Cassandra Pentaghast (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stabsbooks) wrote2016-07-31 02:50 pm
stabsbooks) wrote2016-07-31 02:50 pm
for obi_wanmanshow
The name had been a part of her nearly all her life, as familiar to her as her own. When it had first appeared - glowing golden script on her inner arm - she had been fascinated, spending hours upon hours staring at it, tracing the letters with one finger, dreaming about the kind of person her soulmate might be. The name was strange to her, not Nevarran or Orlesian or anything she had heard of, but that had only added to the mystery and excitement.
His name had appeared on her skin at the time of her first flowering - one more marker on her path from girlhood into womanhood. If she had been the sort to go to school and have friends, it might have been the kind of thing to giggle over with the other girls, to shyly hide away, only to shriek in feigned indigence when her sleeve was playfully pushed up and the name finally revealed. As it was, Cassandra learned from tutors, and rarely had contact with other children. The name, like her beloved books and dreams of dragon-hunting, became a solitary escape, a daydream of a better life.
Both had faded, in time, as such things do. Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones). And the name on her arm had faded from a bright gold to something duller and duller as the years went on, until it was something that could not be seen at all except in the brightest light of day.
(The longer it took, they said, the more your soulmate's name faded, the less likely you were ever to find him at all. And this one - an unknown, foreign name, one belonging to a man who clearly lacked either the interest or the means to seek out a soulmate with the name Pentaghast, well...)
Cassandra herself couldn't say exactly when it was she had stopped expecting to find him. Certainly it had been nothing overnight, no sudden revelation. She had simply woken up one day, no longer a girl in her twenties eager to make the world her own, but a woman in her late thirties - accomplished, certainly, perhaps even fulfilled - but utterly alone, and more and more likely to stay that way.
But the name is still a part of her, as much as it ever had been. And so it is that when she hears it spoken aloud for the first time, she doesn't even blink; hearing the words she had whispered so reverently to herself for twenty-five years is as natural as breathing.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi." She nods sharply, focused on her work, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her mind that is urgently whispering something, something is happening, this is important - She holds her hand out to shake - her arms, as they always are these days, fully covered by long sleeves that meet her gloves, the barely-visible name securely hidden from even the most prying eyes. "I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast."
His name had appeared on her skin at the time of her first flowering - one more marker on her path from girlhood into womanhood. If she had been the sort to go to school and have friends, it might have been the kind of thing to giggle over with the other girls, to shyly hide away, only to shriek in feigned indigence when her sleeve was playfully pushed up and the name finally revealed. As it was, Cassandra learned from tutors, and rarely had contact with other children. The name, like her beloved books and dreams of dragon-hunting, became a solitary escape, a daydream of a better life.
Both had faded, in time, as such things do. Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones). And the name on her arm had faded from a bright gold to something duller and duller as the years went on, until it was something that could not be seen at all except in the brightest light of day.
(The longer it took, they said, the more your soulmate's name faded, the less likely you were ever to find him at all. And this one - an unknown, foreign name, one belonging to a man who clearly lacked either the interest or the means to seek out a soulmate with the name Pentaghast, well...)
Cassandra herself couldn't say exactly when it was she had stopped expecting to find him. Certainly it had been nothing overnight, no sudden revelation. She had simply woken up one day, no longer a girl in her twenties eager to make the world her own, but a woman in her late thirties - accomplished, certainly, perhaps even fulfilled - but utterly alone, and more and more likely to stay that way.
But the name is still a part of her, as much as it ever had been. And so it is that when she hears it spoken aloud for the first time, she doesn't even blink; hearing the words she had whispered so reverently to herself for twenty-five years is as natural as breathing.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi." She nods sharply, focused on her work, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her mind that is urgently whispering something, something is happening, this is important - She holds her hand out to shake - her arms, as they always are these days, fully covered by long sleeves that meet her gloves, the barely-visible name securely hidden from even the most prying eyes. "I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast."
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Everyone knew about Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. But it wasn't the name that sent lightening up his spine. It wasn't even the recognition of the name, the famous dragon-hunter, the hero who had, however briefly, ridden a dragon. Yes, everyone knew about the left hand of Divine Justinia. It would, after all, be difficult to avoid knowing about her.
Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena.... Pentaghast. He knew about her, oh yes, had known from he very first, the day the script wrote itself across his arm, in a lovely, cultured, feminine hand. And then kept writing, round and around until he was dappled with gold from wrist to armpit, name after name after name. His parents had recoiled, and there had been shouting, questions. Were they all different women? Unthinkable. But who would-- and that name! Pentaghast.
That spring, he had been sent away to the Chantry, to see what could be made of him. No one said anything, not where they thought he might hear, but privately, Obi-Wan was very sure that he was being sent away to salve his mother's disappointment, and his father's shame. When the knight-commander had marched down the row of gangling youngsters stood up for his ungentle welcome, Obi-Wan had introduced himself when prompted... as Ben.
There was no point in hoping, after all.
Someone with a princess' hand, and a name as long as it was from here to Nevarra would ever meet with, nor want, Obi-Wan Kenobi. It was just as well to be Ben, who would never be recognized by anyone at all. Ben could be free, Ben could do whatever he liked, even fall in love, or out of it-- twice. He still wore his sleeves long and demure, and somewhere out there was a noblewoman with a similar difficulty in life, but even if it was written correctly in all the Templar rolls, he hadn't heard the name Obi-Wan Kenobi for a long time.
Until today.
"Ah... Yes. Ah," He mouthed, pointlessly, and realized that he had been staring, stunned, uncertain, too long wordless. Blessed habit took over, cutting his fumbling short-- Obi-Wan reached out to take her hand, the leather of her glove warm for just the moment in his hand, "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. Thank you for... Coming."
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She is well practiced in ignoring them.
She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed with the Templar's stammering, and makes the handshake as brief as possible before withdrawing. She looks down at the scroll she carries, frowning, as the voice in her head grows ever louder. She is on the verge of remembering something, something important -
"Your templars are having troubles with rogue apostates, it seems." She glances up, meeting his eyes again. "You were the one who requested the intervention of the Seekers?"
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Easy enough to focus the conversation on the work; people feared what they didn't understand, and no one really understood magic at all, except the mages. And what people feared, they sought protection from. When they were sent away without protection, they invented realities that didn't exist. And when you intend to burn a dead tree, blaming it on an evil apostate you were sure was just around the corner regardless, and put your own haybarn ablaze, is it not better to lie than to admit it?
Not every templar saw it this way. To keep peace among the ranks, patrols around the countryside had increased thrice-over-- to no help. Small mystery, when any Apostate with sense would be as far from a Circle and the accompanying Templar population as possible, not living in its shadow. Facing a mutiny among both the rank and file and the populace at large, he had appealed to a higher authority.
All this he explained to her, as thoroughly and succinctly as he could, knowing she had full access to the wholeness of reports and schedules, whether he will it or no; it was her right. Very few people could argue with a Seeker. None of them could argue with the famous Cassandra Pentaghast.
"...Of course, that's not for me to say. I'm sure the truth will out."
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There had been no time, naturally, to give the templar's own records even a cursory glance before their meeting. Time is a luxury, one she does not often have the chance to appreciate outside of the long journeys between Val Royeaux and whichever Circle she has been called to, and she had been obliged to rely on a verbal report from the junior Seeker who had been sent ahead. Now, though, as Obi-Wan's story winds down, she takes a moment to reflect on his words, then looks away from him to flip through the sheets of parchment she had been handed on her arrival.
The pages are written out in a neat, elegant hand, one that speaks to schooling just as distinctively Cassandra's own must. The letters are bold and straight and easily read, words marching in straight lines across the page -
And it is -
- entirely familiar.
She stares for a moment as the knowledge finally clicks into place, and then she gasps, quietly but undoubtedly audible, her eyes flying wide open, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
"Obi-Wan..." The name. The name she knows better than any but her own. She stares at the parchment a moment more, and then looks up, her eyes going instinctively to his arm - covered as thoroughly as her own with a long sleeve - and then up to his face. Suddenly she sees him in an entirely new light. Patient, intelligent eyes, sandy blond hair, a man whose age is difficult to determine under the beard, but who must be about the same age as Cassandra herself. "You - "
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She looks at him, an he waits, struck momentarily dumb by the piercing strength of her eyes, terribly blue, impossible to look away from. He doesn't think they could ever remind him of the sky, or a blossom, or of ice, not how they burn. No, she is as potent and shining as Lyrium, and he cannot look away.
"Cassandra," He says, finally, and silently thanks the Maker that he is somehow calm enough not to waver as he continues, "Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. Among others."
He's certain he's mispronounced something. After all, he's only ever seen most of her name, never heard it spoken aloud, before this moment, except in his own fumbling, childish attempts. But is it true? Is it really her?
"I-- Are you?"
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She stands abruptly, knocking over her chair in the process, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. This is - this is not what she had expected when she had come here today. This is not something she had expected to ever happen, not something she had dared to hope for in years, and when she had been young and romantic enough to imagine it, it had not been like this. It had not been him sitting patiently across from her, fully aware of who she was, of who they were, and speaking calmly of burning hay and terrified farmers as if - as if -
A lump rises in her throat, and she backs up towards the door, looking quickly away.
"I have - I have to go."
And she is gone, the door closing behind her with all the finality of a tomb.
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...It was just...
He'd put that all away. And then, for just a moment, with her staring wildly at him with those impossible eyes, gripping her arm as if it burned, he's hoped. He'd allowed that bastard hope of his to come roaring back, just as it had been in that first moment, when he was a boy, and the letters had come winding across his skin as he watched, C - A - S - S...
What a fool. Of course she wouldn't want-- Well. Well, then, of course. That made sense, at least. It was all so very sensible. And reasonable. And ordinary. Nevarran Royalty, the Hand of the Divine, did not care about soul mates, and even if they had, they would not need anything to do with the kind of Templar who lived on the commissary's free all-hours pottage because he sent every spare copper home to support a family that could barely feed itself.
But still he sat and stared, and tried to wrestle down the feeling that, somehow, he'd been abandoned. Then he stood, put the papers back in order, and opened the door-- as if she'd be standing there, the very idea! And then he went to go and see about his duties; just because the Seeker was here, it didn't mean the ordinary work could go undone. There was still a tower of mages to be looked after and dozens of requests to see to. If he had any luck at all, the Maker would see fit to bless him with long work, and hard, and a dreamless, exhausted sleep to follow.
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Meanwhile: Halamshiral
The Inquisition, himself among them, were arrayed around the room, easily counted as they walked among the mingling guests. There was the Inquisitor, and her companions, and of course the advisors, and the few guards, servants and guardians that had been brought with them. He was sure they would have preferred to leave them behind, but of course it was impossible; Orlais was, at least on the surface, a nation of devout Andrastians.
For a woman to attend a party, even for clearly above-board reasons, and not bring her mutually-marked husband? Scandalous. And anyways, he'd been tailored into this uniform to within an inch of his life. It'd be a shame, after all that fuss, not to at least show it off.
Of course, there was... a certain predatory joy in seeing Cassandra exercise minor breaches of her temper on the simpering jackdaws of the court. Every now and then, she would go somewhere out of his sight, and then return-- undoubtedly ducking away for a moment's respite, or on some clandestine errand of the Inquisitor's.
"You have a drop of blood on your chin," He mentioned quietly, the next time she circled back from such an absence. Obi-Wan's voice was calm, almost serene enough to pass for amused, "Not yours, I hope."
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"Never mine," she assured him. "Do not worry, my love." She looked at him, and sighed. "There are...certain things that must be attended to." Things that involved other people's blood. "Forgive me for abandoning you yet again."
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There is no need for this anxiety. He discards it, as best he can, trimming the tail of it with a joke.
"Well, I do have one regret-- I won't get to see you in action. But then..." He trails off, expression as genteel and unobjetionable at any distance as his voice is suggestive. Despite the dire formality of the situation, and the Inquisition's mission here, he would still risk any amount of social disgrace to see if he can get a rising blush, or a smile, "...Perhaps that's for the best. Given, the company we're keeping."
He's not going to apologize for it, either; his wife is a damned impressive woman.
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"In action," she repeats, thoughtfully. "Yes. I can see how that might be a burden." She tilts her head to one side, as if considering the problem. "I suppose I am simply obligated to...to let you see me in action. Later. In more...intimate company?"
But he had been worried, and no matter how he might try to hide it, or disguise it under lighthearted jokes, it had not escaped her notice. She extends her hand, her expression turning serious as she clasps his own.
"I will always come back to you."
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After all, here she is, and the music is playing, and he so trim in the red coat and sash. It's perfectly ridiculous, and so very romantic, like something out of a fairy tale. He knows what she likes.
"Something to come back for, at least."
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The suggestion catches her off guard. Cassandra has been to many balls in her life; she is used to spending them fending off unwanted suitors to the best of her (considerable) ability, and making her departure as early as she can. Tonight, the Inquisitor's urgent need for her assistance elsewhere had seemed nothing less than a blessing. A convenient excuse, when it is most needed.
But.
But this is no ordinary ball. At long last, she is free from the annoyance of would-be paramours. That position is taken forever...and here Obi-Wan stands, more patient than might ever be expected of a husband whose wife had been so frequently absent, smiling politely and gently, hopefully, holding her hand lightly in his.
Something to come back for.
She smiles, the joy reaching her eyes, and closes her fingers around his.
"There is no need to come back for it," she declares. "We shall dance now." A pause, as she hesitates. She is the one who had kept him waiting, after all. "If...if it is convenient for you."
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Obi-Wan ruminated on that, as they went along, the words simple and familiar, and yet strange when examined closely. Home. That meant Skyhold, of course, and not Orlais, as he had once thought it ought. He imagined their shared apartment, small, clean, and most vitally...theirs. Their armor neatly racked, side-by-side, two pairs of boots at the door, the sturdy sea-chest for clothing, and the basket of furs and quilts at the foot of their shared bed. Ah, the bed.
Riding in a column like this, looking ahead, he could see the Frostbacks riding high on the horizon and smile, then turn his head and see Cassandra near at hand. A long ride home. He was distracted by just such a glance when he happened to spot the glint of metal in the treeline behind her. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but-- before he could find his voice, an arrow drove the air out of him. It came from an unexpected angle, driving him out of the saddle and down, a punch of force so sharp and poignant that he couldn't yet register the pain, only the cold of the mud and the voices raised in alarm.
An ambush! It seems the Red Templars would hardly be taking the defeat at Halamshiral gracefully.
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When else has their work granted them both the opportunity to spend day upon leisurely day together, uninterrupted hours with nothing to do but keep their horses set along the path, and revel in the other's company?
He seems to appreciate it as much as she does, frequently glancing her way with a fond smile as they ride in companionable silence. Cassandra glances back, returns the smile, and Obi-Wan's expression changes, concern creeping into his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something -
It all happens so quickly after that. An arrow flies past her ear in a rush of air, and before she can blink it buries itself in Obi-Wan's torso with a sickening thud. She cries out even as he slips from his horse and into the mud below.
Cassandra is off her horse almost as quickly, fighting the crowd to reach his side, shielding him from being trampled. They are under attack - she has to fight, one hand already on the hilt of her sword - but first she has to know, has to reassure herself. She fumbles helplessly at his side, watching in dismay as the blood seeps from the wound, staining his shirt a deep red.
"Obi-Wan?" She cannot keep the worry from her voice, worry that almost immediately makes itself heard as a demand. "Look at me!"
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He is, manifestly, not alright. But at her command, he looks up, meets her eyes and knows in that moment if he isn't alright, if he can't be, then she'll stand right here and defend him and him alone, and damn strategy or the rest of their troupe.
"Worry about them," he grits, meaning the Red Templars, the archers on the heights and the rest already advancing down the treeline, "I'll find cover!"
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But one of the healers is already there, bent over the wound. She catches Cassandra's eye, and nods, reassuringly. He's in good hands. Reluctantly, she looks back to him, and nods. One hand finds his, squeezes briefly, painfully tight.
"My love," she manages to say, unable to add anything more, much as she wants to. Be well. Be safe. I need you. Instead, her expression changes, anxious worry replaced by grim determination. The Templars had followed them - they had shot, they had hurt, her Obi-Wan. They would live to regret that.
She turns, drawing her sword from its scabbard with a metallic clang and raising it high in the air.
"Inquisition, to me!"
And she's off, tearing across the path, towards the trees and the Templars hiding within.
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He is conscious of leaving a smear of his own blood on her palm, as she turns away. He sees her settle, fierce as a dragon, into an expression of determination, battle-ready, and is suddenly breathless for an entirely different reason. He's still staring after her in a daze when the Healer yanks the arrow out of him, and the pain hitherto muted flares into agony.
"Maker's bloody--" He cuts himself off with gritted teeth and listens without comprehension to the young woman's muttered apologies as she works over him. Rather, his attention is still on their surroundings, the flow of battle, Cassandra glorious among the fray.
Maker's breath she is magnificent.
What is not magnificent is that one the armored figures he'd thought knocked dead has only been dazed and is seeking a less formiddable target. Such as, perhaps, the unguarded back of Obi-Wan's new friend, and the injured, helpless figure of Obi-Wan himself. And suddenly, there's no time; before he can think, he's pushing her aside, shouting a warning and with his good hand drawing his sword to field an awkward block. He's half on his back, bleeding, one-handed, and the only good thing about the situation is that he's not completely alone. Hopefully someone will come to his aid soon: if Obi-Wan dies here, Cassandra will surely kill him.
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All the same, she is nearly too late.
She looks up just as the Templar drags himself to his feet, can only watch as he lifts his sword. She cries out, running, knowing she won't be fast enough - but Obi-Wan sees what she does, pushing the healer out of harm's way.
Leaving himself vulnerable. Helpless.
No -
She is aware that she puts on a burst of speed, but even Cassandra can't remember what happens between that moment and the one when she flings herself under the Templar's sword, catching it with her own and blocking a blow that surely would have taken Obi-Wan's head off. She is aware of nothing but blood: the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, the taste of blood on her tongue, the smell and sight of it as she blocks and parries and finally drives her sword through the unfortunate Templar.
Breathing hard, she stands over the body, staring mindlessly for a mere moment before turning, eyes and then feet anxiously seeking Obi-Wan as she looks for him and then runs, sword clattering to the ground as she drops to her knees beside him.
"My love - please - "
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Snowbound
He did not remember the last stolen glance, Cassandra's face wide-eyed with alarum, and his own gloved hand reaching the short distance between them-- it might have been a hundred miles if it were an inch, for all the good it had done him.
Obi-Wan woke in a twilight of grey and white, numb with cold, and only when he turned his head did he see what had saved him; a tree, torn up form its roots by the violence of the avalanche. It had fallen across his body, pinning him underneath, but it had also cradled him in its branches, leaving a small void in the packed snow for air. He could see a sliver of sky, here and there between the powder and the broken wood, and that was the sum of his good luck for the moment; to be left practically on the surface, and not buried alive, left to suffocate in the dark. In that moment, he finally realized what had happened, and the knowledge left him breathless.
Cassandra. Cassandra. Was she alive? Oh Maker, blessed Andraste, please... please, let her yet live.
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But with the return of consciousness comes the return of, if not memories at first, then the feelings associated with them. Surprise. Alarm. Panic...
Obi-Wan, separated from her by too wide a gulf, eyes wide and hand outstretched, reaching helplessly for her. A terrible cracking sound. A wall of white.
Her eyes fly open, revealing nothing. Blackness, cold against her cheeks. She thrashes, digging frantically, fingers going numb even through her gloves as she thrusts aside snow. It seems to last forever, and she's near to despair when suddenly her fingers burst through, scraping snow aside to reveal cold sunlight.
She fights her way out, sliding back awkwardly into the heavy snow, to find a scene that might have been beautiful, in other circumstances. Nothing but white; gentle, formless snowdrifts that muffle all sound in the valley. Desperate, she stumbles through the snow, crying out frantically though her throat is raw with cold.
"Obi-Wan!"
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Is the shocking green-and-red shape Obi-Wan's faithful Dracolisk, Jinn.
He paces in a circle, as if confused, lame in a back foot, limping, but then seems to orient sharply on Cassandra and hobbles towards her on three legs, making long, low, unhappy noises, like a cat on bath-day
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Who knows how long he'd been unconscious? How long he's been buried under the snow? Perhaps injured...
She whirls at the sudden sound, heart leaping with hope, and stares dumbly, mind still sluggish, at the creature racing through the snow. Her eyes widen when she recognizes it, and she hurries forward, frowning as it whines piteously.
"What is it...?" He limps forward, and cautiously, without sudden movement, she moves toward his back leg, peering at it. The leg is bent at an odd angle, and Cassandra hisses in sympathy, shushing the dracolisk.
"It is all right. It is all right. Be still." But it keeps whining, jerking its head anxiously, and she shakes her head, not understanding.
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Eventually, it abandons her altogether, stepping away with a disgusted hissing screech, the kind of vocalization that only makes its kind seem, if possible more related to dragons than they are. He then looks back at her, a pointed gesture, an indication that she is to follow, and limps onward, weaving crazily through the snow in a drunken, weaving pattern, head bobbing as he went.
Searching.
Like a hunting hound, he was searching.
And then, after some time and more distance was covered, the creature began to dig, and almost at once the snow under his feet falls inward with a soft whumphf, taking his forequarters down with it. Its dignity upset, Obi-Wan's dracolisk backs out of the sizable divit thus uncovered, snorting and growling all the while. And at the bottom of the pit? Why, it's a tree, or part of one, and pinned under it is the prone, yet-living form of one Obi-Wan Kenobi.
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She goes, not wanting to lose her arm, only to be abandoned once more. This time, when it looks back expectantly at her, she follows on her own, still at a loss. At least this is a distraction, however momentary, from the problem of what to do next.
It starts to dig, and Cassandra stands helpless, taking the temporary loss of the creature's interest to look around, somewhat hopelessly. She should begin digging herself. A useless, futile gesture, but she has to do something, or she will go mad...
She's pulled from her thoughts by the sound of a muffled thud as the snow falls in, and by the dracolisk backing away from its work. Knowing what is expected of her next, Cassandra ventures forward, looking dispassionately into the hole -
And stares, dumbstruck.
"Obi-Wan?"
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omg this is so late, i'm so sorry
it's ok!!
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shows up late, with starbucks
dusts off journal