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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

He puts his hand over hers, anchoring her own formidable strength with his own. Where they have been adrift, alone, now they stood together. It made what had previously seemed insurmountable, seem possible. Obi-Wan breathed, lacing their fingers together, and found that with hardly any effort at all, he could think past that breath. The future seemed, for the moment, as clear and free of obstruction as the open ocean. As with sailing, the perception was treacherous, but he allowed himself the luxury to imagine it.

To imagine the sensation of standing at Cassandra's elbow, bursting with pride in purpose as she issued an order, or sharing a smile over a simple teatime, or arguing over some minutae of tactics or... or growing old. Watching the crow's feet form at the corners of her eyes, or seeing the grey come into his hair. Wild flights of fancy, truly.

"Never again, if I can help it," He breathes again, a great, complacent sigh, and pulls their joined hands up so that he can press a kiss against her knuckles, thoughtfully, "Nothing. And if anyone or anything tries, then they should pray for the Maker's mercy, because I very much doubt it'll have any otherwise."

She smiles as she rests her head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Her own heart feels light. She is happy and hopeful in a way she had nearly forgotten she could be.

Today, she could do anything.

"The Maker would never show mercy to anyone so cruel," she declares solemnly. "And if He did...I would not." She shifts, leaning up to meet Obi-Wan's eyes.

"No one will ever take you from me again."

"I don't know if that's touching or concerning," He says, clearly please, and just as clearly despite himself. His other arm comes around her shoulders, comfortable and easy, "...I'm glad."

He is, he supposes, meant to be a good person. A small, relatively naive part of him notes that good people aren't supposed to carefully agree that they'll murder anyone who tries to separate them. The rest of him is more practical, smugly satisfied in the idea of belonging to Cassandra, or at least of falling so far into her protection as to make no difference. Unconcerned, he turns his head to drop a kiss into her hair, and sighs with contentment.

Would that every morning might begin like this! He feels, nothing is beyond their reach, today.

"I look forward to finally working alongside you," He murmurs, at length, "Or, at least, nearby."

She smiles back, not in the least bit concerned. There are other ways of stopping people besides killing them. But if anyone did make it their goal to come between her and her soulmate...well, she can hardly think of any justifiable reason for doing so. Surely such a person would deserve whatever response was necessary to protect herself and Obi-Wan.

But all of that is theoretical, and in the future. For now, her gaze turns contemplative, as her thoughts move to other things.

"What will you do now?" she asks Obi-Wan curiously. "You no longer have your quiet Circle to manage. Will you..."

Is it too much, to ask him to join the Inquisition? Is it unfair to assume that he will wish to, simply because she has declared it?

"I doubt anyone has had a quiet circle to manage, these past few weeks," He replies, automatic quip, but his tone is thoughtful, "To tell the truth, I don't know; I wasn't thinking much beyond the moment when I came here."

He falls silent, thinking, calmed by the warmth of her skin under his palm, and the pulse under his fingertips. The Templar Order is in tatters, drawn in one direction, or another, and what cohesion exists among their number is strange, distorted, scattered. There's nothing for him, there. And of course, here is Cassandra, and a clean, well-understood purpose.

"...The sensible choice is to join the Inquisition, if it'll have me," Though even as he speaks, another thought is forming, bursting from him impulsively, "Cassandra, I-- I might need your help with something."

It's not just the Order; so much of what they have been used to, the world as they have understood it, is now in chaos. Crisis after crisis had kept Cassandra busy day and night, and though she had mourned Obi-Wan's apparent death, the necessity of responding to the Breach and the Divine's death and all the rest had at least had one benefit - it had kept her from sinking utterly into grief.

And now he is here, warm and solid and alive at her side. She runs her fingers idly down his side, marveling at the mere presence of him, only to look up in alarm at the sudden change in his voice.

"Of course." She frowns, suddenly worried. "Anything, my love."

Ah, now he's frightened her; Obi-Wan looks stupidly back at Cassandra's worried face, briefly at a loss, then remembers himself. He smiles an apology, hand soothing along her back and shoulders.

"At first, I didn't want to forget you, or anything else about what had been," He explains, carefully, "Then, I think I didn't much care if I lived or died from the withdrawl. And then, all there was to be had was-- If I didn't care before, I certainly do now."

He's going about this all backwards, isn't he? Try again.

"I haven't taken Lyrium since before... before."

Her eyes widen in alarm. She hadn't noticed any symptoms...but of course, how could she have, when they had been separated for so long? Most of what he has been suffering would be invisible at first glance.

I didn't much care if I lived or died... That pains her, a sharp stab of sympathy and dread in her stomach. Her grip on him tightens once more. How lucky they both are to have found each other alive.

"Oh, my love," she breathes, reaching up to brush a hand through his hair. "It will be all right. There are Templars here, still, loyal to the Inquisition...they will have supplies. We will find you what you need." She smiles at him, reassuringly.

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