He laid back on her touch. Alistair is malleable and yet firm; her words, her touch has changed him and he holds them on an alter none can touch. She is his own personal chantry. No, he doesn't actually think that. He's not very good at words and crafting them is as much of a challenge as trying to barter with an Orlesian. But he feels it.

The words sits heavy on his tongue, and weighs him down lest his lofty ideals and too naive heart carries him off. They come out too simple. He blurts them out and sheepishly wish he could have done better than a simple, blunt compliment. It is the best he can do, being brought up in a barn and all. She's here still, he must be doing something right.

He smiled at her apology and closed his eyes, briefly, at her cool hand.

"Ah, you're apologizing. It must be a fevered dream," he chuckled and moved to catch her fingers with his, drawing their palms together on his chest.

"Normally, I would say your wish is my command but if these are - oh, I don't know - my last hours before I stupidly die from a trap after fighting an archdemon! ...Then I would really really prefer to spend them awake, with you. Or I suppose I can come back as a spirit and ...do that."