Alistair was a sweet man, charming and with a kind of self-deprecatory humor that made Lisbeth Amell forgive him for his past as a templar and for his occasional moments of shoving his foot in his mouth.
He was, she noted, not the sharpest blade in the arsenal. When he gave her a rose that he had carried across Ferelden and back again, schlepping it through the Deep Roads, the Brecilian Forest, and even more than one instance of dragon fire, it was as fresh as the day he had picked it in Lothering.
Alistair didn't question that miracle, and neither did Lisbeth.
He didn't question it because he was dear, but a little dense. Lisbeth didn't question it because it finally answered the question of why she occasionally caught Wynne casting spells at Alistair's backpack.