Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin always thought that the day he woke up in Arthur’s bed would be a good one. He’d imagined a gentle awakening, perhaps accompanied by Arthur pressing a gentle kiss against his cheek, and all his problems ceasing to exist. No cliche assassination plots to thwart, no harried rush to fetch breakfast. None of that ever-present fear that his secrets would be dragged kicking and screaming into the light. 

That all being said, destiny has it out for Merlin. So naturally, when Merlin wakes up in Arthur’s bed, he bolts awake, disoriented and alone, and his first thought is a rather panicked, Arthur.

The last thing he remembers is the sorceress. Lady Bertilak, she called herself, claiming to be from a far-off kingdom that was under siege; she barely escaped with her life and was headed North to reunite with family. She asked for a place to stay, just for a night, and Uther insisted that she stay longer. Not three days into her visit, Merlin walked in on her attempting to kill Uther for revenge.

Merlin gets it. Really, he does. To say that Uther sucks is a kind way to put it, and if Merlin didn’t have some great destiny that said that he was going to help Arthur usher in a golden age, he probably would have cheered the wannabe assassin on. 

Unfortunately, Merlin couldn’t just let Uther die even though he was a massive dick. Arthur would be distraught. 

When Merlin stumbled across Arthur, magically restrained in an empty corridor, and Lady Bertilak finishing a monologue about how Arthur’s hands would be the ones to strangle Uther Pendragon once and for all, Merlin fought the urge to sigh, because, really, this was the third assassination plot he’d needed to thwart this month. This was getting ridiculous. Then he started to worry about the Saving Uther Thing. 

The sorceress extended her hands towards Arthur and began to invoke her incantation. 

There were no chandeliers for Merlin to conveniently drop with the flick of his gaze, no way he could rip one of the sconces out of the wall without revealing his magic. So, he did the only other thing he could think of:

He threw himself in front of Arthur as Lady Bertilak finished her spell. 

She screeched, but it was too late; the magic washed over him, warm and dry like a desert wind. Behind him, Arthur made some sort of choked noise… 

And before Merlin could turn to make sure that he was alright, or try to deal with Lady Bertilak, the world had spun and gone dark, and now Merlin is in Arthur’s bed. 

Merlin would really like to know what he’s doing in Arthur’s bed. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have time to wonder about that or try to quell the blush he can feel rising in his cheeks, because Arthur is not here, and he has no idea what happened to Lady Bertilak. Arthur could be enchanted, Uther could be dead– Merlin needs to find Arthur. 

Why? he wonders. Why is this my life?

And then, Huh. This bed is really comfortable. 

And then, Arthur and I could fit if we cuddled. 

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Arthur’s admonishes him. Shut up, Merlin. Don’t you have bigger problems?

Right.

The room spins when Merlin launches himself out of the (Arthur’s) bed, and he has to clutch one of the bedposts to keep from toppling over. When it stills, he needs another moment to orient himself. He knows this room like the back of his hand, perhaps better, but there’s something… different about it. Something slightly off, as though the world has been turned just a few degrees on its side or as though it’s been dimmed– probably a side effect of the concussion he’s certain that he has. He doesn’t let it slow him down, though. The moment he can move without gripping the bed like a vice, he’s off, vaulting out of Arthur’s chambers and through the corridors. 

There’s light peeking through the windows– the sun was setting when he stepped in front of Lady Bertilak’s spell. How long has he been unconscious for? Too long, almost certainly. 

Merlin’s blood runs cold. 

There is no sign of Arthur in the corridors, and the feeling that something is deeply wrong only settles heavier in Merlin’s chest. 

Almost frantic, he tries to think. Where would Arthur be? Uther holds audiences in the throne room sometimes, so perhaps there– or maybe the armory, to select a weapon? Or, if he was enchanted to poison Uther, perhaps Gaius has seen him, grabbing hemlock or belladonna from his stores? Merlin should start in one of those places. Only, he doesn’t know which is the most likely and they’re all in different directions, not to mention that there’s still, you know, an entire castle besides to search. Arthur could be anywhere, Uther could be dead, Arthur could be dead–

Merlin rounds the corner and nearly slams into Uther Pendragon. 

Uther’s brow furrows when he catches sight of Merlin. “What are you doing out of bed?” He’s almost… concerned. 

The sheer amount of shock Merlin experiences is almost enough to make him forget his panic. Uther is never concerned– and certainly not about a servant. Certainly not about Merlin. Merlin is pretty certain that Uther wishes that he’d never hired him. So this? This makes absolutely no sense. 

Uther’s brow raises a few degrees and Merlin realizes that he’s been gaping at the king. 

“I’m– I need to– Lady Bertilak did something,” he manages. His voice sounds off, but he brushes it aside; things are still fuzzy, so it’s probably another remnant of the concussion, and he has bigger problems at any rate. 

“There is no need for you to worry about that,” Uther says. “Lady Bertilak will answer for her crimes. Now rest. I will have someone send Gaius to check in on you shortly.”

“Um,” Merlin says, “Thank you?”

Uther smiles at him. 

What.

The

Fuck. 

“I mean it,” Uther tells him, turning to go. “Your duties are being taken care of. Rest.”

And Merlin is left standing in the corridor, more confused than he thinks he’s been in his entire life. And he still doesn’t know where Arthur is. 

He replays the encounter over again in his head and comes to a conclusion: if Uther is so relaxed, Arthur must be alright. Merlin hates Uther with a burning passion, and Uther is far from a good person, but he does care about Arthur, as much as a tyrant can. So Arthur, at least, is okay. And Uther is alive, and he said that Lady Bertilak was being taken care of, which means that she failed. So… things must be alright. 

Merlin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Everything is fine. Uther is oddly and inexplicably concerned about Merlin’s wellbeing, and unnerving as that is, it’s hardly the end of the world. Another plot has been thwarted, and now things will be back to normal. Helping Gaius where he can. Mucking out the stables. Listening to Arthur pretend to berate him for being a sorry excuse for a manservant. 

Speaking of Arthur…

Merlin takes a proper look out one of the corridor windows. The sun hasn’t begun its descent yet, so it must be around lunch time; if Arthur is, indeed, alright, he’s probably out training the knights. Merlin briefly considers going out after him– after years of ridiculous plots and Arthur nearly dying on a monthly basis, he’ll feel much better after seeing Arthur with his own eyes– but not only has Uther practically confirmed that Arthur is fine, and Merlin was in Arthur’s bed. There’s only one person who would have put him there. 

As much as Arthur pretends not to, he does care. It warms something in Merlin’s chest and makes his heart squeeze in a funny way. Arthur wears his heart on his sleeve, even when he thinks he’s being sneaky. It’s why he’ll make a great king one day; because he feels so much more than Uther has ever wanted him to.

Merlin goes back to the conversation he just had with Uther. That’s the kindest the king has ever been to someone who wasn’t his son. Telling Merlin to rest, saying that he would send someone to get Gaius— even when he’s being a prat, Arthur is kinder than that. Granted, Arthur would probably say something more along the lines of shut up and rest, you idiot, at least to Merlin, but he would insist on getting Gaius himself and return as soon as–

Merlin’s brain screeches to a halt. 

Uther said that he would send Gaius. Why would Uther send Gaius to Merlin if Merlin lives with Gaius? He wouldn’t. Uther knows that he lives with Gaius. Unless–

Uther knows that Merlin was in Arthur’s bed. Meaning, he knows that Arthur put Merlin in his bed. And he… encouraged Merlin. To return to it. What the fuck. What the fuck. 

Uther hates Merlin. He barely respects him, both because he believes Merlin to be an idiot, but mostly because Merlin is a servant. He wants Merlin in his son’s bed. 

Merlin feels like he’s missed something. He’s not about to chase after Uther and ask him, though.

More confused and flustered than he’s been in his entire life– which is saying something– Merlin turns back the way he came. Knowing Arthur, he’ll be back to check on Merlin soon, so it’s best to stay in his chambers. Hopefully, he’ll have some answers. In the meantime, Merlin… well, he has a lot of feelings about being in Arthur’s bed that he would rather avoid, thanks, so he won’t rest like Uther told him to. Maybe he’ll try to tidy up a bit instead as some sort of thank you, since if he tries to bring it up Arthur will probably deflect and tell him not to be such a girl. And the work will hopefully help him forget how soft Arthur’s sheets were, and how there was enough room for two people–

Merlin fights the urge to bang his head against the wall. It’s incredibly inconvenient, being stupidly in love with Arthur. 

By the time he’s made it back to Arthur’s chambers, he’s mostly managed to get his head under control. He loves Arthur the same way that he protects him; always from the shadows, always in secret. Nothing has changed. He just has to remember that. 

He pushes open the great wooden door. He’ll start with the floor and then work his way to the dresser– save the bed for last for reasons he is Not Thinking About–

Merlin freezes. 

The door slams shut behind him but he barely notices, because there, standing by the bed, is himself. 

This is a new one, he thinks vaguely, despite his growing horror. He’s never had an evil twin, or been impersonated before. It’s a good likeness– a perfect likeness, from the way his ears stick out to how his neckerchief is tied. It’s actually his neckerchief, too, the one he was wearing when he threw himself in front of Arthur. A shiver goes down his spine. He reaches for his magic, and–

Merlin’s breath stutters in his chest. Because it isn’t there.

Merlin’s magic has always been there. Since he can remember, it’s been his, twining with his veins and breath, at his fingertips in an instant. Like a spring he always had access to, natural and constant, the very water that kept him alive. Now– it’s gone. Not just the water, but the entire spring– as though it never existed in the first place. 

Despite that, he reaches for his magic again. And again. And again. There’s nothing.

He feels barren. He doesn’t know the last time he was this powerless. He hates it. 

Even as a kind of terror he has never known fills him, his mind races. His magic is gone, and it is almost certainly related to the imposter in front of him– is it the sorceress? He supposes that it doesn’t matter, because whoever this imposter is must be here to go after either Arthur or himself. Merlin cannot let that happen. He needs to stall until Gaius comes– Uther said that he was on the way– or deal with the stranger himself. There’s nothing within arms reach that he can use as a weapon, but if he could get close to the fireplace, perhaps the poker could work. Merlin can… throw it at the imposter. Or swordfight them. 

This is a terrible plan. It’s all Merlin has. He doesn’t have his magic, why doesn’t he have his magic–

In front of him, Not-Merlin stares at him for only a beat longer, then shakes his head and seems to relax ever so slightly. “There you are.”

The imposter’s voice spurs him. “I don’t know who you are,” Merlin starts, and doesn’t make it any further.

“It’s me,” Not-Merlin cuts in.

Stupidly, Merlin takes an indignant step forward. “No, it most certainly is not! I’m Merlin!”

The Not-Merlin rolls his eyes, and Merlin has to suppress a shudder; it’s bizarre and wrong, seeing someone else control his face. 

“Yes, I know,” Not-Merlin says, patience clearly waning. “That’s the problem. Why are you in my body, Merlin?”

There’s only one person who says Merlin’s name like that. Merlin’s jaw drops. “Arthur?” he says, incredulous. “Why do you look like me? What– sorry, did you say that I’m in your body?”

Arthur gives him a Look, and it’s such an Arthur expression that it’s ridiculous on Merlin’s face. “You didn’t notice?”

Merlin stares at him for a beat, then scrambles toward the full-length mirror on the far side of the room. The reflection that stares back at him is not his own. Merlin’s jaw drops and he prods at his face; in the mirror, Arthur mimics him. 

Living in Camelot, Merlin has seen a lot of bizarre things. This, though? This is definitely in the top ten. Maybe top five. 

No wonder Uther was being so nice– he thought that Merlin was Arthur. Because somehow, Merlin is now in Arthur’s body. And the chilling absence of his magic, all because Merlin is no longer Merlin–

He doesn’t finish that thought. He can’t. It’s entirely too horrifying, and he can only process one disaster at a time. 

He whirls around to face Arthur-Who-Looks-Like-Merlin. “I’m in your body,” Merlin says, almost accusatory.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, “has anyone told you lately that you’re an idiot?”

Merlin glares at him, because that doesn’t help in the slightest. “Sorry if I didn’t expect to swap bodies with the most prattish clotpole in the kingdom, this isn’t exactly normal, you know.”

They glower at each other for a few moments, as though sheer will alone will reverse whatever’s been done. But Merlin knows, despite Arthur being Arthur, that this isn’t his fault. Still, it takes a few seconds for him to speak without snapping. 

“Right. So why have we swapped bodies?”

“The last thing I remember before waking up like this–” Arthur gestures to himself and makes a face, which Merlin very pointedly and very kindly ignores, “– was Lady Bertilak using magic, and you jumping in front of her– which was incredibly stupid of you, by the way.”

Merlin is less magnanimous with Arthur’s last remark. He doesn’t roll his eyes, but he comes close. “Oh, thank you, Merlin. You saved my life, Merlin. How can I ever repay you, Merlin? Oh, I don’t know, Arthur, maybe if you left mucking out the stables to someone else–”

“Lady Bertilak– the sorceress– wanted me to kill my father,” Arthur interrupts. “You must have bungled the spell by rushing in.”

Merlin prefers you saved the day over you bungled the spell, but they have bigger things to worry about. Arthur is probably right– this must have been the result of the sorceress’ spell.

“Where is Lady Bertilak?” In his panic for Arthur, Merlin completely forgot that she might still be a problem. 

“Locked in the dungeons, to be executed tomorrow at dawn,” Arthur says. “She was caught by one of the knights trying to cast another spell on me, and threw the party he summoned against a wall with magic when they tried to apprehend her. Gaius told me.”

Merlin perks up. “You talked to Gaius?” If anyone will know how to fix this, it’s him.

“He hit me,” Arthur says, “for being a ‘self-sacrificing buffoon.’ And then said something about how you can’t fulfill your destiny if you get yourself killed.” He arches an eyebrow.

Merlin forces himself to keep breathing. Shit. “Did he?” 

Somehow, Arthur’s eyebrow climbs higher.

Merlin scrambles for some sort of explanation– destiny isn’t a word thrown around often, and if Arthur gets the idea that Merlin is involved in some sort of destiny… 

“You know how he is,” he tries, sweating. “He’s old, he just… says things, sometimes.” He shoots Arthur a mostly-convincing smile.

“Does he.” Arthur’s voice is flat. “Well, he is the court physician, if he is too old to–”

“Wait! Now I remember–” Merlin thanks anyone listening that the tunic he’s wearing is a dark navy and won’t show the sweat stains that have started to accumulate, “– it’s an inside joke we have. My destiny is to polish your armor and clean your room until I die. Not anything else. Obviously.” 

He waits for Arthur’s response with baited breath. Was that convincing enough? He hopes it was. It has to have been, because if his story falls apart, Arthur will start asking questions, and that’s the last thing that Merlin needs. Arthur may be oblivious, but when he puts his mind to it, he’s clever. And Merlin has tried to be careful, has tried to cover his tracks as best he can, but even so, he’s surrounded by too much coincidence; after all, it’s highly unlikely that the rogue about to stab you is knocked out by a falling branch once, much less a dozen times over the span of only a few years. The moment Arthur begins asking questions, the entire life that Merlin has built will fall apart. 

He likes his life. His life has Gaius, Gwen and Lancelot and Gwaine and Morgana, and Arthur (not that he would ever tell Arthur that, of course). He doesn’t have to worry about food or shelter. He finally feels like he belongs somewhere. 

The only problem with it is that most of it is a lie. Merlin is more than just his magic, but his magic is still a huge part of him. Even if he would still be too clever for his own good without it, even if his conviction and kindness is separate from his gift, it still shapes and defines him. In some ways, he is his magic, and he’s constantly hiding it. Gaius has known since the beginning, Lancelot figured it out almost immediately, Gwen not too long after that, and Morgana has known for months, since he started trying to help her with her own abilities. But no one else knows– and even at that Gaius is the only one who’s aware of Merlin’s destiny and the full extent of his abilities– and by extension, well, nobody really knows him, do they? They only know the lies and half truths and the safe, sanitized pieces of himself that he lets them see. He wishes he could give more than that. He wishes that his friends truly knew him. 

He wishes, perhaps the most, that Arthur truly knew him.

Merlin thinks, sometimes, about telling Arthur. For all the secrets between them, Arthur is his friend and the man he loves. Merlin aches to be known by him, to match the honesty and vulnerability Arthur gifts him– and one day, he will. His magic isn’t a secret made to last a lifetime, nor does he want it to. When the time is right, Merlin will find the words, and the truth will come out. But for now… 

Now, Uther is king, and though Arthur has confessed before to having doubts about his father’s hatred of magic, he is a loyal son. Merlin doesn’t want to put him in the position where he must choose between his father and his friend. And he doesn’t know what Arthur would choose– something that terrifies him. Arthur has defended magic as much as he has condemned it. 

They’re friends. After years of camaraderie, Arthur must know that he can trust Merlin, magic or not. He must. 

Except, Merlin doesn’t know that Arthur knows that, not for certain. And he can’t risk it– death at the pyre at worst or Arthur exiling him at best would both strip Merlin of his place at Arthur’s side, and without that, how would he protect him? Arthur would most likely die, Camelot would fall, and Merlin wouldn’t be able to stop it. He would be powerless. He’s not used to feeling that way. He doesn’t like feeling that way, especially when it comes to Arthur. 

(And, of course, revealing his magic might mean losing Arthur. Seeing Arthur look at him like a stranger, like an enemy– somehow, that’s worse than the threat of execution. It’s selfish, but Merlin would doom Camelot a thousand times over if it meant he was able to keep his prattish dollophead of a friend.)

So Arthur can’t know. He can’t suspect, he can’t question, or everything Merlin holds dear will crumble apart– and he’d be powerless to stop that, too.

After what feels like an eternity, Arthur says, completely serious, “Don’t forget about mucking out the stables.”

Merlin’s nervous smile becomes more genuine. He stifles it quickly, even as that horrible tension in his chest eases. It never goes away fully, but for now, he is safe. “You have stable hands,” he complains. “Why don’t you make them do it? It’s their job.”

“Because,” Arthur says, “it builds character, which you sorely lack, as evidenced by your habitual tardiness and laziness.”

Merlin cannot fathom why he loves this ass. Truly, he can’t. 

“We can discuss your shortcomings later. Now–” Arthur claps his hands together, “– I’d like my body back.”

“Right.” Merlin agrees, wholeheartedly. Now that he’s aware that this body isn’t his own, he swears that he can feel it– the wrongness of his newly-broad shoulders, the weight of more muscle than he knows what to do with. His skin seems to itch and he fights the urge to scratch at it. His own body, for all its scrawniness and big ears that earn him copious amounts of teasing, is his own, lived in and comfortable. Not that he’s hating on Arthur’s body– it’s very nice body (not that Merlin has spent much time noticing that, of course, or appreciating the sturdiness of Arthur’s hands or the curve of his lips or– anyway), but very simply, it’s not Merlin’s. There’s no place like home, after all. And if Merlin’s suspicions are right…

He hopes fervently that they aren’t.

“Right,” Merlin repeats. “So, how do we swap back?”

“How would I know?” Arthur throws up his hands. “It’s not like I get cursed on a regular basis!” 

Yes, because I’m always protecting you, Merlin thinks, his headache pulsing with vigor. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t even know where to start. He rubs a hand over his face, wondering, once again, how he ended up here.

“We should see Gaius,” he says finally. “He might know something. Or, he could at least point us in the right direction.”

“So long as he doesn’t hit me again,” Arthur grumbles. “Which, by the way…” 

He smacks Merlin. Hard. 

“Ow,” Merlin rubs at his arm.

“With love, from Gaius,” Arthur quips, and turns. The door swings open– a gust of wind must have caught it, Merlin tells himself– and he strides into the corridor. 

Merlin sighs and follows. 

When Gaius opens the door and greets Merlin as Sire, Merlin decides immediately that he doesn’t like it. There’s still a familiarity in how he says it, but it’s not the same as when he addresses Merlin, his ward, his son in all but name. 

Next to him, Arthur is making a face like he’s swallowed a lemon. 

Gaius ushers them in. “I was just gathering my things to come check in on you. How are you feeling?”

“Uh, headache. Deeply wrong.” And then Merlin adds offhandedly, “Oh, and like I’ve switched bodies with the Crown Prince of Camelot.”

Gaius stares at him. “I’m sorry?” he says, brow furrowed with bewilderment. 

Arthur-As-Merlin steps forward. “I’m Arthur, he’s Merlin. We seem to have swapped bodies and would love to un-swap. As soon as possible, preferably.”

Gaius looks between the two of them, eyebrows raising. “You… swapped bodies.”

“It is not my fault,” Merlin says quickly. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well, if you hadn’t jumped in front of that sorceress–”

“Sorry for saving you and your father–”

“– I would have handled it–”

“– Yeah, you really seemed to have it handled while you were pinned against the wall–” 

Gaius sighs deeply. He glances skyward as though for strength, then closes the chamber door and turns back to Arthur and Merlin, eyes sharpening. “You two had better explain,” he says severely.

“Right. So–” Arthur makes himself at home, taking a seat at the table, “– Lady Bertilak isn’t who she claimed to be. Last evening, she cornered me, revealed herself to have magic, and swore vengeance on my father–”

“She said that Arthur’s hands would kill Uther,” Merlin cuts in. The wording is important, and if Gaius is to help them, he’ll need all the details they can give him. 

“And then when she went to cast the spell, Merlin jumped in front of it, like an idiot,” Arthur finishes. “She was furious, and then… I woke up here this morning.”

Gaius nods pensively, then seems to come to a conclusion. “In that case…” He turns and smacks Merlin upside the head. 

“Ow.” Merlin cannot believe this. “Arthur already hit me for you, thanks.”

“Good,” Gaius says emphatically. “Someone needs to get it into that thick skull of yours to stop taking these sorts of risks, and in all the years you’ve been here, you haven’t listened to me.”

Arthur frowns, glancing between the two of them. “Is this a regular thing? Merlin, jumping in front of spells and taking risks?”

“No,” Merlin says quickly. “Now can we get back to fixing this?”

“Yes,” Gaius says. His brow is pinched thoughtfully. “Were those her exact words?” he prompts. “That Arthur’s hands would kill Uther? Not Arthur himself?”

Arthur glances between Gaius and Merlin, and Merlin’s heart skips a beat; Arthur has clearly noticed that Gaius has allowed Merlin to change the subject. Blessedly, though, he doesn’t fight it.

“Does it make a difference?” Arthur is dubious. “She was trying to murder my father, Gaius. She was using magic.”

Something ugly twists deep in Merlin’s chest, like someone has grabbed his heart and pulled. He should be used to hearing magic spoken about like this, but somehow, it still hurts, even though he knows better. He shoves the feeling aside and tries to forget the hardness in Arthur’s voice as he said it. 

“Magic is precise,” Gaius says. “I think– perhaps she meant to swap bodies with you and kill Uther herself. You would have been framed for the crime and unfit to rule, Uther would be dead… Camelot would fall into chaos.”

“And when Merlin jumped in front…” Arthur begins.

“He unwittingly shifted the target of the spell,” Gaius finishes. 

Arthur frowns. “Then why didn’t he and Lady Bertilak switch bodies? Why us?”

“Perhaps the spell was tailored to you,” Gaius suggests. “Or it might have been to swap the bodies of the two people in the nearest proximity to each other. I’m not sure how much it matters, regardless.”

“So you know how to fix it.” Arthur leans forward, not quite impatient, but certainly anxious. 

Merlin, too, becomes more attentive. The sooner they fix this, the better– and not just because he wants to avoid more of Uther’s bizarre compassion. The emptiness of him– everywhere where there should be magic– is glaring and wrong. He wonders if Arthur feels the same emptiness. He hopes to the gods that he does.

“My suggestion,” Gaius says, “is to wait until after Lady Bertilak’s execution. Powerful spells such as this one often die with their casters.”

Merlin’s hopes shrivel. So much for an easy fix. 

“So tomorrow morning,” Arthur says, “this will all resolve itself? So long as she is executed?”

“She has been bound in cold iron, and Uther is furious.” A shadow crosses over Gaius’ face. “Her death is assured.”

It’s all too easy, to picture Lady Bertilak being marched in chains to the pyre as the sun rises. Merlin tries not to think about it.

“In the meantime,” Gaius says, “stay in Arthur’s chambers. The less you have to interact with people, the better.”

Arthur nods slowly, taking it in. “Right. Okay.” A beat, and then he stands. “Thank you, Gaius. Merlin, let’s go.”

The door flies open even though no one is beside it. And Merlin panics. 

“No!” he says quickly. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I mean… you go ahead,” Merlin tries, eyes flitting between Arthur and the stupid door. “I just– need to talk to Gaius about some things. Nothing you need to worry about.” He holds his breath as Arthur gives him a long, hard look.

“Fine. Don’t dawdle, though, Merlin.” Arthur turns dismissively, then stops. He looks back. “Wasn’t that door closed?”

“No.” Merlin shakes his head, which is not a good idea, because he’s hardly breathing through his panic and it only makes him dizzy. “Definitely not.”

Arthur frowns for a moment, then seems to decide that the door must have been open, because he shrugs, clearly disinterested, and leaves. 

Merlin waits to the count of twenty, when Arthur’s footsteps have disappeared, before moving to slam the door shut. He whirls around to face Gaius, back pressed against it to steady himself. “My magic is gone,” he says in one, horrible rush. Admitting it aloud makes it feel more real. 

He doesn’t know what he expects from Gaius. Something comforting, maybe, a reassurance that everything is alright. Instead, Gaius frowns, clearly troubled.

“Gone?” he echoes. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I mean–” Merlin tries to put it into words, “– like it never existed. Like I never–” He regathers himself. “It’s cold. And empty, where it should be but isn’t.”

“There are spells that can limit a person’s magic…” Gaius is moving immediately with a seriousness that does nothing to put Merlin at ease, pulling a thick leather tome down from a shelf. “Did you have any strange encounters with Lady Bertilak before you jumped in front of Arthur? Maybe you spoke with her alone, or accepted a gift she gave you…?”

“No.” Merlin can’t hold it in any longer. “Gaius, you closed the door, I saw you do it. There was no one on the other side– it opened by itself. And it wasn’t me.”

Gaius looks up sharply from the pages he’s been flipping through. “You think that Arthur has your magic.”

The thought chills him to the bone. Because Arthur cannot have his magic. Because if Arthur has it, he’s certain to notice, and he’ll realize that it’s Merlin’s. 

“Gaius, tell me that’s not possible.” Merlin is practically begging. Because Arthur cannot know. Because Merlin cannot be powerless, unable to protect his friend from assassination tempts and his own lies alike. 

“I’m not certain,” Gaius says, with a gravity Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, “but we had better hope not.”

The world seems to fall away beneath Merlin. No, the world isn’t falling– Merlin is falling, and the world is crumbling around him.

Chapter Text

Merlin isn’t quite sure how he makes it to Arthur’s chambers. One moment, Gaius is promising that he’ll look through his books to see if he can find a way to swap Merlin and Arthur back before dawn, and the next, Merlin is standing, sick to his stomach with nerves, before Arthur’s door.

For all his wistful thoughts of finally being honest with Arthur about his magic, Merlin didn’t actually think he would ever know. Arthur is the most oblivious person Merlin has ever met, he was never going to find out, not unless Merlin said something. Merlin was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to have time– time to find the right moment, time to find the right words. 

Now, there is an hourglass over Merlin’s head, counting down the moments until Arthur realizes. Perhaps he already knows– if not having magic is so viscerally different for Merlin, it must be the same for Arthur to suddenly have it at his fingertips now. When Merlin opens the door, will Arthur be waiting, sword in hand? Will his face be marred by hurt and betrayal, a demand of why waiting on his tongue?

Merlin does not want to open the door. He doesn’t want to find out. 

What else can he do, though?

He pushes open the door.

No sword greets him, so Merlin turns to close the door. And then he has no choice but to look at Arthur. 

Arthur is settled at his desk, quill in hand. He doesn’t so much as look up at Merlin, too engrossed in whatever he’s looking at. “Took you long enough.”

Does he sound angry? Merlin doesn’t think that he sounds angry. Not angrier than normal, at least. And really, that wasn’t even angry– Arthur sounds more annoyed than anything, which seems to be a permanent state for him regarding Merlin. 

Still, Merlin can’t relax. His tongue is leaden in his mouth, and his hands tremble. He tucks them behind his back.

“Light a fire, would you, Merlin?”

Arthur can hardly be planning on executing Merlin in his fireplace. And if Arthur were upset, he wouldn’t be doing paperwork. He would confront Merlin directly. 

Merlin could sag with relief. It’s okay. He and Arthur are okay.

His voice wobbles a little when he says, “Of course, Sire,” but Arthur doesn’t seem to notice. 

Thank the gods. They’re okay. 

Merlin takes three steps towards the fireplace, and sparks jump in the hearth. The half-burnt logs left inside catch. 

Merlin is going to have a heart attack. 

He scrambles to grab another long off the hearthside pile and tosses it in. It crackles as the flames begin to lick it.

Arthur glances up. He’s entirely unconcerned– he’s almost impressed. “That was fast.”

Merlin grins weakly. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Arthur snorts and goes back to his papers. 

Merlin whips back to the fire, which is flickering merrily as though its mere existence isn’t a product of the crisis he’s found himself trapped in. If he had any doubts about where his magic went, he certainly doesn’t now. Arthur Pendragon has magic, and not just any magic: he has Merlin’s magic… that’s prophesied to make him the most powerful sorcerer to ever live. 

How does Arthur not feel it? If suddenly being without magic has Merlin feeling this off-kilter, shouldn’t the reverse be true for Arthur, who has never had magic before in his life? But this is also Arthur he’s talking about. Merlin has been using magic in front of his face for years and somehow the prince is still completely oblivious. If anyone could be granted power beyond comprehension and just not notice, it would be Arthur. And now that Merlin thinks about it, it’s nothing short of miraculous that Arthur noticed the body swap that caused all of this. 

But there is no way– absolutely no way– that Arthur won’t notice fires lighting at his command and doors opening with barely a thought if they don’t fix this, and quickly at that. 

Gods, Merlin hopes that Gaius finds something soon. It’s only mid-afternoon. They have over half a day and all night until the execution, and Merlin knows that he will feel every hour. 

He glances at the chamber door. Unfortunately, Gaius does not burst in, miraculous cure in hand. 

The fire crackles, taunting him, and Merlin forces himself to breathe. This is fine. He’s totally been in worse situations before, right? 

No. No, he hasn’t. That’s quite possibly the biggest fucking lie Merlin has ever told himself. 

Well. Fine. Okay, this is a horrible situation that will probably end with Merlin dead or exiled, which in turn will probably lead to Arthur’s death, but Merlin just has to… make sure that that doesn’t happen. Arthur won’t find out about the magic if he doesn’t use it, so Merlin simply needs to ensure that Arthur doesn’t have any opportunity. Anything that Arthur might want or might nag him about needs to be done before he can ask.

Merlin glances towards the closed door one last time, prays that Gaius is fast, and goes to make the bed. 

Merlin is in the midst of washing the floor when Morgana comes in. She doesn’t bother knocking; just sweeps inside and looks between Merlin-as-Arthur on his hands and knees and Arthur-as-Merlin who looks up from his paperwork.

Ah, fuck. 

Morgana is halfway baffled, brows knit as she fixes her gaze on Merlin, who has frozen mid-scrub. Merlin understands completely– he would be shocked, too, if he found Arthur doing chores. He opens his mouth to make a quip about it. 

“Lady Morgana,” Arthur says abruptly, “Arthur wasn’t expecting you.” He punctuates this with what’s probably supposed to be a discreet look at Merlin. 

Here’s the thing: Merlin trusts Morgana. She has never been anything but kind to him, and being the only two magic users inside the walls of Uther’s citadel means that they have a unique sort of camaraderie and friendship. There is no doubt in his mind that if Morgana knew about the current situation, she would first and foremost: lecture Merlin about jumping in front of spells, second and second-most: make fun of both him and Arthur, and finally: offer to help. Merlin has zero qualms about letting Morgana in on what’s happened.
Arthur, however, does not know Morgana the same way that Merlin does. He loves her as a sister, certainly, but he sees her as a member of Uther’s court despite her fiery, headstrong nature and open disapproval of Uther’s way of ruling. And Arthur does not– cannot– trust Uther’s court. They always have an angle, are always looking for an advantage. So as much as Arthur cares for her and respects her, he doesn’t trust her. Telling her that he and Merlin are not themselves is probably one of the last things that he wants to do. 

For a moment, Merlin considers ignoring Arthur and telling Morgana everything. She could help, after all. Gaius is already working on it, though, and this whole thing will hopefully only last until morning. There is no need to involve her. He’ll let Arthur have this. 

Morgana is still looking at Merlin-as-Arthur, too poised to be openly confused but clearly wondering why His Royal Dollopheadedness is doing a servant’s work. Merlin should probably deal with that. 

“It’s physical therapy.” He blurts out the first explanation that comes to mind. “Gaius recommended it.”

Morgana’s eyes slide to Arthur at the table. “And Merlin is…”

“Transcribing for me,” Merlin says. “Obviously.”

Morgana is unimpressed. “Too important to write your own speeches, Arthur?”

“Obviously,” Merlin says, and then, because he can, “and because I can’t read. Or write.”

Arthur makes a choked sound of rage. When Morgana turns to look at him, he coughs. “Sorry.”

Morgana turns back to Merlin. “That would explain a lot.”

Merlin can feel Arthur glowering at him. He grins. So worth it. “Well, it hardly matters, does it? I’m the prince; I have Merlin to do that sort of thing for me.”

Morgana snorts derisively. “And to think I was worried about you.” She moves toward the door, but doesn’t leave. Instead, she turns to Arthur. “I’m glad you’re alright, Merlin. It would have been a shame to lose the only decent man in this castle.”

Arthur tries to smile pleasantly. “Not the only one, Milady. Arthur here is more than decent.”

“But still far below your league.” 

Merlin has to turn away to hide his grin. Morgana, you icon. Merlin could kiss her.

And then Morgana says, “We’re still meeting Wednesday evening?”

Merlin feels Arthur’s eyes flicker briefly towards him and he has to remind himself not to react. Dammit. 

“Wednesday evening,” Arthur repeats. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

Wednesday evenings are when Merlin slips away from Arthur to Morgana’s chambers, to help her control her magic. He can’t help much with her visions, but Morgana says that learning to use her magic can make them less vivid, and she hasn’t used her magic reflexively waking up from a nightmare in months. It’s also nice to just spend time with her, and to be able to talk about his magic with someone who isn’t Gaius. The only downside of Wednesday evenings is that Merlin tends to sneak away from his duties so that Arthur doesn’t ask questions. 

So much for that. 

Morgana, completely oblivious to– well, everything– smiles, and inclines her head before turning to leave. 

The moment she’s out the door, Arthur turns on Merlin. “Tell me, Merlin, what on earth does Morgana want you for on Wednesday evening? And why the hell would you tell her that I can’t read? I wouldn’t say that!”

“But it’s true that you can’t, is that right?” Merlin says, all faux innocence.

Arthur throws his quill at him. It doesn’t go very far, which only serves to make him appear more ridiculous than threatening. “I can read!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Sire.” Merlin grins cheekily at him. 

Arthur glowers at him, but there is very little that he can do. In the end, he promises darkly, “When I have my body back, I’ll have you in the stocks for a week.”

“Of course,” Merlin says. “Will that be before or after you’ve proven that you can read?”

This time, Arthur throws the ink pot at him.

It hits Merlin, true to his mark, and spills over his newly clean floor (really? Really?). Despite the mess, though, he can’t complain. Arthur has forgotten to press him about Wednesday evenings, and is still none the wiser to the magic running through his veins.
Just a few more hours to go, Merlin tells himself, glancing through the window where the sun is beginning its descent. Just a few more hours. 

“– need to lead the knights out. You can ask Sir Galahad to carry the torch–”

Merlin glances wistfully at Arthur’s bed. The pillows look so soft, and the blankets so cozy…

“– technically you should be the one to light the pyre, but if you decide to be a girl about it and make someone else do it, the knights won’t question you. My father may, but by that point, I will be myself again and can deal with him–”

Merlin would even take his own bed, lumpy mattress and all. He wants to sleep, please. He didn’t last night– Arthur took the bed and Merlin refused to do so much as doze off so that he could keep an eye on him. What if Arthur had done magic in his sleep and lit his room on fire, or flooded it, or shattered the windows? 

Fortunately, the night went without incident (except for around three in the morning, when Arthur summoned half a garden of flowers into his chambers– Merlin panicked and threw them out the window, though, so it’s probably fine) and Merlin’s secret and Arthur’s chambers are intact. Unfortunately, Merlin has never been more exhausted. A bed would be great right now. He’d even take the horribly uncomfortable chair at the desk. So long as he can sleep…

“– even listening to me? Merlin. Merlin!”

Merlin blinks his eyes open. “Hm?”

“Did you hear a single word that I said?” Arthur doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he throws a bundle of clothes at Merlin. “Put these on, and for god’s sake, listen. Those big ears of yours must be good for something.”

Merlin ducks behind the changing screen, but not before pointing out, “Technically, you have my big ears now–”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur’s reply is immediate and rude, but to be honest, Merlin wouldn’t expect anything less of him. “I was explaining that you have to lead the knights out, but you can ask Sir Galahad to carry the torch and light the pyre.”
Merlin shivers, and it’s not because he’s halfway undressed. The pyre. The execution. He normally avoids them. Seeing the kindling being set up from his bedroom window is disturbing enough; he certainly doesn’t need any more reminders of where having magic will get you within Camelot’s borders. He hates watching his kin suffer and not being able to do anything about it. (Or perhaps refusing to do anything about it, a voice in his head always whispers, you have the power, you could stop it like that if you really wanted to…)

The guilty sorcerers, the ones who use their power to attempt overthrowing the kingdom or murdering Arthur… Merlin never knows how to feel about their sentences. There is no question that Lady Bertilak deserves punishment– she planned to murder the king and destroy Arthur in one fell swoop– but Merlin can’t help but wonder, does she deserve to be burnt alive? A mundane assassin would simply be beheaded, but because of her magic, Lady Bertilak will burn. Does she deserve to suffer so, more because of her use of sorcery than because of her malicious intentions? Does her death deserve so much pageantry as drummers and a squadron of knights to warn others, this is what happens if you practice magic?

“It’s a simple formation,” Arthur continues on the other side of the screen, oblivious to the uneasy churning of Merlin’s stomach, “They should line up on their own– two even lines– and you’ll walk out centered between the front two knights. Stay at least two steps ahead of them. You’ll come out the lower courtyard doors. Stop on the far side of the pyre.”

Merlin pulls on Arthur’s shirt. It’s downright bizarre and unnerving that it fits him– it doesn’t hang off his skinny frame, the collar doesn’t slip too far to reveal his chest. The horrible sense of wrongness, the visceral reminder that he’s a stranger in this skin washes over him. It only adds to his urge to throw up. He tries not to think about it as he unfolds Arthur’s pants. (Pants that shouldn’t fit him but will, because Merlin is no longer Merlin.)

Under any other circumstances, Merlin might be glad to wear Arthur’s clothes. They’re far softer and far nicer than anything he owns, and they’re Arthur’s besides. Today, though– in a body that isn’t his, dressing for the burning of a sorcerer– Merlin would give anything to wear his own familiar, ratty scarf. 

“My father will speak. He will be the one to signal to Sir Galahad that the pyre is to be lit.”

Merlin finishes with his belt and steps outside the screen. 

Arthur’s eyes find him immediately, grim. “When that happens,” he says, “you cannot look away. You need to watch. All of it.” His jaw is clenched, something like regret or resignation flashing across his face, but he doesn’t break his gaze. 

Merlin feels sick. He’s no stranger to death, though; he’s been the cause of it so many times that he knows that he will be able to watch Lady Bertilak burn. And that somehow makes him feel worse. 

He looks away.

His eyes catch on the armor laid out on the table and he moves towards it. Somehow, he keeps his voice even when he asks, “And where will you be?” 

“I’ll watch from your chambers.” Arthur follows him the couple of steps, but doesn’t move to help. “I should be able to see from there, and it would be suspicious if we both… lost consciousness at the same time.”

Merlin frowns, shrugging into the chainmail. “Why are we losing consciousness?” 

“Because,” Arthur huffs, long-suffering, “we did when the spell was first enacted. It only stands to reason that the same will happen when it is reversed.”

Merlin wonders idly if he’ll pass out before then– this armor is heavy. How do Arthur and the knights walk around in it all day? “Ah. Right.”

They fall into a charged silence. No doubt that Arthur, too, is thinking of all the things that could go wrong. If Lady Bertilak escapes. If Merlin messes up in the pomp and circumstance of the execution and Uther grows suspicious. 

If the spell doesn’t break, and Merlin and Arthur are left stuck like this. 

Merlin grabs Arthur’s scarlet cloak and fumbles unsuccessfully with the tie.

The spell will break. It has to. Merlin ends up in weird hijinks like this all the time, and they always sort themselves out. This won’t be any different. In an hour, Merlin will be Merlin again and Arthur will be Arthur, and this will all be another bizarre experience that he can laugh with Gaius about.
But if the spell doesn’t break–

Arthur makes a face. “Really, Merlin, people will think you’ve never seen a cloak before.”

Merlin opens his mouth to argue that tying Arthur’s cloak on him is vastly less complicated than trying to put one on himself, but the words die in his throat as Arthur steps forward and takes the strings and clasp out of Merlin’s hands. He practically forgets to breathe, too mesmerized by Arthur’s proximity, the deft motions of his fingers… which are actually Merlin’s fingers, so it’s a little weird, but it’s all too easy for Merlin to imagine that they actually are Arthur’s. 

It should be the same, Merlin thinks somewhere beyond the haze, as when he dresses Arthur. They are close like this every day, as Merlin fixes Arthur’s cloak, or helps him don his armor. It’s not though, and Merlin wonders if it has always felt this breathtakingly intimate to Arthur when he dresses him. 

Too quickly, the cloak is fixed, and Arthur’s hands begin to pull away. Merlin looks up and Arthur looks back.

“There,” he says, still close, so very close. Merlin would only need to lean forward a few inches and–

No. No, he is not going to think about kissing Arthur right now. That’s a terrible idea. He has bigger things to worry about, and it’s not like Arthur would want to kiss him anyway, and also, it would practically be kissing himself since they swapped bodies and that is disgusting. 

Maybe after they swap back Merlin can kiss Arthur. As a celebratory thing, obviously. No feelings involved or anything.

Merlin fights the urge to slam his head against a wall. 

Arthur is still looking at him, which doesn’t help. “You look the part now.” There’s a fondness there, barely disguised. Merlin doesn’t know what to do with it. “Like a proper prince of Camelot.”

“So like a great big dollophead?” Merlin says, and the moment is over.

Arthur scowls at him. “No, Merlin. Devilishly handsome.” And what the fuck, is that a blush? Before Merlin can do a double take, Arthur is turning away. “Which I would like to get back to being, so let’s get this over with.”

The knights don’t ask questions. Merlin thanks every deity he can think of for that. Sir Galahad takes the torch from him with something like pride, as though it’s an honor the young knight has earned. It only amplifies the churning of Merlin’s stomach, which he does his best to ignore. 

The knights get into position with minimal fuss. He tasks Leon and Sir Pellinore with escorting Lady Bertilak out behind them; as soon as they’ve returned with her between them, decked in cold iron chains, there’s the fanfare of trumpets and the thundering of drums from outside. 

Merlin schools his features– Arthur’s features– as best he can. This isn’t screwing around in front of Morgana anymore– this is Camelot’s prince, who would never show doubt or weakness in front of his people, no matter how sickened he felt. Merlin won’t ruin that for Arthur if he can help it. 

The guards open the doors, and he marches out. All eyes are on him and he hates it, but he keeps going. Just a few more minutes, he reminds himself, and this will all be a horrible memory. 

His eyes wander upwards, to his window. His own face– Arthur– stares down at him, grim. 

Only after the knights have stopped in formation and Lady Bertilak is bound to the pyre does Uther speak. 

“This woman,” his voice thunders, “is charged with treason, conspiracy, and sorcery. The laws of Camelot are clear. She is sentenced to death, in which she will be cleansed of her magic by fire. Let this be a lesson to us all, of the dangers of sorcery and how it corrupts.”

The drums restart. Merlin feels them reverberate in his chest. 

Above, Uther nods at Sir Galahad. 

Sir Galahad steps forward, blazing torch in hand. He touches it to the kindling.

Lady Bertilak doesn’t look. Instead, despite the tightness of her bonds, despite the fire that creeps steadily toward her, she holds the king’s gaze, defiant. “I am not the only one who is corrupted, Uther Pendragon. Your hands drip with more blood than mine. I am testament to that.”

The flames creep closer, closer, closer. Arthur’s words ring in Merlin’s ears. You cannot look away. You need to watch. All of it.

The screams will haunt Merlin for years. The heat of the fire, the way she writhes in her bonds– Merlin cannot look away, and he watches with something between horror and relief. She screams and she screams and she screams, and Merlin clenches his jaw and stares at the burning kindling.

Any moment, he thinks, a little desperate. Any moment now. The screams will stop and he’ll be back to being himself. He can hide away in his room and be done with this whole ordeal.

The screams crumble into sobs, which dissolve into whimpers, and eventually, to nothing. The stench of burning flesh is wretched in Merlin’s nose, and Lady Bertilak’s body is hardly recognizable as such. The crowd begins to disperse. 

Merlin looks at his hands. 

They’re not his hands. They’re still Arthur’s hands. 

Merlin didn’t know that it was possible for him to feel worse right now, but somehow, it happens. His stomach drops as he looks up. 

Arthur meets his gaze, still wearing Merlin’s face. 

Shit.

Chapter Text

Merlin flees the courtyard as quickly as he can. He’s hardly aware of where he’s going; there’s a vice around his chest that’s making it hard to breathe and his head is spinning. 

Since coming to Camelot, Merlin has become used to finding himself in difficult situations. He’s lost track of all the problems he’s gotten himself into since meeting Arthur. He knows, without a doubt, though, that this is by far the worst. 

Merlin always has managed to wiggle out of tight corners. Except, he’s also always had his magic; even when it couldn’t solve his problems directly, it often came in handy trying to find solutions. Now, he’s powerless– and Arthur has his magic. Not only is that terrifying because the thought of Arthur knowing about him makes Merlin feel sick with panic, but because it means that Arthur is involved. Sneaking around to fix this, probably with some sort of magic, will be near impossible with Arthur trying to work by his side. 

All that being said, Merlin has no idea how to fix it, so perhaps it doesn’t matter that Arthur is involved. Their best lead was the sorceress, and she’s dead. 

Arthur still has his magic, though, and Merlin is walking around as the bloody prince of Camelot. This entire situation is like playing with flint in a tavern soaked with mead. There’s no scenario where they make it out of this unscathed. Where Merlin makes it out of this unscathed. 

Without warning, a hand grabs his arm and tugs him behind a corridor pillar. 

“You’re still in my body,” Arthur hisses, accusatory. 

“Believe me, I’m wildly aware,” Merlin snaps back. 

“Why didn’t it work?”

“I don’t know.”

“Merlin–”

“I don’t know!” Footsteps echo down the corridor, and Merlin goes silent. He’s suddenly aware of how close he and Arthur are, crammed in this crevice. They’re practically chest to chest. 

A servant passes by, blissfully unaware of them and their predicament. Merlin wishes that he were just as clueless.

As soon as the footsteps fade, Arthur is back to his interrogation. “You’re certain that she’s dead?”

The charred corpse flashes before Merlin’s eyes. “She looked pretty dead to me,” he says. And as far as he knows, the fire is still burning. If there’s anything left besides ash when it puts itself out, he’ll be surprised. 

Arthur is insistent. “She didn’t swap bodies with someone else? That was truly her on the pyre?”

For a moment, Merlin considers the horrible possibility. But, no, that’s impossible. “She was bound in cold iron,” he says. “No ordinary sorcerer could have performed magic like that. She spoke to Uther, too, and it sounded like her.”

Arthur’s brow is furrowed, troubled. A few moments pass before he speaks. “We need to talk to Gaius.” 

Finally, a good idea. If Merlin weren’t so high strung, he might tease Arthur because it’s rare that the prince comes up with those. As it is, all he manages is a nod before he ducks out of their hiding place and takes off down the corridor at a brisk pace. 

Arthur catches up quickly, taking his place at Merlin’s side. He doesn’t say anything, but Merlin can read him like a book, even when the face he’s wearing isn’t his own. His jaw is tense and eyes fixed ahead, grave and a little afraid. 

Gaius is waiting for them, equally grim. “I take it that it hasn’t sorted itself out.”

“Have you found anything?” Merlin tries not to sound desperate, but he doubts that he succeeds. 

Gaius shakes his head, moving towards the table where half a dozen books are strewn about haphazardly, a handful of them open. “Stealing another person’s body is no easy feat. And most texts on powerful magic were lost in the Great Purge.” He gestures to one of the open books. “So far, I’ve only been able to find it mentioned in passing.”

Merlin joins him, leaning over the table to skim the open pages. 

“Where did you get these?” Arthur frowns as he glances between the books and Gaius. “These are about magic.”

“Your father wasn’t quite as successful in destroying our knowledge of magic as he thought,” Gaius says. He fixes Arthur with a stern look, raising an eyebrow. “Fortunately for us, or we would have a far smaller chance of returning you back to your bodies.”

Arthur doesn’t exactly look comfortable with the knowledge, but he nods, albeit slowly. “I won’t say anything to him.”

Gaius’ eyes stay on him for another few moments before flitting to Merlin. “I will keep looking. There must be something somewhere. In the meantime, however…”
Merlin’s heart sinks. He knows it’s unfair to expect Gaius to have a solution ready the moment he needs it, especially when they know so little about the magic that did this, but he and Arthur can’t stay like this. Everything Merlin holds dear is at stake— not just his relationship with Arthur, but the very foundations of the home he has built for himself here in Camelot. 

“I can’t exactly go about my duties looking like this,” Arthur says, making a face. 

Prat. Merlin’s body looks perfectly fine, if a little gangly.

“No.” Gaius hesitates. “Perhaps you should inform Uther–”

“No.” Arthur’s response is immediate. “If he hears of magic, he tries to destroy it the only way he knows how. The sorceress is already dead. He has no one else to turn to.” Except Merlin seems to echo in the silence. Arthur’s expression has gone dark and closed off.

Despite the somber mood, Merlin is touched. 

“Then you two are going to have to take each other’s places,” Gaius says, and the warmth in Merlin’s chest is replaced by a sense of dread, “without arousing any suspicion that you aren’t yourselves. Merlin will have to act the part of Prince Arthur Pendragon, and Arthur will have to act the part of Merlin the servant.”

Merlin and Arthur look at each other. He doesn’t have to read Arthur’s mind to know that they’re both thinking the same thing: that this is a disaster waiting to happen. Merlin spends plenty of time with Arthur, sitting in on meetings and watching him train the knights, but that doesn’t mean that he can actually replicate it– Arthur is always telling him about how he’s horrible at swordplay; how is he meant to teach it? On top of that, Uther is a suspicious man and watches Arthur like a hawk. If Merlin doesn’t play his part well, they’re certain to have problems. And Arthur–

Merlin realizes, all of a sudden, that Arthur will be doing his chores. All of his chores.

“You’re going to have to muck out the stables,” he says, almost gleeful. 

“I am not mucking out the stables,” Arthur says flatly. 

“It would be highly unusual for Merlin to not walk around covered in horse dung at least twice a week, Sire,” Gaius offers, innocent and matter-of-fact as can be.

Merlin isn’t sure if he should be offended by Gaius’ quick condemnation or glad that he’s taken Merlin’s side. He decides that both are acceptable. 

“I am the prince of Camelot,” Arthur insists, “you cannot seriously think—“

“Technically,” Merlin says, not bothering to hide is smug grin, “I’m the prince of Camelot—“

Arthur, the arse, smacks him. 

“Attacking your prince is treason,” Merlin says helpfully. 

“I’ll show you treason,” Arthur threatens. 

Gaius clears his throat and fixes the two of them with a look. 

Arthur drops the hand he raised, suitably cowed. 

One of these days, Merlin is going to make Gaius teach him how to do that thing with his eyebrow. Being able to shut Arthur up would be wonderful. 

“I know it isn’t ideal,” Gaius says, “but until we can reverse the enchantment… this may be the safest option.”

He’s right. Merlin knows that Gaius is right, but he doesn’t like it in the slightest. (Okay, maybe he likes the idea of making Arthur do chores, but that’s completely reasonable and isn’t committing identity fraud with life-or-death stakes.) 

Merlin feels eyes on him. He glances over to find Arthur staring at him, an indecipherable expression on his face. It’s almost like he’s looking through Merlin, seeing deep inside him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The tension is suffocating and he can’t stand it.

“Right,” Merlin says lightly, despite the foreboding pit in his stomach, “Well, I suppose you can start with polishing my armor, shining my boots, cleaning my room–”

Arthur lunges at him, and even if Merlin will be sporting a bruise tomorrow for his troubles, it did the job: the horrible tension has eased, at least a little, and Arthur is no longer looking at him like that.

In a shocking turn of events, Arthur has a second good idea in one day. After making Gaius promise to find them as soon as he has a lead, he drags Merlin back to his chambers to prepare for their respective performances.

“We’ll start with you,” Arthur says, confident as he locks the doors behind him. “There can’t be too much to your simple life to go over.”

Merlin thinks somewhat hysterically of the assassinations he thwarts every other week and his manservant duties and his physician’s apprentice duties and his goddamn destiny. “Right.”

He just… won’t mention most of that. 

“I… well. I do whatever you tell me to do,” Merlin says, a little lamely. “Washing your clothes, making the bed, fetching meals.” He pauses. “You do know how to do those things, right?” Honestly, Merlin has few hopes, but he does try to have faith in Arthur. 

“Obviously,” Arthur says. “I’m not an idiot.”

Merlin blinks at him for a few moments, then turns on his heel. He crosses the room to Arthur’s bed in just a few steps and begins tugging the blankets off of it despite Arthur’s horrified, “What are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Merlin says as soon as the bed is thoroughly disheveled. “You’re going to make the bed.”

Arthur looks at him as though he’s grown another head, and then makes a face at him. “Fine,” he says, striding towards the bed. “Fine!”

It’s. 

Well.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur hisses the third time the fitted sheet comes undone. 

Merlin tries to stifle his snicker. In his defense, Arthur looks ridiculous, contorted in an awkward stretch across the whole of the bed as he tries to fix the sheet for the fourth time. He could, of course, suggest to Arthur that he just walk around to the other side of the bed, but why would Merlin do that? This is much more entertaining. 

Arthur mutters something particularly rude about Merlin under his breath. 

“Keep going! You’re doing great!” Merlin lies. 

“I should have let that sorceress possess me,” Arthur grumbles. 

It takes Arthur a full fifteen minutes to make the bed. (Most of it is him struggling with the fitted sheet.) From there, Merlin goes over his duties with Gaius– he doubts that Gaius will make Arthur do much, but just in case he needs herbs or something– and then how to interact with normal, non-royal people, which Merlin dubs Don’t Be A Prat 101, much to Arthur’s annoyance. Merlin doesn’t mention anything to do with destiny or thwarting nefarious plots or magic, and the entire thing is mostly him getting to poke fun at Arthur. He’s actually kind of having fun by the time he’s gone over everything. 

And then it’s Arthur’s turn to go over his duties and he gets this look on his face and Merlin knows that there’s no way that this will end well. 

“One of the most important things you’ll have to do is train my knights,” Arthur says, unsheathing a sword from the scabbard that Merlin had left on the table the other night. He pins Merlin with his gaze. “Let’s see how well you remember what I’ve taught you.”

Merlin prays for a swift death. 

Half a dozen bruises later, muscles aching, Merlin flops onto Arthur’s bed, boneless, and, unfortunately, not dead. “Kill me now.”

“Now, where would be the fun in that?” Arthur is far too entertained by Merlin’s suffering. Merlin hates him. 

“Please,” Merlin begs. 

Arthur claps him on the shoulder and, ow. “Begging isn’t befitting of a knight, Merlin, or a prince, for that matter. Which you are pretending to be. And we still need to go over my other duties. Get up.”

Maybe if Merlin doesn’t move, Arthur will forget about him. Like an animal playing dead. 

Arthur jabs him in between the ribs with a finger. “Up!”

Merlin cannot emphasize enough how much he regrets every single one of his life’s decisions. When Arthur goes to poke him again, he jerks out of the way, throwing himself out of the bed. “There’s no need to be violent about it!”

“That wasn’t violent,” Arthur says, “at all.”

Before Merlin can argue, there’s a knock at the door. Both he and Arthur freeze. 

“Sire?” The voice is muffled by the wood, but it’s enough to jolt Arthur out of his stillness. 

He pushes Merlin towards the door. 

Merlin glares back at him, but his feet carry him forward. With no small amount of trepidation, he opens the door. 

Leon waits on the other side. He inclines his head at Merlin— not quite a bow, but close enough that it’s evidently a sign of respect. “Sire.”

Merlin still isn’t used to the deference. He hopes that he doesn’t get used to it— he and Arthur would have to be stuck like this for who knows how long for that kind of respect to become normal. 

Merlin realizes, very abruptly, that he’s been staring at Leon for far longer than is normal. “Sir Leon,” he starts, and then has no idea what to follow it with. 

Leon takes pity on him. “Your father has requested that you dine with him this evening.” 

Oh, fuck. 

“Um,” Merlin says eloquently. He glances back at Arthur, whose jaw has gone tight. 

Looking rather like he’s about to march into battle, Arthur nods once. 

“I’ll be there,” Merlin says, nodding no less than half a dozen times. “To dine with King Uther. Who is my father. Obviously.”

He hears Arthur facepalm behind him. 

Leon’s brows scrunch with confusion, but he smiles nonetheless before giving another sorta-bow and leaving. 

Merlin, who is a very well adjusted individual and is not stressed at all, does not slam the door. Nor does he whirl around immediately after and demand, “You want me to have dinner with your father?” 

“It would only be suspicious if I didn’t show,” Arthur says, not looking any happier about it than Merlin does. “You’re going to have to convince him that you’re me.”

Merlin shakes his head violently. “No. No way, Uther is the most paranoid person in all of Camelot and you are his son; I won’t last five minutes.”

“You’re going to have to.” The flint in Arthur’s voice takes Merlin by surprise. “Otherwise, you’ll find yourself in Lady Bertilak’s place and I’ll have to put up with George.”

They both shudder, presumably for different reasons. 

“You could tell him that you’re sick,” Merlin tries. “I could hide in Gaius’ chambers—“

“He’ll come looking.”

“Then it’s a highly contagious illness!”

“Merlin.”

Merlin’s hope withers. 

“It won’t be easy,” Arthur says, “and you’re a bit of an idiot, so it could go horribly wrong. But—“ He hesitates and looks away. “If anyone could do it, it would be you.”

The sincerity somehow cuts through Merlin’s desperate panic. Arthur speaks in insults and rarely says what he really means; his sincerity is scarce, and Merlin always treasures it when Arthur bestows it. For a man who always guards his heart, to be trusted with it is an unexplainable intimacy. 

“Sometimes, Merlin, I think you know me better than I know myself.” 

Of course I know you, Merlin wants to say. You’re a great man and will be a great king. You’re kind despite everything and brave and supercilious and an arse and the best person I know. I love you. 

If Merlin did say those things, though, Arthur’s head wouldn’t fit through the door, and he definitely doesn’t need to hear those last three words. Arthur is also very clearly uncomfortable, so Merlin takes pity on him. 

“It’s a gift,” he quips. “One of my many talents.”

The weight between them lifts and Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’m shocked that you have any.”

“I have plenty, you’re just too oblivious to notice,” Merlin says. Which, despite the unconvinced look Arthur gives him, is painfully true. “Making small talk with Uther definitely isn’t one of them, though. What do you even talk about with him anyway? Tournaments? I can barely hold a sword, Arthur!”

“Well, we just fixed that, didn’t we?” Arthur says brightly. 

“‘Fixed’ is a rather strong word,” Merlin hedges, even though he’s given up. 

Arthur ignores him. Because of course he does. “My father will want to discuss this morning, as well as the knights’ training. We’ll go over that. And table manners.”

Merlin makes a face because really. “I have manners!” 

Arthur tries to hide a smirk. “Then I’m sure this won’t take too long,” he says, placating. 

“Normal people with manners don’t use seven forks,” Merlin argues. 

“Tonight you’ll only have to use three,” Arthur says. “Good thing, too, since your poor excuse for a brain wouldn’t be able to handle more than that.” 

“Are you sure I can’t just be sick?” Merlin tries, one last time. “Morgana owes me a favor, she’d cover for you!” 

Arthur doesn’t bother to reply. Instead, he puts his hands on Merlin’s shoulders and steers him to the table. “We’ll start with etiquette.” 

By the time he and Arthur are leaving for dinner, Merlin is battling a headache and his heart is thudding a painful rhythm. Not only are there far too many rules to eating at a table, but Arthur summoned a set of silverware from thin air and nearly gave Merlin a heartattack– and then somehow Arthur failed to notice that the box and utensils hadn’t existed moments before, much less been sitting on the goddamn table– and he’s en route to have a meal with Uther, who will probably kill him if he so much as suspects that he isn’t Arthur. 

No pressure or anything, though. 

”Remember,” Arthur murmurs to him, “work from the outside in, and don’t let Morgana put you off. Don’t speak to me, and let my father fill his plate and start eating before you so much as look at the food.”

“Well, this will be easy,” Merlin mutters back, voice dropping with sarcasm. 

“And don’t do that,” Arthur adds. “None of your insolence, or my father will have my head.” 

Wryly, Merlin thinks that at least if Uther beheads him for his charming personality, he won’t burn on the pyre. 

They come to a stop outside the dining hall. The guards on either side of the doors wrench them open, and Merlin forces himself to walk towards where Uther is sitting at a long table. 

“Good evening,” Merlin says. “Father,” he adds a little belatedly. 

Uther’s eyes flit to him. “Arthur,” he says. The tone of his voice does nothing to calm Merlin’s nerves. “I’m glad that you’re feeling well enough to join us.”

Merlin smiles, hoping desperately that he doesn’t look like he wants to flee. “As am I.” He takes a seat at Uther’s right hand, sparing a moment to glance wistfully at the opposite end of the table. You know, where he wouldn’t be within striking distance of Uther’s sword.

He hears Arthur take up the place behind him, standing back but not quite in the shadows. It makes Merlin feel slightly better, to know that he’s here. Slightly. 

Morgana sits across from him. She takes a sip of her wine, watching him carefully. 

Absurdly, Merlin thinks of one of the traveling merchants who came to the citadel last summer– a man who sold insects, brightly colored butterflies and great moths, with their wings pinned to boards. Merlin feels a bit like one of those moths right now. Still, he does his best to keep his face neutral. 

“Before we eat, a toast,” Uther says, raising his goblet. “To the thwarting of sorcery, and the strength of Camelot.”

Merlin raises his goblet in turn, feeling slightly sick. “To Camelot,” he says.

Morgana raises her goblet and inclines her head, looking rather uncomfortable but saying nothing.

“It is fortunate,” Uther continues, “that we had such turnout this morning, at the sorceress’ execution. It will set an example– it sends a message to all those who practice magic that we are firm in our convictions, and cannot be so easily corrupted.”

“I doubt that there are many sorcerers in Camelot,” Morgana says. “Most would think twice about crossing the border.” Her eyes flick somewhere past Merlin– to Arthur. 

Merlin forces himself to ignore it, even as his panic spikes. The last thing he needs is for Morgana to make Arthur suspicious– except, he does not have the time to worry about that right now, because Uther is speaking again. 

“Yet, they still come.” He turns his gaze onto Merlin. “Today was a show of strength. I’m surprised that you didn’t light the pyre yourself.” 

“Sir Galahad has been working hard these past few weeks,” Merlin says, the lie slipping from his tongue with more ease than he thought it would. “I thought that he earned the opportunity to help cleanse the citadel of the sorceress’ magic.”

Uther nods, considering. “That he has,” he says, and Merlin can feel Arthur relax behind him. “I read your last report on the knights. They’ve all made great progress under your tutelage.”

“I did learn from the best,” Merlin says. 

Uther smiles. 

Across the table, Morgana rolls her eyes. 

The rest of the dinner passes without incident (Merlin slips up once and cites his lingering concussion, which Morgana teases him, or rather, Arthur, mercilessly for) but it’s still a relief when Arthur spills the wine he’s meant to be serving– their signal for when it’s been long enough that they can leave without suspicion. 

“Merlin!” Merlin pretends to be outraged. “You clumsy idiot.” The wine drips from the table onto his trousers and his ire becomes a bit more real. He hates cleaning wine stains. 

Arthur, to his credit, manages to look convincingly unapologetic even as he apologizes profusely. “I am so sorry, Sire– you must know that I would never spill anything on you intentionally— I respect you too much for that–”

Hang on. Merlin would not fucking say that. 

“Do you,” he mutters, glaring at Arthur.

Arthur, the bastard, winks at him. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Father,” Merlin says, rising, “I need to deal with my servant.”

Uther waves him off. 

To sell the act (and only to sell the act) Merlin seizes Arthur’s arm and drags him from the hall.

Arthur lets Merlin manhandle him until they’ve rounded the corner and are out of the sight of the guards. He wrenches his arm from Merlin’s grip and smacks him. “That was completely unnecessary!”

“I’m sorry, did you want me to ask you nicely to come to my chambers if you would be so kind?” Merlin gives him a Look. “What was unnecessary was you spilling the wine all over me– do you know how much of a pain it’ll be to clean these trousers?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Arthur says, unmoved. 

Merlin would love to argue that no, he won’t, because he always magics the stains out of Arthur’s clothes which he can’t currently do, but that’s a terrible idea. He settles for shooting another Look at Arthur. 

“Well,” Arthur says, “I doubt that my father suspects anything.”

Merlin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Thank the Triple Goddess. Those were probably the most stressful forty minutes of his life. At least they weren’t in vain. Still–

“I don’t think I can do that again,” Merlin says. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, leaving him jittery and out of sorts. “We should check with Gaius. See if he’s found anything.”

They redirect their path towards the physician’s chambers. 

The corridors are mostly empty. They pass by Leon at one point (he nods respectfully at Merlin, who still thinks that it’s weird) and a handful of servants, but the lower the sun sinks in the sky, the quieter it becomes. By the time they’ve reached the stairwell to Gaius’ chambers, the servants have started to light the sconces.  

Arthur leads their ascent up the staircase, with Merlin close behind. There are no voices when they come upon the door, and Merlin lets himself hope. Perhaps Gaius has had a quiet day and been able to find something. Perhaps tonight, he can go to sleep in his own bed, in his own body, and not have to worry about Arthur burning down the castle with magic he doesn’t know he has. Perhaps–

The door to Gaius’ chambers swings inward without either of them touching it.

Arthur turns to Merlin, brow furrowed, the gold still fading from his eyes. He opens his mouth, and–

“Must’ve been the wind,” Merlin says immediately. “You didn’t feel it?”

“We’re inside,” Arthur says slowly, like Merlin is an idiot. “I didn’t feel anything. Except this warmth–”

“Yes, the warm breeze.” Merlin wills his heart to stay in his chest. “This stairwell can be a little drafty, especially in the summer.”

Before Arthur can question him any further, Gaius appears in the doorway. 

Merlin has never been so happy to see him in his life. 

“Sire,” Gaius nods, “Merlin. I presume you’re here about… yesterday’s problem.”

Arthur pushes his way inside despite his (Merlin’s?) lanky frame. “We haven’t switched back. Merlin survived dinner with my father and Morgana this evening, but we can’t keep doing this.”

Merlin follows Arthur in, attention fixed on Gaius. “Have you found anything?” He keeps the desperation out of his voice, but can’t quite mask his urgency. Arthur has started to ask questions. He doesn’t have time to play pretend-prince. There is an hourglass hanging above Merlin’s head, and the sands are falling, faster and faster. 

“Nothing yet,” Gaius says, apologetic. “I have more reading to do, but if I don’t find anything soon, I may have to turn to alternative sources.” He gives Merlin a pointed look. It only lasts for a second, but Merlin understands, and fights the urge to bang his head against the table. 

Merlin needs to talk to the fucking dragon. 

It’s exponentially harder to sneak out of the castle now that he’s in Arthur’s body. He doesn’t fit into all the crevices he’s used to hiding in, and trying to distract the guards without magic is twice as nerve-wracking. Arthur’s scarlet cloak also feels incredibly conspicuous– but Merlin doesn’t dare attempt to leave the citadel with Arthur’s face exposed, just in case this gets back to Uther. 

It takes him twice as long, but eventually, the city walls are behind him. The forest seems darker without his magic and every noise puts him that much more on edge, but he treks on until he reaches the secluded clearing he’s taken to using for times like these.

The moon is bright overhead, and Merlin turns his head toward it. His mouth opens, and–

The words don’t come. 

He knows the words that will summon Kilgharrah. He’s spoken them at least a dozen times and has never had trouble remembering them before. It’s like they’re part of him, intrinsic as his magic–

His blood runs cold. 

No. He can’t have lost this, too. His magic is part of him, and if he thinks too hard about how it’s gone, it’s like a gaping wound. But this? Being a dragonlord is his connection to his father. It’s how he remembers Balinor, part of how he tries to make his father proud. If that’s gone…

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, tears prickling. He can do this. He knows the words, he’s summoned Kilgharrah before, and Kilgharrah said that they became true kin when Merlin learned his name; if they’re kin, Merlin must be able to call him. 

He stands there, face tilted towards the sky. The words never come. 

Chapter Text

Merlin wakes after a few fitful hours of sleep. Everything aches– his body from sleeping in one of Arthur’s chairs, and something deeper in his chest. As he stands, he can feel the wrongness of sinew and muscles that aren’t his. He checks the mirror anyway.

Arthur’s reflection stares back at him. 

Arthur himself is still unconscious, still looks like Merlin, sprawled on the bed and tangled in blankets. It’s an odd picture, one that makes Merlin think of when this all started, when he woke up in Arthur’s bed. 

He pointedly doesn’t think about it. 

Merlin turns his attention instead to the room. It doesn’t appear that Arthur has done any magic in his sleep. Everything is in its place, as it was. Merlin can’t quite feel relief, though; not after the furrow of Arthur’s brow last night, the questions he had begun to ask. 

Arthur is oblivious, but he’s not an idiot. Dare Merlin say it, Arthur is incredibly clever when he puts his mind to it. If they don’t fix this soon, he will find out about the magic and the lies.

And so far, Gaius has nothing. Merlin can’t call Kilgharrah, his only other source of magical knowledge. He doesn’t even have his magic. 

Merlin looks back to Arthur, fast asleep. Not for the first time, he feels the fragility of what they have built. Their relationship, which Merlin treasures beyond all else, is a house of cards, a breath away from crumbling. 

He cannot let that happen. Arthur can’t find out– not like this. Not yet. 

Merlin slips out of Arthur’s room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Merlin finds Gaius dead asleep, bent over one of his books at the table. Something in him curdles, but he prods the man awake anyway to ask, “Did you find anything?”

Gaius blinks sluggishly a few times before his gaze sharpens, focusing on Merlin. “No. This magic is powerful– the sort of knowledge that Uther went out of his way to eradicate. I’m afraid that my resources may not be enough.” He rises stiffly, wincing. “Did you speak with the Great Dragon?”

Merlin is suddenly at a loss for words. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I–”

Gaius frowns, brow furrowed with concern. 

“I couldn’t call him.” The words wrench themselves from his throat. “I’m not–” He fights to keep his voice from breaking. “– I’m not a Dragonlord.” Not anymore.

Merlin doesn’t know what he’s expecting from Gaius. An, are you sure? perhaps, or you are more than your gifts. He expects something well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful, because Gaius always means well, but doesn’t always understand. 

He doesn’t expect Gaius to pull him into his arms. “Oh, Merlin.”

Merlin shuts his eyes, gripping the back of Gaius’ tunic as he lets out an unsteady breath. His eyes are prickling but he refuses to cry, even though he knows Gaius would never judge him for falling apart. 

The past few days have been almost more than Merlin can handle. It’s all good fun, having a new way to annoy Arthur (the indignant look on his face when Merlin claimed that Arthur couldn’t read was a thing of beauty), but those moments are easily outweighed by the stress of it all. Merlin has tried not to fixate on his missing magic, on how vulnerable Arthur is to danger without his protection– how vulnerable he is now that there’s no way for him to safeguard his secrets– but it’s impossible not to notice how his world is falling apart piece by piece, and impossible to forget that there’s no one he can truly turn to for answers. He is terrified, and he knows that if he truly acknowledges that, the fear will paralyze him. 

Merlin forces himself to pull back and move on. “Is there anyone else who might know a cure?” he asks. 

Gaius gives Merlin a look that very clearly says I know you’re using unhealthy coping mechanisms, young man, and we will be discussing that later, before replying. “The Druids may know something, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to find them.”

For a moment, Merlin considers it– then shakes his head. “Arthur would have to come with me– what if they called him Emrys?”

“Could you go alone?” Gaius suggests.

“I wouldn’t have any proof that I’m Merlin– er, Emrys. I don’t know how willing they would be to help someone who looks like Arthur without that.”

The room falls quiet. 

So, no Kilgharrah. No Druids. If Gaius can’t find something in his books…

Images flash through Merlin’s head: the betrayal in Arthur’s eyes, Arthur’s hand reaching for  sword–

“We will figure this out,” Gaius promises. “You’ve gotten out of far worse scrapes in the past.” He offers a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Merlin smiles back weakly, even though they both know that Gaius is lying. 

“I will finish going through my books,” Gaius says briskly. “You and Arthur must continue playing your parts.”

Merlin makes a face, but nods. Secretly, he thinks that Arthur has the easier role. No one ever pays any attention to Merlin– if Arthur-as-Merlin messes up, no one will notice. He’s not going to be thwarting assassination attempts or thwarting magical threats. He only has chores (most of which he’ll probably make Merlin do anyway) and meeting with Morgana tonight–

He goes pale. 

Shit. Morgana.

Without a word, Merlin turns on his heel, ignoring Gaius’ questioning calls. He practically throws himself down the stairs, nearly plowing over a handful of servants as he vaults down the corridors. 

It’s Wednesday. He’s meant to be teaching Morgana magic this evening– except, Arthur has no idea that either of them have magic. If he shows up at Morgana’s chambers to find her practicing magic and expecting him to do the same–

Merlin doesn’t finish that thought. He runs faster. 

Morgana’s chambers are on the far end of the castle, because of course they are. When he makes it, he’s completely out of breath and probably red as Camelot’s crest. He doesn’t pause to breathe; instead, he bangs on the door.

It is, admittedly, more aggressive than he meant, but in his defense, he’s still not used to having muscles. Arthur’s muscles are far more defined than his– which Merlin has been aware of for years, seeing as they fill out Arthur’s tunics wonderfully, but seeing and having are very much not the same thing. 

(Merlin prefers them on Arthur. He pointedly does not think about why, because his face really doesn’t need to be redder than it already is. Anyway.)

Gwen opens the door, quickly masking her surprise with a more neutral expression. She gives a short, curtsy-like bob. “Sire.”

“Gwen,” Merlin says, or, pants, perhaps. “Is Morgana there?” 

Gwen’s brow furrows and Merlin fights the urge to kick himself. Arthur always calls her Guinivere, pompous prince that he is. Gwen doesn’t question it, though– just smiles politely and nods, stepping aside to let Merlin in. 

Merlin is going to give her something nice when this is all over, because even if she doesn’t know it, Gwen deserves it. 

Morgana eyes him disdainfully when he steps past the threshold. “Arthur. Shouldn’t you be out hitting things instead of gracing me with your presence?”

Merlin glances between her and Gwen. Arthur is, unexpectedly, right– the less people who know about what’s happened to them, the better. He really only needs to tell Morgana. But Gwen is his friend, too– she knows about his magic and he would trust her with his life.

He makes his decision. 

Merlin shuts the door before turning to Morgana and Gwen, who has moved to stand off to Morgana’s side. “I’m not Arthur.”

Gwen and Morgana share a Look. 

“Is that so?” Morgana clearly doesn’t believe him. She sounds more amused than anything.  

“Arthur and I switched bodies,” Merlin says urgently. He points at himself. “I’m Merlin.”

“Merlin,” Morgana repeats, skeptical. 

“Yes!” Merlin needs them to believe him. He focuses on Morgana. “When you came into Arthur’s chambers the other day and he was cleaning– that was me. Arthur doesn’t clean, and he would never admit to not being able to read.” (Admit, of course, being the most important part of that sentence.)

Morgana frowns but still doesn’t seem fully convinced. “You’re being serious?” 

“Yes!” Merlin says. 

Gwen and Morgana glance at each other again, then at him. 

Oh, for goddess’ sake. “Ask me something that Arthur wouldn’t know,” Merlin says. He’s impatient, but he’s been gone from Arthur’s chambers for at least a half hour, maybe longer, and he really doesn’t want Arthur to go looking for him and catch him here. That would only be suspicious, and that’s the last thing that he needs Arthur to be. 

“What do I work on every week while you and Morgana meet?” Gwen watches him carefully. 

“You’re embroidering a handkerchief,” Merlin says, “which you’re thinking about giving to Lancelot to wear as a favour in the next tournament, which, you should, because he’s halfway in love with you and we can all see it–”

Gwen’s cheeks are pink when she nods. “That’s Merlin.”

Merlin can’t help the grin that overtakes his face at the sheer relief of being believed. 

Morgana’s demeanor changes instantly; her skepticism and unimpressed air shifts to something less composed and more herself. Her lips twitch and she snorts. “Arthur is a servant?”

Merlin nods. “I’m going to make him muck out the stables today,” he says.

Morgana laughs, unabashed, eyes shining with mirth, and Gwen covers her mouth with her hand, though it does nothing to hide her own amusement. 

Merlin’s grin widens as he laughs along with them. It’s easy to forget everything that could go wrong when he’s picturing Arthur, covered in horse dung, and his friends are beside him. 

“Gwen,” Morgana says once she’s composed enough to speak, “I think that I might like to go riding today. You’ll accompany me, won’t you?”

“Of course, My Lady,” Gwen promises, not quite able to smother her own smile. She turns to Merlin. “How do you always end up in these situations?”

“Lady Bertilak tried to swap bodies with Arthur to kill Uther, but I… it didn’t work,” Merlin says, like this is a regular occurrence, which, it kind of is, “and now Arthur and I are stuck like this and have no idea how to swap back.”

Morgana’s gaze turns shrewd. “And by didn’t work,” she says, “you mean that you jumped in front of her spell, don’t you.”

Merlin does his best not to squirm under her scrutiny. It doesn’t matter, though; Morgana is observant and unfortunately for Merlin, very aware of his self-sacrificing tendencies. 

“You should know better than to throw yourself into a spell.” Morgana’s voice isn’t sharp, but she leaves no room for argument. “Sometimes, you’re just as stupid as Arthur. What if it had been something truly dangerous? What if you had died?”

Then at least Arthur would live, Merlin thinks, but he suspects that that’s not what Morgana nor Gwen want to hear. 

“Then I would have come back to haunt you all, obviously,” he quips instead. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

The concern doesn’t fade from their faces, but it does ease slightly. 

“Still,” Gwen says, “you should at least try to be careful.”

“I do,” Merlin promises. And he does– Arthur just doesn’t make his life particularly easy, what with everyone who keeps trying to kill or enchant him.

“Was this–” Morgana takes pity on him and changes the subject, gesturing to his– or rather, Arthur’s– body, “– the only side effect?”

Merlin presses his lips together. “Yes,” he decides to say, because technically the magic swap is part of the body swap, right? If they knew, Gwen and Morgana would worry, and he doesn’t want that. “We’re pretending to be each other because Arthur doesn’t know what his father would do if he found out. He’s going to show up here, tonight.” He looks at Morgana. 

Morgana inhales sharply, no doubt thinking of how horribly things might have gone if she hadn’t been warned. Any fear she has disappears just as swiftly as it came, brushed aside as she briskly asks, “Do you want me to cancel?”

Before Merlin can tell her yes and that she’s the best and that he’ll make it up to her, the door slams open behind him. He turns, startled, to see Arthur storm in. 

“There you are, Arthur.” Arthur gives Merlin a withering look. He’s still in his sleep tunic– Arthur’s sleep tunic, so it hangs awkwardly off of Merlin’s gangly form– and his hair is a disaster. 

Unbidden, the image sticks itself in Merlin’s head, and he imagines himself truly wearing Arthur’s clothes– they wouldn’t fit, evidently, but they would be soft and perhaps smell of Arthur. 

“You weren’t in your chambers when I went to bring you breakfast,” Arthur says, accusative, really meaning, you’re meant to give me breakfast, you bumbling fool. What could be more important than that?

“Well, Merlin,” Merlin says, trying to banish the fantasy from his head, “some of us have princely things to be doing.”

“Princely things… with the Lady Morgana.” Arthur raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, nodding seriously. “I mean–” he shakes his head, “– no.”

Arthur’s eyebrow climbs higher. 

“I have lots of princely things to be doing,” Merlin says. “In fact, I have so many princely things to be doing that I’m afraid that I’ll need you all day, so you can’t meet Morgana this evening. I was just informing her about the change in plans.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow and Merlin offers a bright smile, even as he thinks, shit shit shit shit shit, because if Arthur wasn’t suspicious before, he certainly is now.

“My meetings with the Lady Morgana are very important to her,” Arthur says, practically daring Merlin to argue. “It wouldn’t be very princely of you to inconvenience her, now would it, Sire?”

If Merlin wasn’t so stressed by this situation, he would be impressed by how perfectly Arthur has turned sire into an insult. He is stressed, though, so he squares his shoulders and attempts Arthur’s unimpressed glare. “You are my manservant, Merlin, not Morgana’s.”

Arthur snorts. “Since when do y– I ever do what I’m told?”

Merlin opens his mouth– then realizes that he doesn’t have a good response. 

Arthur gives him the smuggest look before turning to Morgana. “I’ll see you this evening, My Lady,” he says cheerfully, then grabs Merlin by the shoulders, pushing him towards the door. “Now, Sire, don’t you have princely things to be doing?”

Merlin looks over his shoulder, horrified.

Gwen and Morgana, the traitors, look like they’re about three seconds away from cracking up. When Arthur manages to pull him into the corridor, he swears that he hears Gwen start giggling, followed shortly by Morgana. 

“I cannot believe that you left me,” Arthur grumbles, steering them back in the direction of his chambers. “Just because I have your… peasant charm, doesn’t mean that I’m not the prince!”

Merlin is so caught up in his horror that he doesn’t register what Arthur said at first. Then, he blinks. “You think I have ‘peasant charm?’” He can’t tell if he should be pleased by that or not. 

The tips of Arthur’s ears appear red, but it must be the light. “Well, you don’t have the physique of a knight, and your face certainly doesn’t do you any favours.”

“So I don’t look like a total buffoon, then?” Merlin says. “You’re too kind, Sire.” 

“Arthur cuffs him over the back of his head. “Shut up, Merlin.”

“You can’t tell me to shut up,” Merlin says. “I am the prince, after all–”

“Are you ever going to tire of saying that?” Arthur demands, somewhere between exasperated and almost fond. 

“Probably not.” Merlin grins cheekily at him. He feels himself relaxing into Arthur’s touch, annoyed as it seems to be. Perhaps Arthur isn’t going to ask why he was so determined to keep him from meeting with Morgana tonight. 

“Being a prince comes with more than just a title,” Arthur says, giving him a Look. “It comes with duties and responsibilities, which you’ll be taking care of today. Like training the knights.”

Merlin’s face falls and he shakes his head rapidly. “No. No way. You’ve said it yourself, I can barely hold a sword–”

“Which is why we practiced yesterday,” Arthur says, unimpressed. “If I could train my knights I would, but unfortunately, I can’t.”

“They could have a day off,” Merlin suggests. “They’ve been working hard, surely they’ve earned a rest–”

“They’ll grow complacent.” Arthur dismisses him, pushing open the door to his chambers. 

Merlin shouldn’t be surprised. Arthur has never given him a day off, after all. He follows Arthur inside, still protesting. “But–”

“Speaking of training, you need to be on the grounds within the next hour.” Arthur’s tone leaves no room for argument. “So, you’d better hurry with getting breakfast.” They stop in front of his chamber door. 

Merlin knows that he can’t win about the knights. He can, however, argue about breakfast. “Prince Arthur doesn’t get his own breakfast.”

“Exactly,” Arthur says, then makes a face as he realizes what Merlin is getting at. 

“Of course,” Merlin says, “if you want people to become suspicious, I can go–”

Arthur grumbles something under his breath, shoots Merlin a glare, and turns on his heel in the direction of the kitchen. 

Merlin snorts, watching him go. The idiot is still in his sleep clothes. It’s annoyingly endearing. 

As soon as Arthur is around the corner, Merlin considers his options. Briefly, he thinks about rushing back to Morgana’s chambers to finish their conversation, but if he doesn’t make it back here in time, Arthur will only be more suspicious of what the two of them do in secret, and that’s the last thing Merlin wants– especially since it could out Morgana and her magic. It’s not enough time to sleep, either– much to his disappointment, since he’s exhausted and probably only functional because of the adrenaline that’s accompanying his stress. He does, however, have enough time to at least put armor on, which he’ll definitely need for training (he suspects that he’s going to be hit many, many times today). 

With that settled, he slips inside Arthur’s chambers.

Merlin has put Arthur’s armor on him hundreds of times before. The clasps and mechanics of it are second nature, something he could probably do in his sleep. It’s odd, doing it on himself instead of someone else– slower, and not as soothing or familiar. The armor also weighs about a ton, and he wonders how on earth he’s meant to teach swordfighting in it while standing under the blazing sun. 

Not for the first time, he wishes that he were himself again. He’d muck out the stables and sharpen all of Arthur’s swords with a smile on his face if he had his body and his magic back. 

He pointedly doesn’t think about Gaius’ lack of hope. Instead, he fumbles with Arthur’s vambraces. 

Merlin is still struggling with them (they’re a lot harder to clasp one handed) when Arthur returns, carrying a platter stacked high with what must be every breakfast food in the kitchen. “I don’t ever recall the cook being that rude,” he says, setting the plate on the table. “Why does she hate you so much?”

“Gwaine.” Merlin… may or may not have helped him steal things from the kitchen one too many times. Now, Gwaine is banned for life, and Merlin has to deal with the cook’s eyes following him like a hawk whenever he puts Arthur’s breakfast together. He’s surprised that she let Arthur leave with all that food, come to think of it– it must be two servings’ worth, at least. 

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” The eye roll in Arthur’s voice is evident. 

Before Merlin can make a suitably snarky reply, Arthur has crossed the room and is batting Merlin’s hand away from the vambrace he’s been trying and failing to fix for the past five minutes. “You’re absolutely useless. Let me.”

For the second time in as many days, Merlin stands, heart pounding in his chest, as Arthur helps dress him. 

It’s such a reversal of their usual roles. He knows the intimacy of helping Arthur don his armor, but has seldom experienced this side of it. The only other time he has been the one being dressed was in Ealdor, before Kanen’s men attacked. The breathlessness at their closeness was the same then, too. He’d been unable to look away from Arthur’s fingers as they worked, been just as aware of how Arthur grasped his wrist and the warmth of those few centimeters of contact. Merlin feels all of that now. 

That, and the same churning fear in his stomach. Merlin had faced the possibility of revealing his magic in Ealdor– and though he escaped it then, his situation is even more precarious and uncertain now. 

Arthur finishes with the last vambrace, and when he lets go of Merlin’s wrist, Merlin misses the touch immediately. 

“There,” Arthur says, lingering as he looks Merlin over. “Now you look like a proper knight.”

“I don’t want to look like a knight at all,” Merlin grumbles. He does his best to fall back into their banter, and Doesn’t Think about the way his heart flutters beneath his ribs or the dread pooling in his gut. 

“That’s because you’re a simpleton.” Arthur steps back, turning away, towards the table. 

“At least I’m not a cabbagehead,” Merlin shoots back, following him. He snags a sausage off of the platter and pops it in his mouth.

Arthur, shockingly, doesn’t complain about Merlin stealing his breakfast. Instead, he rolls his eyes. “At least I don’t have to make up insults.”

“It’s not made up,” Merlin argues. 

Arthur turns his head to raise a skeptical brow at him. “Really. Define cabbagehead, then.”

Merlin doesn’t back down. “In two words?” 

Arthur waves a hand, urging Merlin to continue. 

“Prince Arthur.”

“I thought that was the definition for– what was it? Dollophead?”

“Well, they’re synonyms, obviously,” Merlin says.

Like the mature future king he is, Arthur throws a grape at him. 

Their banter lasts for a few more blissful minutes… until Arthur, tucking into his breakfast, begins talking about the sorts of drills Merlin should run and reminding him that under no circumstances is he to let Sir Galahad and Sir Bors pair up because they’ll get too competitive and probably stab each other, and if anyone causes problems they’re to muck out the stables–

“Actually,” Merlin says, “as soon as you’re dressed, you’re going to be mucking out the stables today, Merlin.”

The look on Arthur’s face is almost enough to make Merlin forget about what he’s off to do next.

Almost.

“Alright, you cowering daisies!” Merlin does his best to sound authoritative and like he knows what he’s doing. (He has no idea what he’s doing.) “Pair up, we’re going to run drills!”

There’s sweat on Merlin’s brow and he’s not sure if it’s because of nerves or because of the sun beating down upon the green. The armor doesn’t help either, heavy and warm all over. 

The knights, oblivious to Merlin’s discomfort, begin to rearrange themselves on the green. 

“Er, Sire?” the knight closest to him asks, “What drills?”

Well, fuck. 

“The… sword drills,” Merlin says. “Obviously.”

The knight doesn’t seem any more enlightened. As a matter of fact, none of the knights seem like they know what he’s talking about.

Arthur isn’t here, but Merlin can practically hear him calling him an idiot. In Merlin’s defense, though he spends a decent amount of time watching knight training, most of it is staring at Arthur and appreciating the line of his jaw and how the sun turns his hair to gold– not paying attention to the actual training. 

His eyes scan the two dozen men until they latch onto Leon and Lancelot, standing side by side. Before he can put his foot in his mouth (again), he declares, “Sir Leon and Sir Lancelot will demonstrate.”

None of the knights are bold enough to question him, but Merlin doesn’t miss the way they glance at each other, bemused at best and uncertain at worst. He wipes at the sweat on his brow and decides that it’s definitely due to nerves. 

Arthur will kill him if he makes His Royal Pratness look like a complete fool. Nevermind that Merlin told him that this was a bad idea. Story of his life, really; Merlin tells Arthur that something is a bad idea, Arthur ignores him and does it anyway, and then blames Merlin when it goes wrong. 

Lancelot and Leon, his saviors, pick their way through the crowd, coming to stop before him. 

“What’s this about, Sire?” Merlin usually appreciates Leon for his bluntness, but right now, he curses him for it.

“I’m… coming up with a new training regimine.” Merlin says the first thing that comes to mind. “For it to be effective, I need to, er, observe everyone’s technique. Figure out where we can improve. It’s very strategic,” he adds.

Leon fixes him with a look. “You’re just sore from last night, aren’t you.” It’s not quite a question. 

“Yes,” Merlin says immediately, then frowns. “Wait. What was last night?”

“Merlin.” The amusement in Leon’s voice is unmistakable, as is the twinkle in his eyes as he lowers his voice. “It’s the talk of the castle that he left your chambers this morning, wearing your clothes and completely disheveled.”

It takes a few moments for Merlin to realize what conclusion Leon has come to. He sputters, probably red as the knight’s cloak. “That’s not– we didn’t–”

Lancelot smiles at him, sincere and almost proud. “We’re happy for you both,” he says diplomatically. 

Merlin’s voice fails him completely and he stares, jaw opening and closing stupidly. 

“It’s about time,” Leon says, more bluntly but no less pleased. “We were worried that you two were going to go in circles forever.”

Merlin’s head is spinning and he tries desperately to make it stop long enough to correct Leon. Except, not only does Leon think that he and Arthur slept together– which would be enough on its own to make him speechless– but that it’s about time. Like he knew that Merlin cared about Arthur more than a friend before Arthur-as-Merlin decided to parade around the castle this morning in the crown prince’s clothes. We were worried, he said, like he and Lancelot had talked about a presumed relationship or lack thereof between Merlin and Arthur before. 

Are Merlin’s feelings for Arthur so transparent that Leon and Lancelot knew? Who else knows? The other knights? Arthur?

Merlin’s blood runs cold. 

Arthur.

If Arthur doesn’t know how Merlin feels now– will this clue him in? Will he realize that Merlin lingers too long when dressing him, just so that they can share the same space for a few extra moments? Will he catch onto the fondness with which Merlin insults him? Will he notice the way that Merlin revolves around him, the way that Arthur is his sun, his everything?

Arthur cannot know. Like the magic, it would endanger the relationship they do have, this friendship that Merlin treasures beyond all else. 

Something prods at his mind, though– you two were going to go in circles forever. Him and Arthur, going in circles. Do Leon and Lancelot think that Arthur…?

The two knights are oddly unconcerned. And excited. And Merlin is far too stressed to try and determine right now if Arthur likes him or like-likes him but what if Arthur does feel the same way? What if the lingering glances and Arthur’s pigtail pulling mean exactly what Merlin wants them to?
Despite the way his head is reeling, Merlin manages to shove aside his thoughts. What he needs to do right now is clarify the situation and have a crisis about his stupid feelings later– telling Leon and Lancelot what’s actually happened to him and Arthur won’t quell the rumors that are spreading, but perhaps they’ll have a better idea of what to do. What comes out of his mouth, though, is a weak, incredibly unhelpful, “We weren’t going in circles.”

Merlin fights the urge to impale himself on somebody’s sword. 

Leon snorts. “You were, Arthur.” 

“It was sweet until it became annoying,” Lancelot volunteers. 

Merlin decides at that moment that he needs better friends. “We’re not annoying! Well, I am, but Merlin definitely isn’t–”

“About Merlin, Sire,” Lancelot interrupts. He straightens, seemingly steeling himself, and for a moment, Merlin is reminded of the Lancelot who first came to Camelot: certain and bold, even as he fretted about crossing lines. “I swore my loyalty to you not once but twice, and I meant every word. However, Merlin is my friend, and I owe a loyalty to him, too. If you should hurt him–”

Merlin’s jaw drops. 

“– you will have me to reckon with.” Lancelot nods, short and respectful. “Sire.” 

Stupefied, Merlin decides that maybe Lancelot is a good friend despite being a traitor. 

He doesn’t realize how long he stands there, silent and gaping, until Leon and Lancelot exchange glances, and Leon says, “Why don’t you go find him? We’ll take care of this lot.”

Somehow, Merlin manages to make his voice work. “Right. I’ll just… go… find Merlin.”

And then he flees.