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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

Cassandra shakes her head, offering a quick prayer up to the Maker. Forgive him for his blasphemy. Not that she really thinks the Maker cares what they are doing right now...but, well. It is best to be sure.

"No - " Her eyes widen, and she pulls the door open wider, as if fearful he'll disappear again into the night. But of course. He isn't serious. She shakes her head again, smile growing fond as she takes a step back and beckons him inside.

"Hurry. Someone will see you." An anxious look behind him, as if she expects to see a guard on the balcony, right at his back. But there is no one, only the darkness of the night.

"...I am fine, of course." Suddenly, she can't meet his eyes, busily closing the door behind him and pulling the curtains tightly shut, lighting a candle, pulling her dressing robe on over her ridiculous gown. She studies her fingers intently as she pulls the gown shut and tightens its sash. "You do not need to worry; I can handle myself."

But he knows that, and she knows he does. He's asking something else entirely, but it's all she can do to stay calm at the moment, much less tackle that question. Emotionally, she's all over the place, simultaneously relieved and happy to see him, and a thousand times worse than before, nerves so heightened and on edge she thinks she'll be lucky not to be sick.

He's through almost as soon as invited, as grateful as he is eager. The room is, in its bones, not dissimilar from his. Where it differs is the trappings; this suite is Cassandra's home, while she's in Val Royeaux, barring the needs of duty.

Cassandra herself, however, is practically vibrating with unease, hands flying from moment to moment with nervous energy.

"Easy," He takes her hands in his, pulling them gently away from the knot at her sash, from the next target of her anxiety, "I can see that you're not. Stop, and take a breath, love."

She stills at his touch, letting him pry her fingers loose, letting her hands lie still for a moment before curling them tight around his. Too tight. Clinging to him desperately, needing some anchor to keep from flying off again. No. She is not fine, and though her words may deny it, her nerves betray her all too clearly.

But warmth fills her belly at the pet name. The easy affection with which he offers it. Her breath catches, and then she fills her lungs, letting the air out slowly. Closing her eyes as she tries to regain control of herself.

He waits, counting the heartbeats, letting himself serve as her anchor while she masters the stress of the moment, the uncertainty of all the world's expectations seemingly heaped upon so narrow a support as their few days together. That he has the utmost faith in their ability to bear up under that weight, truly does not make the burden any lighter.

Instead, he pulls her close, freeing his hands only to wrap them around her shoulders with a firm, grounding pressure. Safe, he tries to say, wordless, soundless, You are safe here.

"Everything will be alright," He murmurs, face close enough to her ear that no louder sound is needed, "All this fuss, it only makes it seem more intimidating than it really is."

She wraps her arms around him, burying her face gratefully in his shoulder - and lets herself break, just a little bit. With her face thoroughly hidden, she lets her expression crumple, sagging against his chest.

One moment, two. Three, as she listens to the steady beat of his heart and her own calms and slows. Strange, how reassuring she already finds his touch.

"Oh..." She pulls back slightly, still within the circle of his arms, and makes a face. "It does not help, certainly. But this...I..." She takes a breath, fighting the rising panic that threatens to overtake her once more. "It is stupid. It is ridiculous, but I...I am nervous." She laughs helplessly, little more than a hiccuping sob, and shakes her head. Incredulous, scornful of her own absurd worries. "I keep telling myself that I should not be, that I have faced down worse, but sometimes I think I would gladly fight a dragon rather than...than...this."

"Easier to know what to do about a dragon," He replies, forgetting the unflattering thought that she might prefer deadly combat to time spent in his presence. Indeed, it's easy to be distracted, when it is simplicity itself to turn his face slightly and bury his nose in her hair, "You can hardly charge at a wedding with naked steel. Or at least, you probably shouldn't."

When she pulls back, he offers no resistance, not until he sees the panic crest in her expression, "You're allowed to be nervous. I know I am. I climbed down a trellis in the dark because I couldn't sit still not knowing, if maybe you needed--"

Me. If she'd needed him, even for so petty a thing as a hug, and a kind word. It seemed so silly, to think about it, but the warmth blooming through his chest at the evidence that he had been needed was undeniable. He cannot regret it.

"...If Leliana murders me for spoiling our adherence to traditional Chantry Law, I hope you'll remember me fondly."

Edited 2016-08-12 05:18 (UTC)

Cassandra smiles at that, finally, gazing at him with a wealth of affection and bringing her hands up to cup his face. He is cleanshaven still - for the wedding, perhaps - and she strokes her thumbs along the hint of stubble on his cheeks, the soft skin underneath.

"Never," she says quietly, but with feeling. "I would never allow her to touch you."

She drops her hands to his chest, watching them rise and fall with his breaths. "I might feel better, if I could attend with sword in hand. But I fear that would not solve any problems, this time."

Obi-Wan returns her smile helplessly, face caught between her hands, and allows her the moment, luxuriating.

"I know the feeling. A layer of good plate would make me feel a lot better about standing at the center of attention. And I might look better too, rather than... Oh, you'll see it."

And someday they'll look back at this and laugh. For the space of one deep, steadying breath, Obi-Wan lets the silence hang between them, a simple warmth.

"But, it's still only one day."

Her smile broadens, in both sympathy and amusement, at the oblique reference to his outfit. Doubtless it is as terrible as - if not worse than - the dresses they had attempted to shove her into at first, before she had made her preferences clear.

And then it falters and vanishes, just as quickly. There is a flash of strain and unhappiness on her face, nearly too brief to catch. Then her expression settles again, neutral, betraying nothing.

"One day," she echoes hollowly, the words sawdust in her mouth. She steels herself by force, giving him a decisive nod she does not feel. "The wedding. Of course."

A deflection, now. Quickly, before he realizes anything is wrong. Frantically, she casts about for a distraction.

"I shall try to imagine you in armor, rather than - whatever they plan to put you in."

And the moment passes, like the sun going behind a cloud, leaving him wondering what it was about his words that had drawn the shadow over her face. And yet, somehow, it seems so very Cassandra to face the whole circus of tomorrow as if it were a battle rather than a party.

"I'll be grateful if you don't laugh when you see me, that's all," It's not really all that bad, in truth, though he's not feigning his dislike. He won't be wearing it forever, only for a few hours, "Cassandra, I--"

A sound, a door closing somewhere down the hall as a maid finishes the last of the night's work, or some other guest, come for the celebration, goes about their business. It seems impossibly near and loud, though perhaps that is only their notion of secrecy, amplifying every noise.

"...Perhaps I really should go," He whispers, though he seems to be in no hurry to see her step out of his arms, "If we're caught..."

Leliana really might come after him, then.

The diversion works, perfectly so, and Cassandra cannot decide whether or not she is relieved. Foolish, to be otherwise; to hope that he might know what she is thinking, and offer the reassurance she needs without her having to ask.

Such things do not happen outside of stories, after all.

But his arms around her are warm and comforting, and his eyes are kind, as they have ever been. She could tell him. He has been so patient and understanding about everything thus far, surely this...

She opens her mouth to do so, in fact. But the door slams, the moment is lost, and Cassandra deflates, nodding miserably.

"I suppose so," she murmurs quietly. "Obi-Wan..."

But her courage fails her, and she merely wraps her arms around him again, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. "Thank you for coming."

"Always," he says, pressing a kiss against her temple. It's so hard to let go, so he hesitates, pressing her close against his heart, lingering in the smell of her hair, the weight of her against his shoulder, "Try not to worry and-- please try to get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

And at last, reluctantly, he steps away. One foot, then the other, and then he has to turn in order to safely navigate the railing of her balcony, and the long climb to the ground. By some miracle, he is not caught-- it's enough that what suspicions he has are tripled.

Leliana knows.

She knows, or predicted, that this would happen, and she did something, assured that there would be gaps in the guard at the right time, the right place, to allow them this. He can no more thank her than she can acknowledge the breach, but he is grateful nonetheless, to have her on their side.

He slips back into his room with a sense of jangling nerves and the memory of Cassandra Pentaghast pressing against the front of his mind, unself-conscious in her indignation, clothed in little more than lace and silk, and looking at him as if he were the answer to a prayer. When Obi-Wan sleeps, he dreams not at all, and wakes as if the night had been nothing more than a dream, and he'd closed his eyes for just a moment instead of for hours.

She should, she knows, try to be inconspicuous. Let him slip onto the balcony and shut the door behind him, close the curtains and extinguish the candle and let him disappear into the night.

She can't. She can barely bring herself to let him go at all, and when she does she follows him to the balcony, leaning over the railing to watch anxiously as he climbs down.

It is, perhaps, one of the most romantic things she has ever done. Watching her beau shimmy down the wall after an illicit nighttime meeting, her gown fluttering in the breeze. It is enough to make her feel like a girl again, like the young love she had never had, and she goes to bed surprisingly lighthearted, even hopeful.

The day dawned in the same strange silence that Obi-Wan first encountered as a child, when all the world had hunkered down, and lay in a hush to outwait an oncoming storm. For just a few minutes, he lay calmly, blinking at the light, and then the door to his chambers were flung open and the downpour began.

In the moment, he would swear that the heady combination of panic and hurry were searing each minor crisis into his memory. If anyone had asked, he'd have been able to recount every one in the entire morning's series of momentary, life-ruining horrors in intricate detail. The ceremony was particularly harrowing, following each step as he was instructed, like struggling to remember a combat maneuver without the luxury of having time to practice.

At the moment, he would much rather have been facing a deadly opponent than the hundreds of pairs of eyes, and the regard of Divine Justinia herself.

Imagine, the Divine! Officiating his marriage ceremony. He wondered, idly, remembering his posture, trying not to remember the itch at the collar of his coat, if one could ever recover from vomiting into a planter at his own wedding, in front of the Most Holy.

And then he saw her, and forgot everything before then. The Maker himself could hardly have been more entranced at the first sight of Andraste-- Obi-Wan had not even the presence of mind to remember his expression, nor to hope that the awe and longing were anything less obvious than he felt them to be.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur, and he was utterly indifferent to the details. All he knew was that he affirmed, and avowed, spoke when prompted, and that she was beautiful. Little else mattered.

Edited 2016-08-12 22:56 (UTC)

The chaos and confusion of the morning do not touch Cassandra. Whether due to her position as the Hero of Orlais and the Right Hand of the Divine, the fact that she is a bride-to-be on her wedding day, or merely because she is Cassandra Pentaghast, the result is the same. While Obi-Wan suffers the brunt of every minor hiccup and major disaster, poked and prodded and stuffed into stiff and itchy wool, endlessly harassed and tested on his role in the hours to come...

Cassandra sits in a cool, quiet room, a cadre of attendants seeing to her every need. Her skin is moisturized, her hair is washed and styled, her face is made up to the limit of her tolerance. She is given new smalls to wear, ordered to change, and finally, her dress is slipped on and fastened.

And then she is left alone, staring into the mirror, hardly able to recognize himself.

The dress...is exquisite. She runs a gloved hand over the silk, her eyes roving over the fine, delicate embroidery.

Oh, she is still Cassandra. Her upper arms are defined and muscular rather than slim and lithe. Her hair is cropped and sensible, not long and flowing, and she is not as young as she once had been. She cannot be entirely disguised.

But today, there are tiny, sparkling jewels threaded into her braid. Her long gloves are silk rather than leather. And when she gazes at herself in the mirror, she feels, for perhaps the first time in her life, truly beautiful.

She smiles, and then the door opens, and it is time to go.

Any nerves she may feel are not in evidence when she steps into the Grand Cathedral. Her chin is lifted high, her steps measured and confident. She has not spent years navigating Orlesian society for nothing, after all. But in truth, she is not nearly so anxious as she had been in the days before. Not, at least, at the moment. Not over this. Every pair of eyes turns to watch as she enters, but Cassandra sees none of them; her gaze goes immediately to Obi-Wan, waiting at the other end of the long aisle.

His own outfit is...well. It is not as terrible as it could have been. But she does not afford much attention to his clothing, almost immediately distracted by the expression on his face.

He is slack-jawed, gaping, and for a moment she worries that something is wrong, that the enormity of the situation had finally caught up with him and he is second-guessing everything. But then Leliana nudges him sharply with her elbow, his mouth snaps shut, and she sees the awe in his gaze for what it really is.

She smiles, fully, the corners of her eyes crinkling in happiness, and walks up to meet him.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a haze. Cassandra pledges her vows without missing a word, bows at the correct time, affords Most Holy every respect. It is not so difficult. She would never admit it to anyone, but she has known the soulbonding ceremony ritual by heart since before she had a soulname herself.

And whenever she begins feeling restless, or nervous, all she has to do is meet Obi-Wan's eyes. His very presence is grounding, calming and reassuring her even as her heart swells and a thrill goes through her body.

Whatever happens next, they will face it together. From now until forever.

This much he does remember, with a searing clarity that their first kiss somehow escaped-- he kisses her at the end of the ceremony, the traditional seal. And all the world is watching, no secrets nor shame, and even Divine Justinia, Most Holy, has lent her blessing. He is kissing Cassandra Pentaghast, and then they are walking together down the aisle to general applause and celebratory bedlam. He is the happiest he's ever been.

At home, when home had been defined by farms and the small adjacent villages that served them, weddings had been performed in the town square, and presided over by itinerant priests, multiple couples in one day. And then the entire village would turn out, with baked treats and candied fruits, and if the drink was mediocre or worse, it still flowed freely and the dancing went on long into the night. All of Val Royeaux could not stop for one wedding, no matter how illustrious it might be, and the emotion within the walls appointed to them for the event was much more subdued than the raucousness of rural Free Marchers-- tedious, really.

He didn't care. They were permitted to leave early, to much good-natured winking and conspiritorial elbows, but before that, he was able to take her in hand for a dance. Required to, really; tradition dictates that the first dance be the duty of the newly wedded.

And then, following the instruction of an elven serving-girl, flower-bedecked for the occasion, they were permitted to hie away to their private rooms. Shared rooms, and different from before. Made impulsive by the day, he hesitates at the door then turned and scoops her up, up into his arms to carry over the threshold.

"May I?" He asks, though he's already carrying her. No sleight weight was she, the dense muscle of a lifelong fighter, and made cumbersome by the mass of petticoats and silk brocade, but he's well used to the weight of steel, and carries her over the threshold well enough, grinning like a fool.

Obi-Wan is a surprisingly good dancer - surprising, at least, to everyone else, if the impressed murmurs from the guests as he leads her in the dance are anything to go by. She herself feels as if she could not be surprised by anything today. It seems only natural that Obi-Wan should dance well, that her skirt should billow out gracefully behind her, that heads should nod in satisfaction and approval as they fly past. It is her wedding day, and everything, everything is perfect.

She is less pleased with the winks and knowing glances as the dance ends and the crowd parts to allow them to leave. She would have preferred, for once in her life, to stay, wrapped in the love and magic of the day, but she knows better than to protest as Obi-Wan takes her hand and smiles.

Leliana gives her shoulder an encouraging squeeze as she passes, and Cassandra takes a deep breath, bracing herself.

Her stomach flips with both nerves and giddiness as he scoops her up; she puts her arms around his neck with a watery smile, and prays she will not start to shake.

With that permission, he steps into their shared rooms. The door is quiet behind them, but loud in the relative silence-- suddenly, the outside world is put at a remove, muffled away, made insignificant. The evening is coming on and the sunset oblique to the window, where the light fades through shades of gold and pomegranate-red. Their suite could easily have been as sumptuous and gilt as any in Val Royeaux, but whomever had selected and appointed it (he suspects Leliana, though he wonders where she finds the time) had done so with the memory of their selves rather than their stations. Both of them, after all, are warriors; the rooms are neither simple nor spartan, and the furnishings are no less luxurious than theyare beautiful, they are sturdy, functional in their beauty. One need not fear the tearing of delicate fabrics or the weakness of spindle-legged chairs.

He sets her down, in the center of it, marveling not at the grace of the room, but the grace of her face, her sudden uncertainty quite visible in that moment.

"You are so beautiful," Gently, he cups her cheek in his hand, and kisses her, "I can hardly believe all this is real."

It seems all too real to Cassandra, the storybook feeling of the wedding washed away as the door shuts firmly behind them. Suddenly every sensation is heightened, the soft fabric against her skin, the taste of Obi-Wan's lips as she belatedly returns the kiss, the sudden quiet of the room, all sharp and defined.

She nods, momentarily unable to form words, and then swallows.

"Yes, I...thank you." She looks down, at the swell of her bosom, her sweeping skirts, and smooths a hand down her dress. "I...I feel it."

She, who has all today seemed so calm and radiant, wreathed in confident joy, looks away. The tension seems to wash up and crest, and he abruptly comes out of his own daze on the recognition of why.

Expectation: the wedding, and then, the wedding night.

He still remembers her hesitation, not-quite fear that had colored her expression as she looked down at her soulname, that first flighty week of their acquaintance. 'I have never...The mark had not yet faded. I still hoped...' He remembers his own first time, with some trepidation, and wonders for not the first time if making hers much better isn't beyond him. No. No, of course not-- He can do this for her.

"It's alright, love," He murmurs, taking her hands from where they lay against the silk of her dress. Strange, how vulnerable she can seem, despite the musculature that no amount of finery could ever fully disguise. Strange, perhaps, only because it is Cassandra who seems invulnerable, "Why don't we both take a few minutes to change out of all this... this."

He's still not fond of the coat.

"Oh."

She feels sick at the thought, her stomach turning. Not at the idea of disrobing, exactly - her body may not be especially delicate and feminine, but it is nothing to be ashamed of. No, her apprehension is at what must certainly come next - what he, quite naturally, expects.

As he should. As he has every right to.

She nods again, unable to explain. The prospect, of explaining, of expressing her anxieties aloud, suddenly seems too much, and she wonders at her past self - why had she never even alluded to this part of her past, in all those letters? Now it seems too late, the window of opportunity long past.

At least, she can delay a few moments more. Whatever Obi-Wan had meant, she takes the opportunity to seek some last semblance of privacy, turning without a word and disappearing into the next room.

Repeating, though she does not remember it, her actions at their first meeting, when she had abandoned him without explanation.

The similarities are not lost on him, and he sighs at her retreating back, vague dissatisfaction lying sour against the glittering backdrop of the afternoon. Very well, then-- he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. But as before, gently.

First thing's first: jacket off, boots propped by the door, stiff shirt exchanged for something both more comfortable and less intimidating. He won't pretend not to know how she'll react to the sudden presentation of him otherwise.

Some minutes have passed and despite the setting, Obi-Wan is shortly much more himself, humbly enough. No further diversion intact, it's time now to find his--

The thought brings him up short, warm and sharp. His wife. It seems, perhaps, there is yet one further delay before Cassandra herself; standing in the middle of the room, grinning like a fool.

And then he goes to knock, carefully, on the doorjamb.

"Cassandra? I-- Are you alright?"

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