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 Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones).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

Everyone knew about Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. But it wasn't the name that sent lightening up his spine. It wasn't even the recognition of the name, the famous dragon-hunter, the hero who had, however briefly, ridden a dragon. Yes, everyone knew about the left hand of Divine Justinia. It would, after all, be difficult to avoid knowing about her.

Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena.... Pentaghast. He knew about her, oh yes, had known from he very first, the day the script wrote itself across his arm, in a lovely, cultured, feminine hand. And then kept writing, round and around until he was dappled with gold from wrist to armpit, name after name after name. His parents had recoiled, and there had been shouting, questions. Were they all different women? Unthinkable. But who would-- and that name! Pentaghast.

That spring, he had been sent away to the Chantry, to see what could be made of him. No one said anything, not where they thought he might hear, but privately, Obi-Wan was very sure that he was being sent away to salve his mother's disappointment, and his father's shame. When the knight-commander had marched down the row of gangling youngsters stood up for his ungentle welcome, Obi-Wan had introduced himself when prompted... as Ben.

There was no point in hoping, after all.

Someone with a princess' hand, and a name as long as it was from here to Nevarra would ever meet with, nor want, Obi-Wan Kenobi. It was just as well to be Ben, who would never be recognized by anyone at all. Ben could be free, Ben could do whatever he liked, even fall in love, or out of it-- twice. He still wore his sleeves long and demure, and somewhere out there was a noblewoman with a similar difficulty in life, but even if it was written correctly in all the Templar rolls, he hadn't heard the name Obi-Wan Kenobi for a long time.

Until today.

"Ah... Yes. Ah," He mouthed, pointlessly, and realized that he had been staring, stunned, uncertain, too long wordless. Blessed habit took over, cutting his fumbling short-- Obi-Wan reached out to take her hand, the leather of her glove warm for just the moment in his hand, "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. Thank you for... Coming."

Cassandra is used to being gawked at, when people aren't attempting to avoid making eye contact entirely. Her name, her title, her reputation, even the scars on her face that she makes no attempt to hide...there is always something to make people want to stare.

She is well practiced in ignoring them.

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed with the Templar's stammering, and makes the handshake as brief as possible before withdrawing. She looks down at the scroll she carries, frowning, as the voice in her head grows ever louder. She is on the verge of remembering something, something important -

"Your templars are having troubles with rogue apostates, it seems." She glances up, meeting his eyes again. "You were the one who requested the intervention of the Seekers?"

"Ah, Yes," He blinked, brought sharply back into line, "The trouble, in my opinion, is less with rogue apostates, and more with..."

Easy enough to focus the conversation on the work; people feared what they didn't understand, and no one really understood magic at all, except the mages. And what people feared, they sought protection from. When they were sent away without protection, they invented realities that didn't exist. And when you intend to burn a dead tree, blaming it on an evil apostate you were sure was just around the corner regardless, and put your own haybarn ablaze, is it not better to lie than to admit it?

Not every templar saw it this way. To keep peace among the ranks, patrols around the countryside had increased thrice-over-- to no help. Small mystery, when any Apostate with sense would be as far from a Circle and the accompanying Templar population as possible, not living in its shadow. Facing a mutiny among both the rank and file and the populace at large, he had appealed to a higher authority.

All this he explained to her, as thoroughly and succinctly as he could, knowing she had full access to the wholeness of reports and schedules, whether he will it or no; it was her right. Very few people could argue with a Seeker. None of them could argue with the famous Cassandra Pentaghast.

"...Of course, that's not for me to say. I'm sure the truth will out."

It's an interesting theory, one that makes her eyes light up with thoughtfulness and curiosity. Most people, templars and the general population alike, are so quick to blame mages when anything goes wrong - Cassandra herself had been the same once. It would be no better, of course, to try to protect mages at all costs, to turn a blind eye to those misusing their magic, but Obi-Wan's explanation doesn't seem to be that. He strikes her as, above all else, eminently reasonable and fair, and she finds herself quietly approving of him even as she begins to mentally go over the reports and timelines she had been briefed on.

There had been no time, naturally, to give the templar's own records even a cursory glance before their meeting. Time is a luxury, one she does not often have the chance to appreciate outside of the long journeys between Val Royeaux and whichever Circle she has been called to, and she had been obliged to rely on a verbal report from the junior Seeker who had been sent ahead. Now, though, as Obi-Wan's story winds down, she takes a moment to reflect on his words, then looks away from him to flip through the sheets of parchment she had been handed on her arrival.

The pages are written out in a neat, elegant hand, one that speaks to schooling just as distinctively Cassandra's own must. The letters are bold and straight and easily read, words marching in straight lines across the page -

And it is -

- entirely familiar.

She stares for a moment as the knowledge finally clicks into place, and then she gasps, quietly but undoubtedly audible, her eyes flying wide open, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

"Obi-Wan..." The name. The name she knows better than any but her own. She stares at the parchment a moment more, and then looks up, her eyes going instinctively to his arm - covered as thoroughly as her own with a long sleeve - and then up to his face. Suddenly she sees him in an entirely new light. Patient, intelligent eyes, sandy blond hair, a man whose age is difficult to determine under the beard, but who must be about the same age as Cassandra herself. "You - "

He looks back at her, hoping with a much younger man's hope that he seems serene rather than placid, and if he is older than he might be, the wrinkles on his face were earned honestly, through living.

She looks at him, an he waits, struck momentarily dumb by the piercing strength of her eyes, terribly blue, impossible to look away from. He doesn't think they could ever remind him of the sky, or a blossom, or of ice, not how they burn. No, she is as potent and shining as Lyrium, and he cannot look away.

"Cassandra," He says, finally, and silently thanks the Maker that he is somehow calm enough not to waver as he continues, "Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. Among others."

He's certain he's mispronounced something. After all, he's only ever seen most of her name, never heard it spoken aloud, before this moment, except in his own fumbling, childish attempts. But is it true? Is it really her?

"I-- Are you?"

She chokes, almost a sob, everlastingly grateful that they are alone, that the Maker is watching over her enough that she had dismissed her own assistant, that Kenobi - Obi-Wan - had brought no attendants or colleagues of his own. Her hand moves as if of its own accord, grasping her left arm, where she swears she can feel the letters, burning into her skin like a brand. It's impossible, of course - a soulname never hurts, can never be felt, but all the same -

She stands abruptly, knocking over her chair in the process, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. This is - this is not what she had expected when she had come here today. This is not something she had expected to ever happen, not something she had dared to hope for in years, and when she had been young and romantic enough to imagine it, it had not been like this. It had not been him sitting patiently across from her, fully aware of who she was, of who they were, and speaking calmly of burning hay and terrified farmers as if - as if -

A lump rises in her throat, and she backs up towards the door, looking quickly away.

"I have - I have to go."

And she is gone, the door closing behind her with all the finality of a tomb.

He doesn't move from where he's sitting, nor does he turn away. He only sits, staring at the door with a puzzled sensation expanding somewhere in his stomach. It wasn't that he'd expected her to...

...It was just...

He'd put that all away. And then, for just a moment, with her staring wildly at him with those impossible eyes, gripping her arm as if it burned, he's hoped. He'd allowed that bastard hope of his to come roaring back, just as it had been in that first moment, when he was a boy, and the letters had come winding across his skin as he watched, C - A - S - S...

What a fool. Of course she wouldn't want-- Well. Well, then, of course. That made sense, at least. It was all so very sensible. And reasonable. And ordinary. Nevarran Royalty, the Hand of the Divine, did not care about soul mates, and even if they had, they would not need anything to do with the kind of Templar who lived on the commissary's free all-hours pottage because he sent every spare copper home to support a family that could barely feed itself.

But still he sat and stared, and tried to wrestle down the feeling that, somehow, he'd been abandoned. Then he stood, put the papers back in order, and opened the door-- as if she'd be standing there, the very idea! And then he went to go and see about his duties; just because the Seeker was here, it didn't mean the ordinary work could go undone. There was still a tower of mages to be looked after and dozens of requests to see to. If he had any luck at all, the Maker would see fit to bless him with long work, and hard, and a dreamless, exhausted sleep to follow.

Time.

Every moment she takes for herself is a moment stolen from her work - important work, work that she is and has always been vehemently passionate about. Her life and her duty are irrevocably intertwined, and she has always been glad of that. Glad to dedicate herself to a just cause, to make something of herself, to have a life worth living...

...and of course, it is difficult to be lonely, when there is never a spare moment to reflect on yourself.

She does not have the luxury of time now any more than she ever has before. Their stop at this Circle is meant to take two days, three at the absolute most, before they must journey to the next town, the next group of templars in need of help. Her duty is to identify the problem, to solve it, and to move on. Not to run away like a child, to hide herself away in her room and yank off her shirt, tossing it haphazardly away to stare at the name written on her arm.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The letters are still faded, pale enough now to stand out against her darker skin. They do not shine gold again - will not, not until she and her soulmate touch. Is it the touch of intimacy, of love and passion, that is required to reignite the gold? Or would a businesslike handshake be enough - is it only thanks to the leather of her gloves that the writing had not immediately lit up again?

Would she have known immediately, if it had? If she had happened to pull off her gloves, and gone in barehanded?

None of it matters. Idle, useless thoughts, mere distractions from her true conundrum. She had never meant to run. She had merely been overwhelmed, caught off guard, and now...

What must he think of her? That she hates him? That she is a coward? Perhaps that she had found someone else in those long years as both their soulnames had steadily faded. It is not unheard of; more than once, she had been gently urged to settle for someone herself, one of those whose marks had gone similarly dim, whose soulmates had passed on, or who had never been blessed with a soulname at all.

Blessed.

She laughs darkly, curling in even further on herself, cradling her arm. She had thought that, once. Now...

Now, she knows what will happen. A soulbond trumps all else - all other duties or obligations, even love. Even the office of the Right Hand of the Divine. They will have to make an announcement, to put their lives on hold while they sort out what happens next. Where they will live. Which of them will be required to uproot their life in order to be near the other. She looks up, glancing frantically around the room. Will this be her home now? This unknown Circle leagues from anywhere she has known, surrounded by farmers willing to blame mages for their own foolish mistakes? Not that anywhere she has lived has so much to recommend it, but to be so far from the Divine, from her work...

No. The idea is ridiculous. Surely she will not be asked to give up her position as the Right Hand. Surely it makes more sense for Obi-Wan to hand leadership of the Circle over to someone else, and come to Val Royeaux. Doesn't it?

Even if it does, for some reason, that idea doesn't make her feel any better.

The day passes slowly, and the night even more slowly. The next morning, he sees to the debrief of the morning patrols and the schedules for the halls. He lectures the youngest of the Templars about proper conduct in the library, and lectures a petulant mage about hoarding food under his bed, he lectures himself in the washroom mirror, silent and stern as he trims his beard into order. He does not look at his own arm. He carefully does not wonder; that is not going to happen.

It is fine. Be professional. She is a Seeker, she outranks you, and she has a job to do. And it's all much more important than your damned feelings. This is fine.

It was a beautiful day when he finally escaped from the paperwork and internal duties. A crispness that promised the oncoming of autumn, and the farmlands rolled away from the tower on gentle breezes; there were still arguments among the templars, what to do about these supposed apostates, who the Seeker and her retinue would or would not decide. Obi-Wan wasn't surprised to find that his own opinion was a source of much scorn, nor that the arguments fell sullen and silent as he passed.

He was not popular, but then he didn't need to be. He required their loyalty, and their service, not their love. It wasn't as if he had any friends, aside from Anakin, stationed in Val Royeaux-- and those letters ever more infrequent, these days. It was easy to feel lonely.

This is fine. It is fine. It is a fine day; no need to spoil it with woolgathering.

But they couldn't avoid one another forever, of course. The investigation would have to proceed-- so he made ready in his showy, Templar-emblazoned armor, put his helmet under his arm, and went out to meet the Seeker. It was his duty to escort her, to see to it that she got what she needed from this visit, as much as it was hers to speak to those concerned. Preference, as his own knight-commanders had so often reminded him in the past, had nothing to do with it.

She doesn't sleep. And in the morning, it's easy enough to keep herself occupied - there is work to be done, interviews to conduct, Obi-Wan's notes and records in that terrible, wonderful, familiar script to read. More than once, she finds herself lost in thought, gazing at the words without reading them, tracing the letters as she had so often traced the ones on her arm.

Who are you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?

When it comes time to dress and prepare to meet with him, she pauses in front of the mirror, studying her face critically, as a stranger might. She traces the long scar on one cheek, looks scornfully at her close-cropped hair, at the silly braid wrapped around her head. She had never cared much what anyone thought of her looks, but now -

What if he had imagined someone more feminine? More beautiful, with long hair and a sweet smile rather than her own sneers and no-nonsense style? Someone who moved more like a noblewoman, and less like a rampaging bull?

He is her soulmate - surely that means he must love her eventually, that she must be what he had always wanted. But she does not love him yet, cannot, not when she hardly even knows him. He had been so - he had known who she was, and had never said a word, not until she herself had. Would he have said anything? Or perhaps he had hoped she would never realize who he was, had planned to be silent until the frightful, blunt Seeker had gone away, ignorant of how close she had come.

Had he known she would come, when he asked for the Seekers' help? Hoped she would? Had the look he had given her and the way he had stumbled over his words been disappointment or revulsion, and not surprise or nerves?

There's a loud crash, audible from outside, the sound much like a book being thrown across the room might make as it hits a candlestick and topples it onto the floor. And then silence, for several long minutes.

When Cassandra emerges, resplendent in her Seeker armor, she is as calm and stoic as ever, her face a mask. They have a job to do, and everything else can wait.

She hopes.

Please don't bring the soulmate thing up in front of everyone, Obi-Wan.

"Knight-Commander Kenobi." She nods at Obi-Wan, the picture of professionalism.

He opens his mouth around the word Cassandra, then abruptly remembers the audience and manages to convert surprise into proper solemnity, the consonants of her name morphing into those of her title as he pivots to meet this new challenge. Yes, alright, yes. He can be professional, then.

Was she always such a whirlwind? Somehow, he imagined so; somehow he managed to crush back the smile that wanted to creep across his face. Mostly crush it. Well, no one saw it, he thinks, which is the important thing.

"Seeker Pentaghast," He replies, returning her nod crisply, "Good morning. I presumed you would like to interview the civilians today?"

Had he - was that surprise when she had addressed him? Had he been expecting something else? But whatever it is, it is gone as quickly as it had appeared, and she nods, shoving back the confusing mix of emotions. Professional. Businesslike.

Everything else can wait. Her duty must come first.

"If it is convenient," she says in a tone that presumes it will be. And as they enter the carriage to go into the town and the door closes behind them, offering some privacy, "This theory of yours - how widely have you shared it?"

"Not outside the Templars, although fairly widely in that circle," He doesn't fault their loyalties or their courage, really, but the young templars working under him had neither the years nor sense the Maker gave a nug, "However, paranoia is running high enough that if I didn't set extra patrols, I'm quite sure they'd start rearranging it themselves."

At which point, he would have lost control entirely-- and the next thing is some innocent child run through for nothing more villainous than a firepit, or dragged away like a criminal to the tower on the false presumption of magic. This Circle depended on the lands around it for more than gossip-- they couldn't afford to lose the goodwill of the very farmers who provided their food. More prestigious strongholds had failed and been dissolved for less reason than economics, to be sure.

"They're not a tight-lipped lot, I'm afraid. It's inevitable that word has spread."

She nods, in agreement with his assessment as much as in understanding of his explanation. It is not an easy thing, to maintain order once fear and suspicion have taken hold. Especially in such an isolated environment, so far from any official Chantry support.

"They seem willing enough to obey orders thus far," she observes. Or perhaps that is just the young Templars on their best behavior in the Seekers' presence, but she prefers to give him the benefit of the doubt. "You have done well in managing their fears without giving in to them."

But now he does have Chantry support, and she is determined to get to the bottom of this, whether Kenobi's suspicions are correct or the templars' are. She meets his eyes; it is easier, now, with work to discuss, something familiar and...and safe to focus on. "I have studied your reports. I tend to agree with your assessment. But we must be sure. What you have suggested - it is a serious accusation against the farmers. If it turns out that apostates have been behind these things all along, and we declare otherwise, the farmers will feel unsafe. Defensive. They will feel that the Templars do not care for them, and are willing to sacrifice their well-being in order to let apostates run free. That relationship will not be easy to salvage."

"I agree. It had been my intention to investigate on my own, more privately, but--" But running herd on a bunch of over-eager puppies had taken presidence, and time slips away, and all the while the originator of this as-yet unborn witch-hunt spread his rumors, "Well, there can be no excuse. I can only hope the truth will come out."

He had failed. If Obi-Wan had been able to cope with the situation properly, he wouldn't have called for help and she... Cassandra would never have met him. Perhaps that would have been easier for her, he thinks; yet another failure, then. He could have hoped to make a better impression, perhaps.

"Your authority must necessarily speak with more force than my own, in this matter. I'm sure it'll all be resolved quickly."

Edited 2016-08-01 04:13 (UTC)

She nods, accepting his admittance quietly, without comment or judgement. Perhaps he could have done more. Perhaps not. That is not for her to say. In any case, he is right about one thing - the Seeker banner carries weight that the Templar one does not.

"Let us hope that it is," she agrees, and then immediately wonders how much she agrees with that statement. The sooner this is resolved, the sooner they will be obliged to discuss...other business.

She tries for another question, another topic of conversation entirely, and fails, instead lapsing into an awkward silence and glancing out the window. His name burns on her arm, strangely hot under her sleeve.

For a moment, trapped in the liminal space between four wooden walls and the sound and rumble of the passing road, Obi-Wan thinks to speak. He even inhales, though he knows not for what purpose, then lets it go when no words come to hand.

They ride in silence, for a time. Obi-Wan remembers to breath, and remembers not to think about the spirals of her name running up his arm. He tries to remember to relax his hands, tense in their greaves.

And then the carriage is slowing, and they are there, at the farm where this all began, burnt-out husk of the haybarn still hulking against the view of fallow fields.

The ride is tense and awful and probably not nearly as long as it feels. At one point, Obi-Wan takes in a breath as if to speak, and Cassandra braces herself, half hope and half dread - but he exhales without a word, and the rest of the ride passes in silence.

By the time the carriage finally comes to a halt, she's on edge and nearly sick with unrelieved anticipation - or maybe that's merely the bumpy country road. She manages to stumble out into the sunshine with some degree of grace, glancing around the farm, her eyes inevitably drawn to the burnt beams that marked where the barn once stood.

Without a backwards glance, she makes her way slowly across the fields to the barn, waiting until she senses Obi-Wan in her peripheral vision to speak in a quiet murmur. "The barn has been tested? They cannot tell if the fire was magical in nature?"

"One of the apprentices--" Obi-Wan shook his head, a quiet negative, "Magic may or may not have played a part in starting this fire, but it had a hand in putting it out."

He'd been quite proud of the girl's quick-thinking and loyalty, at the time, though it made things more difficult, now.

She raises an eyebrow - no one had mentioned anything about any apprentices - then nods in surprised approval when he explains. That's something, at least.

But their conversation is cut short as one of the other Templars hails them; the owner of the farm had noticed their arrival, and is - well, it's difficult to tell if he's eager to share his version of events, or simply eager to get a Seeker away from his farm as quickly as possible. Cassandra takes a breath, squares her shoulders, and glances briefly at Obi-Wan before lifting her chin and marching toward the farmer.

The interviews go as expected, the local farmers even more terrified of Cassandra than the templars and mages at the Circle had been. She does her best to be as nonthreatening as possible, though it's difficult to keep her cool when one of the older residents starts ranting about witches in the woods and mages using blood magic to curse his crops.

But finally, the day is over, and she collapses into the carriage with a loud sigh, slumping back against the seat in an entirely unladylike and un-Seeker-like posture. She doesn't acknowledge him when Obi-Wan follows her in, though she does speak, irritably, half to the ceiling.

"I do not know how you deal with these people, day in and day out."

"It does take patience," He isn't expecting her to break so fully from the stern, cold Seeker's persona-- it catches him off-guard and Obi-Wan is exhaling on a chuckle before he knows it. Her frustration is something he knows well, and his smile has sympathy mixed in equal measure with their shared chagrin-- and no small amount of admiration for her own forbearance, "I've been here long enough, I think I might not be able to handle reasonable people, even if we had any. It can get to feel like you're the only sane person in the madhouse."

It was nice to know that someone here saw how ridiculous this all was.

"If it's any consolation, they were being considerably more attentive than usual. Last time, it was only the one witch she'd seen-- the number seems to change."

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, dragging herself reluctantly up from her slumped position as the carriage prepares to move. "Patience has never been one of my strengths," she admits. "If they are normally even less attentive than that..."

She trails off, shaking her head. There's something like a joke on the tip of her tongue - a wry do you mean to say that I am unreasonable? - but she bites it back. It is too soon, and though the day had gone smoothly enough (the locals aside), it's too easy, now that they're back in the carriage, to remember all the tension and discomfort of the morning's ride. She falls quiet again, frowning slightly. The thought of another awkward, silent ride back to the Circle is not a cheerful one.

His smile fades slowly, as the genial mood does. For just a moment, that hopeful bubble had reinflated itself again, only to deflate again, painfully, behind his heart.

"Let's just say, they like the sound of their own voices," He hesitates on the sarcastic observation, at least you get to leave then discards it as too cruel. Too unfair, "It's a quiet place, not much happening, we don't even have a local Chantry, except for the one on the Circle's grounds. Some people would rather invent trouble than be bored."

She glances over at him, trying to gauge the tone behind his words. Does he appreciate the quiet? Resent it? She does not envy his position, but then, few would envy hers, if they understood the work that went into being the Right Hand.

Perhaps she should not be too quick to judge. Perhaps he likes it here. It's not so unreasonable, is it? Far from the demands of the Chantry, the troubles of the world, nothing more pressing than a few bored farmers and one burnt-down building in which no one was hurt...

"It is...peaceful," she says at last, unable to keep the skepticism fully out of her voice as she glances out the window. She pauses, watching the sun dip closer to the hills on the horizon. "And beautiful."

Well. Perhaps not beautiful, but...nice. A good enough place to make a home, she supposes. She falls quiet, her heart conflicted and unhappy once again.

She's not wrong, of course. The scene before them is nothing less than pastoral, complete with a warm, soft-edged sunset and a winding brook through rolling hills. Here and there, little lines of trees, smudges of bracken growing with unfounded hope in fallow fields break up the monotony. It might have been painted by an artist's hand, and at this distance seems somehow pure, utterly at peace, despite the truth.

"Yes," He said, with only half a thought for the sunset, "Beautiful."

When he was a boy, he imagined the woman with the endless name to be the kind of fine lady who featured in tales, with impossibly long wind-tossed hair, and a wardrobe of silk brocade. Growing up, even after joining the Templars as an initiate, he'd wondered how the Maker could think someone like that well-matched with him. He was replaceable, utterly, and someone like that was as fine-hewn and precious as diamond. That made it safe, somehow. No point in trying to measure up to a fine lady, when it was impossible.

The implacable reality of Cassandra Pentaghast was so much worse, and so much better than he might have imagined. A rich and well-coiffed princess was one thing, but the stories one heard about Seeker Pentaghast were right out of a completely other kind of tale, the kind that Obi-Wan had always liked to imagine himself starring in. But then, they weren't just tales, they were reality. She was reality, as sharp-edged as a sword, strong features, strident voice, but so real. Undeniable as a force of nature, and he wondered if it was only the mark on his arm that drew him to her-- it seemed to him that he would have admired her, whatever their circumstances.

She was sitting here, a few feet from him, lit red-orange in profile and stunning in her strength. He looked out at the farmlands instead and only just managed to stifle a sigh. So what was the use of ambition, after all? Nothing. It all came to nothing.

"It's not my intention to..." He stopped, searched for the right word, then bulled on, gracelessly, "...It's not my place to have a right to any answers. But tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after, I imagine your duties will take you elsewhere, while mine will remain here, at least for the time being. If no... We may never see one another again."

Duty, that was the crux, wasn't it? He could not meet her eyes, and his voice seemed somehow remote, quiet and somehow vulnerable. He watched the last sliver of the sun slowly narrow as he spoke, wavering in the last heat of the day on the horizon.

"Is that, what you want? I won't trouble you again, if that's-- whatever your answer."

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