It is years later when Arthur dies.
Years later when the world ends.
Years later when Camelot becomes little more than smoke and mourning and shattered promises scattered across blood-soaked ground.
Gwaine remembers fragments.
The cries of wounded soldiers.
The unbearable silence that follows a king's final breath.
Mostly he remembers Merlin.
Standing beside Arthur's body as though someone had reached into his chest and ripped out everything that made him human.
As though grief had become flesh and bone and blue eyes.
Gwaine has seen people mourn before.
But this is something else entirely.
This is the heartbreak that only exists when love has spent years growing roots through every corner of a person's soul.
And suddenly all the old jealousies inside Gwaine die.
Not because they stop hurting.
Because they become meaningless.
Because looking at Merlin then is like looking at a ruined cathedral.
You do not envy the god it was built for.
You only mourn the destruction.
After Arthur's death, the kingdom fractures.
The world keeps moving because it always does, because tragedy has never once convinced the sun to stop rising.
Gwaine finds him one morning preparing a horse in the courtyard before dawn.
Everything feels suspended between one life and the next.
Merlin does not look surprised to see him.
Perhaps he knew Gwaine would come.
Perhaps Gwaine has always been too easy for him to read.
"You're leaving," Gwaine says.
"Told you before. Somewhere Arthur can't order me around anymore."
Merlin's gaze drifts toward the horizon.
Toward distances neither of them can see.
And suddenly Gwaine understands.
Something twists painfully inside his chest.
The word escapes before he can stop it.
And for one terrible moment Gwaine thinks he might.
Then Merlin shakes his head.
The answer to every question Gwaine has ever been afraid to ask.
Because my heart belongs somewhere else. Because part of me always will. Because some loves survive death.
Because loving Merlin has always required a certain amount of self-destruction.
The wind stirs between them.
Merlin looks suddenly exhausted. Older than he should. Sadder than anyone deserves.
And before Gwaine can stop himself he reaches out and cups Merlin's face. Just once. Just this once.
The entire world seems to stop breathing.
Gwaine traces the line of his cheekbone with his thumb.
"Take care of yourself," he whispers.
And then Merlin leans forward.
"I love you," Merlin says.
The words strike like lightning.
Everything inside Gwaine stops.
Hope surges upward so violently it almost hurts.
But then Merlin continues.
"I just don't think it'll ever be the way you deserve."
Like a candle reaching the end of its wick.
Yet somehow the pain is not as terrible as Gwaine expected.
Because Merlin is giving him honesty instead of false promises.
Because there is love here after all.
Just not the kind Gwaine spent years dreaming about.
"Trust you," he murmurs. "To break my heart while being nice about it."
Merlin's laugh emerges strangled and wet.
Then, unexpectedly, he kisses him.
Not like a man discovering the love of his life.
A kiss filled with affection and sorrow and all the impossible tenderness of a heart that belongs elsewhere.
And God help him, Gwaine treasures it
The way Merlin's hand trembles against his shoulder.
When they finally part, neither of them speaks.
There is nothing left to say.
Some endings do not need words.
The dawn is beginning to brighten the horizon now, painting the world gold.
A beautiful color for a tragedy.
Gwaine watches him turn away.
Watches him ride toward a future that does not include Camelot.
And yet, just before disappearing into the growing light, Merlin glances back.
Their eyes meet across the distance.
For one impossible second, Gwaine sees every version of them that never existed.
The life they might have had.
The years they might have shared.
The happiness that remained forever just beyond reach.
Years later, Gwaine will still think about him.
The wound eventually becomes a scar, and scars are easier to carry than open wounds.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments between dusk and darkness, he remembers a boy with impossible blue eyes and too much kindness hidden beneath too much stubbornness.
He remembers a kiss that meant goodbye.
He remembers loving someone he could never truly have.
And strangely, the memory no longer feels like grief.
Because not everyone gets to love something extraordinary.
Not everyone gets to know a person capable of changing the shape of their soul.
The sadness never leaves entirely.
They simply learn to exist together.
Like sunlight through stained glass.
Like laughter at a funeral.
Like a bittersweet ending.
Like Merlin, riding forever toward the horizon, carrying one great love in his heart and another tucked carefully beside it, not forgotten, never forgotten, while Gwaine remains behind beneath an ordinary sky, smiling through the ache, grateful for the hurt because it means it happened at all, because for a little while, however briefly, however incompletely, he had been loved by magic itself.
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