Her daggers clatter to the ground, forgotten. She has carried them all the way from home, let them drink from the blood of so many, but they only had the taste for one twisted soul. And he lays at her feet, contempt and treachery wiped clean from his face in death. He looks peaceful and she thinks it's the last cruel irony when all she feels inside is…is…
She turns away from Howe's body and flees the room. Alistair yells after her but she does not stop, cannot stop. She has spent months and months obsessing about this moment, growing stronger and harder with each darkspawn slain, preparing to face her true monster. He deserved to die. He deserved to suffer.So why is she the only one left in misery?
"Moira!" She is helpless as Alistair takes hold of her arm to stop her and plants himself in the way. There is panic and concern and a bruise forming on his face and the sight of it jolts her heart back into beating.
"I'm fine," she lies and sees the truth of it in his grimace. Alistair runs a finger beneath her eye and she feels the moisture before seeing the tears collected on his skin. Without thinking she follows his movement and smears paint and blood across her face. She hasn't realized she was crying, but now that she has it is like seeing a weeping wound and finally feeling the sting.
Alistair pulls her into his embrace. The plating of his armor is cold against her cheek, but his is warm against her temple, his breath tickling down her neck and reminding her that she is still alive. She knows he is strong, but never before have his arms felt so secure until this moment.
"I can't imagine what you're feeling."
She should feel vindicated. She should feel proud, happy, relieved. It's all over, but it's not what she thought. "I…I-I feel nothing. Nothing!"
"Hey, hey." He pulls back to grab hold of her cheeks in both hands. Thumbs move across her face and clear away the remnants of her past. "Do you feel that?"
Lips brush against her eyelids and whisk away her tears. "That? And this?"
Alistair takes one of her hands in his and kisses each battered knuckle with a reverence befitting chants and chapels. He embraces the blood and grime, the endless scars and cuts and when he smiles, just something small and hesitant, pure, she cannot understand what she has done to deserve such a benediction.
"It's alright to let it go. I'm here for you."
Moira nods, throws herself around his neck, and finally feels it all. Sobs from somewhere deep claw their way up her throat. They taste like her father's smile, her mother's laughter. They burn like Highever against the snow, like Howe's stubborn disdain. She lets it all wash over her and clings to the last steady point left in her life. She feels and feels and feels and holds on and he never lets her go.