Something indefinable changed after they departed the city of Nevarra. Fenris and Anders continued west, spurring newly acquired horses to a spirited gallop along the winding Minanter river. While Anders still led, he no longer looked back over his shoulder, content to measure the difference in volume between two sets of hooves. He did not increase the distance between them, nor did Fenris attempt to close it. They were headed the same direction. They were safer together than alone. It was…
It reminded Anders of the day he and Fenris discovered their mutual loathing for blood mages. Up and down reversed themselves when blood mages seeking power boasted at transforming Templars into abominations. The trip home was quiet, Darktown's air cloying. Even when Anders tripped over a rock in distraction at his thoughts, Fenris said nothing. Anders couldn't even bring himself to needle Fenris over his omission. The entire group sulked home miserable, defeated, covered in blood and sin.
It took a couple of days before they returned to their usual verbal sparring. It almost came as a relief when they reverted to loudly picking at their emotional wounds in the presence of one another. As the volume of their arguments increased, the world let out the breath it held and started turning again.
Then there was the time Keeper Marithari sacrificed herself to purge the demon behind Merrill's eluvian. Barbed words unfurled from two sets of downturned mouths, joining to stab at more worthy prey despite Merrill's renewed wailing at each pointed addition. If unbowed by remorse, Merrill's pridefulness would no doubt extract a second price and render the Keeper's passing meaningless. Sad resignation at being on the same side of another matter concerning the use of magic felt as unsettling as returning via the ancient graveyard. The silence only lasted until they reached the Dalish camp below.
Years later, Isabela gained ownership by default of Castillon's agile ship. Both men sensed it was just a matter of time before she cast off from Kirkwall. The Hanged Man seemed emptier with Isabela off to arrange repairs and hire a crew. From Fenris' expression, it was clearly the first time he'd stopped to consider that they'd slept with the same woman. Now Anders wondered whether Fenris had chosen Isabela in part for that vaguely tethered connection, perhaps without even realizing it. Startled by Isabela's absence, they had stood together in air still faint with her perfume. Fenris' elbow leaned itself against an ale soaked counter. They drank in silence, rancid mead no less sour than their shared mood.
They never spoke of these events again. They stood as isolated moments in time, rare exceptions that proved the general rule. After Kirkwall's crisis, after the rescue in Wildervale and Nevarra's revelations, one thing was clear. The rules of life as commonly understood were not merely meant to be broken. They never existed in the first place. Now Anders looked back, reviewing incidents from a distant past. And they held the beginning of something bigger. Whatever indefinable thing this was with Fenris, it was there all along, a pane of clear glass so perfectly shaped and clean that it was not seen until it was felt.
Escaping Nevarra's capital city left Anders whiplashed, reeling from a hard smack against unbreakable glass. It was hard enough learning why his elven shadow persisted in keeping its host alive. The palpable silence between them despite their close distance harkened to past agreements much like a finger pressed against a mirror can impart to a lonely man the fleeting illusion of another's touch. A hardened atheist, Anders half wondered whether life itself was nothing more than an undulating underside mirror of water glittering above millions of anonymous heads drowning in their own sorry ignorance.
On fleet horses, Anders and Fenris floated across green landscape, as far above the people of Thedas as eggshell clouds glided over a meandering river and rolling hillside dancing merrily together. Isolated in midair, blown forward by swift hooves and swifter remorse, the two hastened travelers listened as the Kirkwall chantry's ghostly bells tolled rapturously to mark the church's own funeral. A foreboding intimacy spawned forth from their silent mourning of the baleful tones only they could hear. The facade that pitted mages against Templars stood as flimsy as an oasis of passion mocking its emotional desert.
Reminders rippled everywhere, yet not a drop to think. While Anders and Fenris reassuringly remained enemies, it was of a new sort entirely. The tension between them was no longer about who was right or wrong. Everyone was wrong, as nobody understood the question. It had all been a horrible mistake. Life itself was a mistake. Anders was a mistake, had always been a mistake, and would always be a mistake.
Anders fled west only to gift his elven shadow with another day of sun. If Anders drew one more black cloud overhead, it would extinguish the only thing he could still bring himself to care for. If he wished Fenris to see the moon, Anders must search out any hint of redemption in his shadow's gaze. He must seek any small comfort in his own reflection on the river shared between Nevarra and the Free Marches.
Anders could feel Fenris' eyes on his back, an unblinking stare unwavering in its intensity. It made his skin itch. Anders wanted to scratch that unholy itch until they both bled. He knew he was not alone in this. They seemed equally determined to undo one another now, to be the first to claim victory and the last to succumb to baser instincts. It had been firmly established that they were both in danger of breaking, if not broken already. Temptation to push fragile limits lurked everywhere. Yet they said nothing of it. It was a dangerous game they played. It seemed unlikely that this war could ever be won or lost. Their sound and fury would climax in a standstill that brokered no peace and left no survivor.
So what. The gambler who dies on safari need never pay up. Neither party had anything left to lose.
Except one another.