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for obi_wanmanshow

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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

Ah, here was the crux of the matter-- wasn't it always? There was something about the Maker-borne gift of a perfect match that hardly seemed to account for free will. And yet, and yet...

Obi-Wan put his wineglass aside, and folded his arms, one under the other, leaning toward her intently, "Cassandra, do you... Would you prefer to walk away from this?"

He is no longer so dire as once he was; then, he knew almost nothing of her. Now, he feels, if not safe, then more confident in her. But all the same, he must make the offer, futile as it must be.

"I will never force you into something you don't want. I would never chain you, where you wouldn't freely choose to be."

"Do not be ridiculous," she admonishes him. "You know we cannot do that. It is not you forcing anything, it is..."

Society. The Chantry. Everything...everyone she has any modicum of respect for. What would happen, if they were to walk away? Would they even be allowed? Even if they were, they would lose everything. Their positions, their standing. It's ugly enough when soulmates try to make things work and fail. But to not even make the attempt...

Besides. She looks down, brushing her fingers gently over the name on her arm. Loyal as gold, the saying goes. He loves her, enough to refresh her soulname with a touch, and still he offers this? Her expression softens, and she shakes her head, still gazing down at her arm.

"The soulbond is the Maker's greatest gift. It is...it is sacred. We cannot throw it away."

"You know that isn't what I asked," He says softly, but doesn't argue the point further. What he does is, reach for her hand, with great care, and take it gently in his own, "Cassandra..."

He lost his nerve, and his eyes dropped off his face, down to their joined hands, hers written in bright gold, his still pale and faded. How to express it, all the crowding doubts and secret terrors? Easier in writing, when it was only you, but in person far more daunting. How could he look her in the eyes and explain how it worried him that he might not be enough.

"...May I kiss you?"

She stares down at their interlocked hands, surprised, but with no desire to pull away. He is, after all, her soulmate, and despite her unhappiness at being pushed into anything, it is not the idea of being married to him that she dreads. Only the fact that she has no choice. He is kind, and patient, and attentive...and, yes, attractive too. His hand is large and warm, calloused with work yet not unpleasantly rough. One she could get used to.

And isn't this what she had wanted? What she had waited for all her life? She should be beyond happy. She should be celebrating, enjoying herself. Not worrying and second-guessing herself.

"Oh," she says softly, and considers. Not for long. A smile curves across her face, and she nods. "Yes. You may."

And then, softer, with a touch of uncertainty. The half-hopeful tone of a much younger woman.

"...Please?"

With equal parts eagerness and caution, he reached to cradle her cheek in his hand, covering the mark there. Whether or not she was willing to hear it, she did have such a remarkably beautiful face. That it was scarred only lent character, a history and strength. It would be dishonest to say that he hadn't been anticipating, hoping rather, for a moment like this for some time.

He tugged, gently, pulling her a little closer by her hand and then, because he was taller, leaned in to kiss her.

Later, he would describe it to himself as nothing of note, only an ordinary kiss, precious because it was the first, and because everything about Cassandra was in some precious by association. But at the time, in this moment, he experienced the warmth and the weight of those brief heartbeats in a way that made them both somehow more brief, and at the same time, endless.

Heavy weight, for one chaste kiss to bear, but when he pulled away, his hands had migrated to her waist and they were standing poised, somehow, in the lee of that emotion. He called it apt.

She's hesitant at first, gently probing. Just this morning, she had not even been aware of his existence, save as a mysterious name on her arm.

Now...

She leaves her wineglass behind, rising to her feet when he takes her hand. Obi-Wan is just tall enough that she has to tilt her head up slightly, his hand warm and comforting when he cups her cheek. She lets her eyes flutter closed, leaning in and pressing her hands against his chest for balance.

It is a good kiss. Chaste and reserved - but there is a thread of feeling that shoots through her as their lips meet, as her hands settle more firmly against him.

He is her soulmate. He loves her. And, whatever happens next, they will face it together.

When she pulls back, Obi-Wan's hands firm om her waist, she is smiling.

And he smiles right back, slightly giddy, and ducks his head in a deferential sketch. Thank you, he means to say, or perhaps, Another? But, instead, what comes out of him is more honest, tripping off his tongue entirely without thought-- and certainly without stopping to ask permission.

"I love you," He murmurs, in the warm, reverent silence between them, and only afterward wonders whether he should have said it aloud after all.

She blinks, surprised, and then her smile widens, her expression going soft. Her hands slide up his chest, arms locking around his neck as she pulls herself a little closer.

"I know," she murmurs, and leans up to kiss him again.

He hums an amused assent, swaying into her sudden, welcome enthusiasm. She is at her most beautiful when it is couched in confidence; the smooth, easy way she pulls him back down into her is undeniable.

Far be it from him to disobey her, naturally. She is still technically his senior in rank. He kisses her, this time somewhat more passionately,

Cassandra closes her eyes, letting herself relax into Obi-Wan's touch. She is terribly relieved that he hadn't taken offense at her words. They are only the truth, after all. She cannot pretend to love him yet, not when she has only just met him.

But he loves her, and as unsettling as that had been at first - a stranger, loving her - she is slowly coming to terms with the idea. Even starting to welcome it. With love comes patience and understanding, both of which Cassandra will need. And with the soulnames on their arms comes the future promise of her own love for him in return.

She slides one hand up into his hair, nails curling against his scalp. A breathless little moan escapes her as she opens her mouth against his -

There's an audible gasp, and the sound of a tray clattering to the floor. Cassandra jumps back, hair tousled, lips red, and snaps her head around to stare. The elven serving girl standing in the doorway looks just as mortified as she does, her eyes wide in shock and terror.

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