Alistair cranes his neck around, searching for a cleaver he knows isn't there, before slumping back in surrender on the hay, low on his elbows. Low enough to knock his temple against Zevran's shoulder. "Later," he says. "I'm tired."

If he's cutting off hands, he needs a nap first.

After a moment, more seriously, he says, "I couldn't go with you. If you really want to go. I have—" A few months to live, if things don't change. Or, less depressingly: "—the Wardens to worry about. Someone has to shout at them, when this is over, and if Pentaghast does it they'll cry."