Alistair doesn't connect the dots until he sees him.
He should have been able to, probably, but in his defense—first of all, the idea is preposterous. Second of all, he's very tired. He has a lot on his mind and several angry, armed people on his trail, and if it weren't for the letter from Zevran in his pocket he might not have paid any attention to the zealots in Haven until Hawke brought them round to his cave to visit.
But he does have the letter, so there is no cave. There's snow and ice and familiar trails, a swirling green wound in the sky, and a very odd look from the guard he talks to at the gate. I'm looking for an elf with, ah, he says, twisting three fingers through the air near his cheek. Fifteen minutes later he's sitting in a room in a chantry waiting for something called a Herald of Andraste, which feels an awful lot like sitting in another room in another chantry and waiting for a Grand Cleric. That never went well for him.
Maybe Zevran has killed someone or other, he thinks, and now Alistair will have to explain that he didn't know and wasn't involved, and they won't believe him and won't care that he's a Warden and he'll hang. Hanging wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to him this week, but he could still do without, if it's all the same to everyone invol—
The door opens. His inner monologue stops, his eyes snap up. Three seconds to take in the armor, the deferential guard, and the glow; then the dots finally connect. Twenty different things happen on Alistair's face in smudgy overlapping succession before he settles into a baffled, worried half-smile.
"I was going to say, Zev, I'm in a little trouble—" A line in itself unremarkable, but with his plan to lean nonchalantly on something or other while smirking, maybe it would have been charming and scampish, who knows. Instead he's standing up straight, no smirk, only a concerned search of Zevran's face and glowing green hand. "—but it looks like you have me beat."
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He should have been able to, probably, but in his defense—first of all, the idea is preposterous. Second of all, he's very tired. He has a lot on his mind and several angry, armed people on his trail, and if it weren't for the letter from Zevran in his pocket he might not have paid any attention to the zealots in Haven until Hawke brought them round to his cave to visit.
But he does have the letter, so there is no cave. There's snow and ice and familiar trails, a swirling green wound in the sky, and a very odd look from the guard he talks to at the gate. I'm looking for an elf with, ah, he says, twisting three fingers through the air near his cheek. Fifteen minutes later he's sitting in a room in a chantry waiting for something called a Herald of Andraste, which feels an awful lot like sitting in another room in another chantry and waiting for a Grand Cleric. That never went well for him.
Maybe Zevran has killed someone or other, he thinks, and now Alistair will have to explain that he didn't know and wasn't involved, and they won't believe him and won't care that he's a Warden and he'll hang. Hanging wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to him this week, but he could still do without, if it's all the same to everyone invol—
The door opens. His inner monologue stops, his eyes snap up. Three seconds to take in the armor, the deferential guard, and the glow; then the dots finally connect. Twenty different things happen on Alistair's face in smudgy overlapping succession before he settles into a baffled, worried half-smile.
"I was going to say, Zev, I'm in a little trouble—" A line in itself unremarkable, but with his plan to lean nonchalantly on something or other while smirking, maybe it would have been charming and scampish, who knows. Instead he's standing up straight, no smirk, only a concerned search of Zevran's face and glowing green hand. "—but it looks like you have me beat."