hard not to sneak looks at him from her peripheral vision, especially so whenever she felt him watching her.

Silly as it was, Breck started to feel self-conscious in a way she never usually was. She hadn't put any effort into her appearance, hadn't even bothered to braid back her wild curls. Did she look a mess? And what if he kept looking at her because she was chewing too loudly, or grossly?

The silence of the breakfast did nothing to help her nervousness, so she shifted her eyes back to him and cleared her throat.

"Your training methods are certainly not for the faint of heart," she said, making him look to her again. "How came you to learn them?"

"It is not dissimilar to how the Romans trained us when we arrived from Sarmatia," he answered. "Though the Romans were crueler with their teachings," he added.

Breck couldn't help but balk slightly at the thought of the men going through such arduous training. They would have been much younger when they had endured it, which was alarming enough to think of. But to also think that the Romans had taken great pleasure in making them suffer? Breck did not like the sound of that at all.

She almost wanted to tell Tristan that she was sorry for what he had been forced into, but she doubted he would appreciate any pity. "It is no wonder you are all such strong warriors, then," she said instead.

Tristan just shrugged a shoulder in response and took another bite of food.

Breck did so as well, her eyes watching him with growing curiosity. Even though they had been spending more time together recently, she still knew hardly anything about him. His mention of Sarmatia reignited her desire to find out more. "Where in Sarmatia are you from?" she asked. "Your accent is different from the other men, so I assume you hail from a different part of the country."

She thought she saw Tristan's shoulders stiffen as his eyes held hers. "Why do you want to know?" he asked, almost defensively.

Breck pressed her lips together, unsure if his avoidance annoyed her or disappointed her. Of course he would not want to tell her – why would he ever want to divulge information about himself to her? "I was only curious," she said, trying – and failing – not to sound defensive herself. "Forgive me, for trying to make conversation."

Breck looked away again, fully resigned to the fact that this breakfast would be had in silence. She shoveled another bite into her mouth, thinking it would probably be a good idea to eat fast, so that at least it would be over quickly.

"The other men come from tribes and villages that were in the west and the south," Tristan said after a moment or two, making her eyes jump back to him. "My tribe was further north."

That hopeful spark returned as Breck watched him with interest, eager to know whatever he might be willing to tell her. "What was it like?"

Tristan glanced away, as if he needed a moment to remember. "We lived on the edge of a vast forest, close to the mountains. The winters were unforgiving, and the summers were stifling. It is where I learned to use a bow," he said. "Crops were difficult to grow, and there was no access to sea life. If we did not hunt, we did not eat."

Breck noted his continued use of the word we. "Who did you live with? Your mother? Your father?"

Now she was certain Tristan's shoulders tensed at the question. He looked at her for a moment, that expression wholly indecipherable once again, then took another bite of food. "What was your life in Saxony like?"

The change in conversation did not go unnoticed, but it was very clear to her that Tristan was not willing to discuss his family. Curious as she was, she would not dare push him on it. "Arthur did not tell you?" she asked, pushing her food around on her plate with her fork.

"The more personal details, he said, should be for you to decide whether or not they should be divulged," Tristan answered.

Breck nodded, chewing her food thoughtfully as she considered how to answer. "I hated Saxony," she stated bluntly. "The people in the village I was born in ensured my life was as miserable as could be. There is nothing about it I miss." But as soon as those words left her lips, she knew that wasn't entirely true. Her mother came to mind, along with the happy times they had spent together when they had been away from everyone else, safe in their little home together. Being able to still have her mother had been the only good thing about living in Saxony. "Except, perhaps, for my mother," she amended with a small, sad smile.

"You miss her still," Tristan noted, his eyes fixed on her.

"I will always miss her," Breck confirmed. "And my father."

Tristan stared at her in silence for a beat. "It is…cruel…what Cerdic did to them," he said slowly. "You have my condolences."

His words might have been simple, but she could tell that Tristan meant it, which made it all the more meaningful. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Their conversation lulled, the only sound that of them eating and their utensils clinking against their plates. She wasn't sure what to make of Tristan's silence, nor that look that was now in his eyes. Was there someone that he, too, missed? Was he thinking of them now? Perhaps a sibling? Or a parent? Or, she wondered with an odd feeling in her chest, a love from long ago that he had never quite forgotten?

"Is there someone in Sarmatia that you miss?" she finally asked to direct the conversation elsewhere.

Tristan slowly shook his head. "No."

His answer only made her more curious about his history, about what his life before Hadrian's Wall had been like. Whatever it had been…she was getting the impression that it had been a difficult one, perhaps even an unhappy one. It was a thought that saddened her, but…it would make sense, given his nature now, if he had had a hard upbringing.

She decided not to pry into. Maybe once they knew one another better, maybe once he was more comfortable with her, then she would. But not yet. "What about Sarmatia itself? Are you eager to return once your servitude is finished?"

She tried to ignore the way the thought of him leaving, venturing thousands of miles away, where they would never see one another again, made something inside ache just a little.

Tristan lifted a shoulder into a small, noncommittal shrug. "I certainly do not wish to stay here with the Romans," he said.

"I do not blame you for that," Breck said with a small smirk.

"Not fond of Romans?" Tristan asked knowingly.

"They are not the worst people I have encountered, but they seem to be doing their best to earn that title anyway," Breck stated, glancing around to make sure there were no Romans around to hear what they were saying. Thankfully, none were in the tavern.

"Then I suppose you will not be following Arthur to Rome once your mission is complete?" Tristan questioned.

Breck blinked in surprise, simply because that was not something she had ever thought about before. "I had not considered that to be an option," she admitted.

Tristan tilted his head just slightly, those strands of dark hair that almost always fell over his face shifting. "What do you wish to do, once Cerdic is dead?"

Breck leaned back in her chair, needing a moment to think about her answer. Truth be told, she had never thought that far in advance. She had only ever focused on finding and killing Cerdic, not what might come after should she actually succeed.

What did she want to do?

"I have not thought about it much," she finally said. "But…I suppose I would go back to Ireland. Back to the place where I lived with my father. Outside of Hadrian's Wall, it is the only other place that has ever felt like home," she admitted to him. She thought about it a little more, then nodded to herself. "Aye, I think I would go there. Live a quiet life. A peaceful life." But then she looked at Tristan, and she couldn't help but smirk as she remembered something he had said the day before. "Assuming, of course, I am not killed by Cerdic or some wayward Saxon," she commented. "Unfortunately, my trainer seems to believe I am as good as dead."

Tristan looked like he almost smiled with amusement at her jab. Almost. Then his expression turned very serious. "Trust when I say that I will make absolutely certain that you will not only be ready to face Cerdic, but also to kill him."

It sounded like a promise he meant to keep, which made her wary of just how hard he planned to push her throughout the rest of their training. "If yesterday is any indication, I fear it may be you who kills me in the end," she said.

Tristan lifted a brow. "If you think you cannot handle it, you are free to find another trainer."

As much as her body hurt, as much as she was dreading their next session and the pain that would surely come, the thought of giving up and turning to someone else didn't sit right. Tristan's training was challenging, yes, but she wanted to keep going. Wanted to prove to him – and to herself – that she was strong and able and ready to make the changes, hard as they were, to make herself better. In her mind, training with someone else was not an option. Not anymore.

"I can handle it," she said with a firm nod.

If she dared to believe it, Tristan seemed pleased with her response. "Good."

"Ah, there you two are," a new voice suddenly interjected, making them both look to the newcomer who had just arrived. Lancelot came sauntering up to their table, looking back and forth between them with a wide grin on his face. "Enjoying an intimate breakfast, are we?"

Breck immediately gave Lancelot a look of annoyance, though she couldn't say if it was because of what he had said, or because he had interrupted. Probably both.

As for Tristan, he just looked up at Lancelot completely unphased. "What is it?" he asked bluntly, ignoring Lancelot's comment entirely.

Lancelot quirked a brow. "You seem chipper today, old friend," he said. When Tristan just blinked and continued to wait for him to tell them why he had interrupted, Lancelot huffed. "Arthur wishes to speak with you. I presume he would like an update on how your first training session with Breck went," he said. "I do hope you are going somewhat easy on the lovely lady," he added, looking to Breck and shooting her a smile and a wink that likely would have charmed the skirts right off any other woman.

Breck just rolled her eyes, wondering if there would ever come a time when he stopped trying to flirt with her.

"Our training sessions are no concern of yours," Tristan answered simply. He then shoveled a few more bites of food into his mouth before standing to leave. "Training arena. Noon. Do not be late," he reminded her.

And before she could even respond, he walked away.

Breck watched him go, only tearing her eyes away when Lancelot let out a low whistle. "I must say I do not envy you having to train with that one. That grumpy bastard frightens even me from time to time." He then motioned toward the chair Tristan had just vacated. "May I join you?"

After Breck nodded, Lancelot went to get a plate of food and then returned to sit across from her. Not long after, Galahad and Dagonet filtered in, and before she knew it, they had pushed a table up against theirs and joined them for breakfast. And even as the men talked and laughed and peppered her with questions about her training, she could not stop thinking about Tristan. Could not help the small smile that kept pulling at her lips, because she felt like they were making real progress now, actually getting to know one another a little better.

Of course, she had a feeling she probably wouldn't be smiling come nightfall. Because there was another training session coming very soon, and if what he had told her was true, he planned to push her to the absolute limit.

She just hoped she hadn't been too overconfident when she had told him she could handle it.

OOO

Just as she had suspected, her second training session was just as brutal as the first.

Tristan had her doing a different set of exercises this time. Instead of running laps, he had her doing short bursts of sprinting, and instead of squatting and lifting the barrel, Breck alternated between doing press-ups and different variations of sit ups. Though she was happy for a change in the routine – she did not even wish to look at that barrel from the day before – the new exercises certainly brought along their own challenges. Her legs were so sore that it took several rounds of sprints before her muscles loosened up enough for the pain of the running to subside. And while the press-ups and sit ups were not technically difficult, they were exercises she had never really done. It wasn't long at all before her arms, chest, and core were all burning.

But Breck did not complain, nor did she let herself lose focus. As much as Tristan's words from the day before had grated her nerves, he was right – Cerdic was bigger, stronger, and far more experienced than she was, and if even her own father had not been able to kill him, then she knew it would take a considerable effort to bring the Saxon down. She had to use these training sessions to her advantage and make sure she was in the best possible condition to defeat him, even if it meant allowing Tristan to practically torture her.

Tristan seemed to sense her newfound determination and only pushed her harder and harder. He tried to goad her into anger a few times, just like the day before, but she had been prepared for it this time. His words still sparked anger and annoyance within her, but rather than taking the bait and lashing out at him, she instead took those negative feelings and used it as fuel to push through the training. Once Tristan seemed to realize she was not going to let her temper get the better of her this time, he ceased trying to provoke her. He was still tough, ordering her about and not being even remotely courteous about it, but at least they weren't bickering at each other like they had done the day before.

When Tristan finally told her she could rest, Breck all but collapsed on the ground. She didn't care what she looked like, lying in the middle of the training arena, covered in dirt and sweat as the sun overhead beat down on her with its warm rays. It just felt good to finally rest for a moment.

"Water?" she heard Tristan say as he stood over her.

Breck, whose eyes had been closed, cracked an eye open to peer at him, blinded momentarily by the bright sun that shone behind his head. He was offering her the little canteen she had wisely brought with her today. Even though her entire upper body felt like deadweight by now, Breck managed to raise her arm to accept it. The grimace of pain as she did so didn't go unnoticed to him, though. Despite his earlier insistence that he was not amused by her pain, she thought he looked just a bit too pleased with himself, which made her wonder whether the rumors of his sadistic tendencies held a kernel of truth to them.

Breck raised herself up just enough to drink some water, her abdominals aching with protest the entire time, then flopped back onto the ground after she had drunk her fill. When Tristan turned to walk away, she turned her head just enough to watch as he went to fetch the barrel she'd been lifting the day before. There was no stopping the groan of dread that slipped past her lips as he plopped it down on the ground a few feet away from her.

"If you are about to tell me to begin lifting that barrel again, I may very well have to stab you," she said in warning, wondering if she'd have enough strength left in her limbs to even do such a thing.

Tristan smirked a little, but did not say anything in response. Instead, she noted with a sigh of relief, he had only brought it over to use as a chair. He sat down on the barrel and produced two apples – one he kept for himself, the other he tossed to her. It was a miracle she was even able to move her arms fast enough to catch it.

Unlike earlier at breakfast, the silence between them felt considerably more companionable now. Tristan had changed from the tough, no-nonsense trainer into a relaxed man, looking calm and comfortable as he snacked. Breck had to admit that it was a welcome change, especially given the way he looked when the sun hit him at just the right angle.

She allowed herself the moment to appreciate his looks, finding that it took her mind off the pain in her limbs. Tristan may be insufferable and brutish, but he certainly was a handsome devil.

"You are not as hopeless as I presumed you might be," Tristan said to break the silence, his eyes still training on his apple as he cut off a chunk and stuffed it into his mouth. "Despite your complaining," he added with a pointed glance in her direction.

Breck looked at him incredulously. "I have hardly complained," she denied. When Tristan only raised his brows at her, she rolled her eyes. "I have not complained today, anyway," she amended, knowing she had done plenty of it the day before.

"Vocally, no. But your face has been telling another story," Tristan countered matter-of-factly.

Of course it did. She had been told, time and time again, that her face always betrayed whatever it was that she was feeling inside. It was why she was such an abysmal liar, and it was why she had found herself in troublesome situations far too many times. "My face does what it does, and I cannot help that," she said with a huff. "Perhaps if you had not decided to behave like such an arse, I would not have felt the need to complain at all – vocally or otherwise," she shot at him.

"It served its purpose, did it not?" Tristan asked, looking completely unremorseful. "I see a change in you already. I can sense your determination," he observed.

Perhaps he was right – he was already helping her find a way to better use her anger, rather than just letting it turn her into a raging fool. Still… "I could do without the taunting," she told him plainly.

Tristan nodded once, a silent indication that the message had been received. "Regardless," he said, cutting off another chunk of apple. "You are handling the training better than I thought you would."

Breck couldn't help the pleased smile that worked its way onto her face. Had she heard him correctly? Was he actually impressed by her performance today?

"Careful there, or I might begin to believe that I have actually impressed you," she said cockily.

Tristan froze in his movements and shot her a sharp look that clearly told her not to get ahead of herself.

She only laughed and shook her head, not too surprised by his response.

Breck liked this, the easy conversation, the natural banter. But even though he was talking to her more, even though Tristan might finally, reluctantly, be starting to open up to her, it was still obvious that he was hesitant to let her get too close. That wall he'd craftily built around himself to keep people out was still intact, but it was starting to show a few cracks in the stonework. Breck knew she had her work cut out for her if she wanted to befriend Tristan, but she had the hope now that, given time, it could be done.

She would just have to tread carefully and choose her words wisely. Otherwise, she feared, Tristan would very quickly revert back into his shell and shut the door on her for good.

Tristan turned his eyes away from her again to focus on his apple. Breck took that time to start eating her own. He was silent for so long that she didn't think he would speak again at all. When he did, the question he directed at her caught her off guard.

"How many have died by your blade?" he asked.

Breck frowned thoughtfully. She had never really kept track of such a number since she hadn't deemed it important, but there had been plenty of men and women she'd been forced to kill whenever travelling throughout the many foreign places she had gone to. At first, she had found killing to be quite bothersome – she could still vividly remember throwing up the entire contents of her stomach the first time she had taken a life. She might have gotten used to killing by now, but there were some rare instances where she did feel guilt, where she did wish that she had been able to find another way rather than resorting to violence.

And perhaps that was the reason she had never wanted to keep a tally – so she did not have to think about the lives she had taken, and whether or not some of them could have, should have, been spared.

"I do not recall now," she finally said with a shrug. "Perhaps…fifty?" she estimated.

Tristan bobbed his head – she couldn't tell if the number impressed him or not.

With a wince of discomfort, she managed to pull herself up into a sitting position, her muscles protesting the whole way. She set her apple aside and began massaging her legs, trying to ease the tension still lingering there from the day before and grimacing slightly at the ache that had been getting progressively worse in her right shoulder. She had injured it in the past, and though it had healed, it gave her trouble every so often, especially when overworked to the extent that it had been these past two training sessions.

"What about you?" Breck asked, looking at Tristan curiously.

"What about me?" he countered.

"Surely you know the stories told of you," Breck responded matter-of-factly. "I have heard countless rumors of your skills in battle and your thirst for blood." The statement earned her a quirk of his eyebrow, which she ignored. "How many have died by your hand?" she asked.

Tristan chewed on his bite of apple slowly and regarded her for a moment, looking as though he wasn't sure whether he wanted to answer her or not. "More than can be counted," he finally said after a long pause.

Breck wasn't surprised by the answer. Tristan had been fighting and killing by Arthur's side for nearly fifteen years now, had faced countless foes in his years of servitude. It was only expected that he would have taken many, many lives by now. "Are the rumors true then?" she couldn't help but ask. "Do you enjoy it?"

Again, Tristan hesitated. "Sometimes yes," he finally answered. "And sometimes no," he added.

Breck slowly nodded. "I understand all too well."

Tristan held her gaze for a moment, then wordlessly looked down at his apple again.

She studied him quietly, and found herself desperately wishing that he would let her in. He had given her a glimpse of the man beneath his guard, had divulged her some details from his life, but she wanted more. She wanted to know everything – the good and the bad. This cold shell he presented to the world was not truly him, and she yearned to know who the real Tristan was.

"What?" he asked, his eyes lifting to hers again when she did not stop staring at him.

"I am merely wondering who you truly are, Tristan," she admitted honestly. "Because I believe there is far more to you than meets the eye."

The look he gave her in return made her stomach flip over. "I believe the same may also be said for you."

They stared at each other for a long moment, the air around them feeling a little thicker now. Breck knew she should probably look away, knew that with his perceptive eyes that she risked the chance of him peering straight into her very soul and discovering something she didn't want him to know about. But she just couldn't bring herself to do so, not when he was looking at her as though she were both the oddest and most interesting thing he had ever seen. The intensity of it made that funny little feeling begin to bloom within her belly again, and her heart started to beat so hard against her ribs that she had to wonder if he could actually hear it.

When it all became too much, Breck finally blinked and cleared her throat, forcing her gaze from his. "Am I to resume my exercises then?" she asked to bring an end to the lingering silence.

"I think we can end our training for the day," Tristan replied, perfectly neutral, giving no indication that the moment had affected him whatsoever.

Breck let out a sigh of relief. "Good," she said, wincing as she slowly got to her feet, ignoring the feel of Tristan's eyes on her. "I do believe my shoulder has reached its limit," she said, grimacing again as she rotated the shoulder in question a couple of times, already feeling the stiffness beginning to settle there.

Tristan's lips turned down into the hint of a frown, his eyes dropping to her shoulder. "Are you injured?"

"No," she said, shaking her head quickly. "But my shoulder came out of place three years past. It healed, but has never quite been the same."

Tristan hummed to himself as he stood and came to stand in front of her. Breck pressed her lips together tightly as she looked up at him, her entire body immediately tuning into him. When he lifted a hand to her shoulder, she sucked in a deep breath, her eyes locked on his handsome face as his fingers began feeling the tendons and joints of her shoulder. His touch immediately sent a jolt of awareness throughout her entire body, but he did not seem to notice her reaction to his proximity. He merely stared at her shoulder with a concentrated expression, his eyes intently scrutinizing.

Breck wondered if this was going to become a habit of his, since this was the second time in two days he'd gotten so close, that he had touched her in some way.

She couldn't say that she would necessarily mind if it did.

"You say it was fixed?" he asked, still feeling all around her injured shoulder and focused wholly on that.

Breck was almost dumbfounded by how utterly oblivious he seemed to be. Did he truly not notice the affect he had on her? Was the man really that daft? Or was he simply just ignoring it?

"Aye," she managed out. "By a healer in some village I cannot recall the name of now."

Tristan hummed again and moved so that he stood behind her instead. Without warning, he pulled her arm at a funny angle to test its movement. The sudden, sharp feeling of discomfort that radiated from her shoulder quickly brought her back down to earth and made her forget the feelings he'd ignited in her.

Tristan noticed her reaction and eased off a little, though he did not release his hold on her. "Does it pain you often?" he asked.

"It is only bothersome from time to time. During very cold weather, or when overworked…" she said through gritted teeth as Tristan now rotated her arm in a different direction. "Or when someone irritates it," Breck added pointedly. "So if you are quite finished – " she started to say.

The rest of her sentence was forgotten when Tristan placed his other hand on her back to brace her and then began stretching her arm even further. The movement was painful, but a good sort of pain, one that promises making progress with easing a troublesome injury.

"Breathe through the discomfort. In through your nose, and out through your mouth," Tristan said behind her. "Relax."

Breck did as he instructed, squeezing her eyes shut and breathing steadily, focusing on the warmth of his hands on her rather than the discomfort of the stretch, until he finally released her. Almost immediately her shoulder felt better, making her let out a long sigh.

"Thank you," she said as she turned to face him again. "It feels better."

His eyes flickered over her face for the briefest of seconds, then he nodded toward her shoulder. "You should allow Dagonet to inspect it," he suggested.

She was about to say that it didn't seem necessary to involve Dagonet when she realized that she and Tristan had acquired a small audience.

Galahad and Gawain had just walked through the gate to the arena and, judging by their expressions, she could only assume they had just witnessed the interaction between her and Tristan. Gawain was looking back and forth between the two of them fairly rapidly, looking blatantly displeased, while Galahad looked downright uncomfortable, his eyes bouncing between all three of them apprehensively.

Breck glanced at Tristan and saw that he now stood a little straighter as his comrades approached, that stoic expression back in place. She didn't know what to make of his sudden shift in demeanor, but brushed it off and smiled at her friends in greeting.

"Galahad, Gawain, good afternoon," she said pleasantly once they were in front of her.

"Hello, Breck, Tristan," Gawain responded with a nod, wiping the troubled expression off of his face long enough to offer her a pinched smile. He then turned inspective eyes to her shoulder, concern immediately flashing across his face. "Are you alright?"

"Aye, I am fine," Breck answered with a nod.

Gawain did not seem convinced, though. "Are you certain?" he persisted, his lips dropping into a frown as he cut a glance toward Tristan. "It looked as though Tristan was tending to your shoulder, as if you had been injured."

Tristan said nothing, just met Gawain's accusing stare with a blank one of his own. Both Breck and Galahad glanced between the two, Breck with confusion, Galahad with uneasiness. "I assure you, I am perfectly well," Breck insisted. "Tristan was merely helping me relieve an injury obtained a very long time ago. That is all."

"Never fear, friend, Breck is not as fragile as she appears," Galahad cut in, overdoing it on the jovialness a bit. "Brave woman, you are, training with the likes of this one," he then said good-naturedly, clearly trying to ease the tension by slapping Tristan on the back in a friendly way.

The scout spared Galahad a brief look, but the tension didn't leave his shoulders.

The way that he and Gawain were currently eyeing each other was making Breck feel just as uncomfortable as Galahad looked. Between the way they had spoken to each other the day before and the way they were sizing one another up now, she was beginning to suspect that whatever was causing this friction between them had to extend beyond the possibility of a mere disagreement. Something was going on, something that had created a tension between them that had not been there before.

Breck looked at Gawain, who was all but glaring now, and then at Tristan, who's expression was even colder than usual. She then cleared her throat and looked to Galahad, putting on a smile. "Aye, well, training with Tristan is not so horrible. If nothing else, it is better than being up to my elbows in horse manure," she told him with a forced laugh, also attempting to lighten the mood.

It didn't seem to do the trick. Galahad gave an obliging laugh, but Tristan and Gawain continued to stare one another down, as if neither wanted to be the first to admit defeat and look away.

"What brings you two to the arena?" Breck asked Galahad conversationally, hoping to bring this awkward moment to an end.

"We are here to do some training of our own, are we not?" Galahad asked, nudging Gawain with his elbow.

Gawain finally blinked and glanced at Galahad, who raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "Yes," Gawain answered. "Yes, we are."

"I see. Then allow us to get out of your way." Breck then looked to Tristan. "I require food. What say you to leaving these two to their business and accompanying me in the tavern?" she asked, just so they could get out of the arena and escape this horribly awkward situation.

Tristan finally looked down at her and nodded in agreement, then stepped past Galahad and Gawain without a word, heading toward the exit of the arena. The three of them watched him go, before redirecting their attention back to each other.

"Forgive us. We did not mean to disturb your session," Gawain told her, though the apology was a little lacking in sincerity, as though he wasn't that remorseful about it at all.

"Worry not. We had finished for the day," Breck told him. When she glanced after Tristan again, she saw him lingering near the gate, clearly waiting for her. "I should be on my way. I shall see you both at supper?"

Once Gawain and Galahad both nodded in confirmation, Breck said her goodbyes and then jogged to catch up with Tristan, wincing at the pain this caused her aching body.

When Breck caught up to him, he gave her a brief look before they left through the exit and set off for the tavern, neither of them saying anything about the exchange they'd just had with Galahad and Gawain. They didn't say anything to each other at all, actually, merely walked in silence.

Just before they lost sight of the arena, Breck looked back one last time. Galahad and Gawain, she noticed, seemed to be having an intense looking conversation now that she and Tristan were gone. And even from how far away she was, she could tell that Gawain was watching them leave.

Breck turned forward again, frowning to herself.

She had begun to wonder if Gawain might be jealous of Tristan, but had thus far dismissed it as a completely ludicrous idea. Now, however, it didn't seem so farfetched anymore. He truly did not like that she was training with Tristan, had looked ready to pummel him for potentially injuring her, and had been sizing him up as though he were the competition. But why? Surely he had to know that nothing was going on between her and Tristan.

Did Gawain suspect her attraction for Tristan, though? Had he sensed the shift in her feelings toward the scout? Was that what was causing him to behave in such a way?

At the thought of Gawain's behavior, she frowned deeper. She didn't like the way Gawain was acting toward Tristan, nor did she like the way Tristan was acting toward Gawain. In some way, she supposed she could understand Gawain's behavior, seeing as he had some sort of affection for her and would likely not be overly pleased to see her with another man.

But Tristan?

Breck snuck a glance at him from the corner of her eye, but his gaze remained forward and his expression quite indecipherable. He was a difficult man to read, yet his actions had felt strangely defensive and he had not been looking at or treating Gawain like the friend he was. Instead, he was almost treating him as if he were some sort of…rival.

Why would he behave in such a way, though? Certainly he was not interested in her in the way Gawain was. He had never hinted at any sort of feelings for her, had never done anything to make her believe that she was anything more than someone he was practically forced to spend time with. Then again…he did look at her in that certain way sometimes. And some of the things he had said to her recently might lead one to believe that maybe there was something more beneath it all.

But Breck immediately dismissed those thoughts, telling herself that she was only getting carried away with wishful thinking. Because there was no way that her attraction to Tristan was reciprocated, no way that he would ever feel the same things that she did.

Breck shook her head to herself. She did not know what might have motivated Tristan to behave the way he had, but there was one thing she did know – no matter what either man might, or might not, be feeling toward her, the last thing she wanted to do was come between them or pose a threat to the friendship they'd formed long before she arrived at Hadrian's Wall. Whatever this odd behavior was all about, it needed to stop. If it continued to happen, Breck feared that something would have to be said about it.

And that was not a conversation that she was ready to have – or even wanted to have – with either man.

See you next Friday!