Alistair looks at him with the same closed-off expression a few moments longer, then breaks to nod and shift his attention to the nearest horse. It's a dismissive turn, nearly imperious, the sort of thing that used to get him shoved into mud at the abbey. He doesn't have anything else to say. There are a few dozen other things he'd like to ask, details he'd like to be able to stuff into the holes of his own history, even though it changes nothing, even though it's like trying to replace missing bricks with handfuls of straw—dozens, but none he's willing to lower his guard any further to ask Loghain. He can go.