How long Nike sat there, sobbing into the dark, she didn't know. Long enough for the tears to run dry. Long enough for the pain in her throat and chest to loosen and ease.

She sat there even longer afterward, in the perfect close black and still silence. She looked at her cut hand, and found herself unsurprised that it was cut no longer. No trace of the blood that had spilled from the gash remained on her skin or clothes.

She could see these now, she realized. See her own body as if she, too, were emanating a light as Morrigan had.

No, it wasn't Morrigan, she thought, and then finally got back to her feet. She picked up her daggers and slid them home again, took up Far Song, and peered into the dark.

"Who are you?" she demanded into the echoing black once more. "Are we done now? Do you want to have my dead parents attack me now? How about the darkspawn? Alistair? Are you losing your creativity?"

Her voice echoed around her but no one responded. Anger growing, she shouted out again.

"Who are you?"

"Who are you?" her own voice echoed back, then again. "Who are you?"

No. No, there was something off about that echo. It was her voice, but the inflection was different than what she had shouted. It was no true echo; it was a question from another. Another putting on her voice, as it had put on her face only a short time ago.

"I am Nike Cousland," she answered the echo. "I am not a murderer! I am not a fool! I am not a stupid traitor who cast aside others' lives! I am not weak, or helpless, or selfish!"

"I did not ask who you were not," the echo asked in return, sounding slightly amused. "I asked who you are."

"I am Nike Cousland," she said again, boldly into the dark. "I'm the daughter of Bryce and Eleanor, good people who died so that their child might live. I'm the sister of Fergus Cousland, and sister-by-law of Oriana Cousland. Aunt of Oren, may the Maker rest his poor soul. I'm an angry, frustrated, and deeply frightened woman who grieves and misses her family and is afraid to hurt her friends or to lead them into ruin. I think you have seen and learned enough of who I am. Who are YOU?"

"My name is Ser Terrik," the voice came again, this time back to its oddly familiar masculine. It was also behind her again. She turned to see the same bearded man who had accused her with Rendon Howe at the pyre, dressed in armor. She looked down at his feet, and saw the sabatons. When she looked back at his face he gave her a bit of a tired and slightly distracted smile. "Oh, there was more to it than that, wasn't there? Come and sit with me a moment."

He gestured and Nike realized the darkness was gone. She was in a large stone room, not even half the size of the main hall at Highever. Torches burned in sconces on the wall, and near the far end of the room a statue of Andraste stood on a low plinth, water pouring in a quiet and steady stream from her cupped hands, into a stone pitcher at her feet.

Some stone benches stood on the floor as well, facing the statue, as if a congregation were intended to meet there. After he gestured, the Knight limped over to one of the benches and sat down as if he had been on his feet in that heavy armor for hours.

"Ah, that is better. I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice. It's been quite a while since the last earnest petitioner. Now let me think. Terrik. Terrik is certainly my name, but what was the rest?"

Nike could only stare at the man, never having felt quite so befuddled in her entire life. When he noticed she had not followed and joined him, he half turned and looked at her. "Come, come. It's quite all right, I assure you. You're still shaking. Please, sit down. No more harm is going to come to you."

"Did you do all of that?" she asked. "That…burning me at the stake, and…what the hell was that?"

"Ah, that was the Gauntlet," he said. "Necessary, you see. All necessary."

"Necessary for what?"

"Well, I'm trying to explain it to you but it really is awkward talking to you this way. Please come and sit down."

Nike scowled at him a moment, then obeyed, moving over to the bench and sitting beside him, settling Far Song over her lap. He caught sight of the bow and smiled.

"Now that is a fine, fine weapon," he said. "It reminds me of Auester."

"Auester?"

"Do you not know?" he seemed genuinely startled at that. "Auester? Surely there are tales?"

When she only looked at him with a blank expression, he tossed his hands lightly in an exasperated gesture and then put them back on his knees. "What is the world coming to?" he asked. "Auester was Andraste's bow. Crafted, some say, by the Maker Himself. Of course, it wasn't. It was a highly skilled artisan the likes of which are incredibly rare in the tapestry of the world, but that's neither here nor there I suppose. It's been a very long time since I've had to make small talk, you understand."

"No, I don't," she said tersely. "And you said you would explain."

"Oh, right. Yes, indeed. My name is Terrik-…the Resolute! That's what it was! My Lady, thank you. The Resolute, I remember now."

He directed this at the statue of Andraste, which only continued to pour the water from its hands and ignore him in the manner of all carved stone and rock.

"I am Terrik the Resolute. I came here with the Disciples of Andraste to guard My Lady's ashes and to insure only the worthy pilgrims gained entry."

"You what?" Nike asked in surprise. "Are you telling me you've been here since Andraste's death almost a thousand years ago?"

He looked at her in just as much surprise. "Has it been that long? I knew it had been quite a while, but a thousand years, truly?"

"A thousand years since Andraste was killed, yes," she said. "You can't have been here that long, it's impossible. No one can live that long, and even if you could, you'd be mad. At the very least, the language has to have changed. How do we even understand one another?"

He stared at her, then laughed. "You are a clever girl! I hadn't thought of that either. I don't know how it is we can understand each other. You sound as if you're speaking the language of my birth, but of course that wouldn't be possible would it? I mean, without the Maker's intervention?"

"So you think it's the Maker's doing?" she asked.

"I can only tell you what I know," he said. "I was among Andraste's disciples, in her life and her death. I was there when they brought the ashes to this place, and I volunteered to guard them and to make sure only worthy pilgrims could enter here. When no one is here, I sort of float."

He made a faintly wispy motion with his hand.

"Float?"

"Yes, well, it's kind of like sleeping or dreaming, but not quite the same. It's not the Fade, I can tell you that. I just sort of…drift, I guess is a better word. Doze? I see and hear things but I'm not entirely conscious of it. For example, I knew you were coming. The closer you got, the more I stopped drifting. The more awake I became, the more I remembered myself and why I was here, what I was doing. When I was awake enough, I started to talk to you."

"Talk to me?" she asked. "You mean, when I heard my father?"

"Yes, that was me. Also, the counting."

Here she jolted, the motion pointed enough that he as well slightly startled. "The counting? You mean…the counting in my head? Morrigan's voice? The feeling that I was going to die, that she was counting down my last breaths?"

"Oh yes," he said, relaxing a little. "Yes, that was me."

"Why?" she asked, horrified. "I have been certain that I was going to die since leaving Redcliffe! That I would never return! Why would you do that to me?"

"Well, you did, didn't you?" he said, and scratched the side of his nose idly. Nike stared, mouth agape.

"Did? Are you talking about…are you saying I'm dead?"

He barked a laugh. "No! No, no. Of course, you're not dead. Can't you tell?" When she started to react in flustered anger again he gently waved a hand. "Hush, I'm sorry. Like I said, it's been a while since I've had to make small talk."

"This is not small talk!" she said, and he nodded.

"Yes, I'm sorry. You're right. No, you are not dead, Nike, but you did die. Twice, actually, which is once more than most people manage. When that elf shot you through the heart, you died. You even saw the Black City, yes?"

She touched her chest where the arrow had hit her and nodded. "Yes, I-…but Morrigan brought me back."

"Yes, she did. That was the start of the Gauntlet, you see. The path that protects the Urn from all those who are unworthy. To be worthy to take the ashes of Andraste, beloved Bride of the Maker, you must first be measured and cleansed. Always, there is sacrifice in such things. The first step, which is a step most will never get past, is to sacrifice your physical life in faith. You did that when the elf shot you."

"There was no faith about it," she pointed out. "I didn't die for the Chant or something like that, or risk my life with faith that I would be brought back, that the Maker would protect me."

"That's not the kind of faith I mean," he said gently. "You had the overwhelming feeling that you would die, and yet you went anyway. That's the kind of faith I mean. You were given the knowledge that you would die and you went anyway, to save the life of a man you hadn't even met, in order to save the lives of yet more men, women, and children you don't even know. You had two paths open to you to do so. You had a choice between losing your life or taking the life of a woman who was offering it willingly. You chose the path that would lose you your life. Despite knowing you would die, despite your last breaths being marked and counted down for you, you chose the path of sacrifice to save others. You literally gave your life willingly for others. That was the first sacrifice, the first death, and as I said, not many get past it. You made the sacrifice, and so the Maker saved you."

She rubbed her chest again, her head spinning. "Morrigan saved me, not the Maker."

He laughed. "Call it what you will, and believe what you want, it doesn't matter. Some choose to believe the Maker works through others as part of His unbreakable Will. If that's the case, your Morrigan was just the tool by which His will was accomplished. Others, believe that the Maker is simply love. They look for a physical man but there is none to be found, for the Maker is the warmth and joy and bond of love that ties us together, and that can't be found or tracked, only felt. If that's the case, then your Morrigan saved you out of love, which is merely a different way to say that she saved you because of the Maker."

Morrigan loves me, Nike thought again, and this time her head spun with it. Feeling a little dizzy, she put her face in her palms and leaned forward until the sensation passed. Terrik waited patiently. Morrigan loves me. How could I be so stupid as to not see it?

"So then what?" she asked as she recovered herself, lowering her hands again.

"After the physical sacrifice, you faced the Guantlet. This time your death was not physical."

"It felt really damned physical," she said. "Why the hell did you do that to me? Torturing me, making me fight Morrigan, fight myself? Burning me at the damned stake?"

"I have to admit, that one took me by surprise," he said thoughtfully. "That's never happened before."

"You've never burned pilgrims at the stake before?" she scoffed.

"I didn't do anything," he said, looking at her. "I spoke to you, guided you here, prevented your comrades from entering, to be true. But beyond that I am merely an observer, a sort of catalyst. I bear witness, ask the question that is required of me."

"What question?"

"Who are you?" he repeated simply. "Most else, you did to yourself. The Gauntlet simply makes your fears and regrets and deepest self manifest, forcing you to confront them. To justify them. This 'Rendon Howe's' accusations, they were only ever yours. They are what you have been accusing yourself of since you lost your family. That you failed them, somehow. That you were guilty of the crimes which were solely his."

He seemed to become more animated, looking at her with intense interest. "I must say, the whole experience was rather unusual and quite an honor to watch!"

"What? Are you having me on? An honor?"

"Yes, indeed! Nike, I have seen petitioners by the score come through the Gauntlet. There was a time when I was actually quite, quite busy. And never have I see what I witnessed with yours."

"What are you talking about?"

"I have seen plenty confront the source of their anger like you did Howe, of course, but never have I seen one actually burn at the stake, as Andraste did. I said a moment ago that 'most else' you did to yourself, and that is somewhat true. The stake, however…that was not your doing. That whole scene, that was not usual. You should have been in the dark, as you were later on, but an entire tableau opened up, one that was personally, painfully too familiar. I was there when Andraste died. She, too, claimed that the innocent should be protected with sword and shield. You claimed yourself not Andrastian, but almost exactly recited some of the words of the Chant. And in her final moments, she, too, looked upward and sought for the Maker to save her."

"I wasn't seeking for the Maker to save-"

"Love, remember?" he said. "So some believe. The Maker is nothing more than love in its vast, unfathomable glory. You expressed the same conviction, even in the face of your own fears and self-doubt, that she did. You expressed the same faith and hope in that moment of dying as she did all those thousand years ago. Unswerving faith that you would be saved by Morrigan, not doubting for a moment that the one you loved would come for you."

"The one I loved," she heard herself saying with an oddly numb shock.

"Well, yes," he said gently. "Of course. You love her, as she loves you. Child, did you not know this?"