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There has not been a stranger party formed in many years. Before now, Fenris has only ever found himself travelling alongside Anders under great duress, and usually with Hawke standing between the two of them to make sure that they do not tear each others’ throats out - and yet, here he is. Some days ago he had found the mage standing at his door - no explanation as to how he had found him, no comment past a quiet shrug and a rueful smile.
"I need your help," he had said, quite simply.
And, just as simply, Fenris had followed him. Even now, he does not know why; it has been years since they have seen each other, but neither of them talk of that lost time between. Fenris does not care where Anders has been, and neither does Anders care to ask the same of him. They simply walk, content to remain in silence - perhaps thinking of the other companions they have long left behind, perhaps thinking of the road ahead.
Wherever their thoughts lie, they do not speak of them.
Fenris has always been a better follower than one to lead, and it surprises him how easily he follows in Anders’ footsteps. If they have a destination, he cannot fathom it - they cross the Minanter River, then follow it north through Trevis and Nessum until the expanse of water becomes little more than a stream, then disappears beneath the earth to its source. In a silence that has begun to border on companionable they reach Perendel, and it is there that Anders finally starts to talk; more to himself than Fenris, but he is finally talking nonetheless.
He talks about himself, mostly, but not the ongoing injustice towards his fellow mages - if Fenris is surprised about this, he says nothing. He talks about his time in the Circle - about many escape attempts as a child, about his brief time with the Hero of Ferelden. He talks about some memories that belong to Justice and some that belong to Anders - mostly they are intertwined and indistinguishable, like the demon and the man themselves, but some are distinct enough that Fenris can guess which belong to which.
Eventually, they find themselves in the Hunterhorn Mountains. The peaks are wreathed in mist - Fenris finds himself shivering in the unaccustomed cold, and somewhere between skirting around the sealed entrances to Kal-Sharok and the endless mountain bluffs they finally slow to a halt. Anders is talking about his childhood now, about his youth before he was sent to the Circle - at the same time, he seems to have no longer been wandering aimlessly; he seems to have been looking for something these past few days, following a road that only he knows.
"My father took me up here once, betore I started showing my abilities," Anders is saying, stopping at the edge of a bluff that drops several hundred feet on one side, and rises behind them into an indomitable cliff filled with crevices. "It was high summer - if I was sunburned before I came up, I was practically cooked by the time we made it down again."
"Mage," Fenris says, finally, and his words are more carefully chosen than usual. "Why are you telling me this? Why am I here?"
Anders says nothing - only hefts his packs higher over his shoulder and steps back from the drop to cross to where the mountain rises onwards above them. “On a clear day, you can see all the way to the Anderfels,” he says, when he speaks again. “The southern border, anyway. We stood here and pretended to wave to my mother.”
“Mage,” Fenris says again. He does not know why he has followed him this far, but it is definitely not to listen to inane stories about his childhood.
Anders falls silent, and he sighs a long, heavy breath through his nose. He is clearly not ready to speak the truth - not just yet - but he is running out of time and he knows that Fenris is running out of patience. He sets his pack down, and runs one hand along the rock face until he finds a crevice there - barely noticeable to one not looking for it, perhaps two handspans wide but just large enough to fit one person through, should they be determined enough. “This… is an entrance to Kal-Sharok,” he says eventually. “Or, to be more precise, it leads beneath the Thaig. To the Deep Roads.”
It is not until Fenris sees the look on Anders’ face that he finally understands.
He knows little of the Grey Wardens, but he knows people well enough - until now, he had thought the shadows under Anders’ eyes to be exhaustion, thought the haunted expression to be a well-deserved guilt over the crimes that he had committed.
But now he knows better.
Now he understands.
"The Calling," he says, eventually. His gaze flits from the mage’s face to the rocky entrance to the Deep Roads, then back again; his brows curved questioningly. "Why bring me here?"
Anders shrugs, and though he tries to make his smile casual the expression is strained. “You’re the only one left,” he says, and they both understand what he means. There is not one of Hawke’s companions left who is not either in hiding or already claimed by the Maker.
"I thought that it might be easier this way," Anders continues, and there’s a hint of bitter ruefulness in his voice as he manages a quiet, sad sort of smile. "I… didn’t want to face the journey here on my own. And Maker knows you wouldn’t cry for me - I never was all that good with teary goodbyes."
Fenris says nothing - he is staring at the blackness beyond the cavern with a quiet sort of thoughtfulness, wordless, unmoving.
When Fenris remains silent, Anders sets his packs down, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter. “But now that I’m here… I don’t think I have the courage to go through with it.”
Fenris does look at him then. For once, there is no taunt about the mage’s cowardice - there are no harsh words, no cruel jibes. For once, finally, he seems to understand him. No man wants to die alone, not even Fenris. “Does it have to be darkspawn?” he asks eventually. The curiosity in his voice is genuine - it is a cruel way to go, for any man.
Anders shrugs. “No,” he answers. He leans back against one of the rocks - his bones feel older than his years, and it is a relief to rest them, just a little. “But the Wardens exist solely to hunt them. If we’re going to die, we might as well do it ridding more of them from this world.” His own gaze has slipped across to that cavern now - that hint of darkness through the tiny gap between rocks - and he shakes his head, giving a short, self-deprecating huff of laughter. “I never was a very good Warden, was I?”
Fenris takes his cue from Anders, and places his own packs down. “We were never very good at anything,” he remarks. Somehow, he cannot find his usual hatred to remark on Anders’ failings alone.
Anders glances across at him, and his smile is a quiet one. He reaches out, and claps Fenris gratefully on the arm - he forgets that the elf does not like to be touched until he feels him tense beneath him, but is surprised when Fenris doesn’t pull away. It is a small gesture, but he appreciates the effort.
When Fenris speaks again, his voice is quietly thoughtful. “There is… another way,” he says slowly. He clearly does not need to say anything else - he hears the soft draw of steel against leather, and when he looks to Anders, the mage has a knife in his hand, which he offers to him, hilt-first.
"I might have been hoping that you would offer," Anders says. He is trying to be brave, but there is a waver in his voice - an unsteadiness that betrays his feelings.
Had it been a less sombre situation, Fenris might have been surprised by the tug of sympathy that he feels for him in that moment. But he has seen too many men - good or not - die before their time; he cannot help but admire Anders’ courage. He takes the blade from him, and makes an effort to be careful with his words. “Perhaps you should kneel,” he says. Despite his best efforts, there is the slightest note of respect in his voice.
"I suppose you’ll take some pleasure in this," Anders says, and though he tries to make light of it the joke falls short. "You always did want me dead."
Fenris’s lips form a tight, straight line as he turns the blade in his hands. “Not today,” he says eventually.
He is not lying.
Anders’ smile falters, and as Fenris’s hand comes up to cover his eyes, he is hard pressed to hold back a sob. His heart hammers in his ribcage, as if trying to make the most of its last moments, and he swallows down the lump of fear in his throat.
"For what it is worth, I am sorry," Fenris murmurs.
There is the briefest moment of pain, and then nothing after.