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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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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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"No regrets tonight," Obi-Wan murmurs, squeezing briefly against her forearm as they walk. His intention was only to reassure, but abruptly he realizes that just under the woolen sleeve of the crimson uniform is where his name lies written in gold, "The Maker wouldn't have tested us if he didn't think we were strong enough to bear up, I'm sure. And we have. And we will."

It has the air of a vow. But they are here, now, at the edge of the sea of skirts and music, and so he turns, offers his hand to her over a bow, and smiles. There are no masks, no watching eyes, and the music is surely playing for the two of them alone.

"May I have this dance, my love?"

No regrets. It's not always a simple path to follow. Nor had their marriage been, or the abortive attempt at courtship that had come before that.

She had missed out on so much. Nearly forty before she had met her soulmate for the first time, so much of what should have been precious time together stolen from them, or simply stolen from her memories by a cruel twist of fate. They had never had a real courtship, a real romance free of the multitudinous pressures of society and the Chantry and all the expectations heaped upon them.

You may, my husband, she nearly responds, but then she hesitates, even as she settles her hand in his.

"If...if you please," she begins, and then stops, unable to articulate the sudden idea that had entered her head. "Might...might we...pretend..."

His eyebrows hitch, a silent question, but Obi-Wan's fingers close around hers, graceful enough to serve as a comfort, even so. They are drawing attention, now, but he pays them no mind, focused on her.

"Tell me."

Cassandra barely notices the curious stares from those around her. She had never paid any mind to anyone else's opinion of her before; she is not about to start now.

But even so, even with Obi-Wan's gentle encouragement, the knowledge that he, of all people, will not judge her, it is difficult to continue. She takes a breath, drawing herself up.

"It is...ridiculous, perhaps," she allows. "But...I have never had a real suitor. One that I did not immediately reject." There had been plenty of those, more than she could ever want. She wrinkles her nose briefly at the memory, before forcing herself to go on.

"You are my husband, and I...I am your wife, and your soulmate, forever. That has not changed. But I merely thought..." She falters, gazing at his kind, familiar face. Will he laugh? Would he laugh? "I wished we might, for one evening, act as though...as though we were not. As though I were a, a simple maid, and you were an eligible young man, seeking my hand."

The last few words are said in a rush, forced out before she can lose her nerve. She can feel her cheeks growing hot. If ever Obi-Wan were to laugh at her, to think her ridiculous it would be now. She certainly feels it. A grown woman, a married woman, the Divine's right hand, playing pretend?

Obi-Wan tilts his head, not quiet as if her were confused, but rather, as if he were facing a difficult puzzle, one he intended to un-knot. And then, he let go of her hand, with just the barest farewell squeeze, and with both hands tugged the hem of his jacket, so that it lay all the more crisply formal across his shoulders.

It was the look of a man steeling himself, as if for some monumental task. And indeed, what quest more terrifying, than to speak to a beautiful woman? It wasn't as if Cassandra was any less intimidating a target, only that he knew he could win her. Had won her. Would, rather.

"Ah, Seeker Pentaghast," He said to her, in a tone that was walking a fine line between polite distance, and warm interest, "Allow me to introduce myself; I am Obi-Wan Kenobi."

But he couldn't quite banish the little wrinkles of laughter around his eyes; silly, it might be, but this was fun. And if they weren't going to make a mockery of the Orlesian high court, then why had they come here at all? He had a feeling that the Inquisitor would have approved, had she known.

"I was so pleased to see that you'd accepted the Duke's invitation to be here, tonight. The Inquisition truly does send its finest."

For a moment, as he takes his hand away and says nothing, her heart sinks. Worse than laughing at her, worse by far, would be if he simply turned away, or gave her no answer at all. If he thought the request unworthy of any sort of response.

But of course he would never do such a thing. Her eyes narrow in uncertainty as he straightens his jacket and lifts his chin, only to widen in surprise and delight when he speaks.

Oh.

"Ser Kenobi." She has to fight her own smile, giving him a nod that is polite and nothing more, letting her eyes drift over him for a moment as they might in sizing up a stranger. "You are too kind."

He has a moment of struggle with his own smile. Her joy is infectious, and the obviousness of the playful way she sizes him up is no less delightful. Oh, Maker.

"Not at all. The Inquisition is drawing all eyes, and you are the one who first set that course in motion, are you not?" Of course she was. The story was halfway to legend and the writ had been posted everywhere in Cassandra's tidy hand, by order of the late Divine Justinia, "It's impressive. Even if that were all there is to say, one cannot help but be impressed by the confidence and a beautiful woman. It's only-- I'm surprised."

She smiles sedately, neither confirming nor denying her role in the Inquisition. Of course he knows it's true. Even if he had not been...him...even if he had been a stranger, he would know it to be true.

She blushes prettily at beautiful woman, casting her eyes down demurely. It's all an act, of course - or mostly an act. Cassandra Pentaghast is many things, but she has never been demure.

"Surprising?" she repeats, looking up at him. "You seem to know me quite well, Ser Kenobi. In fact, I am afraid you have the advantage of me." A gentle tilt of her head. "What, then, surprises you so?"

"I've been watching the crowd tonight, but I've noticed, you haven't taken a single dance. It might lead some to wonder, why?"

In another tone, it might be mocking, even rude, but in Obi-Wan's soft, kind voice, it became more honest a question. Why, indeed?

"Of course, I could be as simple as, not enjoying the music. I admit it is a bit..." He hesitates, glancing over at the musicians, in their ornate clothing, gloves with only the fingertips bare, masks open at the mouth just barely enough to permit their instruments, "Well, I wouldn't dare critique the Empress' tastes. But then, I do wonder, if you aren't simply waiting. For the right partner. And, if it isn't too forward-- I must confess."

And here, where he'd been genteel, politely distance in all but spirit, he drops his voice, sotto, as if telling a secret. The effect is entirely inappropriate, even though there is clear air between them, and no touch more importunate than a stranger's glance has passed between them all night. His eyes glittered with mischief all the while.

"...I had been hoping you would permit me to occupy a space, on your dance card."

Cassandra bites her lip to hide her smile, her eyes darting over to the musicians as well. Even if the music had been to her taste (which Obi-Wan knows perfectly well it is not), it has been better performed by better talent than is here tonight.

She catches her breath when he drops his voice, unable to break her gaze from his. Though the words themselves are entirely inoffensive, she finds herself blushing, all the same. He has looked at her with those mischievous eyes before, suggested things in that low tone, but never in someplace so public as a ballroom.

"You are very forward indeed, Ser Kenobi," she murmurs, just as quiet, the smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Approaching me for a dance? And without a chaperone in sight? It is very shocking, you know."

"Ah, you must forgive me, if I have mistaken you. Even knowing your reputation, it was presumptuous of me to assume that you could well manage any unwelcome suitors who came to call," His bow is from the waist, quite polite, the very picture of a gentleman begging a lady's forgiveness. Cassandra might have been wrapped in a flowing skirt of silk and chiffon, rather than wool and brass buttons, for all his formality, "I admit that I was simply too tempted by the opportunity to speak with you. I couldn't let the chance to ask pass me by.

And then a pause, as much artifice as anything else, but it was only that-- a hesitation. If he were a younger man, and she the noble maiden, object of his affection, this would in truth have been the girding of loins, the last desperate push of hope against embarrassment. When he looks up, his expression is carefully neutral, but also sad, even pleading. It is a minor work of miracle that he doesn't spoil it with a wink.

"...I'd regret missing it too much not to at least try."

She has to press her hand to her mouth, if briefly, in order to hide her own smile and keep up the aloof facade. Half the court had turned to stare as Knight-Commander Kenobi had, inexplicably, bowed at the waist to his wife in the middle of court, but Cassandra doesn't care.

And when he looks up at her with such a sorrowful expression, it's all she can do not to give it all up and embrace him then and there.

"Do not be so troubled, good ser," she says instead. "You are certainly very forward, but - though it is hardly proper to say so - you are very charming as well. And, you will note..." She leans forward, dropping her voice as he had. "I did not say no."

If he notices the staring eyes, which he could hardly not, Obi-Wan makes no sign. In the corner, Josephine Montilyet is having a fit, and Leliana is watching as avidly as anyone possibly could-- but to all appearances, Cassandra's husband is immune.

"Then, I live in hope," He takes her hand, and the touch lingers, precious in the press of his fingers around hers, "May I?"

Leliana will tease her mercilessly later, and Josephine will hound her incessantly for details, but it's all worth it, for this. It's a silly, childish thing, to play out a fantasy in this way, but she cannot remember when she last had such fun.

And how lucky is she, to have a husband, a soulmate, who would so eagerly and unquestioningly go along with such a request?

She smiles at him, and curls her fingers more firmly around his own.

"You may, my lord."

"Then, let us dance."

It is, in the end, neither the most elegant of dances, nor the most impressive, but it is executed with competence, and though he doubts they'll ever recreate the glamour of the evening in anything but the poor reflection of memory... Obi-Wan can only ever smile, to remember it. To remember sweeping Cassandra by hand and waist, moving through the steps in time, now following, now leading, though they be surrounded by figures rendered anonymous in their masks. It is like a dream. And he smiles for her, hardly able to do otherwise.

"You are so beautiful tonight," He says, forgetting the fantasy of their first meeting, focus lost in his admiration, "It reminds me of our wedding."

She may be a married woman, a woman on the brink of middle age, wearing a stiff and unflattering uniform and with years of life experience behind her - but as Obi-Wan takes her hand and leads her gently onto the dance floor, she feels as if she could be eighteen again, a young, blushing maiden at her first ball, resplendent in an elegant, full gown and with all the possibilities of a new romance spread out before her.

Though they certainly attract a few stares, the stares are, by and large, benevolent. She has eyes only for him, shining and joyful, and he gazes back with just as much affection, nearly bursting with happiness. Their mutual love is obvious even from a distance, and though there are certainly a few jealous glares or derisive titters, it is still true that love is celebrated even in Orlais, especially between a couple so well-known and admired as the Right Hand and her faithful Knight-Commander. Soulmates - star-crossed, ever faithful, despite the years they had taken to find each other and all the terrible obstacles they had faced along the way. They are nearly a legend; despite how much they both might wish for privacy, it is not to be.

Her own thoughts wander as they dance, the fantasy momentarily set aside in favor of contemplation - of Obi-Wan's handsomeness, of how long it had been since she last truly enjoyed a dance, of how terribly happy she is. Even so, his comment catches her unawares, and she merely gapes at him stupidly for a moment, nearly tripping over her feet in the process.

"Oh, I - " She blushes, trying to regain her balance. As effective, even graceful, as she can be on the battlefield, all of that seems to go out the window as soon as she enters court. She swallows, her hand gripping his a little tighter. It is only partly for balance.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," He replies, eyes wrinkling with delight at her reaction, "And thank you. Despite how hectic the evening's been for you, it's still so good just to..."

He trails off as the steps pull them into a turn. When Obi-Wan's hands settle back into their proper places again, he's forgotten what word he was searching for and must begin again. He shakes his head, amused at his own woolgathering. He is happy. He is happy, despite the world all but ending, the armies and spies and Orlesian music. And his smile, is all for her.

"...to just be here, with you."

And it is, truly, good. Fun. Fun wasn't something he tended to reach for, by choice, and he knew that Cassandra would live a life nearly devoid of frivolity, if left to her own devices. And yet, somehow, together they ended up play-acting a scene torn from a romance novel right in the middle of the Orlesian Imperial Court, and for no better reason. Together, they could find the peace it took to play. A whole that was more than the sum of its parts.

She smiles back, warm and full. Obi-Wan's own happiness is evident, and it feeds into and enhances her own joy. It's all she really wants, after all - to see him happy, to have her here with her. She squeezes his hand silently, a heartfelt thank you for his indulgence of her.

"It is good," she agrees quietly. "And as for my...hectic evening...perhaps the Inquisitor might manage without my assistance, should she find any more conspiracies to expose." She hesitates for a moment, then reaches up, cupping his face in both hands and touching her forehead to his. A murmur ripples through the crowd, but for once, Cassandra hardly notices.

"I would spend the remainder of the ball at my husband's side."

"We really shouldn't," He replies, regret warring almost visibly with an internal quest to find more reasons that they should, "...But..."

Truly, they should not. The Inquisitor, and that Tevinter renegade of hers had both seemed so insistent on the importance of this night. So much could hinge on what was happening outside their little bubble of color and light. Pleasant as this moment was, it would end, and the harshness of the world would return, tinged either with regret, or with victory.

She is so near, and so warm, it is hard to find any of this urgency worthwhile. He huffs a smiling sigh and knows defeat in this; she'll stay. They'll both stay.

After all, it wasn't as if there weren't men enough to spare, for the Lady Herald's sword and shield. And for all his disapproving glances, Commander Rutherford was just as desperate to leave the ballroom as Cassandra was willing to stay, and so...

"I would love nothing more," He says, and the music has found pause, so he pulls her gently from the fray before they are drawn back towards the center, "Why don't we see if we can arrange a respite for Commander Cullen, in your place?"

Perhaps they shouldn't. Though if the Inquisitor really needed her, of course Cassandra would drop everything to help. But for now, everything is well. The enemies they have faced have been almost laughably easy to deal with, and the Inquisitor is even now in view, perfectly at ease and, in between listening to tales from Josephine's sister, watching Cassandra and Obi-Wan with the same keen interest as all the rest.

Her smile widens at Obi-Wan's suggestion, easily complying as he leads her away from the dancers. It's true that Cullen has been restless and uncomfortable all night, the focus of unwanted female attention nearly every time she's passed him.

"I am sure the Commander would be only too happy to assist," she answers. For a moment, she looks thoughtful, almost regretful, as they retire from the center of the hall. Theough they are no longer the exact center of attention, they are by no means unwatched even now, and it is likely to remain so. "I suppose there is one drawback to all this attention."

"Well, it would be remiss of me to kidnap the Inquisitor's best warrior and not allow her a replacement," He is magnanimity itself, and it has little enough to do with the manner in which the Commander and his Inquisitor have been dancing around one another for months.

Of course not. That would be meddling.

"I'm quite sure every one of them is just jealous," He teases, not quite a murmur, but pitched too low to be easily overheard, "Try not to worry about them; they don't matter. And, after tonight, they'll have something much more important to talk about."

It wasn't every day one decided the leadership of an empire, after all.

Edited 2016-11-24 07:20 (UTC)

She smiles, small and secret. It's true; none of them matter. Not in this, not where she and Obi-Wan are concerned.

"No doubt they are," she says lowly back, and shakes her head. "I do not mind the staring, or the gossip. It is only..."

She looks up, glancing around the ballroom - one or two curious pairs of eyes still follow them, discreetly looking away as Cassandra meets them. Her own eyes dancing with sudden mischief, she looks back to Obi-Wan, leaning in close.

"It is only...with so many watching, I fear it will be very difficult to arrange a similar respite for you and I." A pause, as she watches him, waiting for him to catch her meaning. "A chance for you to...see me in action?"

Edited 2016-11-25 05:49 (UTC)

He wasn't expecting that, and for a moment is run completely out of clever things to say. Or, indeed any thing to say-- he opens his mouth, and shuts it again, then clears his throat to cover the embarrassment.

Maker's Breath, this woman.

"Oh, it'll be a challenge, I grant you that," He tries for lightness, but it comes out a little hoarse; but Obi-Wan feels he's doing well enough, thank you, just to keep from smirking like an idiot, "But I've never once thought of you to be the kind of woman to back down easily, from a challenge."

Determination flashes in her eyes at that. Obi-Wan knows her too well, knows exactly what to say to motivate her. Though she finds herself just as motivated by him - the way he gapes at her wordlessly, the hoarseness in his voice.

Maker, but she wants to see him at a loss for words again. Staring at her, mouth open, unable even to speak...

She forces herself to focus.

"Indeed, I am not," she agrees, and then lifts her chin, expression shifting from intense and playful to lofty and professional.

"If you will excuse me, I must speak with Commander Cullen and the Inquisitor," she says, now in clear tones that anyone listening nearby might easily overhear. She leans in to kiss him goodbye on the cheek - natural enough for husband and wife, even in the public of the Orlesian court - and as she does, murmurs in his ear.

"Meet me in the gardens afterwards?"

Having recovered his aplomb, Obi-Wan nods, curt and professional. No one farther than an arm's reach could see the smile that crosses his eyes, delighted humor meant for a secret audience of one.

Yes, he will excuse her. Yes, he understands.

Yes, Obi-Wan will meet her in the gardens.

But of course, it all takes time. Time for the fervor to shift and attentions to move with it. Time, for the switch to be made as subtly as can happen when extracting Commander Cullen from his circle of admirers. And, of course, the time it takes for Obi-Wan to be sure he is not abandoning duty in favor of pleasure; as much as he loves Cassandra, he cannot be anyone but himself. The night is young, and only a little less so, when all duties have been disposed of, and Obi-Wan is able to slip out into the gardens.

It is only an illusion, the coolness of the night in comparison to the party's imagined heat, but he can't help the deep inhale. The air is cleaner, at least, blessedly free of the omnipresent perfumes that had been pressing into him all night; a headache Obi-Wan hadn't been fully aware of begins to ease. He sighs again, and begins to stroll, looking only for his wife.

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