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Summary
Blood trickled somewhere from his hairline down to his lips, and despite the aching desperate need for moisture in his mouth, he spit it somewhere behind him. Partly because the taste was so revolting that he couldn’t bear to keep it there, and partly because he hoped it’d leave enough of a trail for the knights to follow. For Arthur to follow.
If they were looking for him.
(OR, if Morgana kidnapped Merlin, not Gwen, and took him to the Dark Tower instead)
