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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

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One day, hopefully quite soon, when someone asks him to give an accounting of this moment, Obi-Wan will describe it with deference to Cassandra's desire for humility. She shifted the log, and I pulled free, is what he'll tell them, demurring politely any request for further detail. But the reality of it, in the moment, was an entirely different experience: all that mass of wood just lifting, under the strength of her arms, and the bow of her back. He'll remember it well, and with extraordinary joy.

But all that for later; right now, he strains with both arms and drags himself the vital few feet to safety, grimacing against the pain the movement brings.

"I'm out!" enough for her to know to drop it, he lays back in the snow, somehow sweating despite the burning chill. Oh, oh yes. That leg... is certainly broken.

She's lifted heavier. But never in the snow, already exhausted and half-frozen herself. Never when her own husband's life is at stake.

She spares a glance when he calls, just to be sure, before letting the trunk fall. Then she hurries around it, dropping to her knees beside him in the snow and reaching a hesitant hand towards his leg, not quite touching.

It looks very bad.

"My love..." Her voice wavers, momentarily, and then she swallows it back. No. She cannot fall to weakness, not now. She turns to look at Obi-Wan, her expression suddenly drawn and serious.

"Can you stand on your other leg? If I support you?"

He watches her struggle with a pang, until she seems to shift, find her footing. She is anything but happy, and all of that will have its reckoning, but as ever she puts aside fear for courage, when others have need of her. When he has need of her. Even in these circumstances, it brings a smile to him.

He gives her question due process of thought, experimentally flexing the good leg, if such a limb could be called good.

"Not comfortably, but yes. It seems as if we haven't much choice."

His smile warms her, though not nearly enough to drive out the chill from her bones. Still, it's something. If nothing else...at least they are together, and alive.

For the moment.

She banishes that thought, instead nodding and bending down, sliding an arm behind his back to ease him into a sitting position. His arm is slung round her neck and she holds it there, bracing herself as she glances at Obi-Wan for confirmation.

"One - two - "

On three she heaves him up, planting herself firmly in the snow in case he wobbles, and waits for him to find his footing - or to see if he finds it at all.

Obi-Wab catches her cast gaze as she counts, here we go. He grits his teeth, bearing up under the pain as bones shift and hang in ways they were not meant to do. It's a strange thing, the contrast of numb cold and hot agony; a lance of fire out of a black void. There's no fighting or anticipating it, he can only bear up, head bowed as if under a terrible downpour.

But Obi-Wan has Cassandra to hold him up. Through gritted teeth and her own strength he gets his good foot fumblingly under him; it is not steady, nor is there any grace. But he's upright, if not standing. Certainly he is not standing.

"Better. Not to dawdle." Obi-Wan grits, when he can breathe again.

Obi-Wan never makes a sound, but he's fighting through pain, she can tell. She presses her lips together in a thin, unhappy line, and when he manages to grit out something that might as well be a plea, she nods shortly.

"Of course."

But the question is - where do they go from here? Out of the cold, naturally - certainly they will die if they don't. She looks around anxiously, praying that she sees a nearby cottage with smoke rising from the chimney, a friendly face, a horse that might take them at least away from the scene of the avalanche, if not as far as Skyhold.

There's nothing.

Desperately, she turns, eyes smarting against the blinding whiteness of the snow, still searching - and then she sees it. Nothing so auspicious as a cottage, even an abandoned one. No horse - even Obi-Wan's dracolisk is out of sight, at least for the moment. But the avalanche, falling away from the mountain, had revealed a darker spot near its base. A cave. Large enough to keep them both warm and dry, if they're lucky. Free of spiders, if they're very lucky.

There's no time to consider such things now. She tightens her grip on Obi-Wan and starts to walk, pulling him gently but firmly along with her.

"Only a few steps, my love." It's more than that, but there's nothing she can do to make the distance shorter. "Please."

"Yes," He breathed, vision swimming with each hobbling, hopping step, but purpose clear in a way his voice couldn't be, "I am with you."

He didn't know where they were going, not really. All of Obi-Wan's attention was on one step and the next and the next, the strip of snow in front of their feet. Each hummock of snow seemed to require the totality of his focus, only to be replaced by the one after it. He only noticed their progress when a shadow fell over the ground, and the light dimmed as they passed from open mountainside into the relative dark of a cave.

Obi-Wan became conscious that he was no longer really standing, mostly hanging from the sling of his arm over Cassandra's shoulders, leaning against her, dependent on her grip.

"Maker's breath," He swore, and it was distressingly feeble, enough that he silenced himself again with chagrine at his own whimper, and tried again, "At-- At risk of complaining. Are we there yet?"

Their progress is achingly slow, but much as she longs to, she dares not hurry him. Not when Obi-Wan's weight on her shoulders grows heavier with every step, not when she can hear his labored breathing.

She doesn't smile at his query, self-effacing and so characteristic of him though it is. She's too worried for him. Instead, she nods, despite the darkness of the cave, and then clears her throat to speak. She's terribly afraid that her voice will crack, that he'll hear the fear in her tone.

"Yes - yes, we are." She shifts, looking around as her eyes adjust to the darkness. "Here - let me help you - " Gently, all too aware of his broken leg and careful not to jostle him, she lowers him to the ground, propped up against the cave wall. "It is not warm, I am afraid, nor comfortable, but - at least we are out of the snow?" Her voice tilts up into a question without her meaning to, the anxiety and worry seeping through despite herself. She swallows hard. "My love..."

She just needs to hear him. To know that he's all right, or at least, that he will be.

Obi-Wan lets his chin top forward, resting a moment with his eyes closed as he tries to get back his focus, or his breath. The stone probably ought to feel cold at his back, or underneath him, as snow-soaked as they both are, but after the biting sharpness of the cold outside, just being out of the wind is enough to make it seem nearly warm, by comparison.

Almost. Not really.

"Hm?" He opens his eyes again, looks up at her tone, at the gentleness of her words, "Oh. Yes. And out of the wind. Certainly an improvement-- though perhaps that's not saying saying much."

He's tired, of course, but Obi-Wan is conscious of how dangerous that could be. Fall asleep in the cold, and you may never wake up, isn't that how it goes? He blinks himself awake, and offers her a wane, pained smile that is all he has to give.

"We have to find a way to make a fire."

Or...she does, at least. Fat lot of good he is, so-called Templar Knight.

He looks weak. Exhausted. But - thank the Maker - he looks up at her, meets her eyes, and gives her a smile that both soothes her like a balm and breaks her heart. She smiles back, though it's difficult, and she can only imagine how strained it must look. More than anything, she wants to curl up beside him, wrap her arms around him and bury her face in her chest, listen as he strokes her hair and assures her that everything will be all right.

But she can't.

She nods, instead, looking away too quickly to hide the sudden tears that threaten. "Of course. I will take care of it. You must rest. Obi-Wan..." She hesitates, looking back at him, and by this point she's not even trying to hide the worry in her expression. "Please...speak to me? While I gather wood?" To keep him awake, of course. They can't risk him dozing off, never to wake, and talking will give him something to focus on, while reassuring her that he is yet conscious. But it's more than that. She needs to hear him, needs the comfort of her husband's voice. Some link to him, so soon after he had so nearly been ripped from her arms forever.

He laughs at that, a flat little ha, that comes out almost against his will. Speak to her? He hardly knows what to say.

"Should I recite... something?" Poetry, perhaps, or the chant? Oh, that would do nothing to keep him awake in this state, "I would offer to sing, but it's been a long time since choir practice."

But he's not sure he could manage it, he means.

"I-- Did I ever tell you, about Anakin? We used to call him Annie, when he was in training, and it made him so mad. He was apprenticed under me, for a squire, but he was so much older than the other trainees... I always felt he was more of a brother than a student. Closer than my own brothers, certainly. One time, he..."

And so it went, describing the youthful antics of one Anakin Skywalker. How he'd steal fruit and play hookie, and somehow pull Obi-Wan into trouble with him. How, despite his apparent inattention, he was a gifted swordsman, and an effective, if unconventional, tactician.

"His... soulmate was a... a mage, I think. He wrote to tell me... that the war had been... both a blessing and a curse. How glad he was to hear-- to know that the Inquisitor was..." Obi-Wan finally trails off, staring somewhat mindlessly at the cave wall opposite. Two long blinks, three, and then he seemed to realize how long the gap had become; he was fading, "...I'm alright, love. Just tired. I'm tired."

He laughs - at her, it seems - and her face falls. Hopefully he misses it completely, in the darkness of the cave. But oh, he must think her foolish, a frantic and bleating wife, unable even to do what must be done to save him under the weight of her hand-wringing worry.

He is right, of course, and as quickly as her countenance had changed it changes again, into a stern and expressionless mask. Panicking will do nothing, and she knows better - she is better than that. For all her faults, she has never been useless under pressure.

All the same, it's difficult to tear herself away once Obi-Wan starts to speak. He had told her about Anakin, of course, so many times that she almost feels she knows his one-time apprentice herself. All the same, it's so tempting to stay at his side, watching him closely, ready to shake him awake should he start to drift asleep again.

Instead she turns away, searching the small cave practically on hands and knees in her quest for firewood. Thankfully, the cave itself proves to be shallow and small, barely more than a depression in the mountain. Not much of a shelter, but at least they won't have to worry about spiders coming up out of the depths late at night - or worse, darkspawn.

She doesn't have much hope of finding anything useful, but once again they're in luck. Whether the twigs and branches she finds were blown in by the wind during sunnier days, or left there by a previous traveler, she'll never know, but she manages to gather up a small heap of wood that might serve. She's just assessing her finds when Obi-Wan's voice finally fades, and she looks up sharply, crossing the cave in long strides to drop to her knees at his side.

There is no anxiety in her tone now, no tears threatening to betray her. Her voice is harsh and demanding, her hand on his arm firm.

"You must not sleep, Obi-Wan. You must not."

Obi-Wan regards her a moment with a sort of shocked, uncomprehending stare. Stay awake? Oh! Oh yes, of course. He nods, ducking his head once and again, as if it were a little too heavy, more easily let down than recovered.

"Yes," He replies, after a moment, because his Cassandra is not here anymore, and in her place she has sent Seeker Pentaghast to keep him in line, "Yes, of course you're right."

He smiles, when an errant thought crosses his mind, unanticipated. The Princess and the Knight; how like those old stories this wasn't. And here she was: his bright and shining hero. He lifts a hand and pats hers where she's gripping his arm; after all she always seems to get angriest, when she's frightened.

"I'm sorry, love: thank you for reminding me. What should I talk about, next?"

He looks at her for so long, and with so blank an expression, that she starts to worry again. Does he even understand where they are, what's happening? How much damage had the accident caused?

But then he nods and acknowledges her, and she lets out a quiet, relieved breath and nods in return. It doesn't matter what he talks about, so long as he stays awake and focused, but he'd asked, and she pauses for a moment to consider the question.

"Tell me about..." She frowns in thought, then continues. "About yourself. Your time in the Circle, before we met. Your training." She never tires of hearing stories about Obi-Wan, of who he was before they found each other, and though she's asked for plenty, surely there's something left he hasn't told her. The request should be broad enough for him to find plenty to talk about, and in the meantime she can build their fire and start to warm them both up.

"Ah... Hm, let me think..."

If he had the wherewithal, between the grey tide of shock and the cold-induced weariness, to know the source of her anxiety, Obi-Wan might have reassured her. Then again, it would not have been particularly wonderful for some portion of the effect to result of a blow to the head; regardless, he hems for a few seconds, and then decides on a starting point.

"I almost washed out, once. Of the Templars. I was never a good student, always liked action more than books and I... I was easily distracted by what I saw as injustice in the world. No one wanted to take me on, for the ah, the... the training," He stops a moment, looking for the word. Apprentice? No, no. Eventually he gives up and simply continues, "It was Ser Jinn who finally took me on. He used to take on these... long, long rural patrols, through places that had barely a chantry to each town, let alone a permanent Templar. We'd find some piece of trouble, and resolve it, then move along. I remember once, we were riding through this forest. It was so dark and green. And-- and there were these bears the size of a house, I never saw such a thing. Dead, the one I encountered, thank the Maker. I think anyone else might have butchered the beast-- certainly, we could have used the meat. But Ser Jinn kept to the path, and refused to hear anything of it. Later, we heard there was a Dalish camp somewhere in the woods and... we probably would have met a sticky end, had we tried to steal their kill. They were probably watching from the shadows, the whole time, and I never saw."

He was quiet then, for a moment. Thinking silence, for once, but then Obi-Wan blinked, and shook himself out of reverie.

"He was always like that, he saw... people, all their details, what motivated them, and the choices they made. He died just before I attained rank and took my oath. Some nonsense with an Orlesian assassin and a chevalier he'd offended before we'd even met. I wish..." He had to stop, and then laughed at his own hesitation, at the ridiculousness that it would come to this before he thought to share the story with her, "...I wish you could have met him."

Edited 2018-02-12 03:56 (UTC)

She listens as she clears a space and arranges the firewood in the center of the cave. The story is more halting than she would have liked, especially at first, as if it's difficult for Obi-Wan to find the words. It's a problem Cassandra can sympathize with, but it's not like her husband at all.

Something else to worry about, should it continue.

Once the wood is arranged she pulls out the flint she always keeps on her, sliding it against the steel of her sword until it produces a spark. A few minutes later and a small but steady blaze lights their little cave, casting strange shadows and blessed heat. Carefully, Cassandra goes to sit at Obi-Wan's side as he concludes his story.

"I am sure I would have liked him," she says quietly, feeling calmer now that the fire is set - or at least, better able to feign it. She hesitates, eyeing Obi-Wan's leg lying still and awkwardly positioned before him, the blood soaked clean through his trousers. "My love, you must allow me to see your leg."

"I was afraid you'd say that," He replied, equally soft, and certainly no less resigned, "What do you need from me?"

His boots are a loss, at least on that side. Even if the idea of wrenching his foot out of them weren't unpleasant enough, the swelling would make it impossible. That much blood can only indicate the severity of the problem. Obi-Wan dares look down at himself, dirty with blood, dirt, and a scattering of needles from the tree that had pinned him, and acknowledges the truth of it.

He might lose that leg. It would hold for a time, but if the break was truly as bad as he feared, if infection took him too badly, if they couldn't get to a mage Healer in time...

If he didn't die.

"I'm ready."

Cassandra has no intention of letting Obi-Wan lose his leg. Much less of allowing anything worse to happen. No matter how bad it is, she will set it, she will keep him warm, and she will return him to Skyhold where he can be healed in safety and comfort. Somehow. It's the same mindset she'd had when she'd declared the Inquisition. Her determination - to succeed against all odds, even if she had no idea how it might be done - had served her then. Why shouldn't it do the same now?

Her expression softens slightly in the face of Obi-Wan's resigned obedience. He must be afraid, in pain, but he will not resist. She knows that.

"I must cut away the boot, the fabric," she begins, glancing down at his leg again and taking a breath. "Then...we will see where we stand."

"Or, where I don't, rather," He quips, the joke coming to his lips automatically. Hysteria bubbles up for a moment, then subsides, and takes his helpless little smirk back with it, "Go ahead, love. It won't be pleasant, but it's necessary."

A bit of an understatement, that.

"But it's necessary. Go ahead."

Cassandra doesn't smile. Obi-Wan may be able to joke about this, and perhaps it's better that way, to have a sense of humor about the whole thing. But she can't. Not before she reassures herself that he'll be all right. That she will not lose him, to death or to a life as an invalid.

She nods, then takes out her knife, carefully cutting away first the leather of his boot and then pulling the fabric away from his skin to cut it off safely. It's a shame to lose the boot, but more can be made. There is always more leather.

The pants, too, are a complete loss, and she winces in sympathy as she pulls the fabric away. She works as gently as she can, but all the same, the fabric adheres to the skin, the blood sticky between them. Finally, it's done, and Cassandra hisses softly as she takes in the sight. Obi-Wan's leg is bent at an unnatural angle, halfway along the shin; beyond that there's not much she can see, not with the blood. She turns, rummages in her pack for water and the cleanest cloth she can find. Wash the blood off first. That's the only way she's getting through this. Cut away the fabric. Wash the wound. One step and then another, until she's done all that she can do.

"It is not as bad as I feared," she lies, badly, glancing up to meet Obi-Wan's eyes. "You will be fine, I am certain."

When she looks up, he is pale, jaw clenched, breathing in unsteady starts. His quiet is not silence, and the echo chamber of rock walls turns each involuntary grunt of pain loud.

"...Mh... Maker willing," He grits, quietly, eyes falling closed as if that could make it a prayer, or make it true, "You know. What happens next."

He is very, very much not looking forward to the moment when she has to set the bone back in place. Nor the tying of the splint. Nor the way that, Obi-Wan knows, his reserve will fail and he will inevitably scream. He opens his eyes again, and gives her a nod.

She wants to stop. She wishes she could stop, because she knows this hurts him, and she knows it will only get very much worse. But there's nothing to be done. She must set the wound, and delaying will do nothing - will only make it that much more likely that he will lose the leg altogether.

Or worse.

She bites back her first, blasphemous response - Maker willing or not, you will be fine - and merely nods her head in response.

The blood soaks through two shirts from her pack, but once it's cleaned away, she finds her lie is not so untrue after all. It does look better, though still not...good. She looks up to where Obi-Wan is still pale and silent, admirably stoic in his courage. Lesser men would have quailed, would have cried out.

She leans forward, suddenly overwhelmed with her love for him and needing to reassure him, to give him something to hold on to, and presses a kiss to his lips. As quick as she'd moved forward she draws back, her eyes never leaving his.

"We are almost through, my love."

One of the pieces of firewood was solid and straight enough to be used as a splint. She has everything she needs; now all that's left is to push the bone back into place.

She leans towards him, and for a moment it is blessedly normal. The cave, the cold, the hot brand of pain, none of that is relevant when Cassandra kisses him. His hand comes up automatically, to cup her cheek against him, and the moment passes. Obi-Wan finds his breath again as she draws away, but finds himself obscurely comforted.

One thing, at least, this cannot change; Cassandra loves him. Any pain at all can be borne up in the face of that truth.

"I count it off, when you're ready," He tells her, offering his own paltry assistance, if only to reassure her in turn, that he truly understands the necessity. That whatever physical pain she must cause him, he knows she does it only to spare both of them a far worse potential, "Alright? ...One, two--"

Obi-Wan has no memory of 'three.' The world seems to fade to white. He thinks perhaps he screamed, but in reality the sound was nearer a shriek, a strangled, tense sound that seemed to tear out of him like a wild animal. Then, there is nothing at all; he is completely unaware of the next few minutes, can make no accounting of them. When awareness returns, he's blinking blearily at the cave ceiling, rather than being propped against the wall. Obi-Wan, overcome by this uncertain change of circumstances, offers a groan, and squeezes his eyes closed again.

It's difficult to pull away again, when Obi-Wan raises a hand to her cheek, but pull away she does. He is being very brave, and the strength of his will is not lost on her, but she doesn't point it out. Doing so might distract him, might even make it more difficult for him to bear up.

Instead, she nods at his suggestion. The more they can act like this is normal, like it's all right, the quicker they'll get through it. So she tells herself as Obi-Wan counts, one, two, and she grasps his leg and yanks in the horrifying task of setting her husband's bone.

The sight of it is awful enough, and the sound is one she'll never forget, even half-drowned out as it is under Obi-Wan's shriek of pain, a shriek that rips straight through her heart. She can't imagine feeling it.

Even then, she can't afford the luxury of looking at him, of reaching for him and offering reassurance. She sets her jaw, brow furrowed in concentration as she reaches for the makeshift splint and binds it to his leg.

Only then does she look up, fear shooting through her for a brief, terrible moment before she realizes that he's unconscious, passed out from the pain. Oh, my love. But the worst is - finally - over, and she reaches for him gently, drawing him down to the ground with his head pillowed on her own pack, making him as comfortable as possible before settling down anxiously to wait.

When he finally wakes, groaning in confusion and pain, her heart leaps in her chest, and she leans forward, placing a comforting but implacable hand on his shoulder.

"Do not try to move yet, my love."

"Oh yes," He tells her, docile and obedient, "As you say."

And then, moving not at all, except to open his eyes and put one hand over her own firm grip. A few minutes pass like that, simply recovering in silence, holding tightly if only because-- because--

Well. If the situation didn't warrant holding to one another like this, hand in hand, then what bloody well did?!

"That was... Not my best moment. My apologies," He had, humiliatingly enough, fainted. That much was clear. Equally clear was that he had thereby frightened the living daylights out of his wife and soulmate, which had never been his intention, "I'll be giving you grey hair, at this rate."

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