This was written for Kira Tamarion as part of the Cheeky Monkeys Secret Santa exchange. Merry Christmas, Kira!

The parapets of the keep were empty this evening. That was the advantage of being Commander, thought Rebecca Amell. You could always have privacy by ordering everyone away.

Her leather boots made little sound on the stone as she walked across to the center of the parapet, looking out over the little inlet of the ocean that ran up to the walls of the keep. The waves could be clearly heard in the quiet of the early evening over the fainter sounds from the front of the keep where people were closing up their shops and getting ready for their suppers.

From her robes, Rebecca took the object she had brought with her. She had treasured it across most of Ferelden; brought it safely in her belongings here to Amaranthine; rescued it from the wreckage of the keep after the Mother's forces had attacked it. Now it was time to let it—and what it symbolized—go. Slowly, she removed one vivid red petal from the outside of the rose, feeling its still velvety softness under her fingers. Letting the petal go and watching it float on the wind toward the ocean, she whispered, "He loves me."

She remembered Alistair's face when he held the rose out to her, the hesitant hope in his eyes, the vivid blush, as red as the rose, that had spread across his cheeks. Her heart had fluttered in response, back in the days when it was just that simple—two Grey Wardens on the run, their inexperience the only obstacle between them.

Rebecca shivered in the wind coming off the ocean, carefully detaching the next petal. Its touch was like the touch of Alistair's lips on her skin, bringing back memories of those nights in their tent when nothing lay between them, when she'd believed the death of the Archdemon would be the gateway to a life of measureless joy.

The setting sun was a splash of crimson and orange across the horizon. Opening her hand, she saw the second petal take flight, spiraling up into the air. "He loves me not." Hot words pounded inside her head, the anger they had spewed at each other when they knew he must take the throne, both blaming their predicament on each other to make it easier to stay apart. She had done what was necessary, and he resented her for being able to.

Rebecca held the third petal to her lips. "He loves me." Its scent reminded her of the flowers left in her room every day that they stayed in Redcliffe, the glances and touches they couldn't help exchanging as they moved inexorably toward their destiny, the look on his face that had said more powerfully than any words that he hadn't forgotten.

The next petal was a deep crimson, almost glowing in the blue evening light. Rebecca detached it, holding it delicately between two fingertips. When she opened them, the petal wafted away, a small speck of red in the distance. "He loves me not." The final parting had been stiff. Uncharacteristically formal. Everything they had never been. He had gone to rule his country, to become the king Ferelden needed, to find a queen to rule beside him. Rebecca knew he had to forget her, but the coldness in his eyes had chilled her straight through to the bone; all the more because she had been the one to bring them here.

Only one tiny petal remained attached to the stem. Rebecca removed it and held the petal gingerly. The keep was saved, the sentient darkspawn were defeated, but nothing had changed. She was alone. Lifting the last petal, she tried to speak but her lips wouldn't form the words.

A warm hand closed over hers, a strong arm wrapping about her waist and drawing her back against him. His voice whispered in her ear, "He loves you," and the petal flew free on the wind. Rebecca didn't see it go—she had turned in his arms, looking up into his eyes. The fire there turned her knees to jelly, and she might have fallen if his arm hadn't tightened around her.

"Are you sure?"

For answer, his head dipped and his mouth claimed hers, the lips firm but gentle.

She lost herself in his kiss for a few delirious moments before common sense reasserted itself. Rebecca struggled in his arms. "Alistair, what are you doing here?"

"What I should have done all along. I should never have let Eamon bully me onto the throne, and once I did, I should have fought for what was important to me."

"Which is?"

"You. I need you with me, ruling at my side. Rebecca Amell, will you be my wife?"

"Alistair, we can't. You know that!"

His jaw took on the stubborn set she'd come to know so well, and she couldn't resist running her fingers along it. He turned his head into her touch. "I know that I need you," he said. "And that if the Landsmeet wants my precious Theirin blood on the throne, they'll have to accept my mage bride, or I'll rejoin the Wardens and we'll both get ourselves assigned to the Anderfels or somewhere else far away."

She chuckled despite herself. "I'm a Warden, too, you know. I can't just step down as Commander."

"But you can command from Denerim while you spend your time in the castle, at my side." His voice roughened as he pulled her closer. "In my bed." His teeth tugged at her earlobe. He whispered in her ear, "In my arms." His lips continued down her neck. Rebecca sighed with pleasure, clinging to him. When he pulled away, the waning day suddenly felt cold and empty.

Alistair got down on one knee, taking her hand in his. "I'm asking you again—will you marry me?"

She dropped the empty stem she still held in her hand. The petals had flown away in the wind, but the flower was budding anew in her heart. "Yes."