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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

"And I will stand beside you," she promises, leaning in to kiss him again. "There is no one I would rather have at my side."

She pauses, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she gazes fondly at him, fingers trailing through his beard.

"My husband."

"My wife," He replies, easy and fond, leaning to meet her halfway.

Cassandra smiles in satisfaction, looking into his eyes. She had waited so long for this moment. And then she had thought it would never come at all. And now...now they are here. He is here.

Her heart trips in her chest, her courage almost failing her. Slowly, her smile fades, her expression growing thoughtful, and then determined.

"Obi-Wan." Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, her hand going flat against his chest. She leans forward to kiss him again: not one of the soft and tender kisses they have been exchanging all morning, but one passionate and insistent, almost bruising in its intensity.

"I have dreamed of you, my husband," she says, her voice low and rough as she explores his mouth, lets her lips drift up to mouth at his ear. "I was afraid, that night. I was terrified. At best I hoped not to humiliate myself, or worse, disappoint you. But none of that happened. You were kind and patient, more patient than any new bridegroom should have to be. And you..." She levers herself up, sliding a leg over his waist, pushing him flat against the mattress as she straddles him and leans down. Oh, but she has wanted this. Wanted him. Her hips rock idly against him as she bends down and continues, breath hot against his ear.

"You showed me so much. You opened new worlds to me. Worlds I had not dreamed of. I wanted nothing more than to explore them with you...and then the morning came, and we were separated." She squeezes her thighs on either side of him, rolling her hips again, slow and deliberate even as her words come faster. "It was a blow, but one I could bear. I waited, and I imagined, and I did nothing to bring myself relief. Not the slightest touch...I wanted to, so badly, sometimes I needed to so much I nearly screamed. But nothing could compare to your hands, to your body. I knew that, and so I waited, knowing your touch would be all the sweeter for it. And then..."

She drops her head, hands cupping his cheeks. He knows, they both know what had happened then, but it never gets easier to think of.

"And then you were gone. Forever. And I did not want anything at all anymore. My fantasies, my plans for how to ravish you, once we were reunited...they seemed foolish. Pointless flights of fancy. The lack of your body at my fingertips was nothing compared to the pain of losing you."

She leans down again, kissing him, slow and deep and possessive.

"But I was not foolish. And now you are here, you are alive, my husband, and I will take what I have wanted for so long."

As her expression firms, his heart trips a beat. Oh no, he's seen this look before, usually before she tries something... Well, just something. And then she is kissing him, consuming and firey, bearing down with her strength, and he is helpless to swallow the moan. Something, indeed!

He is about to speak, to answer her past anxiety with reassurances, half-rising onto his elbow when she slides herself over him and presses him down, seemingly without effort. Obi-Wan would be a liar if he said it wasn't stimulating enough to distract him from all semblance of language, so instead he subsides obediently enough, and silent save for the sharp exhale under her teasing.

Almighty Maker, preserve him from the mouth on this woman-- but clearly Obi-Wan is the farthest thing from the Maker's mind at the moment, because Cassandra's mouth descends on his yet again and this time he remembers to use his hands, to hold her as they move together. He cannot help the motion of his hips, but if anything she's said is true, then Obi-Wan doubts that is anything he'll hear complaints about.

"I'm yours, love," He says, finally, then swallows to clear the hoarseness from his throat, to little effect, "Whatever you want from me, take it."

Almighty Maker, preserve them both from her own lustful thoughts. But there is no sin in this, she is certain; no sin in desiring the man the Maker himself had chosen for her, had marked for her - no sin in wanting, after a lifetime of faithful, patient waiting.

Not when Obi-Wan is spread beneath her like this, as eager and loving as she is.

She smiles, and brings her hands down to her waist to pull her loose tunic off and cast it aside, revealing bared breasts, and, as it happens, bared everything else as well.

(She does not wear underpants, after all.)

Obi-Wan does, however, a thin layer of fabric between them that she makes sure to rub against, moving her hips in firm circles as she smirks down at him. Oh, but she can feel him under her, feel her wetness already dampening the cloth, and it takes all she has not to hop off of him and tear away what little remains between them, to hurry their union.

"Whatever I want?" she repeats instead, a low purr even as she shudders with sensation. "You would hold nothing back?"

He is suddenly very sure that it is a terrible idea to promise her that very thing, that it will backfire somehow, but in the very next moment a terrible, beautiful shudder chases across her skin, and Maker He can feel her, feel the hot dampness, see in the part of her lips and the fire of her eyes that she feels it too.

"Anything," He promises, fervent prayer, full of faith, "Everything. I'm already yours."

If he's lucky, he's only given her the power to command him to shave his beard-- but he knows, at least in the moment, that he'd walk off a cliff on her say-so.

"Cassandra, please."

She smiles, satisfied and just a little bit wicked. His desperation is obvious already, even before he says her name and pleads, and it only serves to heighten her own excitement.

Soon. Soon she will have him again.

"And I am yours," she promises, and leans down to kiss him again. "So touch me. Touch me as a husband should touch his wife. Touch me as if you have waited for me, as I have waited for you."

The soft, bare pressure of her breasts touch him as she bends to kiss him, and if he weren't already hard, that would have had him quite undone. As it is, he responds to her request in the manner to which he must: a good templar obeys orders, after all. Particularly when those orders come from no less than the Right Hand of the Divine.

If they were in Val Royeaux, in that luxurious bed, he'd have rolled her, turning them both to pin her under him, but the bed is narrow and the bracket of her knees an immovable force. He is caught, well and truly, between the strength of her thighs, but that weight, the strength of her, will become his leverage. After all, he is braced, and her position is precarious enough that when he pulls down on her hips, grinding upward with his own, he knows what the result will be.

He kisses her, mouth and neck, sucking bruises into her shoulder so that tomorrow, or tonight, when she buckles on her pauldrons the little sorenesses will linger, and remind her of this moment. The two of them in the grey morning twilight, moving together like rough youths, more eager than sensible, but no less sweet.

Enough, he thinks, and lets go long enough to try and shimmy his way out of his smallclothes. More than enough! The time for patience has passed.

She cries out in surprise when he yanks her down, momentary pain and delicious pressure as her hips slam into his. Oh, but she can feel him, more than ready for her, though she cannot imagine that he could be any more eager and desperate than she is herself in that moment.

When his mouth finds her neck, she moans, not bothering to stifle the sound. Anyone near enough to hear will simply have to endure the noise, and if there is gossip, so be it. He is her husband, and her soulmate. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

"Obi-Wan," she gasps, and there was something she'd wanted to say, a question she'd planned to ask him, but then he's moving underneath her, fighting to remove his smalls and the last tangible barrier between them, and all other thoughts or plans fly out of her head. She needs him, as badly as he needs her, and she lifts her hips, bracing herself above him on hands and knees, giving him some momentary freedom.

"Hurry, my love," she murmurs, close against his ear. "Hurry."

"There will come a day," Obi-Wan said, though not loudly, but with a growl in it that was only rarely there and not aimed at Cassandra but at the circumstances, "When we won't have to be careful."

This was not that day.

This was the day after the night when the sun had risen in front of him with ice-hard eyes and the sharp, glorious planes of her face. This was the morning when the fog had blown away from his soul, and the light in hers could paint his spirit gold. He wanted nothing more than to press up into her body with a fever that might have been violence in any other context; she wanted it too. But that was a lie: he did want at least one thing more than the pleasure of their joining. Not to hurt her. It had been once, twice, and then nothing between them for so long that it might as well have been nothing at all for all the evidence it left.

It took all his willpower, the strength of his mind and his arms and his love for her to hold on and only let her sink down around him slowly, inch by inch. It was agony, and every moment worse because every moment he slid more fully home. When their hips finally lay flush, he let go of it with a gasp of breath and didn't know whether to be annoyed or grateful for the stinging eyes, or the way his vision blurred with unshed tears.

"Maker's breath," He gasped, sliding grateful, worshipful hands from her hips and thighs, along Cassandra's waist and the heaving of her ribs. She, after all, was the one dangling bounty before him, quite literally, it only seemed fair to reach for it, "Oh."

Had he forgotten? Hardly. But, still, he now remembered.

"Whenever you're ready, love."

She smiles at that, a fleeting, strained thing as he settles his hands on her hips and slowly, slowly, guides her down. She is beyond words, beyond the ability to think of the future, of anything other than this.

Her eyes slip closed as he enters her, her hands reaching down blindly to grip his shoulders. It is slow, excruciatingly slow, but she is so wet, so ready for him, and as her hips finally meet his, as he stretches and fills her, she shudders, half-collapsing on his chest, into his outstretched hands.

"My love," she says, half a moan. "Oh, my love. Look at us. Look at how we fit." She opens her eyes in order to smile at him, at his dear face that she had missed for so long, and bends her head to kiss him, deeply.

But it's not enough simply to be, as wonderful, as transcendent as that is - they need more, both of them, and slowly, forcing herself not to rush, to savor every second, she starts to move.

"So we do," He murmurs, a laugh curling around his words for the sheer joy and relief of it. Poets love the metaphor, of blade and sheaths, and all the synonyms for their meeting, but any amount of poetic melodrama seems appropriate to the moment. This is another kind of homecoming-- bawdy puns aside.

And then she is kissing him, and he is no longer clutching, merely holding, winding around, all the fear that might have controlled them no longer within reach. If it was a momentary reprieve, then it was all the more intense for that.

He knows why she was moving so slowly, that it's no tease, only-- only he is unable to look away, eyes locked with hers and bodies moving together. Slowly, slowly, catching the rhythm as it found its stride, does she ease him into their lovemaking, until Obi-Wan can hardly breathe for the beauty of her. So, he doesn't try, and instead curls himself upwards to tease her in return, with collarbone kisses and bruises sucked against the tops of her breasts. And with each, he gasps her name, or mouths a heady i love you against Cassandra's skin.

Edited 2016-10-24 06:06 (UTC)

She had been so afraid, that first night. She had known, intellectually, that she had been willing to open her heart to him through their letters, to share her hopes and thoughts and uncertainties, unfiltered except through her own stumbling, imperfect words. And yet, for all that she had wanted to trust him, for as powerful as their mutual love had grown in that brief period she could remember, she had still been so sure he would reject her, that she would, in some unforseen way, manage to disappoint him.

There had been a terrible, frightening vulnerability, that first time she had let him touch her, when she had willingly lain back and finally given up control. Frightening, and yet heady and exhilarating, and in the end, wonderful. Miraculous, almost, the way that he had embraced all that she was so enthusiastically, flaws, insecurities and all.

That same vulnerability is there now. It is, after all, only the third time she had been so naked under a man's gaze - but as thrilling as it is to settle her bare thighs against his flesh, to feel his hands cup her breasts, not so much as lace separating skin from skin - all that is nothing to what she feels when he looks into her eyes as they move together. Her breath catches, tears unexpectedly stinging her eyes, and it's all so overwhelming that it's almost a relief when he bends his mouth to her chest and she can drop her head forward, face buried in his hair.

"I love you," she whispers, again and again. "My love, my love, never leave me again."

He doesn't hesitate, he moves, both arms around her waist, surging up and drawing her against him, like a dance, like a cresting wave. Obi-Wan turns into her, supporting, seeking, as if she were centered some far-away place; it is less than his most gentle. He cannot regret it, desperate to prove to her, to himself, that they are alive, that they are here, and together, and all of it was little more than an extended nightmare. These shadows may stretch long fingers across memory, but only shadows.

"Never," He promises, reckless in the moment, but sincere enough that his voice cracks. He tries again, a rough-edge mumble, pressed against her skin, "Never, so long as I can do otherwise. I promise you."

The promise is all she needs. That, and his arms around her waist, his body, bucking up into hers. Cassandra moans, beyond words, and ducks her head, seeking him, until she can capture his lips with her own. Her kisses are messy, lazy, and then desperate, as he thrusts up harder into her and she scrabbles for purchase, grasping his arms, the sheets, the bed's rickety headboard. She is close, closer every moment, and a part of her wants to beg him to stop, to give her a moment to catch her breath and brace herself. But she has waited, and dreamed of this, and she can no more stop now than he could, right on the edge of it all.

Somehow, she finds his hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and tugging insistently, down in close between their bodies. She could do this herself - the slightest touch is all it would take - but she had not waited this long, denied herself this long, only to find her pleasure herself. Not when Obi-Wan is here, and alive; not when it could be his touch that might give her this gift.

At first, he nearly misses her meaning, too caught up in the slide of their bodies, the balance of hips and legs, but then-- yes, yes of course. He remembers, then, her own words echoing back to him. His, the only hand to ever touch... He touched her, firm, assured pressure, a lingering stroke there, just where their bodies met, where she was most sensitive. But his attention was on her face, watching, to see her come apart, riding that ragged edge himself, and it would take so little.

It had been so long. Too long. They were both raw with the need of this; another time, they could be tender. Now. Now.

She cries out, soft and broken, when he slides his fingers between her legs, and she grinds against him, caring nothing for dignity. He is so hot, like a brand inside her, filling her, and she is so tight around him. All she needs is a little more, the firm, slow stroke of his fingers against her where she is wet and warm and sensitive -

- And it's enough. Cassandra shudders, and then jerks, mouth opening on a gasp that becomes a wail as she grabs for him, hanging on as she shakes to pieces around him.

She is loud enough, certainly, that anyone outside the too-thin walls of their little cabin will hear. Will know, without any possible doubt, what is happening. That knowledge, as much as everything else, is enough to drive him over the brink of orgasm. Let their too-long separation end, let everyone in Haven know, exactly to whom they belonged.

After, still floating in the glow, panting with their exertions, Obi-Wan wondered if that wasn't somewhat blasphemous-- but then, it's difficult to be ashamed of anything at all, when presented with the glint of gold, and the blushing face of the woman you love.

"I love you," He whispers, when he has his breath back, and gently draws her into a kiss that lingers. Some obscure corner of his mind half-expects a runner, or a servant to come bursting through their door, but for once the Maker is merciful, and gives them His time, "Oh, I love you."

Not exactly poetry, but forgive him his distraction.

She half-collapses when it's over, head dropping down nearly to his chest, before she carefully untangles herself and slides in a boneless heap down to his side. It feels almost as good just to curl up against him, still feeling heady, her body glowing and relaxed and satisfied.

Cassandra smiles against his lips, head tilted up towards his, and lazily returns the kiss. She knows. Oh, she knows, and nothing could be better than that knowledge but what she feels for him in return.

"And I love you," she whispers back, as if it is a secret, something too true and precious to be proclaimed aloud. "I am so happy you have come back to me."

"The feeling is mutual," He murmurs, "I-- I can imagine very well what would have come of me, if I hadn't found you here."

He thought of it, the strangely vacant stares, red vials, something... something subtly wrong, everywhere among the Templars, but nowhere at all. He'd noticed it at the time, but hadn't minded, hadn't cared. He might begin to care now, at least, for all the good it might do them.

But it was impossible to dwell on darkness when his heart and arms both held such light.

"...None of that matters, right now. You're alive. And we're here together, thank the Maker."

Her expression grows serious at his words. She knows, of course, of the Red Templars. One of the only comforts of Obi-Wan's death - small as it might have been - had been the knowledge that he was safe forever from becoming one of them. For all her grief and heartbreak, she had never had to worry about that dreadful eventuality.

Almost unconsciously, she curls a little closer, hand flat against his chest as if she can keep him there, safe from the outside world.

"We are here together," she echoes him. "And nothing will separate us again."

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