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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

He is stunned, left with his hand still extended, eyes wide and blinking. Breathless. She... hit her head. And forgot, no-- She lost... A month's time. That singular, crucial month.

Of course. Of course it would be... their month. It would be now.

"Ah," He tries the sound out for size, and it is nothing more than a wordless noise, dropping into the silence of the moment like a stone into still water, plop, and then gone, "I..."

Words, failed him.

The letters, warm with conversation and affection, much beloved, had brightened the intervening month between then and his arrival in Val Royeaux. In the time since, he had-- had constructed the hope that... but no. It was gone, perhaps beyond retrieval. And here he stood, loving Cassandra as much as ever he had while yet again he was little more than a stranger to her. That was what she had meant. Is it true? Is it true that you are my soulmate? Of course he was. Of course.

"...I see. I think...perhaps, I need a little time, to..." To think. To process, perhaps even to grieve, "To rest."

"I - "

She stops herself before she can - do what? Reach for him? Plead - for what? Understanding? Forgiveness? She can ask him for nothing, not when she had taken so much - if entirely unintentionally - from him. She nods jerkily. "Of course." He's not asking for much, after all. He might have asked for the same in any case, even if not for...

But if not for this, they would hardly be in this situation, would they? He would not have been imprisoned, neglected and half-starved. They would have been together. Happy. She nods again, miserable.

"Of course. I will show you...there are guest quarters. I will have food sent, hot water...anything you might need."

"Thank you, that would be... very nice," He says, much subdued, and allows himself to be led, without protest, immersed in his own thoughts. He was tired, so very tired. The idea of a hot bath, and a warm meal that required the use of teeth? Irresistible.

But at the door, he hesitated.

"Cassandra, I-- Please wait, just a moment," Out came the slightly bedraggled letters, still loosely re-bundled, and he offered them to her with great care, "Perhaps, it would help, if you... They are your words, after all."

Cassandra stops, looking down at the letters. She nearly rejects the offer. It seems inappropriate, somehow. As if the letters are something private, personal, not meant for other eyes than his. But he is right. Whether she remembers it or not, they are her words.

She nods, swallowing thickly, and reaches out to take the bundle. Their hands brush, just briefly, before she pulls her hand away, holding the letters carefully against her chest.

"Thank you." She looks at him, mouth turned down in an unhappy frown. She can practically feel things falling apart, right in front of her eyes, yet she is helpless to stop it. What can she say? What can she do, when she cannot even remember what they had had? What they might have had? "Obi-Wan. I...I am sorry."

The last word comes out in a desperate whisper, and she bows her head, staring down at his feet. His boots are dirty, as bedraggled as the rest of him. "I am sorry. For everything."

"It isn't your fault," Obi-Wan wants so badly to reach out and comfort her, pull her into his arms, but he can do no such thing. Even if it were welcome, he himself isn't a pleasant armful, at the moment, "The decision, not to tell anyone, to take our time, was one we made together."

He takes a deep, steadying breath and lets it out on a sigh.

"And the rest was beyond either of our control. I-- I'm glad to have you alive, at least. I have faith, in you and the Maker. No darkness can change that."

Her lips quirk upward slightly, a tiny smile as she recognizes the reference to Transfigurations, and she looks up to meet his eyes.

"We must not despair," she says quietly. To despair is to be lost, and they have lost too much already. She clutches the letters to her chest, studying him. "Perhaps...May I see you? Tomorrow?"

Or perhaps he needs more time than that. Perhaps a day isn't nearly enough.

"Of course," It's encouraging, really-- to see that, despite everything, she hasn't changed a bit. Her smile is like a lone beam of sunlight, striking through the clouds. His own is weary, ragged around the edges, but no less warm, "I will be here, whenever you have need of me."

She has food and water sent, as promised - plain, simple food, so as not to overwhelm his empty stomach, but enough of it that he can eat to his satisfaction twice over and never worry about running low. And hot water: enough for a real bath, in a tub, along with fresh clothing to change into afterwards.

The shirts have sleeves, this time. They do not need to give anyone yet more reason to stare.

As for herself, she takes the letters back to her room, where she spreads them out with her own on her bed, arranging them in order, starting with the one he had written the day she had left. There are a surprising number of letters, for only a month's time - it is a wonder, she thinks, that either of them had had time to do anything else but write.

And they paint nearly a complete picture. It seems she had not stayed very long at the Circle where they had met, and the majority of their burgeoning relationship had developed through letters. She pores over them, hardly remembering to breathe, reading the most touching or intriguing lines over and over and all the while trying to imagine the man from the cell putting pen to paper.

Obi-Wan. She stares down at the neat rows of paper, lost in thought. The letters have helped her start to understand the kind of man he is, but all the same she cannot help but feel that she is missing something. That those few days at the Circle, short as they had been, must have shown her something about him - something vital that she is now missing. She knows the tone he takes when writing, his unique brand of humor - but they are, after all, only letters, and not a person. And if she feels anything, it is mere curiosity, admiration, and, ridiculous as it is, envy - envy of her former self, the Cassandra who had lived that month, who had labored painstakingly over these letters and spent her days waiting eagerly, watching the sky for the raven who would bring her his next missive.

She sighs, abandoning it all, and goes to draw her own bath. It had been a long day, after all, and she is still recovering. A hot bath, a restful night - perhaps everything will make sense in the morning.

She fills the tub, removing her clothes slowly, suddenly exhausted. Stockings, trousers, left abandoned on the floor. Her waistcoat goes next, and she slips off the tunic underneath -

What in the world -

Cassandra freezes, stock-still in her smalls and breastband in the middle of her room, and stares. The soulname on her arm, once faded and barely visible, is lit up like the sun, a gold she hadn't seen in over twenty years, shining and dazzling her eyes with his love.

Meanwhile, in his own suite, Obi-Wan had tucked into the provided meal with all the enthusiasm his tiredness permitted. While Cassandra pored over their correspondence, he used a soft cloth to scrub the worst of the grime off, and while she pondered her self-envy, he was soaking through the rest. Already, he felt better, more ready to move and speak, than he had.

When he emerged from the bath, dressed in a comfortable, long-sleeved shirt and trousers, he found that someone had found and delivered his gear, and a new pair of boots-- a clean pair, at least. These he ignored in favor of the shaving kit; the needs of the body were, at last, appeased.

But still, the spirit flagged. In the end, he found the mirror too full of introspection, and instead sat for too long before it, not looking at his bedraggled, unkempt state, and instead fingering the smooth surface of the razor, watching the light glint idly, sun through the window. It seemed impossible that, despite everything, it was cheerfully sunny outside, one of those beautiful afternoons in the comet-trail of summer where the sky is dotted with cloud-fluff and the warmth is tempered by a cool breeze, and it seems that nothing could be wrong or dark or terrible in a world so full of light.

It seemed, every time he thought he understood what came next, the world threw his feet out from under him yet again. He had understood life as a Templar, rising the ranks, taking a comfortable commission as an officer. Follow orders, do your duty, and the rest would sort itself out. Simple enough. But then he found himself in charge of the Circle, Knight-Commander Kenobi, and life became a whirlwind of needs, pulling him in a hundred directions both petty and dire. And then Cassandra had come into his life and-- and for a month, he had been so damnably, blindingly happy...

...He... missed her.

Even if it were no more than ink on a page, or the comfortable near-silence of two people occupying the same time and place, he missed her presence. But he'd given her the letters, and she'd needed the respite as much as anyone, to contemplate her own thoughts and-- and, he was a fool. They were back where they had begun, and he was no longer certain of his welcome. He leaned back, tilted his face to the ceiling and sighed. Nothing could ever be simple.

My Maker, know my heart:
Take from me a life of sorrow.
Make me to rest in the warmest places.

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