The Rebel Base
Cullen’s life had been a series of bizarre events since the Conclave—demons raining from an enormous hole in the sky, Venatori cultists, templars corrupted by red lyrium and led by none other than his former roommate, Raleigh Sampson. And now, at the behest of the newly-proclaimed Inquisitor, Cullen had flown across Ferelden on the back of a griffon who also happened to be his shapeshifter former lover, Brenna Amell.
Flying was both terrifying and fascinating. One slip would send him hurtling to a quick, messy death, yet once he settled into the saddle he accepted that he was safe. Unlike the wardens who had designed the contraption, Cullen and Trevelyan wouldn’t be doing aerial battle with darkspawn. Seeing Ferelden from the air was almost like surveying the map in the war room—small trees bunched close together, rivers wound through the rolling hills as though painted by the Maker. They reached their destination, somewhere in the Brecilian Forest he reckoned judging by the direction of their journey, as the sun was setting. He and the Inquisitor dismounted, and Brenna returned to her natural form, yawned and stretched.
“Everyone all right?” she asked.
Cullen nodded without comment—his hands had ached before they left, but now they also shook from the strain of gripping the griffon’s saddle. The pain in his limbs had increased the longer he was off the lyrium, and he was anxious to see what manner of remedies Brenna’s people could offer to ease his symptoms.
“Can you teach me that spell?” Trevelyan asked. “That was amazing.”
Brenna laughed. “I can teach you to change your shape, but we’ll start with something simpler, like a cat.”
“Who taught you?” Cullen asked. “That’s certainly no Circle spell.”
“Morrigan did, during the Blight. Her mother is an apostate, so she learned all manner of spells that the Circle would never approve of. Old magic, she called it.” She rolled her shoulders and waved them onward. “This way, gentlemen.”
After spending the last decade in Kirkwall, Cullen had grown used to city life. The darkness of the forest was unnerving, and he found himself distracted by the rasp of dried autumn leaves scattered by the wind. The trees pressed too close to the faint path, and anything could be hiding within those shadows.
The path led to the archway of an ancient ruin—a crumbling wall that towered above them, almost consumed by clinging vines and the tops of nearby trees that poked through windows long empty of glass. A curious swirling mist filled the archway, and Brenna stopped and tilted her head.
“This is the gateway.” She motioned for them to join her. “Vanya, what do you hear?”
Trevelyan stepped forward and his brow furrowed with concentration. “There’s a whisper in there. Words. I don’t recognize the language.”
“Very good. Cullen?”
He frowned—his templar training concentrated on breaking magic, not listening to it. He reached for his sword in reflex and his aching fingers gripped its hilt. He closed his eyes and focused—it reminded him of the rustle of bored parishioners trying not to fidget during the quiet lull of a chantry service. The memory allowed him to recognize the whisper Trevelyan had heard. The words were foreign, but the cadence was seared into his mind.
“Oh Maker, hear my cry,” he recited. “Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places.”
“Excellent. I’m impressed,” Brenna said. “Do you speak Antivan?”
“No, I recognized the rhythm.”
“The pass phrase changes regularly. This one is longer than most, probably Ser Antonio’s contribution. He’s very devout. You don’t need to understand the language, just repeat the phrase correctly.” She spoke the words and the mist disappeared, and she studied both of them, her expression guarded. “Many lives depend on the safety of this place, our Sanctuary. By showing you this I’m entrusting you with those lives.”
“I understand,” Cullen said, and Trevelyan echoed the sentiment. “You aren’t afraid that intruders will hear the phrase?”
“Most haven’t taken the time. They charge through it, which deposits them in a different area in the forest. Our guards are alerted if they try to dispel it.”
“Guards?” Trevelyan asked.
Brenna whistled, a short burst like birdsong, and two answering whistles sounded from the trees. Cullen nodded, impressed.
With the barrier behind them they continued on the path—now wider, swept, and well traveled. Crumbling columns lined the path, and torches illuminated a large structure loomed before them, its walls covered with clinging ivy. A tower reached past the treetops, and a dome covered the main building. Like Skyhold, it was clear that someone tended and inhabited the area.
They reached the outer wall protecting the complex. Brenna stopped at the open gate and nodded to the guards who watched them—a man with a sword and shield and a female elf who carried a mage’s staff. Their armor appeared well made and broken in, and the heraldry combined the sword of the templars and the ring of the Circle of Magi, all surrounded by the Chantry’s sunburst flames. Well organized, Cullen noted. Nothing like the ragtag group of mages that Grand Enchanter Fiona led.
Brenna motioned to the twin statues flanking the gate—a woman’s torso, sans head and arms, with great wings sweeping from her shoulders. “This is Mythal’s temple, the elven goddess of justice. We are guests in her home, and I ask that you respect that.”
“Of course,” Trevelyan said. Cullen had no quarrel with long-dead elven gods, and he nodded.
They ascended the steps and emerged into the temple complex. New buildings had been constructed throughout the open area outside of the main structure. Among them Cullen recognized the smoke of a smithy, the boisterous noise of a mabari kennel, and the rollicking sounds of a tavern. Considering the overhaul that Skyhold was currently undergoing, he understood how difficult an undertaking it must have been to accomplish. Particularly since Sanctuary had been built in secret, while Skyhold benefitted from the resources of the Inquisition.
“The grand tour will need to wait for the morning,” Brenna said. “For now we’ll visit the dining hall and then show you to your rooms. I’m famished after all that flying.”
They entered the main building and Trevelyan gasped. The grand entrance was enormous, larger than the main hall at Skyhold. The evening sky peeked through a hole in the dome overhead and a tree branch stretched through it. Trees had grown up the stone walls, like living ornaments. Sconces lit the room, and the light glittered across the mosaics that covered the walls and portions of the floor. Guards were posted throughout the room at access points—each pair consisting of a mage and a soldier, most likely a templar—and people milled about, chatting casually.
“This is amazing,” Trevelyan said. “How many people live here?”
“I don’t know the current number. A few hundred at this location.”
Cullen quirked an eyebrow. “How many locations are there?”
“More than one.” The corners of her mouth twitched.
Trevelyan continued to gape at their surroundings. “You have a few hundred mages here?”
“We have mages, templars, members of the chantry, and a variety of family members, tradesmen, and other civilians. Anyone who wishes to build a better life is welcome in Sanctuary.”
“How do you define a better life?” Cullen asked.
“With peace. ‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just.’” Brenna folded her hands. “We didn’t recruit those who were seeking revenge or power over others. We offer our citizens a fair chance to live free without the fear of being punished for the supposed crime of being born with magic. There is so much good we can do—” She broke off and smiled dryly. “But you didn’t come all this way for a lecture. Let’s continue.”
The evening meal appeared to be in full swing when they entered the dining hall. The room was loud with laughter and conversation, including children’s shouts and shrieks. Long granite dining tables filled the space—the stone probably scavenged from elsewhere in the temple. Cullen’s stomach rumbled at the savory scent of roast boar that permeated the air. He had a hit-or-miss relationship with food as of late—some scents would instantly turn his stomach, and there were days he couldn’t eat at all.
He recognized Ser Thrask first, because the man’s fiery red hair stood out in any crowd. As Cullen continued to scan the room he spotted more familiar faces. Many were mages from the Kirkwall circle—after all, Hawke and Brenna had absconded with more than half of the Gallows’ mages to save them from Meredith’s purge. There was a large number of templars in the crowd, but perhaps that was not so surprising. Brenna had always made it clear that she didn’t hate templars, she hated bullies. Blessed are the peacekeepers, indeed.
A squeal returned Cullen’s attention to Brenna. A young girl dashed toward her and Brenna tossed her in the air before planting a loud kiss on the child’s cheek. “Hello, sunshine! Did you miss me?”
The air huffed from Cullen’s lungs as though he had been punched in the gut. Maker’s breath. He scrambled to determine the child’s age—four years old? Brenna settled the child upon her hip as she turned toward them.
“This is our cousin Vanya,” she said. “Vanya, this is Andra Hawke, Bethany and Nathaniel’s daughter. Her twin brother, Carver, is probably pestering the knights. And this is my friend Cullen. He likes to play chess, too.”
“Really?” The child perked up and studied him with interest. Cullen relaxed as he recognized Bethany Hawke in the girl’s features—dark hair and big brown eyes.
“Yes, and sometimes I even let him win.” Brenna winked at Cullen.
His face flushed, but instead of chess his thoughts were filled with the idea of a little girl with red-gold curls in Brenna’s arms, a dream of what could have happened had he taken her hand in the Gallows’ courtyard instead of standing with the Order. Maker, perhaps he should have let Leliana come in his stead. Everything here was designed to skew his thoughts toward what might have been.
“Is this our new cousin?” Bethany approached with a warm smile. She was heavily pregnant, as Brenna had informed them.
“Yes,” Trevelyan said. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He blushed as she enfolded him in a welcoming hug, and then he shook Nathaniel’s outstretched hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your genealogical research into our family. We should make a copy for Dorian. He might be able to fill in his connection.”
“I’d be happy to.” Bethany’s brow rose as she turned. “Knight-Captain Cullen?”
“Not anymore.” He smiled tightly. “I left the Order.”
“Cullen is the commander of the Inquisition’s forces.” Brenna set Andra down and the girl took her mother’s hand.
“Congratulations.” Bethany smiled. “Here, join us at our table and we’ll find you something to eat.”
It was...pleasant, Cullen decided as the group settled in. Almost too good to be true considering the years of quiet, tense meals he had endured in the Gallows. He listened as Bethany peppered Trevelyan with questions, and he wondered what things would have been like had the Circle allowed mage families to stay together. Brenna wouldn’t have been sent to Kinloch Hold—she could have studied at the Gallows while living with her family in Hightown. The Hawke family wouldn’t have had to flee to Ferelden. Perhaps it would solve the problem of parents attempting to hide their children after they showed signs of magic, and the trouble that choice inevitably caused.
He thought of the day Knight-Commander Meredith revealed the cause of her unshakable stance on mages to him.
“My sister was a mage.” Meredith looked past Cullen, as though seeing through him as she focused on the distant memory. “She was a kind, gentle soul, and completely unprepared for such a burden. My family hid her. We knew she could never last in the Circle, or pass their rigorous tests. Amelia was terrified but utterly grateful for our efforts. We thought we were doing the right thing.”
The knight commander swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. “And then she was possessed by a demon. My sister killed our family, and I only barely escaped. Before the templars brought her down she had slain seventy innocents. So I understand all too well why the mages struggle, as well as why the laws we uphold are so vital. I will not allow my sister’s death to be without purpose. It will serve as a reminder of where good intentions can lead.”
Sanctuary seemed to be built on good intentions, but a single abomination was capable of terrible destruction—a truth that haunted Cullen’s nightmares. At least Brenna understood that danger as much as he did, which would explain why she kept guards posted throughout her utopia. As First Enchanter Vivienne was fond of saying, magic is dangerous just as fire is dangerous. Cullen was curious to see what other preventative measures existed within Sanctuary.
“Querida, who are our gorgeous guests?”
Cullen’s stomach soured with a wave of jealousy. He knew this must be Zevran—Brenna lit up at the sight of the elf and smiled broadly. Cullen knew of Zevran’s history with Brenna, and though he knew that Zevran had been with Brenna when she battled her way through the circle tower during Uldred’s revolt he had no memory of him.
“Hello, handsome.” Brenna embraced him and greeted him with a kiss. “This is my cousin Vanya Trevelyan.”
“Welcome to our humble home.” Zevran bowed. “I always enjoy meeting more of my darling Brenna’s family.”
“I think you might remember Cullen,” Brenna said. “Though I don’t believe you were formally introduced.”
Zevran turned his attention on Cullen and grinned, a sly glint in his eyes. “I never forget a handsome Ferelden in distress. Congratulations on commanding the Inquisition. I must say that you look particularly fetching in that armor.”
“I, uh...thank you?” Cullen looked to Brenna in confusion.
She chuckled and patted Zevran’s shoulder. “Feliz cacería, mi corazón.”
The elf’s grin widened as he took the empty seat beside Cullen and leaned close. “Tell me, Commander, have you ever experienced the exquisite beauty of Antiva City?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Now that is truly a shame. Our lady is the one thing I love more than my country.”
Our lady? Cullen doubted that he meant blessed Andraste.
Brenna had attempted to explain to Cullen her unconventional romantic arrangement with Zevran. He supposed it made sense in a way—a Circle mage and an Antivan Crow would have no expectations of having a typical Chantry marriage. Aside from his relationship with Brenna, he had found his pleasures when opportunities presented themselves. He considered himself a pragmatist about such things.
But nothing had prepared him for Zevran’s relentless flirting.
Cullen wasn’t prepared for flirting, in general. Flirtation might as well have been a foreign language as far as he was concerned. He was grateful that the majority of his courtship with Brenna had taken place through correspondence, because it had given him ample time to find the right words. Dorian had flirted with Cullen since the mage joined the Inquisition, but Dorian seemed to flirt with everyone as a sign of affection.
If Dorian’s flirtation was a candle flame, Zevran’s was a fireball. The elf made the mention of a lillo flute lascivious, and his commentary on Antivan leather had Cullen tugging at his collar and shifting in his seat. Then Zevran started quoting Antivan poetry and Cullen’s breeches became embarrassingly constrictive, as though he was a virginal Chantry boy undone by a few naughty words. Maker’s breath. It didn’t help that Zevran was attractive. Brenna often teased that the Hero of Ferelden preferred pretty blonds, and Zevran certainly fit that description. Slender, leanly muscled, with fine features and full, sultry lips that Cullen’s traitorous brain had imagined wrapped around his cock, and then he nearly choked to death on a mouthful of wine as he tried to banish the image from his mind.
“I think that’s enough excitement for one day.” Brenna planted a kiss atop Andra’s head, who had fallen asleep in her lap. She handed the child to Nathaniel, then beckoned Trevelyan and Cullen to follow her. The room had emptied while Cullen was distracted by Zevran, and only a few stragglers remained.
“The living quarters are this way,” she said.
Cullen tried to memorize the route, but the stone halls looked the same and he was exhausted from spending the day hyperalert to avoid falling from the griffon’s back. Brenna finally paused at a T-junction. “Vanya, your room is this way. Zev, would you show Cullen to his room, please?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Zevran bowed. “This way, Commander.”
The room was larger than his quarters at Skyhold and it included the comfort of a stone basin for bathing. He barely noticed any other details, because he kept his focus on his guide.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Zevran smiled, and Cullen doubted that he meant an extra blanket.
“No, thank you. This will do quite well.”
“Of course, if the room is not to your liking you are quite welcome to join us in our bed.”
“I…” Cullen coughed as his face burned. “Thank you, but—” He pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for a quick death when he spontaneously combusted.
Zevran chuckled. “The offer stands. You need not decide to take us up on it now, or ever. I will not be offended if you prefer Brenna’s company to mine. I myself have a relationship with Fenris that is separate from mine with Brenna.”
“And no one gets jealous?”
“No. Not yet, at least. I cannot say it will never happen.” Zevran shrugged. “Each of us understands that our feelings for one person do not lessen our feelings for another. I love Brenna. I never expected to love anyone as I do her. I was raised in a whorehouse until I was purchased by the Crows. It was not the sort of upbringing that encourages romantic ideas, and yet, here I am.”
Cullen smiled softly. “Brenna does have that effect on people. Perhaps if the three of us could sit down and talk? A lot has happened since I left Kirkwall. I had hoped to see Brenna again, but I wasn’t expecting her to show up on Haven’s doorstep with a group of templars, of all things.”
“She does like to make an entrance.” Zevran laughed. “We should have time to talk after the council meeting tomorrow. Get some rest, Commander.”
He bowed and left, and Cullen stared at the closed door as he attempted to process the elf’s offer. It would certainly be an interesting conversation.
Sleep had been elusive since Haven—his nightmares had hardly needed new fuel, but the red templars seemed an ideal subject. The brethren of his past, twisted into mindless monsters who marched upon his new life and destroyed his new home. But nightmares were not his problem when Cullen’s head hit the pillow. Instead, his thoughts fixated on one of Zevran’s ridiculous Antivan poems.
The symphony I see in thee, it whispers songs to me. Songs of hot breath upon my neck, songs of soft grunts by my head, songs of hands on a muscled back, songs of thee come to my bed.
They wanted Cullen to join them. Not the quick fumbling of an opportune pleasure, nor the few hours spent together when Brenna visited Kirkwall. Something permanent—an arrangement sinful enough to make a Chantry sister faint, and his imagination seemed determined to torment him with thoughts of heated breaths and eager moans, slick golden skin over lean muscles.
Maker’s balls. They were going to be the death of him, if Corypheus didn’t kill him first.
***
“Are you all right?” Brenna’s brow furrowed as she studied Cullen.
He rubbed the back of his neck and caught the weary sigh before it could slip free. Thank the Maker that she had come to fetch him and not that damnable elf. Cullen had tossed and turned all night, half aroused even after he had taken himself in hand to relieve the need that Zevran had left him with.
Cullen forced a smile instead. “It’s nothing. I didn’t sleep well.”
Brenna’s face fell and she cursed under her breath. “I’m so sorry. I should have had Ser Thrask show you to the infirmary after dinner last night. Are the symptoms bad?”
“No worse than usual.” He blushed—now he had her worried about his withdrawal symptoms. Not without merit, because a familiar low-grade ache was already lodged behind his eyes, but the pain was manageable for now.
“I’d planned to have you meet with him after you and Vanya speak with Bethany about Corypheus. Do you want to go now instead?”
“No, it’s fine.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are they really fine or are you being stubborn?”
Cullen laughed. “Really fine, I promise. Let’s collect the Inquisitor before he finds trouble to get into.”
After a light breakfast they met with Bethany Hawke to discuss her adventure in the Grey Warden prison. Despite the grim subject, she looked happy—at peace. Cullen couldn’t remember if he had ever encountered a truly happy Circle mage. Even the mages who seemed content still exhibited a degree of tension, particularly when interacting with a templar.
He left the meeting with a bit more information than they had gleaned from Varric, though overall it still left the Inquisition with more questions than answers. Brenna seemed disturbed by Bethany’s account of how Corypheus had momentarily taken control of both her and Anders’ mind. The Grey Wardens were still missing, and Cullen hoped that they weren’t part of Corypheus’s growing army.
Ser Thrask met them when Brenna led them out to the training grounds. Trevelyan barely noticed Cullen’s departure, too awestruck by the sight of the mage and templar teams sparring. The combat did look intriguing, but he would learn more about Brenna’s troops later.
Thrask led him to a small wooden building set away from the others in a quiet spot close to the temple complex’s outer wall. Cullen followed Thrask inside and he recognized the setup of an infirmary. The grassy scent of elfroot filled the air, and cots lined the walls, separated by curtains for privacy. The cots were empty at the moment, but two people sat at a wooden table in the back of the room. Cullen startled as he recognized Ser Jacques and Ser Nadia—two templars he had served with in Kirkwall.
“Maker’s breath, I thought you both died the day that Hightown burned.”
Nadia shook her head. “We intended to protect the Circle’s children from Meredith’s purge. When Hawke began evacuating the mages she recruited us to her cause.”
Thrask took a seat at the table and motioned for Cullen to join them. “Lady Brenna had hoped that you might join us one day, when you were ready to leave the Order. I hope you don’t mind that she told us that you had quit the lyrium.”
“I’m grateful for any help you can offer.” Cullen exhaled an anxious breath. He trusted these people—Thrask had been his roommate for a time, and he had fought beside Jacques and Nadia. Strange that they were reunited now by breaking their ties to the Order.
“At first, I hadn’t intended to stop taking it,” Thrask said. “Lady Brenna put King Bhelan on Orzammar’s throne, so we knew we would have a source of lyrium for our templar recruits once the resistance’s plans were in motion. Only we hadn’t planned on Anders forcing our hand.” He grimaced and rubbed his eyes.
“You were already working with the mage resistance?” Cullen asked, and Thrask chuckled.
“To be honest, I was working with Kirkwall’s mage underground before Lady Brenna recruited me. That’s why she chose me.”
Cullen’s brow furrowed as he looked to Nadia and Jacques. “And you?”
“Not us,” Jacques said. “Meredith calling for the annulment was our breaking point. There was no justice in calling for the execution of circle mages in response to the crime of one lone apostate. Particularly an apostate who had already been killed for his crime.”
“I agree. I stood against her that day, but I…” Cullen swallowed hard as the memory tightened his throat. “I wasn’t ready to give up on the Order yet. So, you were left without a source for lyrium?”
“The chantry in Amaranthine city had been doling out my doses,” Thrask said.
“And we weren’t able to bring any additional lyrium when we left the Gallows,” Jacques said. “The knight commander kept it locked up tight, and we didn’t have time to break into the stores.”
“So when we all left Amaranthine for Sanctuary we were forced to ration our lyrium,” Thrask said. “It became the beginnings of our treatment regimen. By the time a lyrium source was obtained we were so far along in weaning off of it that we decided to stop taking it altogether. Normally, if you were one of our recruits, we would explain how our healers would reduce your dosage over time and what treatments we have devised to combat the different withdrawal symptoms.”
“Except that I stopped taking it altogether. Brenna already scolded me about that.” Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
“And there are the unique demands of your position, Commander,” Nadia said. “We can’t give you a sleeping draught when you must be alert at all times.”
“Or anything that dulls my senses,” he added.
“Of course. We’ll build your own regimen with these things in mind.” Thrask waved a hand at their surroundings. The back of the room was lined with work tables that were covered with alchemy tools, and the walls and ceiling held bunches of dried herbs. Mostly elfroot, but he thought he recognized a few others.
“Not going to lie to you,” Nadia said. “Withdrawal is fucking hard. We’ve all been through it. I was nauseous for weeks, couldn’t keep anything down. I lost so much weight I looked like a walking skeleton.”
“My hands shook so much I couldn’t hold a quill, or a spoon,” Jacques said.
“Hence the potions and teas we’ve developed to treat the symptoms,” Thrask said. “They’ll help, but ultimately, you have to fight through it. If you have questions, or just simply wish to talk, anything you say will not leave this room.”
A weight lifted from Cullen—he could do this. “Thank you.”