The alcohol's starting to do its work. Alistair's chest doesn't feel so tight anymore. It's easier to breathe without thinking he smells more rot; it's also a little harder to keep his grip on the bottle.

Maybe he should get the rest of Trials out of the way before he finishes drinking himself into oblivion.

With care, Alistair scoots to the front edge of the pew. He rests his arms across the back of the bench in front of them; lets the bottle hang loose from his fingers; lowers his head to his arms.

...Where did he leave off?

"Do not grieve for me, Maker of All.
Though all others may forget You,
Your name is etched into my every step.
I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself."