Alistair flinches for him. Maybe a little for himself, too, that this is what the person who knows him best knows him for--shirking, needing a minder, being foolish. He doesn't need a massive oil-voiced asshole of a demon to ask him if he really thought he could prove himself or murmur that it's too late.

His chest aches. He ignores it. He's staring glaze-eyed at the wound on Zevran's ribs, the brandy running pink. He has to blink a few times to refocus when Zevran sounds to be finished talking, and then he crooks one corner of his mouth up. It doesn't reach his eyes--but they're hardening, determined. Not on the verge of tears. Possibly on the verge of something stupid, though, next time there's a halfway decent opportunity to die bravely.

"How is it?" he asks. He can't fake breeziness, so he doesn't try. He sounds hurt, he sounds like he's dealing with it. "As fun as it looks?"