Cullen came to regret that last, silent prayer when he clawed his way from sleep into a sitting position an unknowable time later. The visions of his nightmare moved still in front of his eyes, save that the face of those wreathed in flame had changed from his countrymen to… Nay. Never would I hurt Dorian. Never could I do so. His teeth gritted as he pushed the image from his mind, raising his shaking hands to cover his face for a few moments. Sweat dripped from his hair onto his drenched shirt, and it took him a moment to realize that the harsh breaths echoing in his ears belonged to him. After a time, it dawned to him that he was alone in the bed, and that a faint murmur of voices could be heard from the next room.

Struggling to get his breathing under control, Cullen slid off the bed silently and moved to the door, instinct keeping him quiet as he listened with caution.

"-your blame, Father!" Felix said, the anger clear in his voice.

"Dorian is a man grown," a male voice replied with more than a touch of irritation. "Your continued defense of him is more than a bit tiresome, given the circumstances."

"Oh?" Felix snapped. "And precisely to which circumstances do you refer? Our friendship? A friendship you encouraged, as long as `twas on Italian soil? Or mayhap you think somehow his desire to escape his home infected me? We both know why I am here, Father."

The other man gave a heavy sigh. "Aye. And why you insist on speaking this barbaric tongue. I wish it could be otherwise, my son."

Felix took a shaky breath. "We both know it would take God's own hand for me to see the Twelfth Night." Wincing, Cullen closed his eyes as he heard the quiet resignation in his friend's voice. "Here will I abide until the end of my days. You let me choose this, Father. What is so improper in letting Dorian settle his own fate?"

"For the answer to that, you would need to ask his father," the other man replied. "I did what could be done, but once he left Italy, my protection meant nothing. Not against the reach of a man like Mantua."

Cullen frowned. Mantua? As the argument resumed, however, he shook his head in dismissal of the thought and focused again on father and son. "Oh, nay, Alexius of _ could never act against a man of the Duke's impeccable reputation, a man who imprisons his son and heir because he wants to ensure he becomes a proper son and heir. Certes, such a man is above reproach."

"Dorian's behavior is a great mortification for Mantua," the other man said in a weary tone. "It is fortunate the lad uses not his family name as he travels whilst entertaining these frivolities, but-"

"These frivolities of which you speak are his joy. Not being forced into the decadence of a life of lies with a wife picked for his father's political pleasure!" Felix insisted. "Verily, Dorian has performed for the Queen herself!"

"Aye. `Tis how his father learned of his whereabouts. Dorian grows overconfident, or neglects to realize how little this backwater of a country matters to his homeland."

"What is your meaning?" Felix asked, voice suspicious.

Alexius sighed. "Meaning Mantua could snatch Dorian from his very rooms and no one in Italy would ever learn that his son had been so very rebellious."

Unable to restrain himself, Cullen pushed into the room, in time to see Felix grab the doublet of an older, richly dressed mirror of himself and pull their faces together. "He intends this?"

"I would imagine. I came across the Channel first, but he is not far behind." The older man put a hand on one of Felix's wrists. "I am sorry. I am fond of the young man."

Felix jerked his wrist away. "You saw what Dorian was like when last he managed to escape. If his father gets hold of him again…"

"Any man can be broken," Cullen said in a harsh voice, "as I know far too well."

"Felix, who be this-" Alexius began, but Cullen refused to let the man finish.

"`Tis an imminent danger, then?" When Alexius didn't answer right away, Cullen strode forward and pulled him from Felix's grasp, using the tone and expression he'd used to break men before. "What say you?"

"M-mayhap, though I know not for certain," the man stammered, but Cullen had already pushed him away.

A hand landed on his shoulder. "I cannot run with you, my friend," Felix said softly. "Yet needs I must ask you to do so on my behalf."

"Your sword," Cullen said, ignoring Alexius' blustering questions about who he was and why he was here.

Felix ran to where his blade hung above the hearth, pulling it and its sheath from the hook and tossing it to Cullen. "Make haste, my friend."

With a nod, Cullen left, a sense of violent purpose frightening him with its intimate familiarity as he dashed through the streets of London to the Peacock Palace. He didn't have to know what Dorian's father had done to him - or intended to do to him - only that it bode ill for Dorian.

When he reached the inn, old training led him to the back entrance, where those on clandestine business would be more likely to conduct it. His heart sped up as he saw a maid suddenly come through the door at speed, screaming and pointing at the man who had pushed her. When two men emerged with someone struggling and cursing in Italian between them, Cullen didn't even hesitate, particularly when another pair dressed in the same livery also emerged.

With a shout intended to distract, he drew his sword and entered the fray, hitting his hilt against the closest man's head with all the righteous wrath he'd felt building on the way over. The man collapsed to the ground, and Cullen used his remaining momentum to barrel into one of the men holding Dorian. Crashing the man into the wall, he heard more Italian cursing and the sounds of scuffling behind him. With a curse, Cullen aimed a strong kick at the side of his opponent's knee, taking advantage of the man's abrupt hunched posture to bash him in the skull with another vicious blow.

Stripping the sword from the man's belt, he spun and danced to the side to avoid being tackled, then dashed towards the brute who had managed to occupy Dorian's attention. After a strong shove sent the man reeling, Cullen tossed the second sword to Dorian, who adroitly caught it as Cullen turned to face the fourth man with perfect timing.

From there, it was a short, vicious fight which left them panting in the street. Dorian looked at Cullen, who growled wordlessly when he saw the torn clothing as well as the large bruise on the man's cheek. "How fare you?" he asked, reaching out to tip Dorian's face upwards so he could observe the damage better.

Dorian pushed the hand away, then pointed down the narrow alley. "All is not yet well," he said as he readied his sword. "More approach."

A glance showed Cullen an additional cluster of men in the same livery approaching them from the distance. "God's teeth, but they are persistent." He glanced at Dorian. "Mayhap 'twould be better to flee?"

"I will follow where you lead."

With a nod, Cullen burst into a run in the opposite direction from their potential assailants. Dorian caught up with him quickly, and Cullen's ears told him the men behind them had also picked up their speed. "Yonder, sharp right. Pray, trust me," he gasped.

"Implicitly," Dorian assured him.

A building or two before the alley ended, Cullen grabbed Dorian's hand and pulled him down that sharp right, taking them into the warren of buildings which housed some of the better warehouses for rich men in the area. Their brandished blades were sufficient warning to clear the path before them, and the Italian cursing behind them grew more distant as Cullen used his knowledge of the city to outpace the foreigners.

Finally he kicked a particular door open, dragged Dorian through, and then shut and barred the door behind them. After a few long, harsh breaths, they heard footsteps run by, but none paused.

Cullen turned and collapsed against the door, head falling back to land on the wood with a thunk. "Mewling toad-spotted wagtails, the lot of-"

His words came to a muffled halt when Dorian pressed into him, claiming his lips in a fervent kiss. The swords dropped to the ground unnoticed as Cullen responded in equal measure, the adrenaline coursing through both men serving to speed not only their feet but their pulses and, as Cullen found when Dorian ground their hips together, their ardor. His hands sank into Dorian's hair since the other man was taking care of their hips, and concentrated of devouring the proffered lips. He couldn't help but notice the air of desperation in himself, fed by the lingering thought of what would have happened if he'd arrived even a quarter hour later.

Abruptly Dorian ended the kiss and his hands rose to cup Cullen's face as he pressed their foreheads together. "I do not have sufficient words to express my gratitude," he said softly. "Much as I prefer not to play the role of damsel in distress, I admit I could not imagine a more welcome Knight in shining armor."

Cullen couldn't help but bark a laugh at the notion. "I am quite as far from a noble knight as one may be, believe you me. I was simply a desperate man."

Dorian's lips curved up on one side. "Mayhap that be an improvement over Knight, then. Certes I would prefer no other."

"For a dashing rescue?" Cullen asked, laughing softly.

"For that, as well," Dorian said with a gentle smile before pressing close for a soft, slow kiss.

That smile and those words evoked a warmth that even the kiss could not, and Cullen melted into Dorian, pulling him close. When their lips parted, a grin had lit upon his face. "Admittedly, an abandoned storeroom in a storage warehouse feels to be less than apropos for such confessions."

Dorian laughed, a low and relaxed sound. "Hmm, true. Yet I find it hard to move?" His hips edged forward as he spoke, leaving little mystery as to what he referred, and they shared a smile.

"I as well. Yet 'twould be better to move on. There are more comfortable places to relax, I vouch." He leaned down to retrieve the swords and abruptly straightened when a hand landed on his backside and squeezed. "Tush, sir!" he said with a laugh. "Mayhap we should go yonder?" He held out the sword he'd taken from the Mantuan henchman.

"As you wish, since you do protest with such demure demeanor," Dorian said with a mock sigh as he took the sword, though his stance as he checked the blade in the dim light spoke of sobriety. When next he spoke, his voice reflected it as well. "I fear we have not seen the last of them. I was foolish, to behave as if I could not be touched." He looked away for a moment. "`Twas Felix sent you hither?"

Cullen nodded, taking the time to examine the blade he had from Felix. "His father spoke of imminent and unsavory action on the part of yours. I could not abide, not with such suspicion of danger to you."

"And well you did not," Dorian said softly, gaze still averted. "I was… not at my best when they accosted me."

Though curious, Cullen refrained from questioning. "I have an old acquaintance who lives near the Bridge. He can take us in, at least for the nonce."

Dorian nodded. "Then let us depart. I presume you have a different path than that which led us hither? That will more than likely be warded."

"Naturally," Cullen said with an overly confident demeanor, though he knew Dorian would know it for the facade it was. Tucking the blade into the usually empty loop at his belt, he scrutinized Dorian for a moment. "You do appear to have scuffled. Mayhap you could pretend to an abundance of drink."

Dorian grimaced. "It would… not be difficult."

Cullen frowned. "What is your meaning?" he asked, stepping closer and gently cradling Dorian's chin so the man would face him.

With a heartfelt sigh, Dorian said, "I… had quite a different evening planned. Mayhap I tried to use wine to solace myself."

"Ah." Suddenly Dorian's comment about not being at his best when his father's henchmen found him made quite a bit more sense. Leaning forward, Cullen brushed his lips against those beneath that delightful mustache, then stepped back. "Well, you look roughed up enough it will only aid in your deception," he said with a sympathetic smile. After all, he understood Dorian's dilemma intimately.

The smile Dorian offered back was tremulous at first, then grew stronger the longer he met Cullen's gaze. "Not by my choice, I assure you. Those louts have no respect for fine clothes." He straightened, attempted to correct his clothing, then shrugged. "Let us venture forth then," he said with a more certain mien.

Cullen nodded, taking the lead as he took them from the warren of warehouses. There were a couple of close calls with that familiar livery, and once a man followed them for a while, but Cullen was able to lose him in the weaver's warehouse amidst the endless bales of cotton. He'd hunted so many men and women through these tight, confusing corridors that the instinct remained for how to lose a pursuer amongst them.

Eventually they emerged into a street which would eventually lead him to the house of the old acquaintance - one who understood on an intimate level a similar kind of Hell as Cullen did, though not the same Hell. As they strolled down the street, Cullen ostentatiously supporting Dorian in their charade, he murmured, "For your knowledge, I should inform you that my friend is a Turk."

Dorian chuckled. "Why, Cullen, I never would have suspected of you being an intimate of an enemy of all Christendom."

"His allegiance no longer lies with the Empire," Cullen quipped. "He jests of someday returning when the nightmares of the wars he fought for them fade, yet I suspect many more years will pass before the nightmares do." Shaking his head, Cullen continued, "He's a good man, though. We've been there for each other for times beyond counting over these past few years."

"Then I shall control my tongue," Dorian grunted. His voice dropped slightly, and he murmured, "Save when it involves you."

Cullen felt his cheeks warm, and he cleared his throat. "He lives not far."

Dorian started to chuckle softly, then suddenly halted precipitously in his tracks, pulling Cullen back to his side. "Yonder," he said softly, nodding to where the back street they walked upon joined the main thoroughfare.

A stream of soft curses came from Cullen's lips as he saw several men step into the mouth of the street. His sword was out in one swift motion, held with a ready ease that spoke not of actor's training. "They shall not have you," he swore.

"Not if it means your end," Dorian said in hushed tones. "I withstood Father's demands once before, I can do it again."

Cullen shot him an almost angry glance. "Not so. Anyone can be broken, believe you me."

As Dorian looked at him with a puzzled expression which turned thoughtful, Cullen raised his voice and called to the men ahead of them. "Leave us be. I shall defend us, if pressed."

He heard steel drawn next to him, and glanced over to see Dorian take his place next to Cullen, a grim look on his face. "We shall defend ourselves," he said with grim defiance. "Let us pass."

In answer, there was the sound of blades drawn, but not from ahead of them. Cullen pivoted quickly, catching the blade of the first of the men to flank them and swipe it to the side while Dorian's sword darted beneath the defense of a second man to slash across his thigh. From there, the fight was engaged. A quick evaluation of their position with enemies both in front and behind led Cullen to grab Dorian's arm and pull him to a nearby wall, ignoring the sting of a blade on his arm as they found a more defensible location.

Abruptly a voice called something in Italian, and the men they were fighting stepped back, disengaging entirely. As they moved to join their fellows at the mouth of the alley, another man approached them, this one unarmed and dressed as a noble. Cullen heard Dorian inhale sharply, and when his companion lowered his blade, Cullen realized who, precisely, they were now facing.

A surmise proven correct when Dorian breathed, "Father."

"Mio figlio," the man said in a voice Cullen could only call weary as he gestured to Cullen. "Ditegli di-"

Dorian held up his hand with a sharp gesture. "You do not have the right to call me that," he said in a tight tone of fury. "And this is how we will speak."

The older man sighed. "You have grown even more stubborn," he replied in thickly accented English. "I had hoped that I could speak reason to you-"

"Reason?" Dorian surged forward a step, and Cullen reached out instinctively to put a steadying hand on the man's sword arm. Dorian took a deep breath and nodded. "We've had this discussion, Father. Or had you forgotten?"

"Dorian," the man began, but Dorian seemed to grab the word from the air and toss it aside with an angry gesture.

"Nay, you have already made yourself perfectly clear, Father." He pointed at the men lying on the ground, and the ones waiting at the end of the street. "You did not even wish to give me a choice in the manner of my return. As always, you think that you know what is best for me, because you assume that it aligns so very nicely with the interests of Mantua."

The man raised a hand, trying to talk again, "I know how this must look, but it was never my intent to harm you."

Dorian stepped forward again, though this time the sword remained low, so Cullen did not interfere. Pointing at his bruised cheek, Dorian grated slowly, "Does this look like no harm, Father? Regardless of your intent, it has happened."

"I need you with me, Dorian," his father attempted once more, but Dorian laughed.

"Nay, that be not your need. You need your heir, a puppet you can trot in front of Cosimo de Medici to get that alliance you've been craving. Time is running out, isn't it? Soon all the Medici daughters will be snatched up by other lords." He leaned forward, face set in a mask. "Let them. I care not. Not anymore. You made sure of that." He stopped, chest heaving, and then abruptly turned away, stalking to the nearest building to splay his free hand upon the wall and bow his head, obviously distraught.

When his father stepped after him, Cullen interceded and held up his sword. "Come no further," he warned in a voice he hadn't used in years, and the Duke immediately halted.

The man's eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between Cullen and Dorian. "Ah, it becomes clear to me now. He dallies because of you." When Cullen only laughed at him, his face grew angry. "Do you know whom you threaten, ragazzo?"

At that, Dorian's head snapped around, and he walked up to stand at Cullen's side. "You know nothing of me, Father. I wonder if ever you did. Do not dare turn that faulty judgment upon others of my acquaintance."

His father winced, but it was only momentary. "Enough of this. I need you to return home, Dorian. I promise you, I only desired conversation, but-"

"-but you knew I would absolutely refuse any invitation, so you sent these fools after me," Dorian grated, gesturing towards the Mantuan henchmen still gathered at the end of the street. Cullen's eyes instinctively followed, counting the number of soldiers in preparation of a potential battle… and noticed a new element which made him smile, ever so slightly. He turned his attention back in time to hear Dorian say, "I will stay away from Italy, eschew my family name, whatever you require of me to avoid embarrassment. I implore only that you leave me be."

"I am sorry, Dorian." Cullen had to give the Duke credit: he actually did sound apologetic. "Yet needs be you must accompany me back to Mantua."

Cullen took a half-step forward, bringing his sword up once more, and let a smile come to his lips which had been perfected in a time of madness. Satisfaction surged through him when the noble took a half-step back in alarm. "I would rethink your stance, sirrah," he said with pointed insult. "You will find your position not nearly as firm as you believe."

The Duke's face darkened with wrath. "How dare you address me in such a manner?"

Cullen glanced down the small street and pointed with his sword. "I dare because of that."

Dorian and his father both turned to look, and Dorian began to laugh heartily. All the Mantuan soldiers were flat on the ground, and in the middle of their supine bodies stood a huge bull of a man: broad shouldered, thick in the torso, and towering above a much shorter man who stood with him, cudgel swinging easily in his grasp. The huge man nudged one of the groaning men on the ground. "Looks like they're down for the count, doesn't it?" he rumbled, then looked up at the Duke, revealing a face scarred by many battles and an eyepatch which glinted dully in the dimming light. "Sorry about that. They looked at me funny."

The Duke paled, then looked back to Cullen, whose smile had not changed. He knew his eyes spoke of death to those who looked, and Mantua was no exception.

"This is not over," the man swore as he backed away from Dorian and Cullen.

"Aye, Father. It is," Dorian said, sounding weary. "Addio per sempre."

The Duke did not quite scuttle, but he certainly moved away at speed, giving all involved a wide berth as he fled the scene with what little dignity he had left.

The huge man gestured to Cullen, who nodded and sheathed his sword. Looking at Dorian, Cullen said, "Let us leave this place."

"Most gladly," Dorian breathed, and both men headed towards their erstwhile ally and his companion. "The Turk, I presume?"

Cullen chuckled softly. "The very same. You see why I brought him to mind when I desired aid?"

"Most assuredly. Though at present, the only aid I desire is a nice, warm bed."

After a glance to make sure that he understood Dorian's true meaning, Cullen nodded. "That is a sentiment I agree with most heartily."

"Come on," the Turk said as they drew near. "Let's get you off the streets before the Duke thinks to pay for more muscle."

"You have our thanks, Boğa," Cullen told the man.

"Hey, that's what friends are for, isn't it? It's a good thing they raised a ruckus looking for you, though, or I might not have heard about it in time," the huge man mused with a grunt before gesturing them to follow. "Let's go."

"To where, my good man?" Dorian asked.

"Somewhere safe," Boğa promised.

Cullen sighed with relief as they set into motion. God's blood, what a day.