Mace had had enough of petulant kids that thought they knew a damn thing about what he believed.
His posture went rigid the more Guy…Gawain spoke, resentment and offense bristling over his skin at the accusation in his tone. He did not nod, did not give any indication of believing a word out of the lost Prince’s mouth. The fact was, he’d tricked Mace into bringing him here, and that hadn’t been the end of his pretending.
“Yeah? Then why in God’s name would you think it was a good idea to introduce yourself on a lie? To implicate me in that lie? You think Tristan’s gunna just let that slide? After his own uncle betrayed him?”
You think you know him so well, he wanted to hiss, wanted to shout. For every way that Tristan was like Arthur, he was different in two, and half those differences would make him a better king than his father…someday. Once he’d had time to grieve, and grow. Once he stopped having to live in Arthur’s shadow, like Gawain seemed intent on forcing him to do.
“Excuse me?” he grated through clenched teeth, his expression hardening to stone. “You have no idea what I see. I have given up everything,” his voice deepened into a growl on the word, sharpened to flint, “everything to keep him safe. To follow him. You just fucking got here, and you already know better? Where were you when I had to carry him out of the castle with Arthur’s blood on his hands?” His own hands were balled into fists at his sides, resisting the urge to shove him, to point a finger in his face, to surge forward until he could look down at him from a position of strength. How dare he show up here, a liar and a coward, and tell him he’d been wrong. “I have been camped here in the woods building this resistance from nothing, from sticks and children, keeping that heir alive despite his attempts to drown himself in grief or girls or liquor, and you have the fucking nerve to imply I haven’t done enough? Yeah, sit down.”
Mace paced away from the prince where he sank into the leaves, bracing his hands on his hips, sparing only the briefest glance for the Lynx as he appeared from the trees. Josephine emerged from the tents opposite, a worried expression on her face as she looked between them all. And she was right, he knew. Gawain was a kid, and he’d reacted like a kid being called out, and now here Mace was giving it back to him like he hadn’t yet hit thirty…like he hadn’t suffered and knew what it looked like to suffer, and speak out of turn. Adrenaline spiked through him, the heat of it making the chill evening air seem blisteringly cold, but already, it ebbed.
He answered Gawain’s apology with a grunt. But he did take a beat to steady his breathing, his heart-rate.
“I won’t be the one to tell them. But you’d better hope they’ll think like I was thinking” he replied, a little more level, “Because the conclusion I came to was that we are here for him, not you. And not because he’s like Arthur. He doesn’t need to be like Arthur. Jesus Christ. If you want to tell him all the ways he’s just like your father, you better not get comfortable.” He ended on a mutter, shaking his head, the memory of their conversation about the sword still fresh and painful. Tristan had come a long way since then, but would the reunion with his brother push him forward, or back? It was an old wound, but it had never healed properly.
In the end, it wouldn’t matter. Mace couldn’t keep this from him – he’d have to be prepared to pick up whatever pieces broke off in all of this. Like he always did.
His voice was tired when he finally spoke again. “Piece of advice: you’re thrilled to see your brother, but don’t be surprised if that’s not his first reaction. He doesn’t have a good history with surprises.”
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