Imagine this as an alternate Theranders Universe where Anders, despite having deep feelings for Theron, still ends up merging with Justice and fleeing to Kirkwall. Theron comes looking for him.
“You came back.” Anders’ voice was as low as the lanterns. In the dim light he could barely see the elf standing in his open doorway, but he didn’t need to see him to know who it was. He got to his feet and the man at the door shifted his weight from one foot to the other like a nervous deer, saying nothing. “I didn’t think you would, you know.” Anders lifted his hand to his face, covered his eyes, then dragged the hand down over his lips, his scruffy chin. “After you found out, I mean.”
At the door, the elf--Theron Mahariel, Warden-Commander of Ferelden--stepped forward in defiance. He was older, they both were, and around his eyes the soft crinkles of new crow’s feet were revealed as he neared. He still had his hair, red and long and kept out of his eyes with pins and ties, still falling in artistic tendrils that begged to be tucked away.
“I had to know,” Theron said, soft, above a whisper without the hush, but quiet enough that Anders drew closer to hear him speak. “Because I couldn’t believe the stories. But you were gone. Justice was gon--”
“They told me you died!” The break in Anders’ voice surprised them both and they stopped, ten paces from one another, Theron’s eyes catching what little light was in the room and reflecting it in an eerie yellow-green glow. “I spent five years mourning you and you come back like this? Here? Just wandering into Kirkwall on a whim?”
“I came for you.” As always he was brief, reticent, the set of his jaw betraying more than his words ever could.
Anders closed the distance and grabbed him, pulled him close to his chest and ached as all the familiar scents--beeswax and leather, sweat and evergreen--flooded into him. Five years. Five years of hiding, of sleeping three hours a night, of following Hawke with a budding sense of hero worship that could have been more if, when he fell into bed at night, he didn’t still see red hair and soft green eyes behind his eyelids.
“It can never be the same,” Anders said. He felt Theron’s arms around his chest, hands light on his back. “Nothing ever will be.”
Anders slumped against him, and as the wind from the open side of the room kicked up, three lanterns lost their flame. In the darkness, he finally let out a sob, and Theron’s grip tightened. That, at least, was the same.
