As Dorian's breath slowed into that of true slumber, Cullen sighed and staggered back from the bed. Glancing at the servant who had helped redress the sleeping man's wounds, he said quietly, "Is the master of the house yet awake?"
The servant bobbed her head, moving towards the door with a glance back at Cullen in an invitation for him to follow.
Resisting the urge to run his fingers through Dorian's tousled hair, Cullen grabbed his shirt on the way from the room, his own recently re-bandaged arm still aching fiercely as he followed her down the narrow steps. She led him to a large, warm room with a fire that still blazed despite the lateness of the night. After bobbing a respectful curtsy, she left, leaving Cullen to approach the large chairs in front of the fire. "I wish to thank you for your aid, Master," he ventured, glancing around for Krem but not finding him.
A rugged, somewhat handsome man peered around the back of one of the chairs, his short hair tied back in a queue. "Ah, she brought one of you down. You both seemed on the point of collapse upon your arrival, so I was unsure I would meet either of you tonight." With a chuckle, he gestured to the other chair. "I sent Krem back to Boğa to let him know you two were safe. You've had a rough night of it, I take it?"
Cullen offered the man a smile as he sat down, carefully taking in his appearance with a practiced eye. He was short of stature, but broad of shoulder, and his doublet and shirt were both open to expose a large expanse of chest from which a nest of curled hair sprung. A quill and pen rested upon some paper on a small desk beside him, hinting at a man of learning - a scholar, mayhap? "Aye. We were accosted by brigands, then chased through the streets until we managed to evade them. Our wounds were aggravated by the run, and Dorian's was worse than mine. He sleeps now, else he would offer his gratitude as well, Master…?" His voice trailed off as he waited expectantly.
The man grunted. "Krem forgot to mention that little detail, huh? Can't say I'm surprised. Name's Varric, Varric Tethras." He looked at Cullen, his hands rising to steeple in front of his face. "And you are Cullen of Rutherford. And he's Dorian of Italy, though I won't go into too much more detail there."
Cullen grew wary, troubled at the ease with which the man plucked facts from the air. "How do you-"
"Know so much?" Varric asked, eyebrow raising, before his finger moved to rest upon one of his temples. "Many delicate matters here abide. Those of you and yours are only some of them. On occasion those matters turn from delicate to inconvenient for a time. That's when Boğa helps me out. `Tis time to repay one of those favors I owe him for such assistance."
After a few moments of mulling, Cullen said, "You would be the little bird, then?"
Varric gave Cullen a subtle wink and tapped his nose. "All I ask in exchange is that you tell me everything." He reached over and patted the paper. "`Twill become a tale none would believe, and then you and Dorian can pass into obscurity. Who believes stories are actually true, hmm? No one."
Intrigued by the idea, Cullen leaned forward with interest on his face. "And how does that work?"
"I tell the town criers what to say, and give the actors their words. My tales grace the tongues of all the best gossipmongers in the city, and from London they go to all parts of the continent and beyond, even unto the heralds of Italy And no one believes a story is true - but they're fun to talk about. Give me a month, and everyone will know the story of the estranged son of the Duke of Mantua who escaped into the fog of the English countryside with his lover at his side - yet no one will believe it." Varric grinned and settled back into his chair. "Trust me. It has been done many times before. Sometimes fame is the best obscurity."
"Name one example," Cullen challenged him.
Varric grinned. "Ever heard of a fellow by the name of Robin Hood?"
"Oh, he's just a story," Cullen dismissed, then paused and thought about the seemingly simple question for a long while. Finally he nodded to Varric with grudging admiration. "I admit to being impressed."
"`Tis a longstanding tradition, and I but the most recent wordsmith. So fret you not, Curly." Varric chuckled when Cullen reached up self-consciously to comb through his messy hair. "I have ways of making it all work out for the best."
A thunderclap abruptly tore through the air, and Cullen startled. "God's blood, a storm?"
"Aye. The tempest has been building these last few hours. Fortune favored you to arrive before it struck." He settled back into his chair and pulled the pad of paper onto his lap. "You should go up and get some sleep. I can get all the details from you on the morrow. From both of you."
Cullen nodded, too tired to disagree. "Anon, then," he said to the man, yawning as he stumbled his way to the door.
He eventually found his way back to the room where he'd left Dorian after a misadventure with a broom closet and a hissing tawny cat. Shutting the door behind him, he shrugged off his shirt, corset, and stockings without much thought. Left only in breeches and codpiece, he rounded the bed and used the last of his wakefulness to slip under the blankets without disturbing Dorian. Once that was done, he relaxed upon the bed with a great sigh, then closed his eyes.
A moment before he slipped into slumber, an arm encircled his waist, and warmth pressed against the length of his body. Something tickled at his ear, and he thought he heard, "Dormi, tesoro."
Comprehension wasn't necessary to ensure the smile on his face lingered long past the moment he lost consciousness.