Chapter Text
Samran had always had a natural talent for avoiding things he didn't want to deal with.
Back with his clan it had been easy. Whenever he had caught wind of someone wanting attention he wasn't interested in giving, he could vanish into forest or wilderness – wherever the clan found itself at a given time – and wait until whoever it was gave up on the search. Gave up on bothering him. He never went far in case the clan came under attack, and he never shirked his responsibilities as a hunter, but he'd had privacy when he wanted it.
It was different in Skyhold.
“Wherever I am is home enough for me” he had said to Seeker Pentaghast, and it was as true now as it had been then. But he didn't care for Skyhold. It was too big, too absolutely massive, like an entire town all by itself – and yet at the same time – with it's high stone walls and grand halls full of grand people Samran didn't know but was supposed to take the time to appease and impress – he had never felt so trapped.
There was nowhere to hide here. It didn't matter where he skulked off to, or what he was trying to avoid; Leliana's people were absolutely everywhere, from the stables to Cole's attic in the tavern to the depths of the prison, and the traitors never hesitated to report to Sister Nightingale when they spotted him dodging her or Cullen or Josephine.
Even when Samran had the title of Inquisitor, the agents respected Leliana more than they did him.
Maybe feared was the more appropriate word.
Samran couldn't really blame them for that.
Still. It was irksome.
His last resort, to which he had resigned himself now, was to shut himself in his quarters and bolt the door. It was hardly the most elegant or subtle method of avoidance, since absolutely everyone knew exactly where he was – the Spymaster's agents could see him easily up here, for a while he had seen Josephine on the ramparts below his balcony, obviously fretting over some nonsense or other but too dignified to yell at him before she had given up and left, and Sera had entertained herself for a while shooting arrows with messages at him from the roof of the tavern – but he suspected it would be some time before anyone dared to even consider using the master key Leliana kept on her person to get into the room.
(The Lord Seeker had accused Seeker Pentaghast of raising Samran as a puppet, but Samran occasionally had cause to wonder if that wasn't more Leliana's style than it was the Seeker's)
Disregarding the simplicity and perhaps somewhat childish nature of his actions, Samran stayed in his room in solitude for the better part of an hour. He sat out on the balcony so he wouldn't even hear if someone tried knocking on the door. Perched on the cold stone ledge, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other foot light on the floor, hands loose in his lap. The sun was beginning its descent between two mountain peaks, casting shadows pierced with gentle rays of golden light.
The wind was high out here, tossing the loose locks of hair at his forehead and the back of his neck. It was cold, but he didn't go in for his coat. He'd been in the South long enough to get used to the cold – constant and miserable though it was.
He watched the light filtering through the mountains and clouds and knew it would be time to leave Skyhold again soon. Before he got well and truly sick of the place. He just didn't know where he would go yet. He couldn't risk a visit to the war table to plan it out; not when he'd have to pass through Josephine's office to get to it.
No. He'd settle for making hypothetical plans in his head, for now.
“I thought I might find you here.”
The very, very familiar voice cut into his thoughts before they could fully form.
Samran slowly blinked himself back to reality and let out an unsteady exhale. He turned his head.
There was Dorian, lounging lazily against the open door and wearing that little smirk he always wore. The one that just screamed well? Aren't you impressed?
Samran couldn't bring himself to be especially surprised.
“I'd apologize for bothering you,” Dorian continued, glancing at his fingernails and pulling a dissatisfied face. “But you never apologize for pestering me in the library and disrupting my reading, so.”
Samran looked back at the sky and didn't bother being offended. He knew Dorian didn't actually oppose his presence in the library. All they ever did was read together or talk, and if there was one thing Samran knew as absolute fact, it was that Dorian loved the sound of his own voice.
He wasn't alone in that.
“You're not bothering me,” Samran said, perhaps a little belatedly.
“Aren't you wondering how I got in here?”
“I like to imagine it was through the door.”
“Ah, yes, the locked door. But how in the Makers name did I get it open?”
Samran closed his eyes and found he had to actively bite back a smile. Dorian really was going to make him guess.
“It's possible you asked Varric to pick the lock for you.”
“Possible,” Dorian agreed. “But, sadly, wrong. Well... maybe I did ask, and he was too terrified of the Dread Inquisitor to actually do it.”
“Hm. Well, I'm sure it wasn't Sera. She's been busy.” He gestured to the many arrows scattered across the balcony. A rolled scrap of parchment was tied to each one with a bit of red fabric.
“Is that what those are about?” Dorian picked one up, rolling it between his fingers. “You haven't read the messages?”
“I would, but I'm certain they're all filthy.”
“Fair enough.” Dorian slipped the note free and unrolled it. “You still have two guesses,” he reminded as he scanned the paper.
Samran inhaled and let it out slowly, not quite a sigh. He watched Dorian's eyebrows arch at whatever he was reading.
“I don't suppose it was Leliana?”
“If she were to force your door open, it would not be for me, I assure you. If anything it would be for your Ambassador Montilyet, who has been quite flustered looking for you.” He picked up another arrow, unrolled another note.
“Did Seeker Pentaghast finally kick the door down?”
Dorian laughed. Samran wasn't sure if it was at him or at the parchment.
“No – I don't think she's quite that frustrated yet.”
“Yet,” Samran agreed. Because while Seeker Pentaghast had been very professional, their relationship thus far civil, they didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on many things.
Samran was still shocked that she had deigned to make him Inquisitor at all.
“Shall I tell you?” Dorian asked, and carried on before he could answer. “It was Cole.”
Samran looked at him fully. “Cole?”
Dorian tossed something to him.
Samran caught the key to his quarters.
“He brought me that.” Dorian chose another note. “I... think he was concerned for you? Honestly I find it a little difficult to follow when he rambles sometimes, but 'concern' seemed to be the general mood.”
Samran rolled the key in his hand and didn't quite know what to think. He didn't know why Cole would be concerned for him – they hadn't spoken much since coming to Skyhold, though that was mostly because the peculiar young man often made himself difficult to find. Vivienne had wildly disapproved of letting him have the run of the place, but Samran had seen the good Cole was doing for his people – his Inquisition – and he didn't regret his decision.
He was especially grateful that Cold had taken his concern and the key to his room to Dorian and not, say, a certain ambassador.
He glanced toward the mage – reading yet another note – and thought he might have to find some way to thank Cole.
“Some of these are rather amusing,” Dorian said. “This one is a dirty limerick I believe Sera wrote herself. It's about bees.”
“Will you read it to me?”
“I was so hoping you would ask. Oh – but first...”
Samran turned to set both feet on the floor as Dorian disappeared back into his bedroom. He returned barely a moment later, bearing a tinted green bottle of wine.
“Fereldan wine?” Samran glanced from the bottle to the man, an eyebrow raised. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Dorian laughed. “Fereldan wine? Please. You wouldn't catch me drinking that backwater swill if I was dying of thirst in the desert and Andraste herself was passing out samples. No, this -” He held out the bottle so Samran could read the label which, the Dalish realized, was all in Tevene “- this is Tevinter's finest. For when you want to drink, but don't want to fear for your life with every second glass.”
Samran gave him a skeptical look. Dorian met his stare, then sighed.
“No, it is not made with blood magic.”
“Fine.” Samran stood, satisfied with the little joke. “But if we're doing this, we may as well be comfortable.”
“You'll hear no argument from me.” Dorian's voice followed Samran inside. Samran set his key on the desk, then went to the bed and pulled at the quilt, tugging the corners from the mattress and folding it into a haphazard square.
One thing he had to admit he liked about human culture; thick, soft blankets.
“That's Orlesian cotton,” Dorian pointed out when he carried it outside. “Probably stuffed with dove feathers and sewn with actual gold. Do you have any idea how much it's worth?”
“No,” Samran said, and spread it across a section of the floor. Dorian had already collected the arrows so he sat down, leaning his back against the wall, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
Dorian sat beside him and handed him the bottle while he set about unrolling all of the notes, smoothing them across his lap.
“Where did you get this?” Samran asked, carefully prying out the cork. “It must have been expensive.”
“I imagine it was, for someone,” Dorian said with a shrug. “My mother sent it, along with a number of other little gifts. A peace offering after the nonsense with my father, I suppose.”
“I'm surprised you didn't send it back.”
“I admit, the thought occurred to me. Purely for the sake of pettiness, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But then I thought, why waste good wine? And here we are.”
Samran finally freed the cork and held out the bottle. Dorian shook his head.
“You first. I insist.”
“Ah.” Samran peered into the bottle. “I'm your food taster now. I accept my duties with pride and only mild trepidation.”
“Oh for – give it here.”
Dorian took the wine and drank. Samran pretended he wasn't watching like a hawk.
Dorian swallowed, and so did Samran.
“There, see? It's perfectly safe.”
“You're a true hero.”
“Can I read a dirty bee-related limerick now?”
Samran took a sip from the bottle. The wine was dry and tasted of some spice he couldn't identify and a little bit like chocolate. He made himself comfortable, his shoulder just barely touching Dorian's, and gestured vaguely with his free hand.
“Please.”
The time went by. The sun set on the two of them, sharing wine and taking turns reading Sera's dirty jokes and poetry, or looking over her drawings together. Most of those were dirty too, but some were interesting. Dorian was particularly amused by a drawing of a heap of nugs, vaguely shaped like Varric. Samran decided to himself that his favorite was a sketch of Seeker Pentaghast punching a bear in the face and looking absolutely furious about it.
Dorian cried with laughter when Samran took his turns reading. Neither of them could decide whether it was at the material itself, or at Samran's deadpan, disinterested delivery.
Neither of them meant to fall asleep.
At least, Samran certainly hadn't.
But when the moon rose and the stars began to shine in earnest, it was to find the pair of them half-sitting, half-laying against each other, covered in scraps of parchment, an almost-empty bottle of wine between them, and Samran's head on Dorian's shoulder.