?

Log in

No account? Create an account
US Skins: Tea

Fan Fic: Newton’s Third Law of Loving Thy Enemy (1/?) [LotS- Cara/Kahlan]

Title: Newton’s Third Law of Loving Thy Enemy (1/?)

Author: unbound001 

Pairing: Cara/Kahlan

Rating: PG-13

Words: 3,800

Warnings: None really 

Disclaimer: I don’t own Legend of the Seeker or the Sword of Truth, or the characters, or settings, or the plot, or even the likeness of anything associated with the Legend of the Seeker or the Sword of Truth. In short, I own nothing, I just like having fun with them...

Summary/AN: Modern college rivalry AU, based on this prompt (Cara is a star lacrosse player at Mordlin Sithers College, Kahlan is a pre-law student at Midlands University... The two all-womens schools are old rivals since their inception; during "Hell Week", while Kahlan is trying to pledge into one of the campus' 'Secret Societies' (The Confessors), she fumbles her initiation (panty-raide?) and gets caught by her intended target (Cara). Now, Kahlan's paying the price: every time the Mord'Sith lacrosse team plays the Mirdland team, Kahlan gets a visitor...) at the lots_meme, only, apparently, I’m kinda bad at following prompts completely so it spiraled a bit out of control and I’ve had to write it in parts. Also, un-beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

---

 

“That one,”

Two words.

Two simple words and they fall heavy on Kahlan’s shoulders like weights—daunting, demanding, slightly smug weights—drowning out the sound of surroundings cheers, and even the thud of the blood swishing against her eardrums like a sea in a storm. She can see out of the corner of her eye the sleeve of a white dress dangling close to her shoulder, and she can make out the general direction of the arm adorned with the signature white fabric, but she doesn’t see where the finger is pointing. She doesn’t need to see it though; she knows. She just knows.

On a lacrosse field with twenty-four players, twelve of which are from Mordlin-Sithers College—oh, the rivalry between their schools is richer than the deep red of the Mord-Sith’s uniforms—why would anyone be pointing to anybody but the Mord’Sith who has been using her lacrosse stick as a battering ram since the game had started?

Kahlan inhales steadily and suppresses her cringe when another Midlands girl—Kahlan’s pretty sure she’s in her Political Philosophy class—doubles over as a crosse—the owner is not hard to pinpoint— collides squarely with her abdomen. The referee, of course, turns a blind eye, as she’s been doing all game, and Kahlan briefly wonders how much the Mord-Sith coach had to pay her to remain so clearly biased. Then again, Coach Denna has quite a reputation among the Division I girl’s colleges, what with being fresh out of college and landing the coaching job that had been occupied by the same person for over fifteen years. People tend to credit her “incredible drive, and passion for the game;” Kahlan’s pretty sure it’s just because she’s really kind of scary. Even now, standing on the sidelines in an all white tailored pantsuit, with her arms crossed and a smirk playing on her lips, she looks like she may just spontaneously grab a crosse and beat someone senseless with it. All she probably had to do was look at the referee and the poor girl bowed to her every wish. It really wouldn’t surprise Kahlan if that is what happened. That school is made up of nothing more than misfits from its students right up to its headmaster (she’s heard that on occasion, he makes his students and faculty refer to him as “Lord Rahl”).    

Kahlan feels as a presence is withdrawn from over her shoulder, but then she can almost feel the forced smile right next to her ear. 

“We’re doing you a favour, Kahlan.” Obviously they have different definitions of a favour. Last time she checked, putting someone intentionally in the path of a madwoman was not a favour. “You know she almost broke your sister’s nose last year during a game,”

That pinches a nerve within Kahlan. It’s no secret that she’s fiercely protective of her family and to think of someone intentionally trying to harm Dennee, for sport of all things, makes her angry, almost irrationally so because obviously almost breaking Dennee’s nose pales in comparison to the many ribs this Mord-Sith is trying to break now, but family is family and even though her task is small, retribution is retribution.    

“Fine,” Kahlan agrees, just as another Midlands girl gets leveled—she does actually wince this time. “I’ll do it,”

“Good,” A hand clasps her shoulder, maybe encouragingly, or maybe as a last farewell, Kahlan can’t quite tell. “You have one day,” she almost jerks her shoulder away at that declaration but she doesn’t; her repute is at stake here as much as anything else so she watches silently as her companions take their leave creating a sea of black dresses and that one white one, and when they’re finally out of sight she lets go of the shaky breath that had been building in her chest since the discloser of her task.

18 years.

Well, 18 years, 8 months, and 16 days. She’s not quite desperate enough to count the hours—12 and 43 minutes (that’s merely an estimate). That’s how long she’s has been waiting for this moment. Since birth.

Now all that stands between her and becoming a Confessor—like her mother was, and her sister, and her grandmother, and every other woman in her family since the organization was first founded—is 24 hours and a girl who could quite possibly ram a lacrosse stick down her throat with one swift movement.

Kahlan Amnell may very well be the unluckiest girl alive.

 

 

The Mord-Sith locker room is oddly calm.

Kahlan’s not sure what she was expecting (maybe torture racks and chains) but it’s hardly as intimidating as she thought it would be. 

The lockers are deep red, and neatly stacked, the floors and walls are a gleaming white and there’s a heady sweet scent—lavender, and maybe vanilla, she thinks— looming in the air probably because the steam from 12 synchronized showers is still dissipating; then again, she took gym in high school and it was never like this, so she supposes it’s because it’s Mordlin-Sithers and they treat their athletes like goddesses.

What’s more important though is that it’s quiet. She had managed to sneak into a storage closet near the locker room while the game was finishing up, and then she waited, breath hitched, ear to the door listening for the tell-tale footsteps of the team entering and leaving the locker room. They entered together, footsteps heavy and voices raised with excitement from a “hard-earned win,” but when they left it got tricky. Mostly, they left in pairs, sometimes in groups, sometimes on their own; Kahlan had tried to count footsteps or voices to determine how many remained in the locker room but when that failed, she just decided to err on the side of caution and waited for long minutes after what she was sure was the last footsteps before she made her move.

Apparently, being cautious does pay off.

Her instructions are clear. She knows what she has to get and exactly what locker she has to get it from. Maybe she isn’t quite so unlucky after all.

Locker number 216. It’s easy to find, and Kahlan quickly glances at the surrounding lockers to make sure no two numbers are the same.

They’re not. 

Force opening a locker isn’t exactly hard—Kahlan learned that in high school the hard way—still, she fiddles with the combination lock first just to make sure she can’t do this the super easy, quiet, non-damaging way, but the lock won’t budge.

She sighs. She knows this will probably hurt, maybe even bruise a little, but it will be worth it. One day when she’s filling in her law school application, she will get to the section devoted entirely to student activities and right next to intramural tennis and student activity board, she will proudly fill in Mid U Confessor without even a thought to this day. All the good she’ll do as a confessor will easily outweigh one broken locker.

She raises her forearm to the locker, ready to strike, and if needed strike again, that spot that will throw the hinges off balance, but she pauses in trajectory when she feels something press against the small of her back. She can’t quite tell what it is. It’s not sharp, so it’s definitely not a blade or anything. In fact it’s really dull, wooden maybe…  

 A lacrosse stick!

“What are you doing in here?” The voice is sharp, but oddly calm for someone who has just walked in on an intruder, although it’s more than obvious that Kahlan is the one at a disadvantage here, and she’s blatantly reminded of that when her silence earns her a sharp jab that suddenly makes her intimately acquainted with the row of lockers before her.

“What are you doing in here?” There’s warning in the voice this time, a clear threat that further silence may leave her impaled on a lacrosse stick, if that’s even possible. Something tells her that with a Mord’Sith, it probably is possible.  Or even worse, she might be turned in to Coach Denna; then impalement by lacrosse stick will be the least of her problems, especially since that one rule—that any Midlands student or Mord’Sith caught trespassing on the others school’s campus will be punished as seen fit by an authority figure at the trespassed upon school—was implemented a couple of years ago. She’s heard about some punishments Mord-Sith professors have inflicted upon Midlands students. She’s also heard that Coach Denna is the by far the worst Mord-Sith professor to cross. She feels her legs burning already at just the thought of the laps Coach Denna will make her run. She is determined not to let it come to that.

“I—” her voice sounds shaky—uncertain—even to her own ears. She clears her throat, tries to build volume with her vocal folds, “I’m lost,”

“Lost?” It’s a snicker, like the word is a foreign concept, but the pressure against her back eases, and Kahlan takes it as a sign to turn around, slowly, with her hands raised in surrender, just in case. 

She almost wishes she hadn’t—turned around that is—when she sees her, standing there smugly in nothing but a simple red bra and panties set, blonde hair out of its usual uniform Mord-Sith braid and cascading wetly around firm shoulders, dripping beads of water down lightly tanned expanses of skin like she’s just stepped right out of any thirteen year old boys’ deepest fantasy. Kahlan has never been a particularly insecure girl but… damn. She finds that she actually has to tear her gaze away from following the progress of newly formed water droplets as they slowly trek down and across sharp protrusions of bone and lightly surfaced muscles and curves too perfectly shaped to be anything other than photoshopped.  

She finds eyes instead, holding fast to irides of sea green and refusing to let her gaze wonder, lest she develop a complex here.    

The Mord’Sith, to her credit, doesn’t break this newfound eye contact, she holds fast, sizing her up through her eyes alone.

“You’re lying,” she finally declares, lips forming a feral smirk that couldn’t possibly have anything but bad intention behind it. 

“I’m not,” Kahlan says indignantly, but the lie sounds just as unconvincing as the first one. She’s never been really good at lying; her face always gave her away somehow, so she’s lived her life always telling truths, and avoiding the bad truths.  This truth, though, is one that might end in her running laps for a coach who believes that fainting from exhaustion is the epitome of a good work out; this might not be a truth worth telling. 

“You are and you’re not very good at it,” The Mord’Sith says, letting her fist slide down the shaft of lacrosse stick in another silent threat. “Let’s try this again,” her voice is dangerously low, and it makes the hairs on the back of Kahlan’s neck rise. “Why are you outside my locker?”

“Oh,” Kahlan’s certain the surprise shows on her face. “Is this your locker?” Of course it is. Of course, the one Mord’Sith she was trying to avoid the most would be the one to stumble in on her trying to break into her locker. Kahlan hadn’t even really stopped to think that this Mord’Sith could be the Mord’Sith. She had looked so much bigger on the field, but now that Kahlan really thinks about it; of course it’s her. It’s in the way she carries herself, in the way she moves; Kahlan had drawn a comparison to a lioness when she had watched her on the field, but now she realizes she was wrong. Lionesses typically hunt in groups, relying on scare tactics, size, short bursts of speed and power; this Mord’Sith is more of a Eurasian Lynx, solitary, not particularly big, but swift and calculating in her every movement. She thinks of restless nights spent watching Nat-Geo and Animal Planet with her best friend, Richard. Richard would probably tell her to pet particularly harsh animals. “They’re only aggressive because they’ve never experienced a nice belly rub, Kahlan,” he’d say. She has a feeling that applying that particular theory here would only leave her without a hand. She should probably revisit that unluckiest girl alive theory though, and turn it into law. “Well,” she swallows against the hoarseness in her throat, and forces a smile. “It’s a very nice, sturdy locker,”

The Mord’Sith is not amused. She eyes her carefully, gaze landing and locking on Kahlan’s wrist before Kahlan has the chance to hide it. Her bracelet. The one given to her on recruitment day. Dennee had told her that it was a new system, created to “spice things up,” so as the recruits get further into the pledging process, the girls who can’t complete the process get their bracelets taken away, “like Survivor, but more important.”

She only hopes this Mord’Sith doesn’t know the origins of the bracelet.   

She has no such luck…

 “A pledging confessor,” there’s clear disdain in her voice, like just the word ‘confessor’ is bitter on her tongue. Of course, the rivalry between Midland Confessors and Mord-Sith athletes is even deeper than the rivalry between their schools. “I should have guessed,”

“I’ll have you know that the Confessors are a very honorable group—”

“Of thieves, apparently.” The words are harsh, but the loathing behind them is apparently even harsher because the lacrosse stick is raised again, high against her clavicle, and really, if Kahlan is to be impaled, she’d rather it be from back to  front, and not whilst wearing her favorite t-shirt. “What have they sent you to take?”

“Take?” She asks, feigning as much innocence as she can muster. The lacrosse stick presses harder against her skin, reddening flesh so the edge of pain appears as a mere warning that she could easily press harder, the delicate shift of muscles in her arm is proof of it.

“Your underwear,” Kahlan admits, jaw squared despite her acquiescence. The press of the crosse eases but doesn’t lower. “In jest, of course.” She adds. “Most probably because they rightly thought it was a task I couldn’t complete,”

That seems to work. The crosse lowers completely and Kahlan is met with a long curious appraising gaze before the Mord’Sith finally speaks.

“Here,” Here lips are pursed into an almost smirk as she strips off her red boy shorts and steps out of them, dangling them teasingly before Kahlan’s eyes. “Take them.”

Kahlan eyes her wearily, careful—very, very careful— to keep her eyes above the waist. She’s not particularly inclined to trust someone who just held a lacrosse stick to her neck as weapon.  

The Mord’Sith apparently finds humour in her hesitance, because she smiles, a real smile that bares teeth and all.

“They’re clean. I just put them on, I promise.” There’s teasing in the arch of her eyebrow and the curve of her lips, but Kahlan remains still, and utterly confused. She can’t figure out for the life of her why this Mord’Sith would all of a sudden want to help her. “Unless you’d like me to autograph them for you too? In that case, I’d hope you have a pen,”

Kahlan takes the red garment from between the Mord’Sith’s fingers and clasps the cotton in her palm.

“Thank you,” she stammers unsurely, still half expecting this to be some kind of joke, even with the underwear in her possession.

“Now get out of here before I change my mind,”

That is absolutely all Kahlan needs to hear before she goes scrambling for the door. She’s halfway to it when the Mord’Sith calls out to her once more. 

‘Confessor?”

Kahlan stops, turning to face the smug blonde.

“Kahlan.” She corrects, “My name is Kahlan,”

The blonde purses her lips like it’s information that couldn’t ever possibly be useful to her; Kahlan smiles anyway.

“If I see you sneaking around here again, next time, I won’t be so nice,”

That’s perfectly fine with Kahlan because she doesn’t expect to be stepping foot on the Mordlin-Sithers College campus again anytime soon.

 

 

It’s everything she ever dreamed of, being a confessor. When Kahlan walks through residence halls or school buildings, crowds part at mere glance of her black garbs. Students know her name; they talk to her. Whenever there’s a problem, students are quick to seek her out and ask her for her advice or wisdom. They respect her and admire her.

It’s both wonderful, and incredibly time-consuming, with an extra emphasis on time-consuming. That’s how she finds herself walking back to her residence hall alone on a Friday night whilst most students are either celebrating or working on forgetting the results of the first real season clash of the Mordlin-Sithers and Midlands’ lacrosse teams. Pre-season results aside, she heard there would actually be school-board mandated referees at this game, ones who would enforce the rules despite how scary Coach Denna is. It was probably actually a really good game, one that Kahlan had really wanted to go to (out of school pride, of course. What other reason would she have for going?), but duty had called—in the form of a roommate housing agreement dispute—and Kahlan figures she might as well get used to being a slave to duty now since she’s pretty sure she’s going to be a whipping boy to duty in law school.  

She’s about halfway to her residence hall—taking long, fast strides, because it is night and there’s really no one in sight, —when a voice stops her in her tracks.

“I see my underwear have done you well,”

Kahlan turns towards the voice, confusion etched in her features. She knows the voice, she knows the face and body related to the voice, she knows the one memory attached to that voice and face and body, yet she’s still mildly surprised to turn and see the Mord’Sith there leaning against a bike rack, still in her lacrosse uniform, just exuberating confidence that she shouldn’t have, not here, not on Kahlan’s turf, out in the public, without her lacrosse stick. Kahlan could easily turn her in to Professor Zeddicus and then she’d be writing lines for days—something she would probably find as horrifying as Kahlan finds running laps for Coach Denna—but then again, Kahlan really wouldn’t do that, not after what she did for her.

“I—,” Kahlan has so many questions to ask. What she’s doing here is on the top of her list, but then there’s also how she found her, and why she helped her is another one that’s been lingering in the back of Kahlan’s mind for a while now. She has a feeling she’s not going to get a straight answer for any of her questions so eventually, she just settles for, “thank you,”

The Mord’Sith arches an eyebrow in surprise or maybe confusion.

“For helping me,” Kahlan clarifies. “And for not turning me in. You really had no reason to be so nice to me. I mean, you don’t even know me! But, being a confessor is something that is sacred in my family. I don’t know what I would have done if I had failed. So I really just want you to know that I’m really grateful,”

“Well,” The Mord’Sith crosses her arms over her chest, covering the elegant design of the Mordlin-Sithers’ insignia. “You should be,” she says. Kahlan raises an eyebrow in confusion. “Grateful,” she clarifies, and Kahlan has to resist the urge to scoff at the blatant display of arrogance.

“Right,” Kahlan nods, ignoring the way the Mord’Sith’s pointed gaze makes her skin tingle. “Well,” she purses her lips, blowing out a shaky stream of air. The Mord’Sith is still gazing at her, expectantly, in a way that almost makes Kahlan want to shuffle her feet nervously, but she has absolutely no intention to just stand here, on her own turf, made awkward by the particularly keen stare of a particularly arrogant Mord’Sith. “Thanks… again,” she forces a smile, before turning to continue on her way to her dorm.

She takes about five steps before the voice stops her again.

“Confessor?”

“Kahlan.” She corrects, turning again to face the smirking Mord’Sith. “My name is Kahlan,” Something about the way the Mord’Sith’s lips quirk into an almost smile says she hadn’t forgotten that at all.

“You know,” She leans further against the bike rack, speaking slowly and deliberately so her words are as pointed as her gaze. “Had your sister been nearly as pretty as you, I would have avoided the face,” she flashes a quick smile, pushing off of the bike rack until she’s standing at full height. “I’ll see you around, Kahlan,”

Kahlan watches, completely and utterly outraged, as the Mord’Sith retreats, hips swaying confidently with each step. She can honestly say she has never met someone nearly as irritating in her whole entire life. Really, how dare this Mord’Sith just show up on her campus, risking punishment and ridicule, and then practically brag about how she almost injured her sister, and call her pretty all in the same breath? Kahlan is absolutely beside herself with outrage and, if the sudden fluttering in her chest is any indication, then she’s just a bit charmed.

“I don’t know your name,” she calls out to the retreating figure before she can stop herself.  

The Mord’Sith stops, turning to face her with a smirk like she’s not the least bit surprised to be addressed again.  

“It’s not important,” she answers teasingly.

Kahlan is unfazed by the evasion.

“I’d still like to know it,”

The Mord’Sith scrutinizes her carefully, less pointed this time, and more thoughtful.

“Cara,” She finally answers, after long weighty moments of appraisal.

“Just Cara?” Kahlan teases.

Cara narrows her eyes, shooting her a comical glare.

“Cara is all you’re getting,”

It’s enough for Kahlan; in fact, it almost feels like some sort of grand victory.

“Do you wanna walk me to my hall, Cara?” It’s a stupid idea;—a stupid totally un-Kahlan like idea—Cara shouldn’t even be here and if someone sees them, she’ll have herself a lot of explaining to do, but for some reason, Kahlan’s not quite willing to let her go yet.

“Yeah,” Cara shrugs indifferently. “Sure. Why not?”

Kahlan has around a gazillion reasons why not but not one of them can wipe the smile off of her face as Cara catches up to her, walking so close that Kahlan has to make sure the deep red of Cara’s jersey hasn’t rubbed off on her.

 

To Be Continued…

 

Comments

omg! this is SO awesome!! i want to feed you LOTS-crack so you can write more!!!111 moar!!
Thanks for reading :) I will gladly take your LotS crack, because I'm totally pumped to write more of this fic!
Ohhhh I Can't wait for the next part!!!!

So, what did Kahlan do with the underwear afterward?? Keep them I bet!
Thanks for reading!

So, what did Kahlan do with the underwear afterward?? Keep them I bet!

Who wouldn't? :p
this was soooooooo good lol, i can totally picture the locker room scene!!

more please!!! i'm sitting on the edge of my seat. :)
Thanks for reading!

More coming soon; I pinky promise :p
*flails* You seriously rock! Pft, consider prompts to be more of a... squiggly... line to follow... a very blurry, squiggly line in which creative freedom is placed upon the shoulders of prompt fillers.

Homg... more nao.
Ha! Thanks for reading! More soon!!
MAD FLAILING, OMG.

This is really compelling stuff! I am such a sucker for their ~tension and I love the way you write it. I don't usually read works-in-progress until they're finished, but there was no way I could stay away from this. :D
Thanks for reading and commenting!! :)
aww, you can't just stop here! I die here to read more :')
Thanks for reading! I'll be posting more soon!
OMG! This is beyond awesome!!!
I love it!! I also love how you create a high school version of Mord'sith and confessor!!
This is so good and I can't wait for the next chapter!! :)

(Anonymous)

Awsome

this is an awsome story. can't wait to read MORE! Well done!Thank you!
I ROFL'd my way through this!


Kahlan’s pretty sure it’s just because she’s really kind of scary, entirely possible with Denna.

And yes, I could see Richard saying something like “They’re only aggressive because they’ve never experienced a nice belly rub, Kahlan,”

Great start...more please?

OMG woman i love you. SQUEEE....this fic is made of win. I can't wait to read the next chapter. Please update soon, like NAAAAAOOOOOOO! :D
amaaaazing. there will be more soon, right? please?
Hell YES! I liked it a lot! Great job mixing original with what we know of the characters - they're both coming through in a believable, highly entertaining way.
Great line: "like she’s just stepped right out of any thirteen year old boys’ deepest fantasy.

Cara steps out of her underwear and hands it to Kahlan! Awesome.

I'm very excited for what's next.
This is very awesome. I love Kahlan's thoughts, they made me laugh. I can't wait for moar.
This is awesome! Can't wait to see how this story unfolds!
OMG! This is the best thing I've read all night. Please update soon. Oh gosh, lacross is the sport that Cara would so play. Maybe after Rugby and Football :)Great chapter
I cannot confirm or deny that this is my prompt... but I am more than willing to confirm that you rocked it! I love it, this is fantastic so far-- please keep going! I love what you've got and can't wait to see where it goes from here! (plus, your role for Denna had me laughing at every mention, it was hilarious!)
Really, how dare this Mord’Sith just show up on her campus, risking punishment and ridicule, and then practically brag about how she almost injured her sister, and call her pretty all in the same breath? Kahlan is absolutely beside herself with outrage and, if the sudden fluttering in her chest is any indication, then she’s just a bit charmed.

Lol, very well put! Loved this AU and looking forward to next!