the common variation of the "arthur comes back" trope is that he emerges from avalon, fog headed and confused, and countless time has passed, and the only thing that makes sense is merlin.
imagine an awake arthur. arthur, who enters the realm of avalon with a hand clamped tight over his eyes, refusing to watch as his friends mourn. arthur, who bangs against the walls of the veil, who slams his shoulder into invisible barriers, who reaches for his sword that won't pierce through. "i have to go back," he says. it's like no one hears him, in this liminal space, where nothing is familiar and all he can see is a technicolour hellscape that is life without him.
arthur, who watches the years pass, and his friends grow old, and die, but never forget. who watches his kingdom grow and diminish, suffer and sing.
but then there's merlin, who only grows old when he wants to. there's merlin, who doesn't die, even when it's well past the time he should. and as the familiar faces of his loves fade away, he clings to that. and watches.
watches as merlin grows his magic, and learns, and reaches into the core of the universe to pull out more beauty than arthur has ever known. watches as merlin tells his story, over and over and over and over, and watches as the light never fades from his eyes when he tells it.
and there are parts arthur has trouble watching. those years where merlin pleads at the lake's edge. give him back to me. take me to him. make me forget. each iteration hurts in different ways, and arthur finds himself slamming his shoulder against the veil again, gasping for breath he doesn't need.
and worse yet, somehow. merlin falling in love, doomed from the start. merlin watching as everyone he believes in and seeks comfort in grows old and dies. he slowly stops telling the stories, and arthur screams his voice hoarse-- or imagine he does-- trying to get him to hear, i'm still here, i'm still here.
but centuries pass and he comes to learn that merlin never forgets him. faces fade and he changes towns, villages, cities, but he keeps waiting, hoping.
and arthur watches the world fall apart and stitch itself back together again, often at the behest of his sorcerer. and his magic grows more and more subtle, but it's still there, never leaving him.
arthur never leaves him, either.
somewhere in the liminal, he realizes what he's known all along, the steady thrum of love beneath his chest. and it drives him mad for a while, and there's the sword through the veil again.
but he's doomed to wait, and finally, finally, finally--
he's spitting up vile, murky water, his legs a newborn stag's, and he's looking up into the blue eyes he's been watching for so many aching centuries.
"well," merlin laughs. "took you long enough."
"you," he'll reply, whether his voice is ready or not, "have no idea."
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