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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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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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For the second time in as many minutes, he finds himself staring, wondering again at the conundrum that is Cassandra Pentaghast. Does she mean to say that she's never.... that his would be the only hand who ever touched... The idea is ridiculous, impossible, and he is amazed, in the oldest form of the word; stunned by wonder, by the implications. She could easily have said yes to this young man-- or to any other number of them, if she pleased. The idea of it is overwhelming, ice chased with fire, hot then cold again.

"That's... Very romantic of you," He's so charmed, truly, and his hand is halfway to reaching for her hand before he remembers and checks himself. No gloves-- they had come off in the heat of the day as the questioning went on. But despite promises and words, they had yet to touch, something that would turn what had been spun out of intentions into unavoidable fact. He hesitated, torn between politesse and feeling, "...I..."

The words beneath her hands and the fabric of her sleeve were still as transparent as gossamer, and would be, until they did. He wasn't so certain about his own.

She glances up at him quickly, eyes searching his for any hint of scorn or mockery. Romantic could well mean foolish, after all. What sort of person chooses solitude for so many years, passing by real opportunities for happiness in favor of waiting for some dream that may never come to fruition? It's pathetic, when she thinks of how old she is, and how inexperienced. A wasted youth if ever there was one.

But there is no amusement or derision in Obi-Wan's expression. He gazes at her as if seeing something miraculous, and she drops her eyes, uncomfortable under such close scrutiny.

Her gaze falls on his hand, still outstretched and frozen in place, and she swallows, gathering her courage. Overthinking this now will do her no good at all, and so she doesn't. She reaches out, sliding her hand into his - large and warm and somehow still soft beneath and between the rough callouses that speak to honest work - and squeezes tight.

It absolutely is wishful thinking, but the heat of her hand in his seems to travel up his arm, following the imagined lines of script there. The moment lies quiet between them, with all the anticlimax of a cat which, having ignored all bribes and cajoling, finally saunters over and leaps into your lap, but only after you'd completely given up on it.

Obi-Wan offers her a smile, warm and real, and a deep, cleansing breath to settle it in place.

"You know," he says, only half to himself, still in that place of wonder and surety, "I think it's going to be alright."

Cassandra beams back at him, quietly thrilled and too overcome to dare ruining the moment with words. She gazes down at their clasped hands and clothed arms. It's ridiculous, of course, to think that this would be enough to reignite the mark. There is no deep connection there, not yet - just the hope and the promise of one. Some soulmates go weeks or even months after their bonding before the gold finally reappears.

They are not so special as to be any different. But this is a start, and considering how she had actually run out on him - how she could so easily have ruined their chances before they even started -

She is very lucky to have him. And she is not too proud to recognize that.

"Thank you," she says quietly, half to Obi-Wan, half to the Maker himself. She squeezes his hand again. "Thank you."

It is, in the end, a period of months before they see each other again. And he does, after all, have to calmly watch her leave, and tell no one about his feelings, or anything that's transpired between them. It is both more and less than he'd supposed.

He manages not quite a full day before setting pen to paper. The yawning, forbidding void of the paper is gone, replaced instead by anticipation.

Seeker Pentaghast,

Better, he thought, to begin formally-- politely, rather. And besides, if someone were to read the letter, they might stop there.

Seeker Pentaghast,

I'm writing to you on the very same day you left. I expected it to be a terrible wrench, and it was-- but not so terrible as it might have been. I want to thank you, for that; for giving me the chance. It seems a little strange, perhaps, but the tower seems quieter now than it did even before you arrived. Everything has changed.

I hope the road finds you well, and the weather remains good, for your sake; I'm pleased to report that your efforts here have not been in vain. It seems as if we'll have a little sense out of this lot, if only for a while. You do leave an impressive effect on people, myself included.

Yours always,

Knight-Commander Obi-Wan Kenobi

She writes as soon as she reaches the inn that night - a long letter, so hastily scribbled as to be nearly illegible at times, a heartfelt outpouring of the thoughts and feelings that had consumed her mind and heart since their parting early that morning. When she is finished, she sits back in her chair with an air of relief. She picks up the letter, brow furrowed with intensity, and reads it over, eyes traveling carefully over every single line.

And then, calmly, expression neutral, she crumples up the paper and tosses it into the fire.

Cassandra paces the room, hands twisting together. It's not that she's a coward - she's faced down dragons, for Andraste's sake. She has never shied away from anything in her life. So why is this so difficult? If there is one person in the world she can bare her heart to without fear, shouldn't it be her soulmate?

But she finds herself doubting everything, all the same. It had all happened so quickly...and neither of them had admitted to much, in the end. She still doesn't know him, and he...what if he had had second thoughts? What if he had come to his senses as soon as she had disappeared over the horizon, and realized that he was much better off remaining in his small, sleepy Circle, without her?

Luckily, birds travel faster than carriages, and Cassandra doesn't have long to stew in her own anxieties. Obi-Wan's letter arrives the next day, and though it is short and says nothing outright, his affection and admiration for her shine through clearly. If nothing else, she can be certain he had not had second thoughts.

Her second attempt is shorter and infinitely more reserved, but it does not go in the fire.

Knight-Commander Kenobi,

Thank you for writing, and so promptly. The road is long, especially without a travelling companion, and your words have been a balm, and a much needed diversion from unpleasant thoughts.

I am glad to hear that our visit, however short, did some good. I do regret our hasty departure. It would have been very good to see more of your Circle, and to become better acquainted.

I hope to become very much more acquainted with you, and very soon.

Cassandra Pentaghast

Cassandra,

For my promptness and my writing, I could hardly do less. Indeed, writing to you is strangely calming, despite my lack of focus elsewhere. I think I understand what you mean, about unpleasant thoughts. Do not fear any lack of correspondence from me, I am committed to writing to you, whenever I can.

To be honest, I have not had the opportunity in the past for much letter-writing outside of formal correspondence and reports mandated by duty. Therefore, while I share your hope for a deeper acquaintance, I find myself at a loss to know where to begin. If you have any particular topics I should write on, please include them with your next letter. A blank page can be very intimidating, and I'd like to do better than describe the latest petty argument, or worse: the duty roster.

There is one matter of duty, however, that I feel obligated to pass to you. The young apprentice I mentioned in relation to the business with the fire, Ashoka Tano, is something of a fan of your exploits. Having missed the opportunity to see you while you were here, she cornered me in the hall and demanded compensation for her loss. What it's like to be cornered by a sixteen year old girl who's been cheated out of what she sees as a fated meeting with her personal hero, I hope you never learn. Regardless, she asked whether or not the tales of dragon-riding are true, and requests a swift answer.

The energy of youth is admirable, in its own way. I hope your own lasts through whatever your duties take you, though no less perilous than my own. I will be praying for your safety.

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Obi-Wan,

It is good to hear that you will continue to write. No, that is not what I mean - I do not mean to say that it is merely good, or to imply that your letters are a pleasant distraction only, one that I could adjust to the loss of. It is not true. I am

It is almost frightening, how quickly I have come to depend on your letters, and the promise of more.

You may gather then that the content does not much matter, so long as they are your words, so long as I know that you are thinking of me, as I am thinking of you. I do think of you, quite often, and imagine how it may be when we are reunited. The thought is terrifying and wonderful at once. Do not think I am terrified of you. I do not think I could be. I merely wish that - It is difficult, to know a person, to truly understand the heart of another, and a name on one's arm does not change that. I have not had much practice in knowing anyone in that way, nor in sharing my life in such a manner. My life has been a solitary one, for the most part, and I fear it may be a difficult adjustment for us both.

If it is a challenge, however, then it is a worthy one, and the rewards well worth the effort. I sometimes wake and fear that all of this is a dream, an impossible, childish fantasy come to torment me, raising my hopes only to dash them. But your letters are here, and they are real. I have set instructions that any future letters are to be delivered to me immediately, and without interference. I cannot bear to wait any longer than I must for any future delivery, or to think of your precious words being read by another. Perhaps it would be best to number the letters, to ensure that none of them are lost?

No; a ridiculous, paranoid notion. Of course they will not be lost.

But I have let my thoughts carry me and lost track of my words, and now this letter is too long and my time too short. If you have not become bored and stopped reading altogether by now, please forgive me. I will try to think of some topic to suggest before I write again. As to your apprentice, I suppose it will be no good to try to explain that the truth of the matter is nothing like the stories. Yes, I rode a dragon, but it was neither thrilling nor romantic. In fact it was, more than anything else, uncomfortable, and hot, and all over very quickly. Perhaps it would be better not to explain that I do not remember very much of it, and crush all her dreams. But I do not recommend dragon-riding as a career for anyone.

I pray that you walk in the Maker's light and His grace, and that He will keep you safe until we meet again.

Cassandra

Edited 2016-08-28 23:21 (UTC)

She had hoped to stay at least another day or two. It would have been easily justifiable, if only for the work still to do - but more than that, she would have liked the chance just to spend more time with him. Just to start to get to know one another, if only (mostly) on a professional basis.

But a runner arrives late that night with an urgent message for the Right Hand, and the morning is a flurry of activity as Cassandra and her companions prepare to leave. She and Obi-Wan barely have the chance to say goodbye, to promise to write, before she finds herself in yet another carriage, with the Circle growing smaller and smaller in the distance. More than ever, she regrets running out of the room where they had met. Nearly an entire day wasted that they could have spent together.

She begins her first letter that night, an awkward outpouring of thoughts and feelings she had been unable to articulate in person.

The weeks pass, excruciatingly slowly. But progress is made. Obi-Wan requests his transfer. They wait eagerly for a response, and finally, just as she returns to the city herself, she receives a joyful letter announcing that he will be leaving the Circle and traveling to Val Royeaux.

That's when the accident happens.

She doesn't remember it - naturally - but from what she is told, it had truly been an accident. A spooked horse rampaging around a corner just as she stepped into the street. The rider had tried to control it - it had never acted in such a manner before - she is lucky the damage was not worse. As it is, she is in bed for nearly a month, and when she's finally given leave to rise and start to resume her duties, there is a gaping hole in her memory.

She'd missed nothing important, everyone assures her. A journey to a few Circles in need of a visit from the Seekers to set things right. She had filed her reports on the road, and it is all there - everything she might need to know neatly documented.

She had unpacked just before the accident, carefully tucking the letters away in a secret compartment of her desk, and there they lie, forgotten and undisturbed. Cassandra dutifully reads over her own reports to fill in the gaps of her knowledge, and never thinks to check anything else. It is not as if she has any friends to keep up correspondence with, after all. All she has ever had is her faith, and her work.

Edited 2016-08-03 03:40 (UTC)

The letters had been a revelation. Stiff, and almost reflexively prickly in person, the distance provided by words had allowed Cassandra to speak with a candidness that was as refreshing as it was endearing. They grew more familiar, expressed similar frustrations with the vagaries of time and bureaucracy, and...

...Well, he'd written poetry, for Andraste's sake.

She'd been delighted, when the transfer had been approved, or so her letters had declared. He'd kept every one, tied in a careful bundle in his traveling pack. The pack that now sat across from his cell, leaning against the wall, along with his sword, and armor, and a surly, bored-looking guardsman.

He had arrived in Val Royeaux in a buzz of private anticipation, only to find that not only was the Lady Seeker not receiving unscheduled visitors, but she in fact was not receiving anyone. It took only a little time to discover why-- an injury that had left her unconscious for weeks. That was the day Obi-Wan lost his patience...and his temper. Whatever else was true, the idea of her, well attended but alone, perhaps never to wake, was unconscionable. He was her soulmate, dammit! He should be there, at her side.

The staff didn't see it that way. The Seeker's guardsmen were equally unsympathetic; in the end, despite the physical evidence of his truthfulness, he'd been laughed at, denied access, and then denied all freedom entirely-- in that order. It seemed, to be fair, that he was not the only unreasonable stranger to have made the claim; far from it. Not that it helped him now.

He knew better than to ask for his pack.

He knew better than to demand to speak to Cassandra.

He knew much better than to demand... anything. Any news. They seemed to have decided that he was mad, or incompetent, or... well, he wasn't sure. But regardless, there was little else to do but sit, and wait, and offer fervent prayers to the Maker, that whatever had laid Cassandra low, she would see it through safely.

And that Obi-Wan himself could do the same.

Recovery is slow, and boring. Even after she's allowed to leave her bed, Cassandra is confined mainly to the halls of the Grand Cathedral and its various offices and apartments. Sister Leliana, the Left Hand and her closest companion, is even busier than normal, taking up the slack for Cassandra alongside performing her own duties, and so she spends her days alone, wandering the halls, and her evenings lost in books.

You can learn a lot from eavesdropping, she finds.

Mostly nonsense, of course. The guards are desperate for any gossip, anything to distract themselves from the drudgery of their work. She hears ridiculous (and borderline blasphemous) rumors about Divine Justinia, about Leliana - there is even some ridiculous story involving herself. A man pestering the outside guards, claiming to be Cassandra's own soulmate. She scoffs, shaking her head. Well, that one may be true. Her family's fame and her own have made her a not-infrequent target for such schemes, though it had been a while since anyone got close enough for her to hear about, even secondhand.

She slides her fingers along her sleeve, then lets her hand drop. She hasn't thought about her soulmate in years...

Probably dead. Or an enemy of the Chantry, his hatred for the Divine extending to her Right Hand. Perhaps he had been a mage, and been made tranquil? Would a tranquil still want to seek out their soulmate, or would they view it as a distraction from their work?

She moves on, her mind now thoroughly wandering, and the story of her supposed soulmate banging at the gates is utterly forgotten.

A week later, now nearly mad with boredom and fresh out of new reading material, she succumbs to the urge to reread an old favorite. Varric Tethras' literature is not strictly forbidden in the halls of the Grand Cathedral, but Most Holy would certainly frown in disapproval to see Cassandra reading his sole romance novel. So she keeps it hidden, tucked away in a secret compartment in her desk. The compartment sticks a bit when she goes to open it, as if overstuffed, and she mutters in annoyance and tugs harder. The drawer shoots out, revealing the old, well-loved book as expected, as well as -

A bundle of papers?

She hesitates, staring. And then reaches for them with the manner of one expecting a trap. No one knows about this compartment, and if they did, what could they possibly gain from sneaking papers inside and closing it up again? But she's never seen them before, of that she's certain. Forgetting the book, she picks up the bundle instead, undoing the silk ribbon holding it together and carefully opening the one on top of the pile.

An hour later, she's clenching the collar of last week's rumor-spreading guard in one hand, pressing him back against the wall and demanding in a tone that will not be denied that he tell her everything he knows about the man claiming to be her soulmate, right now, you will remember, what was his name -

Lucio was a simple man, really. He loved his Maker, and his job. He loved the Chantry-- he loved the sense of purpose and duty. Andraste knew, he adored his wife. He had a good life, here, in Val Royeaux, where long loyalty had won him trust and security, and a position at the gates. Good work. Meaningful work. Yes, he had a good life.

He ought to know, really, because every moment of it was flashing before his eyes, reflected in the deadly light of the Lady Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast.

She wanted to know about the crazy old Templar at the gates? She could have whatever she wanted; Lucio babbled out what he knew. Kenobi, a transfer, but he'd clearly been on the lyrium for too long. He'd heard about this, how it took them sometimes, the sad stories about Templars who lost their memories, or their minds. And anyways, it was a ridiculous story.

The man was clearly mad. And he kept coming back! He'd even tried to force his way in, once. So naturally they'd locked him up, it was for his own good. It was for everyone's own good.

The name Kenobi is like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind right out of her. Lucio doesn't seem to notice. He keeps babbling, talking about templars and lyrium and -

She doesn't listen. She drops him mid-sentence, turning away and making a beeline for the cells.

It's not until she's down the stairs and a few steps away from the cells that her brain catches up with the rest of her, and she slows, suddenly nervous. This is insane. This is...a trick? Some elaborate joke? Leliana would not be so cruel. Or is it more sinister than that - a trap?

It doesn't make sense, but then, neither does the idea that she'd met her soulmate by chance at some distant Circle, exchanged letters with him, anticipated his transfer to Val Royeaux to start a life together...and then hit her head on the ground and utterly forgotten his existence.

The soulname on her arm is still as faded as it ever was. But she knows it by heart.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The guard rises to greet her, and she speaks with him in a low voice, her earlier urgency tamped down by nerves and doubt. He looks surprised, but points to a pack leaning against the wall beside a Templar's helmet and weapon, then to the cell across the way, murmuring an explanation.

Whoever is in the cell across from the pack is shrouded in darkness, hidden from view. Cassandra carefully doesn't look. She can't, not yet. Instead, she kneels on the floor and opens the pack, staring wordlessly at the neat stack of papers tied with string sitting carefully inside.

Heart in her throat, she lifts the bundle of papers out, unties the string with shaking fingers, and opens the first one.

Knight-Commander Kenobi,
Thank you for writing, and so promptly. The road is long, especially without a travelling companion, and your words have been a balm...

Obi-Wan is not asleep, precisely. The weeks have toiled on in quiet and relative disinterest. Each day he wakes before dawn, at the time he has been accustomed to taking his tea, and running patrol, or chewing through a few reports over breakfast, then struggles to find sleep again, when he remembers. There's no need to wake, there's nothing but boredom to wake for.

And somewhere in this blighted city was Cassandra Pentaghast, who hadn't received a letter from him in all that time. He was at least fairly certain she wasn't dead-- even here, he'd have heard of that, something so dire as the death of the Right Hand, and yet.... what she must think of him.

Each day was much like the last. Eventually, out of a desperation for something clean to wear, he'd finally given in and exchanged his shirt for one provided by the guards. It was clean enough, but it had no sleeves. And after that, there was little else to look forward to. Monotonous food, stale-tasting water, and the growing certainty that he had very little to hope for. After all, if-- if she were worried for him, if the letters had stopped, wouldn't she be... looking for him? At least asking, for his safety on the road? His wasn't a common name, one might find a few dozen John Millers, or Andrew Potters in a city this size, but Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Perhaps, this was her answer. He wasn't forgotten at all; she had had a change of heart. And the rest had naturally followed.

Obi-Wan roused himself on this afternoon from drowsy despair into curious outrage. Out there, where the torchlight was bright enough to read by, had there been anything to read, someone was crouching. No, rather, someone was going through his pack, had been for some minutes to judge by the untidy floor around their knees. He recognized with a surge of muzzy outrage that they had found his letters, the precious letters from Cassandra, the ones he'd kept so carefully, tied with twine.

"Just exactly what do you think you're doing there, you," He rolled up off the low cot and onto his feet; Obi-Wan was at the bars in one aggressive stride. Hoe dare they? How dare they read his-- his only connection to--

But it was no over-curious watchman turned thief. Why come here, like this? To take the letters, then, take them back? They were the only evidence he had that any of this had been real. He gripped the bars to steady his hands, but despite his pretension, the name came out terribly uncertain, and frighteningly vulnerable with hope.

"...Cassandra?"

The handwriting is her own. The words...they are both familiar and not, the cadence not unlike her own infrequent attempts at correspondence, but the content utterly alien. She brushes shaking fingers over the ink as she skims the letters, phrases leaping out at her like something straight out of the pages of her romance novels: my heart is never far from yours - never dreamed I could be so happy - your Cassandra.

He says her name, and she jumps as if she's been caught at something, scattering the letters over the floor. She raises her head, turning to look at him.

There is no recognition in her gaze. No outpouring of emotion; nothing but cautious, wary curiosity. Slowly, she rises to her feet, making her way over to the bars, and stops, just out of reach.

"Is it true?"

He looks at her through the bars, staring. Is it true? Is what true?

"What?" he says, mind flashing through a dozen possibilities. What game is this? What was she told, what lies? Is that why he's here, some phantom allegation of murder, or treason, or some other impossible trespass, "Is...?"

Is this blood magic? How else could she simply forget him, forget... everything? He glances away, tracking the flutter of a dropped page, catches, just barely the shape of the words before he looks back at her, the signature of her name clear even if the contents of the message are not.

The moment seems terribly fraught, her expression tense, wary as a spooked horse, and as fierce. She is magnificently beautiful. He cannot move closer, blocked by the bars, and he is suddenly sure that a wrong word here will doom his chances, forever. So instead, he takes a gamble, feeds his arm through the bars, and offers his hand to her, as once he had done, not so long ago. The words were as faded as hers, but still visible even in the uncertain torchlight by the faint golden gleam, hope as gossamer-thin as spidersilk.

Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast

She leans away instinctively when he reaches for her, giving his outstreched hand a wide berth. But he doesn't lunge for her, or try to grab her - he simply extends his arm, the faded letters just visible.

She leans closer, her breath catching.

It's possible, of course, that it's a trick, her name tattooed onto the skin, or even placed there by magic able to closely mimic the brightening and fading of a real soulname. Such attempts at deception are not uncommon, especially for public figures such as herself. She can hardly blame the guards for disbelieving him.

But the letters -

No one knows the name Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Her eyes flick up to his face. He's clearly exhausted, confused, probably underfed and certainly in need of a bath. But even underneath all that, underneath the unkempt beard and hair starting to grow out over his eyes, his face is completely, frustratingly unfamiliar.

"Obi-Wan." Her eyebrows draw down just slightly, still watching for some hint of deception. Any clue in his reaction to hearing that name.

Her soulmate's name.

His reaction is subtle, long-used recognition and a soft exhale of relief. Whatever she was expecting, he hasn't disappointed her. Or, perhaps he has, but not in the most important way.

"Cassandra," He replies, quietly, moving not at all, but watching her face just as intently and he is himself being watched, drinking in the sight of her, "When I arrived in Val Royeaux, I heard that you'd been injured. I was... I worry."

Maker, did he worry. He felt every minute of worry that had come since his arrival, like weight settled into his bones, and could not be set aside.

"You look well. I'm glad one of us does."

She looks pained, just for a moment, at his mention of her injury. It has not been easy trying to navigate the world with a weeks and weeks of memories gone, even when most of those memories are banal and, blessedly, forgettable.

To think that she had possibly forgotten something so terribly important...

Her expression flickers slightly, noting the familiar way he speaks to her. If he is acting, he is very, very good.

Without looking away from his face, she calls to the guard behind her. "Open the cell."

"My lady - Seeker Pentaghast - "

"I said open it!"

She doesn't need to ask again. The guard hurries forward, giving Obi-Wan a nasty look as he fumbles for his keys, and twisting up his face in exaggerated repulsion at the man's unwashed state. But he opens the cell, swinging the door to and standing back with a bow for Cassandra.

She takes no note of him, but raises a single eyebrow at Obi-Wan, gesturing impatiently for him to exit the cell.

He saves his relief for later, bottling it down under the pressure of a deep breath, and the straightening of his spine. Obi-Wan spares not a glance for his jailer, stiff with dignity, and far above all the seething petty annoyances that he'd very much like to take out on the man. For a moment, he stood outside the cell, one hand resting on the door, and looked at Cassandra as gently as anyone might, seeing their soulmate again, after months absence.

"Thank you," He said, in a tone somehow too intimate for simple gratitude, but made no further move, unwilling to push against the resistance in her eyes. This wasn't how he'd imagine the moment, of course-- but she could hardly be blamed for not wanting to kiss him, in this state, "Excuse me."

Then he bent to retrieve the scattered papers, stacking them unevenly, but with care, and folding them gently into his pack. Whatever else was in there, money and clothing and the minutiae of supply, these were the most precious. He wouldn't lose them for the world, nor risk them to the prying eyes of whomever might come across his possessions here. The rest was valuable, of course, but armor, weaponry, all of that could be replaced, or retrieved.

"Shall we? I'm very sure we have a great deal to talk about."

Cassandra's eyebrows raise slightly at his manner - not in the least presumptuous or rude, yet without a trace of the deference most would offer the Right Hand, especially after being newly released from imprisonment. The jailer's mouth actually drops open, but neither of them notice.

"It seems we do," she agrees, feeling strangely as if she has lost control of the situation and doing her best to take it back. She stands taller, putting her shoulders back and marching to the foot of the stairs before he can get there - she is hardly going to let him lead her out of here. "Were you injured? Ill-treated?" She looks him quickly up and down - just how thin had he been before he went into the cell? How long had he been there?

He defers to her lead with a polite, formal nod and as much grace as is possible, and follows her out, the jail-guard still unacknowledged, but witness to it all. By nightfall, the entire city would know what had happened here-- by morning, most of Orlais. No messenger traveled faster than gossip, particularly romantic gossip.

"No moreso than the usual prisoners, I suppose," He replies, focusing harder than he should have had to on each step up the stairway she's leading him along. He is tired, "The bruises healed within a week. I'm given to understand that they thought I was some kind of... imposter. They wanted to know what my plan was-- since of course, it wasn't as if you were going to accept just anyone."

Because of course they would. And didn't it sound conveniently mad, after all? I've found out the famous Seeker Pentaghast really is my soulmate, but we've agreed to keep it secret for the time being, out of respect for her delicate position. Ha. Delicate. If Cassandra had been any less delicate, she'd have put that poor guardsman on fire just by sheer force of feeling.

"I'll be fine, don't worry about me. Getting just a little soft out in the Circle anyways, wasn't I?" Which is a gentle lie, really; but there's no point in lamenting meals you haven't eaten. And yes, he has lost weight, thank you for noticing, "I have a feeling I'll never complain about boredom again."

She says nothing as he speaks, staring at him wordlessly. It's the same look she might have given a dancing bear who suddenly started speaking Orlesian - baffled, amazed, entirely unsure what to do with the situation yet endlessly curious as to what he might say next.

"The Circle," she repeats. Yes. The Circle from the letters, the one where she had met him - where he had lived, until he made arrangements to leave, and come to Val Royeaux. She stops abruptly, in the midst of a thankfully empty hall. "Obi-Wan -"

He stopped when she did, and waited for her to continue. One thing he knew: Cassandra Pentaghast never shied away from anything, no matter how intimidating, and she rarely hesitated.

She was hesitating now.

After all, Obi-Wan could hardly forget the wary way she'd greeted him, in the cell. At the time, he hadn't known what to think, and he still didn't; better, then to simply move on. But now the moment had returned, snakelike, and any moment it would strike.

Carefully, he reached out, had a moment of hesitation of his own, and then touched her, gently, only pressure enough to be known, on her shoulder, "Cassandra...?"

She jerks back, as if the touch had burned her, and immediately feels guilty for it. How cruel of her to recoil from his touch, if all this is true.

But she stays where she is, just out of reach.

"There was an accident," she says abruptly, before remembering that he had known that; he had spoken of her injury, and how he had worried - how he still worries. "It was - there was a horse, they tell me, out of the rider's control. I fell, hit my head - they say - it was a month's worth of memories." She pauses, and shakes her head slightly.

"I don't remember anything. I don't - remember you." There. Put it out there, so that there can be no misunderstanding. It's kinder that way, isn't it?

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