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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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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."

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"Well enough, this time of year. If it were winter, or spring, I'd be more concerned-- but no. Harvest is soon, and right now things should be doing well enough there, as they ever are," He cocked his head slightly, to indicate both the uncertainty of life, and his own ambivalence, "I... I'm not close, with my family. I love them, and it's impossible not to feel something for the place you were born, but... I've found my real family among the Templars. And, I hope perhaps the Seekers, as well."

He pauses, significantly, and offers half a smile and the tip of his drink to Cassandra, the sketch of a toast before draining the last of the glass. But, how long was he in that cell?

"I..." He thinks back, blinking, then frowns, voice trailing off with dissatisfaction, "I'm not sure. It was a week or two on the road, and-- Has it been a month? Yes, that sounds... right."

A month. All over the ire of one official.

"A month," she says quietly. Her lips press together, and she looks at him, her eyes hard. "That should not have happened. Even if you were not who you say you are, even if you had been lying...Those who did that to you will pay."

She might not even have to be the one to ensure that they do. When the world discovers that the soulmate of the Right Hand of the Divine had been thrown into a cell, for the terrible crime of trying to reach her -

She takes a breath, forcing herself to take a sip of wine before she continues.

"As for family...there is no need to hope." She gazes at him, with neither anticipation nor apprehension. There is no question as to what will happen next, and how either of them feel about it is irrelevant. "We will be married, and soon. Whatever choice we may once have had in the matter is gone."

She tries to keep the regret out of her voice at the thought. Perhaps if she had not lost her memory, she would have been ready now. Perhaps not. Either way, they would have had the luxury of deciding for themselves. But now...now there is no stopping things.

Ah, here was the crux of the matter-- wasn't it always? There was something about the Maker-borne gift of a perfect match that hardly seemed to account for free will. And yet, and yet...

Obi-Wan put his wineglass aside, and folded his arms, one under the other, leaning toward her intently, "Cassandra, do you... Would you prefer to walk away from this?"

He is no longer so dire as once he was; then, he knew almost nothing of her. Now, he feels, if not safe, then more confident in her. But all the same, he must make the offer, futile as it must be.

"I will never force you into something you don't want. I would never chain you, where you wouldn't freely choose to be."

"Do not be ridiculous," she admonishes him. "You know we cannot do that. It is not you forcing anything, it is..."

Society. The Chantry. Everything...everyone she has any modicum of respect for. What would happen, if they were to walk away? Would they even be allowed? Even if they were, they would lose everything. Their positions, their standing. It's ugly enough when soulmates try to make things work and fail. But to not even make the attempt...

Besides. She looks down, brushing her fingers gently over the name on her arm. Loyal as gold, the saying goes. He loves her, enough to refresh her soulname with a touch, and still he offers this? Her expression softens, and she shakes her head, still gazing down at her arm.

"The soulbond is the Maker's greatest gift. It is...it is sacred. We cannot throw it away."

"You know that isn't what I asked," He says softly, but doesn't argue the point further. What he does is, reach for her hand, with great care, and take it gently in his own, "Cassandra..."

He lost his nerve, and his eyes dropped off his face, down to their joined hands, hers written in bright gold, his still pale and faded. How to express it, all the crowding doubts and secret terrors? Easier in writing, when it was only you, but in person far more daunting. How could he look her in the eyes and explain how it worried him that he might not be enough.

"...May I kiss you?"

She stares down at their interlocked hands, surprised, but with no desire to pull away. He is, after all, her soulmate, and despite her unhappiness at being pushed into anything, it is not the idea of being married to him that she dreads. Only the fact that she has no choice. He is kind, and patient, and attentive...and, yes, attractive too. His hand is large and warm, calloused with work yet not unpleasantly rough. One she could get used to.

And isn't this what she had wanted? What she had waited for all her life? She should be beyond happy. She should be celebrating, enjoying herself. Not worrying and second-guessing herself.

"Oh," she says softly, and considers. Not for long. A smile curves across her face, and she nods. "Yes. You may."

And then, softer, with a touch of uncertainty. The half-hopeful tone of a much younger woman.

"...Please?"

With equal parts eagerness and caution, he reached to cradle her cheek in his hand, covering the mark there. Whether or not she was willing to hear it, she did have such a remarkably beautiful face. That it was scarred only lent character, a history and strength. It would be dishonest to say that he hadn't been anticipating, hoping rather, for a moment like this for some time.

He tugged, gently, pulling her a little closer by her hand and then, because he was taller, leaned in to kiss her.

Later, he would describe it to himself as nothing of note, only an ordinary kiss, precious because it was the first, and because everything about Cassandra was in some precious by association. But at the time, in this moment, he experienced the warmth and the weight of those brief heartbeats in a way that made them both somehow more brief, and at the same time, endless.

Heavy weight, for one chaste kiss to bear, but when he pulled away, his hands had migrated to her waist and they were standing poised, somehow, in the lee of that emotion. He called it apt.

She's hesitant at first, gently probing. Just this morning, she had not even been aware of his existence, save as a mysterious name on her arm.

Now...

She leaves her wineglass behind, rising to her feet when he takes her hand. Obi-Wan is just tall enough that she has to tilt her head up slightly, his hand warm and comforting when he cups her cheek. She lets her eyes flutter closed, leaning in and pressing her hands against his chest for balance.

It is a good kiss. Chaste and reserved - but there is a thread of feeling that shoots through her as their lips meet, as her hands settle more firmly against him.

He is her soulmate. He loves her. And, whatever happens next, they will face it together.

When she pulls back, Obi-Wan's hands firm om her waist, she is smiling.

And he smiles right back, slightly giddy, and ducks his head in a deferential sketch. Thank you, he means to say, or perhaps, Another? But, instead, what comes out of him is more honest, tripping off his tongue entirely without thought-- and certainly without stopping to ask permission.

"I love you," He murmurs, in the warm, reverent silence between them, and only afterward wonders whether he should have said it aloud after all.

She blinks, surprised, and then her smile widens, her expression going soft. Her hands slide up his chest, arms locking around his neck as she pulls herself a little closer.

"I know," she murmurs, and leans up to kiss him again.

He hums an amused assent, swaying into her sudden, welcome enthusiasm. She is at her most beautiful when it is couched in confidence; the smooth, easy way she pulls him back down into her is undeniable.

Far be it from him to disobey her, naturally. She is still technically his senior in rank. He kisses her, this time somewhat more passionately,

Cassandra closes her eyes, letting herself relax into Obi-Wan's touch. She is terribly relieved that he hadn't taken offense at her words. They are only the truth, after all. She cannot pretend to love him yet, not when she has only just met him.

But he loves her, and as unsettling as that had been at first - a stranger, loving her - she is slowly coming to terms with the idea. Even starting to welcome it. With love comes patience and understanding, both of which Cassandra will need. And with the soulnames on their arms comes the future promise of her own love for him in return.

She slides one hand up into his hair, nails curling against his scalp. A breathless little moan escapes her as she opens her mouth against his -

There's an audible gasp, and the sound of a tray clattering to the floor. Cassandra jumps back, hair tousled, lips red, and snaps her head around to stare. The elven serving girl standing in the doorway looks just as mortified as she does, her eyes wide in shock and terror.

Obi-Wan is left suddenly cold, blinking, staring not at the elf, but at Cassandra, as if he can't quite understand why everything has stopped. Too-slowly, he remembers himself, follows the line of her gaze.

The maid. The tray. The door, hanging half-ajar over the scattered mess on the floor.

"Now, don't-- don't scream," The girl, who had clearly been thinking about doing just that, exhales sharply. Still operating in the realm of damage-control, he put one hand on the sideboard, for balance, and the other held towards the girl, as if he were placating a wild animal, "Why don't you... just pick that up, and shut the door. Come back later?"

He nods, slowly, so that the girl nodds with him, too stunned to do otherwise. And as if in a dream, she bends, picks up the tray, and backs haltingly through the door again. Obi-Wan waits for almost a full count of ten before he could breath again, collapsing back with one hand over his eyes.

"Maker's Breath," It had all the force of a much stronger curse, "I don't know why we might be worried about being public. It'd be the hand of Andraste herself if we could manage to keep it a secret."

Cassandra backs away as the girl does, turning from Obi-Wan to stare out the window. Whatever moment they had had a moment before, the mood is now gone. She takes a deep breath, arms folded tightly around her middle.

"I do not know why I care that we were caught," she says, half to herself. "We have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Ashamed, no. Embarrassed-- Well," He temporizes, letting his hand push back through his hair, remembering with relish the heat of a moment ago, the way her hands had come up to clutch at him, Maker have mercy on his soul, "I'm not exactly selling tickets to the show, myself. Some things are meant to be private; that doesn't make them shameful."

But that isn't the whole truth. Standing there, with the sunlight filtering thin through the curtain, Cassandra stands half in the shadow and halfway in light. She seems somehow smaller, folded in, deliberately separated from him, and alone. He takes a half-step towards her, a gentle offer of contact in his face, and the poise of his hand, to bridge the gap.

"It's because... it's important, I suppose. If it didn't mean anything, then it wouldn't matter who saw."

"If it didn't mean anything - "

She stops, turning to look at him. At him standing there, looking back at her with quiet, patient hope in his gaze.

If it didn't mean anything, they would never have done anything at all. If it didn't mean anything, she would never have said yes. She smiles, reaching her hand out to link with his.

"It does mean something."

"Yes," He smiles for her, not quite trusting his voice to more, "Yes, it does."

After a moment, he tugs gently at their joined hands to bring her close again-- or to bring himself closer to her, perhaps. No fervent embrace, then, just quiet warmth, the closeness of standing shoulder to shoulder with someone.

"...Was there anything else you'd like to ask?"

She looks down at their hands clasped together, and considers. Considers how he had faithfully written letters for a month, how he had waited in a jail cell for her and picked things up right where they had left off, without an apparent ounce of bitterness. How he had left behind all he had known to begin a life with her. How even her forgetting him entirely had been perceived only as a minor setback.

He loves her, that would be clear without the mark. He cares deeply for her, is astoundingly loyal...but while loyalty is without a doubt terribly important, and a wonderful quality for one's partner to have, a relationship cannot be built upon that alone.

"What is..." She creases her forehead, frowning. He had known of her, of her exploits, long before she had ever been aware of him...but the public's perception of Cassandra Pentaghast is, at best, a distorted, incomplete sliver of the real thing. "What is it that you hoped for, when you thought of me - when you thought of us? What is it that you...that you want? That you need?"

"That's a... very large question."

It was in him to put it off, with a joke, or a dismissal, and sidestep the issue altogether. He'd explained it once before, if briefly, but that-- even if she could have remembered, he wondered if that would have been enough for her. Cassandra was nothing if not relentless in the pursuit of the truth, complete and whole.

"I gave up hoping for anything, to do with us, a very long time ago," He says, eventually, as honest as he can manage, "At first, it was because I wrongly assumed that a Navarran princess would have about as much to do with me as I did with her-- nothing. Oh, I'd concoct childish fantasies about sweeping you off your feet, but it was all on the assumption that I'd stay where I was, a Templar's squire, eventually a full Templar, and you'd never know I existed. Safe and ridiculous; and then... I heard about the real Cassandra Pentaghast."

The kind of woman who was as often described with adjectives that could apply to siege weaponry as to a person. Fierce, terrifying, unstoppable, she was all those things and more, in the tales.

"Young fool that I was, I had no idea what to do with that. I wasn't expecting it, and... I don't know. It changed my mind about a few things. I like to think that it forced me to grow the hell up, try and imagine you better-- as someone just as competent, or much moreso, than myself. A person," He tilted his head, gesturing to indicate the unease with which he regarded his younger self. Young men, however well-taught, tend to think only of themselves as people, and everyone else as props to support the same. Looking backwards, it's impossible not to cringe, "But now, I-- even when we met, I wasn't sure. Tales of dragonslaying are all well and good, but it never told me anything real, about who you are. What I want is..."

Easier to think of the worst answers, really. He trailed off, uncertain. What did he want? Had anyone really asked him that? Had anyone ever asked him what he wanted, for something big, something really important like this? Life was full of so many necessities, so many things that had to be done, simply to survive, to go on living, and not disgrace yourself or your family. What you wanted always comes a poor second place, to that. He stared out the window, without any comprehension more complicated than mapping the transitory curve of a cloud-bank.

"...To be enough, I suppose. Just me."

She doesn't offer to retract the question, or attempt to qualify it. A large question, perhaps, but it is important, and she can think of no better way to begin to understand who Obi-Wan is, and what their relationship might look like. She does her best not to make a face at the idea of herself as a Nevarran princess. Technically true, she supposes, but any claim to royalty she might have is one of the least parts of her identity, second only to her nonexistent sense of nationalism.

The thought of Obi-Wan concocting marvelous fantasies about her from afar...well, that is not so different than so many she had met, those who had made up their own minds in advance about the Hero of Orlais. But few of them, she thinks, had actually allowed her own story to affect them, or to change their own minds and behavior. She's not sure how she feels about that. He is her soulmate, of course, and naturally he might feel a little more personally affected by what he knows of her...but even so...

All in all, it's a relief to hear that, at least, he recognizes that there is a difference between the tales and the reality. Of course he does. He is her soulmate.

But still.

"To be enough..." she echoes him, her tone musing, and then looks at him in something halfway between confusion and alarm. "Enough for what? Enough for me?" The idea is striking and new, and a little baffling. Her soulmate...shouldn't he be enough, by definition? What does enough even mean?

"Don't look so surprised. It always works out very nicely in the tales, but if leading that Circle taught me anything, it's that there are no guarantees. It's not any more like the stories than... you are, really," He replied, acknowledging the circumstance, the hand of fate and chance that had stolen her memories, that had painted his name gold while hers faded on his skin, "You're nothing like what they say, behind it all. You... aren't stoic, or really all that harsh, unless someone deserves it. You like poetry, and romantic gestures, and pet-names, and... oh, I don't know. Romance novels, probably, the kind with the bare-chested heroics on the cover."

He says this last almost as a joke, but it would fit well enough.

"Still, you... You are so... remarkable. I could go on," He says it with a casual honesty, almost a laugh, embarrassed at his own naked insecurities. He really could, after all, had she not asked him to refrain, "You deserve someone equally remarkable. Barring that, I can only hope not to disappoint you, if possible. But, enough about that; I'm curious, what did you imagine from 'Obi-Wan Kenobi,' hm?"

She ducks her head quickly, before he can see the expression on her face. Of course, she had read the poetry in his letters. It's still breathtaking, the idea of him writing love poetry for her - not quoted or copied from elsewhere, but made up out of his own head, painstakingly crafted and carefully set down for no eyes but her own. It had stolen her breath, her first time reading those letters, realizing just what she was seeing.

So of course he knows. He knows that she is a romantic, how much those gestures mean to her. He knows, and if the golden script on her arm tells her anything, it tells her that he thinks no less of her for it. Yet even so, she can't help feeling a little self-conscious at hearing him discuss it so-matter-of-factly.

Luckily, he doesn't seem to know about the books. Yet.

She shakes her head a little at being called remarkable; she's been called such things before, and always found it best to it out of her head as soon as possible. Better than letting it go to her head. Still, having her soulmate call her remarkable is something different than...well, than anything else. Her forehead creases in momentary distress at his obvious insecurity, at the idea - one she had not yet considered - that he might not be enough. He's right, naturally; a soulname, even one glowing gold (and only one of theirs does, right now) is no guarantee of a happy, lasting relationship. But she had always been so sure that hers, if ever it came, would last, that it would be one of the ones that worked.

"What did I imagine?" she repeats, and blinks, trying to focus her mind. A pause, as she gathers her thoughts.

"...I did not know what to imagine, at first," she says at last. "I half-expected my soulmate, if I had one, to be some other Pentaghast, a distant cousin. Or if not, someone else from Nevarra. But Obi-Wan Kenobi..." She trails off, pushing her sleeve up to caress her fingers idly over the name on her arm. A gesture born of long familiarity. She laughs lightly, shaking her head.

"Such a name! My brother teased me for it, and I was not sure...was it a joke? It was not Nevarran. I tried to find you, any record of a Kenobi family, but there was nothing. And then...I stopped looking."

Everything had changed, not long after the name had appeared on her arm. She goes quiet and still for a moment, remembering, and when she speaks again her tone is serious, her gaze steadily focused on her arm rather than his face. This is not something she has ever spoken of to anyone. It is nothing she thought she ever would.

"I spent more time than perhaps I should have, imagining what you might be," she says quietly. "In my mind, as a child, you were a thousand things. A prince. A pirate. A wild Dalish boy, who knew the secrets of the forest, and would teach me to live among the trees as he did." She smiles and shakes her head, one hand coming up briefly to cover her face. "Embarrassing, really. But I had no way of knowing, and those daydreams, the stories I told myself of my soulmate come to rescue me from my dreary life...I lived on them. They helped me to...to keep going. To have courage. I knew you were out there somewhere. I only had to bear my burdens long enough for us to find each other."

She falls silent, pondering for a moment.

"...I was foolish, I suppose. To think that there would be no more burdens to bear, once we were together."

Edited 2016-08-10 06:33 (UTC)

"But, you don't have to bear them alone."

Maker knows, he tries, little good that it's done him. Except, somehow, with her-- but he thinks, perhaps, that's less about himself, and more about the weight of the name on her skin, and the Chantry's doctrine of soulmates. His smile, if she looks to see it, is rueful.

"I'd make a very poor Pirate, I think, and I'm the farthest thing from a wild Dalish, but I am--" He wishes not to assume, "--I might be a decent partner."

Not a guarantee, no, but certainly a chance.

Cassandra smiles back, warm and full. It had been a long time since those days, since she had dreamed up elaborate, childish fantasies about her mysterious soulmate.

He is none of the things she had imagined back then. He is nothing, perhaps, exciting - no dashing adventurer or exotic elf. He is a templar, a poor one who had risen steadily through the ranks to lead a quiet, sleepy Circle. Someone she might never even have heard of, if not for that chance meeting.

But he is kind, and patient, and reliable. Faithful and generous and intelligent.

A good man.

"Yes," she says quietly, with a sense of wonder. She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips if he turns to meet her, to his cheek if he does not, and draws back. "I think you might."

He accepts the kiss properly, turning to meet the angle of her face with an easy grace. This much, he is read for; it's more than welcome, to be kissed by Cassandra Pentaghast. For the words, he is less prepared, and his reaction is both immediate and difficult to repress.

Obi-Wan, he blushes. Pink ears!

"Thank you," he rasps, after a moment of attempting to master himself, "Likewise, I'm quite sure."

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