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She had always wanted a baby. Ever since she was small, watching her mother cradle her smaller siblings, little Lady Trevelyan had desperately wished for her own children to coddle and protect. Bridgette always helped her mother with the smaller children, loving the tender smiles she received from both the elder and younger. By the time she was fifteen and ready for marriage, she had fully accepted her role as mother and caregiver, things that many women her age were struggling against.
Her father made sure his eldest daughter received special training in defense, hoping that she would do the family honor by becoming a Templar of the Ostwick chantry. He had thought that this would a responsibility he could place on a son, but his wife kept giving him girls. Not that he was complaining; he loved every one of the little scamps. He would play for hours with them when he came home from his duties in the chantry.
He noticed that Bridgette spent more time with the babes than with her training, and he told his wife of the deep foreboding that he had whenever he saw her in the nursery. She only dismissed his fears as being worried that she wouldn’t enter Templar training. Uneasily, he accepted this, but Bann Trevelyan could not shake that feeling of sorrow that one day, she wouldn’t be able to enjoy
Bridgette was sent along to the Conclave in order to observe the Templars, primarily, and aid with whatever the attending Trevelyans needed. Growing bored of the proceedings, she began to wander the halls of the Temple. When she heard someone call for help, she never expected her life to change so much.
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Bridgette paced ceaselessly on the cold stone floor. She was biting her nails on her marked hand, a habit picked up soon after the Conclave. She wished the doctor would hurry already, the suspense was killing her. She just wanted to know and then all of this—
The door opened from down below and she removed her fingers from her mouth, eyes widening. She quickly smoothed her silver vestments, trying for the life of her to like this wasn’t causing her distress. The footsteps came closer and, finally, the top of a staff appeared above the bannister, followed by a head topped with long, graying hair. Bridgette was only mildly surprised to see that her doctor was a woman, but was even more so when she saw the large eyes and the very tip of a pointed ear through the mass of hair.
“Andaran atish’an, Inquisitor,” the old woman said softly, bowing her head. Bridgette did the same, looking up warily through her bangs to see that the elf bore none of the face tattoos that the Dalish wore. Strange, she thought, but she used elvish.
“You are wondering at my face.” She turned red and began biting her lip, thoroughly embarrassed to have been caught staring.
“I-I’m sorry, u-um…hahren?” she apologized, adding the elvish honorific she learned from some of the small children in Skyhold.
The woman chuckled. “Do not be, da’len. It is only natural.”
She found this woman’s presence soothing. From what she’s learned from being around elves, da’len meant child, but this didn’t offend her like it would if anyone else had called her that. It felt less condescending and more of a statement of their age difference. She was the junior to this woman’s senior. Her body relaxed considerably.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why don’t you have the, uh…” The Inquisitor pointed at her face, the word for the tattoos lost on her tongue. The old woman stood there congenially, both hands on her staff and a small smile lighting her wrinkled face. Instead of answering her, she held her hand out for Bridgette’s. She guided her towards the massive bed and sat the young woman down, pushing gently on her chest to lay her down.
“I used to live in the Denerim alienage. A Keeper came through one day and found me, 13 years old and desperately trying to hide my magic. She took me back to her clan. I never took on the vallaslin because I believed—and still do—in the Maker.”
She said this while lifting Bridgette’s shirt, pausing to touch a finger to her flat stomach. She felt a pang deep in her heart and pointedly looked towards ceiling to hide the tears pricking at her brown eyes. The old woman plucked some herbs hanging from her gnarled staff, placing them on the covers beside Bridgette. The Inquisitor heard the rattling of a small porcelain pot and shivered violently when a cool substance was rubbed across her stomach.
“This shouldn’t take long, da’len,” the woman said, massaging the gel in the taut skin, “This is an ointment made with lyrium that will allow to see if there is a problem. If there is, I will then be able to fix it.”
The human took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for what was to happen. She had had Josephine find this woman for her and now, after weeks of waiting, will finally get answers. As she watched the old elf close her eyes, an odd vibration began deep in her stomach. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but Bridgette would bear it. She relaxed her shoulders, feeling confident that the woman would fix her barren body.
Ten minutes went by. Fifteen. Twenty. Bridgette tried not to let it worry her; this was obviously a complicated process and it would take some time. She took to watching the infinitesimal movements of her physicians face as she worked, sure she would catch the first sign of success. Instead, she saw a crease begin between the healer’s brow and grow until sweat beaded on her forehead.
Slowly, that hum that Bridgette felt disappeared and she felt woefully empty. The elf sat back on hunched over the bed, breathing heavily. The Inquisitor sat up, shifting her silvery shirt to cover herself and feeling hopeless.
“I am sorry, da’len,” the woman said, panting, “I cannot. If this were a matter of intense stress or reduced chance, maybe. But I could move the parts, I could not…”
Bridgette touched her abdomen. “A-are you sure?”
A sad nod from her opposite and suddenly the world crashed around her. An intense pressure built behind her eyes and her throat felt choked. This can’t be real, this can’t be…Maker, and how would she tell him? How would he react? Certainly it can’t be any worse than how she feels right now…
“Inquisitor?”
The woman used her title, feeling the informality between them lost in the moment. Bridgette came back to herself to see the elf as distraught as she was. She had probably never before experienced a woman she could not fix, given her seclusion among the Dalish. Bridgette mustered a strained smile and put her hand on the old woman’s shoulder.
“I-I will be fine, hahren. Do not trouble yourself,” she said, voice trembling. The woman gave her a concerned look before standing and collecting her staff. She walked back to the bed and leaned over the human, kissing her forehead.
“Make the Maker bless you, da’len.”
When she turned to leave, Bridgette realized that she never got her name. She called out and the elf paused.
“Annaran,” she replied. And then she was gone, leaving Bridgette alone with her thoughts, her so very desolate thoughts.
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Cullen found her laying on her bed later that day. He had been worried when she missed a demonstration with soldiers; an unimportant event that went on without her, but she was always so eager to see them train that her presence was missed. He had tried to pay attention to the training recruits, but he could only bring himself to correct them half-heartedly, so distracted he had been without Bridgette by his side.
He’d asked around among her companions, trying to discover if she had been called away on a diplomatic assignment or such. He realized that it was pointless asking, as he would have known if she had being part of her council, but maybe he had missed something in their last meeting…As he stood in the throne trying to guess as to her whereabouts, Josephine approached him looking concerned.
“Cullen, I am worried about the Inquisitor,” she said with a frown. The Nevarran woman still held her signature writing tablet and she held her charcoal to it as if she were about to record their conversation.
“That makes two of us,” he responded, rubbing at his neck. The fur of his mantle rubbed at his cheek and he resisted the urge to scratch his face. Josephine always hated it when he did that; said it wasn’t very gentlemanly.
“She had an…appointment with someone this morning, but that person left hours ago. She hasn’t come down since…”
Cullen thanked her, unease pooling in the pit of his stomach. Who could she have met? Why was Josephine being so secretive? He feared what he would find upstairs.
But it was only her, curled in the fetal position in the middle of her enormous bed that always made her look tiny, but even more so now. The tension he had been feeling lessened somewhat as he stood at the top of the stairs watching her body rise and fall with her every breath. She seemed to be asleep and he was satisfied that she was safe, so he turned to leave.
“Cullen?” Her voice sounded ragged, as if she had been crying. The ex-templar turned to see her sitting up, hunched and pitiful looking. He began to unbuckle his armor, knowing how much she hated the feeling of it when they touched. He set all of the metal pieces on the settee before going to sit with her. Blushing lightly, he crawled onto the bed to sit behind her and set his head on top of hers. He would normally never show this type of affection without prompting, being too embarrassed. But somehow he could feel her despair and knew that Bridgette needed comfort.
“Cullen…”she whispered, gripping his arms around her tightly.
“How can I help?” he asked, desperate to find out what had put her in this state, “What’s wrong?”
“I am,” she said. Her voice cracked, “I’m wrong.”
And she proceeded to break down, sobbing in his embrace and he didn’t know what to do. A flurry of emotions whipped through him: sadness, confusion, anger, desolation. He didn’t know what to say to help her and so he sat there, holding her tightly as she wailed. Never before had he seen her like this, seen her so completely torn apart. He felt helpless as he listened to her cry.
They were there for a long time. Cullen comforted her silently as best he could as she sobbed about…what? He still didn’t know, but it couldn’t really be all that bad. After all, she was perfect. Maybe she angered a noble or something else that made her feel so.
Eventually, her choked sobs died down to only a soft hiccupping. Cullen stroked her mussed hair, pressing kisses to the top of her head. Bridgette shifted in his lap so that she lay across his legs and her head rested on his chest. He rubbed at her back, encouraging her to speak at her own pace.
“Promise you won’t leave me,” she said, tracing designs in his shift with her index finger. His brow furrowed; why would he do that? He’s been with her through everything. What makes her think he would leave her for anything?
“Of course not!” he said, incredulously, “Never.”
Bridgette took a deep breath.
“I can’t have children.”
Cullen let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Nothing could describe the feeling of relief he was feeling at that moment. Somehow he thought it’d be so much worse.
“That’s it?” he said before he could stop himself. Bridgette’s face whipped up to him with such a strange expression that he immediately knew he had said the wrong thing, “I-I mean…is that bad?”
She looks away again, turning wistful.
“I’d always wanted babies,” she said, “Four of them or more. I grew up with so many siblings and I guess I just…I wanted to keep having that. Such a big family that I didn’t know what to do. But now…”
Cullen fell back against the bed. Bridgette crawled to lay on top of him and rested her head on his heart. He was really no good with these situations. What does he say? If he was honest with himself, it didn’t matter. All he wanted was her; children were something for the future, but he wasn’t disappointed.
“Are you mad?” she asked suddenly.
He laughed nervously. “No, of course not. I’m just thinking,”
“About what?”
“About how much I love you, no matter what.”
She didn’t respond to that. Silence fell over them and he wondered if she wanted him to say something else. Finally, he felt her press a kiss to his lips and he hugged her.
“And anyways,” he said, when they stopped for a breath, “We could always adopt.”