Work Text:
Kahlan is beautiful.
The thought strikes unexpectedly, landing with all the precision of a well-placed agiel to the stomach, leaving Cara dizzy and gasping for breath in the middle of a nameless passageway. Which is entirely ridiculous because Cara Mason is a Mord'Sith and Mord'Sith know nothing of beauty so how could she know - with such certainty her now-racing heart all but beats the words into the underside of her ribs - that Kahlan is beautiful?
She forces the breath back into her lungs and her limbs to stop shaking as only a Sister of the Agiel can before leaving the passage behind her without so much as a backward glance. Her expression is as undisturbed as ever but her thoughts are disjointed and wild. And so, instead of going to the Confessor's sacrum to stand watch while Kahlan works like she does nearly every morning, she focuses her attention inward and lets her body go where it wills.
Kahlan is undeniably attractive - this is a fact likened in Cara's mind to the color of the sky, obvious and somewhat inevitable - with her wavy dark hair and bright blue eyes. Her body is toned but still distinctly feminine, her skin fair and dotted with freckles that should detract from but somehow only serve to enhance her elegant cheekbones and strong jaw. But Cara has always known this - truth be told, she considers herself something of an expert when it comes to noticing attractive women - and so it cannot be the reason for this, admittedly, troubling thought.
Because beauty is not about attractiveness, not entirely, at least. It goes deeper than that, means more than something as fleeting as appearance. By the Keeper, she doesn't even know how to properly explain it to herself. It just isn't something she's meant to know, let alone recognize.
But then how does she? Why does she?
She frowns, golden brows furrowed in equal parts confusion and mounting annoyance. By the Keeper, she'd never had to deal with things like this while serving Darkan Rahl. No, things had been simpler then. Go here, kill that, break this, return victorious, celebrate with her Mord'Sith sisters until it was time to go there and kill something else. If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear the subtle creaking of well-oiled leather, the clinking of chains, feel the ghosts of her sisters' skin-
Kahlan's smile - the soft one that makes her eyes look like poetry (Cara isn't even sure what that means, only that it's true) - flashes in her mind's eye and, suddenly, the memories don't hold the same allure they did a moment ago.
Her frown deepens. It's another (perhaps even more) troubling thought and she resigns herself to the idea of dealing with it another day.
Creator knows this is more than enough to keep her busy.
Kahlan is strong, in both arm and will, a necessity for any good leader, at least in Cara's not-at-all-humble opinion, but she is also soft, which Cara used to find weak - not to mention supremely annoying - but now sees for what it is: a different, more difficult, kind of strength. But she has known this, too, for quite some time, and so, like her physical traits, it too is pushed aside.
Kahlan is powerful. Oh, yes, she certainly is that. All Confessors have power, but none are like Kahlan Amnell. Born from a line so old her very name is synonymous with white dresses and black eyes, burdened with the blood rage of the Con Dar, trained for the High Seat of Aydindril since she was a child, power rests as easily on Kahlan's shoulders as red leather does Cara's. But, though power does hold a certain appeal, that isn't the answer either; certainly it isn't something Cara only learned about today. Creator help her, they've been living in the Mother Confessor's palace for what, a year now?
She scoffs, offering a pointed glare to the nearest tapestry as if it's somehow to blame for her current predicament. Maybe it is. After all, the distinctly foreign warmth invading her thoughts certainly feels like some kind of annoyingly powerful magic.
She briefly considers setting it on fire or maybe just ripping it from the wall and hurling it from the nearest window, watching as it tumbles to the ground in an almost viscerally visual cacophony of color. Being thorough never hurt anyone, did it?
The mental image of Kahlan openly scolding her whilst simultaneously trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation nearly has her turning back, ready and willing to turn imagination into reality. But, amusing mental pictures aside, she isn't actually all that eager to find herself on the receiving end of one of the Confessor's well-intentioned lectures so, in the end, she allows the moment to pass.
Kahlan is resilient. She's known suffering that would break lesser people, that would shatter them beyond repair, but has never let it break her. If anything, it's only made her kinder. That goes beyond strength, Cara thinks (Cara knows). Surely that's beautiful.
She sighs, running an ungloved hand through her hair, a rare sign of frustration, because that can't be it. It is beautiful, maybe, but she's known about the darkness in Kahlan's past since before they even defeated the Keeper, so it can't be the answer that's proving so annoyingly elusive.
Maybe if she didn't know Kahlan so well the answer would be easier to find, she thinks a little bitterly, as she moves to climb the stairs she finds herself walking toward.
Somehow, that doesn't seem like the right answer either.
Kahlan is a warrior. Cara is a creature built for war, for battle, for blood and death, and Kahlan is too, only in an altogether different way. She kills, has killed, will undoubtedly kill again, but there's an undeniable elegance to it, to her. The way she moves, there and then not, a flash of white cloth and black hair and brilliant steel the only signs of her approach. Dancing from one opponent to the next, as if giving every partner a turn...there's certainly a kind of beauty to that or, at least, Cara thinks so. But it doesn't seem right, doesn't seem...big enough, deep enough.
She pinches the bridge of her nose in irritation. This, it seems, is getting her nowhere. And puzzling out Kahlan's many attributes is proving to be quite a bit more time consuming than she'd initially considered.
Pretty but not vain. Soft but not weak. Graceful but not fragile. Elegant but not unapproachable. Noble but not patronizing. Deadly but not menacing. Damaged but not broken. It seems the only thing Cara knows for sure is that Kahlan is an often walking, ever-talking, living, breathing contradiction.
She lets out a slow breath and leans heavily on the rail of the balcony her feet have seen to carry her to, the sun-warmed stone hot on her forearms even through her leather. Maybe there's no answer for her sudden realization or, at least, not one she knows. (Maybe it's just a simple truth her training has never before allowed her to know.)
She sighs, closing her eyes and tilting her face towards the sun.
Maybe she needs a drink.
"Cara?"
Every muscle in her body tightens and her fingers twitch towards the agiels belted on her thigh before the rush of adrenaline fades enough to allow her mind to put a name to the voice.
"Kahlan."
She doesn't turn to look at her, not entirely certain she wants to see what she now knows to be true.
Beyond that, she's only now becoming aware of a persistent aching in her limbs which she studiously ignores. Still, how long has she been walking mindlessly around the Confessor's Palace lost in thought?
"I was wondering where you'd gotten off to." Kahlan says as she joins her on the balcony. "I haven't seen you since this morning."
This morning? She raises her eyes from the rail and blinks in ill-contained surprise. The sun is setting, the sky awash in red and gold, blue and purple trailing in their wake.
One question answered, then, though it's just as troubling as the one she's apparently spent all day considering. "I've been busy."
It isn't entirely a lie.
"Oh?"
Cara doesn't have to look at her to know she's smiling; Kahlan's always smiling at her these days. She shouldn't enjoy it, certainly shouldn't have said smiles, so many of them different, memorized and tucked away in the back of her mind (but she does).
"Should I expect Captain Harrington in my study tomorrow morning complaining about 'that damned Mord'Sith' again?"
She can't help but let out an amused scoff. If the homeguard possess even a tenth of the discipline and skill of her sisters by the time she's done with them, Aydindril could rule the world; the White City - to say nothing of Captain whatever-his-name-is - is lucky to have her. "Not this time."
"Then what?"
Without looking, she can see the quizzical tilt of Kahlan's head, the curious arch of a single dark brow. (She knows she shouldn't be able to do that, but she can.)
Cara lets out a slow breath, lips pursed in consideration.
As a rule, Confessors can't read Mord'Sith but, during their time together, especially the last year, Kahlan has proven to have an uncanny - read: troubling - ability to know when she's lying and Cara isn't entirely sure she wants to deal with the implications, or consequences, of that right now. (That she is in possession of yet another in a seemingly endless series of troubling thoughts having to do with Kahlan does not escape Cara's notice.)
She supposes she can just ignore her. Or walk away. It wouldn't be the first time. Though, now that she's thinking about it, it would be the first in a while. She'd gotten into something of a habit of entertaining the Confessor when she was in the mood for idle chatter, perhaps especially since they'd settled into the White City in earnest.
At first it had been because she'd been decidedly un-Kahlan-like after Richard and Zedd's unexpected departure and Cara had been terribly bored and, maybe, a little lost without having a Lord Rahl to follow or a Wizard of the First Order to harass but then it had been because, well...she doesn't know why, exactly.
She lets out an annoyed breath. Is she allowed to have any thoughts about Kahlan that aren't troubling today? (The thought that she has, perhaps, too many thoughts about Kahlan is quickly pushed aside.)
A hand finds its way to her shoulder, the gentle touch hotter than the stone under her arms and the sun overhead combined, and squeezes. "Cara?"
She turns her head ever so slightly, just enough to look at it, this foreign thing that was, in fact, not foreign at all. Five digits, pale and slim, equally at home wrapped around quill, throat, or dagger's hilt; she knows it well.
Since even before they'd met, she'd had a certain wariness of Kahlan's touch, of her hands and the power they possessed. Confession was incentive enough for most but one touch for Cara could mean death and, though death itself held little sway for Mord'Sith, she'd been in no rush to meet the Keeper on a more permanent basis. That had changed of course, as they'd traveled together, fought together, nearly died a thousand and one times together. No, she's no longer concerned Kahlan will look at her one day with black eyes, decide she's crossed some unspoken but somehow obvious line, and wrap a pale hand around her throat.
But then, why is she still so aware of Kahlan's hands? Of the way they move when she talks, emphasizing her point or highlighting her own enthusiasm. The way slim fingers drum restlessly against the arms of the High Seat when she's bored. The way they linger more and more on Cara's shoulder, her arm, the small of her back. The way they, even now, burn through her leather and into her flesh like the Keeper's own brand.
"Cara?"
She blinks, remembers too late that she's no longer alone and able to dwell too long in her thoughts without arousing suspicion or concern. "Hmm?"
"Are you alright?"
It should be annoying how clearly she can see Kahlan's furrowed brow and soft eyes without even having to turn her head. She doesn't have the thoughts to spare for why it isn't.
"I'm fine, Confessor," she says, wishing she meant it. Wishing she knew what it was that had her feeling so strangely off-balance, like the world itself was shifting beneath her feet and she was, for whatever bizarre reason, the only one who felt it moving. "I was just thinking."
"A dangerous pastime," Kahlan says, and Cara can hear the gentle laughter in her voice. Even without looking she can all but see it dancing in the blueness of her eyes.
Cara can't help but loose a soft chuckle in response. "I know."
A comfortable silence settles between them, the kind of silence bred by familiarity and deep affection. (Cara nearly scowls at the thought because she is a Mord'Sith and that used to mean something and it is rapidly beginning to look like something now means something else.)
She has to tell her, she decides. Otherwise, it's likely to drive her mad, assuming it hasn't done so already. "I've been thinking about something all day," she begins slowly, choosing her words with uncommon care, "And I still don't have an answer."
"Well, maybe if you tell me what it is, I can help."
"Perhaps." Could it really be that simple? Cara isn't sure but then, if today has taught her anything, it's that she is sure of very few things. "I was thinking-"
For reasons she doesn't dare look into too closely, it feels wrong to say it without looking at Kahlan and so, because Cara has been many things and, perhaps, is becoming even more, she has never been - and will never be - a coward, she raises her eyes and trades a pale hand and sun-kissed stone for what she knows is the face of the most beautiful person she's ever seen. "I was thinking about you, Confessor."
Kahlan smiles, soft and sweet and just a little bit mischievous, like she expects to be teased and is ready to give as good as she gets. "And what is it about me that demanded such thoughtful consideration?"
She takes in a deep breath she doesn't really understand needing and says, "How beautiful you are."
Cara can only watch, enraptured, as Kahlan's smile widens until blue eyes - once blown wide in surprise but are now soft and warm and sparkling with something like wonder - crinkle at the corners and a soft blush settles between the freckles on her cheeks.
"Oh," she says. It's more sigh than word and Kahlan ducks her head, briefly taking refuge behind a curtain of dark hair, before she meets Cara's eyes again, both smile and blush still firmly in place. "And what, hmm," she clears her throat, "What sort of answer were you looking for?"
Cara remembers, in a vague sort of way, that she's been searching for a reason behind her sudden ability to notice, to understand, something she'd once believed firmly beyond her ken. That she's literally spent most of the day trying, and failing, to do so. But here, now, with the sun glinting off raven-dark hair and blue eyes alight with some unknown emotion that instinctively makes her heart beat just a little bit faster, she decides it really doesn't matter.
"I don't know," she says, lips twitching upwards in the barest hint of a smile, "But I think I just found it."