For his effort Zevran gets a brighter smile, sharper, and a burst of an exhale that might have elevated to a laugh under better circumstances. The hand, Alistair takes like a curious object, something fished off of a corpse or out of a crevice in a cave; he bends his head to examine it, then pokes the center of the glow with his thumb and the look of a man who is half expecting an explosion.

None comes, and Alistair isn't sucked through a sudden vortex into the Fade, and Zevran—presumably—does not die.

"Huh," he says, and looks up from Zevran's palm to his face. "Andraste herself, was it?"