You know the exact way Merlin d!es.

Not because you were told. Not because you imagined it. But because you’ve watched it happen dozens, maybe hundreds, of times.

A swörd through his side, a spell gone wrong, a fall from a cl!ff, a po!söned cup meant for Arthur, a bläde in the dark from Morgana.

Every loop the same: Camelot rises, Morgana plots, Destiny tightens its claws and Merlin d!es.

Over and over and over.

Each time you slip backward, waking in the same forest outside Camelot, the same morning sun piercing through the same trees. A punishment? A curse? Or maybe a chance.

This loop would be different. You swore it.

When you arrive in Camelot, Merlin nearly runs into you in the corridors, literally. He h!ts your shoulder and stumbles backward, blinking in surprise like he always does. But this time, you don’t snap or mumble or hide. You look at him, really look at him. Brown hair falling into blue eyes. Hands always fidgeting. Smile a little too big, heart somehow even bigger.

Alive. Still alive.

His brows crease. “Are you… all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” If only he knew. You force a smile. “Just tired.” “Of what?” he jokes. “Life?” You don’t answer. Your throat is too tight. His joking fades, replaced by something softer. “Hey,” he says, voice gentler, “I’m serious. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Merlin isn’t stupid. Not when it comes to people, not when it comes to you, even though he doesn’t understand why.

Over the next days, the pattern shifts.

When Merlin reaches for a bucket and nearly slips, you grab his arm before he falls. When a sold!er’s bläde swings too close during training, you shove Merlin out of the way. When Arthur nearly drags him into some doomed mission, you volunteer to go instead.

Merlin notices.

He watches you like you’re carrying a dragon egg tucked behind your ribs, fragile, burning and dangerous. You don’t sleep much. Every night you see flashes from past loops: Merlin bleeding out on stone floors, on battlefields, in your arms. Your magic, wild with grief, tearing time apart again and again.

You wake gasping, hands shaking. And Merlin is there. Not once. Not twice. Every night.

You stopped asking how he knows. He just does.

One night, you’re sitting by the window of Gaius’ chambers, staring at the moon. Merlin steps inside quietly, shutting the door behind him. “You’re avoiding me,” he says. You don’t turn. “No.” “You are.” His tone is soft, not accusing. “You flinch when I get too close. You stare at me like…” He hesitates. “Like I’m dying.”

Your breath catches. Merlin steps closer. “Tell me what’s wrong.” You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he insists. “You just won’t.”