Chapter Text
Thousands of years ago he might have been ecstatic to see it happen, but all he did now was fall to his knees, and sob. Deep heaving, shuddering breaths, so many tears he could hardly even see him emerge, but he knew. The water bubbled, and as the once and future king - as Arthur - rose from the lake with his sword held high, Merlin wept.
He had waited for centuries for his king to return, for the great threat to fall upon Albion. Sometimes he dreaded it, and the inevitability of it, other times he wished for it, a few times he even hoped his own suffering would count as enough to awaken his long-dead king, long-dead love. But Albion, though not often referred to as that any longer, still stood strong, and the spirit of his people still lingered in their descendants. He wasn’t the only one left. Every now and then, he’d meet a few of his old friends from his days in Camelot, course they never remembered him, how could they, being but reincarnations of the people he had bonded with so long ago.
He should have seen this coming, really. Every time he’d seen a familiar face, it was always alone, separated from the others by too many miles and too many years. But he’d seen Guenevere and Lancelot within the last month, both in the same city. And only half a year before that was Gwaine, two cities over. He hasn’t seen the others yet, but now as his mind is racing with Arthur and he’s here and Arthur has come back to him, he knows it will be only a matter of time before they find all of the knights.
As for now, he’d only come back to plant his yearly flowers. There’s a proper field of them now, all sorts, from roses to tulips to daisies, everything, anything, to give him an excuse to come back. To see if maybe, just maybe this time something will happen. He didn’t actually expect it though. He’d honestly lost hope in the past decades, with everything zooming by so fast. From telegraphs to smartphones in only just over two hundred years it seemed that perhaps, Albion wouldn’t need its king to come back anymore. But here he was. Standing in front of Merlin, his sword now down at his side, looking lost and amazed and a bit like he’d pass out any second, was Arthur.
Merlin stood at the water’s edge, tears drying tacky, chest spasming for breath because he still couldn’t quite catch it, as Arthur -his Arthur- stumbled his way out of the water towards him. When he reached him, still in the armor he died in, in that chainmail he could still feel in his sleep, Arthur grinned in that charming, boyish way of his, and hugged him.
“Hello, Merlin.”
His voice was scratchy from disuse, and, as he backed away to look this man, the last face he ever saw and the first he’s ever seen again, he gave a heavy cough, grimaced, and collapsed into him.
“Arthur!”