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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

He thinks, perhaps he sees it there, the spark of interest. His eyebrows hitch in response, part speculatory, but also a question. Oh, really?

"I see," He goes up on one elbow in a slow, deliberate curl, and gives her a more proper good-morning, tender and enthusiastic. Under the blankets, another part of himself joins the waking world and takes a slow but definite interest in the proceedings, "Well, I'm here now. And since I've no formal position here, as of yet... I'm all yours, for the morning."

For life, if he has his own way.

"I've missed you, as well. In every way."

Cassandra returns the kiss, just as enthusiastic, yet - for now - sweet and entirely chaste. When she shifts to meet him and his growing interest brushes against her thigh, she gives no indication that she has felt it.

Anything that the kiss or the look on Obi-Wan's face has stirred in her is easy enough to hide. She smiles at him, bright-eyed and innocent. The question in the quirk of his brow goes unacknowledged and unanswered.

"In every way?" She tilts her head, pursing her lips as if in thought. "Are there so many?"

Both hands now, reaching, coming up to frame Cassandra's face with feather-touches, fingertips along the turn of her jaw, just the brush of palm-warmth and a widening smile. Is she... playing with him? The effect is like the spring rains, turning a barren, desolate place, into one suddenly grown-over with green life. He can hardly contain his delight.

"More than you know. I've had a lot of time, recently, to think of new ways, and list them. Would you like to hear some?"

Cassandra smiles in return, raising her eyebrows, her expression betraying nothing but polite interest. It takes an effort not to lean into his palm, or turn her head to press quick kisses to his fingertips, but she persists.

"Please." She lays a hand on his chest and leaves it there without moving, not so much as a stroke of her thumb over his bared skin. "I would love to."

"Well, your eyes, for one. Always so intense, even when you're not doing anything more engaging than simply stargazing. Sometimes, when you look at me, I feel as if the Maker's sent a thunderbolt from the sky. Especially when you're annoyed, or when you blush-- And here," His thumb traced her cheek, following the path of the mark there, "This scar. The way it bends when you smile. The way it can make you look so fierce. And I remember, our night together, how strong you are. I'm sure, if you wanted, you could beat me five falls out of six, even on my best day."

His grin had faded, turned soft and fond again, in the odd nostalgia telling of the moment. But, he wasn't done.

"And the way you write, like you're so worried I won't understand what you mean; but I didn't mind, if it meant the letters were longer. I was greedy for more of you. I kept looking at the sky, when I ought to have been paying attention, just hoping for more. There's so much about you, that I love. That I've missed. I feel I could go on for days and never run short."

The list is more than she'd anticipated. She had been prepared for teasing and innuendo, not this raw, honest outpouring of affection. Her jaws drops slightly, eyes opening wide in surprise. One thing stands out, making her heart beat faster in her chest. Our night together. That one single night - far from perfect, but all theirs.

Maker, but she wants more of that.

"I see," she says at last, fighting to keep her voice steady. It works. For now. But what does one even say to such a deluge of praise? It doesn't escape her notice that everything he had named - her fierce gaze, her scar, even her fumbling attempts with a pen - has, at some point, been a source of anxiety or embarrassment for her, an invitation for derision (she is too blunt, too harsh, her figure and her bearing not at all what a lady's should be - ) or a personal failing.

And yet here Obi-Wan is, gazing at her with all the love in the world - greedy for more of you. She shivers, then leans forward to kiss him again. Words will fail her, she is sure, and so she does her best to pour her gratitude and the deep love and affection she feels into the kiss. When she pulls back, her eyes are soft.

"Thank you." She kisses him again, though it's little more than the softest graze of her lips against his, words murmured into his mouth. "I have missed you, as well."

"I could talk about your legs, if you'd rather," His grin is back, teasing. I see, indeed! "Certainly, there is nothing to complain about, to see you undressed."

Or rather, any complaints to be made should be made about it never happening quickly, nor often, enough. But isn't that always the way? His hands skim down, shoulders, ribs, waist and hips, idle and purposeful all one. Turnabout is fair play-- and just because he's lying back, practically pinned under her, it doesn't follow that he's at any disadvantage.

"Tell me?"

She smiles, kicking her legs a bit, the sheet slipping away to expose her calves. But rather than responding immediately, she simply tucks her head into his chest, hiding her face as she thinks.

Tell me?

"I have missed you," she says, her voice low. She strokes her hand down his chest, slow and methodical. "I thought I knew what my soulmate would be; I dreamed of a man who would be strong, and kind, and good of heart, but I..."

She looks up, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as she meets his own. "But I never could have imagined anything - anyone as wonderful as you." Her lip trembles, and she takes in a shuddering breath, shifting to prop herself up on her arms on his chest and look into his eyes. "You are a gift from the Maker, Obi-Wan, and I will never, never stop thanking Him for returning you to me."

He can't hold it; but to his credit, he tries. In the end, or rather after a breathless moment of simple gawping, he feels the prick of tears in his own eyes and has to look away. Briefly, he considers the ceiling, and the heavens beyond it, hidden behind wooden beams and roof-tiles, and the halls of the Maker somewhere beyond knowing.

"Thank you," he whispers, blinking furiously, and gives her a smile he fears is more watery than the reassurance he wants to give her, "I love you. I--"

Words fail him. After a moment he gives up trying to form a coherent response and simply strokes back the fringe of hair at her temple, fingertips bumping along the perennial braid, and sighs.

"I love you. If you feel blessed, then-- then I most certainly am. Now that we're here, both of us, and under the banner of this... this Inquisition," He'd nearly forgotten the word; the important thing was neither the breach nor the rifts nor the supposed Herald of Andraste, but Cassandra herself, "No greater duty can ever carry me from your side. I'm here. And I will be, for as long as I'm able to stand."

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