The Returner
By dentedsky
For PhoenixAcid
His queen departed with his best knight, two on one horse, melting into the forest and sun and gone as if they were never there. The witch and the warlock - so similar yet opposing - left long ago, breath hitching in fear of the former king's prejudicial reign. And so Arthur remained, ruling Albion in final light and peace, and the witch returned once where Arthur craved for the warlock in her stead.
She was married to a Lord of Albion and aligned with the Druids. She said, Arthur, then paused, lips quivering in hesitation. The words she would speak she feared would come back to hurt her, bruising like a grudge, final like revenge.
Arthur, he has been sighted at the Borderlands. They say he is returning.
How could he dare hope her words were true? Some nights touched his naked skin as he half lay on pillows, pretending those pillows were Merlin. And Merlin would slowly creep his hands around and drag his fingers down, then under the waist band, curious like a child. Arthur could imagine it, in the no-light, the feeling of Merlin touching the tip of his tongue to Arthur's ear and breathing hot against him.
Other night there was only one figure in the room and yet the mirror held two, the shape behind him a shadow, eyes two star points and hands cradling Arthur's heart. Arthur, shirtless, pressed two fingers to the raven tattoo on his right hip, nerves numbed by the scar that lay beneath.
(An enemy had pierced him there, and Merlin had magicked the deep wound away, but what remained...
(And Arthur remembered an age ago, when Merlin had taken the poisoned chalice from Arthur's hand, grip on his wrist...
(And Arthur remembered Merlin weeping over a man who was his father, but Arthur did not know this at the time, but he should have known, for what is he if not Merlin's keeper? No man is worth your tears...
(And Arthur remembered Merlin...
(And Arthur remembered...
(And Arthur...
(And.)
The years folded away like a personal letter, and Arthur's heart was a beating force of sadness and good. There was no real face in the crowd, no true rumour and no bard's song of the Lord Emrys of Dragons that was not fantasy.
But one normal day, the Great Dragon flies over the gates and into the Upper Town Square, dust kicked up by his grand landing. A warlock slides from his back and down his scaly tail. The dust rolls back and he walks, head held high, over to the castle and to Arthur, who waits on the steps.
End.