There wasn't a moment when Alistair decided not to go to the Fallow Mire to help, or any conscious and rational reason why he didn't. He's invented a few by now--someone ought to be here in case there's news, he's the one any Grey Wardens out hunting for them are most likely to recognize on sight, never know when there might be darkspawn in your mountaintop fortress somehow. He came briefly close to thinking about the fact that he hasn't put a toe into Ferelden in ten years, and then he veered away into thinking about something less fraught.

Anyway, he's here. He's been here. He's struggling to feel useful enough to justify the fact that he's been here, and being a pack mule for someone who lacks one is better than staring at clouds.

"Here," he says, stepping in toward Pel and her lots of crap with his hands already extended. "I've been training for this my whole life."