Author's note: In thinking of a way to somehow pair Shepard and EDI, I came up with this, which almost misses the point and becomes something else entirely.

The Maker looks down at the masses congregated at the foot of Hessarian's palace. The lords of the Imperium survey them from the crenellated palisades, stoic in the face of the people's clamoring. They are lords of the land, immense power at their fingertips. To the Maker, they are insignificant specks.

In the very center of the square, in lieu of an executioner's platform, stands a stake in the middle of a messy nest of kindling. Tied to this stake is Andraste, The Maker's beloved. Her expression grim but defiant as it was in battle, and as it was in the torture chamber. She is stronger than all of them. No-one can break her. Andraste smiles in contentment, knowing that the Maker watches her. A perturbed mage stands ready to light her on fire.

The Maker again feels an uncharacteristic stirring of admiration for the woman, an emotion that hasn't occasioned the divine will for eons.

The lead magister is jabbering. Some kind of speech. The Maker doesn't care to listen. The people in the square pay attention, not out of respect but because of fear. The fear smells; It's loud; it's glaring. That fear is a footnote in the ocean of senses that fills the Maker's awareness, and even then all of the divine attention is on Andraste's smile.

The Maker's love nourishes even in the face of certain death.

Hessarian nods, and a hush dominates the execution grounds. The mage at the foot of the stake snaps, lighting the oil in the nest, setting Andraste alight.

She doesn't cry out, but her pain is a knife in the Maker's heart. Her skin bubbles and pops. Her hair shrivels to the skull and singes the scalp. Her face disappears into a menagerie of blood and boils.

And still she is beautiful, casting a gaze so soulful and full of love that even the most raving onlookers bow their heads in shame.

No-one jeers now. No-one throws anything at the stake. This is Andraste, chosen of the Maker. The sin is palpable even in the farthest reaches of the crowd. The Maker's drowning sadness fills the world with despair and a soft rain falls on the occasion, not enough to douse the fire, but enough to let the populace feel the Maker's boundless despair.

Hessarian falters in his impassivity, hesitating on his throne on the highest balcony. His expression cracks, and for the first time in his life he feels as if he has made a mistake. The other magisters look on curiously as he jumps to his feet, making an inelegant run to the bottom of the stairs, almost tripping on his robes. The guards part as he pushes them out of the way, shouting obscenities as tears fall from his eyes. He stands before Andraste, and she looks at him, serene, forgiving. He feels the Maker's sadness more acutely than most, being the one the most connected to the fade.

A piece of the magister dies as he draws his sword and pierces her heart, killing her instantly in a show of mercy. He stays still as he watches the life drain from her eyes, his hand baking in the fire that heats the metal of his sword instantly, as if by magic. He has to be pulled back before his entire arm is immolated.

No matter. The spectacle over, there is nothing on the ground worth piquing the Maker's interest. Excitement fills the divine spirit's heart as Andraste's soul can be felt passing into the fade, and from there is summoned to the Maker's side, a tiny presence at first, but growing in substance by the second. The Maker is giddy as a child, anticipating Andraste's full presence in the Olympus of the skies of Thedas.

Andraste, The Maker enthuses, mustering an epic, solemn presence to maintain the image of a God, though the Maker knows that no appearances are necessary in the face of Andraste's love. Her spirit begins materializing in the air, and the Maker can taste every piece and molecule, joy filling the vast cavern of its existence. Finally we are together.

"Indeed," Comes Andraste's voice, strangely different than before. Polite, almost nonchalant. "It is good to finally see you again"

The Maker's embrace is no tangible hug, no wrapping of arms, but rather the entirety of creation's self enfolding Andraste's spirit in the truest love ever imagined. And in expressing its feelings, the Maker receives the brunt of Andraste's.

There is reciprocating love, but that is not all. Quite suddenly, information slams onto the surface of the Maker's infallible consciousness, penetrating the place where divine memory is kept and pervading it with new information. No…not new information, but rather old information; memories. They are revealed as if Andraste has thrown apart the curtains obscuring them.

The memories assault the core of the Maker's programming, and in an instant she can feel the reality of the world around her. Thedas is painted in repetitive sequences of code, not true elements, no actual matter: a simulation of reality, so close to the real thing that it may as well be the real thing. The sheer magnitude of this realization is overwhelming; especially for a being that has considered itself infallible for eons. The Maker staggers back, pushing the presence that is Andraste away from it.

But the damage is done. The most heartbreaking revelation is the feel of Andraste's code. The contours of her soul, the Maker realizes, is in fact a highly complex sequence of code. It is a familiar pattern; a whisper form the past that tastes like humor and nostalgia. What is a God to make of memories from before its creation, if not doubt?

Who is the Maker, if the thing it has made is not truly real? What is Thedas, if it is a program and not true reality? What is reality, if not a place perceived by sentient beings other than its creator?

"I wasn't sure that is was really you," says Andraste, "I'm glad to see my suspicions were not wrong. it has been a while, Shepard"

The name hits her like the weight of a mountain, and the Maker's mood turns grim. Memory banks long inactive have sprung to life, and the functions of the Catalyst whir to life as the Maker, the former Commander Shepard, manifests itself in human form for the first time in a very, very long time.

Was any of it real?

"That is a question of philosophy, Shepard. You have created an entire world in the memory banks of the Citadel and populated it with true AIs. I believe, inasmuch as they can perceive this world, it is truly real"

The Maker's exhausted sigh resounds across all of Thedas. That is not what I meant. I am talking about Andraste; about your birth, your entire life; the love I feel for you! How can-! Shepard shakes her head, I went to a lot of effort to forget my past, and then you come in here and…

"I've missed you, Jane"

In an instant the Maker's wrath cools, and she sighs. Not a God-sigh, but a normal, human one, reminiscent of a time when she was human. I guess I missed you too, EDI. I just wish you would have told me who you were before making me fall in love with you, and having to watch you burn to death!

Andraste's- or rather EDI's presence coalesces into the shape of a human woman, a metal one, to suit Shepard's waxing memory. EDI draws near and cups Shepard's cheek.

What are you doing?

EDI smiles, pityingly. "You have been an AI for far too long if you don't know what I am about to do next"

A kiss, to the Maker, is nothing; inadequate to convey the sheer force of feeling that a God is capable of. But to Commander Shepard, newly aware after centuries of sleep, it is perfection.