For a moment Alistair holds his arms out, hands hovering. Normally he wouldn't hesitate. But normally Zevran hasn't so recently come back from the apparent dead, and normally there's no image for either of them to worry about maintaining. (Alistair would never admit having a mind for that sort of thing, and will discard said mind whenever it suits him better to be publicly loud and unmanageable, but he does. A peculiarity of his upbringing.)

"I'm very durable," he says as he relents and wraps his arms around Zevran's shoulders. However little people might want to see the Herald clinging to anyone else for comfort, it's probably worse if it doesn't look mutual. Anyway, he wants to. "You know that. Thick skull."

A beat. A squeeze. A thorough confirmation that Zevran is solid and—not really warm, but not reanimated corpse-cold, and not going to dissipate in a strong wind. Then Alistair pushes him back by the shoulders to look him in the face.

"Don't do that again." The freed blanket falls into the snow. "You're out of luck. You have to be. That's all the luck there is. There's no way—"