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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

The renewal of a soulname is, naturally, not something that Cassandra herself has had any experience with. But everyone knows how it works. It is not enough to simply touch. There must be true feeling behind the contact, passion and dedication and love. A couple deeply in love and at the height of their affection for each other may renew their soulnames through a passionate kiss. Most of the time, it takes more than that.

She sits in the bath as it cools, staring at her arm, running her fingers over the name. What does this mean? Perhaps it is all a trick after all. Some spell he had cast to change the letters, to convince her that he really was her soulmate.

But the letters scattered over her bed, half in her own handwriting...The name that had been kept a closely guarded secret since she was a child...And who would sit in prison for a month, neglected and starving, just on the chance that he would be found and brought before the Right Hand? If she had never overheard the guard talking, or found the letters in her own desk and decided to act, he might have been there much longer still.

Cassandra shivers, suddenly aware of how cold the water had grown. Tomorrow, she had said. But the sun is still bright outside, the day still young, and all at once tomorrow seems impossibly far away. They have been separated for far too long already. All of their lives.

She lunges out of the bath, splashing water on the floor in the process. She can't move fast enough, dressing hurriedly, irrationally terrified that Most Holy herself will appear at her door with some task, one Cassandra will be unable to refuse. Her still-wet braid is twisted up around her head, and she stalks through the corridors, not caring who she sees or what they might think.

The guest corridors are empty and silent. She comes to a halt before his door, hand poised to knock, and hesitates. He had asked for time. To rest, he had said, but the truth had been obvious to both of them. He had needed time away from her, to absorb everything that had happened, to try to make sense of it all. Even if he is awake and fit for visitors, he may not welcome seeing her.

The guest corridors are, indeed, empty and silent. Her footsteps echo, and the shadow she casts under the door is immediately apparent from the other side; so long enclosed, focused on any sound or potential meaning from the outside, Obi-Wan notices it immediately. It must be a servant, he thinks, some maid with fresh linens, but they neither walk on, nor knock. He waits, and waits, then stands and goes to the door.

And meets with the regard of one Cassandra Pentaghast.

For a moment, he only blinks, unadulterated reaction, surprise warring with uncertain delight before he remembers to speak, "Cassandra? You're..."

Here. She's here-- why? On closer examination, he saw that her hair was wet, clothes damp, in house shoes and clearly unsettled. Had she run all the way here? Was something wrong? He felt again that growing familiarity with the feeling of having the floor dropped from under him. Well, he might be untrimmed and unshaven, but at least he is clean and has seen the use of a comb.

"...Please, come in."

She's on the verge of leaving, kicking herself for her impulsiveness and her cowardice both, when the door opens. They stare at each other dumbly, Cassandra feeling more and more as if she's made a mistake. But he is, at least, awake, and though his beard is long and unkempt and the new clothes hang more loosely than they might have, already there is a great improvement over how he had looked when she'd found him.

She nods gratefully at the invitation, and enters the room, looking around curiously. As might be expected, it looks little different from normal, the remains of Obi-Wan's meal and his pack leaning against one wall the only signs of an inhabitant. With nothing to claim her attention, she turns reluctantly back to him, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious.

"Thank you. I know it is...too soon, that we agreed to meet tomorrow, but..." Her face creases in worry. "If you need more time - "

"It's quite alright," He tells her, soft, not laughing at her, but only just, more bemused than puzzled. She came because... just to see him? What a thought, "I was just thinking that I might just as well have asked for an hour or two, but I didn't..."

With the letters, or her now-apparent ablutions, he did not say. With her thoughts, as much as any. He draws a hand through his own hair and down his face, feeding his own sense of insecurity and nervousness, and when the gesture encounters his unkempt beard, he grimaces. He had fallen back on cowardice and introspection, and not quite dared make ready and go to face her. Where his courage had fallen short, however, she had handily picked up with her own, and come to him.

"I apologize, for all this," He gestures vaguely at himself; his face, his appearance. Obi-Wan now regrets the introspective dawdling that had led him to this moment, "It seems I'm forever unable to make a good first impression for you."

"How lucky for you that I do not remember the previous one." It comes out flatly wry, half dark humor, half actual bitterness. He has memories of their time together that she has lost, and no amount of reading letters will bring them back to her.

There's a moment of silence, the two of them watching each other, and then she takes a deep breath, gathering her courage.

"I - " Where to begin? There is no explaining this, no introduction that would suit, and so she gives up on the idea, abandoning words in favor of action. With a fluid movement, she raises her left arm and pulls back the sleeve, exposing his name, shining bright.

"Hm," It's half a laugh, for her attempt-- and also, because it is fortunate, in some lights. The other half is a rueful acknowledgement; she is as wounded by this as he is, and more intimately.

But the glint of gold wipes his expression clean, smile dropping away at the sight. Her soulmark, in his own familiar script, bright as if new-minted on her skin, and he stares in sudden wonder. He had known, of course, of course he had known that he loved her, but there was no predicting this. There was something, some quality of depth and sincerity that keyed into the soulmarks; some gift, not fully understood. You couldn't predict, just by watching a couple, whether the feeling was true, whether love lived not only in the heart, but in the soul.

And what explanation could there be for this? They hadn't even kissed! His feet pull him closer, while his mind casts back, when had last they touched? The only time he can think of, the only possible moment was that searing wrench when she took the letters from his hand.

"But..." He reaches out to touch, unthinking, as if to be certain that what he's seeing is real. The movement draws back the hem of his sleeve, and though he notices nothing beyond those few lovely inches of skin, it exposes the first faded loops of Cassandra's own name, still nearly transparent, "...I don't know what to say."

Does he need to say anything? Certainly he doesn't sound particularly apologetic, only softly wondering, as if she had produced this marvel on her own through no effort of his.

"I see why you were in such a hurry."

"This should not be possible," she whispers urgently. As if he doesn't know. But where Obi-Wan's expression is full of wonder, Cassandra's is one of uncertainty and apprehension. And, when his sleeve pulls back and she catches sight of her own name, guilt and dismay. Her expression crumples, and she drops her arm, the sleeve falling down to hide the mark once more.

Not that she had expected it to look any different. But there is something shameful, all the same, in your soulname being renewed when your soulmate's is not. And though the idea of his own mark changing is ridiculous - she hardly even knows him, how could she love him? - she can't help but feel as if she's failed him.

"Was there - " She wets her lips, trying to think how to ask. "Before, did we - " Perhaps the thought that he - that this had happened is not so insane. Perhaps they had been...special from the start. Her mark had been as pale as ever this morning, but it might have faded; unlikely as it is, it is possible that there had been some miracle at that first, forgotten meeting, some immediate understanding and outpouring of feelings, some passionate kiss or stolen tryst in which their souls had connected even as they took the first steps towards knowing one another.

"I don't know how... I mean, of course I-- I know, but..."

Cassandra Pentaghast is a woman who gave her whole heart to whatever she had dedicated herself to-- perhaps it surprised Obi-Wan to discover that so, apparently, did he.

"No, nothing like that. I wonder..." But he shakes his head. There's no point in wondering what might have been, had she not been injured, had the memories of that time fled. Likely, they would still be standing here, not so differently, and just as lopsided. Or perhaps not. There was no way to know.

"You were so surprised to realize that I was that Obi-Wan Kenobi, that you practically ran right out of the room," He says, answering her question, with as much composure as he can summon, "I approached you the next day, thinking... I had long assumed someone so illustrious would have no desire to be tied to, just me. I was a coward. Foolish. I admitted as much to you, then, and somehow, you-- you understood. It took a little fumbling to get around to it, but we agreed to try and take things slowly. If this, the two of us were public..."

As they were now, or as good as. Damn that senechal, or steward, or whatever the little rat's title had been. Little more than a puffed-up, prideful secretary, and he'd spoilt all their fine plans.

"...Well, I-- I wrote the first letter the night after that, when your duty carried you onward. And I put in for a transfer, to Val Royeaux. You know the rest, I think. We haven't done anything less virtuous than write romantic poetry, or hold hands, if that's your worry," His gaze strayed, flickering back to the bared skin on her arm, his own name, bright and cheerful, "Apparently that's more than enough, for me."

Where she's concerned, at least.

Edited 2016-08-05 02:13 (UTC)

for obi_wanmanshow

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