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The world felt heavy today. A dream flickered on the edges of his consciousness—the stink of blood, distant screams, a desperately whispered Chant. But Cullen had a job to do.
He got up and dressed. Though he’d left the Inquisition five months ago, he still expected to wear armour and a lion’s helm. But there would be time for that later. At the end of the month, he would rejoin the Inquisition and return to being Commander Cullen Rutherford. For now, he was just Cullen, and simple breeches, tunic and a vest were all he needed.
Peregrin was sitting by the door, tail wagging, watching him move throughout the cabin. Cullen patted him between the ears before opening the door.
It was a wet summer in north Ferelden; the sky was overcast again, and it had rained earlier that morning. His boots got muddy in a few steps. Perhaps he could get some cobbles put in? He’d have to check with the steward, Jean-Michel, to determine the cost.
Peregrin loped ahead of him, sniffing and marking fence posts, trees, and the sides of the five buildings in the sanctuary: Cullen’s cabin, the mess hall, the barracks, the smithy, and the kennels. He launched himself after a squirrel, which darted up a tree quickly, chittering down at the mabari. One thing I never noticed before I adopted Peregrin was how many squirrels there are on this earth.
When Cullen whistled, Peregrin trotted to Cullen’s side, obedient as ever.
In the mess hall, templars, ex-templars, kennel crew, stewards and staff all ate together. Three of those staff were mages specializing in the healing arts, courtesy of Grand Enchanter Vivienne. (The Knight-Commander’s gone mad, they had whispered in Kirkwall. And when he’d heard them, Cullen had stoppered his ears and hardened his heart. She was doing what needed to be done. Didn’t they understand?)
Of course, the mabari were here. Posey, their three-legged dog, bounded up to Peregrin, barking madly. Elderly Partner followed more sedately, the blind dog needing to follow the same path he always did. At one time, Cullen had thought he’d only adopt a few for his Sanctuary. He was very wrong. Cullen had abandoned the “P” naming with his other mabari.
He had 10 prized Fereldan war hounds, which had surprised some of the Sanctuary’s inhabitants when they arrived. The mage-templar war had seen an increase in abandoned mabari. Though the war hounds were prized enough in Ferelden that any kennel would take them in, not all of them had been abandoned in Ferelden. And the Inquisition’s reach was vast—when Leliana’s scouts heard news of an abandoned mabari, she sent the hound to Cullen’s Sanctuary.
The war hounds sniffed muzzles and rear ends in greeting. Pandora still wouldn’t leave her cage in the kennel. He’d have to check in on her later.
Cullen would have to check in on Orett, as well; he was staring balefully at his bowl of porridge, merely stirring it instead of eating. The young man had been having a hard time dealing with his lyrium addiction. Two months in, he’d been caught with lyrium he obtained on a day trip to Amaranthine, forcing Cullen to destroy his stash and forcing Orett to recommit to the laws of the Sanctuary. Cullen made a mental note to speak with him alone after he was done with his rounds.
The dogs followed him to the tables, staring at the eating humans with famished faces. They’d been fed before dawn by Kennelmaster Clements, or Cullen himself in the case of Peregrin. But human food would forever outclass cold meat in a bowl.
A middle-aged templar, Esther, hugged Cullen. She always did. “Ruprecht! I missed you.”
“I missed you too, Esther. How are you feeling today?” In her lyrium-addled state, she constantly mistook him for her brother, long dead of the Blight.
“Oh, fine. I played with a mabari today! The one…er, the one….” she peered at the assembled dogs for a few moments, before remembering, “the black one.” One day, deaf Midnight had started following her around; now, he never left her side. “He loves his treats, he does. Did you remember the scones? Mother said a dozen blueberry ones. Our aunties are coming in from Highever.”
“I have some coming in this morning, Esther.” Hopefully, all the rain hadn’t delayed their shipment of goods from Amaranthine. “You’ll have to taste test them and make sure they’re good enough.”
“Ruprecht! We can’t eat them. They’re for the aunties.” Esther had been a rule-follower all her life, and remained so even when lyrium had stripped her of her wits.
(Had she turned a blind eye when mages were made Tranquil for no reason? Or had only Cullen Rutherford, the man who helped Kirkwall fall, turned aside? Thank the Maker the Inquisitor had ordered a limited reversal for the Rite of Tranquility. If the first few trials were successful, all Tranquil would be reversed.)
Midnight padded up to Esther and sat beside her. His dark eyes watched her hands as they moved to her bowl—someone was hoping for a treat.
“I must leave you now, Esther. Remember, you’re going to Callaghan’s farm after your meal today.” The templars and ex-templars helped out on local farms, weeding, harvesting or tending livestock. It gave them more connections to the land around them and life beyond lyrium.
A pale, pathetic life. Cullen forced himself to listen to Esther, who was giving him instructions about what to do when he met the aunties.
“Please, do wear the sweater Auntie Karyn knitted you for Wintersend.” She patted Midnight idly as she talked. “I know you hate it, but just bear it for a few hours.”
“I will, Esther.” He stepped aside and continued on his rounds.
Not all the lyrium-addled templars were so sweet. Andrin, the oldest resident at 89 years old, wasn’t shy about expressing how much he wanted to die.
“Just throw me off a cliff,” he grumbled. His fingers were arthritic claws; Marcel, their apprentice-steward, helped feed him.
“There aren’t any cliffs around here,” Cullen said truthfully. Cassandra—Cullen never had gotten used to thinking of her as Divine Victoria—had granted them an old farm outside of Amaranthine. There were working farms to the east and west and rolling hills to the north.
“Get one of the mabari to rip out my throat. Why are there so many cursed mabari, anyway? We need to send them away. I stepped in dog shit morning.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. It was Delrin’s job to clean the grounds yesterday. I’ll let him know he missed some dung.” Cullen glanced at Marcel, who shook his head. When Andrin was in a dark mood, as he often was, he was prone to exaggeration.
And Andrin loved the mabari as much as anyone. Cullen often saw him cooing at Partner and petting him when he thought no one could see them. “With my eyes going, I’ll be as blind as he is soon,” Andrin liked to joke bitterly. “We’ll be the blind leading the blind!”
“If you kill yourself, you won’t feel the Maker’s love once you pass from this world,” the apprentice-steward said lightly. Cullen wondered what the fourteen-year-old’s parents would think about him having to respond to such ugly thoughts. Another person to check in with.
Andrin snorted. “I’m not going to the Maker, fool boy. Not after what I’ve done.”
The Champion of Kirkwall had stared at Cullen, eyes like fire. “Let me tell you what I’ve heard from the mages under your care, serah. Let me tell you about the beatings, the starvation, the assault. All while you stood by.”
It wasn’t my fault, he wanted to say then. Maker help him, some part of him still wanted to say it. But he had that luxury, didn’t he? He could walk away, and those mages couldn’t.
As if sensing his distress, Peregrin was padded over to Cullen’s side. He patted his friend between the ears then hurried to finish up the rest of his rounds. It was kind of Peregrin to care, but some pain was necessary.
“We still won’t kill you, Andrin. Why don’t you go outside and enjoy the day?”
“Enjoy the smell of dog shit, you mean,” Andrin grumbled.
There was only so much you could talk to him when he was in this state. Giving the apprentice-steward what he hoped was a kind, sympathetic nod, Cullen continued on.
The head-steward, Jean-Michel, handed Cullen the morning report. How many of these have I looked over in my life? Cullen mused as he read it.
Cullen flagged down Delrin, who was gathering dishes for washing. The Knight-Commander of the templars felt that the only way to be a true leader of the reborn Templar Order was to stop taking lyrium. He’d been here since the Sanctuary started, and Cullen owed him a debt of gratitude. Delrin would do whatever job he was assigned, however low or beneath his station. He led by example, and the others followed.
“The Inquisitor’s coming at six this evening,” Cullen said. “You have my leave to find an inn in Amaranthine for a few days and reconnect. I’d offer the same to any who had relatives or friends visiting,” he added quickly. Delrin was keen to avoid any hint of favouritism.
“Thank you, Cullen, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve far too much work to do as it is.”
Cullen understood the drive to do good once you were clean. He also understood how easily it could warp into perfectionism or workaholism. “By Andraste’s pyre, Delrin. Maxwell is your lover. He wants to see you! Go away for one evening, at least.”
Still, Delrin hesitated. “Would you come with me to the kitchen, Cullen?”
Nodding, Cullen followed him into the kitchen. The delicious smell of fresh bread and rosemary was marred by the hint of burnt crusts—Linda, the new apprentice-cook, wasn’t too familiar with their ovens. Delrin began washing the dishes and Cullen began drying. Peregrin padded in behind Cullen and sat down, watching them almost thoughtfully.
“I’ve never held Maxwell sober,” Delrin commented. “What if…it’s not the same?”
“It will be different,” Cullen said. “You’re different, after all, and you’re in one of the biggest fights of your life. That’s why I hope you’ll take more than a day with him. You’ll be gentle with yourself and your emotions and give yourself time. I imagine it will feel more similar than you think.”
He found himself glancing at Peregrin, who wagged his tail. At least the dog approves. That’s one of us. Cullen wasn’t able to speak at length about love and relationships, but he knew sobriety, at least.
Though some days that was harder than others.
Delrin frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Perhaps a weekend, then. Only as long as someone can cover my shift playing war games with the dogs.”
Cullen chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll find someone.” War games—also known as obedience training and exercising the dogs—was always well-attended.
“Very well. Thank you, Cullen.”
“Have you spoken with Orett today? The poor soul looks unwell.”
“I haven’t, unfortunately. He won’t talk to me at all beyond a few pleasantries. My rank scares him, I think. You might have better luck.”
Cullen had barely gotten more out of Orett. Cullen had hoped he would settle in to the routine of the Sanctuary, but so far he hadn’t seen much progress.
He held himself as aloof as the scarred hound, Pandora, did. Might the two of them be a good pair? Not every mabari bonded intimately with every templar or ex-templar, but merely taking care of another life could see someone through their darkest times.
Cullen took a few moments to examine the thought. He and Delrin finished in the kitchen, and Cullen mentioned his idea to Kennelmaster Clements.
“It could work,” the old woman said. If she doubted that it would, since nothing had helped Pandora since she’d arrived four weeks ago, she kept her thoughts to herself.
Cullen gestured Orett over to them. He approached with posture hunched and eyes hollow.
“Yes?”
The Kennelmaster said, “Do you know the burnt mabari in our kennels? We need someone to sit outside her pen and feed her treats. You don’t need her to do anything more—we just want her to associate humans with good memories instead of bad.”
Orret snorted. “Well, if that’s all you think I’m good for.”
Cullen said, “I thought you might like a change from your regular duties. If you wish to continue mucking the latrines, feel free.” As a rule-breaker, Orret had been given one of the dirtiest jobs.
“Ah, fine, fine. I’ll coo over the cursed dog.”
Cullen, Kennelmaster Clements, Peregrin and Orett walked toward the kennel, Clements explaining dog body-language and behaviour to the young man.
“I know about dogs!” Orett snapped finally. “My ma was a shepherd. We had sheepdogs.”
“A war hound is as different from a sheepdog as a goat is from a horse,” Clements replied, collected as ever.
Cullen praised the Maker that he’d found her. As a proper Fereldan, of course Cullen had always admired mabari. But once he’d adopted Peregrin, he realized he hadn’t the slightest idea how to care for him. So the Inquisition had found Clements, and she’d imparted some of her knowledge to a first-time mabari owner. As the templar sanctuary had become both a templar and mabari sanctuary, it had only seemed right to bring her on.
Pandora sat in the far corner of her stall, ears pinned back, staring wide-eyed at them. Huge burn scars covered the left side of her muzzle, head and neck, pulling her lips back so she looked as if she were permanently snarling. As they got closer, she began whining softly. Cullen gestured for Peregrin to stay back, but his hound already was. He was a clever boy.
Cullen handed Orett the treats he usually had in his pockets. The treats fell to the floor from Orett’s numb hands. Orett was staring at Pandora, lips parted, limbs locked in position.
“Why did you show me this?” he whispered.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Cullen stammered. “I didn’t think this would upset you.”
“Maker,” Orett murmured. “Her eyes. Just like….” His eyes gleamed with tears.
Cullen glanced around to see Peregrin sitting obediently despite the dropped treats. Kennelmaster Clements had stepped outside.
“The senior templars told me—they said we weren’t hurting no one. Wasn’t like they’re people. Not really. Andraste cursed them. That’s what they said.” His tears began to fall.
“I know the type,” Cullen said softly.
“I knew it was wrong, but no one caught us. So it felt right, after a while. I—” He clamped his mouth shut, fighting back a sob.
At least he recognizes it wasn’t right. He’s further along than most. Cullen, Delrin and Maxwell had pored over letters and interviews from templars about their time in the old order. The three reformers had read so many justifications.
Orett spun on Cullen and shoved him. Cullen stumbled back, but didn’t fall. Pandora yelped and howled as if gone mad. Peregrin leapt to his paws, snarling, but didn’t attack. Cullen gestured him to sit again. With a huff, he did.
“Why did you show me this?!” Orett shouted over Pandora’s barking.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry!” He touched the young man’s arm. “Let’s leave. We’re not helping her.”
They left Pandora to her frantic barking. Kennelmaster Clements hurried inside, frowning worriedly.
Orett hurried to the barracks, not wanting his fellows to see him cry. It was drizzling now. Cullen followed close behind, and Peregrin trotted after. Was this why Andraste had me awake with such a heavy heart today, to find the words to reach this boy?
“Don’t talk to me,” Orett snapped.
“A word, please, from someone who’s been where you are.”
Orett jerked the barracks door open, but hesitated on the threshold. “Well?”
“You’ve done evil things. As have I. But you can take your guilt and shame and grow into the kind of person that brings good to the world.”
“Good,” Orett sneered. “As if anyone knows what that is. We all thought the Order was good, didn’t we? But it’s not, because of shits like you and me.”
“Many parts of it weren’t. I can’t argue with you there. But the core of what we did—investigating magic incidents and demonic activity, and keeping mages safe from demons—is noble, and it’s needed. The Templar Order can be made better than it was.”
Orett held his gaze for a few moments. Cullen wished Josephine were here. She could convinced anyone of anything.
“I don’t care about the sodding templars,” Orett hissed. “The second I don’t need to take lyrium anymore to get through my day, I’m quitting.”
He slammed the door shut.
At least Peregrin didn’t care about his master’s failures. Sighing, Cullen patted his mabari’s head.
Stupid templar—praying while all your friends died—thinking you know what human is when you were so quick to call an entire group of people inhuman….
The moment he dropped his hand away, Cullen felt numb. It was a companion he hadn’t travelled with in some time. He’d gone through months, years, with that numbness draining every bit of joy from his world.
He wondered how long it would stay this time.
Orett didn’t join them for dinner. Pandora hadn’t been helped by the explosion of violence, and had taken hours to calm down. If Cullen weren’t numb, he imagined he’d be feeling overwhelming shame at both those outcomes.
Inquisitor Maxwell Trevelyan arrived at the sanctuary at six that evening. His robes were bright white with silver chainmail beneath, contrasting with his dark skin and hair—Lady Vivienne’s influence, Cullen had no doubt. Cullen had founded the Sanctuary almost immediately after the Exalted Council, so Maxwell’s missing left arm still took him aback. He carried a beautiful, smooth staff set with an opal in his right hand.
Cullen and Delrin were waiting for Maxwell. The Inquisitor hugged Cullen and kissed Delrin much more briefly than Cullen could have managed after a five-month absence from a lover. Then again, Maxwell had always been a private person.
Cullen gave the Inquisitor a quick tour. Everyone bowed when he walked by. Maxwell had read Cullen’s letters, and came prepared with treats. The mabari swarmed him, and he happily scratched ears and cooed over them. He was particularly impressed with Mirabella and the wheeled chair for her hindlegs which allowed her to run with her pack.
Maxwell asked Cullen for a private word, so they took a stroll by the edge of the Sanctuary’s property. Beyond them was Callaghan’s wheat field, with the wheat swaying in the wind. At least the drizzle had stopped, though the evening was as cold and grey as the day had been.
“Delrin’s letters say you’re doing better than expected,” Maxwell commented. His white robes were coated with mabari hair. Lady Vivienne would not be pleased.
Cullen shook his head. “I’m not so sure. Of the 10 templars who wish to return to active duty, only six are free of the worst effects of addiction. And,” he sighed, “those effects don’t go away permanently, as far as I can tell.”
“A mage must learn to light a candle before they can summon a wall of fire. I had a thought. Ser Rylen has done well in your absence. I believe you’ll be pleased with the suggestions he’s made. In fact, if you wish, he could continue making them as the commander of my forces. I’m not firing you,” Maxwell added quickly. “I’m merely asking if you wish to return to Skyhold. I’ve read your letters and Delrin’s. This life does suit you.”
“Stay here?” Cullen repeated.
“You don’t have to decide this moment.”
Cullen thought about staying, living a simple life while he helped templars and mabari heal their wounds and do good works. He could see his family more. He could even start a family of his own, perhaps.
But he would be known as the ex-templar that left the Inquisition, that couldn’t handle the job. What sort of example would that set for those templars who wished to follow in his footsteps?
Cullen thought of Orett and Pandora with a sigh. He couldn’t let one bad experience sour his whole time here or affect such a momentous decision, he knew. But his heart was lying, whispering that he was a failure. He should leave people to Josephine and others who were good with people.
Which actually might not be too bad an idea.
“Are there physicians who study war wounds and the effects on the mind?” Cullen asked.
“I know a few names. Would you like to invite them?”
“Yes. Perhaps the Inquisition could ask one of them to take over running of the Sanctuary.”
Maxwell startled. “So you’re returning to Skyhold, then?”
Smiling, Cullen said, “Are you so eager to be rid of me, Maxwell?”
“No, of course not.” Maxwell hadn’t appeared to know he was joking. “I just want you to be happy, my friend. Does commanding the Inquisition’s forces truly make you happy?”
“It is my duty,” Cullen said immediately.
Peregrin woofed softly, staring up at Cullen.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” Cullen grumbled to his dog, “it’s been two minutes without treats.” As he handed Peregrin some, he met Maxwell’s gaze. “It is my duty, honour and privilege to serve the Inquisition as your commander, Maxwell.”
He nodded. “Very well. Thank you for your service. Barring any major disasters, you’re free to return to the Sanctuary whenever you like. And,” he cleared his throat, glancing out over the wheat field, “ah, thank you for arranging for Delrin to join me in Amaranthine.”
“Of course, my friend.”
Friends with a mage. If you’d been in Kirkwall, what would I have done to you? What would I have let be done to you?
Peregrin licked his face, distracting him from his thoughts. He scratched up and down his thick back, then hugged him. Cullen still felt numb, but he could see himself feeling differently some day.
His mabari by his side, Cullen, Peregrin and the Inquisitor walked back to the Sanctuary.