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Ambriel rests his elbows on the banister of his balcony, nursing a pint of ale while gazing upon the majesty of the frosted mountains surrounding Skyhold. The air is rather frigid, and ideally he would shut the doors and have one of the servants stoke a fire in his the sorely underused hearth, but he is starting to like the feeling of chill seeping into his skin. It makes him feel alive, invigorated, unlike the warm and stagnant air of the Free Marches.
He has never actually been a big fan of alcohol, but he takes another sip from the tankard despite himself and lets the cool liquid run down the back of his throat. A bit too hoppy for his liking. He could really do with a cup of that elfroot tea his mother used to brew for him back home--good for sore throats, that stuff is--but in all honesty he could do with getting a bit drunk at the moment. Maybe it would help him relax.
Half the Inquisition was also getting drunk, down at the tavern, and Bull had even invited Ambriel to join in the revelry, much to the chagrin of others, who knew having Lavellan around was the surest way to suck the life right out of a party. Bull had said he wanted him to try some special Qunari brew, but if Dorian’s assessment of it was at all accurate, Ambriel suspected he'd be better off drinking horse piss. Or acid.
Furthemore, the last thing he wants to do right now is be around other people. Noisy, crude, drunk, rambunctious people. The catastrophe at Halamshiral was nothing if not exhausting, and Ambriel often finds that the best company at times like these is no company. The Inquisition is a far cry from the smallness of his Clan, and it wears on him at times, being responsible for such a vast group of people. He closes his eyes and takes another swig of ale, feeling a semblance of peace at being alone.
It is at that precise moment that there is a knocking on his chamber door. So much for peace, he thinks, downing the rest of the ale before shouting, “This had better be good!”
The door opens, and at first he thinks there's no one there, until he shifts his gaze downward and sees an all too familiar beardless dwarf stroll into his quarters, holding a platter of pastries.
“Huh,” Varric says, “when you said that, I half-expected to find a naked Seeker Cassandra lying prone on your bed.”
Ambriel stares at Varric like he's just sprouted a second head.
“Ah, so you two aren't an item,” he says with a smirk. “Forgive me for making assumptions. There are a lot of rumors flying around, you know.”
“Where do people even come up with such ridiculous ideas?” Ambriel mutters. He steps off the balcony and inside his spacious room, placing the empty tankard on his desk. “Don't tell me. It’s because they mistake our ideological disagreements for sexual tension.”
“Probably. People are always searching for meaning where there really isn't any.”
“Definitely one of the top ten reasons I don't like people.” Ambriel sits on his bed to face Varric. “I've no interest in sex or romance, just so we're clear. Not to mention, Cassandra is probably at least ten years my senior. She's more like… a mildly disapproving aunt. Or a disgruntled teacher.”
Varric laughs and holds out the tray, offering Ambriel the pastries. He selects a fluffy white one, and almost chokes at the sweetness. An Orlesian dessert, probably. Ambriel would never willingly admit it, but he loves the filling, sugar-saturated quality of Orlesian baked goods. It is much more satisfying than the light honey biscuits that the Dalish are so fond of.
“Don't worry, Inquisitor, you wouldn't be the first person to be mistaken for our dear Seeker’s illicit lover. I've had the misfortune of being branded with that title, as well.”
“Really? You?” Cassandra and Varric. Together. The Western Approach would freeze over before that would happen.
“Like I said, people will do anything for a good story. Who can blame them?” Varric shrugs and picks out a sweet for himself.
“I certainly can. And don't tell me you came up here to discuss trivialities with me. You know I detest idle gossip,” Ambriel says, crossing his legs while he watches Varric eat.
“I wouldn't risk life and limb to bother the Herald of Andraste over gossip, no,” he says, smirking. “I just came up here to see how you're doing, Killjoy.”
“And to fatten me up, I presume,” Ambriel says, reaching for another pastry. Creators, the whole platter will be gone soon if he's not careful. “Sorry for, er. Snapping at you, before you came in.”
Varric waves his hands admonishingly. “Not to worry. I imagine it's hard to find a moment alone, being Inquisitor and everything. But I also thought it was a good idea to make sure you weren't brooding yourself into delirium.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine.” It's only once the words leave his lips that Ambriel realizes how tired he sounds. Varric notices this too, and raises an eyebrow.
“Are you sure? That was no small feat, stopping the death of an empress--nay, an empire-- by taking out her assassin. I know how much you hate political intrigue.”
“Political intrigue, yes, but I quite like putting arrows in the skulls of fools who think they've the right to pass judgment regarding whether someone should live or die.” Ambriel hiccups a little, starting to feel the effects of the ale.
Varric chuckles again. “You do realize that makes you sound like a massive hypocrite, right? Given all the judging you do from that spiky throne of yours.”
“Well, I don't really have a choice. What kind of--hic--Inquisitor would I be if I didn't do some judging every now and again?” Ambriel reaches for another Orlesian pastry. “Thanks for these, by the way, Varric. They're very good.”
“No problem. They're actually from Josephine. Her way of saying thank you for your actions at the Winter Palace, as I understand it. I just offered to take them up.”
“Ah. Of course Montilyet would do that.” Back in Haven, when they first met, Ambriel mistook her for a common noble shem, haughty and privileged, but has since come to find that she is one of the most kindhearted people he has ever known. He would have to thank her later. Perhaps he would make some Dalish biscuits for her, as kind of a cultural exchange.
Varric leans back in the desk chair, which Ambriel notes is a bit too big for him. Must be inconvenient, being a dwarf. Though being an elf is no stroll in the meadow either.
“You know, Killjoy, you remind me a lot of a friend I had back in Kirkwall.”
“Oh?”
“An elf named Fenris.”
Ambriel frowns. “Not all Dalish are the same, you know. Just because we--”
“Heh, trust me, I know. You're nothing like Merrill. And Fenris isn't Dalish. He’s a former Tevinter slave.”
Ambriel pauses and sits up a bit straighter. The comparison makes him uneasy. He doesn't like being analyzed to begin with, but now his curiosity is piqued. “Then what about me reminds you of him?”
“For one thing, you both love to brood. Though you seem a touch more charismatic, at least as a leader.”
Ambriel gives an incredulous little scoff. “Me? Charismatic? I've got about as much charisma as a soggy towel, according to most people. I do better in the background. It's why my Clan sent me to spy on the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”
Varric waggles one of his gloved fingers as if to chide him. “I said you were a touch charismatic. It takes a special kind of person to lead so many people and keep up the kind of morale we've got going on here, even if you do it by making yourself as scarce as possible. Few have the gift.”
“So you're saying my absence keeps the people satisfied,” Ambriel deduces, his eyes narrowing.
“I'm saying that you have a good sense of what it takes to tackle difficult tasks. You know that you have to make tough decisions, and that not everyone is going to thank you for it. But you don't care.” Varric smiles and there's something like nostalgia in his gaze. “You're like Fenris in that way. You don't give a damn if someone else doesn't think it's right, and you can be a bit blunt about letting people know that. But you follow your gut. Which is a hell of a lot harder than it sounds.”
Ambriel considers this for a moment, and rubs the vallaslin on his chin. A subconscious habit. “You speak from experience?”
Varric nods. “I've always had a bad habit of using my silver tongue to worm my way out of decisive action. But, like they say, riding on the middle of the road only means you get hit from both ends.”
“Wise words,” Ambriel says. “Whatever happened to this friend of yours? Fenris?”
A note of sadness creeps into Varric’s features. “I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. Our merry little band was scattered to the wind after that fiasco in Kirkwall. He's written me a few times though, so wherever he is, I think he's doing alright.”
“That's good to hear.”
“Maybe one day I'll introduce the two of you, and you can have a little pity party together. I'll supply the wine!”
This actually earns a hearty laugh from Ambriel. Varric smiles like he's proud of himself for cracking the Inquisitor’s stony exterior.
For a while afterwards, they sit there in silence, both snacking on the Josephine’s pastries. Ambriel thinks back to the first time he closed a rift, and remembers how Varric had grated on his nerves initially, being all bluster and jokes with no real sense of shame. But he soon realized this was a man who truly cared for the people around him. He could enjoy a nice tankard of ale with the Iron Bull and ponder about the Fade with Solas. He could have a civilized cup of tea with Vivienne and in the same day drum up a few good pranks with Sera. He was even sensitive to Ambriel’s moods and seemed to know when to shut up and simply enjoy the quiet. True, Ambriel might not go so far as to call him a friend--he has had precious few of those throughout his life--but time would no doubt soften his heart. And some more pastries wouldn't hurt, either.