One of those not-quite sobs turns into a hiccup of laughter. He fists part of her shirt in on hand, as if trying to anchor himself further.

For a while, that's all he can manage: the whispered litany -- I'm alive. I'm out. -- and his hold on Ysa. Nothing's coming for him; at least, not right now. If he can't relax entirely, at least he can let himself feel the flood of relief, no matter how close it comes to sweeping him away altogether.

Alistair loses track of how long he holds onto her. Eventually, though, his shoulders stop shaking. It feels safe enough, then, to pull back and scrub a hand over his eyes.