Close the breach, save the world, move on. Except it did not remove the glow from his hand. It did not stop those massive, monstrous templars from tearing through the camps. It did not stop that creature with its dragon and its words. At least the ultimate enemy did so like to go on and Zevran did, in fact, have an inkling as to what the future might hold- though running right from Redcliffe and all its horrors directly to seal the breach might have been rash.

He had not even had a moment to spare to check in with Alistair. To make certain that he was here and alive and not grown into a part of a cell wall for the sin of trying to protect his childhood home.

But all this, dragons, the future, avalanches- and he'd still managed to save his people because- that is what Jonas would have done. He stayed behind to try and buy time because that is what Alistair would have done. He sits alone after the singing, after the strange, enigmatic conference with Alistair to process that much blood on his hands, the odd detachment from guilt that only truly slams into him when he looks up and sees Alistair. His face does not crumple, exactly, but it does shift. No longer half so numb or chilled and it is undignified to stand so suddenly and stumble over- he will blame the cold. Blame the snow for tripping into the blanket and against him. Blame exhaustion for how he clung afterward. "I did not know if you made it out."

He manages, eventually.