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“You said you’d be more careful,” whispers Dorian to the broken figure laying on the ground, looking quite pathetic.
He doesn’t get a response, of course, and his heart is breaking all over again.
It all happened so fast. Red Templars, the large cliff, so much blood, and the sound of bones cracking and Sera screaming in horror.
Dorian squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at his amatus, but he can’t help but think about the recent events all over again.
They were walking up a large hill alongside a cliff. Quite dangerous, as Dorian had voiced several times and even warned the elf not to stray too close to the edge. But Emile Lavellan, having absolutely no care in the world, told him to “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful” and turned around to give Dorian a smile. A smile he never got to see often, and will never see again. The smile that crinkled at his eyes and showed his dimples, which were absolutely adorable, Dorian thought, almost as adorable as the many freckles the elf has.
Dorian opens his eyes and the image of his dear amatus smiling is replaced by the blank look Emile is currently giving him. His neck is twisted painfully, and his mouth had fallen open, a trickle of blood falls from the corner to the blood pooling at the side of his head. The color of the blood almost matches his dark red hair.
Dorian gasps, a sob getting stuck in his throat. He’s not going to cry again, he’ll try not to, and he quickly wipes away the tears from his eyes.
He remembers them coming across the Red Templars and having to fight them off. One of them had grabbed the elf in the midst of battle, lifting him up in the air as if he weighed nothing, and slamming him against a nearby rock. It was disgusting to hear the bones crack, and the wet gargle Emile let out. It made Dorian sick. And then, as if to finally end it all, the Red Templar dropped him at the cliff side. Dorian’s pretty sure he was already dead before that.
Dead. Dorian opens his eyes again to stare down at Emile. He’s dead. Dorian reaches down to brush a stray strand of hair out of his face, the skin is cold when he touches him. Emile is dead. He still can’t believe it.
“Dorian.”
He perks up at the sound of his name, with a strand of hope, maybe it could have been-
Nope. Just the Iron Bull.
“What?” Dorian hates how his voice sounds so broken. It’s pathetic.
“We should… head back to Skyhold.” Iron Bull looks at him, face full of sorrow. “I’m sorry that this happened. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.”
“None of us could,” Dorian mutters, running a hand through his hair, which was wet and disgusting-feeling. The Storm Coast is the last place he wants to be right now. He stands up and forces his gaze away from the elf.
From here, he can see Sera sitting by herself, curled into some sort of ball and covering her face. She’s been crying the whole time. He then glances up at Bull, and notices he’s been crying too. So, they’re all a big mess right now.
—–
They arrived back at Skyhold later. The news of the Inquisitor’s demise had shocked everyone. There had been lots of crying, of course. And for Dorian, there’s been lots of drinking his sorrows away too. Maybe not the healthiest option, but now that Emile wasn’t there, there’s no one to scold him for it.
Emile’s funeral came a couple days later.
It was very silent in the halls, save for the sniffles and the occasional sob. Cole was the only one not there, too distressed by everyone’s sadness, too many people he felt he had to help at once.
When the ceremony ends, Dorian walks up to the body laying on some sort of pedestal. Emile looks so peaceful, and the blood and mud caked on him earlier was cleaned off. He almost looks as if he’s asleep, though Dorian knows he isn’t. He misses the elf’s usual scowl and pissy frowns. He misses his beautiful, stormy blue eyes, and the way he curls up next to him in bed. The way he snorts when he laughs, and the way how he’s so selfless when he doesn’t even seem like it.
Dorian lets out a shuddering breath. All he wants more than anything right now is to be held by Emile and him telling that “Everything is going to be alright.” Dorian can’t help but grab his hand, the one where the anchor is still alive and burning. He just knows they’re not going to give him a proper burial just yet. Not with the fade rifts still everywhere and the giant hole in the sky. They’ll probably cut off his left arm, and find a way to close rifts with it. Dorian doesn’t really want to think about that, though.
As a farewell, Dorian kisses his beloved’s pale forehead.
——-
He gets the idea later.
It’s an awful idea. Perhaps dangerous too. But it doesn’t mean he can’t attempt it.
Dorian has been researching the magic of necromancy, reading so many books on it, and trying to see if there’s a way to return a spirit back to its body. The last thing he wants is Emile’s body walking around as an empty husk, similar to a tranquil. He even studies the magic of spirit healing for more help.
Dorian sighs as he tosses another book on the floor, and looks at the still figure on the bed. It may seem a little creepy, having to carry his lover’s dead body from his “resting place” in the middle of the night just to lay him on his old bed in his quarters. Thankfully nobody saw him. Dorian really doesn’t feel like explaining to anyone what the heck he’s doing.
He had laid Emile in the middle of the bed, on top of a makeshift spell circle made out of leaves. It was the best he could do to try to draw his spirit’s attention.
The harsh glow of magic forms at his hands, a light blue-purplish color. “Please work,” Dorian mumbles to himself, repeating the words over and over.
Shadows climb their way up the bed, clinging to the body laying in the middle of it A soft hue forms around the elf, the anchor in his hand glows brightly. Many spirits chant in Dorian’s mind and ears, and he does his best to ignore them, focusing all his attention to the magic around him.
The elf’s body jerks in its place. The power is becoming too overwhelming, too loud, but Dorian still has to focus. The body jerks again, this time upwards, and everything goes silent. It’s calm.
Dorian breathes heavily, feeling that all his mana had already drained out of him. He watches the body closely in apprehension with a bead of sweat dripping down his face.
“Oh, Maker,” Dorian whispers to himself, mentally cursing, that if this turns out to be some sort of demon, he has no way of defending himself.
“Dorian?”
The mage gasps loudly, his mouth gaping wide, and heart leaping with excitement. Had it really worked? “Emile?” Dorian calls out to the elf softly, fighting the urge to run up and hug him.
Emile slowly looks up at him, his eyes wide and face disturbed. He puts his hand in front of his face to inspect it, clenching and opening his fist. “What… happened?”
“Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” Dorian asks, walking up to the side of the bed to sit beside him.
“I can only remember Red Templars.” Emile runs a thin hand through his red hair, brows furrowed in concentration. “Did I pass out? I don’t remember coming back to Skyhold.”
Dorian bites his bottom lip nervously. He’s not too sure if he should tell him that ‘Hey, you actually died and it made everyone, especially me, sad! So I brought you back to life and it might end up freaking everyone out later!!’ Because, maybe that’s too much. “You… actually died,” he decides to tell him.
Emile lifts an incredulous brow at him, lips pressed tightly together. “I’m serious,” he tells him, absolutely not in the mood for joking.
“I am, too,” Dorian says, reaching out to grab Emile’s hand to squeeze lightly. He’s still cold to touch, but he feels somewhat reassured when he can feel the hand move slightly on its own. “You died, Emile. I just brought you back to life.”
Emile stares at him, still looking like he doesn’t believe him before he actually looks around the room. Books on necromancy and spirit healing are scattered across the floor, he’s laying on top of a circle shaped pattern made out of leaves. He brings his other hand up to his chest and he stills, blue eyes widening with a hint of horror. “I’m not actually alive,” he tells him.
“But, you’re talking, and moving around…”
“My heart doesn’t beat, I haven’t felt the need to breathe within the last couple minutes.” Emile looks down at their joined hands. “I feel empty and cold, but I still feel like I’m myself, somehow.”
Emile is an undead. Not what Dorian had been hoping, but he’s still himself. The mage lunges forward to finally wrap his arms around the elf, pressing his lips against his cold pair. Emile kisses back urgently, hands coming up to cling to Dorian’s robes. “I’ve missed you… so much,” Dorian whispers against his cold skin, releasing a shuddering breath.
“I can tell,” Emile huffs, pulling away from the other man. “I guess I’m some sort of zombie now, huh?”
“It’s not what I was hoping for. I was hoping you’d be fully alive.”
Emile blinks slowly, before his face twists in a pained expression. “If I was dead, how will the others feel about this?”
Dorian’s heart drops slightly. “We’ll just have to find out and see.” And he has a feeling that they won’t be too happy.
—-
Well, the news of the Inquisitor returning back to life had certainly overwhelmed everyone. The news has probably already spread to all of Thedas by now.
Josephine had fainted when she heard the news, the poor woman. Other people assumed that it was because he’s the 'Herald of Andraste’ and Andraste herself used her powers to bring him back to life. Maybe it’s better if the people believed that, even though Emile absolutely despises that title.
Dorian thought about telling everyone in the Inner Circle that it was him who brought Emile back to life, but it seems like Cassandra already came up with that conclusion.
“I know that it was you,” she says, walking up to him in his study. Her gaze is harsh and she points an accusing finger at him. “You’ve done this.”
“Done what?” Dorian asks, putting down the book he was reading.
Cassandra sets a hand on her hip as she leans forward threateningly. “You used necromancy to bring him back to life,” she whispers harshly. “Dark magic.”
“Who said it was necromancy?” Dorian huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“He’s a walking corpse, Dorian.”
“But he’s himself!” Cassandra only lets out a disgusted noise. “Okay, I may have used necromancy, but I’ve also mixed it with spirit healing magic. And before you ask why I couldn’t have just used only spirit healing, well because, I’m not quite familiar with it and I didn’t want it to be too late,” Dorian snorts as he looks away.
Cassandra sighs as she leans against the wall. “I know you loved him-”
“Love. I still love him.”
“-And I know you only wanted him back.” She looks down at her hands, wringing them together. “Everyone did. I just hope you know what you’re doing and that he isn’t too vulnerable in this state.”
He looks back at her and frowns softly, “I hope so too.”
——
It took a while for everyone to get used to Emile. It even took Emile a while to get used to himself, at least Dorian thinks, perhaps he still isn’t used to his new self.
Dorian didn’t have to tell anyone in the Inner Circle that it was him who brought the Inquisitor back to life. They all just kind of assumed, or maybe Cassandra told all of them. He doesn’t care either way.
Everything eventually goes back to normal, the way it was before Emile’s death. Well… almost normal.
When Dorian sleeps, he can feel eyes watching him as Emile doesn’t need sleep anymore. He doesn’t need food either. He feels pain, but doesn’t bleed too much. The fact that he was resurrected has people treating him like some sort of god. Dorian knows he hates all of it. He knows he hates change.
“Dorian?” Emile says one day.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to live anymore.”
“I know,” his voice cracks, heart breaking all over again. This time Emile reaches out to set a cold, gentle hand on his shoulder, leaning in to press a comforting kiss on his cheek.
——
Corypheus finally gets defeated, and Dorian knows he should be ecstatic that they’ve made it this far. But, he knows that this is the final goal for Emile.
He knows that Emile hates living like this. Being undead. He’s mentioned it felt like he’s tranquil but not. He just wastes away each day, just like a corpse.
“Promise you won’t forget me?” Emile asks, giving him a watery smile.
Dorian stares at the other man’s gaunt, tired face, his sickly pale skin and fragile-looking body, and looks into his dull, blank eyes.
“I promise, Amatus.”