"I think it would look like, Yes, Alistair, you're completely right and so thoughtful," he says, pitching his voice just enough higher to pass as an impression. "I'll let you cook while I take a nap, and I won't complain at all if you burn my pheasant."

That's the height of his ability to be ridiculous, anymore, and gravity--an exhaustion, and the song in his head, and the weight of everything--quickly pulls him back into himself. Less manic, less loud.

"I wouldn't really burn your pheasant," he says. "I'd only cook all the flavor out. You can take the man out of Ferelden..."