While he shifts and turns to accommodate Zevran's press against his chest, Alistair thinks about it. Really thinks about it. Leaving the Wardens—saving them, first, but then leaving them—and following Zevran north. It's a nice daydream, even laced through with the old gods' song. In Rivain there are no rifts, but he could still kill darkspawn, now and then, to keep from feeling too terrible. In Rivain he would tan again. It would be too warm for anyone to wear shirts. He thinks about Zevran sitting in front of him again, in the sand instead of in the snow, the graceful lines of the tattoos and his spine, and sweeping his hair to one side to expose the back of his neck—

"All right," Alistar says, cutting that short. "Deal. But I get to choose your hook."