LOTS - CARA

3 Seeker Ficlets

foiblesfables

Just archiving three short fics I wrote for various challenges at legendland

Title: Something More Alive Than Silence

Characters/Pairings: Cara(/Dahlia), implied Cara/Kahlan

Rating: R

Word Count: 500

Summary: Dahlia is still not certain of Cara’s convictions. For the challenge prompt “ghosts.”

Something More Alive Than Silence

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Cara dresses in full Mord’Sith uniform – not merely leathers, but leathers and armor, as it should well be. The neck guard, rigid and tight, covers her to the chin, which is almost always held upright at an angle displaying power that, here, is never seen as arrogance. Straps and buckles crisscross over her chest, meticulously done, a comforting vice grip on her body. She starts wearing a braid again, though her hair is still short. The tail reaches the nape of her neck, and Dahlia pins up the wayward wisps of blond that stubbornly refuse to be secured with the rest.

She carries herself with confident grace, moves with a strut and sway of her hips, attitude borne of known strength. Her gloved fingers grip the hilt of an agiel until her knuckles turn white; she gives the pain a hostile grin. Bare, inside, curling and uncurling, they remember how to drive Dahlia mad.

She gives and receives orders with a strong, clear, clipped voice. It becomes a seductive purr in Dahlia’s ear. Her mouth denounces the man to whom she was recently so loyal; her mouth leaves expert, tingling traces of heat on Dahlia’s skin.

She is ruthless aggression, violence, and collection. She is blood and perspiration. She is the beauty of vehement determination. She is bared teeth, furrowed brow, and a fierce snarl entwined with a cruel smirk and half–lidded gaze. She is everything she once was; she is the Mord’Sith she once was.

But sometimes, when they’re lying close together, skin pressed to skin, shared sweat between them, Dahlia wonders if she’s truly been broken again.

A phantom pain throbs in her forehead, recalling the sickening thud of skull against skull, as she holds Cara’s gaze. She sees something that anyone who does not know her as Dahlia does would easily miss.

There are ghosts in her eyes, altogether nothing and something. They are shadows that have somehow remained, somehow broken through the veil, clouding her newly reborn resolve. This low light is where they glow brightest, this quiet is where they scream – things that should have been eradicated by torture. Promises she’s made and, now, broken, along with the guilt for doing so. Everything she learned, everything she felt while on the other side. They’re diluted and hazy from the touch of agony, but they are also still undeniably there.

Her irises hint at a different shade of blue – brighter, clearer, almost piercing. It is a color that Dahlia recognizes. This is dangerous influence, displaying power beyond torture, unfathomable and infuriating. It makes Dahlia hates her more – not Cara, but the other. Revulsion fills her at the thought of this deep connection she cannot control.

There are ghosts in her eyes and Dahlia can see them in this silent darkness. She can feel them through the air’s lingering headiness. Their lips meet, and then their tongues, and Dahlia swears she can even taste them.

There are ghosts in her eyes, but they become easy to ignore as Cara’s hand slides up her inner thigh.

~ ~ ~

Title: You’re Already the Voice Inside My Head

Characters/Pairings: Cara, implied Cara/Kahlan

Rating: PG–13

Word Count: 438

Summary: Kahlan wears her Confessor’s dress, and Cara watches. In which I go back into the Grey’s habit of second–person. For the challenge prompt “touch.”

You’re Already the Voice Inside My Head

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White silk catches the sunlight and magnifies it. Under the bright rays, the immaculate garment reflects and glows, lit both from the outside and from within. It’s warm and cold all at once, brilliant shine, moving fluidly as she does. It’s hostile to the eyes, but incredible to behold.

When Kahlan wears her Confessor’s dress, you stare – even though it eventually makes your eyes begin to water.

She turns toward you, sometimes with a soft smile, sometimes with a determined nod. Clear blue irises sparkle in the light. A breeze ripples at the dress, and a few gentle dark curls float along with it, the rest shielded by the upturned hood. And, suddenly, you find yourself fingering the hilt of an agiel at your hip, because the familiar pain that jolts all the way up your arm distracts you fro the foreign sensation that washes over you. It’s something that can’t decide if it wants to be anger or awe, disdain or admiration; it’s somewhere between. It’s a hitch in your breath, a burn in your chest, the spontaneous urge to swallow though your throat feels swollen.

The dress represents its wearer. Strong and efficient despite appearances. Regal yet unassuming. Soft, flowing, compassionate, bright, pristine, righteous. And, of course, beautiful.

And then there’s you: all brown leather and agiel and hostility. Impatient and quick to annoyance, fierce anger, dubious of peace. Blood and dark, scars that are far more than superficial.

Kahlan burns with everything you’re not.

It’s ridiculous and almost disgusting that this much purity can exist. But what’s more ridiculous is that you feel your presence is tainting it. Ridiculousness, however, doesn’t change the fact that you do.

In her presence, in her friendship, sometimes even in her arms, you feel like you don’t belong. There’s a surge of fury to bite down on when she smiles at you, irrational fury at yourself. You wonder why you want this, how you deserve it, and why you want to deserve it. You don’t understand the hate–but–not–hate, and the desire you have to do just that is flustering. You question your worth, doubting, hesitating.

She treats you with the kindness she does only because of Richard’s influence. There’s no question. You killed her sister once.

How could she care about something as dark as you?

The Mother Confessor faces you and you falter.

When Kahlan’s light touches you, it only serves to sharpen the shadows that surround you.

But, sometimes, when she looks at you with the penetrating gaze she wears just as well as she wears the dress, you think maybe she can see right through them.

~ ~ ~

Title: The Otherwise Untitled Mosquito Story

Characters/Pairings: Cara

Rating: PG–13

Word Count: 721

Summary: There is something more annoying than stopping every five hours to help distressed farm animals. Crack. For the prompt “Cara, mosquitoes.”

The Otherwise Untitled Mosquito Story

foiblesfables

With a fierce curl of her upper lip, Cara swatted the air beside her left ear – the source of that infernal, high–pitched whine. This action was safe, she reasoned. They were much too far out of gar territory for her to have to consider the danger of blood flies. No, these were nothing more than basic mosquitoes, ungainly pests spurred on by the rising warmth of the nighttime air and the innate desire for blood. Of course, they couldn’t actually hurt her; that thought was ridiculous. Still, their presence was bothersome, and Cara gave a quick shake of her head as another one (or even the same one) hovered by her ear.

Scowling, she took another bite of the stew Kahlan had prepared, chewing with vehemence: a result of her mounting irritation. The smoke rising from the campfire should have been repelling them. It wasn’t. She clenched her jaw. It was entirely possible that Zedd could cast a spell to keep the mosquitoes away from her, but, obviously, she would not ask. Mere insects were not worthy of that much effort, no matter how annoying they were.

This would be just like any of the recent nights. She would spend it waving her hands around, bidding them away or else, sighing and frowning and trying to retain her cool composure. It only made it worse that she seemed to be the only one affected by the bugs. Case and point, this moment now. Richard and Kahlan were sitting across from her, on the other side of the first, chatting and flirting in a way that made her want to roll her eyes. Beside her, Zedd was shoveling mouthful after mouthful of dinner into his mouth. There were no mosquitoes floating around them, diving at them in search of exposed skin. Instead, for some reason that was completely beyond her, they chose to aggravate only Cara. And that was especially infuriating.

“When I was younger, my mother told me that mosquitoes are most attracted to sweet people, because they taste better,” Kahlan had mentioned offhandedly a night or two earlier, after Cara first voiced her frustration (accompanied by an open–handed, futile swipe at nothing at all). At that, Richard had suppressed a sudden laugh behind his fist and Zedd commented that that theory had just been disproved. And then, Cara had rolled her eyes.

But the reason didn’t matter. What did matter was the fact that the mosquitoes were buzzing all around her, incessant and aggressive. For an instant, she imagined herself squashing them one–by–one with an agiel. They were too insignificant to feel the pain, but knowing the idea was there would be fulfilling enough to Cara.

One particularly daring mosquito must have heard that thought because, suddenly, it was right in front of her face. She grimaced against it and reared back before glaring. Her eyes darted around, following the little nuisance until her lips curled into a sneer. She could sense its movements. She had it. It lingered in the same spot for an instant too long and she raised her hand.

Thwack!

The leather–gloved hand made contact with her cheek and she already knew that she had won. She dragged her palm down and off of her cheek before looking down to inspect it. Sure enough, there it was: a shiny streak in the middle of her hand. Let that be an example to all of you, she thought with a cool smirk of fulfillment.

Then she noticed the abrupt silence all around her. Richard and Kahlan had stopped talking, possibly in mid–sentence, to stare at her. Richard’s mouth was open a little bit. Zedd was still hunched over his bowl, mouth full, one eyebrow up. Cara looked between them, realizing that they had seen what she just did – and she usually didn’t go around slapping herself in the face.

So she held up her palm to them in an attempt to prove that she hadn’t gone insane.

“Mosquito,” she stated simply, flatly, shrugging. No need for further explanation.

Kahlan sighed and shook her head, trying to keep her smile from becoming obvious. Zedd, nodding, returned his attention to his meal. Richard smirked, forehead wrinkling in amusement.

“Just promise me you won’t eat it,” he commented.

Once again, in that moment, rolling her eyes would have felt wonderful.

~ ~ ~