A/N: Sorry again for the slight delay on this chapter. I've started doing most of my editing on my breaks at work, where I don't have a seven-year-old making an adorable nuisance of herself in my immediate vicinity. As always, you've all been so generous with your follows, favorites, and feedback. Thank you!

The first day's ride out of Camelot was uneventful, mostly because Merlin's reputation had reached near-legendary proportions and no bandits dared attack.

This meant that most of the day was spent listening to Gwaine complain, often and at length, of boredom.

Until Percival noticed something. "Since when do you use a mace?" he asked, gesturing to the weapon hanging from Gwaine's saddle.

"Oh. Well. Just… I just thought I should broaden my, um, skillset." He urged his horse to the front of the line, where he quietly took up a position just behind Arthur.

Merlin, bringing up the rear with Branwen, shot her a confused look, but she shook her head in denial. She craned her neck to see exactly which mace Gwaine was carrying, then stifled a snicker, eyes shining.

Merlin tilted his head. "It's not… that mace, is it?" he whispered to her.

Branwen folded over the pommel of her saddle, shoulders shaking in silent giggles. All she could do was nod.

"And you didn't…"

She shook her head, still unable to sit up.

Merlin bit his lip, then hid his mouth behind his hand, trying to look anywhere but at her, resisting her contagious laughter as long as he could.

Which wasn't very long at all.

If the knights noticed the strangled sounds coming from the pair that trailed further and further behind them, they were kind enough not to mention it.

It wasn't until early afternoon the next day that someone dared challenge them.

The group was travelling through a pleasant, shady grove when men dropped out of the overhanging branches, startling the horses and pulling a few of the knights off their mounts.

The air was filled with the clashing of swords and the shouting of spells, but as soon as one wave of enemies was vanquished, another took its place. Arthur's group, while superior in combat and magic, was being overcome by sheer numbers.

No one noticed the shadowy figure pressed against the trunk of a tree a little way from the battle. No one saw the bow strung with a specially-prepared arrow. No one saw the bowstring drawn and held until the perfect moment before the arrow flew, the figure pausing only long enough to confirm the hit before melting away into the shadows to observe the aftermath.

When his back slammed against a tree, Merlin thought someone had run into him in the heat of the battle. As he looked around, though, he realized no one was close enough to have bumped him. It was only when he tried to step away, and couldn't, that he noticed the fletching of an arrow protruding from his shoulder.

Suddenly, the sounds of battle seemed very far away and the arrow drew his complete attention. The grain of the wood and the softly curving filaments of the feathers came into sharp focus. He brought his hand up to touch it, but his trembling fingers never quite seemed to reach it. There was a strange whooshing sound and he vaguely realized that his breath was coming in uneven gasps.

Faintly, he heard Arthur shout his name, echoed by Branwen, but he couldn't take his eyes off of the arrow.

He reached for his magic, but it slithered away from him. He couldn't get a grip on it, couldn't make it obey.

His legs began to shake and his foot shifted out from under him, bringing part of his weight down on the arrow. Fire erupted in his shoulder and he cried out.

"Merlin! Hang on!"

The panic in Arthur's voice finally drew his eyes upward and he wondered, vaguely, what exactly the king expected him to be hanging on to. The battle seemed hazy, somehow, and everything appeared to tilt at odd angles. He searched the skirmishes and caught a shock of blonde hair in a knot of red capes and flashing swords. Arthur's eyes found him for a split second before he was forced to turn his attention elsewhere. Merlin kept looking and managed to find Branwen in the chaos. She seemed to be holding her own, but there were three men sneaking up on her blind side. He tried to call out to her, but couldn't seem to find the required words through the pain and growing lethargy.

Suddenly, to his immense relief, Percival was there at her side, dispatching the three with one swing of his sword, and leaving Branwen gaping at him.

That seemed to be the final straw for the attackers. As one, they turned tail and fled.

The figure in the shadows, however, remained.

Merlin tried to focus on the worried voices that were hurrying in his direction, but they sounded muddled. The air seemed too thick to breathe properly and his vision was beginning to darken around the edges.

Branwen, at a dead run, was the first to reach him. Careful to avoid the arrow's shaft, she reached up and cupped Merlin's face. "Merlin?"

His eyes found her briefly before sliding away. Arthur skidded to a stop next to them, followed by the rest of the knights. "Merlin?" he asked, "Can you hear me?" Merlin's only response was to drop his head back against the tree with a groan.

Leon asked, "What's wrong with him? That shouldn't be a mortal wound."

Arthur shook his head, mystified.

Branwen leaned in to examine the arrow. Her eyebrows drew together as she saw something on the shaft, just before it disappeared into Merlin. She dug in the pouch at her waist and drew out a piece of the bracelet, holding it near the arrow for comparison.

Arthur leaned over her shoulder, squinting. "Are those are the same markings?"

She nodded.

"But he doesn't have the same symptoms."

"No, the spell is different, but it was cast by the same person, I'm sure of it."

"Can you reverse it?"

She nodded again. "I just need a little time to work out the adjustments."

"Hurry."

"I will."

Merlin caught enough of the conversation to understand what was going on, and with understanding came recognition. He could identify the dark tendrils of the curse, but could do nothing except feel them slowly start to overcome his magic.

It was only a few moments before Branwen turned her attention back to the arrow. She reached toward it and cast the counterspell.

The curse resisted her.

While Merlin knew that Branwen wasn't as powerful as he was, he'd never truly appreciated the power she did have until that moment. The two magics fought like living things, the light chasing the dark around and up the shaft and into his body.

He screamed.

Distantly, he thought he heard her sob, and her magic faltered and dimmed, and the dark swirled around it, circling like a pack of hungry wolves. Then she spoke again, her words low and angry, and the light rallied, growing in strength and, at last, defeating the curse in a surge of brightness.

The effect was immediate. His vision cleared and he could breathe again. The fog dissipated from his mind. His magic was still somewhat sluggish, but he could feel it recovering. He huffed out a sigh of relief.

Then he noticed Branwen staring at him, white as a ghost, tears streaming down her face.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

She only shook her head.

"I don't think she expected you to make that sound." Arthur looked shaken. "I don't think any of us did."

"I can't say as I expected it, either. I feel better, though."

Arthur rubbed his face. "Good. That's good." He hesitated before continuing, "But you know we're not done yet, right?"

Merlin followed his glance to the arrow still embedded in his shoulder. "Oh." He swallowed. "Right."

"We'll do this as quickly as we can."

Merlin nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Wait," Elyan broke in. "Can't one of them just… dissolve it, or something?"

"No, unfortunately," Arthur answered. "This attack is treason. We'll need it as evidence."

Arthur, Leon, and Elyan braced Merlin against the tree, while Gwaine held Branwen, bracing her against what was coming. Percival stood ready to pull the arrow out.

"Pull it as straight as you can," Arthur instructed, getting a nod from the big knight.

Percival grasped the arrow shaft, drawing a strangled sound from Merlin. His muscles bunched and he yanked. Merlin screamed again, and Branwen flinched, but the arrow remained stuck fast.

Percival looked shaken, but braced himself to try again, only to see Arthur hold up a hand to stop him. The king ran his hands through his hair. "Okay, men," he announced, stepping away from the tree, "we need options."

The knights gathered around and they began to discuss how to free the warlock. Idea after idea was suggested, debated, and discarded.

Branwen looked up at Merlin. She chewed her lip, eyebrows drawn up in query. He, understanding her unspoken question, nodded. "Do it," he murmured.

She stepped up and held her hand out to the arrow. She closed her eyes and swallowed. A single word, hard and sharp, dropped from her lips and the arrow flew out of the tree, and out of Merlin.

He cried out again, his voice hoarse, and his legs gave way. He slid to the ground with a groan. Then Branwen's hands were on him, soothing and healing. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

He cupped her face and wiped her tears. "Why are you sorry?"

"I hurt you."

"No." He shook his head. "You saved me."

Her face crumpled and he pulled her into his arms, letting her sob into his shirt.

"It did really hurt, though," he ventured after moment, and was rewarded with a sniffly chuckle.

It was then that he noticed Arthur and the knights staring at the pair of them.

Gwaine shrugged. "Or we could just do that."