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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

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Cassandra is tired, and uncomfortable, and irritated. It seems she spends all her time now in their makeshift War Room, endlessly discussing and debating and pushing tiny markers across a battered map.

Some people fall into a deep depression after their soulmate dies. Occasionally she thinks that would be better: to feel nothing, to not care. Perhaps apathy would make the everyday tedium of her life, and the deep-seated grief she still carries, easier to bear.

But apathy is not in Cassandra's nature. She still cares just as passionately as ever, and Obi-Wan's absence continues to ache, just as painful as it had ever been. She does not want to die, even now. But neither can she imagine living out the rest of her life without him, long, lonely years stretching out before her.

She is half in a fog when the man bursts in the room, tired and stressed and deeply sad. Cassandra stares without recognition. He is a stranger, with eyes as haunted as her own and a neatly trimmed beard, and he is looking at her as if - as if she is a miracle. As if she is -

Back from the dead.

"Obi-Wan?" Distantly she hears Leliana gasp, but she does not turn to see the Spymaster's hand come up to cover her mouth. All her attention is on the man standing in the doorway, with Templar's robes and familiar sandy hair and eyes that are kind and compassionate and loving -

How could she not have recognized him immediately?

She flies to him, not caring what she looks like or who is watching. If she has gone mad at last, if she is running towards nothing or embracing a confused and hapless stranger, so be it. But he is warm and solid and familiar in her arms, and she sobs out loud, beyond words, half-collapsing against his chest.

He catches her up as she comes around the table, gathering her close against himself, as if snatching her away from some terrible abyss, as if slackening his grip in the slightest might mean losing hold of her entirely. Foolishness, for she was pressed against him, returning his embrace no less passionately. Obi-Wan collapses in around her, closing up as if the only thing that can keep him upright, is to bend and put his face against her hair, to wrap both arms around her, shoulder and waist, and hold on for dear life.

Alive! Alive! Alive! that's all he hears in her every sobbing cry, muffled as they are. His own tears come hot and acrid, but he simply presses his cheek against her hair and pays them no mind.

"Cassandra," He says, helpless with relief and joy and love, "Cassandra, Cassandra..."

Her name is a mantra, litany prayer in his mind. He can think of little else. Distractedly, he rocks her, swaying the two of them back and forth while they cling and cry and remember the feeling of breath and heartbeat, unchained and free.

"I'm here."

She holds him, and cries, and for the first time since the disaster it feels as if she can breathe again, as if she is truly alive and not simply moving mindlessly through the motions of life. Her hands splay over his shoulders, slide down his back, as she memorizes the feel and the scent of him, desperate to remember everything about this moment forever.

When she looks up at last, they are alone in the room. Leliana must have guided the others out, no doubt with instructions to a guard outside that they are not to be disturbed. Cassandra hadn't even noticed.

"My love," she whispers, and traces fingers over his face, down the soft, unfamiliar beard. "You...you were dead. The Conclave..."

His arms tighten around her in response, and he bows his head slightly, tilting gratefully into her caress.

"I thought the same, that you must have been with Most Holy when..." He can't quite say it aloud, but the touch of her is too soothing to permit much grief. The world is still falling down around their ears, but nothing can be completely beyond healing when she is here and alive in his arms, "I thought I'd lost you."

That last spoken almost unwilling, it escapes from him under terrible pressure, and comes into the air like a sob of his own. Obi-Wan shakes his head slightly, as if to deny that she'd been lost, or to clear his head.

"But you've been here, instead. I've missed you so much, love. With every breath, I've missed you."

Cassandra shakes her head. "Leliana and I were sent to Haven the day before. I sent a raven."

It must never have reached him. She sighs, sliding her fingers through his hair, skimming her hands up his sides, unable to stop touching him. She wants to touch him, everywhere, to hold him and never let go.

"And I have missed you." Her eyes flick up to meet his own. "I...I am afraid this is not real. That I am imagining it, or dreaming, and I will wake to find you never returned to me at all."

"I know the feeling," He tells her, steady gaze, heavy with memory, "But I'm not going anywhere."

On this he is firm as a vow, hoarse-voiced with sincerity, and his hands clutch just a little too tight, convulsive grasp, as if by sheer physical force, he could fulfill that promise.

"I'm here. Though, only by the Maker's blessing, I have to guess-- I feel I've spent too much time lately, barely alive, sleepwalking. If this is only a dream, I don't know that I'll survive it."

Cassandra nods, eyes filled with sorrow and understanding. She knows the feeling of sleepwalking through life, has grown to know it all too well.

"I am not going anywhere either," she promises, and bites her lip, studying his face.

"Will you kiss me, my husband?"

He gives her a smile for that, a little watery, and finally, finally, is able to ease his arms out of their death-grip, to hold her more gently. After a moment, he nods, and lets go entirely with one hand, so that he can cup her jaw and do as he's bid.

It is just as he remembers, albeit more chaste, at least at first. He can taste salt, from their mingled tears, but the fundamental truth of it remains unchanged.

"I love you," He whispers, still pressed close, when it ends, "My beautiful, incomparable wife."

He kisses her again, tender, but more sure of himself this time.

"My Cassandra."

Cassandra puts her arms around his neck, her eyes sliding shut as she melts into the kiss.

"I love you, my husband," she whispers, tears threatening to spill from her eyes again. "My Obi-Wan." She opens her eyes to look at him, still wrapped warm and secure in his arms. How had he come here, and why? Where had he been all this time. None of that matters right now; there is only one question that does.

"Will you stay here? Will you stay with me?"

"Yes, of course. Always," His response is immediate, although in the next thought, he's taken in the war room, table, figures, map, and everything else in a glance, "Though perhaps not just here, exactly."

And the weight of it comes down on his mind; he had no plan when he came in here more complicated than a candlestick, and now all he knows is that Cassandra is here and so he is staying. He hasn't even got a decent set of kit, anymore-- and his sword is stolen from a dead bandit, and of inferior make. He has nothing in the world but the clothes on his back, the contents of his pack, and the woman in his arms.

He's walked half the length of Ferelden and back again in these threadbare shoes, and never felt so fortunate in his entire life.

"Is there somewhere, perhaps where we can rest? Together."

Rest. She raises an eyebrow, wondering just what he means - though of course perhaps he does only mean rest. She does not know how far he has travelled, or whether it was all on foot.

But she nods, pulling back from him reluctantly, though her hand finds his and doesn't let go.

"I have a room. A...a house." Only two rooms, but even that is more than she had wanted, or needed. Leliana had insisted. "It is sparse and poorly constructed, and the wind finds its way in through every crack, but it is...private." She darts her eyes up to his, suddenly shy.

He snorts at her upraised eyebrow, seized with the impulse, for some unknowable reason, to kiss it. The quiet derision is so Cassandra that he cannot help but find it endearing. Her hand catches in his, and he laces their fingers together.

"I'll keep you warm," He promises quietly. And his smile softens around the edges, melting at the sight of her shyness, a side of her so rarely seen, and all his, "I am tired. Though, at the moment, I feel I could conquer the world."

She laughs, a sudden, joyful sound that she could not have prevented if she had tried, and squeezes his hand in hers.

"We will conquer it together," she declares, leading him to the door. "But first you will rest." And she pulls the door open, not caring that the rumors will surely have spread by now, that the eyes on everyone in Haven will be upon them as they make their way to her small cabin. Let them gossip. Let them stare. She has her soulmate back, and nothing else matters.

The house is, as promised, small and hastily-constructed, but a welcome respite, for all that. If not from the wind, then at least from the sidelong glances and outright stares. Cassandra's smile, it seems, was rarer than gold, in this place. Obi-Wan himself, was a stranger.

He doesn't say a word, only draws her with him, towards the bed. At the sight of it, heavy weariness overcame his buoying spirit; how long had it been since he'd slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch? The thought of those cold, lonely nights, undressing in the dark so he won't have to see her name on his skin... And the reality of her, present, here and alive. Then he sees the room, the shabbiness, and it's lack of use, and thinks of Cassandra in the same darkness as he.

Abruptly, he needs... he needs, comfort and warmth, like a child, clutching in the dark. He pulls at her again, into a hard, almost harsh hug. Let it be gone, faded into the past.

She makes a small, surprised noise as he pulls her into him, his embrace almost too tight. But the surprise doesn't last long. Cassandra throws her arms around Obi-Wan in return, embracing him fiercely, fervently.

"My love," she says, and her voice cracks on the word. She presses her face against his shoulder, tears soaking the fabric of his shirt as she sobs. "I love you. Obi-Wan...I love you. I love you."

He wants, incongruously, to hush her, not to call for silence, but to comfort her cries, to ease the pain he hears. In the shadow of her sleepless nights, he breathes, and holds her to him with one hand against the nape of her neck, anchoring her to him, firm and undeniable.

"I love you," He murmurs the reply, low and almost guttural, fighting to speak through the lump in his own throat, "Oh, Cassandra. It's alright, now. It's alright."

He thinks, he has certainly not been the only one losing sleep to the terrible black grief of their separation, of their mutual assumptions.

"Easy. Breathe, love, please don't cry. I'm here."

She nods against his shirt in wordless agreement - yes, you are here, yes, it's all right now. She doesn't quite believe it yet, not completely.

But she's beginning to.

Drawing in a ragged breath, she closes her eyes, listening to his own breathing, feeling his arms warm and firm around her, reassuring herself that this is real, that he's not about to disappear. Finally, she looks up, brushing trembling fingers down his cheek, and gives him a watery smile.

"Obi-Wan," she murmurs, and her smile widens, expression softening as she looks at him. "Come. You must rest."

"Will you stay?" He asks, then blinks and has the grace to look a little sheepish, if unrepentant. He hadn't meant to blurt it out, so plainly, with all the guile of a child. But even if he could remember dignity, it's clear enough that he doesn't want to let her out of arm's reach, let alone line-of-sight, "You can't have been sleeping well. I know I certainly haven't; and I-- I need..."

He needs to know, to be assured, that she is truly here. That he's not hallucinating the lot of this, or dreaming it.

"...It would be... When I wake, I..." He flounders for a minute more then sighs, and smiles, rueful and sad and helpless. Obi-Wan bends his head to press his brow to hers, simple gesture, and heartfelt, "I don't want to let go again."

It's only her shock that he even thinks he has to ask that keeps her from interrupting him to answer immediately. As it is, Cassandra cups his face gently in her hands, leaning her head against his in turn and closing her eyes.

"Of course I will stay," she say softly, tender and affectionate and reassuring. "I need - I need you, too. To know that you are here." She sighs, a breathy little sound that is somehow full of both exhaustion and contentment at once. She has been so hopeless, so lonely - but he is here now, alive, beyond all reason, and her future is bright and sunny with renewed purpose.

"I would not leave you now."

He huffs an amused breath, at his own fumbling, at her gentle reassurance. It is in him to apologize; he's so tired, so spun-around and overset by emotion, it's all he can do to beg for what he needs. He knows. He knows, she wouldn't leave him. Maker, she hasn't let go of him since the moment they reunited.

"Thank you," He whispers, instead, and closes his own eyes, "Let's... let's go to bed."

He would later have no memory of the next minute or so, lost to the fog of weariness; too tired, even, to fully undress for bed. But he manages to get his outermost layers off, and his boots. Challenging as it might be, he does both without clutching at Cassandra, though he pulls her back into his arms afterward as if frightened she might have gone away, and kisses her again.

Maker, he's tired. When the road seemed endless and the darkness eternal, he hadn't cared; what purpose weariness, when there was noplace to rest? But now, now that he can draw her down with him onto the bed, and be warm together between sheet and blanket, it is like a weight pressing on him. Safe, and warm, home at last; where they both belonged. Together.

Cassandra does the same, stripping down to her smalls and helping Obi-Wan pull off his boots and outer clothing, though he doesn't seem to realize that she's doing so. He's exhausted, clearly, all but falling into bed and immediately reaching for her, as if unable to bear being apart from her a moment longer.

She's all too willing to slide into his arms, leaning against his chest and embracing him in return. Already it seems half a dream, the bed where she had spent so many lonely nights now transformed into a cloud of peace and comfort, with Obi-Wan a warm, firm presence at her side.

He falls asleep almost immediately, but Cassandra lingers awake, listening to his heartbeat and his slow, steady breaths, marveling at the miracle that had brought him back to her. A few tears fall on his chest, relief and happiness as much as lingering grief; it is too much to take in, everything she had thought lost forever now returned to her all at once. She slides her fingers over his arm, silently tracing the letters of her name there. Still shining gold. It has not been so long since they were together, since that magical night, but she feels like she's lived a lifetime since. As if Obi-Wan, their marriage, had been no more than an impossible fantasy, lost forever to time.

Eventually, she dozes off, tucked into his side, her hand still curled firmly around his arm.

Edited 2016-09-20 20:24 (UTC)

He wakes, in the night, once, and then again. The first time, he simply starts awake, then settles back, blinking at the top of her head of hair. He cannot comprehend the change in circumstance, but he is so warm, and so sleepy. The wind outside, rushing through the mountain pass, is both haunting and soothing, and soon he is asleep again. The second time, it is quiet, blackness unbroken by sound or light. The guard passes by on the path outside and the reflection of his torchlight flickers through the window, catching here and there in the darkened room. Obi-Wan can hear the crunch of their boots on the frosted ground, and then they are gone again, but all he sees is Cassandra. He is hyperaware of the warmth of her, pooled party atop, but mostly along one side, too real for imagining, right down to the uncomfortable dig of a toe, awkward against his calf.

"This is a dream," He whispers, to himself, but doesn't quite know if he believes it is one. If this is what the temptation of a Desire Demon looks like, then he is already lost, and gladly so. He closes his eyes again, some minutes later, and in the morning remembers nothing.

The third time he wakes, it is not yet morning, but very nearly that. The sky is making promises that it won't keep for hours yet, and the earliest risers of the camp and fort are moving about. There is the smell beginning of breakfast, and the cheerful sound of the watch being changed, and the chickens fed, and the horses. The blacksmith is already at work, and though the sound of his hammer is tinny at this distance, it is no less rhythmic.

Obi-Wan lies awake, unmoving, utterly contented, and waiting. The peace is almost physical, like a thick blanket of snow, laid over the world, a shield to keep fast the warmth of his bed, and the woman lying beside him. He looks down at her and smiles between long blinks, utterly besotted with the small details of cheekbones and eyelashes, and the shape of her lips.

Once Cassandra falls asleep, she doesn't wake. She dreams, vague, insubstantial dreams full of love and laughter, nothing like the cold, empty silences that have filled her nights for months.

She wakes slowly, drifting up towards wakefulness, feeling strangely at peace, and only once she opens her eyes and wakes fully does she remember the reason. Obi-Wan's arm is a comforting weight around her shoulders, and when she tilts her face up towards his, she finds him smiling fondly down at her.

"Good morning, my love," she murmurs, unwilling to disturb the early-morning quiet. She smiles back, yesterday's outpouring of joy returning with consciousness, sending a current of happiness and excitement shooting through her. He is back, and the world is theirs for the taking. "Are you rested?"

"Good morning," He replies, just as quietly, and breathes a deep, contented sigh as wakefulness breaks more fully over him, "Very much so."

It seems almost too much effort to move, but move he does, reaching to thread the fingers of his hand through hers, a greeting of its own. His smile widens, perceptibly, and he cannot help but want to kiss her. Patience, and manners, win out. For the moment.

"...And you?"

She squeezes his hand, pleased at the way he reaches for her, at how happy and satisfied he looks. Outside, the town is slowly waking up, but it's early yet. No one will come looking for them for hours yet - if even then.

Plenty of time.

"Very much so," she assures him, and it's true. She can't remember the last time she slept so well. She meets his eyes, the hint of an anticipatory gleam in her own. "I have missed you."

This, too, is true - she has missed him, every hour of every day.

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