Dark tendrils curled around Moira as she gingerly ascended the steps to her bedchamber. Whispers called, beckoned to her in a tongue so ancient she couldn’t fathom the words, yet she knew what they yearned for in the way they electrified her nerves and licked at the blood coursing through her veins. I need to lie down.
Reaching the landing, she welcomed the cool mountain breeze that gusted through the open door and ruffled her hair, and for a second the voices seeped back into her mind’s far recesses. In her brief moment of clarity, Moira spotted a figure on the balcony silhouetted by the night. Hands clasped firmly behind his back, he gazed out into the perpetual expanses of the sky, but upon hearing the wood creak beneath Moira’s feet, he spun around.
Within moments his hands clutched her face, eyes boring into her with such intensity she felt a sudden urge to look away. He searched desperately for an indication that she was still the same person who tenderly kissed him goodbye at Skyhold’s gate two weeks prior. So they’ve informed him…
“Moira,” he pleaded. “Please. Tell me it isn’t true.” Perspiration beaded on his hairline. “Promise me you didn’t drink from that well.”
Puffy, dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his calloused hands shook from the magnified effects of lyrium withdrawal. She averted his gaze. “Cullen…I…had to…”
He released her and paced in front of her desk, running his hands repeatedly through his sandy curls. Abruptly, he slammed his fist on the polished wood. Moira sucked in sharply.
“What were you thinking?” he growled.
“I was-”
“NO. You weren’t. Of course you weren’t thinking. And why should you? You’re the bloody INQUISITOR.” Muscles flexing, teeth clenching, he knocked the items off her desk. Letters and inquisition documents fluttered, pens rolled, ink splattered, and the vase full of flowers he picked from the garden the day before shattered on the floor.
Moira gaped at him in horror and sank to her knees amidst the glistening glass fragments. The whispers in her ears transformed into hissing shrieks. Triggered by her distress, they slammed into her mind, threatening to break it altogether. She clapped her hands over her ears. “Cullen! Please, stop!” she begged, voice cracking. “I-I had no other choice. I couldn’t let Morrigan drink from it. I…” Sobs escaped her lips.
Instantly ashamed of the chaos he caused, Cullen knelt down beside her. Gently, he placed her delicate hands in his and stroked them with his thumb. She trembled. “You must understand. I thought I lost you, Moira. When Leliana related that you drank from the well, I felt certain that you became victim to possession,” genuine concern replaced his fury.
“I sacrificed myself for the inquisition because I didn’t trust Morrigan, and couldn’t fathom the consequences had she been imbued with Mythal’s powers. I didn’t dare contemplate the repercussions of my actions, but I knew I had to be the one to do it. I am so sorry, Cullen,” she said.
He drew her into a hug, and she inhaled the familiar pine scent that clung to his skin. They stayed like that for a long time. As he stroked her hair and traced his fingers up and down her spine, their breathing aligned. She allowed herself to drift into unconsciousness in his protective embrace. Tenderly, he pressed his lips to her forehead, and warmth bloomed throughout her body. He looked out at the shimmering beacons that illuminated the jet black sky. Maker protect her…
The second screen capture is the obligatory frown. According to my hubby, that's my exact expression whenever he does something I disapprove of
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You should write more often 
feel the need to cosplay her now or something
