A/N: HELLO. I should be back for good now. No, I didn't abandon this fandom. Or ship. I'll drown on this ship, I don't care. I'm working on Gone Forever and scribbled this out today using the title as the prompt. It's from Anthem of the Angels by Breaking Benjamin and either I'm hallucinating or Bardwisp requested a fic using the band. See you later, I hope you enjoy.
"Should we get the Seeker?"
Cold blue eyes saw past him and his panic, his fleeting hope. He made his choice. He chases a fantasy in place of being her in the most desperate of hours."
The man looked around at his fellows, as worn and fearful as himself. "He can help us, bring his army. Lead us."
At last, the Mother Confessor focused on him. "Then leave, but under no pretense. A maddened army of twisted creatures comes for our blood, comes to make us as they are. Our brothers, daughters, friends. Westland has fallen and its corpse comes for the Midlands. It will not stop. There is no salvation here."
A host of emotions came across the man under watchful blue eyes. She knew his emotions—had lived them—and looked west, to the dark sky that grew closer each day. The Mother Confessor inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. Her soul began to lament once more over the only thing that could have ever created such emptiness within her. The familiar feeling of regret flooded her, but not regret the Mother Confessor should feel.
Gasps in the crowd snapped her back to reality. She evaded the sword, barely. He screamed, she remained silent. Again, the man lunged at the Mother Confessor.
Cold blue eyes held his as he sank, sword in his belly.
Sloppy. She stared down at his body. How long had he been screaming? She should've noticed the moment he twitched. No, the moment he thought about moving. The Mother Confessor was getting sloppy. No, wrong again. Both the Mother Confessor and the woman in her were simply too used to their shadow. The complement to both sides of her, the space between a dagger and her heart.
How had she been so foolish?
"They come, my Queen."
Kahlan continued staring over her balcony, observing the evidence of the coming tragedy. Except, it would release her from her personal tragedy, so perhaps it was the Creator's way of blessing her. She smiled faintly in the way only broken souls do. This was her failing. Only with Richard could she have prevented this, but fate was cruel, leaving her the chaos of Jajang's descent or Richard's. She made her choice. Kahlan closed her eyes.
She made her choice.
"My Lady?"
An actual smile graced her face, though tired. "You're a great man and a great general, Onir."
"But not who you would prefer at your side."
"Onir—"
"Nor should I be." He turned to her, but his eyes didn't seek hers. "You react naturally to someone who isn't present, respond as the ocean to the moon. You look for them still, when you make decisions, and your eyes fall on empty space."
She shut her eyes against tears she had cried for too many nights, tears she hadn't been able to shed in weeks.
"Your hand twitches as though instinct tells you someone's at your side and you grasp air. You're compassionate, but the famous warmth you radiate? I have yet to witness it in the months I have known you. In my village, we believe that we are born without souls and have instead a dark night. If one is lucky, someone sets out and gathers wood in your night. They settle down, intent on their task, and build a glorious fire that breathes your soul into you."
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Her voice cracked the first time she spoke. She tried again, "Perhaps the traveler deserves the sun instead."
The door to her rooms burst open, Dennee storming in with two mortified men just behind her. "Have you lost your mind?"
Kahlan sighed, still facing out over the balcony. "Dear sister, staying will only get you killed."
"So you decide to send me off to die elsewhere?"
"No, I send you off with hope to rally what remains of the Midlands and perhaps D'Hara. The people don't believe the gravity of the situation, as those who are afraid tend to do. My hope is that the last Confessor travelling, telling of this threat will change that. Aydindril will burn for all the Midlands to see, and the people will know we did not falter in the face of death, that we gave no quarter. That we bought them time and, hopefully, proved this beast can bleed."
Dennee crossed the room in a fit, grabbing her sister's arm. "You speak as though already dead!"
Kahlan embraced her.
Dennee stiffened, unused to her sister's touch for some time. As her body relaxed, she cried.
"Make this mean something, little sister, before it's too late." Kahlan nodded to the men in the doorway.
Dennee offered little resistance as they escorted her out.
The silence pressed against them, cold with dread.
"Your soul is their sun, my Queen."
Only emotional vacancy allowed the Mother Confessor to stand undaunted by the sight before her. She could feel the terror running through her army. At least, what of her army that decided to stand beside her after little over a week of preparations. She didn't blame those who fled. Today, the Mother Confessor passed no judgment.
She stood with a number of her men outside the city gates. They had fallback points all the way to the castle, not wanting to be immediately trapped and easy prey within their own walls. No, they would die on their own terms. And whenever too many of their own fell, they'd retreat to a fallback point, thus regrouping with a portion of her small army. The corpses would slow their enemies' approach as they were channeled into the smaller space for a small advantage. Hopefully.
"Maybe you would approve," she whispered.
Onir stepped up beside her. "No one expected you to wear your Confessor whites."
"Consider this a hearing."
"Your final sentence?"
"Or I shall live your epitaph to make, or you survive when I in earth am rotten."
"A scholar, a queen, a warrior. What don't you do?"
"Cook."
Onir nodded seriously. "Perhaps you should've cooked for our visitors."
"This is indeed a grave error on my part."
The man smiled at her. "Remember the pleasant things as you die."
Kahlan returned the smile. She probably wouldn't, not with what they faced.
Westland's corpse indeed came for them. The horde churned, the creatures crawling and jumping over each other as they did so. Their numbers darkened the horizon and what she could only imagine as decay rose above them, bringing forth their telltale cloud of death blanketing the sky. The abominations truly were part of a corpse, rotted and twisted versions of the human body, and not all of them on two legs. Living nightmares that only became more grotesque as they advanced.
In contrast, Kahlan stood tall, a beacon in her white dress. "Today we fight for our families, for our lives, and pave through destiny." She raised her hand, the sound of bowstrings being drawn filling the air. "Starting with Westland's corpse! Archers!"
A mass of arrows flew from behind the Mother Confessor and, as if on cue, the sky darkened on either side. Blue eyes took in the clouds of arrows raining down. Despite her situation, something else shocked her, broke her demeanor.
A familiar presence entered her awareness, but she didn't dare believe it, not even when she heard the creak of leather beside her.
"You know I don't like when you start without me, Confessor. However, your speech was short, so I'll forgive you this time."
Kahlan turned, breaking at the sight of Cara.
The Mord'Sith brushed a stray hair from Kahlan's eyes. "After."
It took her a moment to nod. Kahlan straightened and looked out at the battlefield. The horde moved slower, noticeably smaller. Red caught her eye. D'Haran soldiers emerged on the rugged terrain from both sides.
After, because there would be such a thing.