"All right," Alistair says, "I won't," sounding particularly patient, a little bit like he's humoring him; he doesn't understand. He doesn't yet understand why Zevran is hiding his face, either, or even that that's what he's doing instead of only being clingy and wounded.

He pats around to make sure Zevran's blankets are still doing their jobs, then settles down. Not to sleep. He won't be doing more than light dozing until they're safely back. But he gets both arms around Zevran and stays still.

"You scared me." He doesn't mean it as an admonishment, though maybe it sounds that way. It isn't Zevran's fault. But Alistair thought he was gone, and he hasn't been that afraid since—since before the Archdemon, even. He wasn't helpless in the face of the Archdemon. He hasn't been that afraid since Ostagar. "When we get back you'll have to check me for gray hairs. I wouldn't be surprised."