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The name had been a part of her nearly all her life, as familiar to her as her own. When it had first appeared - glowing golden script on her inner arm - she had been fascinated, spending hours upon hours staring at it, tracing the letters with one finger, dreaming about the kind of person her soulmate might be. The name was strange to her, not Nevarran or Orlesian or anything she had heard of, but that had only added to the mystery and excitement.

His name had appeared on her skin at the time of her first flowering - one more marker on her path from girlhood into womanhood. If she had been the sort to go to school and have friends, it might have been the kind of thing to giggle over with the other girls, to shyly hide away, only to shriek in feigned indigence when her sleeve was playfully pushed up and the name finally revealed. As it was, Cassandra learned from tutors, and rarely had contact with other children. The name, like her beloved books and dreams of dragon-hunting, became a solitary escape, a daydream of a better life.

Both had faded, in time, as such things do. Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones). And the name on her arm had faded from a bright gold to something duller and duller as the years went on, until it was something that could not be seen at all except in the brightest light of day.

(The longer it took, they said, the more your soulmate's name faded, the less likely you were ever to find him at all. And this one - an unknown, foreign name, one belonging to a man who clearly lacked either the interest or the means to seek out a soulmate with the name Pentaghast, well...)

Cassandra herself couldn't say exactly when it was she had stopped expecting to find him. Certainly it had been nothing overnight, no sudden revelation. She had simply woken up one day, no longer a girl in her twenties eager to make the world her own, but a woman in her late thirties - accomplished, certainly, perhaps even fulfilled - but utterly alone, and more and more likely to stay that way.

But the name is still a part of her, as much as it ever had been. And so it is that when she hears it spoken aloud for the first time, she doesn't even blink; hearing the words she had whispered so reverently to herself for twenty-five years is as natural as breathing.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi." She nods sharply, focused on her work, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her mind that is urgently whispering something, something is happening, this is important - She holds her hand out to shake - her arms, as they always are these days, fully covered by long sleeves that meet her gloves, the barely-visible name securely hidden from even the most prying eyes. "I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast."

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She 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)

She sinks slowly down into a chair, pushing her sleeve up to stare at the mark as she listens. Her cheeks go pink at the thought of running out on him - perhaps it is better that she doesn't remember, if she'd behaved so shamefully. A wonder that he'd thought her worth bothering with at all, much less...much less this.

"And now we are public," she says, her train of thought following his own. "Or we will be, very soon." She looks up at him. "And they will see - all of them - my mark, and yours."

Even if Cassandra manages not to hate herself for the disparity, there are others who will. And beyond that - the attention, the gossip surrounding them, would be inevitable in any case. A heavy sigh, and she shakes her head, rueful and apologetic. "Things are about to get much more complicated."

"I agree. But-- perhaps first, I should stop impersonating a bear."

And not even a nice, tame bear that's been raised by people and only ever kills them by accident. A shaggy, wild bear, who knows not civilization and murders everything it encounters, including other bears. What he's saying is, the beard is out of control, and it has to go.

"Can I offer you a drink, while you wait?" It's, technically, not his wind, but he thinks they left behind the entire bottle, so it might as well be, "I'll only be a moment. Then, we'll have all night, to talk."

A look of confusion crosses her face, before she catches his meaning and her expression clears.

"Oh." It comes out a little breathless, on a sigh of relief, and she laughs, shaking her head. "I am sorry, I only - I was not sure if this was...normal." She gestures to her own face, approximating a beard, and smiles. "Please, take your time. And...yes, I think a drink would - help."

"Ah, no, I... I'm usually much less-- this," He says, leading her to the sideboard, where lies the bottle and a few glasses, "But I imagine you would need a drink, if you thought that."

He is, he thinks, paired with possibly the most romantically generous woman in Thedas, if she thought... Well, no matter. He retires to the washbasin and mirror, this time with purpose. For a moment, he considers trying to put himself back in order, but the truth is that such an operation would be no simple thing, and there isn't the time. It's a wrench, but it will grow back, after all.

He shaves. He shaves it all off. The sensation is strangely freeing, as if he's not just cutting away hair, but also the grip the memory of the cell has on him. It all goes together into the garbage, where it belongs. Still toweling the last of the water off his face, he returns to the sitting area of the suite, feeling much refreshed, and at last somewhat human.

"There now. Much better, wouldn't you say?"

Edited 2016-08-05 05:06 (UTC)

She smiles, relieved he hadn't taken offense, and follows him to the sideboard, where she pours a glass of wine for herself and one for him, to breathe. Then she settles down to drink, hoping the wine will calm her nerves somewhat, and give her courage.

Yet already she feels a little more lighthearted - less from the knowledge that the beard is not there to stay (though that is a relief) than from the fact that things are...getting easier. If only slightly. He is not without a sense of humor, he has not yet terribly misinterpreted anything she's said, and he seems wholly unconcerned by the prospect of all of Val Royeaux scrutinizing their relationship - or at least, willing to bear it without complaint. She gazes out the window and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, satisfied.

When Obi-Wan speaks, she looks up, and for a moment she only stares, eyes wide. "Oh..." She lifts a hand to her mouth, swallows, then drops her hand, blushing fiercely. "I...I did not realize that you were so..." She trails off, looking away, cheeks burning. "So handsome."

Edited 2016-08-05 05:35 (UTC)

"Wh- Ah. Well," Obi-Wan blinks, torn between embarrassment and amusement, fighting the desire to smirk in the face of her clear amazement, "Thank you."

Well, that's one worry off the table. Obi-Wan takes his glass of wine and sips at it, savoring the moment to allow Cassandra a moment to collect herself. He feels that it shouldn't matter, but there's no denying the warm delight settling in his gut at the prospect.

"I'm glad you approve. I should hate to disappoint so beautiful a woman."

She scoffs, ducking her head in a hard motion. Whether he believes it himself or not, Cassandra has never thought of herself as beautiful. She is not ugly, perhaps, but a beautiful woman, in her opinion, is someone like Leliana. Feminine and graceful and everything that Cassandra is not.

"It hardly matters," she says, her tone stiff and professional again. Or as much so as possible. "We are," Has she said it before? Out loud? Well, perhaps not that she can remember. "We are soulmates, are we not? That is what matters, what will," Oh, Maker, why had she even brought this up? Her cheeks are red again, her tongue tripping over itself. "...what our relationship will be based on. An unspoken understanding, a connection between souls, one so deep as to be etched into our very skin, years before we ever met." She glances up at him, more sure of herself as she continues. "Not mere physical attraction."

She had known men and women alike whose soulmates had turned out to be...well, less attractive than Obi-Wan, to put it very charitably. And more often than not, she had seen people grow suspicious, or jealous, or bitter. People convinced that their more attractive soulmates were unfaithful to them, or resentful that they had gotten "stuck" with someone below their standards. Cassandra had vowed never to follow that same path. The Maker always has a plan, after all. Her own soulmate, she had always been sure, would by necessity be someone she would be able to love, and love deeply.

"Though," she adds at last, with a little twinge of guilt and a quick, dark-eyed glance up at him, "it is a nice benefit."

Of course, she is right. But that word; he shakes his head, even as his smile softens. Soulmates.

"We are," He replies, when prompted, though she hardly seems to need it.Though clearly nervous, she bulls on, stubbornly forcing her point out, and getting only more confident as she goes, "And, you can be sure I'm not basing anything purely on the physical."

That most of their relationship had, up until this point, been confined to ink and paper should be testament enough to that, he hopes. But at that last, he can't help but chuckle, ducking his head in deference to his own apparent advantage; he's never really put much thought into it.

"...Yes, I agree," He laughs, blushing a little in his turn, "We're both fortunate in that regard-- No, don't demuur, I'm serious. Hasn't anyone ever told you how you look, Cassandra?"

"Do not worry," Cassandra says, rolling her eyes. "There have been no shortage of people more than happy to offer their opinion on my appearance. Whether asked for or not."

To have the degree of fame that she has; to be a woman; to be an unmarried woman well out of her twenties - all that invites no end of judgement or commentary, both approving and otherwise. But Cassandra enjoys the men drooling over her cheekbones and figure no more than she enjoys the women openly assessing her bearing and demeanor (boorish, unflattering, embarrassing to watch) and sense of fashion (nonexistent).

She looks away, chin still held proudly high even as her lips thin in remembrance.

"As I said, it hardly matters."

And she is done discussing it. She does not know much about Obi-Wan; she knows that he loves her, and that he is her soulmate. She knows she is capable of - that she had cared for him deeply. But that doesn't tell her much. Is he the sort of man who would lie to spare her feelings? Who would offer unwanted, untruthful compliments, rather than admitting the truth - that he loved her despite finding her physically unattractive?

She doesn't know. And she would rather not find out tonight.

His brows pull together, and for a moment, he looks very much like he wants to argue; His jaw firms, and he takes a deep breath and... and lets it go again. She is beautiful, in his eyes, and if her appearance had more to do with the power and flashing steel than the delicacy of silk flowers, then more's the better; she was a warrior. He was a warrior, come to think of it.

"I apologize, it wasn't my intention to--" but he acquiesced, and said nothing more, and drank to cover the taste of it. Moments passed, and he took another breath, this time with more purpose than chagrin, "I'm hope my own feelings about... the matter are clear, at least."

Clear as gold, as the saying went.

"You must have questions."

She gives him a tiny nod, acknowledging both the apology and the not-quite-stated compliment.

"Thank you."

And then, blessedly, he changes the subject, and her expression relaxes a fraction. She shifts in her seat, fingers curling around the stem of her wineglass.

"I have...many. More than you would likely care to answer." She hesitates, trying to think of where to start. "I do not know...what we might have discussed. How much you told me...but I know nothing of you. Where you come from. Your family. Your past."

Anything, other than that he is a Templar, that he was Knight-Commander of some obscure Circle before giving it all up to follow her to Val Royeaux.

"My family lives in the Free Marches, I was born there, and trained. They're... very poor. Farmers. I send almost the entirety of my stipend home to them, when I can," He tells her, "I have three brothers and a sister with the Chantry, although I'm the only Templar-- fewer mouths to feed, and the Chantry is always looking for more hands. I haven't spoken to them in years."

His was a family bound together more by obligation and duty than bonds of love.

"I spent a few years here in Val Royeaux, before being transferred out where you'd found me, upon my promotion. To tell you the truth, they probably only gave me the posting because no one else would take it."

Oh. She carefully doesn't react, but her heart clenches at his words. At the thought of him, eking out a life on as little as possible, while sending his meager Templar stipend off to a family he hadn't even seen in years

"But - " Her eyes widen in sudden worry. "Your family - are they all right? Without your stipend..." She frowns, thinking of the dates on the letters. A month past. "How long...how long were you in that cell?"

Imprisoned. Trapped. Certainly not earning any kind of stipend, nor able to send it off to those who needed it.

"Well enough, this time of year. If it were winter, or spring, I'd be more concerned-- but no. Harvest is soon, and right now things should be doing well enough there, as they ever are," He cocked his head slightly, to indicate both the uncertainty of life, and his own ambivalence, "I... I'm not close, with my family. I love them, and it's impossible not to feel something for the place you were born, but... I've found my real family among the Templars. And, I hope perhaps the Seekers, as well."

He pauses, significantly, and offers half a smile and the tip of his drink to Cassandra, the sketch of a toast before draining the last of the glass. But, how long was he in that cell?

"I..." He thinks back, blinking, then frowns, voice trailing off with dissatisfaction, "I'm not sure. It was a week or two on the road, and-- Has it been a month? Yes, that sounds... right."

A month. All over the ire of one official.

"A month," she says quietly. Her lips press together, and she looks at him, her eyes hard. "That should not have happened. Even if you were not who you say you are, even if you had been lying...Those who did that to you will pay."

She might not even have to be the one to ensure that they do. When the world discovers that the soulmate of the Right Hand of the Divine had been thrown into a cell, for the terrible crime of trying to reach her -

She takes a breath, forcing herself to take a sip of wine before she continues.

"As for family...there is no need to hope." She gazes at him, with neither anticipation nor apprehension. There is no question as to what will happen next, and how either of them feel about it is irrelevant. "We will be married, and soon. Whatever choice we may once have had in the matter is gone."

She tries to keep the regret out of her voice at the thought. Perhaps if she had not lost her memory, she would have been ready now. Perhaps not. Either way, they would have had the luxury of deciding for themselves. But now...now there is no stopping things.

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