What Catherine says at the end is from the Canticle of Transfigurations.
P.S.: Zevran is next! *dances*
Catherine awoke – or rather was prodded awake by a sharp, merciless witch-finger to the ribs – roughly four hours later; far too soon for her liking - for everyone else as well, she imagined. Leliana and Morrigan assisted her in walking to the Arl's chambers; she was still incredibly weak from her excursion in the Fade, and she surmised that using blood magic was more akin to bludgeoning down a door, rather than knocking polity with lyrium. Her steps were more shuffles and she felt as if miners had taken residence in her skull, pounding away inconsiderately as she attempted to focus on the task at hand.
She shook off the two women – though not without a mumbled 'thanks' – before opening the elegantly cut door, refusing to look weak in front of the bann.
The conversation was brief and to the point: Eamon had been kept alive by the demon, thus it was now unclear if he would even survive another night. According to Teagan, they had employed a number of mages to attempt to neutralize the illness(now known to be poison) to no avail; Isolde had sent a number of Redcliffe's knights out across Ferelden in an attempt to find information on the Urn of Sacred Ashes – the supposed resting place of Andraste, and a rumored cure-all.
Not a particularly pious woman, Catherine found herself mentally scoffing at the very idea of such a thing existing – she had no doubt there was and Andraste, but she was fairly certain she was just an extremely powerful, lyrium-addled mage. That being said, putting in a token effort to find the Urn would turn to their advantage; if Teagan believed that Catherine and her merry band had done everything in their power to cure Eamon, then – despite the inevitable failure – he would no doubt do everything he could to support the Wardens and their 'rebellion'.
So, she agreed to head to Denerim and seek out a 'Brother Genetivi', a well-known scholar (she had read In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar a dozen times) who supposedly had found clues as to where the Urn's final resting place truly was.
Teagan had offered to put them up for a time, saying that the heroes of Redcliffe certainly deserved a night or two in an actual bed, but Catherine had refused. As tempting as it was, it was tactically wiser to go straight to Denerim, if only as a show that they were "serious" about saving the Arl.
They left late in the evening after barbarically raiding the castle's larder for their dinner and food supplies – anything to make Morrigan's patented "Whatever Stew" more palatable. Their pace was slow, hampered by fatigued and healing injuries.
Catherine was using what little reserves she had left just to put one foot in front of the other, leaning on her staff heavily for support, with Damon hovering nearby. Her normally lustrous, jet-black hair was unbound, densely matted with blood, sweat and normal tangles. The soft skin of her eyelids were dark circles, puffed up dramatically from near-constant rubbing in an attempt to keep them open.
She was the worst of the lot: Sten didn't receive many injuries, nor did her mabari, while Alistair's shield arm had been sorely wrenched and a rib cracked and Leliana had a twisted ankle. Morrigan was, as usual, immaculate and seemed only slightly less alert than usual.
As such, they marched on for a few hours until the moon was perched high in the sky, illuminating a small field with enough room for their lean-toes and tents. Unfortunately, there was no water source nearby, so everyone had to do with being dirty and smelly for awhile longer.
Everyone went about their chores, erecting the campsite with mechanical movements and little speech, too exhausted to want to deal with even light conversation.
This, however, did not seem to deter Alistair, at all. Once the camp was secure and Sten was set up on watch, the templar advanced on her, all righteous fury and accusations. He was at least a head taller than she was, and while she'd never show it, he was quite intimidating when he was angry. No, she would not show fear; she turned to face him head-on, chin jerking up with pride and no regrets.
"We need to talk. Now." he growled, glaring balefully.
Catherine simply nodded and walked towards the 'edge' of the camp; it wasn't private by any means, but at least it would keep the others out of it, for the most part. She could hear his gait behind her; quick and angry, practically stomping. Once they got a suitable distance away, she turned on him, arching an eyebrow and motioning for him to go on.
"You... you killed the Arlessa!" he snarled, baring his teeth. "How could you do something like that?! What right do you have to choose who lives and dies? You didn't even try to go to the Circle! We could've sent a sodding messenger if it was too inconvenient for you!"
She held out a hand to cut him off. "Yes. Wonderful idea." she taunted with a roll of her eyes. "Let's twiddle our thumbs while a powerful demon stews in its own maniacal desires."
Alistair scoffed and waved a hand, beginning to pace in a tight circle, avoiding eye contact. "No one deserves to die like that... Maker, Cat; how can this not effect you at all?" The pacing stopped and he caught her eyes. "What kind of person are you?" he whispered raggedly, brow furrowed.
That was the last straw.
"What kind of person am I?" she repeated heatedly. "I am a Grey Warden, as are you, boy." A tapered finger dug into his armored chest, poking harshly. "Isolde. Her name was Isolde and she wanted to save her son. I wasn't about to put that village through more; if we had left – Maker's Breath, even if we just sent a messenger – that demon could have easily done far worse."
Catherine felt her face heat up and her breath was coming out in heavy pants. "Don't you dare judge me! I have never claimed to be some paragon of virtue and, by the Maker, if you continue to hold me to your standards, we will come to blows and I will win." she growled between gritted teeth, hands clenching at her sides.
She heard him snort. "Paragon of virtue? Maker, I may be slow, but there's no way I'd ever mistake you as that." he said, attempting to joke, but failing. "You could've done some--
"Tell me, Alistair," she interrupted snappishly, "should I have killed the child, then? Is that what you wanted? Because that was the only other option." Catherine shook her head mournfully, eyes cast down. "Isolde was responsible for what happened there! Blood magic or not, that was justice."
"So should I expect to be used as power for your spells, then? Did you only agree to it because you know how it works?" the templar asked accusingly, arms crossing over his chest.
Catherine chuckled, mimicking his stance with smirk. "Nonsense. If I needed fuel, I'd used someone with actual power in their veins. You're hardly fit to feed the dog."
Surprisingly, Alistair let out a small bark of laughter, though it seemed more out of nervousness than anything else. The toes of his boots dug into the soft grass as he raked a hand through his dirty hair.
"It's a bad sign that I take that as a comforting thought."
"Probably." she returned. "You're welcome to hate me. I won't promise you I won't use my abilities 'only when necessary'."
Alistair started to say something, but she shook her head. "It's always necessary. Darkspawn won't be merciful. I refuse to relent just because of your morals."
"But... blood magic corrupts." he argued, rubbing the back of his neck. "Doesn't it?"
She sighed and ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth nervously. She opted for the truth. "Blood magic can be used to control the minds of others, this is true. It's extremely difficult to master and it's not permanent, but it is possible."
"And you'd be willing to do that?" Alistair asked warily.
"If it meant defeating someone trying to kill me – us? Definitely."
He blanched and took a step back from her, confusion etched on his face. "This is wrong. You can't... you can't expect me to be... okay with this." His head shook incredulously. "I can't forgive you for this, Cat. For the Arlessa... for being so..."
"Heartless?" she answered for him, completely unaffected by the implications. "Bitchy? Evil? Pragmatic?" Catherine paused, cocking her head. "Oh-so-beautiful?"
"Does it even matter to you? That I feel sick being around you?"
Catherine shrugged. "It doesn't."
"Wow. I... I thought I knew why Duncan recruited you." he murmured. Alistair's eyes drifted to the grass yet again, arms hanging limply by his sides. "Maybe you blinded him, too."
The mage considered mentioning that Duncan had been the one to give her the grimoire in the first place, but decided against it. She didn't need his approval, besides the fact he would likely see it as manipulation. Her shoulders shrugged again, and she simply told him to go get some sleep.
Alistair walked off almost immediately, stomping through the brush with all the grace of a bronto. They were close enough to camp, that she saw him go straight to Leliana; the sight brought a small smile to her lips, though it soon disappeared when she saw the sister's face begin to scrunch with anger.
Arms flailed in exasperation and voices raised to far louder levels than her previous argument, though as far as she was she didn't catch most of it. She heard "second chances" and "maleficar" and "sin" mixed with "necessity" and "sacrifice". Eventually, both went to their respective tents in a huff, anger rolled off of them both.
Catherine shook her head and let out a long sigh, looking up at the moon.
"They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond." she whispered to the night sky, nodding in agreement as she spoke.
Perhaps the Chant of Light did have some truth to it.