Some of the sisters at the Abbey used to hold their hands over candles, close enough to hurt but not to burn, to punish themselves for sin or to prove they could withstand the pain. Alistair thought it was stupid. But here he is with his hands in Zevran's golden hair, listening to him say he gives no weight to sentiment (which is such a thin and fragile-sounding word for a thing Alistair's so hungry for) but he has this, in its place. A line. Alistair renews his resignation not to cross it. There are things he wants more than Zevran's mouth on his skin—his trust, his approval, to be a safe place where he can rest.

It hurts to lean on a stone for too long, Cole told him once while he was trying to get a blighted snack on the middle of the blighted night, so it's good you're soft. After Alistair had recovered from jumping out of his skin, he said, Stop calling me fat.

The braid is all wrong. One strand is too small. It curves to one side. Alistair rakes and ruffles his hands through it to start again. "If you do ever want more, you know there will be line out the door," he says, because he is a stone, and he can hold his palm that close to the flame, and if he beats the wanting into a small enough ball in his stomach then maybe it will go away. "Down the whole mountain."