FIC: More Last Author Standing Ficlets [Legend of the Seeker]
Much thanks to everyone who has voted for me through the rounds of competition. This has been an amazing experience. I've always sucked at writing to deadlines and to prompts, and this competition has both. It's Round 8 now, and I'm still at it! I never thought I'd last this long. So thank you for the votes. I really appreciate the support.
Disclaimer: Legend of the Seeker does not belong to me. No infringement is intended.
Prompt: Cost of the Crown (just the song, not the vid)
Title: Duty's Price
Spoilers: Cursed
Placement: 1st Place, w00t w00t!
Corah doesn't see the stars very often anymore. When she was a child, her mother used to sit her close and tell her wonderful stories about the little dots in the sky. The valorious hunter slays the boar. The steadfast lover reunites with his beloved. She couldn't see the patterns as her mother drew them, though she desperately wanted to. Perhaps now she never will, not as long as D'Harans beat at her kingdom's door every day.
The D'Harans fear the Calthrop, but they fear Rahl all the more. The grounds they gain during the day are lost at night, but again and again, they drive forward, relentless as a spring storm that floods the countryside. Corah comes to herself each morning with blood under her nails and the taste of copper in her mouth, surrounded by gore and death. One more day, she has kept her kingdom safe, and one more day, she feels a piece of herself chipped away. Was this how her father felt? Out of control, pushed to the edge, sanity slipping drop by drop, piece by piece?
Corah has been taught to rule, to anticipate the responsibility of the throne, but she doesn't feel ready for this duty. She doubts her resolve, her ability to maintain her people's freedom from Darken Rahl. Her people understood when the truth was told, her guards and soldiers are loyal, but Corah aches at their hidden revulsion and fear. Nothing good can come out of hiding who she is, but nothing good can come of this war either, as the bearer of this curse. Even with the Rada'Han around her neck, Corah fears what may become of her one day when there are no D'Harans to slay.
As a little girl, whenever she feared the dark, Corah would close her eyes and remember her mother's voice. Now, as she unlocks the Rada'Han from her neck, Corah holds the Mother Confessor's words close to her heart. Kahlan Amnell said she saw strength and courage in her, that she believes Corah to be fit to rule. A Confessor understands her duty, and so does the Queen of Caddock. They both have their price to pay.
The Rada'Han slips free. Corah closes her eyes and prays for the day when she will never have to take it off.
Prompt: this cap
Title: Ruthless
Warning: violence
Placement: 2nd Place
She knows the Seeker will never understand. She can see the kindness of his soul, the gentleness in his heart. It is what makes him a true Seeker and not a pretender to the title. In some ways, despite his defiance, she's glad to see it, because true peace cannot be achieved without hope like his. But Richard Cypher is misguided. All Seekers are, in their own way, soft at heart. It is why they need Confessors by their side, to temper their compassion. And that is why she is so disappointed in Kahlan. She does not expect the Seeker to understand, but Kahlan was raised to know better. Kahlan, who is committed to their cause as firmly as any other Confessor, but has shown a stoutness of heart that made her the right choice to carry the Book of Counted Shadows across the boundary in search of the Seeker. Yet she has now chosen to defy countless years of tradition in favor of the Seeker's naive hope.
As for Zeddicus... Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander is a Wizard of the First Order. He knows the burden of duty and responsibility, wise in the ways of those who have come before him. He is also the only other one amongst them who knows the crushing pain of losing a child.
But not even Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander can truly understand.
None of them can understand, not until they have borne the anguish of killing your own flesh and blood, a child whom you have nurtured and loved, prayed over and hoped for. Her sweet boy, who was so fragile in her arms as a baby, so helpless and innocent. Yes, just as the Seeker says: how can a tiny babe be held responsible for atrocities that he has not yet committed? She believed that once, too. Her child could be -- would be -- the exception. Surely her boy must have it in him to stave off madness and overcome corruption. It was not arrogance, a mistaken belief that she knew better than her elders, that motivated her, but a mother's unconditional love.
But madness did come. No matter the best of her intentions, the best of her efforts, her boy was cruel, uncaring of the destruction he wrought and thoughtless to the suffering of others. He only wanted his desires to be satisfied, to subsume others' will to his own.
She loved her son, but she could not let him live.
Drowning a boy is far more difficult than drowning an infant. The thrashing, the struggle, and her tears mingled with the water. The worst was the look in his eyes, of betrayal and hurt.
A mother is supposed to love her child above and beyond anything and everything.
She carries that look and she does not forget it now. She is sparing Dennee her pain, and she will be sparing the world from a tyrant far worse than Darken Rahl.
She will not hesitate a second time.
Prompt: "No man knows till he experiences it, what it is like to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the woman he loves." - Dracula
Title: His Confessor's Daughter
Warning: spoilers for "Touched"
Placement: 2nd Place
The bitterest of ironies was that he'd always wanted a daughter. As a D'Haran commander and the Lord of Ossridge, he should've prized a male heir, a son to groom as his successor. He could teach his son how to wield a sword. There would've been delight in perching his son on the saddle for the first time, pride when his son struck the center target with his bow.
A daughter, though, would only be trouble. He knew not of women's wares. And when a daughter was of age, she would have to be married away.
But he'd wanted a daughter nonetheless.
Because a son would always want to succeed his father, best him, perhaps even conquer him. A son could not love a father as a daughter would. A daughter would dote, and a father would always be the most supreme figure in her life.
A daughter was what he had, as he'd wished, but not like this.
Not like this.
He should have tossed Annabelle from the castle walls, drowned her in a tub of water, anything to rid himself of this burden, the reminder of his imprisonment. But Annabelle was half his blood. It was not a helpless infant's fault that her mother was a witch, that her conception originated from the enslavement of her father. When he'd held his little girl, he remembered how much he'd once wanted this. Every day, he'd wanted to kill her, and every day, he could not bring himself to do the deed.
As Annabelle grew, it became harder and harder to entertain the thought. It was too late from the first moment he'd held her. And as Annabelle matured, he would look upon his daughter and see something of Josephine in the shape of her eyes and the curve of her smile, the shadow of his captor in Annabelle's innocent face. He wished he could fly in a rage, but sometimes he wondered if perhaps death had not completely released him from Josephine's grasp, because he could remember his love for her. He would've killed for her and he would've died for her. His love for Josephine hadn't been real, his devotion forced upon his soul, but those years had made an indelible mark. Every day, he thought of her, his rage and grief and torment bound together until the lines had blurred as to what he felt for whom and why.
And there was his daughter -- *their* daughter -- ever so hopeful, ever so sweet, unknowing of so much. He wanted to spare others his fate, but he wanted to spare her from hers, too. Because he loved his daughter, truly. He would not have the destruction of other men's souls upon her hands. If he must guard her until the day he died, then so be it.
Perhaps *this* was the bitterest of ironies: he'd already lost the prime of his life to one Confessor, and though freed, he would lose the rest to his Confessor's daughter.
Disclaimer: Legend of the Seeker does not belong to me. No infringement is intended.
Prompt: Cost of the Crown (just the song, not the vid)
Title: Duty's Price
Spoilers: Cursed
Placement: 1st Place, w00t w00t!
Corah doesn't see the stars very often anymore. When she was a child, her mother used to sit her close and tell her wonderful stories about the little dots in the sky. The valorious hunter slays the boar. The steadfast lover reunites with his beloved. She couldn't see the patterns as her mother drew them, though she desperately wanted to. Perhaps now she never will, not as long as D'Harans beat at her kingdom's door every day.
The D'Harans fear the Calthrop, but they fear Rahl all the more. The grounds they gain during the day are lost at night, but again and again, they drive forward, relentless as a spring storm that floods the countryside. Corah comes to herself each morning with blood under her nails and the taste of copper in her mouth, surrounded by gore and death. One more day, she has kept her kingdom safe, and one more day, she feels a piece of herself chipped away. Was this how her father felt? Out of control, pushed to the edge, sanity slipping drop by drop, piece by piece?
Corah has been taught to rule, to anticipate the responsibility of the throne, but she doesn't feel ready for this duty. She doubts her resolve, her ability to maintain her people's freedom from Darken Rahl. Her people understood when the truth was told, her guards and soldiers are loyal, but Corah aches at their hidden revulsion and fear. Nothing good can come out of hiding who she is, but nothing good can come of this war either, as the bearer of this curse. Even with the Rada'Han around her neck, Corah fears what may become of her one day when there are no D'Harans to slay.
As a little girl, whenever she feared the dark, Corah would close her eyes and remember her mother's voice. Now, as she unlocks the Rada'Han from her neck, Corah holds the Mother Confessor's words close to her heart. Kahlan Amnell said she saw strength and courage in her, that she believes Corah to be fit to rule. A Confessor understands her duty, and so does the Queen of Caddock. They both have their price to pay.
The Rada'Han slips free. Corah closes her eyes and prays for the day when she will never have to take it off.
Prompt: this cap
Title: Ruthless
Warning: violence
Placement: 2nd Place
She knows the Seeker will never understand. She can see the kindness of his soul, the gentleness in his heart. It is what makes him a true Seeker and not a pretender to the title. In some ways, despite his defiance, she's glad to see it, because true peace cannot be achieved without hope like his. But Richard Cypher is misguided. All Seekers are, in their own way, soft at heart. It is why they need Confessors by their side, to temper their compassion. And that is why she is so disappointed in Kahlan. She does not expect the Seeker to understand, but Kahlan was raised to know better. Kahlan, who is committed to their cause as firmly as any other Confessor, but has shown a stoutness of heart that made her the right choice to carry the Book of Counted Shadows across the boundary in search of the Seeker. Yet she has now chosen to defy countless years of tradition in favor of the Seeker's naive hope.
As for Zeddicus... Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander is a Wizard of the First Order. He knows the burden of duty and responsibility, wise in the ways of those who have come before him. He is also the only other one amongst them who knows the crushing pain of losing a child.
But not even Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander can truly understand.
None of them can understand, not until they have borne the anguish of killing your own flesh and blood, a child whom you have nurtured and loved, prayed over and hoped for. Her sweet boy, who was so fragile in her arms as a baby, so helpless and innocent. Yes, just as the Seeker says: how can a tiny babe be held responsible for atrocities that he has not yet committed? She believed that once, too. Her child could be -- would be -- the exception. Surely her boy must have it in him to stave off madness and overcome corruption. It was not arrogance, a mistaken belief that she knew better than her elders, that motivated her, but a mother's unconditional love.
But madness did come. No matter the best of her intentions, the best of her efforts, her boy was cruel, uncaring of the destruction he wrought and thoughtless to the suffering of others. He only wanted his desires to be satisfied, to subsume others' will to his own.
She loved her son, but she could not let him live.
Drowning a boy is far more difficult than drowning an infant. The thrashing, the struggle, and her tears mingled with the water. The worst was the look in his eyes, of betrayal and hurt.
A mother is supposed to love her child above and beyond anything and everything.
She carries that look and she does not forget it now. She is sparing Dennee her pain, and she will be sparing the world from a tyrant far worse than Darken Rahl.
She will not hesitate a second time.
Prompt: "No man knows till he experiences it, what it is like to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the woman he loves." - Dracula
Title: His Confessor's Daughter
Warning: spoilers for "Touched"
Placement: 2nd Place
The bitterest of ironies was that he'd always wanted a daughter. As a D'Haran commander and the Lord of Ossridge, he should've prized a male heir, a son to groom as his successor. He could teach his son how to wield a sword. There would've been delight in perching his son on the saddle for the first time, pride when his son struck the center target with his bow.
A daughter, though, would only be trouble. He knew not of women's wares. And when a daughter was of age, she would have to be married away.
But he'd wanted a daughter nonetheless.
Because a son would always want to succeed his father, best him, perhaps even conquer him. A son could not love a father as a daughter would. A daughter would dote, and a father would always be the most supreme figure in her life.
A daughter was what he had, as he'd wished, but not like this.
Not like this.
He should have tossed Annabelle from the castle walls, drowned her in a tub of water, anything to rid himself of this burden, the reminder of his imprisonment. But Annabelle was half his blood. It was not a helpless infant's fault that her mother was a witch, that her conception originated from the enslavement of her father. When he'd held his little girl, he remembered how much he'd once wanted this. Every day, he'd wanted to kill her, and every day, he could not bring himself to do the deed.
As Annabelle grew, it became harder and harder to entertain the thought. It was too late from the first moment he'd held her. And as Annabelle matured, he would look upon his daughter and see something of Josephine in the shape of her eyes and the curve of her smile, the shadow of his captor in Annabelle's innocent face. He wished he could fly in a rage, but sometimes he wondered if perhaps death had not completely released him from Josephine's grasp, because he could remember his love for her. He would've killed for her and he would've died for her. His love for Josephine hadn't been real, his devotion forced upon his soul, but those years had made an indelible mark. Every day, he thought of her, his rage and grief and torment bound together until the lines had blurred as to what he felt for whom and why.
And there was his daughter -- *their* daughter -- ever so hopeful, ever so sweet, unknowing of so much. He wanted to spare others his fate, but he wanted to spare her from hers, too. Because he loved his daughter, truly. He would not have the destruction of other men's souls upon her hands. If he must guard her until the day he died, then so be it.
Perhaps *this* was the bitterest of ironies: he'd already lost the prime of his life to one Confessor, and though freed, he would lose the rest to his Confessor's daughter.