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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

She waits, if not quite patiently then at least stoically, leaving her hand where it is and letting him hold it as long as he needs to. As much as she longs to see him up and acting like himself again, as much as she needs to hear his voice, she has no intention of rushing him too quickly, nor of allowing him to rush his own recovery.

At least he's awake, and holding her hand, and looking at her. And alive..

She shakes her head impatiently at his words, rolling her eyes.

"Do not be ridiculous. You were..." She hesitates, then leans down to press a kiss to his lips.

"You were very brave, to bear it, knowing it would hurt so. There is no shame in feeling pain."

"Hmm," He says, not quite agreeing with her, but unwilling to argue the point. Not when she's willing to kiss him for the worth of his dubious valor. But Obi-Wan does smile, "Well, then. I suppose it could be worse."

They had this cave, which was a roof of sorts. There was a fire, and fuel-- if what was here ever ran out, Cassandra could likely pull branches from the tree that had pinned him, for warmth's sake. Snow meant plenty of fresh water, and food-- food might be a problem. Obi-Wan wasn't sure what had become of the pack-animal with most of their supplies, but he knew there had to be something in their personal belongings, if not much.

And they had each other. No sign of any other survivors was in evidence, and so... truly, it could have been so much worse. Misfortune or not, the Maker's hand had been on theirs.

"It's a miracle we're not dead," He said quietly, reaching up to brush his fingertips across her scarred cheek with a version of his usual fondness, "You're unhurt?"

"Yes, it could," Cassandra says quietly. It could be much worse. He could have already succumbed to his injuries. He could have been dead before she'd even found him.

Quickly, she glances down, trying to hide the look on her face before he catches sight of it, only for Obi-Wan's fingers to brush against her cheek a moment later. Reluctantly, she looks up to meet his eyes, trying to school her worried expression into something neutral.

"I am fine, of course," she says automatically, not knowing whether it's true. Is it? It doesn't matter. Any injuries she's sustained haven't hampered her so far - no pain lancing up her leg as she half-carried Obi-Wan to the cave, no shortness of breath or joints that screamed when she bent them. She shakes her head. "Please, do not worry about me. You - you must rest." The fact that her husband, her soulmate had so narrowly escaped death had shaken her more than she might have thought, and now that he's out of immediate danger, she can feel the fear crawling up her throat, threatening to choke her. Her eyes dart around the cave restlessly, desperate for another task to distract her. This could still go very badly for them both.

"Cassandra," He says, gently, so gently, because as well as she can cover her fear with sternness in most circumstances, she'll never be truly opaque to him. Obi-Wan heaves a breath and continues, "I am resting. I will rest. But you know I can't just stop worrying, anymore than you can. It doesn't work like that."

Love. Soulmates. Worry. None of them are so easily dismissed. He reaches with his other hand then, to pluck at her wrist, trying to draw her closer.

"There's nothing more to be done, just now, and you need to rest too. Take a moment. My leg is broken, but the rest of me isn't. Please, love. Please?"

She's never been able to deny him when he uses that tone, so gentle and patient and understanding. As if he sees right through every part of her, sees and understands and accepts even when she can hardly understand herself, much less accept anything. Her gaze slides back to him and she goes quiet, just listening, trying to believe him. To relax.

She reaches back automatically when he extends a hand out towards her, finding him just as she always has. A long, tired sigh escapes her. It's true, she's exhausted. And he is...safe. For now.

Quietly, compliant now, she nods, and then lowers herself to the ground beside him, careful not to jostle him, to keep him between herself and the fire. He needs the warmth more than she. The ground is hard and cold beneath her, but she pillows her head on Obi-Wan's chest, curling a protective arm around him.

"I thought I had lost you," she says quietly, only able to say it now, in the quiet, not meeting his eyes. "If not for the dracolisk, I would never have found you."

For just a moment he thought she might resist, pay heed to her humming anxiety more than what it meant. But she comes to him willingly and gratitude rises in him, sharp and thick. She settles, and Obi-Wan chooses not to engage in any such battle, about who sleeps where, in relation to the fire; that's one he can't win. It's enough of a victory to feel the weight against his side, the pressure of her arm, and to turn his head and breathe against her hair.

"I..." He falters, slightly, then recovers, "I had a dark moment of my own, down there."

In response to her quiet admission, his own arms close around her, tight. Perhaps too tight, really. Leg broken, body pinned, nothing but cold, cold white, and muffled silence. No sign of life. Nothing but faith, and hope, and pain? Well, anyone might fear the worst.

"I would never leave you, never again."

"That is something you cannot promise me, nor I you."

She knows he would never want to leave her. Never choose to leave her. But Obi-Wan cannot stop death no matter how deep and true his love for her runs. He cannot predict the course of their life together, nor control it. Not entirely.

She presses closer to him, comforted by his arms tight around her, and sighs quietly. The ground is still cold and uncomfortable, but he is soft and reassuring beside her.

"But I will do whatever is in my power to keep you safe."

"Then allow me to promise that much, in return," He replies quietly, "Not that I'm good for much, at the moment."

She heaves a sigh against him, and he doesn't know if it's more about exasperation with his impulse for humor or just the general hardship of the situation. Possibly both.

"Unshaken by the darkness of the world," he quoted, for as of yet, despite all that had happened, leaving them stranded in the cold with-- yes, with snow beginning to fall as the sun set over the mountainside, he did indeed have hope, "Tomorrow. We must find supplies. And a way to signal help, or-- or bring it."

"She shall know true peace," Cassandra murmurs in return, breathing in deep. The one who repents, who has faith... He's right. They cannot lose their faith now.

"Tomorrow," she agrees. "Perhaps...the supplies we carried with us. If they were not buried too deeply by the avalanche..." And if not, there are herbs and berries to pick. Animals to hunt. Somehow, she'll find them food and medicine to get through all of this. At least there's no shortage of water. "We will get through this, Obi-Wan. We will not die, here in this cave."

"That's my girl," He murmurs, pride hand-in-hand with weariness. Even knowing she cannot see it, Obi-Wan smiles, and turns his head slightly to press a kiss against the crown of her head, "Tomorrow."

The snow falls as the darkness does, and the morning rises with a strange, silent closeness. Snow has partly buried the mouth of the cave, and though the banked fire burned low, the snow has trapped some of the heat in with them. It's cold inside, but not deadly. Obi-Wan rouses slowly, stiff and cramping, momentarily confused by his surroundings.

Ah. Ah, yes. And so, it begins.

His girl? Cassandra makes a vaguely disgusted noise, but there's no heat behind it. Exhaustion seems to have crept up on her, claiming her the moment she let her guard down and took a moment to breathe, and her head feels too heavy to move right at the moment, pillowed on Obi-Wan's chest.

She sleeps, and she wakes. By the time Obi-Wan opens his eyes, Cassandra's been up for an hour, moving as silently as she can as she tends the fire, melts snow into water, and takes inventory of their meager supplies.

She looks up at the sound of him stirring, and moves quickly over to his side. Better if he does not try to go anywhere too quickly.

"My love. Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough, my dear," he tells her, when he's mastered himself to do so without pain in his voice-- or, no more than necessary, "Given the circumstances, I can't complain."

He could obviously complain. But it would be pointless, so Obi-Wan does has can to improve the situation by not doing so. Instead, he smiles. And well he might; only yesterday he'd spent a long, terrifying stretch of hours not knowing if she were alive or dead, and believing he too might die, trapped under the snow, broken by falling detritus. Now he's stiff, injured, but alive: even in the grey, wan light that filters into their little sanctum, she is easily the most beautiful thing in the world.

"You must've been awake for some time. How are you?"

There's a delay before he replies, one she knows him well enough to notice, even if no one else would have. Cassandra frowns slightly, but he reassures her before she can speak - truthfully or not, she doesn't know.

But he smiles, and she can't help but smile back, reaching instinctively to take his hand.

"I am fine," she says, and then, before he can disbelieve her, "Truly. There is some bruising, I think, and I will ache for a few days, but...I am uninjured." Unlike him. Her gaze drifts down to his leg, and then back up to his face.

"Are you in much pain?"

His first impulse is to lie, to comfort her and say that it isn't so bad. That part wouldn't even be a lie, from a certain way of thinking; compared to the previous day, the dull, pulsing agony was indeed much less. It sat against his bones and seemed to radiate from toes to spine, making every thought a little hazy but-- no. Not so bad as it had been.

"Truthfully?" But even as Obi-Wan opens his mouth to say it, he hesitates, then puts the notion away. No, he doesn't want to lie to her, "...Yes. But I can bear it, for now. Not that there's much choice."

His smile grows a little lopsided, a little rueful. Maker knows he can't help it.

"If I have to be stuck in a cave with a broken leg, I'm glad it's with you."

Of course truthfully. Why would she ask, otherwise? Especially since, after all, he's the one who had been injured. Hiding his condition from her now would do them no good at all.

But he does admit the truth, and she nods, solemn and thoughtful. It's not as though there's much she can do to ease the pain now, apart from keeping him as comfortable as possible. Which means...warm. And fed.

"You will tell me if it gets worse," she tells him, more a fact than an instruction, and despite herself, she smiles back. Damn him and the way he looks at her.

"I can hardly imagine anyone wishing to be stuck here alone," she says, deliberately misinterpreting his words, and shakes her head, her smile fading and her expression becoming earnest.

"We will not stay here any longer than we have to. I swear it."

"Yes, it could be worse. You could be stuck here with... oh... I don't know," He tried to think of the person most likely to drive Cassandra to tromping down the mountainside on her own, in a fury, "Messere Tethras, perhaps?"

She probably wouldn't have killed the dwarf, but Obi-Wan wouldn't have been surprised to see him come home with a blacked eye. And a long list of complaints. Obi-Wan's teasing grin is irascible.

"If there's a plan, I'd be glad to hear it."

"Ugh."

The sound she makes is utterly disgusted, accompanied by a roll of her eyes, and probably exactly the reaction Obi-Wan had been hoping to elicit. Cassandra shakes her head. It's true, she can think of no worse fate than being trapped here with Varric of all people.

"Yes, it could be worse," she agrees, and smiles, shaking her head at her husband's delighted grin. "For now, I think, the plan is breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"I--" He begins to temporize and as if on cue his stomach gurgles the answer, loud in the echoing confines of their little cave. Obi-Wan offers a sheepish shrug, as much as anyone can while prone, "...I am."

For all that the menu is unlikely to be more exciting that travel-food heated over a fire or boiled in melt-water, he is hungry enough to make a feast out of hardtack and jerky. While she busies herself with the actual business of food, the question occurs to him.

"Why do you dislike Varric so much? He doesn't seem so bad. Well, except-- He's fine, for the most part."

It seems he is. Cassandra smiles indulgently, moving without comment to her pack to see what she can find for their breakfast. She glances up in surprise at Obi-Wan's question, opening her mouth as if the answer is obvious, only to pause.

"I..." She frowns, poking through her pack. "He is...He is so...He is so frustrating."

Even here, with Varric hundreds of miles away and likely not thinking of her at all - just trying to explain just what it is about him is frustrating. Her frown deepens as she pulls hardtack of her bag at last.

Obi-Wan's chuckle is quiet, set in the back of his throat as he lays back, watching her. He knows her annoyance is genuine and yet-- the honest passion of it, is undeniably endearing.

"I've been corresponding with Varric, lately," He tells her, while she traumatizes the dried goods in lieu of convenient dwarfish targets, "Plotting things, you know. I meant to keep it a secret. But, I'm also dying to ruin the surprise."

Cassandra scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pulls out their breakfast. A poor one, but they'll have to make do. Perhaps she can find some nugs for their dinner, or even a snoufleur...

"What can you possibly have been plotting with Varric?" she asks disdainfully, only half-listening, half-worried about how she's going to keep herself and Obi-Wan fed. "Whatever it is, it can't be anything good."

for obi_wanmanshow

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omg this is so late, i'm so sorry

it's ok!!

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