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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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."
no subject
For my promptness and my writing, I could hardly do less. Indeed, writing to you is strangely calming, despite my lack of focus elsewhere. I think I understand what you mean, about unpleasant thoughts. Do not fear any lack of correspondence from me, I am committed to writing to you, whenever I can.
To be honest, I have not had the opportunity in the past for much letter-writing outside of formal correspondence and reports mandated by duty. Therefore, while I share your hope for a deeper acquaintance, I find myself at a loss to know where to begin. If you have any particular topics I should write on, please include them with your next letter. A blank page can be very intimidating, and I'd like to do better than describe the latest petty argument, or worse: the duty roster.
There is one matter of duty, however, that I feel obligated to pass to you. The young apprentice I mentioned in relation to the business with the fire, Ashoka Tano, is something of a fan of your exploits. Having missed the opportunity to see you while you were here, she cornered me in the hall and demanded compensation for her loss. What it's like to be cornered by a sixteen year old girl who's been cheated out of what she sees as a fated meeting with her personal hero, I hope you never learn. Regardless, she asked whether or not the tales of dragon-riding are true, and requests a swift answer.
The energy of youth is admirable, in its own way. I hope your own lasts through whatever your duties take you, though no less perilous than my own. I will be praying for your safety.
Obi-Wan Kenobi
no subject
It is good to hear that you will continue to write. No, that is not what I mean - I do not mean to say that it is merely good, or to imply that your letters are a pleasant distraction only, one that I could adjust to the loss of. It is not true. I am
It is almost frightening, how quickly I have come to depend on your letters, and the promise of more.
You may gather then that the content does not much matter, so long as they are your words, so long as I know that you are thinking of me, as I am thinking of you. I do think of you, quite often, and imagine how it may be when we are reunited. The thought is terrifying and wonderful at once. Do not think I am terrified of you. I do not think I could be. I merely wish that - It is difficult, to know a person, to truly understand the heart of another, and a name on one's arm does not change that. I have not had much practice in knowing anyone in that way, nor in sharing my life in such a manner. My life has been a solitary one, for the most part, and I fear it may be a difficult adjustment for us both.
If it is a challenge, however, then it is a worthy one, and the rewards well worth the effort. I sometimes wake and fear that all of this is a dream, an impossible, childish fantasy come to torment me, raising my hopes only to dash them. But your letters are here, and they are real. I have set instructions that any future letters are to be delivered to me immediately, and without interference. I cannot bear to wait any longer than I must for any future delivery, or to think of your precious words being read by another. Perhaps it would be best to number the letters, to ensure that none of them are lost?
No; a ridiculous, paranoid notion. Of course they will not be lost.
But I have let my thoughts carry me and lost track of my words, and now this letter is too long and my time too short. If you have not become bored and stopped reading altogether by now, please forgive me. I will try to think of some topic to suggest before I write again. As to your apprentice, I suppose it will be no good to try to explain that the truth of the matter is nothing like the stories. Yes, I rode a dragon, but it was neither thrilling nor romantic. In fact it was, more than anything else, uncomfortable, and hot, and all over very quickly. Perhaps it would be better not to explain that I do not remember very much of it, and crush all her dreams. But I do not recommend dragon-riding as a career for anyone.
I pray that you walk in the Maker's light and His grace, and that He will keep you safe until we meet again.
Cassandra