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The sun poured through the window, a single beam illuminating a Telahn’s face. She groaned and wiggled farther down into the cotton sheets, pulling the covers up over her head to block its intrusive ray. Judging by how bright it was, it was early morning. She should have remembered to close the curtain before they went to bed. She’d lived so much of her life in a tent, traveling with her clan in the Brecilian Forest. It didn’t matter how long she lived in an estate - she would never quite be used to it.
Still, she was thankful for her bed. She had definitely gotten used to that. Ferelden could be so cold, afterall. She didn’t mind not having to sleep on the ground at all.
She pulled the covers tightly around her body, then felt the spot to her back for her lover’s form. She patted the space down, searching for contact, but found none. The spot had already cooled where Alistair should have been.
She pulled the covers back and turned to get a better look, her eyes just slits against the bright light. She scowled at the emptiness of her bed, then the emptiness of her room. She hadn’t heard Alistair leave. It was still early, and he wasn’t due to rise until nine or so. She sat up, torn about what to do. She worried that if Alistair was up, then something might be wrong. What duty could have pried him from her side without saying goodbye? Still, winter was just fading into spring, and it was freezing, and leaving bed to search sounded like an awful idea.
She sat for another ten minutes or so, waffling about what to do, when she heard the latch turn on the door. It was turned slowly and quietly, as quietly as a metal latch could be turned anyways. She held her breath and pulled the covers up to her neck.
Alistair stepped into the room, a rose in his hand. He pushed the door to softly, then turned on tip toe, only to land, flat footed on seeing her. His shoulders sagged, and he frowned. “Oh,” he said, “You’re awake.”
She scoffed. “Disappointed?”
“A bit,” he laughed. He walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, facing her. He produced the rose, pink this time, with petals that darkened at the tips and faded inward. “I wanted to surprise you.”
She took the rose, panic rising in her chest. “It’s beautiful,” she said, racking her brain. Had she forgotten something? It wasn’t their anniversary, was it?
Alistair brushed a thumb along her cheek. “That, my dear, is the first bloom of the season. I wanted you to have it. I was going to leave it on your pillow for when you awoke, but seeing as you’re up… I didn’t wake you, did I?”
She shook her head. It was a lie, and they both knew it, but the gesture of the rose was enough to temper any frustration the early morning could cause. She pulled him for a kiss.
“I love giving you those,” he said, between kisses, “I know it’s a bit silly. But ever since that day in Lothering, I can’t help but think of you when I see one.” He pulled back. “Tell me if it’s annoying. You won’t hurt my feelings. Okay, you’ll absolutely hurt my feelings, but I’ll at least spare you another rose to throw out.”
She looked at him, confused. Did he really not know? She’d never really shown him, but it hadn’t exactly been a secret?
A woman of few words, she thought it better to show him. She rose, despite the cold, and pulled a leather bound journal from the bookshelf next to the secretary where Alistair did his reading at night. She grabbed the volume and rushed back to the warmth of the covers, jumped in, and pulled them up. Alistair, who was dressed for the day - and the cold - laughed. She handed him the book.
“What’s this?” he asked.
She nodded for him to open it. He did, his thumb flipping to the front page. It fell open, revealing a pressed red rose. “It’s from Lothering,” she said. “I’ve had it ever since.”
Alistair was, and always had been, a big softy. She watched as he swiped years from his eyes before they had a chance to fall. “After all this time?” he asked.
She nodded. “Keep going.”
A thumbed through the book, page after page filled with pressed roses. There were pink ones and red ones and yellow ones and white ones. Orange and purple and crimson. Every rose he had ever given her, pressed neatly into the pages.
She shifted so she could sit beside him and leaned her head on his shoulder. “What a rare and radiant thing,” she mused, “to love a man with such a tender heart.”