stabsbooks | for obi

for obi_wanmanshow

The name had been a part of her nearly all her life, as familiar to her as her own. When it had first appeared - glowing golden script on her inner arm - she had been fascinated, spending hours upon hours staring at it, tracing the letters with one finger, dreaming about the kind of person her soulmate might be. The name was strange to her, not Nevarran or Orlesian or anything she had heard of, but that had only added to the mystery and excitement.

His name had appeared on her skin at the time of her first flowering - one more marker on her path from girlhood into womanhood. If she had been the sort to go to school and have friends, it might have been the kind of thing to giggle over with the other girls, to shyly hide away, only to shriek in feigned indigence when her sleeve was playfully pushed up and the name finally revealed. As it was, Cassandra learned from tutors, and rarely had contact with other children. The name, like her beloved books and dreams of dragon-hunting, became a solitary escape, a daydream of a better life.

Both had faded, in time, as such things do. Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones). And the name on her arm had faded from a bright gold to something duller and duller as the years went on, until it was something that could not be seen at all except in the brightest light of day.

(The longer it took, they said, the more your soulmate's name faded, the less likely you were ever to find him at all. And this one - an unknown, foreign name, one belonging to a man who clearly lacked either the interest or the means to seek out a soulmate with the name Pentaghast, well...)

Cassandra herself couldn't say exactly when it was she had stopped expecting to find him. Certainly it had been nothing overnight, no sudden revelation. She had simply woken up one day, no longer a girl in her twenties eager to make the world her own, but a woman in her late thirties - accomplished, certainly, perhaps even fulfilled - but utterly alone, and more and more likely to stay that way.

But the name is still a part of her, as much as it ever had been. And so it is that when she hears it spoken aloud for the first time, she doesn't even blink; hearing the words she had whispered so reverently to herself for twenty-five years is as natural as breathing.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi." She nods sharply, focused on her work, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her mind that is urgently whispering something, something is happening, this is important - She holds her hand out to shake - her arms, as they always are these days, fully covered by long sleeves that meet her gloves, the barely-visible name securely hidden from even the most prying eyes. "I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Cassandra can no more neglect her duty than Obi-Wan can - and of course, there are far too many attendees all too eager for a word with the Right Hand as she passes through the ballroom. By the time she finally makes her escape to the gardens, she is frustrated, annoyed, and above all, worried that she has left Obi-Wan waiting too long for her arrival.

But all of the guilt and frustration vanishes when she sees him, calmly strolling the grounds, as handsome and beloved as ever. She smiles, the tension in her shoulders melting away, and moves forward to meet him.

"My lord." She's in a mood to play again, clearly, as she bends her knees briefly in what is almost recognizable as an actual curtsy. "How good to meet you once again."

"My Lady," He replies, hardly missing a beat; the game is back on and so he bows, genteel and courtly. Is that a curtsy? Be still his heart, "Indeed, I feel the same; meeting you here has turned an otherwise dim evening into a bright memory."

He has not been idle, wandering Celene's immaculately sculpted garden. He produces, after a suitably poetic flourish, a single rose, not yet fully in bloom, beautifully pale white in the evening light-- and just barely pink along the edges of its petals, a delicate blush. It is an exquisite breed, likely very expensive, and he has stolen it, quite literally, from the Empress of Orlais' garden.

Obi-Wan offers her the flower.

"I hope it would not be too forward to offer you a gift. I'm afraid, when I saw this, it so reminded me of you that I couldn't help myself."

Her eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, as she recognizes the flower for what it is - and realizes where it must have come from. For a moment, she nearly refuses it - it is not hers to take, and she cannot imagine what might happen should they be caught - but then she takes a breath, smiling and reaching out for it. It's already been picked, after all; it's not as though she can put it back. And it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

"Thank you, my lord," she murmurs, smiling as she carefully plucks the rose from his fingers - her own brushing his, just slightly. "You are too kind by far. I cannot think how I might repay you."

"I could ask no gift greater than an evening in your presence. You left so abruptly, after our dance, I felt I surely must have slighted you, somehow," His smile turns a little soft, remembering-- not any physical meeting between them, but only words. A poem, idly repeated on the rounds, written in snatches, hardly expert, but heartfelt, and very much on the subject of roses, "Seeing you now, I realize it was only the pull of duty. If anything, I should apologize for thinking anything so uncharitable of you."

He wonders if she remembers it, before deciding that it hardly matters if she does. And as for the rose itself, he has no doubt that Celene will shortly have greater concerns than the boldness of one Inquisition thief.

The poem in question now lies safely in a drawer of her bedside table, the paper worn from being continually unfolded and refolded, but the words still as beloved as ever. Her smile grows as she thinks of it, her eyes fixed on the rose in her hands.

Her gaze darts to his at his words, and she shakes her head, eager to dismiss his concerns - though of course, they both know all too well that he could never have caused such offense. The game is still being played.

"Never think that," she reassures him. "As you say, it was merely duty. I - you will think me foolish, or overly romantic, but in truth I thought of little else but you, in that short time we were parted. My greatest fear was that I should come here, only to find you had not appeared for our meeting after all - that you had come to your senses, or found better company in some other young lady."

"My Lady, as lovely as the winter court has been, there has been no danger of your losing my attention. Indeed, I--" And here, the pause, ostensibly a hesitation in the face of potential impropriety. This would have been quite forward of him, after all, "--I could hope for no better company than your own."

Grown men do not giggle, but it was a near thing. He's quite proud of the lack of a smirk, as well-- the image of a demure, genteel Cassandra is fascinating and ridiculous, but no less charming.

"I'm grateful then, that I was not too difficult to find."

She smiles quietly, obviously pleased, and falls silent for a moment as she contemplates her next line. They are lines, as in a play, put on only for the enjoyment and amusement of the small cast - but it is enjoyable and amusing both, and why should they not, so long as it makes both of them happy? As silly as this may be, it is not hurting anyone.

"You seem quite certain of my charms, Master Kenobi, for one who knows so little of me," she observes thoughtfully. A pause, and she tilts her head, studying him. "Tell me, do you follow the Maker?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

for obi_wanmanshow

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject