By the time he reaches the end there's a fairly fearsome furrow between Alistair's eyebrows, but he doesn't say what he'd like to say, which is fuck them. Still a bit too much Chantry in him to give in to that impulse. He shakes his head and holds the letter aside—he isn't handing it back, he'll put it somewhere once she's inside and she can have it back later if she wants—while he steps back to leave room for her to come in, if she'll duck under his arm to do it.

The tent is clean, mainly because he doesn't own enough to make a mess with. He puts the letter on a makeshift table made of a stout log and piece of wood, between an empty wine bottle and a Chasind-made griffon doll, and then he hugs her. Gingerly. Maybe too gingerly to really be comforting. He's never been around a pregnant woman before and doesn't want to crush the baby somehow.