She remembered.

She remembered the first time they had met. All that remained to her was her name, and a sword and shield that she could not use and would properly belong to her brother, anyway, if he still lived. Her name meant an Oath from the Maker, and by the Maker, she meant to keep hers. All she was was duty and sorrow, daggers and leather armor, and somehow, despite it all, he had made her laugh.

She had never thought she could laugh again. Not ever.

His name was a good one: Alistair. It meant Defender of the People. It suited him perfectly, she was soon to learn. He was big and strong, and it didn't hurt that he was handsome, too. She had thought he would be as confident in his quiet moments as he was on the field – but there was something gentle, and something that felt uncertain, as if he thought himself unworthy. She could not understand why.

She remembered the relief and joy on his face when he saw for himself that she'd survived the disaster at Ostagar – that he wouldn't be left alone. He feared that above even the loss of his own life, and it made something in her ache to see what his life must have been – isolation. Loss. Her recent life was so, but she'd grown with a family who loved her, supported her, and encouraged her. They'd made her strong and confident. He was physically strong – but afraid to lose any more. And when he'd finally been able to see past his own loss, he was shamed to see she had been shouldering his emotional burdens along with her own without ever a complaint.

He'd shouldered her burdens too.

She remembered the talks by the fireside. His jokes, when she got too close. Even his irritation. "Poke, poke, poke! Tell me all about your life, Alistair!" he'd once grumbled. But she had a gift for listening, for drawing people out, and she very much wanted to understand this man – the man who stood beside her. She didn't care that she had been a noble and he had been a stableboy… a certain Arl had taught her all too well that bloodlines and so-called nobility were nothing more than words. Being reliable. Honorable. Compassionate. These were things that were asked of the nobility, but some failed at it horribly. And some stable boys turned knights had more of it in their carefully mussed hair than she had ever known.

She remembered the first night she'd slept, after Ostagar – the nightmares that had her sit bolt upright, drenched with sweat, shaking with fear and disorientation, a shriek strangling her as she clenched her teeth around it, desperate not to draw ITS attention again… and he was there, speaking softly, telling her the bad news – that this would be a normal nights' sleep for her until she could learn to block it out. That he'd been just as frightened. And unsaid, that it would be all right, she'd master it. That he'd be there for her when she woke.

She knew that after Ostagar, they were bonded together – comrades in arms? Best friends? She knew it must be because they depended on each other so much – for survival, certainly – but also for the one constant, the one rock they could cling to in the chaos. She was always there, slipping around the battlefield like a ghost, her speed and daggers whittling down the numbers from the sides and back of the pack – he was always there, pounding on the biggest foe, drawing the attention of the Darkspawn and letting her take the enemy unaware.

And there were times when she was overborne, flung to the ground, and saw her death in the eyes of some loathsome creature as it tried to end her, and then there would be a roar, and the ungodly smash of metal against bone, and his bloody shield would have flung aside like a broken toy whatever had threatened. And there were times when HE was dashed to the ground, dizzy with a blow, and she used her acrobatics to wheel across the battlefield, to launch herself through the air and kill his attacker – blade through the eye, slit throat, a sharp twist of the neck – and then she'd land, mere feet from him, and their eyes would meet – just for an instant – and no matter how exhausted, how pained, they were up on their feet again, back to back, fighting.

She remembered all that as he stood before her, shuffling shyly, as he pulled out from behind his back… a rose. One perfect, beautiful red rose.

As a very eligible and unmarried noblewoman, she had received all kinds of gifts from would-be suitors, and more flowers than could fill a greenhouse. But this one flower, handed to her by Alistair, meant more to her than if it had been fashioned of rubies and emeralds. He hadn't had gardeners tend it until it was ready to be cut, or florists to arrange a beautiful bouquet. He'd cut it with his own dagger, by his own hand, just for her.

It would be easy to make jokes about it, to let them both pretend that this wasn't anything important, that he wasn't offering her his heart. Equally as easy to pretend she wasn't breathless with the knowledge that there was someone left in the world who cared for her, and that her heart wasn't bursting with joy that this aching longing she felt was not unrequited.

"It's beautiful," she had said quietly, her eyes filling with happy tears, and she had stepped into his arms, leaning her cheek against his splintmail, hugging him tightly. She felt his arms come around her slowly, as if he were afraid to break her, and felt his cheek against the top of her head.

And had never felt more as if she were right where she belonged.