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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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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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As reluctant as she is to release him, he's right, of course. They cannot stay in the bath forever, and the water is growing cooler and less pleasant by the moment. Cassandra nods, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips before drawing back.

She sits for a moment, delaying the inevitable, and simply studies his face.

"My husband."

Her smile returns - it seems she will never stop smiling, not so long as she is here. With one last look at him, Cassandra steps out of the bath, hurrying in the cool air to wrap a towel around herself as Obi-Wan does the same. The towel is overlarge, fluffy and absorbent, and she tosses Obi-Wan a wry look.

"They have truly spared no expense."

"My wife," He returns, reaching to briefly hold her face in his hands, to brush the ball of his thumb across the apple of her cheek, and return her smile with all the warmth and softness within him.

He is so engrossed in the moment that it trails after him like an overlong cloak, and he is blind to anything other than the happy fog of it until she speaks. He regards the towel with a weather eye. It could easily serve for a bedroll-- certainly they've both slept on worse.

"Orlais," he says, feelingly, but without malice, "I don't know what it says about me that as much as I appreciate the amenities, I'm looking forward just as much to being with you in humbler surroundings?"

He could probably hide the smile, sliding sideways towards, but never crossing, the line of a smirk. But he doesn't; what he'd said before, in the throes of passion, had been no less sincere. The idea of Cassandra in armor was no less appealing than anything else. Perhaps more, because he would see that smile, and know by the sight of it what no one else could know at all.

Ah, but now he is staring again. Even swathed in a fluffy towel, all he wants is to kiss her. There is no reason not to, so he does.

"You are so beautiful."

My wife.

It's a reasonable enough response, but she feels her heart swell at the sound of it, all the same. It's still difficult to imagine herself as anyone's wife, in the abstract, but to be his...

Surely, the Maker has blessed her, to have given her so much.

She accepts the compliment with a small smile and a noncommittal hum; the kiss she returns much more enthusiastically, and draws back, grabbing quickly at her towel to stop it from falling to the floor.

A quiet laugh, as she rolls her eyes.

"I am afraid there will not be many humble surroundings in your future," she tells him wryly, and begins to dry herself off. "You are married to the right hand of the Divine now. We will have to run away entirely to find anything less than this, and it is not so easy these days to sneak past Leliana."

"Don't spoil my fantasies," He teases, pausing a moment to watch her before bending to his own task. The towel really is ridiculous, but efficient nevertheless, "I have a feeling that the Right Hand of the Divine is going to be just as attractive to me after a day in the practice yard as she is in a perfumed bath."

He says it wry, flirtatious, but it's a sincere sentiment. There's something to be said for wild hair and the flush of exertion, no one can disagree. He crosses into the next room, feeling strangely comfortable in his skin, nudity almost an afterthought. The bathing room is a disaster, but-- but that's something for some other time.

"Maker, Ive never felt so..." Words fail him as he sits on the bed that not too long ago saw the first of their lovemaking. He smooths a hand over the rumpled coverlet, smiling, and all at once the exertion of the evening catches up on him, and he sighs in contented weariness, "...Looking back, I have no idea why it took us this long. It used to make more sense, I'm sure, but now I can't imagine it otherwise."

Cassandra follows, pausing momentarily to look around - surely there must be sleeping clothes somewhere - before she notices Obi-Wan, sitting fully nude on the bed, seemingly content to remain that way.

Oh. Perhaps sleeping clothes are not so important, after all.

Not nearly as important as it suddenly seems to be near him, in any case; she feels drawn to him, as a moth to a flame, and changes her path to follow, settling in against him.

"I feel the same," she admits. "I was so...so nervous, so afraid, and now..."

She takes his hand in hers, threading their fingers together.

"I cannot imagine being without you."

He only smiles and, after a moment, lifts their joined hands to kiss her fingertips and knuckles, softened by the bath, but never all the way. A lifelong habit of swordsmanship is beyond the work of a single bath to erase, from anyone's hands. And here again, that indulgent urge, that makes him turn her hand and press another kiss against the pulsing smoothness of her wrist, just above the first curl of gold.

"Bed?"

It's not the way he asked, before, no fervent passion. He's tired, and he wants only to hold on, and to rest together.

"I - "

Her lips curve up into a smile at his touch, her fingers curling close around his.

"I - I cannot. Not tonight." She's not sure if he's asking or not - she thinks he might not be. But she feels the need to warn him, all the same, and prevent his being too disappointed.

"I want to." Her eyes flick quickly up to his; oh, how she wants to, how she wants to feel that connection with him again, that pure, unsullied moment of ecstasy. "But I am...I am tired. I need to sleep."

A soft kiss, pressed to his cheek.

"I am sorry."

He laughs, catches her kiss and returns it in kind, "I meant, to sleep, love."

Her sincerity, the urgent honesty of her, may one day soon be as exasperating as only the truly faithful can be, but for now he finds it charming. For now, he smiles and draws her closer.

"I'm tired too," It's been... a long day. A wonderful, breathless, glorious day, but the Obi-Wan who watched the greying sunrise seems like a man from another lifetime, and this Obi-Wan is bearing all his debts, "As they say, the soul is willing, but flesh weak. Let's go to bed."

"Oh."

She's momentarily flustered, staring at him, not knowing what to do with her hands. But she never needs to decide; he pulls her in, understanding and affectionate, and Cassandra smiles back, leaning in against him. Skin to skin, but nothing titillating about it now, just simple, trusting intimacy and comfort.

She slides an arm around his waist, nuzzling in against him. In a moment they will have to move, to part if only for the short time it takes to climb into bed and settle themselves in under the covers, but first...

"I should like that. Very much."

So they sit together, just a moment, and he breathes in the smell of her hair. Then, however briefly, he pulls away. Only long enough to draw back the covers, to reach for her hand and pull her close again, and draw them up around the both of them, warm, secure, and safe.

He cannot stifle the heartfelt sigh, or the mumbled words against her hair as she settles against him: I love you.

Sleep comes upon Obi-Wan like a wave, as if the Fade rolled up and took him, gently, down into green waters, dreaming. Slowly, then all at once.

Make me to rest in the warmest places.

Surely Andraste, in her hour of desperation, in her cry born of hope and faith, had meant nothing more nor less than this. Obi-Wan's arm wraps around her, his body flush against hers, and Cassandra leans into him, sighing in turn as he tucks the blankets around them both. All is warm and dark and quiet, and she has never felt so at peace, nor so loved. She murmurs wordless affirmation in return, curling her arm over his waist, and closes her eyes, willingly submitting to oblivion.

When she wakes, she is aware, first, of the pain.

The early morning light filters through a gap in the curtains, golden sunbeams catching the dust in the air. Her love slumbers beside her, his chest rising and falling slowly under her cheek, one arm still slung carelessly over her shoulders. And when she dares to shift one leg, she has to bite her lip against a cry at the ache between them.

She does so, sucking in a quiet breath, eyes squeezing shut. Of course. Naturally, it makes sense. But she will not wake Obi-Wan with a groan of agony, will not let the memory of their first morning together be marred forever by this. She breathes shallowly, trying not to move, focusing only on the peace and silence of the morning, of his comforting presence beside her. He is here with her, and all will be well.

Obi-Wan stirs nevertheless, turning his face more towards her, groaning the formless sleepy groan of someone who is recognizing the inevitable approach wakefulness. He inhales deeply, radiating content and for a moment, it seems as if he might simply go back to sleep. Then his hand moves, the one at her back, a drowsy caress, half-unaware. His breathing is no longer so deep, nor so even; after some few minutes, he takes another deep breath, another sigh.

"Good morning," He murmurs, accent rough with sleep, and drops a haphazard kiss against her hairline, "Sleep well?"

She can feel him waking before he truly moves, and closes her eyes, the better to listen and to feel as his breathing changes, as he begins to stir. A few moments more of rest - but in truth, she is wide awake, and eager to see what the day brings.

Her eyes open once more at the kiss, and she tilts her head up, dark eyes meeting his.

"I have never slept better." She smiles, and leans in for another kiss, deep and lingering. "Good morning, my love."

"Then it is a good morning," he says, admiring her in the noonish light filtering through the windowcurtains, "I had the same."

His lips smile against hers when she kisses him, helpless joy taking precedence to the more usual reaction-- but he does react, opening easily beneath her insistent mouth, pliant as a new shoot. Well, mostly pliant, and he has the grace to blush about that, pink all the way to his ears.

"Ah, excuse my... me," If there is any justice in the world, the Maker, Andraste, and hopefully Cassandra herself will have mercy on him; he's mortified, "I'm not yet used to waking up in the arms of a beautiful woman."

This is surely a flirt, a teasing one at that; but his smile is soft, and fond.

"How are you feeling? Yesterday was... a little intense, at times."

Cassandra laughs lightly, trailing a hand down his chest. It is a little strange, waking up to that, but then, it is strange waking up next to anyone at all.

Strange, but good. Good in the way his arm curls around her shoulders, in the affectionate way he smiles at her.

"There is nothing to excuse," she reassures him, and hums vaguely. Once she might have avoided answering such a question, not out of any shame but simply to avoid the fuss and unnecessary concern that must follow. Pain can be borne, but constant questioning of her well-being and refusal to allow her to do anything is something else.

But hiding the truth from Obi-Wan has never done her any good so far, and being open and honest with him has only ever benefited them both. She sighs, shifting slightly and wincing as she moves her legs.

"I am...sore," she admits. "A little. But it is...it is normal, I think. I am certain it will pass."

His immediate reaction is clear in the wrinkling of his brow and the way his hands, still sleep-warm, skim up her back in automatic, protective instinct. But even as he inhales to speak, the concern in him is muted, tempered somewhat, by the knowledge of her, and her strength.

"You will tell me, if it starts to seem more than it should be?" He is not unconscious of the gift of her honesty, despite his own concern for her well-being. Something about the powerful vulnerability of last night's Cassandra inspires a natural protectiveness that Obi-Wan cherishes, even as he scoffs at it's ridiculousness, "You know your own limits, I'm sure, impressive as they must be."

Learning to ride a horse inspired that special agony of using unused muscles in unusual ways. What else, then, for this form of 'riding'? It was a necessary price of the action. It will pass.

"I just hate to think of you as being in pain, on my account."

Cassandra chuckles lightly, carefully shifting further until she is lying on her front at his side, and can look up to see his face.

"I do not know how impressive I may be," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But I..."

She pauses, brushing her fingers across the expanse of his chest. Fondly, perhaps a little possessive in the way her hand lingers above his ribcage.

"It was not only on your account." Dark eyes meet his, and she smiles, just the barest quirk of her lips, almost shy. "I enjoyed myself as well. I do not regret anything."

"Ah, well," He stammers, caught in that gaze, snagged by the sudden, unanticipated intensity, "Good. Yes."

He remembers just such a gaze though through a gauzy veil and the candle-glow of the wedding. Automatically, his hand comes up to cover hers, acceptance of the sentiment, and a return of the same in the pressure that invites her to keep from drawing away.

"I had thought as much, from what I heard," he murmurs, the answering tick of a smile curling into existance even as the curl of his smallest finger brushes unconsciously along the gold of his name on her skin, "I have no regrets, either, I-- it was... a night to remember."

His hesitation, in this instance, only makes her more confident. Cassandra does not blush now, but smiles wider, gaze darkening further still.

"You heard correctly," she murmurs, and bends her head to drop a kiss to the arm still loosely curled around her.

A night to remember.

"I shall - " She stops, thinking of her lost month, of how she had forgotten not only their short time together, but his existence entirely.

"Never again." She goes up on one elbow, stretching toward him for a kiss, if only he will meet her midway. "I shall never forget you again."

He met her wordless request, simple touch and tender, smiling as they leaned back. He didn't doubt her sincerity; the vows of a Seeker were sacrosanct, and even if that had not been so, her word certainly was.

"Well, now--"

And that was the moment, when it all went to hell. The courier burst in, shouting something about kirkwall, and chantries, waving a thin ribbon of message-paper. Then he rushed out, red-faced. What followed was utter bedlam, utterly disrupting the peace of the morning, and indeed the peace of all Thedas, such as it was.

The Kirkwall Chantry, home of the Grand Cleric of the entire Free Marches, had been destroyed, and the rumors as to why and how were mayfly rumors, numerous and indistinguishable from the uncertain truth.

What was certain was this: the Circle there had not been annulled, but instead had simply dissolved, hundreds of mages turned apostate in the span of a single day. What was clear was that many more would follow-- and that the Templar Order would necessarily have to respond. Indeed the highest-ranked Templars, and any who were free from more immediate duties, were already gathering at the White Spire.

All this Obi-Wan contemplated, or was told, as he buckled on his armor. As he watched Cassandra do the same; and that was always the thing, wasn't it? They ought to have had more time. But the world didn't operate on should have, only on what was; he offered her a rueful, wry smile for the circumstance.

"You have to go," He acknowledges, quietly. As the senior Seeker on hand, and the Right Hand, the duty would fall to her, "And, I....have to stay."

He gave her his oath, as her husband, but he gave his own to the Order, long before he met her. The boundaries of duty lay clear, much to his regret.

Edited 2016-09-10 20:46 (UTC)

Cassandra stands with her head bowed, her hands clasped in his. The carriage that will take her to Kirkwall waits outside; Obi-Wan likewise has his own orders.

It isn't fair. This is meant to be a celebration: a sacred, joyous time for her and Obi-Wan alone. After all they have been through, all the time they have waited, Obi-Wan's imprisonment and her own lost memories -

And now this. A single night together, and they are to be parted once again.

"I will return to you," she promises, her expression grave. "As soon as it is possible. And I will think of you, every moment until we are together again. And write - and write to you. Every day."

Her eyes search his face, anxious and pleading. Every moment that passes is one moment closer to the time when she has to leave him.

"Will you also write to me?"

"I will, whenever I can," He promises her, with all the solemnity such a vow is due. He lifts their joined hands and kisses her knuckles, lingers there a moment, clearly loath to let go, or step away, "You stay safe, and I'll be the same, when you return."

Speak of faith and the trials of Andraste; and Obi-Wan, he'd walk through fire, for this woman. This is that faith, when he looks at her, now.

"There'll be time, love, for the two of us. Even if it seems like the world is determined to turn itself inside out in the meantime."

She nods silently, unable, at first, to say a word. There is a lump in her throat, threatening to choke her, and she swallows past it roughly.

"Maker watch over you, and keep you safe," she murmurs at last. She curls her fingers tighter around his, and leans up to press a desperate, urgent kiss to his lips.

"I love you, my husband. I will return to your side."

He means to be dignified, certainly, but instead when she moves into the kiss he responds with a little too much fervor, a little too much of his own desperate unhappiness at their separation. He lets go of her hands, reaches instead to cup her face close to his, practically obscene in the sudden emotion of the moment. And even when the necessary break comes, he doesn't quite let go. He lingers again, just a moment, foreheads pressed together, trying to say with the pressure of skin what words can only make seem hollow.

"I love you."

I love you, I love you, I love you

"And may the Maker watch over you as well. Your part is the more dangerous of the two," He says it in very nearly a whisper. Behind him, the door opens and there is a general air of arrested momentum, of the waiting messengers and attendants of travel very much wishing they could somehow both intrude and not intrude on what is so obviously a private moment, "We'd better go. Now, or... we might not be able to let go at all."

Duty calls.

She does not cry. The idea of it - the Right Hand of the Divine weeping, over so small a thing as to be separated from her husband for a few short weeks! It is unthinkable. Impossible, utterly so.

And yet, despite all of this, there is an undeniable tremor in her breath as Obi-Wan brings his hands to her face and they stand, foreheads pressed close together. And yet, her eyelashes are inexplicably wet when they finally part and she looks up to meet his gaze.

She nods again, a tiny movement, as she looks at him, oblivious to the attendants standing awkwardly in the doorway. "Of course," she whispers, hand flat against the front of his chestpiece. "I -"

But there is nothing to say that has not been said already, nothing they do not both already know. There is no need to exchange tokens or reminders; Obi-Wan's favor is already written into Cassandra's skin, and hers likewise burned into his.

With a last, lingering look, she steps away from him, turns, and is gone.

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