Ending 2:

Arthur struggled harder than he ever had before against the damned spell that held him, desperately trying to spare the life of his dearest friend. His finger inched slowly, steadily, toward the trigger. Arthur resisted, willed himself to avert his aim, to remove his finger, anything, so that this monstrosity did not occur. He prayed. He cursed. He offered the devil his soul.

But it was over before Arthur could even blink.

Thwack!

Merlin choked, muscles stiffening. His hand clutched toward his heaving chest, blue eyes wide with terror. Arthur dropped the bow and stumbled back with a horrified cry himself, landing hard on his backside. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second, then diverted to the bolt that had struck the tree—inches from Merlin's shoulder.

It had not been more than an act of sheer will, of desperation, that had caused Arthur's arm to spasm, upsetting the deadly aim. Apparently, somehow, the young king had broken the spell with it. Perhaps the spell had merely worn off, or the sorcerer had sorely underestimated his strength.

The servant managed a grateful, prideful smile for Arthur, albeit a weak one. "Knew you could…" he breathed.

Arthur stared at him, legs trembling like a newborn colt's. "Shut up, Merlin," he said reflexively, but a giddy smile appeared nonetheless. The young king kicked the discarded weapon out of the way and propelled himself forward, wrapping his strong arms around Merlin in a rare, brotherly embrace. Merlin winced at the pain, but to his credit did not complain.

After a moment in which Arthur swallowed back his unmanly tears, he released Merlin and frowned, observing with a clearer eye the damage he had caused him. He grimaced with sympathy, a lump of guilt forming in throat. Merlin seemed to sense this, for he said solemnly, "S'not your fault, Arthur."

The king nodded curtly, euphoria dispersed. "Come, we must return to Camelot," he announced. Using Merlin's good arm, he pulled the slighter man to his feet, but seeing how he swayed decided against having him walk—well, limp—to the horses. Arthur scooped a still shivering Merlin into his arms, drawing a cry half of protest and half of pain, which he blatantly ignored. Gaius would soon remedy him anyway, and it was imperative that they reach him as soon as possible. If their speedy return meant a little more suffering for his friend, it was worth it, and he was sure that Merlin would agree.

It was all too plain to Arthur that the sorcerer might return at any moment to apprehend them again, or to kill them both. Or worse, possess Arthur once more. He would not allow it to happen, not again.

Most of their supplies were left behind, but even Merlin did not speak up. Whether he did not dare to due to the stony expression on his master's face that belied anger and fear or because he was exhausted and cold Arthur knew not, but he did not look too far into it in any event. He was in a hurry.

"Hold on," he instructed, directing Merlin's uninjured hand to the fore of his saddle after having gotten him situated atop his mount. The young man slouched in the seat, pale and trembling, burnt hand crossed tenderly over his midsection. Arthur spared just a moment to unbuckle his cloak and wrap it helter-skelter around Merlin's shoulders, then mounted his own mare.

He turned to Merlin and frowned, pointing a commanding finger, "Don't you dare fall off, Merlin! If you do, I shall not stop."

Merlin grinned weakly and nodded shortly, swallowing thickly. The king noted that his grip tightened slightly on the saddle, and with an approving nod he kicked his horse into motion. With a snort, both beasts started off, spurred on faster by a sharp "Yah!" from Arthur.

To his credit, Merlin managed to keep himself conscious enough to hold on for the duration of the hard ride back to the castle—nearly an hour, in fact. At the gate, Arthur paused long enough to send the two posted guards on errands: one to Gaius to inform him of an incoming patient, and the other directly to the castle to inform his wife and Roundtable knights of their required presences at an eminent meeting. Then they continued on, Arthur still leading Merlin's mare by her reigns. The peasants in the lower town gawked of course, but moved out of the way unprompted. Merlin tried to smile reassuringly at those whom he knew personally, but it came out more like a grimace. Arthur, for his part, remained stony faced, eyes kept straight ahead.

Despite how greatly Arthur wished to accompany Merlin to the physician, he knew that he had a duty as king. Upon arrival at the courtyard, Arthur dismounted and delegated a young, sturdy soldier to deliver his servant to Gaius. He himself made his way to the council chambers, sparing only a glance to his friend, who seemed to be understanding enough.

Somehow the distance calmed him, allowed him to think more freely from his boiling anger and suffocating guilt. Removing oneself from the object of one's distress often produced that effect.

By the time he arrived at the council room, the rest of the knights had already gathered, awaiting him. He nodded approvingly at them, indicating that they should take a seat. A moment later, Queen Guinevere appeared, cheeks slightly flushed and a bit breathless from her hurry. Arthur received her, and after a quick show of affection directed her to her chair at the round table. The king did not sit.

He tersely explained the situation, what had occurred during the trip. There was alarm, particularly from Gwaine and Gwen, the latter of whom rushed off to help Gaius with her husband's permission. Arthur urged his knights to gather their armor and weapons swiftly, for they, as he said, had a witch hunt on their hands. His orders were quickly obeyed, without so much an insult from Gwaine.

The next hours were a blur to Arthur: they saddled up and pushed their mounts hard through the forest, hounds yapping excitedly before them. The king directed them to the clearing in which they had set up camp—Arthur sorely regretted choosing the spot; they could have returned to Camelot before sundown easily—and released the dogs so that they might catch an unfamiliar scent. Arthur was well aware that the sorcerer was long gone, but if there was any chance at all that the wretched creature could be caught, he was taking it.

After an extensive, exhausting search, the men were forced to give up. There would be no catching the sorcerer, let alone tracking him. Bitter anger weighed heavily on them as they plodded back to the city, especially so on Sir Gwaine and King Arthur. Together they soundlessly ascended the steps of the physician's tower, leaving Leon in charge of the report and informing the council of their return.

Before they could so much as knock on the door, however, it swung open to admit them. Gwen smiled warmly at them. "We saw you from the window," she said ushering them inside.

"How is he?" Arthur asked, brow creased with the oncoming of a headache.

"Didn't know you cared, Sire," Merlin piped up from across the room.

Gwaine grinned widely in both relief and amusement, and Merlin mirrored it. Arthur scowled, though inwardly his heart soared at the jibe. "Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. I simply have no time to train a new servant."

Merlin was lying in the patient bed next to the fire, leg propped up by what appeared to be a box laden with a pillow. His burnt arm was heavily wrapped in white linen that starkly contrasted the dark blanket draped over his prostrate body. His head was propped up by a mound of pillows as well, and there was a dull shine to his eyes that bespoke one of Gaius' tonics. Merlin's face was greatly bruised, but a lazy smile had remained as Gwaine and Arthur approached the bed.

Arthur tried to think of something to say, some means of apologizing for the suffering he had caused, but suddenly Gaius was upon them. "I am sorry to have to cut the visit short, Sire," he said, though he didn't seem at all sorry. "Merlin needs rest, and lots of it. You may return tomorrow, all of you."

At least it would give the king more time to formulate an apology.