"No you won't," Alistair says without hesitation. It's a trust that has to be earned, from him, but is unwavering thereafter. Even when maybe it should waver just a bit. It's a moot point, regardless, as he adds, "But I'll stop. Too many syllables."
His horse snorts beneath him. He pats her neck and risks another glance at Zevran to measure his mood.
"It isn't forever," he says, which is the subtlest and most tactful way he can think of to remind Zevran that he's only seeing to the Wardens and then chopping his hand off, or whatever, without cling in the soldiers riding behind them. (If he sat down and thought about it, Alistair would already be able to say he, himself, won't be leaving for Rivain. He hasn't sat down and thought about it. He won't. It's a nice dream.) "And the clothes seem nice."
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His horse snorts beneath him. He pats her neck and risks another glance at Zevran to measure his mood.
"It isn't forever," he says, which is the subtlest and most tactful way he can think of to remind Zevran that he's only seeing to the Wardens and then chopping his hand off, or whatever, without cling in the soldiers riding behind them. (If he sat down and thought about it, Alistair would already be able to say he, himself, won't be leaving for Rivain. He hasn't sat down and thought about it. He won't. It's a nice dream.) "And the clothes seem nice."