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Merlin stumbles, slamming into the wall and falling to the floor, pain cutting into his neck. Is this what beheading feels like? He tears at the source of the white-hot agony squeezing, as it pulls tighter like a rope.
“No…!” he chokes desperately. “Help!”
Cold laughter; blackness begins filling the edges of his vision, like water in a leaky boat. He gasps for air that won’t come, pushing himself across the stone floor on his stomach, a fish out of water. He crawls, fingers searching blindly. They connect with ice-cold digits, and he reaches out to grab hand with his own.
‘Help us…’ he thinks hopelessly, squeezing his hand as though it’s consciousness and not Arthur he’s clinging to. ‘Save him, just…I don’t care, save him.’
“Out of the way!” Something connects with his side, hard, forcing him onto his back, and his vision is blurring and framed by roiling black, but he can see the knife, and he can see it coming towards him-he’s going to die, he’s going to die and then Arthur’s going to die, and then-“Merlin! Merlin, ( ... )
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“I’m sorry,” Merlin mumbled, when he’d stopped shuddering so violently and pulled away from Arthur’s embrace. Arthur dropped his arms awkwardly, but didn’t move to get up.
“What happened“I…I don’t know,” Merlin croaked, still shivering. “I just-I-had a nightmare, I suppose ( ... )
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