"..." Zevran sighs, trying to think of a way to lie and unable to put anything together that will satisfy either of them. If he answers, Alistair feels guilty. If he doesn't, Alistair assumes, and feels guilty. Damned if he does, damned if he does not and it aches in the back of his skull as a throbbing counterpoint to the eye. "Why are you asking after things you cannot fix?"

Because that's what this is. Alistair searching fruitlessly for something he can fix, something he can put right. Charming as it is when he turns it on others; it does neither of them any good in this mess. He lives. Anything more is stretching it. He lives.