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Herald's Rest gets as crowded as any respectable small-town tavern come nightfall. Considering Skyhold's a village unto itself nowadays, that's no surprise.

Maryden's holding her usual court over near the fire, her song weaving in and out of the noise: voices, laughter, shouts, clattering. Bull's there, towering over half the crowd even while seated, deep in enthusiastic conversation with Krem, but the rest of the Chargers don't seem to be anywhere near. When Alistair stands still, he's pretty sure he can hear about five different languages in a ten-foot radius.

He's nothing strange or remarkable in here. It's...nice.

And there's alcohol. Even nicer.

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If he keeps his eyes shut too long, the gentle sloshing feeling of inebriation turns into the spins. Alistair opens his eyes, regards the ceiling, waits for the worst to pass.

"You're like...the opposite of the Black City. I see you around and I know I'm not in the Fade. Or that I can -- " He reaches out, just a little, forearm balanced on his knee. "That I'm close to getting out, at least. I'm somewhere the Veil's thin enough to look through. And if I just push a little more I'll make it out."

He doesn't sound particularly troubled about any of this. Just...thoughtful.

"There were some benefits to being a templar," Cullen says after a moment, and shifts (a little unsteadily) to sit shoulder to shoulder with him. "Keeping the Fade out."

"Yes." Soft.

It's second nature by now: Alistair scoots a few inches lower, makes himself comfortable, and leans his head on Cullen's shoulder.

"I would've been terrible at all of it. But that part would've been nice. If I'd stayed." A crooked smile. "Of course if I'd stayed I wouldn't've gotten stuck in the Fade in the first place."

A low, not entirely amused laugh as he works his arm around Alistair. "There are plenty of other calamities to choose from."

He huffs out a similar not-quite-laugh, and risks closing his eyes again for a moment.

"The thing is," slower, "I don't think I can push through that last little piece of the Veil. It's like the Calling, you fight until you can't anymore. And I can't. I'm too damned tired."

He exhales.

"I just wonder what's taking them so long. Surely they've got to be tired of this, too, right? How much fun can it really be to fill a desire this mundane? Money, love, power -- no, no, I just want a nice soft bed and a cup of tea every now and then."

He sinks his fingers into Alistair's hair, thumb stroking slowly.

"That's another way to know you're somewhere real." Quiet. Meditative. "Because you're right. Demons don't offer things like that. Spirits don't understand them, if Cole's anything to go by. So if that's what you've got... then that means it's real."

Alistair nods. (Not too much. He doesn't want to shake off Cullen's hand.)

"And if I got passed off to a despair demon," he mumbles, "they'd think up something worse than this. Not just...put me somewhere where I don't know if anything's real. Too subtle. Right?"

Cullen, who once had that very thing happen to him --

-- his hand has stilled, for just a moment --

-- says quietly, simply, and utterly assured:

"Right."

He breathes out -- it trembles, a little -- and leans more of his weight against Cullen.

(This could be another trick. But -- no. Cullen's real. Cullen promised he wouldn't lie to him.)

It's an old catechism he relies on now -- one whose truth has been borne out by experience at Kinloch, in Kirkwall, in those horrible days right after the explosion at the Conclave.

"Demons are clever." He rests his cheek against Alistair's head; his voice is a soft murmur. "But demons aren't subtle. They can't be. It's not in their nature. They respond to strong feeling. They feed on it. They embody it themselves. Their tactics are blunt, and obvious, because they can't do anything else."

The liquor sits warm in his belly; his armor, scattered, catches the light from the torches, gleams faintly gold.

"I might tell you that it's all right. But only a fool or a demon would say everything's fine like he believed it." Warm. A little amused, a little dry. "It's most certainly not fine."

Alistair huffs out a laugh. He drags a hand down his face, then lets it fall back to his knee.

"That's what I worry about," he admits. "People've told me it's fine and I've fallen for it. Or -- demons've told me, I guess. There was this -- this happened back in the Blight, this sloth demon that pulled us into the Fade for a time. Passed me off to a desire demon once I was there. And..."

A rueful quirk of a smile.

"Everything was fine. I didn't suspect a thing. My sister was making me dinner. We were happy. If the Hero of Ferelden hadn't come along and knocked me out of it I don't know if I ever would've woken up."

"But you have doubts now."

His thumb moves, back and forth, calm, steady.

"That's another way you know it's real. You're not sure if you're out. But you believed, back then, that you were happy. You didn't doubt. Right?"

"...Right."

Alistair relaxes another inch.

"They'd -- figure out how to get rid of the doubt. Make sure it never showed up at all."

"But it did show up. It keeps showing up."

Cullen lets his eyes close for a moment.

"Because you came back."

"Yes."

He fought as long as he could, and it was enough to get the Inquisitor and Hawke to safety; it was even enough to free himself. All he may have wanted by then was to rest -- but that rest would've been total if a desire demon granted it. No nightmares. No bursts of panic, or rage. Corypheus already defeated; Thedas at peace.

Not the imperfect world they've got at Skyhold, where things are all right, but not fine.

"I'm here."

Without thinking about it he brings his other arm around Alistair, as though to affirm his presence (or perhaps to reassure himself).

Alistair turns into the embrace with a quiet sigh, and doesn't say anything else right away.

"Still wouldn't mind if you had cheese hiding in your coat though," he mumbles.

"I have enough problems without attracting mice directly onto my person," Cullen informs him, not moving.

"You could adopt a cat and keep it as a mouser," suggests Alistair.

Innocently.

Absent, without rancor: "Or you could carry your own damn cheese."

"But what if -- "

He taps Cullen's arm a couple times for emphasis.

"What if Corypheus's -- " (Alistair can't quite get his mouth around Corypheus's name anymore. It's a rather impressive mangling that he promptly pretends didn't happen.) "What if his only weakness is finely aged cheddar. And you go into battle without any. I can't let that happen as Double Commander."

"Then in all fairness," Cullen says, "it ought to be the Inquisitor carrying it. Not me."

"Excellent point." Alistair grins. "I'll inform her of the change in strategy immediately."

"And my coat lives to see another day."

He snickers. "Until I spill another beer on it."

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