FIC: A Little Drop of Poison (Cara/Kahlan) AU - 6/?
Title: A Little Drop Of Poison
Author: Misty Flores
Rating: R
Genre: Legend of the Seeker, Cara/Kahlan - Western AU
Teaser: And so it begins, in the darkest hours of the night, in the company of an old man and a killer, Kahlan embarks on the journey to save the life of her dearest friend, and in the process take on the most dangerous gang of outlaws New Austin has ever seen.
Notes: A LOTS Western AU in a world inspired by the Red Dead Universe. That means guns and cowboys and lots of scoundrels. For anomalys, one of the winners of my offering of fic for the help_japan auction. bk1482, you’ve got a WMC one coming right after this one. Promise.
Sorry this took so long. Real life has kicked me in the ass.
Chapters
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five
Chapter Six: Someone to Ride the River With
"It ain't exactly a secret I didn't get these scars from falling over in church."
-
Luck is only with them until they reach the inside of the wooden shack that is meant to be Denna’s stable.
Inside the air is so thick and pungent with the smell of animal that Kahlan nearly chokes on the stench. But she plows through, ignoring her stinging eyes and the physical urge to wretch to head for an Appaloosa mare that reminds her intensely of a horse she had been given when she was with the Sisters of the Light. She grabs a saddle blanket that waits nearby, throwing it over the animal’s back and clicking her teeth reassuringly when the horse whinnies in protest.
Everything that she has so carefully packed before she left Armadillo is sitting behind the saddle of the mare she rode into Plainview. But there's no time to think on that now.
This horse has only the saddle, and in her haste, she knows she fumbles the work to tighten it.
“Hurry up,” Cara hisses, even though it’s obvious that Kahlan is hurrying. She glares, blows a strand of dark hair out of her sweaty face and reaches for the horn of the saddle to haul herself up. Just as her foot is in the stirrup, a deafening bang rings out. It's so loud and unexpected that it startles her mount significantly; the mare nearly tosses her back against the shed.
Zedd’s pepper bombs, she realizes. The Wizard has gone to work.
Kahlan’s heart stutters. It pounds with guilt and fear, and with that emotion, she absorbs the screams of the men who have been affected; howls of pain and blasts of shout that rise above her own heavy breathing and the horse’s excited pants.
It distracts those who must be distracted, just as Kahlan knows it will, but what price will Zedd pay for it?
“Dammit,” Cara hisses. Kahlan looks up. Cara is already on her horse. Her colored eyes are wild as she jerks at the reigns. “Kahlan, let’s go!”
The anxiety in Cara’s voiceis what propels her. She scrambles, once again digging her boot into the stirrup of the animal beside her, and grabbing hold of the horn with all her might before she shouts, “Giddap!”
Obediently, the mare lurches forward, launching Kahlan into her saddle and nearly over the horse’s head as they rush for the open. It’s a battle to stay astride the horse but she succeeds, finding her position as she clamps with her thighs.
Hooves dig in dirt, clomping them out of the shed and into the chaos of the unfriendly town of Plainview. Her teeth chatter with the force of the gallop, but her eyes remain fixed on Cara. She wraps her fingers through the rough leather of the straps that match the bridle and feels as if they are setting pace with the beats of her heart.
In their haste, they fly.
Cara’s bowler hat whips off her head but she pays no attention as she veers them out onto the main road. A man turns the corner, comes at them quickly. It's not quick enough. Cara nearly tramples him for his trouble, just as the pistol he holds goes upright. He falls back with a harsh, unforgiving thud but the shot goes off anyway. It’s wild and loud, startling Kahlan’s already skittish horse.
There’s no room for mistakes; no time for tumbles. Though her muscles already ache with her stressed stiffness, Kahlan arches with her hips, digs into the horse’s side with the heel of her boot and forces the mare’s momentum forward. It’s enough to even her stride with Cara, match her pace as they head down the uneven road that will lead them quickly out of town.
Of course they catch attention. They’re fleeing without finesse, and even in the wake of a Zedd-induced chaos, Cara’s leathers are hard to miss. Shots blast off behind them, loud and menacing. Kahlan thanks any spirit that will hear her that it is drunkards and miners who are doing the aiming, because though the shots are many they are also wild.
And so they ride at a furious pace. Cara does not look back and so Kahlan does not either. She keeps her eyes on the uneven road, but does not miss as beside her, Cara lifts off her haunches and points her pistol behind them, giving as good as she is receiving.
The blasts are disorienting, making her ears ring. Gunpowder spits off of Cara’s barrel, digging into Kahlan’s cheek like a hot kiss. Kahlan winces but doesn’t slow.
It’s only when Cara suddenly grunts, inhaling suddenly with a husky whine that Kahlan realizes that something is wrong.
She whirls, registers the obvious pain on the Mord’Sith’sface; sees the blood seeping through the fabric at Cara’s shoulder.
"Cara!"
“Keep going!” Cara yells. She doesn’t bother with any more shots. Instead, the other woman swivels in her seat, blonde hair whipping about her face as she focuses on the open road ahead of them.
She is a wounded devil leading her into hell, and Kahlan has no choice but to swallow hard as the dust kicks in her face, following her into the wilderness of Hades.
--
Drunkards and miners prove to be no match for a Mord’Sithwhore and a Mother Confessor, even if the Mord’Sith is wounded and the Mother Confessor is burdened with guilt.
Though the gunshots fade as they leave the town behind them, there is no stopping or slowing their pace.
Without conversation, the pair rides south and they ride hard. The day gets hotter blasting blazing rays of sunshine on them that assault them both. Kahlan’s skin goes pink, but Cara, with no hat to protect her face, begins to look near crimson.
Their horses do not escape unscathed. Kahlan’s mare pants underneath her and her spotted coat glistens with exertion. She’s an obedient animal but it’s clear that she’s tiring.
As they go south, they veer off the wide dirt roads and head into open desert. Tumbleweeds and Cactus are their only friends now. Brush and nettles their only greeters.
The desolate desert taunts Kahlan with its nakedness.
But beyond them is the River. And with the river comes Mexico. In Mexico is retribution in the form of Richard Cypher.
With every step forward, she is that much closer to fulfilling her promise to save Richard from the terrible fate Darken Rahl has decreed.
But at what cost?
Zedd, a man who is just as much family to her as Richard, has been left behind in a flurry of chaos and smoke and uncertainty. She offered him no goodbyes. No thanks or appreciation for all he has done. Her payment for his kindness has been abandonment.
Kahlan has told herself more than once that as the last of her kind, she is used to this loneliness. The Sisters of the Light, the massacre from which she was rescued, has created more scars in her soul than she would ever admit to.
Now, the adrenaline fades and Kahlan realizes that she is once again alone.
Except of course, for a mute stranger.A villain. A former Mord’Sith who still wears those leather chaps, as if she has no idea how to even begin to exist without them.
Exhaustion takes hold as the horses slow from a gallop to a trot, then from a trot to a walk.
At the slower pace, Kahlan turns to study the other woman. Of course there is no ability to read her, and Kahlan discovers uncomfortably that she is getting used to that. But she worries. She watches the way Cara shifts uncomfortably on the horse as they ride. She sees the way the blood has seeped and scabbed over on Cara’s shoulder. Kahlan can only pray that the bullet that hit the other woman is not still lodged in her body.
Still, there HAS been blood loss, and Cara has been riding for at least three hours without treatment, under a punishing sun and the barest sips of water.
Cara bears the pain without comment or complaint.
But surely, she must feel it.
“We should stop,” Kahlan finds herself saying. The silence broken, Cara’s eyes whirl to catch her own, as if she's only just now noticed that Kahlan is still with her. The expression on her face is flushed and annoyed. Kahlan finds herself swallowing her own inappropriate mirth when she realizes she's getting used to it. “We need to clean your shoulder, Cara.”
“It’s just a graze.”
Cara continues to ride.
She considers hers options, as it appears that the Mord’Sith, it appears, are martyrs to the point of stupidity.
Again, Kahlan is not surprised. “And if it gets infected?”
“I’ve had worse.”
Kahlan does not doubt her. After a moment, she employs a different tactic. “The horses need rest,” she ventures, choosing to use the animals as her excuse.
Cara, stubborn as a mule, only ventures a glance down at her own steed. "Denna has taken care of these mounts. They can go a bit longer."
It's infuriating, and yet she’s not quite willing to judge her for it. Their meeting with Denna has left a sour taste in her mouth, but it also leaves a glimmer of understanding.
As firm as the Sisters of the Light could be, they were ruthless only when kindness was not an option.
Mord'Sith, it appears, have no such code.
Kahlan cannot imagine what life was like for Cara Mason.
"Cara, I'm tired too," she finally sighs, a last resort. "We need to eat something."
A rabbit scuttles across their path. Cara matter-of-factly pulls her Colt out and aims with her injured arm.
She shoots. The horses jump only slightly. Kahlan follows the path of the shot and then glances at the other woman.
Cara’s eyes meet her own, defiant and proud.
Kahlan decides to hold her tongue.
At the very least there will be rabbit for dinner tonight.
--
Somehow, despite her stubborn silence, Cara has heard her. The trail they find leads them toward the canyons. At the base of them lies the turbulent San Luis River.
There are wolves here, evident by the tracks and the droppings they come across. Kahlan keeps her hand on her Colt revolver as they pick through the thorny brush and discover a crevice that leads them down to the sandy bank of the river.
The quiet, serene water that seemed to welcome them so prettily just this morning has transformed now into a massive, teeming torrent of dangerous liquid. Cold, black water rushes past them with a current that can be dangerous if they’re not careful.
Men and horses larger and stronger than them both have been swept away by the river. Still, it is cold, clean water and presents a chance to rest. Kahlan welcomes the break from the tedium of the journey. As she dismounts, she is so exhausted she discovers she can do little more than keep herself upright. Her legs tremble. Her mouth feels dry and parched. She tastes the grime of the hard ride, dust lodged in her gumsthat has turned into foul tastng mud. Her skin burns from its exposure to the sun. She feels faint and dehydrated and uses the horse for support as she leads the tired mare to the water.
The horse drinks gratefully. That is what Kahlan focuses on, taking care that her animal does not drink too much too quickly. She rubs at the mane, tangling fingers into sweaty, course hair, combing in reassuring thanks for her hard work.
When she allows herself to finally tend to her own needs, the water is ice cold and speeds into her lungs like she's swallowed a shard of ice. It's painful and sweet and it revives her with just enough strength to lift her head and finally allow herself to look beyond the river and to the other side.
Mexico.
From this distance, it looks unassuming and peaceful. Mountains and sparse vegetation lines the canvas, creating the illusion of a gorgeous oil painting of a landscape. Sun blazes on cactus at such a distance she can barely make them out.
From where she stands, Mexico looks no different than New Austin.
She knows that is not the truth. New Austin may be wild, but Mexico is a land plagued with revolution, struggling to break free from the dictator rule of a general and his army. It is filled with chaos and darkness. Finding Richard there will be as difficult as looking for a needle in a haystack and twice as dangerous.
"We'll cross tonight when it gets dark," she hears, a whisper of breath that flits across her shoulder. Startled, Kahlan rubs at the sudden goosebumps that have wrinkled on her arm as Cara, now at her side, stares across the bank. Cara does not seem to notice their proximity.
“Cara.”
“Yes.”
“What did Denna tell you?”
Cara glances at her and after a moment, looks away. “It doesn’t matter," she replies, fingers idle in the shallow water that laps against the bank. “When it comes time for you to know, you’ll know it.”
“And what’s wrong with knowing it right now?” she asks, and her voice rises. It sounds petulant, but Kahlan hates being treated with kid gloves. It has happened too often, by well-meaning men who never knew better and experienced much less.
“Because I don’t trust what Denna has told me,” Cara snaps back, blond hair whipping as she catches her with a hard stare. “They’re mere crumbs of information. I’m hoping they’ll prove useful, but there will be no plans based on it until I trust she will not lead us into a trap.”
As much as she hates to admit it, Cara has a point. Though Denna helped them escape from the posse in Plainview, though she even gave them her horses, it's hard to shake Denna’s cold, calculating smile. The possessive intent in her voice and her actions. The expression on her face as she laid eyes on Cara Mason.
She remembers now, as they sit quietly on a bank, what it was she walked in just before they made their escape.
The tightness in her chest returns. “You don’t like her.”
“Mord’Sith as a whole are not likable people,” Cara answers flatly. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
She remembers Cara’s unbuttoned vest. The drink in her hand. She remembers Denna’s posture, fluid and relaxed on that bed.
It’s infuriating, to remember so much of it. To be consumed with so many... feelings on the matter at all.
Kahlan is not usually led by her own emotion. Years of loss and survival have taught her to rationalize; to be careful.
Cara Mason and her impulsive nature have infected her.
It seems that Denna has as well, because just as Denna wanted to prove to Kahlan that in some unnatural way Cara still belonged to her and to the Mord’Sith, Kahlan finds herself battling the very same urge.
Because Cara Mason is here, whether by debt or trust, she is here, beside her. They stand together on the border of New Austin, and there is so much unfamiliarity about every part of it, but for some reason, what is familiar is Cara.
Cara’s shoulder brushes hers at just this moment, and Kahlan bites her lower lip in response. Her new friend (if that’s what she is) is unaware of her strange visions and the lewd direction of her thoughts.
Yet if the interaction with Denna is any indication, Cara is no stranger to physical attraction between women.
These thoughts will drive her mad.
“How are we crossing?”
“The bridge.” Cara squats, lowering herself to the ground. The bruises on her face jut out like war paint, highlighting angled cheek bones and piercing blue eyes. “We’re crossing on the tracks.”
The tracks. Built as a bridge between Mexico and New Austin, this is the only bridge within a manageable distance that crosses the river. The tracks are in a thick, harsh part of New Austin. They are generally used mostly by the army and traders and of course, black market peddlers.
Kahlan nods. Though it is not their only option to crossing this wide river, any other way requires convincing a person to ferry them across. It will not do to make themselves or their intentions known. Their visit to Plainview spelled that out quite clearly.
At night, everyone in the world sleeps except the predators that hunt and the prey that scurries. There are fewer prying eyes who will look at Cara's leather chaps and see dollar signs.
Theyare being hunted, and on this bank there is also a bounty and a bullet wound in her companion's shoulder.
"Wouldn't it be better to cross sooner, rather than waiting?" From this distance, Cara's arched brown looks almost amused at Kahlan’s own stupidity. Kahlan’s lips press together, and prays for patience. "Cara, you're hurt.” She nods to the wound on Cara’s shoulder. “The sooner we leave New Austin the better."
"And what kind of fairy land do you think Mexico is that I would be treated any better?"
“I harbor no delusions.”
And she doesn’t. She has lived her entire life as an outsider. As a woman and a perceived half-breed. Mexico will be no different.
Her companion will not fair any better. Cara, with her dirty blonde hair and bottomless blue eyes, will be seen by the Mexicans as a Gringa, and though she is an intimidating woman and can handle a horse and a gun better than most men Kahlan knows, she is still a woman and an American.
The true challenge in this journey is still to come and already, they have lost Zedd.
Perhaps it is the lack of space between them, the way Cara shifts against her, light as a breeze, that couples with Kahlan's exhaustion and works to break down her reality, dim the repeated warnings in her head that have so often reminded her that the Cara she somehow remembers is not the Cara that exists.
Kahlan turns her head and watches unabashedly as Cara does her best to splash cold water against her shoulder, taking care not to soak herself with frigid water.
Her movements are awkward... jerky, and with very good reason. Just two days ago, Cara Mason was beaten and left for dead. She may have as many lives as an unlucky cat, but she also has the limitations of a human being who has not slept nor had a good meal in more than a day.
Led by instinct, Kahlan bites down a sigh and reaches for Cara’s hands, stilling her movements. As her hands clasp around Cara’s wrist, she feels a steady heartbeat. It pumps, nearly pounds, underneath Kahlan’s touch.
"What are you doing?"
Panicked eyes study the contact, like a frightened animal being petted against it’s will. Kahlan does not heed her sensitivities.
"I'm tending to your shoulder." Kahlan’s grip is firm. With strong hands she wraps around Cara, pulling them both and moving them away from the water and up the bank.
She keeps her eyes on Cara’s wound.
"Are you a nursemaid now, Confessor?"
The tone is tight enough to make Kahlan smile. She’s grateful. Cara’s insecurity at her close proximity lightens her soul just to enough to bring back some of her old humor. “I have more talents that you would even begin to guess, MordSith.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cara’s lips quirk, appreciating the cockiness. Apparently, it is the key to obedience, because Cara stands still and allows her to touch.
“I look forward to seeing those talents, Confessor.”
That voice. The way it lowers in register, rushes through her with such intensity that it sets her heart pounding and makes her palms nearly slip off of Cara.
Cara’s stare burns at her, and Kahlan’s so, so muddled by it.
It’s terrifying, and yet Kahlan keeps touching Cara. She cannot look at her, she absolutely cannot look into those eyes that are so obviously staring at her, so she focuses on her task as Cara waits as if she’s a child. Kahlan’s fingers fumble with the buttons of Cara’s vest. She accidently brushes a digit against a full breast and clamps down the way her body reacts to it.
It’s madness, to feel this way. To REACT this way.
She is driven by lust and the need to nurture and underneath her hands is Cara’s skin, bruised and beaten and remarkably smooth despite the abuse.
The white shirt underneath the vest clings to the wound, stained red at the shoulder. Clotted blood acts like a paste, and Cara’s breath goes unsteady when Kahlan peels it away.
As for the wound itself...
Kahlan sucks in a breath at the state of it.
"How have you been riding like this?" she asks, horrified at the bruised, jagged flesh.
"It's only a flesh wound," Cara tells her, as Cara would, but her voice, unsteady with pain, betrays her. Kahlan’s fingers prod against the abused flesh, testing the edges, looking for signs of infection. It’s inflamed and the wound is large enough to worry her.
Her head lifts. "We'll have to cauterize the wound to prevent infection."
The water has cleaned it, but it’s also reopened the wound. Fresh blood, red and vibrant, now seeps from Cara’s tanned, marred shoulder with the smooth skin and scarred flesh, and stains Kahlan’s fingers. Any more hard riding and Cara will lose too much blood. The infection will grow.
“It’s going to hurt,” Kahlan warns her, if only to fill the silence.
And though she is beginning to know this woman, understand those quirks, Kahlan discovers that Cara surprises her. The very idea seems to almost cheer her up. Full lips turn into a sneer that could also be a smile, and blue eyes glitter at her. "Are you afraid of pain, Confessor?" she asks, chin rising. She sounds so affronted at the thought that Kahlan can’t help but lift her chin right back.
"The last I remember pain hurts," she remarks dryly. "Most sane men would seek to avoid it."
Of course, not Cara.The small Mord'Sith huffs like an annoyed stallion. "Pain reminds you that you're alive."
They are alive.
Cara, with her cat-lives, has survived an almost certain hanging, a near lynching, a beating that should have killed her.
She lives because she is resilient and she lives because of Kahlan.
There is a long, long journey ahead and the odds are stacked against them.
But for now, on this bank, they are alive. The soreness in Kahlan’s body, the bruises on Cara’s face, are trophies and reminders.
Kahlan is overwhelmed. She stares at Cara, sees the way her eyes burn with her passion.
Cara and her devilish charm enchants her. Her fingers lift - she traces the line of Cara’s jaw, stopping at a dark bruise that feels like a kiss against the skin. “If that is the case, then I have never met anyone who is as alive as you are, Cara Mason,” she whispers.
She cannot read this woman. She cannot stare into her soul, manipulate her like Kahlan can with so many.
It is her that feels bewitched, as her touch lingers, forward and bold and nothing like Kahlan has ever been.
Cara moves so slightly. Just enough to press closer, push into Kahlan’s lingering touch. Her eyes sparkle… they burn.
A coyote howls in the distance. One of the mares whines nervously in response.
Kahlan’s finger drops. She discovers her proximity, too close to Cara, and with a dizzy breath, steps back from the other woman.
She feels as intoxicated as the town drunk. It frightens her. Kahlan whirls, moves with unsteady steps to the uncertain horse.
“I know now why is it they call you a witch,” she hears, so breathless that Kahlan breaks her resolve and looks.
Cara has turned away from her. Her focus is on her horse, where it should be.
Kahlan swallows her disappointment and follows her example.
After all, there is a fire to be built.
--
It's dangerous to camp near the river. The river invites strangers and predators.
Though they are sore and tired, Car and Kahlan walk the horses away from the back, through the trail that leads them out of the canyon to go deeper into the brush. There, Kahlan finds an opening that leads to a flat plateau.
It is safe enough. Kahlan builds her fire. It's a gamble and a dangerous one. With a fire comes smoke.
But Cara’s shoulder is on its way to infection, and she is weak with blood loss and lack of food.
They stand no chance of rescuing Richard if they are both starved and injured. There is no choice.
Once again, Kahlan wishes for her pack of rations and Zedd’s matchbox. She makes do instead with flint that she carries in her pocket, scavenging tinder from dead stems that she finds. The flame that she nurses takes it’s time growing in strength.
Through it all, Cara is remarkably quiet. Her energy is waning, that much is clear. But even so, there are no sharp remarks, no comments of impatience. Cara’s wild spirit seems to have settled; it strikes Kahlan, reminds her of a wild dog she once adopted when she was a teenager, who was feral for days until he warily trusted her enough to sit and watch, lick his wounds in full view of her.
The old dog became her loyal companion for a very, very long time.
Kahlan both appreciates and worries at Cara’s distance. There is no one now but the two of them, and though her senses are confused, she understands that what holds them together now is the trust they have managed to forge. It’s tenuous and new, but it exists.
So she takes comfort that though Cara has been rendered mute, she does not hide. She watches the flame grow, until the fire is snapping and the fading sun moves further toward the horizon. The rabbit sits on a spit that Cara herself whittled, roasting and filling their small camp with the smell of roasted meat.
Kahlan removes the down she collected from a felled bird. Cara watches as Kahlan carefully cleans it, and stares even more intensely still as she plucks a flowering Yarrow.
“Are you picking flowers for me, Confessor?”
Kahlan blinks, and discovers herself fighting her smile as she says simply, “This will slow any more bleeding.”
Cara nods quietly.
“Come on,” she says, and Cara obeys, rising to her haunches and scooting closer to fire.
Kahlan carries the secrets of her people within her. She remembers them still, and this is not the first time she has used their techniques to burn an infection out of a wound.
But it has never felt like this. Kahlan has never felt so… tentative. She has never felt quite so careful.
There is nothing to do but what must be done, and so Kahlan takes a breath and then settles herself astride Cara’s thighs, ignoring the surprised gasp that spills from Cara’s lips, the way Cara’s hands clasp onto her waist.
“Hold still,” she instructs, and once again pushes the fabric away from the wound, baring Cara’s shoulder. “This is going to hurt,” she reminds her. Cara rolls her eyes in response.
Kahlan considers that permission enough. She lights the stem of the plant on fire, and after a moment, places the burning stem against the wound.
The smell of human flesh burning is an unpleasant one. Kahlan’s nose wrinkles against the stench. She feels Cara twitch underneath her. Cara’s hands tighten in reflex, clamping against her waist. The other woman breathes harshly, teeth grinding as the air pushes out of her nose. Her features contort in a painful grimace, but Cara does not cry out.
“Almost done,” Kahlan whispers, and then pulls the stem away, immediately packing the down against the wound.
Cara’s fingers twitch, pressing into her. Kahlan’s legs tighten, keeping the other woman in place. “Let me borrow this,” she breathes, deliberate as she takes hold of Cara’s hand and pressing it to her own shoulder, keeping the down in place.
She lifts off just enough to grab hold of her makeshift bandage, torn from the lapel of her own shirt, and wraps it tight against Cara's shoulder.
She does not miss how Cara's palms return to her waist, pressing in without hesitation.
After a moment Cara breathes again, steadier than before.
“Done,” Kahlan whispers, and inspects her handy work. She has been careful. The down will keep it clean. The bandage will keep the down in place. It is only a flesh wound and it will heal well. Whatever scars that remain will be small.
Kahlan’s eyes wander to a long, jagged line that hits Cara’s collar bone and travels down into her cleavage. It reminds her of a distorted lightning bolt.
Obviously, others have not been quite so generous with their care.
“Thank you,” she hears. Cara’s voice is weak and her eyes shine with unshed tears. She is stoic and weak from the ordeal. Kahlan is surprised when she laughs quietly.
“What is it?” she asks.
“If the Wizard could see you now,” she whispers, blue eyes opening to share their mirth. “Straddling me as if I was one of your horses, playing nursemaid to a Mord’Sith.”
Kahlan flushes at the reminder. She lifts, pushing at Cara’s good shoulder as lifts off the other woman. “I imagine not even I could stop him from shooting you with one of his Pepper Bombs,” she admits good-naturedly. “The wound will heal,” she adds in the quiet the follows.
She watches the fire, as the flames pop and sparkle, throw heat on her skin that begins to feel good as the sun continues its descent and it grows chillier.
“Those were Indian Methods,” Cara says suddenly.
Kahlan’s lips quirk as she nods. “Yes,” she whispers, and her heart aches. “My tribe taught me more than my witch Confessor technique. They also taught me how to heal.”
Beside her, Cara absorbs that. Kahlan knows she is thinking, processing, and so she lets her.
She does not want to be only a Mother Confessor to this woman.
“But you’re not an Indian,” Cara reasons, and Kahlan’s mouth goes dry. “It’s true then, what they say? You’re a half-breed?”
It’s an assumption, but a correct one. “Family is not defined by blood,” Kahlan whispers quietly. “The Sisters of the Light do not accept men into their tribe. My mother was a half breed. She chose my father to father a child for her. He was a white man.”
She remembers her father, and sometimes wishes she didn’t.
Cara stays quiet. Kahlan knows Cara is looking at her. For once, it does not frazzles her. The memories come back in powerful, vibrant colors. “She fell ill when I was a child, and did not recover. I was raised by the Old Mother.”
“And yet when you found me, you told Zedd he and Richard were your family.”
Yes. A lump forms in Kahlan’s throat. It’s painful to swallow.
“Zedd knew and respected The Old Mother. He taught me English, educated me. Then the Union wanted our land. Settlers demanded it. They needed land for their cattle. They needed animals to hunt. And a tribe of women ? They claimed we were witches.”
It’s a harsh story, and it hurts to tell it. The ache in Kahlan’s heart burns, made stronger by her anger as she remembers these events. Her loss. “When they came, the tribe was scattered. It was a massacre. The Old Mother was killed. I was saved because of my face. My white face,” she murmurs, and shakes her head at the ridiculousness of it. “Zedd convinced them I was a prisoner of the tribe. And he and Richard took me in. They became my family.” The tears on her face surprises her. She sniffs, wipes at them furiously. Cara does not say a word. “This is more than mere devotion to a man, Cara,” she says, conviction coating her words. “I will give my life for my family, because they have given their lives for me.”
She is lost in her emotion. It freezes her heart. Cara moves beside her, leaning forward to turn the rabbit on the spit, before settling back into her place beside Kahlan.
After a moment, Kahlan hears, “I’ll ride the river with you, Kahlan.”
A tear betrays her and drifts down her cheek. “Why?” she asks but does not look.
Cara never answers her, but Kahlan suddenly understands.
Whatever family Cara had, she has already lost it.
--
It’s been a long day. Kahlan, exhausted from their day of travel, does not have the patience for Cara’s behavior.
Richard would understand. Of course he would. He understands Cara in a way Kahlan cannot, and Kahlan knows herself well enough to admit she is jealous over it.
Today she is only frustrated.
Cara usually knows better. Cara is BETTER than this.
With a flustered inhalation, Kahlan glances down at the curious leather complexity that is the Mord'Sith's chosen apparel. Quietly, she reaches for the buckle at Cara's hip.
Fingers suddenly wrap around hers, gripping hard.
"Don't."
Flushed features smack of inebriation, but Cara's tone carries with it not only sincerity but a hint of warning.
Kahlan has become well acquainted with the intonation. It is reserved for enemies of Richard, and usually such a warning is followed by the lethal jab of an agiel.
To hear it now, directed at her, with Cara's fingers clutching hers in a drunken but crushing grip, to see dark eyes trained on her with the predatory glare that remind her, always, of a lounging panther, give Kahlan pause.
She sucks in a breath and resettles herself against Cara's prone form, deliberately turning her grip until her fingers are now tangled with Cara's bare fingers.
"You need to sleep off the drink. I'm just trying to help you get more comfortable."
Dark eyes dart, from their joined hands to Kahlan's face. When Kahlan's brow rises in challenge, Cara snorts, immediately reminding Kahlan of a stomping, agitated horse in the midst of being broken.
The comparison brings with it a small smile. "Cara, please."
The word tumbles off her lips and into the air unexpectedly. Cara stiffens underneath her, and Kahlan wishes again for Richard, who handles Cara in a way she has never quite mastered.
She keeps her resolve, however, and is finally rewarded when the Mord'Sith suddenly lets go, hands falling to her sides, splaying out as if she is offering herself to her.
With a shaky smile, Kahlan goes to work on the buckle, but finds her fingers clumsy, her grip awkward.
She forces down her harsh swallow and yanks.
"Had you not scared off the bar wench, I would have already been plenty comfortable."
Kahlan's cheeks burn with the image that has been presented to her after nearly a day of searching for Cara: a common wench straddling the Mord'Sith's lap, pouring liquor into Cara's mouth and loudly whispering her ardent wish to 'please the Seeker's protector'.
"And they proclaim the Mother Confessor is both fair and tolerant."
Cara's words are slurred with the effects of inebriation, but her eyes dance at her, as if to tease her.
Kahlan's irritation swells. "I won't have anyone taking advantage of you. Not in this state."
"And if I wanted her to?"
Cara's mouth pulled into a smirk. Kahlan felt a cold flush sink into her.
"Then you are a fool," she snaps. In truth, it was she who feels foolish. She acted in the heat of the moment, emotions fresh from both losing Cara on this ill-fated quest, and finding her again in the arms of a common bar wench, drunk and demanding and everything a warrior entrusted with the protection of the Seeker should not have been. "Only an idiot would allow themselves to drink this way, put themselves at the mercy of others. I would have expected better of you."
"The Mother Confessor expect such things of a Mord'Sith?" Cara's tone is openly mocking.
"Stop it," she hisses, eyes flashing with hurt. "Do not say things you will regret in this intoxication."
The passion rises within her, and she feels the ferocity taint her movements, fingers seeking out the laces at Cara's waist. Once again, hands descend upon her, grabbing hold of her biceps and tugging. Off balance, Kahlan falls forward heavily, breath pushed out of her as she is now sprawled against Cara's body, Cara's ale-soaked breath puffing against her cheek.
Cara shifts suddenly, and she is now trapped underneath the shorter woman, caught between a mattress of hay and a woman whose eyes glitter with dangerous intent.
"I regret nothing," she hears, before lips pressed heatedly against her mouth.
“-Kahlan!”
Kahlan’s eyes open. For a moment, she is unseeing, unable to comprehend the sudden shift of circumstance. The mattress of hay is now hard-packed earth. The leathers she wore are now fabric pants and a paisley shirt. The Mord’Sith that trapped her is no longer wrapped in leathers but wears a vest over a stained white shirt.
This is a different era. A different time. There are no agiels. There are no Wizards. There is no magic and there are no Seekers.
But there is Cara. Cara with the same face, with those same blue eyes, those same full laps, who kneels against her and stares at her with an unabashed look of concern.
Kahlan sucks in a panicked breath, trying desperately to understand. Her head swims with uncertainty, and Cara's palm strokes her shoulder, heated against her skin.
“You were dreaming,” Cara tells her, in that same rough voice, with a hint of twang because this is New Austin.
But she is Cara Mason, and she is Kahlan Amnell and they are family.
They belong to each other.
Lost in time, heart pounding with sudden emotion and need, Kahlan cannot help her impulse. She does not fight it.
Her head lifts without hesitation, and opens her lips against Cara's.
With a passionate, hungry kiss, Kahlan comes home.
Author: Misty Flores
Rating: R
Genre: Legend of the Seeker, Cara/Kahlan - Western AU
Teaser: And so it begins, in the darkest hours of the night, in the company of an old man and a killer, Kahlan embarks on the journey to save the life of her dearest friend, and in the process take on the most dangerous gang of outlaws New Austin has ever seen.
Notes: A LOTS Western AU in a world inspired by the Red Dead Universe. That means guns and cowboys and lots of scoundrels. For anomalys, one of the winners of my offering of fic for the help_japan auction. bk1482, you’ve got a WMC one coming right after this one. Promise.
Sorry this took so long. Real life has kicked me in the ass.
Chapters
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five
Chapter Six: Someone to Ride the River With
"It ain't exactly a secret I didn't get these scars from falling over in church."
-
Luck is only with them until they reach the inside of the wooden shack that is meant to be Denna’s stable.
Inside the air is so thick and pungent with the smell of animal that Kahlan nearly chokes on the stench. But she plows through, ignoring her stinging eyes and the physical urge to wretch to head for an Appaloosa mare that reminds her intensely of a horse she had been given when she was with the Sisters of the Light. She grabs a saddle blanket that waits nearby, throwing it over the animal’s back and clicking her teeth reassuringly when the horse whinnies in protest.
Everything that she has so carefully packed before she left Armadillo is sitting behind the saddle of the mare she rode into Plainview. But there's no time to think on that now.
This horse has only the saddle, and in her haste, she knows she fumbles the work to tighten it.
“Hurry up,” Cara hisses, even though it’s obvious that Kahlan is hurrying. She glares, blows a strand of dark hair out of her sweaty face and reaches for the horn of the saddle to haul herself up. Just as her foot is in the stirrup, a deafening bang rings out. It's so loud and unexpected that it startles her mount significantly; the mare nearly tosses her back against the shed.
Zedd’s pepper bombs, she realizes. The Wizard has gone to work.
Kahlan’s heart stutters. It pounds with guilt and fear, and with that emotion, she absorbs the screams of the men who have been affected; howls of pain and blasts of shout that rise above her own heavy breathing and the horse’s excited pants.
It distracts those who must be distracted, just as Kahlan knows it will, but what price will Zedd pay for it?
“Dammit,” Cara hisses. Kahlan looks up. Cara is already on her horse. Her colored eyes are wild as she jerks at the reigns. “Kahlan, let’s go!”
The anxiety in Cara’s voiceis what propels her. She scrambles, once again digging her boot into the stirrup of the animal beside her, and grabbing hold of the horn with all her might before she shouts, “Giddap!”
Obediently, the mare lurches forward, launching Kahlan into her saddle and nearly over the horse’s head as they rush for the open. It’s a battle to stay astride the horse but she succeeds, finding her position as she clamps with her thighs.
Hooves dig in dirt, clomping them out of the shed and into the chaos of the unfriendly town of Plainview. Her teeth chatter with the force of the gallop, but her eyes remain fixed on Cara. She wraps her fingers through the rough leather of the straps that match the bridle and feels as if they are setting pace with the beats of her heart.
In their haste, they fly.
Cara’s bowler hat whips off her head but she pays no attention as she veers them out onto the main road. A man turns the corner, comes at them quickly. It's not quick enough. Cara nearly tramples him for his trouble, just as the pistol he holds goes upright. He falls back with a harsh, unforgiving thud but the shot goes off anyway. It’s wild and loud, startling Kahlan’s already skittish horse.
There’s no room for mistakes; no time for tumbles. Though her muscles already ache with her stressed stiffness, Kahlan arches with her hips, digs into the horse’s side with the heel of her boot and forces the mare’s momentum forward. It’s enough to even her stride with Cara, match her pace as they head down the uneven road that will lead them quickly out of town.
Of course they catch attention. They’re fleeing without finesse, and even in the wake of a Zedd-induced chaos, Cara’s leathers are hard to miss. Shots blast off behind them, loud and menacing. Kahlan thanks any spirit that will hear her that it is drunkards and miners who are doing the aiming, because though the shots are many they are also wild.
And so they ride at a furious pace. Cara does not look back and so Kahlan does not either. She keeps her eyes on the uneven road, but does not miss as beside her, Cara lifts off her haunches and points her pistol behind them, giving as good as she is receiving.
The blasts are disorienting, making her ears ring. Gunpowder spits off of Cara’s barrel, digging into Kahlan’s cheek like a hot kiss. Kahlan winces but doesn’t slow.
It’s only when Cara suddenly grunts, inhaling suddenly with a husky whine that Kahlan realizes that something is wrong.
She whirls, registers the obvious pain on the Mord’Sith’sface; sees the blood seeping through the fabric at Cara’s shoulder.
"Cara!"
“Keep going!” Cara yells. She doesn’t bother with any more shots. Instead, the other woman swivels in her seat, blonde hair whipping about her face as she focuses on the open road ahead of them.
She is a wounded devil leading her into hell, and Kahlan has no choice but to swallow hard as the dust kicks in her face, following her into the wilderness of Hades.
--
Drunkards and miners prove to be no match for a Mord’Sithwhore and a Mother Confessor, even if the Mord’Sith is wounded and the Mother Confessor is burdened with guilt.
Though the gunshots fade as they leave the town behind them, there is no stopping or slowing their pace.
Without conversation, the pair rides south and they ride hard. The day gets hotter blasting blazing rays of sunshine on them that assault them both. Kahlan’s skin goes pink, but Cara, with no hat to protect her face, begins to look near crimson.
Their horses do not escape unscathed. Kahlan’s mare pants underneath her and her spotted coat glistens with exertion. She’s an obedient animal but it’s clear that she’s tiring.
As they go south, they veer off the wide dirt roads and head into open desert. Tumbleweeds and Cactus are their only friends now. Brush and nettles their only greeters.
The desolate desert taunts Kahlan with its nakedness.
But beyond them is the River. And with the river comes Mexico. In Mexico is retribution in the form of Richard Cypher.
With every step forward, she is that much closer to fulfilling her promise to save Richard from the terrible fate Darken Rahl has decreed.
But at what cost?
Zedd, a man who is just as much family to her as Richard, has been left behind in a flurry of chaos and smoke and uncertainty. She offered him no goodbyes. No thanks or appreciation for all he has done. Her payment for his kindness has been abandonment.
Kahlan has told herself more than once that as the last of her kind, she is used to this loneliness. The Sisters of the Light, the massacre from which she was rescued, has created more scars in her soul than she would ever admit to.
Now, the adrenaline fades and Kahlan realizes that she is once again alone.
Except of course, for a mute stranger.A villain. A former Mord’Sith who still wears those leather chaps, as if she has no idea how to even begin to exist without them.
Exhaustion takes hold as the horses slow from a gallop to a trot, then from a trot to a walk.
At the slower pace, Kahlan turns to study the other woman. Of course there is no ability to read her, and Kahlan discovers uncomfortably that she is getting used to that. But she worries. She watches the way Cara shifts uncomfortably on the horse as they ride. She sees the way the blood has seeped and scabbed over on Cara’s shoulder. Kahlan can only pray that the bullet that hit the other woman is not still lodged in her body.
Still, there HAS been blood loss, and Cara has been riding for at least three hours without treatment, under a punishing sun and the barest sips of water.
Cara bears the pain without comment or complaint.
But surely, she must feel it.
“We should stop,” Kahlan finds herself saying. The silence broken, Cara’s eyes whirl to catch her own, as if she's only just now noticed that Kahlan is still with her. The expression on her face is flushed and annoyed. Kahlan finds herself swallowing her own inappropriate mirth when she realizes she's getting used to it. “We need to clean your shoulder, Cara.”
“It’s just a graze.”
Cara continues to ride.
She considers hers options, as it appears that the Mord’Sith, it appears, are martyrs to the point of stupidity.
Again, Kahlan is not surprised. “And if it gets infected?”
“I’ve had worse.”
Kahlan does not doubt her. After a moment, she employs a different tactic. “The horses need rest,” she ventures, choosing to use the animals as her excuse.
Cara, stubborn as a mule, only ventures a glance down at her own steed. "Denna has taken care of these mounts. They can go a bit longer."
It's infuriating, and yet she’s not quite willing to judge her for it. Their meeting with Denna has left a sour taste in her mouth, but it also leaves a glimmer of understanding.
As firm as the Sisters of the Light could be, they were ruthless only when kindness was not an option.
Mord'Sith, it appears, have no such code.
Kahlan cannot imagine what life was like for Cara Mason.
"Cara, I'm tired too," she finally sighs, a last resort. "We need to eat something."
A rabbit scuttles across their path. Cara matter-of-factly pulls her Colt out and aims with her injured arm.
She shoots. The horses jump only slightly. Kahlan follows the path of the shot and then glances at the other woman.
Cara’s eyes meet her own, defiant and proud.
Kahlan decides to hold her tongue.
At the very least there will be rabbit for dinner tonight.
--
Somehow, despite her stubborn silence, Cara has heard her. The trail they find leads them toward the canyons. At the base of them lies the turbulent San Luis River.
There are wolves here, evident by the tracks and the droppings they come across. Kahlan keeps her hand on her Colt revolver as they pick through the thorny brush and discover a crevice that leads them down to the sandy bank of the river.
The quiet, serene water that seemed to welcome them so prettily just this morning has transformed now into a massive, teeming torrent of dangerous liquid. Cold, black water rushes past them with a current that can be dangerous if they’re not careful.
Men and horses larger and stronger than them both have been swept away by the river. Still, it is cold, clean water and presents a chance to rest. Kahlan welcomes the break from the tedium of the journey. As she dismounts, she is so exhausted she discovers she can do little more than keep herself upright. Her legs tremble. Her mouth feels dry and parched. She tastes the grime of the hard ride, dust lodged in her gumsthat has turned into foul tastng mud. Her skin burns from its exposure to the sun. She feels faint and dehydrated and uses the horse for support as she leads the tired mare to the water.
The horse drinks gratefully. That is what Kahlan focuses on, taking care that her animal does not drink too much too quickly. She rubs at the mane, tangling fingers into sweaty, course hair, combing in reassuring thanks for her hard work.
When she allows herself to finally tend to her own needs, the water is ice cold and speeds into her lungs like she's swallowed a shard of ice. It's painful and sweet and it revives her with just enough strength to lift her head and finally allow herself to look beyond the river and to the other side.
Mexico.
From this distance, it looks unassuming and peaceful. Mountains and sparse vegetation lines the canvas, creating the illusion of a gorgeous oil painting of a landscape. Sun blazes on cactus at such a distance she can barely make them out.
From where she stands, Mexico looks no different than New Austin.
She knows that is not the truth. New Austin may be wild, but Mexico is a land plagued with revolution, struggling to break free from the dictator rule of a general and his army. It is filled with chaos and darkness. Finding Richard there will be as difficult as looking for a needle in a haystack and twice as dangerous.
"We'll cross tonight when it gets dark," she hears, a whisper of breath that flits across her shoulder. Startled, Kahlan rubs at the sudden goosebumps that have wrinkled on her arm as Cara, now at her side, stares across the bank. Cara does not seem to notice their proximity.
“Cara.”
“Yes.”
“What did Denna tell you?”
Cara glances at her and after a moment, looks away. “It doesn’t matter," she replies, fingers idle in the shallow water that laps against the bank. “When it comes time for you to know, you’ll know it.”
“And what’s wrong with knowing it right now?” she asks, and her voice rises. It sounds petulant, but Kahlan hates being treated with kid gloves. It has happened too often, by well-meaning men who never knew better and experienced much less.
“Because I don’t trust what Denna has told me,” Cara snaps back, blond hair whipping as she catches her with a hard stare. “They’re mere crumbs of information. I’m hoping they’ll prove useful, but there will be no plans based on it until I trust she will not lead us into a trap.”
As much as she hates to admit it, Cara has a point. Though Denna helped them escape from the posse in Plainview, though she even gave them her horses, it's hard to shake Denna’s cold, calculating smile. The possessive intent in her voice and her actions. The expression on her face as she laid eyes on Cara Mason.
She remembers now, as they sit quietly on a bank, what it was she walked in just before they made their escape.
The tightness in her chest returns. “You don’t like her.”
“Mord’Sith as a whole are not likable people,” Cara answers flatly. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
She remembers Cara’s unbuttoned vest. The drink in her hand. She remembers Denna’s posture, fluid and relaxed on that bed.
It’s infuriating, to remember so much of it. To be consumed with so many... feelings on the matter at all.
Kahlan is not usually led by her own emotion. Years of loss and survival have taught her to rationalize; to be careful.
Cara Mason and her impulsive nature have infected her.
It seems that Denna has as well, because just as Denna wanted to prove to Kahlan that in some unnatural way Cara still belonged to her and to the Mord’Sith, Kahlan finds herself battling the very same urge.
Because Cara Mason is here, whether by debt or trust, she is here, beside her. They stand together on the border of New Austin, and there is so much unfamiliarity about every part of it, but for some reason, what is familiar is Cara.
Cara’s shoulder brushes hers at just this moment, and Kahlan bites her lower lip in response. Her new friend (if that’s what she is) is unaware of her strange visions and the lewd direction of her thoughts.
Yet if the interaction with Denna is any indication, Cara is no stranger to physical attraction between women.
These thoughts will drive her mad.
“How are we crossing?”
“The bridge.” Cara squats, lowering herself to the ground. The bruises on her face jut out like war paint, highlighting angled cheek bones and piercing blue eyes. “We’re crossing on the tracks.”
The tracks. Built as a bridge between Mexico and New Austin, this is the only bridge within a manageable distance that crosses the river. The tracks are in a thick, harsh part of New Austin. They are generally used mostly by the army and traders and of course, black market peddlers.
Kahlan nods. Though it is not their only option to crossing this wide river, any other way requires convincing a person to ferry them across. It will not do to make themselves or their intentions known. Their visit to Plainview spelled that out quite clearly.
At night, everyone in the world sleeps except the predators that hunt and the prey that scurries. There are fewer prying eyes who will look at Cara's leather chaps and see dollar signs.
Theyare being hunted, and on this bank there is also a bounty and a bullet wound in her companion's shoulder.
"Wouldn't it be better to cross sooner, rather than waiting?" From this distance, Cara's arched brown looks almost amused at Kahlan’s own stupidity. Kahlan’s lips press together, and prays for patience. "Cara, you're hurt.” She nods to the wound on Cara’s shoulder. “The sooner we leave New Austin the better."
"And what kind of fairy land do you think Mexico is that I would be treated any better?"
“I harbor no delusions.”
And she doesn’t. She has lived her entire life as an outsider. As a woman and a perceived half-breed. Mexico will be no different.
Her companion will not fair any better. Cara, with her dirty blonde hair and bottomless blue eyes, will be seen by the Mexicans as a Gringa, and though she is an intimidating woman and can handle a horse and a gun better than most men Kahlan knows, she is still a woman and an American.
The true challenge in this journey is still to come and already, they have lost Zedd.
Perhaps it is the lack of space between them, the way Cara shifts against her, light as a breeze, that couples with Kahlan's exhaustion and works to break down her reality, dim the repeated warnings in her head that have so often reminded her that the Cara she somehow remembers is not the Cara that exists.
Kahlan turns her head and watches unabashedly as Cara does her best to splash cold water against her shoulder, taking care not to soak herself with frigid water.
Her movements are awkward... jerky, and with very good reason. Just two days ago, Cara Mason was beaten and left for dead. She may have as many lives as an unlucky cat, but she also has the limitations of a human being who has not slept nor had a good meal in more than a day.
Led by instinct, Kahlan bites down a sigh and reaches for Cara’s hands, stilling her movements. As her hands clasp around Cara’s wrist, she feels a steady heartbeat. It pumps, nearly pounds, underneath Kahlan’s touch.
"What are you doing?"
Panicked eyes study the contact, like a frightened animal being petted against it’s will. Kahlan does not heed her sensitivities.
"I'm tending to your shoulder." Kahlan’s grip is firm. With strong hands she wraps around Cara, pulling them both and moving them away from the water and up the bank.
She keeps her eyes on Cara’s wound.
"Are you a nursemaid now, Confessor?"
The tone is tight enough to make Kahlan smile. She’s grateful. Cara’s insecurity at her close proximity lightens her soul just to enough to bring back some of her old humor. “I have more talents that you would even begin to guess, MordSith.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cara’s lips quirk, appreciating the cockiness. Apparently, it is the key to obedience, because Cara stands still and allows her to touch.
“I look forward to seeing those talents, Confessor.”
That voice. The way it lowers in register, rushes through her with such intensity that it sets her heart pounding and makes her palms nearly slip off of Cara.
Cara’s stare burns at her, and Kahlan’s so, so muddled by it.
It’s terrifying, and yet Kahlan keeps touching Cara. She cannot look at her, she absolutely cannot look into those eyes that are so obviously staring at her, so she focuses on her task as Cara waits as if she’s a child. Kahlan’s fingers fumble with the buttons of Cara’s vest. She accidently brushes a digit against a full breast and clamps down the way her body reacts to it.
It’s madness, to feel this way. To REACT this way.
She is driven by lust and the need to nurture and underneath her hands is Cara’s skin, bruised and beaten and remarkably smooth despite the abuse.
The white shirt underneath the vest clings to the wound, stained red at the shoulder. Clotted blood acts like a paste, and Cara’s breath goes unsteady when Kahlan peels it away.
As for the wound itself...
Kahlan sucks in a breath at the state of it.
"How have you been riding like this?" she asks, horrified at the bruised, jagged flesh.
"It's only a flesh wound," Cara tells her, as Cara would, but her voice, unsteady with pain, betrays her. Kahlan’s fingers prod against the abused flesh, testing the edges, looking for signs of infection. It’s inflamed and the wound is large enough to worry her.
Her head lifts. "We'll have to cauterize the wound to prevent infection."
The water has cleaned it, but it’s also reopened the wound. Fresh blood, red and vibrant, now seeps from Cara’s tanned, marred shoulder with the smooth skin and scarred flesh, and stains Kahlan’s fingers. Any more hard riding and Cara will lose too much blood. The infection will grow.
“It’s going to hurt,” Kahlan warns her, if only to fill the silence.
And though she is beginning to know this woman, understand those quirks, Kahlan discovers that Cara surprises her. The very idea seems to almost cheer her up. Full lips turn into a sneer that could also be a smile, and blue eyes glitter at her. "Are you afraid of pain, Confessor?" she asks, chin rising. She sounds so affronted at the thought that Kahlan can’t help but lift her chin right back.
"The last I remember pain hurts," she remarks dryly. "Most sane men would seek to avoid it."
Of course, not Cara.The small Mord'Sith huffs like an annoyed stallion. "Pain reminds you that you're alive."
They are alive.
Cara, with her cat-lives, has survived an almost certain hanging, a near lynching, a beating that should have killed her.
She lives because she is resilient and she lives because of Kahlan.
There is a long, long journey ahead and the odds are stacked against them.
But for now, on this bank, they are alive. The soreness in Kahlan’s body, the bruises on Cara’s face, are trophies and reminders.
Kahlan is overwhelmed. She stares at Cara, sees the way her eyes burn with her passion.
Cara and her devilish charm enchants her. Her fingers lift - she traces the line of Cara’s jaw, stopping at a dark bruise that feels like a kiss against the skin. “If that is the case, then I have never met anyone who is as alive as you are, Cara Mason,” she whispers.
She cannot read this woman. She cannot stare into her soul, manipulate her like Kahlan can with so many.
It is her that feels bewitched, as her touch lingers, forward and bold and nothing like Kahlan has ever been.
Cara moves so slightly. Just enough to press closer, push into Kahlan’s lingering touch. Her eyes sparkle… they burn.
A coyote howls in the distance. One of the mares whines nervously in response.
Kahlan’s finger drops. She discovers her proximity, too close to Cara, and with a dizzy breath, steps back from the other woman.
She feels as intoxicated as the town drunk. It frightens her. Kahlan whirls, moves with unsteady steps to the uncertain horse.
“I know now why is it they call you a witch,” she hears, so breathless that Kahlan breaks her resolve and looks.
Cara has turned away from her. Her focus is on her horse, where it should be.
Kahlan swallows her disappointment and follows her example.
After all, there is a fire to be built.
--
It's dangerous to camp near the river. The river invites strangers and predators.
Though they are sore and tired, Car and Kahlan walk the horses away from the back, through the trail that leads them out of the canyon to go deeper into the brush. There, Kahlan finds an opening that leads to a flat plateau.
It is safe enough. Kahlan builds her fire. It's a gamble and a dangerous one. With a fire comes smoke.
But Cara’s shoulder is on its way to infection, and she is weak with blood loss and lack of food.
They stand no chance of rescuing Richard if they are both starved and injured. There is no choice.
Once again, Kahlan wishes for her pack of rations and Zedd’s matchbox. She makes do instead with flint that she carries in her pocket, scavenging tinder from dead stems that she finds. The flame that she nurses takes it’s time growing in strength.
Through it all, Cara is remarkably quiet. Her energy is waning, that much is clear. But even so, there are no sharp remarks, no comments of impatience. Cara’s wild spirit seems to have settled; it strikes Kahlan, reminds her of a wild dog she once adopted when she was a teenager, who was feral for days until he warily trusted her enough to sit and watch, lick his wounds in full view of her.
The old dog became her loyal companion for a very, very long time.
Kahlan both appreciates and worries at Cara’s distance. There is no one now but the two of them, and though her senses are confused, she understands that what holds them together now is the trust they have managed to forge. It’s tenuous and new, but it exists.
So she takes comfort that though Cara has been rendered mute, she does not hide. She watches the flame grow, until the fire is snapping and the fading sun moves further toward the horizon. The rabbit sits on a spit that Cara herself whittled, roasting and filling their small camp with the smell of roasted meat.
Kahlan removes the down she collected from a felled bird. Cara watches as Kahlan carefully cleans it, and stares even more intensely still as she plucks a flowering Yarrow.
“Are you picking flowers for me, Confessor?”
Kahlan blinks, and discovers herself fighting her smile as she says simply, “This will slow any more bleeding.”
Cara nods quietly.
“Come on,” she says, and Cara obeys, rising to her haunches and scooting closer to fire.
Kahlan carries the secrets of her people within her. She remembers them still, and this is not the first time she has used their techniques to burn an infection out of a wound.
But it has never felt like this. Kahlan has never felt so… tentative. She has never felt quite so careful.
There is nothing to do but what must be done, and so Kahlan takes a breath and then settles herself astride Cara’s thighs, ignoring the surprised gasp that spills from Cara’s lips, the way Cara’s hands clasp onto her waist.
“Hold still,” she instructs, and once again pushes the fabric away from the wound, baring Cara’s shoulder. “This is going to hurt,” she reminds her. Cara rolls her eyes in response.
Kahlan considers that permission enough. She lights the stem of the plant on fire, and after a moment, places the burning stem against the wound.
The smell of human flesh burning is an unpleasant one. Kahlan’s nose wrinkles against the stench. She feels Cara twitch underneath her. Cara’s hands tighten in reflex, clamping against her waist. The other woman breathes harshly, teeth grinding as the air pushes out of her nose. Her features contort in a painful grimace, but Cara does not cry out.
“Almost done,” Kahlan whispers, and then pulls the stem away, immediately packing the down against the wound.
Cara’s fingers twitch, pressing into her. Kahlan’s legs tighten, keeping the other woman in place. “Let me borrow this,” she breathes, deliberate as she takes hold of Cara’s hand and pressing it to her own shoulder, keeping the down in place.
She lifts off just enough to grab hold of her makeshift bandage, torn from the lapel of her own shirt, and wraps it tight against Cara's shoulder.
She does not miss how Cara's palms return to her waist, pressing in without hesitation.
After a moment Cara breathes again, steadier than before.
“Done,” Kahlan whispers, and inspects her handy work. She has been careful. The down will keep it clean. The bandage will keep the down in place. It is only a flesh wound and it will heal well. Whatever scars that remain will be small.
Kahlan’s eyes wander to a long, jagged line that hits Cara’s collar bone and travels down into her cleavage. It reminds her of a distorted lightning bolt.
Obviously, others have not been quite so generous with their care.
“Thank you,” she hears. Cara’s voice is weak and her eyes shine with unshed tears. She is stoic and weak from the ordeal. Kahlan is surprised when she laughs quietly.
“What is it?” she asks.
“If the Wizard could see you now,” she whispers, blue eyes opening to share their mirth. “Straddling me as if I was one of your horses, playing nursemaid to a Mord’Sith.”
Kahlan flushes at the reminder. She lifts, pushing at Cara’s good shoulder as lifts off the other woman. “I imagine not even I could stop him from shooting you with one of his Pepper Bombs,” she admits good-naturedly. “The wound will heal,” she adds in the quiet the follows.
She watches the fire, as the flames pop and sparkle, throw heat on her skin that begins to feel good as the sun continues its descent and it grows chillier.
“Those were Indian Methods,” Cara says suddenly.
Kahlan’s lips quirk as she nods. “Yes,” she whispers, and her heart aches. “My tribe taught me more than my witch Confessor technique. They also taught me how to heal.”
Beside her, Cara absorbs that. Kahlan knows she is thinking, processing, and so she lets her.
She does not want to be only a Mother Confessor to this woman.
“But you’re not an Indian,” Cara reasons, and Kahlan’s mouth goes dry. “It’s true then, what they say? You’re a half-breed?”
It’s an assumption, but a correct one. “Family is not defined by blood,” Kahlan whispers quietly. “The Sisters of the Light do not accept men into their tribe. My mother was a half breed. She chose my father to father a child for her. He was a white man.”
She remembers her father, and sometimes wishes she didn’t.
Cara stays quiet. Kahlan knows Cara is looking at her. For once, it does not frazzles her. The memories come back in powerful, vibrant colors. “She fell ill when I was a child, and did not recover. I was raised by the Old Mother.”
“And yet when you found me, you told Zedd he and Richard were your family.”
Yes. A lump forms in Kahlan’s throat. It’s painful to swallow.
“Zedd knew and respected The Old Mother. He taught me English, educated me. Then the Union wanted our land. Settlers demanded it. They needed land for their cattle. They needed animals to hunt. And a tribe of women ? They claimed we were witches.”
It’s a harsh story, and it hurts to tell it. The ache in Kahlan’s heart burns, made stronger by her anger as she remembers these events. Her loss. “When they came, the tribe was scattered. It was a massacre. The Old Mother was killed. I was saved because of my face. My white face,” she murmurs, and shakes her head at the ridiculousness of it. “Zedd convinced them I was a prisoner of the tribe. And he and Richard took me in. They became my family.” The tears on her face surprises her. She sniffs, wipes at them furiously. Cara does not say a word. “This is more than mere devotion to a man, Cara,” she says, conviction coating her words. “I will give my life for my family, because they have given their lives for me.”
She is lost in her emotion. It freezes her heart. Cara moves beside her, leaning forward to turn the rabbit on the spit, before settling back into her place beside Kahlan.
After a moment, Kahlan hears, “I’ll ride the river with you, Kahlan.”
A tear betrays her and drifts down her cheek. “Why?” she asks but does not look.
Cara never answers her, but Kahlan suddenly understands.
Whatever family Cara had, she has already lost it.
--
It’s been a long day. Kahlan, exhausted from their day of travel, does not have the patience for Cara’s behavior.
Richard would understand. Of course he would. He understands Cara in a way Kahlan cannot, and Kahlan knows herself well enough to admit she is jealous over it.
Today she is only frustrated.
Cara usually knows better. Cara is BETTER than this.
With a flustered inhalation, Kahlan glances down at the curious leather complexity that is the Mord'Sith's chosen apparel. Quietly, she reaches for the buckle at Cara's hip.
Fingers suddenly wrap around hers, gripping hard.
"Don't."
Flushed features smack of inebriation, but Cara's tone carries with it not only sincerity but a hint of warning.
Kahlan has become well acquainted with the intonation. It is reserved for enemies of Richard, and usually such a warning is followed by the lethal jab of an agiel.
To hear it now, directed at her, with Cara's fingers clutching hers in a drunken but crushing grip, to see dark eyes trained on her with the predatory glare that remind her, always, of a lounging panther, give Kahlan pause.
She sucks in a breath and resettles herself against Cara's prone form, deliberately turning her grip until her fingers are now tangled with Cara's bare fingers.
"You need to sleep off the drink. I'm just trying to help you get more comfortable."
Dark eyes dart, from their joined hands to Kahlan's face. When Kahlan's brow rises in challenge, Cara snorts, immediately reminding Kahlan of a stomping, agitated horse in the midst of being broken.
The comparison brings with it a small smile. "Cara, please."
The word tumbles off her lips and into the air unexpectedly. Cara stiffens underneath her, and Kahlan wishes again for Richard, who handles Cara in a way she has never quite mastered.
She keeps her resolve, however, and is finally rewarded when the Mord'Sith suddenly lets go, hands falling to her sides, splaying out as if she is offering herself to her.
With a shaky smile, Kahlan goes to work on the buckle, but finds her fingers clumsy, her grip awkward.
She forces down her harsh swallow and yanks.
"Had you not scared off the bar wench, I would have already been plenty comfortable."
Kahlan's cheeks burn with the image that has been presented to her after nearly a day of searching for Cara: a common wench straddling the Mord'Sith's lap, pouring liquor into Cara's mouth and loudly whispering her ardent wish to 'please the Seeker's protector'.
"And they proclaim the Mother Confessor is both fair and tolerant."
Cara's words are slurred with the effects of inebriation, but her eyes dance at her, as if to tease her.
Kahlan's irritation swells. "I won't have anyone taking advantage of you. Not in this state."
"And if I wanted her to?"
Cara's mouth pulled into a smirk. Kahlan felt a cold flush sink into her.
"Then you are a fool," she snaps. In truth, it was she who feels foolish. She acted in the heat of the moment, emotions fresh from both losing Cara on this ill-fated quest, and finding her again in the arms of a common bar wench, drunk and demanding and everything a warrior entrusted with the protection of the Seeker should not have been. "Only an idiot would allow themselves to drink this way, put themselves at the mercy of others. I would have expected better of you."
"The Mother Confessor expect such things of a Mord'Sith?" Cara's tone is openly mocking.
"Stop it," she hisses, eyes flashing with hurt. "Do not say things you will regret in this intoxication."
The passion rises within her, and she feels the ferocity taint her movements, fingers seeking out the laces at Cara's waist. Once again, hands descend upon her, grabbing hold of her biceps and tugging. Off balance, Kahlan falls forward heavily, breath pushed out of her as she is now sprawled against Cara's body, Cara's ale-soaked breath puffing against her cheek.
Cara shifts suddenly, and she is now trapped underneath the shorter woman, caught between a mattress of hay and a woman whose eyes glitter with dangerous intent.
"I regret nothing," she hears, before lips pressed heatedly against her mouth.
“-Kahlan!”
Kahlan’s eyes open. For a moment, she is unseeing, unable to comprehend the sudden shift of circumstance. The mattress of hay is now hard-packed earth. The leathers she wore are now fabric pants and a paisley shirt. The Mord’Sith that trapped her is no longer wrapped in leathers but wears a vest over a stained white shirt.
This is a different era. A different time. There are no agiels. There are no Wizards. There is no magic and there are no Seekers.
But there is Cara. Cara with the same face, with those same blue eyes, those same full laps, who kneels against her and stares at her with an unabashed look of concern.
Kahlan sucks in a panicked breath, trying desperately to understand. Her head swims with uncertainty, and Cara's palm strokes her shoulder, heated against her skin.
“You were dreaming,” Cara tells her, in that same rough voice, with a hint of twang because this is New Austin.
But she is Cara Mason, and she is Kahlan Amnell and they are family.
They belong to each other.
Lost in time, heart pounding with sudden emotion and need, Kahlan cannot help her impulse. She does not fight it.
Her head lifts without hesitation, and opens her lips against Cara's.
With a passionate, hungry kiss, Kahlan comes home.