She brings the babe back to Haven. Orphaned at his birth, no one would take him, another mouth to feed. So she takes him, despite Cassandra's protests, against Solas' approval, but to Varric's satisfaction. But she did it not for them, but for the babe. He's a strong one, feisty and full of life. She smiles, they have yet to name him. Leliana says nothing, Josephine secretly approves, Cullen frowns, lips thinning but that is all. And as the babe grows so does their band of misfits.
Cullen holds the child close as they flee Haven. Thrust into his arms by the Inquisitor herself, he holds the dearest thing to her heart close to his. The warm baby she sang to with an amazing voice. The child she twirled around in the snow laughing with joy. He prays.
Skyhold.
The babe is now eight months old. He has learned to crawl, and is an unholy terror. She laughs when she sees him, just as he gurgles with delight. It is plain to all, he is her son and she is his mother. Her companions are his uncles and aunts, and her family is his. The boy is loved. They have named him, Benedict, for he has blessed them.
She is gone, longer than she is wont, three months. It is sudden, the babe catches ill, a fever that will not leave. Solas does all in his power, the physicians all they can. She arrives back with joyful smile and glad tidings on her lips. They vanish at the sight of her Spymaster. Leliana tells her; the boy will not live through the night. She races up to her room, the boy is cradled by her Commander, the man she has grown to love. The boy is pale and still. Cullen hands the child over in sorrowful silence. The boy passes in the night, surrounded by his family.
The dawn comes, and they take the child. She does not fight, she does not move. She sits by the window, glassy eyed, soulless, and vacant. They bury the boy in the gardens. She wanders Skyhold, heartbroken and weary.
Seven days, she eats not, nor does she sleep. She is often seen on the rooftops, sometimes she sits upright, staring over the vast frozen chasm. Sometimes her head in her hands, hunched over into herself. But always still, always silent. She sheds no tears, she beats not her breast, she questions not the Maker nor his Bride. She is silent.
The end of her mourning comes with the dawn of the eighth day. She swallows a bowl of broth and takes up her staff. She begins training again. For the next month all she consumes is broth, the cook makes up for it by brewing thick soups. Some are foul, but she drinks it anyway, determined to regain her strength. When at last she eats, she leaves for the Emerald Graves.
She returns with a sapling, cradled tenderly in her arms. She plants it over the boy's grave, amid the wildflowers that have grown over it. She visits it daily, speaking to it, kissing it's leaves. Soon the pain ebbs, and it is not the first place she visits on her returns. Time passes and it is no longer the second, or third.
The Maker sends more children, these are truly her own. Where she once was a bear, she is now a dragon. Nothing will touch her children. And nothing does. She watches them grow, through the pains and sorrows of Life, and the visitations of Death.
Her children find her by the tree she planted so long ago. By the graves of her beloved. Death was kind, stealing her away in her sleep.