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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

"But that is ridiculous! The very idea - it is archaic - "

"It is...traditional," Leliana allows. "Old-fashioned, perhaps. But hardly archaic. Chantry law - "

"You know no one follows that law anymore - "

"Many do," Leliana interrupts, and there is a hint of steel in her voice now. Where most would bow before the force of Cassandra's temper, Leliana has always stood tall. "The practice is still very much in use, in some circles. It is Chantry law, and you are the Right Hand of the Divine. Cassandra. You must think. The entire world is watching. What you do will reflect not only on yourself, but on Most Holy. On the entire Chantry."

"But..." Cassandra sinks heavily into a chair, her head in her hands. She has always found comfort in tradition, especially in the rites and rituals associated with the Chantry. This, though...this is different. She shakes her head despondently, and then looks up at the Left Hand beseechingly. "We have had only two days together, Leliana, and I do not remember one of them. I do not know him. I had hoped to...to have more time..."

"You will have time," Leliana assures her, sinking to her knees on the floor and covering Cassandra's hands with her own. "You will have all the time in the world to get to know one another. After the wedding."

"But to not even see him..." She trails off, miserably. The idea is terrible, preposterously so. Two days ago, she had not even known of his existence. Now...now the thought of being separated from him is unthinkable. Especially now, with so much at stake. So much still to learn.

"Cassandra." Leliana's voice is gentle. She hesitates, and sighs, her voice taking on a tone of confession. "You know that Justinia has always been controversial. Recently, some of the more traditional sects have been...restless. They fear change. They fear that Most Holy will abandon the old ways, and make the Chantry into something they do not recognize." She squeezes Cassandra's hand reassuringly. "And now - the Right Hand has found her soulmate! It is news, Cassandra, whether you welcome it or not. No Hand since the Exalted Age has joined with her soulmate after being raised to her position. It is wonderful - but it is also political. Following tradition will soothe the fears of those who find their trust in Most Holy shaken. The rest will find it romantic. And it is a small price to pay." She pauses, then squeezes Cassandra's hand once more. "It is only a few days. A week, at most."

"That is not reassuring."

A few days. Just enough time to fit Cassandra for an ornate, uncomfortable, terrible dress. To plan an elaborate wedding in the Grand Cathedral, and give notice to insufferable nobles and Chantry representatives across Thedas. Probably Obi-Wan will be subject to a barrage of unwanted instruction and advice on how to conduct himself as the husband and soulmate of the Right Hand of the Divine.

And all the while, they are not to speak with each other, or communicate in any way. She clenches her hand into a futile fist, and pulls away.

The next time she sees Obi-Wan, it will be at their wedding. And she is not ready.

He had been... annoyed, to say the least, when news of the decision to 'follow tradition' had come down to him. They'd at least given him the courtesy of a conversation rather than a letter-- the Left Hand of the Divine, no less. It had been a strange interview, one where he wasn't sure if he should feel affronted, or frightened; the woman was both terrifyingly competent and utterly terrifying.

Perhaps that was the point; to scare him into good behavior. He had to admit, it was warranted... plans, half-formed, to somehow pass correspondence to Cassandra died still born, under Leliana's steely gaze. And then, the endless fittings, and lectures, and conversations about politics and etiquette and... and in the end, he resolved that it would be well enough simply to survive the day with his skin intact, let alone his dignity.

Even Obi-Wan had to admit, however, that he did at least look like a cream-and-gold cake in the perfectly ridiculous clothes they'd be forcing him into. Perhaps that was the point; this is Orlais, after all. Of course the maids and seamstresses all made much of him, and cooed in tones of delight, but it took all the patience he'd learned in his post as Knight-Commander to maintain a serene outlook.

Patience. Yes, that was the key.

Nights were worst, when there was nothing more to do, and sleep came slowly, creeping in late like a guilty drunk. He was reminded of the many similar nights he'd had, though on a much less comfortable bed, waiting for Cassandra in that small, square cell far below all this. He wondered, what she was doing, what was happening outside of his hectic little bubble of activity.

The night before the actual wedding, that's when his patience finally runs out. Obi-Wan wasn't always so respectable; as a boy, he went over stone walls and stole fruit, same as any disrespectful young fool. And anyways, the walls of the complex are so encrusted with statuary and religious iconography, it's no challenge to shin down them and walk the grounds alone. Frankly, he's surprised not to be seen by a guard and shot for an assassin-- but then, maybe they figure that anyone who wanders the same aimless circuit three times before deciding on a destination is merely lost and not a killer. Or maybe they assume that any assassin foolish enough to try and gain entry through Cassandra Pentaghast's balcony deserves whatever fate he meets there.

Edited 2016-08-11 22:11 (UTC)

The next days are just as dreary and anxiety-ridden as she'd expected. Cassandra lets herself be measured and wrapped in all manner of fabrics; she gives her opinion, when she is offered the courtesy of being asked, on food and decorations; and she tries not to think about Obi-Wan. What is happening to him. What he must be thinking. What awaits them both, closer by the day.

The gold on her arm is a comfort and a source of guilt, all at once, reminding her not only of his own devotion to her but of the fact that he has no such reassurance of her own.

Leliana had been right about one thing: the days pass quickly, and seem to pass more quickly still as they slip by one by one. Before she knows it, it is the night before her wedding day, and Cassandra lies awake in bed, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling. Alone, for the last time.

Foolish, to lie here with her stomach tied in knots, anxious about her wedding night. She is twice the age of most women in this position. She has faced down much worse things. Blood mages. Abominations. Dragons.

And yet...

There's a tap at her window, and Cassandra turns to face away. A branch, rapping against the window. Really, that tree needs to be trimmed.

The tapping comes again, louder.

She pauses. Sits up, and listens. And then she throws the covers off, feet tangling in the sheets as she all but falls out of bed and hurries over to throw the window open.

"Obi-Wan?" Her voice is a disbelieving whisper, equal parts thrilled and scandalized. "Is that - you cannot be here!"

But he is, and she cannot keep the smile from her face.

"The Maker hasn't struck me down, yet," He whispers back, glibly blasphemous, but smiling as eagerly as she is, "I can go back..."

He can really. It would be easier, all things considered, but he isn't serious. He can't even take a step away, really, to cement the threat. She's too radiant, limned in silver moonlight, beautiful in a flowing nightgown of unaccustomed femininity. His grin only widens.

"...I needed to see you. To be sure you were alright."

Not that he expects blood mages to attack, or demons, or even something so fanciful as a proper assassin, rather than some lovesick fool like himself... and surely, even if they did, Cassandra could dispatch such a threat as handily as any. But that isn't what he's worried about, now is it?

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