FIC: THUNDER ONLY HAPPENS WHEN IT'S RAINING (46 part 2/?)
Title: Thunder only happens when it's raining
Author: zagadka4_lj
Pairing: Cara/Kahlan
Rating: PG 17
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Legend of The Seeker and this was written for enjoyment; certainly mine, hopefully yours.
Summary: Set immediatly after Tears.
When the Keeper was defeated, it seemed that life should start again with happiness and joy, but now Kahlan was feeling only woe and sadness. Along the way toward home, things go awry for the Seeker and his band. They are forced to take paths which will bring them to face what future holds and deal with events from the past. Kahlan will find out that love has many sides and shapes.
Words Count: 2550
A/N: Hey guys! you already know how sorry and ashamed i am for taking this embarassingly long to update. so let's skip the apologies and jump straight to the chapter, shall we? be warned: this is not for faint-hearted! enjoy :)
Chapter 46 - No more waiting no more aching - part 2
(Verse from the song “What can I do”)
The squawk reverberated on the sky and reached his ears, muffled from the waxed fabric of the tent. Nonetheless he instantly recognized to whom this call belonged.
And it made him sigh with heaviness weighing on his chest.
He stood up from the cot where he had spent the past minutes, pointlessly trying to relax and get some needed rest. He passed beside the desk of his wide tent, stacked with jumbled parchments pushed aside and blanketed with a broad map, upon which pawns and blocks were scattered. He threw a brief sideways glance to it, wondering if he was soon to move some of those pieces on that board.
He reached for the hanger upon which his thick black leather armor was settled; he stared at it for a while and at the fine deep red etchings carved upon its chest, still somewhat leery about such garment and the meaning of it. Still somewhat attracted and adverse to it and what it represented. The empty dark armature looked like a warrior itself; the ghost of the leader resting inside the tent along with its naked owner. Humming with power like a shadow; a constant memento ready to come alive and overcome the man with the weight of the responsibilities that wearing that armor meant. It shone, having been regularly oiled and polished, but many were the nicks and dents marring its fine finish like scars left from the recent battles that mirrored the ones the man was bearing inside.
Richard grabbed the wristband and wore it, before stepping out of the tent.
The hawk was describing circles in the sky upon the wide camp and as soon as he saw the young man he had flown miles to reach, he squawked again. That wasn't a loquacious winged animal and this was one of the reasons for which Richard had chosen him and personally trained him to the required task. The bond that had developed between the bird and his master had become deeper than expected and unusual when it came to falconry.
Richard stretched his hand and showed his forearm to the feathered herald. The hawk immediately nosedived to reach for his owner; pointed beak splitting the air and eyes intent and focused on the target of taking place where he belonged. Close to the Lord of those lands as a faithful ally. That was an animal too independent to be classified as friend and too proud to allow being degraded to servant. Then again an invisible cord of respect and fealty was tying the fiery raptor and latching him much stronger than the straps used to hold his pawns in the aviary.
The master looked at the hawk with the usual amazement, drew by how this bird emanated a regal composure when he was quietly at rest; shining mahogany feathers gathered and wings neatly folded on his flanks. But the sure and quick flicks of his gaze and the assertive look glinting in his eyes revealed the contrast of such demeanor with the feral attitude of an animal who couldn't be taken off guard. Indeed in less than a heartbeat he could take off the flight and mercilessly rush upon his prey, displaying a proverbial precision and a power one would hardly guess in such a small-sized body.
With a brusque braking and a noisy flapping of wings the bird grasped the wrist he was handed and his talons painfully gripped around the limb of his master, who took a little step backwards urged from the drive of the potent bird. Richard's sword clinked on his side, faintly dangling in the sheath where it rested; the reminder of the other role he owned, other than Lord in black and red armor. The embodied sharp symbol of who he was and what were his primary goals.
The Seeker of Truth grimaced and clenched his jaw for a fleeting moment; it wasn't only the physical pain to set his face in a hard expression, but also the awareness that came from the presence of his personal hawk here. That was a code Richard had agreed with Zedd at the time they parted, when Richard left the People Palace to travel in the southern territories with most of his army to face Darken's ranks that - according to the tidings the Seeker got from his scouts and informers - were rallying there. Zedd had advised against using Journey Books since it would have been too risky; spies hid in every corner in D'Hara and many of those had been caught on regular basis and occupied the dungeons of the Palace as of late. If the magical volume and its precious exchanges had to fall in the hands of the enemy, it could have been an irreparable loss. Thus they opted for another means of communication, namely birds. Any relevant news, any message sent. Ordinary news, a pigeon. Serious news, a hawk. And that Zedd had decided to use that particular hawk - the most skilled and trusted - meant that what was in the message needed Richard's priority attention. It could be either good or bad news, but there was war raging over D'Hara those days and this meant that Richard was more prone to believe the second rather than the first. Wanting to see the bright side of the thing - as Richard once used to do - it could have been worse, because their bird-choice code contemplated another option: a crow would mean death news. Thus things could have been worse after all, but Richard wasn't that inclined to lighten up so easily. Not anymore.
“There, there Astor.” Richard hummed and the hawk released a bit of the tension of his paws, flicking his head in acknowledgment of the composed demeanor he was expected to display now that he was in the presence of his master. “Good hawk, what news have you brought to me?” He asked more to himself than to the animal, voicing aloud his worry and working on the bird's leg to untie the small scroll Zedd fastened there.
Richard moved back to the tent, carrying the hawk on his arm and briefly glancing to the guard appointed on the entrance. It was a tacit agreement that he didn't want to be disturbed until he'd say otherwise. Richard sat at his desk, working the parchments aside and busying with opening the small cylinder containing the message. Astor casually flew on the shoulder of the armor and stood there quiet and silent, knowing that his master would soon provide to hand him some morsels of food as a reward for the accomplished task.
Richard broke the magic seal that ensured privacy to the missives addressed to him; should the enemies intercept the flying carrier the content of the message would remain out of their reach because the enchanted wax could be split exclusively from Richard; the parchment would just whither otherwise. He unrolled the small paper and started reading the words Zedd wrote, instantly glimpsing a slight tremble in his grandfather's handwriting. This deed alone scared the Seeker up to his bones, but it wasn't granted to him to let it show to anyone and he had become so accustomed with this burden that he didn't allow his shoulders to sag even when he was alone.
Zedd had tried to keep the tone of the message even, telegraphically relaying the happenings occurring in the capital, but Richard knew better. It wasn't a particularly long letter and it could however be resumed in three words alone: come back now.
Richard dug his fingers in the ridge of his eyebrows and shut his eyes concentrating. With a deep sigh he stood up and tugged the flap closing his tent with more energy than he intended. It was his responsibility to show himself secure and in control before his men.
"Have General Cassander apprised to immediately join me here." He sternly addressed to the sentry watching over his quarters.
"Yes my Lord." The man bowed before scooting to accomplish the order.
Hopefully the reconnoiters had returned and reported the state of play. Hopefully it would be a favorable state allowing Richard and his troops to leave soon and return to the capital as Zedd was highly recommending to do.
But hoping in his luck was a luxury Richard had in time learned not to indulge in.
She needed to confess someone.
Kahlan was totally freaked out and had no idea what to do. She had been thrown into a gallop against her will and thrown away from Cara against her heart. Kahlan’s face was soaked with blood - both hers and D'Haran - still fresh from the battle and icy snowflakes flung against her face, all blending with her burning tears digging a pale salty path plumb across her deep red-stained cheeks. Every resounding clop of the hooves, every bounce on the saddle, every impact of the horse against the hard ground reverberating through her chest and the vision line of the trees sliding in the wrong direction were a harsh reminder. That more and more distance was put between her and Cara. Every step further away from the Mord-Sith was a new stab through the Confessor’s soul and the despair was raging into her so cuttingly that it threatened to drive her berserk and reckless.
The D'Haran riding close by was marking her tightly and shooting arrows with a considerable aim; more than once Kahlan had narrowly skipped a dart in her back veering the horse at the very last moment. There was no way she could relent or step off without falling straight across the sharp end of one of his shots. Letting him come closer - at her daggers range or even better, close enough for her to grab his neck - was too risky and trying to stab him with her blades from the distance was hazardous, since she had two shots alone. She was stuck in this getaway and the fury was pulsing under her skin, tingling into her and bringing an acrid taste of bile in the back of her throat. Her power was throbbing into her with a low pitched hum.
She needed to confess someone.
But she had to keep her walls steady. Stefan was attached to her, gripped to the horn of the saddle; shoulders curved and head bowed in exhausted resignation. His back relentlessly jolting at the rhythm of his sniffing and sobbing. His voice reduced to a coarse scratch for having screamed his lungs out all the way; the little one daring to order the Mother Confessor and then sliding to imploring her to go back to Cara. Kahlan had wished she was child as well, allowed to give in to her exasperation and screams. Allowed to follow what her heart was thundering into her with every single bleeding beat. Go back to her! Save her! Don't leave her!
That such instinct was impracticable was tearing Kahlan apart. It wasn't only the aggressive man behind her to dam her need to turn around, but also the fact that she was the Mother Confessor - taught to pursue the greater good, appointed to serve and ensure the safety of her people - and all too aware that the stakes were impossibly high for her to try to gamble with destiny; to put her heart before her duties. For her to overlook that she had given Cara her word; she had promised her to take care of her son and Confessors never perjure. And even more than that Kahlan couldn't fail Cara's trust. But never did she figure out that it would be at the cost of Cara's life...
Ire was flooding through her veins so wildly that she had no idea how she was keeping her body so stiff and tight instead of exploding. Ire against those D'Harans and Rahl, pursuing evil ever after and crossing her path countless time to bring devastation to all that she cared for. Ire against the twisted fate which led her to face such a lacerating situation. Ire against herself and her stupidity, for not recognizing Commander Borden when she saw him in Arrenwood, tightened in his cloak with his patch on his eye. It was her fault... all her fault... he followed her... he caught them because she'd been stupid and inattentive. Ire against Cara who managed to send her away, to be left there alone instead of fighting together like it had always been their tacit agreement to do. Those angry words she had screamed 'I am expendable' were burning like a coat of lava into the Confessor. There were no wronger words in the world than those to Kahlan, but she had been pushed away without the chance to prove otherwise.
Leaving Cara in the conviction that they were true. Leaving Cara alone and validated in the belief that she was such.
No! Never ever she'd let Cara think that she was alone. That she was expendable. That she was a tool in the service of someone. That she was unloved.
Out of the corner of her eyes Kahlan saw a string of white smoke, idly ascending and fading in the gray of the clouds. It was too thick to be a camp fire and too thin and trim to be a stake. Before she could process the notion, the whistle rang loud and another arrow scratched her arm, opening a small stream of blood there and coming to plant its head on a truck. It reminded her of another time when she was chased and targeted from D'Harans and their black bows; a time in which she skipped the arrows, but was equally forced to leave someone dear behind.
And that was too much.
The chills of dread, the fire of the pain mixed with the fury thumping behind her skin drew a fearful growl from Kahlan and her pride took over her wariness. The Mother Confessor wouldn't be pierced from a D'Haran nonentity. She wouldn't retreat. She would fight and she would win!
Kahlan glanced over her shoulder. She squeezed her legs against the horse's flanks and brusquely pulled the reins aside; the horse loudly neighed and promptly stopped his drive, stepping laterally as it was ordered. The Confessor had now a perfect visual of her target heavily bobbing with the horse's jolts and with an arrow already notched on his bow. Alike she drew out in a flash a dagger from her boot and took aim.
The blade blinked in her hand and she felt it as if pulsing with restrained energy, begging her to be sunk into warm flesh to open a new stream of blood in the name of its Mistress. The same blood thirst she could read in the arrow vibrating against the tense bowstring of the man opposite to her. Kahlan clutched the boy in her arms and gasped; a drop of sweat trickled from the crest of her eyebrow and for a split second everything was perfectly still.
It was now or never. It was do or die. It was reckoning.
At the moment the drop reached the ground both weapons - as though by an unspoken agreement - contemporaneously left the hand of their owners and flew across the snowy air.
Author: zagadka4_lj
Pairing: Cara/Kahlan
Rating: PG 17
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Legend of The Seeker and this was written for enjoyment; certainly mine, hopefully yours.
Summary: Set immediatly after Tears.
When the Keeper was defeated, it seemed that life should start again with happiness and joy, but now Kahlan was feeling only woe and sadness. Along the way toward home, things go awry for the Seeker and his band. They are forced to take paths which will bring them to face what future holds and deal with events from the past. Kahlan will find out that love has many sides and shapes.
Words Count: 2550
A/N: Hey guys! you already know how sorry and ashamed i am for taking this embarassingly long to update. so let's skip the apologies and jump straight to the chapter, shall we? be warned: this is not for faint-hearted! enjoy :)
Chapter 46 - No more waiting no more aching - part 2
(Verse from the song “What can I do”)
The squawk reverberated on the sky and reached his ears, muffled from the waxed fabric of the tent. Nonetheless he instantly recognized to whom this call belonged.
And it made him sigh with heaviness weighing on his chest.
He stood up from the cot where he had spent the past minutes, pointlessly trying to relax and get some needed rest. He passed beside the desk of his wide tent, stacked with jumbled parchments pushed aside and blanketed with a broad map, upon which pawns and blocks were scattered. He threw a brief sideways glance to it, wondering if he was soon to move some of those pieces on that board.
He reached for the hanger upon which his thick black leather armor was settled; he stared at it for a while and at the fine deep red etchings carved upon its chest, still somewhat leery about such garment and the meaning of it. Still somewhat attracted and adverse to it and what it represented. The empty dark armature looked like a warrior itself; the ghost of the leader resting inside the tent along with its naked owner. Humming with power like a shadow; a constant memento ready to come alive and overcome the man with the weight of the responsibilities that wearing that armor meant. It shone, having been regularly oiled and polished, but many were the nicks and dents marring its fine finish like scars left from the recent battles that mirrored the ones the man was bearing inside.
Richard grabbed the wristband and wore it, before stepping out of the tent.
The hawk was describing circles in the sky upon the wide camp and as soon as he saw the young man he had flown miles to reach, he squawked again. That wasn't a loquacious winged animal and this was one of the reasons for which Richard had chosen him and personally trained him to the required task. The bond that had developed between the bird and his master had become deeper than expected and unusual when it came to falconry.
Richard stretched his hand and showed his forearm to the feathered herald. The hawk immediately nosedived to reach for his owner; pointed beak splitting the air and eyes intent and focused on the target of taking place where he belonged. Close to the Lord of those lands as a faithful ally. That was an animal too independent to be classified as friend and too proud to allow being degraded to servant. Then again an invisible cord of respect and fealty was tying the fiery raptor and latching him much stronger than the straps used to hold his pawns in the aviary.
The master looked at the hawk with the usual amazement, drew by how this bird emanated a regal composure when he was quietly at rest; shining mahogany feathers gathered and wings neatly folded on his flanks. But the sure and quick flicks of his gaze and the assertive look glinting in his eyes revealed the contrast of such demeanor with the feral attitude of an animal who couldn't be taken off guard. Indeed in less than a heartbeat he could take off the flight and mercilessly rush upon his prey, displaying a proverbial precision and a power one would hardly guess in such a small-sized body.
With a brusque braking and a noisy flapping of wings the bird grasped the wrist he was handed and his talons painfully gripped around the limb of his master, who took a little step backwards urged from the drive of the potent bird. Richard's sword clinked on his side, faintly dangling in the sheath where it rested; the reminder of the other role he owned, other than Lord in black and red armor. The embodied sharp symbol of who he was and what were his primary goals.
The Seeker of Truth grimaced and clenched his jaw for a fleeting moment; it wasn't only the physical pain to set his face in a hard expression, but also the awareness that came from the presence of his personal hawk here. That was a code Richard had agreed with Zedd at the time they parted, when Richard left the People Palace to travel in the southern territories with most of his army to face Darken's ranks that - according to the tidings the Seeker got from his scouts and informers - were rallying there. Zedd had advised against using Journey Books since it would have been too risky; spies hid in every corner in D'Hara and many of those had been caught on regular basis and occupied the dungeons of the Palace as of late. If the magical volume and its precious exchanges had to fall in the hands of the enemy, it could have been an irreparable loss. Thus they opted for another means of communication, namely birds. Any relevant news, any message sent. Ordinary news, a pigeon. Serious news, a hawk. And that Zedd had decided to use that particular hawk - the most skilled and trusted - meant that what was in the message needed Richard's priority attention. It could be either good or bad news, but there was war raging over D'Hara those days and this meant that Richard was more prone to believe the second rather than the first. Wanting to see the bright side of the thing - as Richard once used to do - it could have been worse, because their bird-choice code contemplated another option: a crow would mean death news. Thus things could have been worse after all, but Richard wasn't that inclined to lighten up so easily. Not anymore.
“There, there Astor.” Richard hummed and the hawk released a bit of the tension of his paws, flicking his head in acknowledgment of the composed demeanor he was expected to display now that he was in the presence of his master. “Good hawk, what news have you brought to me?” He asked more to himself than to the animal, voicing aloud his worry and working on the bird's leg to untie the small scroll Zedd fastened there.
Richard moved back to the tent, carrying the hawk on his arm and briefly glancing to the guard appointed on the entrance. It was a tacit agreement that he didn't want to be disturbed until he'd say otherwise. Richard sat at his desk, working the parchments aside and busying with opening the small cylinder containing the message. Astor casually flew on the shoulder of the armor and stood there quiet and silent, knowing that his master would soon provide to hand him some morsels of food as a reward for the accomplished task.
Richard broke the magic seal that ensured privacy to the missives addressed to him; should the enemies intercept the flying carrier the content of the message would remain out of their reach because the enchanted wax could be split exclusively from Richard; the parchment would just whither otherwise. He unrolled the small paper and started reading the words Zedd wrote, instantly glimpsing a slight tremble in his grandfather's handwriting. This deed alone scared the Seeker up to his bones, but it wasn't granted to him to let it show to anyone and he had become so accustomed with this burden that he didn't allow his shoulders to sag even when he was alone.
Zedd had tried to keep the tone of the message even, telegraphically relaying the happenings occurring in the capital, but Richard knew better. It wasn't a particularly long letter and it could however be resumed in three words alone: come back now.
Richard dug his fingers in the ridge of his eyebrows and shut his eyes concentrating. With a deep sigh he stood up and tugged the flap closing his tent with more energy than he intended. It was his responsibility to show himself secure and in control before his men.
"Have General Cassander apprised to immediately join me here." He sternly addressed to the sentry watching over his quarters.
"Yes my Lord." The man bowed before scooting to accomplish the order.
Hopefully the reconnoiters had returned and reported the state of play. Hopefully it would be a favorable state allowing Richard and his troops to leave soon and return to the capital as Zedd was highly recommending to do.
But hoping in his luck was a luxury Richard had in time learned not to indulge in.
She needed to confess someone.
Kahlan was totally freaked out and had no idea what to do. She had been thrown into a gallop against her will and thrown away from Cara against her heart. Kahlan’s face was soaked with blood - both hers and D'Haran - still fresh from the battle and icy snowflakes flung against her face, all blending with her burning tears digging a pale salty path plumb across her deep red-stained cheeks. Every resounding clop of the hooves, every bounce on the saddle, every impact of the horse against the hard ground reverberating through her chest and the vision line of the trees sliding in the wrong direction were a harsh reminder. That more and more distance was put between her and Cara. Every step further away from the Mord-Sith was a new stab through the Confessor’s soul and the despair was raging into her so cuttingly that it threatened to drive her berserk and reckless.
The D'Haran riding close by was marking her tightly and shooting arrows with a considerable aim; more than once Kahlan had narrowly skipped a dart in her back veering the horse at the very last moment. There was no way she could relent or step off without falling straight across the sharp end of one of his shots. Letting him come closer - at her daggers range or even better, close enough for her to grab his neck - was too risky and trying to stab him with her blades from the distance was hazardous, since she had two shots alone. She was stuck in this getaway and the fury was pulsing under her skin, tingling into her and bringing an acrid taste of bile in the back of her throat. Her power was throbbing into her with a low pitched hum.
She needed to confess someone.
But she had to keep her walls steady. Stefan was attached to her, gripped to the horn of the saddle; shoulders curved and head bowed in exhausted resignation. His back relentlessly jolting at the rhythm of his sniffing and sobbing. His voice reduced to a coarse scratch for having screamed his lungs out all the way; the little one daring to order the Mother Confessor and then sliding to imploring her to go back to Cara. Kahlan had wished she was child as well, allowed to give in to her exasperation and screams. Allowed to follow what her heart was thundering into her with every single bleeding beat. Go back to her! Save her! Don't leave her!
That such instinct was impracticable was tearing Kahlan apart. It wasn't only the aggressive man behind her to dam her need to turn around, but also the fact that she was the Mother Confessor - taught to pursue the greater good, appointed to serve and ensure the safety of her people - and all too aware that the stakes were impossibly high for her to try to gamble with destiny; to put her heart before her duties. For her to overlook that she had given Cara her word; she had promised her to take care of her son and Confessors never perjure. And even more than that Kahlan couldn't fail Cara's trust. But never did she figure out that it would be at the cost of Cara's life...
Ire was flooding through her veins so wildly that she had no idea how she was keeping her body so stiff and tight instead of exploding. Ire against those D'Harans and Rahl, pursuing evil ever after and crossing her path countless time to bring devastation to all that she cared for. Ire against the twisted fate which led her to face such a lacerating situation. Ire against herself and her stupidity, for not recognizing Commander Borden when she saw him in Arrenwood, tightened in his cloak with his patch on his eye. It was her fault... all her fault... he followed her... he caught them because she'd been stupid and inattentive. Ire against Cara who managed to send her away, to be left there alone instead of fighting together like it had always been their tacit agreement to do. Those angry words she had screamed 'I am expendable' were burning like a coat of lava into the Confessor. There were no wronger words in the world than those to Kahlan, but she had been pushed away without the chance to prove otherwise.
Leaving Cara in the conviction that they were true. Leaving Cara alone and validated in the belief that she was such.
No! Never ever she'd let Cara think that she was alone. That she was expendable. That she was a tool in the service of someone. That she was unloved.
Out of the corner of her eyes Kahlan saw a string of white smoke, idly ascending and fading in the gray of the clouds. It was too thick to be a camp fire and too thin and trim to be a stake. Before she could process the notion, the whistle rang loud and another arrow scratched her arm, opening a small stream of blood there and coming to plant its head on a truck. It reminded her of another time when she was chased and targeted from D'Harans and their black bows; a time in which she skipped the arrows, but was equally forced to leave someone dear behind.
And that was too much.
The chills of dread, the fire of the pain mixed with the fury thumping behind her skin drew a fearful growl from Kahlan and her pride took over her wariness. The Mother Confessor wouldn't be pierced from a D'Haran nonentity. She wouldn't retreat. She would fight and she would win!
Kahlan glanced over her shoulder. She squeezed her legs against the horse's flanks and brusquely pulled the reins aside; the horse loudly neighed and promptly stopped his drive, stepping laterally as it was ordered. The Confessor had now a perfect visual of her target heavily bobbing with the horse's jolts and with an arrow already notched on his bow. Alike she drew out in a flash a dagger from her boot and took aim.
The blade blinked in her hand and she felt it as if pulsing with restrained energy, begging her to be sunk into warm flesh to open a new stream of blood in the name of its Mistress. The same blood thirst she could read in the arrow vibrating against the tense bowstring of the man opposite to her. Kahlan clutched the boy in her arms and gasped; a drop of sweat trickled from the crest of her eyebrow and for a split second everything was perfectly still.
It was now or never. It was do or die. It was reckoning.
At the moment the drop reached the ground both weapons - as though by an unspoken agreement - contemporaneously left the hand of their owners and flew across the snowy air.