"Christ Jesu." Mordred rolls back over, catching at his wrists before they can flail entirely out of control, and holds to him firmly; the bed's wide, he's not likely to fall off with Mordred to anchor him. "Christ Jesu. It's all right, I've got you, be over soon. Shh, I have thee," a flow of words, almost unconscious, almost meaningless, in a low and urgent tone that only trembles because Alex does, and Mordred with him. "Shh, shh, will be well, I swear to thee, be well soon."