Alistair leans to one side and tilts his head to scrutinize the wound until he's satisfied there's nothing blackened about it, then nods, sharp relieved little jerks of his chin while some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. And out of the tent. No one is saying sorry, but--"Let me get you some elfroot," he says, climbing back up to his feet. "If anyone asks I'll say I have a toothache or--"

The offer stands, but he stops and shakes his head at himself before he progresses too far in sweeping the problem under the rug to rot and grow mold.

"Zev, if anyone gets hurt because you're looking out for me, I won't be able to live with it. If something happens to you--you're not doing me a favor."