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Her face came to him when he least expected it. Often times it was at night, when he was too exhausted from his work and too tired to force himself to think of other things; first her name drifted behind his eyelids, like many of the verses he had memorized. Usually her face followed, all pale skin and gaunt angles she had never liked until she felt the brush of his fingers against them; he could still see those big brown eyes gazing at him warily beneath a silver fringe. Always shy, yet always so loud and excitable.
He would need a drink by then, because his memory was relentless and cruel when he thought of her. It always turned to that one night, when he had finally gathered the courage to give her the rose. He’d held it for so long, he was surprised it hadn’t wilted, its petals still bright red. It hadn’t been much when he’d decided to pluck it, but pulling that flower had lead him down a road full of incredible joy and incredible pain, and by the Maker, he wished he could say he had regretted it.
That night Thild had been sitting by the fire, staring pensively into the flames, her arms hugging her torso. He could tell just by looking at her she had been thinking of Jowan, probably wondering where he ran off to when she let him go. First the Tower, then her old friend’s appearance at Redcliffe. Both had been a heavy toll on her; physically, mentally, and emotionally. She had pleaded with them for a break, just one night’s rest, and no one had the strength to deny her. He almost felt guilty for doing this, but he was so sure if he didn’t even try, he would forever lose the resolve.
As Alistair approached her, she pulled herself from her thoughts and smiled at him. Thild had always been good at reading him, and her eyes were narrowed playfully. She stood, turning from the fire and held her hands behind her back, just as he was standing. He prayed his tight, trembling grip didn’t crush the flower.
"You look like you have something to say." she’d said, pressing her lips together in a smile. Alistair’s mind had gone blank for a second, nothing more than a pitiful croak coming out of his mouth before he cleared his throat and regained his train of thought.
"I do. I mean, I have something I want to give you."
"Oh?" Her voice rose an octave out of curiosity, and she didn’t even hide the effort to lean around him to see what it was he was hiding. "A gift? You really didn’t have to."
"I know. But…" He’d practiced the words so many times in his tent, but standing in front of her now they seemed to disappear, like cowards. So he merely presented the rose, watching the clever smile on her face fall right off, her mouth instead forming an O of surprise. Her hands cupped the one of his as she simply stared at it. He hoped the shock on her face wasn’t an early rejection. "I saw it and thought, "how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness? I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come along and their taint would just destroy it." The words seemed to poor out of his mouth now, none of them part of the speech he had so carefully written. Thild had taken the flower from his hand, carefully turning it over between her fingers. "So I’ve had it ever since."
"What did you plan to do with it?" she asked. She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes still locked onto the rose. Her thin fingers softly trailed across the edges of the outer petals.
"I thought I might…give it to you, actually." he admitted. "In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you."
She had smiled then, laughing a bit, and he wondered if he’d once again made a fool of himself when she looked at him, cheeks flushed underneath the metallic blue of her tattoos. “Thank you. Really. It’s probably the nicest gift anyone has ever given me.” She had kissed him then, to his surprise. Her lips were soft, her kiss not at all forceful. A token of her thanks, she’d said, before she’d bade him goodnight and retired to her tent, alone. It was the same sweet way she’d kissed him during their final battle together, when she’d taken his sword from his hands and—-
Alistair took a long, heavy drink of his ale and tried his best to avoid thinking about how that particular memory ended.