Ending 3:

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.

With a horrifying thwack!, the bolt was buried deeply into Merlin's chest.

Merlin, choking on his final breath, went rigid, blue eyes wide and startled. Then he shuddered, a stream of blood dribbling past his lips, and slumped, head lolling back. His empty eyes stared up and past his master, glazing over with that cloud of death with which Arthur was so familiar.

The crossbow fell with a soft thump at Arthur's feet. In pure shock, the young king dropped to his knees, staring at Merlin—no, Merlin's corpse. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth as though to stifle his cries, but he made no sound. His agony was too great to voice, his chest and throat too constricted to even breathe.

The spell had at last been broken, but Arthur hardly noticed this.

He scooted closer to Merlin on his knees, the trees around him whirling like a demented carousel. "Merlin?" His voice was thick, and came out as a whisper. "No, please…"

Arthur's hands moved as though to feel for a pulse, but then stopped, hovering over Merlin's unmoving chest. Trembling fingers grasped the bolt. He pulled, but the infernal thing did not give way.

A hysterical sound escaped the king's throat.

Then he seemed to return to himself, and tightened his grip on the bolt. With one swift tug, it was removed. Blood immediately welled out of the small hole, staining the blue of Merlin's shirt a deep purple. Arthur dropped the bolt and pressed his hand over the wound, irrationally hoping that by doing so he could undo the damage that had been done.

No breath entered Merlin's lungs. His heart beat no more.

He was dead.

Hot tears fell hard and fast from Arthur's eyes, tears of unspeakable grief. He gathered the young servant into his arms, cradling him as though he were a child. Merlin's lax body was growing cold, but was not yet stiff with death. Arthur rocked back and forth, hunched over his murdered friend. His sobs could not be contained.

He tried to flatten Merlin's hair, combed it with his fingers, to make it look less unruly. It didn't work. Somehow it only made Arthur feel worse.

"Oh, God," he moaned. "Why? What have I—? Please…!"

No one heeded his cries of pain, his pleas for mercy.

Arthur sat there until the sun had traversed the sky and touched the tops of the trees. His tears had ceased, but only because he had none left to cry. Merlin had long since grown cold in Arthur's arms. The king had passed his hand over his friend's eyes, closing his lids to block out the world that had so cruelly wronged them both.

He finally realized that he must move. Not only were people, Gwen and Gaius among them, awaiting their return, but Merlin needed to be prepared for his journey to Avalon. His body would not last until Arthur's grief abated—nor, he was sure, would his grief ever end.

The king gently laid Merlin down and painstakingly stood. Merlin's blood stained them both: it coated the silver ringlets of Arthur's chainmail, dyed his hands. His eyes stung as he looked down at the still and silent young man, so unlike him. Even when Merlin slept, he was always stirring, always mumbling something.

But Merlin was dead. It could hardly be said that he went peacefully.

And for what? Certainly Merlin had done the sorcerer no wrong. Rather, it seemed that the sorcerer only wanted for Arthur to kill someone dear to him, and there was Merlin: ever present. Easy.

Arthur's face contorted in rage. "I will avenge you," he said lowly. "I am sorry, Merlin, so very sorry…I shall avenge you…If 'tis the last thing I do!"

The king knelt at the side of his friend—no, his brother—and gingerly lifted him in his arms. Heart heavier than Merlin, he carried him back to camp. The horses were silent themselves, perhaps sensing the solemnity of the occasion. He laid Merlin down again and moved to retrieve the horses, but then hesitated. Arthur could not return to Camelot, bringing Merlin as he was. Merlin deserved better.

Arthur changed course, went to the place where Merlin had built the self-extinguished fire. The water skins were there still, and these he collected and brought back to Merlin. He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his own shirt ("Don't you know that I'm the one who'll have to fix that, Sire?") and doused it with water.

He cleaned away the blood as best he could, but there was nothing he could do for the bruises, for the deathly gray pallor of Merlin's skin. He washed the blood from his own hands, though it pained him to do so. It felt as though he were trying to cleanse away his sin. He was doing anything but that.

If it had been anyone else, Arthur would have deemed it an honor to the deceased that he removed his own cloak to use as a shroud. But Merlin was not anyone else. Merlin was…Merlin. And he was dead by Arthur's hands. He was sure that if he had just tried harder, had just not been enchanted in the first place, then Merlin would not have been hurt. Not have been killed.

Swallowing convulsively, Arthur wrapped the crimson material around the body, careful that it was not too tight. He hesitated to cover the young man's face. A single tear slipped down his cheek as he looked upon Merlin.

"I am sorry," he whispered brokenly. Arthur bent forward and placed a tender, brotherly kiss on Merlin's brow, then laid the makeshift shroud over Merlin's face. It was all too easy to imagine then that it was not Merlin lying there, but some faceless soldier who had died in the line of duty. Merlin was back in Camelot, assisting Gaius as he pottered about the apothecary. It was the only thing that made sense.

Arthur ever so carefully hoisted the body onto the saddle of Merlin's mare, then mounted his own, keeping his eyes determinedly forward. He sat rigidly, leading Merlin's horse by her reigns.

Not Merlin, he thought. Not Merlin. Not Merlin. Not Merlin.

But it was Merlin who was dead.

And 'twas magic that had caused it. Magic was evil, just as his father had always said. Magic must be destroyed at all cost. ("There can be no place for magic in Camelot.")

By the time Arthur had returned to Camelot with his best friend's body, his heart was as hardened as his father's once was.