*.*.*.*.*
Merlin had never known what to expect of Arthur's return. He had always assumed great magic would be involved, that he would rise from Avalon dramatically, seek Merlin out, and demand answers of some sort. At the very least, Merlin would know he had returned long before he found him—somehow, he was supposed to have just known.
But he wasn't going to complain about not knowing, not now, not when Arthur was in his arms, not when he was rocking him back and worth, whispering their old tales in his ears, begging Merlin—begging himself, really—to confirm that this was all real, that it had all happened, that he wasn't mad.
After some long moments, Arthur finally pulled back, his eyes shining with wept tears in a way that the old Arthur would never let show in public. With a sort of pang, Merlin wondered if this was really his Arthur before he shook his head, cuffed Merlin on the back of the head gently, his hand freezing to cup and caress the nape of his neck, playing at the hair there. And oh God, that smile—how Merlin had missed it!
There was a blissful sort of fluttering in his stomach, however, as realization set in with Arthur's next words, slurred with happiness and a thickness that Merlin recognized as a sort of over-whelming feeling that he swallowed with the lump in his throat. "You clotpole."
"That's my word." Merlin said automatically, a sob escaping the folds of his lips as he tugged Arthur close again and reveled in his touch, his scent, his very being that Merlin's magic said very much belonged to the Arthur he had always known.
And in that moment, Merlin knew that this was his Arthur. This would always be his Arthur.
*.*.*.*.*