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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.