swatkat

Title: No Constellations Here
Fandom: Legend of the Seeker
Character(s)/Pairing: Cara/Kahlan
Words: ~4,300
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me. I will never make money off this.
A/N: Many thanks to

hibernate and

agonyoftheblank for being awesome. Title from Lynn Davies' Before The Phoenicians: I find no constellations here, /do not whisper names to the white fires. Please note that this story involves some Agiel-induced violence.

Summary: "Zedd leaves camp at dawn, taking along with him, it seems, the last shreds of joy from their lives, leaving her alone with her thoughts—and Cara"

[Kahlan and Cara deal with being ~alone together; takes off from 2.09, 'Dark']

Zedd leaves camp at dawn, taking along with him, it seems, the last shreds of joy from their lives, leaving her alone with her thoughts—and Cara.

Danger has been commonplace in Kahlan's life, a constant companion for as long as she can remember. Yet with Zedd and Richard gone, it bears down upon her, more oppressive than she would have thought possible. She has grown used to their easy banter, bickering over food and who will take the next watch, their constant cheer even in the face of doom and destruction.

Kahlan clings to him a bit too long in farewell and Zedd lets her, murmuring gentle words that are no comfort at all.

Cara is—mostly—a silent, sullen presence, skulking in the backdrop with her Agiels in hand.

Their camp is protected by powerful magical wards, carefully set up by Zedd the night before his departure. It does little to reassure Cara, who paces, paces, paces the camp's perimeter, always on the alert.

In another time, perhaps, her paranoia would have been a matter of amusement. Something to smile about while Richard poked gentle fun at Cara and Cara rolled her eyes at him in return.

As it is, Cara hunts and gathers wood; Kahlan burns dinner and spends a lot of time sharpening her remaining dagger and the Sword of Truth. Their conversations are few and far between—there's little to discuss.

She stays up at night and gazes at the stars, constant and burning bright, so far away.

By their third morning of staying put and doing absolutely nothing, Kahlan is restless, impatient for some sort of distraction from this interminable waiting. Even a hapless bandit or two would be most welcome at this point, she thinks, a little taken aback by the strength of her own feelings.

Such desire for needless violence, however liberating, is beneath a Confessor such as Kahlan, and yet she has found herself falling prey to the same, time and again. Sometimes it seems as though she's forever destined to struggle with her baser nature, that part of herself which demands such performance, and succumbs—all too easily—to the confounded blood rage.

Cara, for her part, appears perfectly at ease—lazy, almost, to the unfamiliar eye—as she stretches out on the grass underneath a tree, hands folded behind her head.

It's frustrating, to say the least.

She settles for a few simple exercises she learned when she was but a jittery little mite in the Confessor's Palace, terrified of her powers and unsure of her place. Cara looks on, curious. Kahlan ignores her stare, focuses instead on her movements, her breathing.

It feels like a lifetime since she was home, in Aydindril. The city is not the same now, adrift and rudderless in the absence of Confessors. Her sisters are dead.

The Sword of Truth weighs heavy in her hands.

Kahlan finds herself returning to the same routine the next morning. There has been no word from Zedd, no sign if he's dead or alive or lost somewhere in the woods, or worse, tricked into some nefarious trap by Shota while they sit here and wait, the Keeper growing stronger with every passing moment. The movements calm her, help her feel more like a Confessor, in control of her wayward emotions.

Cara, as in the day before, lounges underneath a tree and looks on without saying a word.

She can feel Cara's stare at the back of her neck, like pinprick on her skin. It makes her uneasy, until she can't help but turn around and say, 'What?' twirling the sword in her hand as Richard sometimes does.

Cara raises an eyebrow. 'I don't recall saying anything.'

'You could join me instead of just sitting there,' Kahlan tells her. 'Spar with me.'

'Mord-Sith don't spar,' Cara pronounces, and moves to join her anyway, Agiels drawn, eyes shining, appearing—Kahlan thinks—quite pleased to be invited.

In the early days, when Richard was still learning his way around sword-fighting, they would often end up sparring: Richard, joyful and un-coordinated, making up for the lack of technique with brute strength and sheer enthusiasm; Kahlan, always a little restrained. A dance of sorts, ending in shy smiles and heated glances.

It's different dance with Cara. Cara is as skilled as Kahlan, as quick; as rigorously trained in battle as any Confessor. She throws herself into the arena with wild abandon, and Kahlan can feel herself respond in kind. An Agiel grazes past her skin, burning, and Kahlan retorts with a kick that catches Cara's midriff and makes her double over. When she looks up again, she's grinning at Kahlan, as though in challenge.

And a challenge it is—Kahlan can feel the magic come alive in her veins as she matches Cara for every move and counters every blow of her Agiels with the sword.

It's a while before she even notices the gash on Cara's cheek, and then she draws away mid-strike, breathing heavily. Cara blinks at her in confusion. 'Did I wear you out already?'

'Your cheek, you're—'

'What?' Cara says, raising a gloved hand to her cheek. 'It's nothing. A flesh wound,' she says, scowling at Kahlan.

Kahlan moves closer, cupping Cara's chin with one hand to inspect the wound herself. Cara's skin is soft, and somewhat clammy from all the exertion.

It is a flesh wound, nothing that will not heal in a day or so. It shames her, nonetheless, reminds her once again of the tenuous grip she has on herself. 'That's enough,' Kahlan tells Cara, drawing her hand away. 'I'm tired.'

Cara appears mutinous at first, and then, calculating, eyes narrowing. 'We can do something else,' she says, mouth twisting in a small smile. And then there are strong hands gripping Kahlan's waist, full lips closing firmly on her own, insistent.

'Cara,' Kahlan gasps when she can speak again. It's meant to be an admonition, but Kahlan isn't certain if that comes across very well because Cara merely says, 'This is a better way of passing time,' and kisses her again, hard, tongue plunging into her mouth and finding her own. The gloves are gone, fast, and Cara's hands are clever, restless, touching her everywhere until Kahlan cannot think, her fragile restraint breaking with every fresh touch.

'Cara, no,' she tries, once again, even as Cara begins to tug on her laces, even as Kahlan lets her. 'I'll hurt you.'

Cara's eyes are very wide and solemn. 'Not unless I want you to,' she says.

One swift movement, and Kahlan has Cara pinned to the ground, kissing her with less finesse than an eager young boy on his very first encounter. She fixes her mouth on the damp skin of her neck and licks into her collarbone, feeling Cara arch into her touch. It's exhilarating. There are some very good reasons why she should pull away, but restraint, as of now, seems no longer an option.

Their clothing poses a slight problem—there are too many buckles and laces, and Kahlan is impatient, fumbling. She wants to touch Cara, slowly explore every inch of her skin and she wants to take her now and watch her come apart. Her heart leaps at the very thought, sending a hot pulse between her legs.

She barely has Cara out of her leather when she finds herself on her back, while Cara straddles her hip with a triumphant smirk. Kahlan finds herself staring at the exposed column of her neck.

Cara's eyes are dark, tinged with arousal. She looks down at Kahlan with naked hunger, fingers trailing down her stomach and slipping between her thighs, right where Kahlan is aching for her touch. She bucks her hips as Cara settles into a rhythm, magic pricking on her palms, singing in her blood.

She can feel herself grow desperate with every stroke, drawing closer and closer to the edge. 'Please,' she tells Cara, barely coherent.

'Yes, Mother Confessor,' Cara says, her voice low. Her thrusts grow harder, fingers curling inside her in a manner that has Kahlan groaning in approval.

When Cara begins to grind herself on Kahlan's thigh, it's too much, it's not enough, and she reaches for Cara, fingers mapping the swell of her breasts, memorizing the shape of her lips, her jaw and wrapping around her throat of their own volition.

She's aware, then, of the sight before her, her own hand on Cara's neck, as though in Confession: magnificent.

And Cara allows it, making no effort to pull back, her movements growing quicker and somewhat ungainly. Kahlan cannot look away. She's drawn to it, inexorably, fingers tightening, magic beginning to cloud her vision.

The pain takes her by surprise, sudden and burning, while Cara grips an Agiel with her bare hand, not even flinching at the touch. The shock slackens her grip on Cara, and still the sting continues, relentless, seemingly without end, until her hand falls away and she's shuddering, helpless, her whole world exploding in heat and darkness.

+

The silence afterwards is near deafening, and Kahlan can no more ignore the pleasant soreness between her legs than she can deny the rising wave of anxiety. There's an angry welt on her forearm: a reminder of what could have been if not for Cara's quick thinking.

There are risks she cannot afford as a Confessor, luxuries most other people take for granted.

She tries to apologize over dinner. 'Cara, I'm really sorry,' she tells Cara, who looks up from her bowl, baffled.

'Why?' Cara says.

'I didn't mean to lose control the way I did,' Kahlan says, unable to meet her eyes. 'I should've been more careful.'

'I already told you, I wouldn't let you hurt me,' Cara says, shaking her head. 'There's no need to apologize.' She licks her lips and smiles at Kahlan, as though they share a secret.

Kahlan lies awake for most of the night, clutching the Sword of Truth to her chest like a child with a beloved plaything. It's no comfort at all.

The welt fades after a day or so, leaving behind only a faint mark on her arm. The bruise on Cara's face heals, as if it was never there. The image of her hand on Cara's neck is imprinted on her mind, indelible, and with it, the memory—Cara's skin on her fingertips and the fluttering of her heart—terrible and utterly breathtaking in its beauty.

Kahlan hates the way it makes her palm itch, her magic like a rough beast, rearing to go. It makes her want, leaves her absurdly wet and aching.

If Richard were here, he would chase her worries away with a hug and a smile, his faith much stronger than her own persistent doubts.

Cara hunts and chops wood; Kahlan makes indifferent meals and spends a lot of time sharpening her remaining dagger and the Sword of Truth. Their conversations are few and far between, even if Kahlan can't shake away the feeling that there are things they need to discuss. The words hang between them, heavier than Kahlan's heart.

The tracker cloud appears one fine morning, an oddity amidst the vast blue expanse of the sky.

Zedd is alive and well, and Kahlan can feel her spirits rise, the oppressive weight—finally—lifting off her shoulders. 'Come on,' she beams at Cara, impatient, 'Zedd must be nearby.' Cara's expression is unreadable.

She follows Kahlan without a word, always a step or two behind, always—Kahlan thinks—looking to protect. Kahlan only asked that she watch over Richard, but she's grown used to this too.

She would miss it if Cara were ever to leave.

As it turns out, Zedd isn't anyplace nearby. The tracker cloud leads them across a forest, two torrential streams, and, of all things, a swamp that appears vaster than Aydindril in its entirety.

The terrain isn't suited for walking, the ground shifting beneath their feet ever so often. Her boots stick to the ground, and Kahlan has to concentrate on each step. She tries to keep her steps light, placing a foot forward even before the first step is complete.

Even the surefooted Cara appears uncertain, stumbling. At one point Kahlan turns around to find Cara ankle-deep in mud, growling, 'This is a trap. Set by Shota,' as she struggles in vain to free herself.

'Zedd can handle Shota,' Kahlan says, hiding her smile and offering Cara a hand.

Cara appears incredibly put off, but she does reach out and take Kahlan's hand. Her grip is firm. 'I don't trust Shota.'

'Neither do I,' Kahlan says, fingers tightening, holding Cara steady as she makes her way out of the mire. 'We'll just have to keep our faith in Zedd instead.'

'You're being blindly optimistic,' Cara tells her.

'You're being needlessly pessimistic,' Kahlan replies, holding on to Cara's hand until she snatches it away.

Kahlan is exhausted by the time they reach something resembling firm ground. She throws down her pack and plants herself unceremoniously on the ground, heaving a sigh of relief. Her feet are sore. Her clothes are half wet and covered in layers of muck. Her hair is in a dreadful state.

Beside her, Cara tugs off her muddy boots, glaring at them as though in reprimand, no doubt for the indignity she suffered back in the swamp. Kahlan can't help but smile at the sight, can't help the sudden surge of affection that courses through her. 'You're lucky,' she says, brushing her shoulder against Cara's. 'It could've been quicksand.'

Cara looks at her, curious. 'You seem better,' she says after a moment.

'What do you mean?' Kahlan says.

'You were upset,' Cara says, matter of fact. 'You are cheerful now.'

'I suppose I am,' Kahlan has to admit. Not a day passes by when she doesn't miss Richard or fret over his well-being. She once made a vow to protect him with her life—the words now feel fruitless, hollow, when he's so far away, surrounded by enemies and strangers in a strange land. Still, it is good to know that Zedd is alive. It's good to have Cara for company, solid and there when little else is.

It should not be surprising that Cara noticed—she wasn't trying to hide it, after all, and Cara is nothing if not quick on the uptake. It takes her aback nonetheless, leaves her somewhat shy and tongue-tied. She can scarcely imagine why.

She isn't sure who initiates the kiss, only that it takes her by surprise. There's a near disastrous collision of teeth and Cara's hands framing her grimy face, pulling her close.

They find Zedd—very predictably—at a small inn in a town called Four Winds, holding court among a bunch of awestruck listeners who gape at Kahlan and Cara. Kahlan's travelling dress makes her less conspicuous, but there's little room for doubt regarding Cara's identity. There's no mistaking the Mord-Sith leather.

Zedd embraces her like a long-lost daughter, and Kahlan clings to him, drawing comfort from his familiar presence. 'It's good to see you,' she says, wiping at the tears that appear to have gathered unbidden at the corner of her eyes. 'I'm really glad that you're safe.' She hazards a glance at Cara, who sniffs, evidently disgusted at such blatant display of unnecessary emotions.

'It's good to see you too, my dear,' Zedd says, beaming down at her. He turns to Cara, saying, 'And how have you been, Cara?'

'Fine,' Cara says with a curt nod. 'What did Shota say?'

'I have seen the face of the next Seeker,' Zedd says. Kahlan feels a small shiver run down her spine. 'Now we just have to find him.'

It doesn't seem right that there should be another Seeker, not when Richard is alive and well. Cara, ever so practical, says, 'Did she also say where he might be found?'

Now Zedd appears somewhat uncertain. 'Somewhere near Westmark. I think,' he says. Which is a few hundred leagues away from where they are. The route is covered with vast tracts of forestland and generally inhospitable terrain, including a couple of mountain ranges. 'The vision wasn't very specific.'

'I see,' Cara says, lips thinning in a manner that makes her disapproval evident. Ever since Cara has joined their quest, she has made it clear that she does not appreciate what she considers their inefficiency, not to mention their propensity to be diverted from the task at hand ever so often while they assist someone in need. Kahlan isn't certain when she began to find it so endearing.

'We can start tomorrow morning,' Zedd says.

'I need a bath,' Cara announces.

Cara takes her time in the bath, luxuriating, no doubt, in the warm water and the sensation of being truly grime-free after all this time. By the time she emerges, Kahlan has already finished washing and stripping down to her shift. The bed is soft, almost strange after lying on the hard ground for so long.

Cara rids herself of the towel and begins to put on her clothes, her movements quick and precise. Kahlan finds herself unable to look away. 'Where are you going?' she says.

'Out,' Cara says shortly. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and then Cara says, 'You should rest.'

'So should you,' Kahlan tells her. 'We have a long journey ahead of us.'

'I'll rest,' Cara says.

Slumber comes soon for Kahlan that night—the bed is warm and she is exhausted. When she wakes up the next morning, the other side of the bed is still empty.

Kahlan only sees Cara at breakfast, and then it becomes evident where she has been all night: the tell-tale smug expression on her face is one Kahlan has had occasion to grow familiar with.

Cara eats well, having undoubtedly worked up an appetite with her... nocturnal activities. Her face grows warm at the very thought, and Kahlan can only hope she's not being too transparent.

'What are we waiting for?' Cara says, bristling with impatient energy. 'Let's leave.'

'A wizard needs his sustenance,' Zedd says, making his leisurely way through a mid-sized feast.

'You've eaten enough to sustain ten wizards,' Cara says. 'Now move.' It's almost like old times, familiar. Only Richard isn't here, and Kahlan cannot bring herself to look Cara in the eye.

She has no claim to Cara's attentions, and, indeed, no desire to make such a claim. It's only that Cara's freedom on these matters makes her aware of her own needs.

Confessors, Kahlan is beginning to think, are much like ordinary women in this regard.

The journey to Westmark is long and strenuous. It takes them across the swamp again, much to Cara's annoyance. She makes no secret of her displeasure and appears inordinately pleased when Zedd stumbles into quicksand. Kahlan is subject to many arguments, mostly along the lines of:

'So how do you propose we locate this Seeker?'

'Fate will send him our way.'

Kahlan keeps her opinions to herself. She can feel the weight settle on her shoulders again, a familiar iron fist around her heart. She does not wish to talk about the next Seeker.

She catches Cara watching her, sometimes, with curious owl-eyes, as though trying to read her. Sometimes she finds herself wondering what it would be like to press Cara up against a tree, hand wrapped around her throat in a terrible embrace.

Leo changes everything.

Fate, again to Cara's annoyance, does indeed send the next Seeker their way, and Leo Dane turns out to be brave, honest and upright, brimming with idealism—in short, everything the Seeker of Truth should be. The compass comes alive at his touch. Leo wields the Sword of Truth like he was born for this, and Kahlan, his Confessor, can barely bring herself to look at him.

She throws herself into the next skirmish—a band of stray D'Haran soldiers, outnumbering them two to one—with more vehemence than she would care to admit. She kicks one D'Haran in the stomach, and follows up with a slash of her knife, almost relishing the feel of her dagger slicing into skin and bone. Another one attempts to ambush her from behind, but by the time Kahlan has whirled around he is already down on his knees, screaming, helpless, while Cara presses an Agiel onto his back, a look of fierce concentration on her face. He collapses soon after, and Cara looks up and smiles, no, bares her teeth, eyes flashing, her face lit up with a fierce sort of joy.

They make short work of the remaining D'Harans, and then Cara says, 'You need another dagger. Or a sword.'

'That won't be necessary,' Kahlan tells her, shaking her head. 'Richard will be back soon, and then I'll have my own dagger back.' From the corner of her eye she watches Leo, placing the Sword of Truth back in its sheath, careful. Reverent.

Richard, she thinks, would be disappointed in her.

The days don't seem to end. And Leo, Leo worms his way into their lives, until it's almost natural to watch him wield Richard's sword, take lessons from Zedd and flirt, in his bold, good-natured manner, with Cara.

She persists with her one dagger—irrationally so, Cara tells her, appearing, as always, to guard her back while they fend off bandits, perfectly in sync—and takes to solitary walks in the woods, where she can be alone with her troubled thoughts.

She thinks of her sisters often, at times with a fierce longing that leaves a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

It took Kahlan some time at the Confessor's Palace to master the art of meditation. Too restless, the Mother Confessor would say with a shake of her head or a gentle smile.

She tries to meditate now and finds herself too nervous, restless. She trudges back to the camp and plants herself on her bedroll, ignoring the way Cara looks at her. Sleep is hard to come by.

The days don't seem to end.

One exceptionally tiresome evening, Zedd falls asleep in front of the fire, looking for all the world like a man without a single care. Leo, true to form, attempts to conduct a rather one-sided conversation with Cara. Kahlan goes for a walk.

Kahlan is mostly herself when she hears the tell-tale snap of a twig, the rustle of foliage and rapidly approaching footsteps. She pulls her dagger out on instinct, ready to strike, but eases when she spots the intruder: it's just Cara, sporting a pronounced scowl.

'You've been gone a while,' Cara says.

Kahlan says nothing in response. She resumes her position on the rocks she has been sitting on, placing the dagger back where it belongs. She does not know how long she has been gone.

'These forests are dangerous,' Cara tells her, as though it ceases to be dangerous when she disappears for a hunt in the middle of the night. 'Richard asked me to protect you,' she says, drawing herself up very straight.

There's a hint of reproach in her voice, one that makes Kahlan bristle and snap, 'As you can see, I'm fine,' harsher than she perhaps intended. 'So you can leave.'

Cara does not budge. If only it were that simple.

The silence that follows is excruciating. Kahlan feels exposed under Cara's sharp gaze, oddly compelled to explain herself. 'I needed some time, I—' she tries to say, and Cara says, 'You've been crying,' incredulous.

And so she is caught. Of course. There must be traces of tears all over her face. Cara is not one to miss such things, and over the time that they have spent together—fought together, shoulder to shoulder—Cara has somehow attuned herself to Kahlan's moods.

'Is this about Richard?' Cara says, hands on her hips.

Kahlan shakes her head in a 'yes' and a 'no'. She isn't certain if she has words for this feeling.

'You're not the only one whose job is to protect Richard,' she says at length. Cara nods slowly, as though she understands.

Kahlan watches Cara as she crouches before her, resting a knee on the ground. She brings out an Agiel from her belt, holding it out in front Kahlan.

Kahlan stares at her in mute incomprehension, and Cara cocks her neck in response: it's an invitation to touch.

The forest suddenly feels very quiet. Kahlan can hear the sound of her own breath, harsh and erratic. She lifts a hand, hesitant, not taking her eyes off Cara's. Cara's nod is almost imperceptible.

The sudden jolt of pain makes her heart leap. Kahlan quickly pulls her hand away.

'If anything were to happen to Richard, I would know,' Cara says, solemn.

'That's, that's reassuring,' Kahlan says. Cara bows her head in silent acknowledgment.

And it is. Reassuring. Cara is being kind, in her own fashion.

Not so long ago, Kahlan would not have thought Cara capable of kindness.

They sit together in companionable silence, close enough that their thighs brush at the slightest movement. Kahlan shivers slightly in the night air, and Cara says, 'You're cold. We should get back to the camp.'

'No,' Kahlan says, shaking her head. 'Not yet.'

Cara's glance is questioning. A lone owl hoots somewhere in the distance.

Somewhere along the road, between traveling through inhospitable terrain and fending off enemies, side by side, things shifted and changed.

This time, Kahlan initiates the kiss, taking hold of Cara's shoulders and pulling her close.

There's something comforting about the way Cara kisses back without hesitation, hands coming up to rest on Kahlan's hips and fingers digging into her side. Kahlan kisses her harder, burning with an ardor she can scarcely comprehend. She slides a hand into her hair while the other wanders down, caressing leather-clad breasts until Cara moans into her mouth.

Cara, as is her wont, is quiet afterwards, seemingly content to lie half-clad on the ground.

Kahlan stretches out beside her and gazes up at the night sky; at the stars, constant and burning bright.

+++