BY THE MAKER
Cullen clenched his gloved hands more tightly. The muscles of his face ached with his grimace of rejection. Demons come in many guises. It seemed quiet; he slitted one eye open. His vision was immediately blurred with hot tears. Weak, Cullen was weak. A templar should not weep. He had failed as a templar. The gurgling screams from the the upstairs chamber proved that. He was just a man in a metal suit. And he knew that he had failed as a man. He bowed his head lower. At least the tears should not show.
With a whispering thud, the next torment arrived. His eyes slammed shut. There was no way to know what the demon would use to torture him: his memories, his hopes, his chastity, his most private and now defenseless physical self... Cullen shook, waiting.
Footsteps came, and a sort of whoof of exasperation. He could hear breathing, it sounded female, and it was very very close to him. It was to be his chastity again. Again he prayed to endure.
"Are you Cullen?" The voice was girlish, light and tilted with an unfamiliar accent.
"You know that I am – begone, foul demon." (oh, please please leave me alone.)
"Well, that's a new one. No one has ever called me foul before." The voice sounded amused.
"Cullen, open your eyes. I won't touch you. I am not going to hurt you. But I don't have a lot of time." He clenched his lids more tightly – endure.
"All right then," she said "Keep them shut. I'll talk, you listen." He heard the sound of her settling to the ground, sitting near him.
"You know that many creatures inhabit the Fade. Some are demons, but not all. Ordinary mortals go to the Fade, in sleep. You have done that yourself, right?" He had, to his shame. Endure, endure. If only he could close his ears like eyes.
Again he head the frustrated whoof.
"I can see that this is not going to be easy. Let me try another approach. I want you to think critically about what I tell you. I will only talk. Let me repeat, I will not touch you, I won't hurt you. Also I am fully dressed. Really. Cullen you can open your eyes."
He blinked them open, a demon in woman form, as he had thought. But strange. She wore trouseres like a man, of thick blue fabric. They clung tightly to her thighs, right up to the between of her. Her other clothing was likewise immodest. Her shirt was tightly clinging. Her hair was loose. Don't think about it.
."So, in what you cal the Fade, there are demons, to be sure. But there are also dreamers, and other beings. Beings like me." She smiled. Her teeth were white. "I want to give you strength. I am here to help you. Her white teeth shone at him, her shirt lifted and fell with her breath.
"Maker, protect me." Cullen muttered.
"Yes! The Maker, There we go, let's talk about the Maker."
"Demon – do not speak." He roared.
"I'm not a demon, I told you already. Have you ever heard a demon speak of the Maker?"
"No."
"See, I'm not a demon."
She spoke more softly. "I'm from a different place Cullen. We have different traditions, but the Maker is the same in all. Here, you know the goodness of our Maker through the prophet Andraste. Right?"
"You know it is so." His voice was rusty.
"Well, where I come from some people see the Maker in the form of a man who died bound to a tree. There is another place, a cold wintry place, where the Maker is known as a great lion."
"What's a lion?" He didn't really care.
"A big tawny cat." She gestured towards her ears. "With lots of hair, here. Doesn't matter. My point is, it is still our same Maker.
Cullen eased back onto his haunches. Maybe, if he could keep her talking, nothing worse would happen for just a little while. The dreadful sounds from above him seemed to have abated. Maybe he was the only one left alive in the tower.
"Why would the Maker take the form of a cat?"
"Well, I don't know. But that is not the point. We see the creator, the Maker,
as if we were people trying to see him in a mirror's reflection in a dark is, when we are alive. But, Cullen, I am not alive right now."
"Demon"
"I'm not.—Christ, you're dense."
His eyes blurred and spilled. He was so tired.
Her hand lifted towards him, not to hit, too slow for that. She didn't touch him, it fell back at the half-way point. He cringed anyway.
"I'm so sorry Cullen." Her voice was soft again. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. He could see her shoes now. White leather, strangely tied with strings.
"You were created by the Maker. Wonderfully and fearfully made. Perfect, just as you are. You have a moon shaped scar on your right knee. You got it when you were 6, and you fell off your bed. You were not supposed to be jumping on the beds, or having fights with good Chantry pillows. Your knee bled and bled. And it kept opening up, but it did heal. Am I wrong about any of this?" Cullen shook his head, so tired...
"I told you, I'm not alive. I made mistakes in life. I failed in compassion. So the Maker, in kindness, allowed me another channce to help others when help is needed. So, here I am. Think of me as a messanger."
"What did you do wrong?"
"Doesn't matter. Anyhow, the point is, a time is coming for you when will need compassion for others. You will need mercy and kindness inside yourelf, to have it to give to others. The Maker has allowed me to see you as you are, complete, past and future, inside and out. You are a good man Cullen."
"N-no"
She smiled again. "Yes, you are. You will need to hold onto that. Hold it tightly, You will come through this now-time, but other bigger tests will come. Remember, Cullen. Remember the sun, and the wind and friendship, and the little boy with the sore knee. These things are all real and good. You are real and you are good. Let that sustain you. Here, take this." She extended her hand towards him, slowly. "Take it. It's good to eat. Eat it and remember."
The not-demon girl handed him a something. Cullen had expected an apple, but this was smaller and softer, and just different. It would be a woman, if an apple were a man.
"What is it?"
"An apricot"
"What's a hapricot?"
"It is good. You'll see. But we are running out of time." She was looking at her wrist. Cullen didn't know why. "I'm late. Now I really have to fly." She was standing now. It was almost over.
"What is your name?"
"Angela"
Cullen blinked, and she was gone. The hapricot lay in his hand, dense and soft and smelling of sunlight. He ate it, and remembered.