Fic: Merlin; G; Equilibrium - Chapter 3
Title: Equilibrium (3/9 + Epilogue)
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G/PG
Wordcount: This part: 4072, Overall ~44000
Pairing/Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Percival (OC)
Disclaimer: Merlin does not belong to me, I just borrow its characters and slowly destroy their minds mess around a bit.
Warnings: Vague corruption of Arthurian Legend
Spoilers: Up to the Gates of Avalon
Author’s Note: Many thanks to wrennette for the beta work. This part is a little shorter, but there seemed to be a natural break in the story so… the next chapter’s a lot longer though.
Summary: In this part: Arthur explains things to Merlin… badly and Percival wonders why the Prince puts up with his manservant.
Previous Chapters: 1| 2
Arthur’s chambers were a mess when his manservant walked in, and Percival stood stiffly in the middle of it all, looking perplexed. He knew immediately that there was something wrong with his expression because, as soon as the servant caught sight of him, he stood, frozen in the doorway for a moment before Percival managed to school his features into a more ‘Arthur’ like look and turned to glare at him.
Percival knew how to dress himself, of course he did; he was not some helpless pampered fool who had to be spoon-fed everything. But in order to do things for himself he had to have the items to do things with. How was he supposed to go to whatever feast it was tonight if he didn’t have anything to wear? He had no idea how Arthur ever managed to get things done, not that he really had to do anything, he was the Prince after all, he had probably never done a hard days work in his life. Although the callouses on his (and Percival was no longer entirely sure whether the pronoun meant him or the real Arthur) fingers attested to some work.
He stared at the Prince’s manservant for a moment, speechless. It took a second for him to remember the name - some sort of bird or something…
“Merlin!” he exclaimed after a few embarrassing seconds of standing there mutely. “Where are my clothes?” Merlin hesitated a second, and Percival was beginning to recognise that look in his eyes as one that meant he was about to be deeply insulting.
“They seem to be all over the floor, sire.” Merlin stated calmly, although there was a hint of amusement pulling at the side of his mouth. He did not even seem to notice the lack of respect as he stood there, hands clasped behind his back, the perfect servant except for the sly smile on his face. Percival took a deep breath. It was not supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the Prince. He was supposed to have everything he wanted, not smug menservants gloating at him behind his back.
“My other clothes!” he spat out, venting his rising anger. The woman in the forest, she had told him that this would change his life, that he would be treated better, but apart from some bowing and scraping by people whose names he did not know and the fact that his clothes smelt of expensive food and ale rather than the cheap slush the inn kept, he couldn’t really see the difference.
“Um… you’re wearing them?” Merlin hazarded. Percival felt the overwhelming urge to throw something at his head, but he restrained himself. That would not be proper behaviour, even if you were Prince of an entire kingdom.
“The ones you said would be here,” he continued, making sure to enunciate properly. The regal tones of the Prince’s voice were so much better for that than his own. “The ones you said you left here yesterday.” He did not know why he was so angry all of a sudden. Perhaps it was Merlin’s amusement earlier at his inability to find his own chambers, or the complete lack of anything he recognised in this place - not even his own face was familiar. He had been walking half the night and now he was expected to perform like some trained bear.
“I’m sure they’re around here somewhere,” Merlin said and proceeded to wade through the mess Percival had made. It was really quite impressive. Percival had not expected, when he had looked for things to wear, that Arthur would have had so many. He had never seen such a collection of riches, all wasted on someone who did not even seem to enjoy them. He recalled Arthur’s face when he had bumped into him on the road: bored and arrogant. The Prince had been riding one of the finest horses in the land while other people had to walk, and wearing a thick cloak over expensive armour and he had had the gall to look unhappy.
Merlin did not appear to be having any luck.
“I left them by the table yesterday afternoon,” he muttered and Percival was not sure whether he was telling him that, or reassuring himself. “They must be here somewhere.”
Percival was about to kick an unassuming pile of clothes when he realised suddenly what must have happened.
The other Prince Arthur… the no-longer-Arthur Arthur. He would have slept in these rooms the night before. He would have woken up and realised something was wrong: if Percival could see himself as Arthur, then Arthur presumably saw himself as Percival. He blanched.
This had not been mentioned. He was not sure what he had thought, but that the real Arthur would be in the castle was not part of it. She had conveniently left that out of the explanation, but it made sense. She had not switched their bodies, but their appearances. He had started out where he was and therefore Arthur must have started out where he had been the night before - presumably curled up in his too big bed covered in warm blankets which were worth more than the whole of Percival’s village.
Somewhere out there, Arthur was wandering around trying to work out what had happened and no doubt trying to reverse it. If he found any weak point at all then this would all come crashing down again.
“Are you alright?” Merlin asked, looking up from his awkward position under the chair.
“That’s about the fifteenth time you’ve asked me that today,” he said bitterly, “do you think I’m going to change my mind?”
“No… but there’s always a first time for everything,” his manservant commented, nudging aside an undershirt with a little disgust. “And you don’t really seem yourself today.” Percival froze.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest.
“It’s a bit like you’re trying too hard,” Merlin answered, stretching out his hand to grab what might have been a boot - it wasn’t. Percival laughed warily.
“Well, I’m fine. So stop interfering.” He watched Merlin pull himself back into a kneeling position and wince as he placed more pressure on his knees on the hard floor. He looked at him again, as though he were assessing him for something. “What is it now?” he asked. He had intended for it to sound more exasperated, but his control over Arthur’s throat was apparently not complete enough yet, and it came out sounding more as though he was scared.
“It’s just, you… I would have expected you to reply with ‘at least one of us is trying something’ or ‘I don’t need to try’…” he said, in a passable imitation of the Prince’s haughty tone that Percival would have laughed at had he still been himself. But Merlin was still surveying him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, if he looked too closely then Percival would end up on the chopping block before any good had come of the situation. “You usually take every opportunity to insult me,” the servant continued. Percival kicked himself, of course he would, Arthur was not the sort of person to just stand back and let himself be insulted, but the idea of witty retorts worried him. He had never been much good at the shouting matches that had happened in the village, always ending up being laughed at for coming out with something stupid or slow or just plain silence.
Merlin, he decided, was dangerous. Every look the other boy gave him he could feel separating his head a millimetre further from his body; every conversation they had left with him under that little bit of extra suspicion, and it did not look as though he could get rid of him.
Why had he called him back again?
The boots. He cursed himself. Merlin was still looking for the boots and, if he was looking for them, he might notice them on another person - on Arthur - and that would raise questions, which could lead to him being asked questions, which would probably - since he had no idea of the woman’s name or anything about her other than that she had amazing blue eyes - lead to him being executed for sorcery.
He wished he had thought this through before agreeing, or that he had at least asked what he was agreeing to. He tried to remember why he had agreed, but all there was in his head was a hazy feeling of dreaming and a pair of haunting blue eyes that might have belonged to her, or might have belonged to the wolf.
“Never mind the boots,” he said quickly. “I’ll find some old ones.” He watched as Merlin frowned.
“I’m sure I left them here,” the manservant complained though, going back to his search.
“I said to forget them!” he snapped wildly. There was nothing else he could do: he had to get Merlin out of the castle before he bumped into the real Arthur somewhere. He had to get the man away from him before he realised just why ‘Arthur’ was not acting like himself. “Can’t you ever listen to orders?” he asked. “Honestly, I’ve had it with your insubordination and constant comments. You are insolent, unhelpful and…” he spluttered for a moment, desperate for words.
“I’ve saved your life.” Merlin stated, matter-of-factly.
“I hope you don’t expect me to return the favour,” he said walking across the room to the chair by the fire. Behind him Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, watching the Prince almost stumble over a small pile on the floor. “I can’t put up with this any more… you’re fired.” Percival said firmly, telling himself that it really was the only way. As he spoke, he threw the clothes he had left on the chair back onto the floor and flopped down into it.
“Right, I’m fired, again,” Merlin said rolling his eyes.
“Yes, you are.” Percival agreed, wondering when Merlin had been fired before and how he had managed to get his job back. It would be typical if he had the only servant who refused to be fired. “Now, get out of here before I throw you out.” He held his breath, waiting for a stubborn refusal. Instead, Merlin stood up straight, his chin raised angrily as he glared across at him.
“Fine - clean the mess up yourself then,” the servant said, dropping the doublet that was in his hands and crossing over to the doors without looking back. Percival did not say anything as Merlin walked out, his footsteps clipped short by barely contained anger. The door slammed behind him leaving Percival alone in a sea of clothing.
For some reason he felt even more lost than before.
***
“What’s going on?” Arthur looked up from his contemplation of a hunk of bread (he had managed to grab it from a plate that was carried past earlier) to see Merlin standing over him looking as terrifying as Merlin ever could. He resisted the urge to laugh in his manservant’s face because, if he was honest, he was far more terrified of the kitchen’s half blind ratter than of the man in front of him. He pulled himself to his feet awkwardly, almost kneeing himself in the eye with a leg that did not bend quite the way it was supposed to. “You somehow know me, when I don’t remember you and you’re asking me for help, while Arthur’s being completely insufferable…” he paused for breath before revising his comment, “more completely insufferable than usual anyway. And he just fired me… again. Only this time I didn’t do anything. Not to mention he seems to have forgotten everything - including how to walk properly. And…” he broke off, staring at the floor.
“And what?” Arthur asked, assuming nonchalance, in order to cover his slight amusement at Merlin’s rant - except the part about him being insufferable.
“Where did you get those boots?” Merlin asked, looking up. His face was a picture of confusion and Arthur could feel laughter bubbling up inside of him, it felt slightly hysterical so he smothered it down. “And that jacket and… everything you’re wearing?” He gaped at the other young man for a moment, the total silence of the hall underlining the ludicrous nature of the situation giving Arthur even more of an urge to laugh. “Did you steal them?”
“No. They’re mine.” Arthur replied truthfully.
“No…” Merlin chuckled uneasily. “They’re Arthur’s. I’d recognise them anywhere. I’ve spent most of the last few months cleaning them.”
“Like I said… they’re mine.” Arthur repeated, wondering just how much longer Merlin was going to take to catch up with what was going on. “They were made for me,” he said, trying to make the connection more obvious. And Morgana called him slow.
“They don’t fit very well.” Merlin said, but the comment didn’t have the usual cutting tone of his insults. It was more of a query.
“That’s because they were made for me.” Arthur grumbled. He wriggled his toes around in the too-big boots, glaring at them as though he could make his feet the right size again by merely will power. Needless to say, it did not work.
“You’re not making any sense,” Merlin told him.
“I’m making perfect sense,” Arthur said firmly. “I did not steal these clothes, they are mine. I, however, am not me…” That was about as obvious as he could get without actually reintroducing himself to the idiot. Merlin still did not get it though, and Arthur had to resist the urge to bash his manservant’s head into one of the pillars.
“Ri-ight… do you need to see Gaius?” Merlin asked, stepping backwards, probably seeing the stranger’s fists clench with anger. Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll have a better idea than I do of what’s wrong with you.”
“I know what’s wrong with me,” Arthur insisted, “and Gaius won’t be able to help.”
“And you think I will?” Merlin asked, and it was really a good question, Arthur conceded. Yesterday the idea of him going to Merlin for help with a situation like this was… probably exactly what he would have done, but for the life of him he had no idea why. Anyone would be better really: one of his knights, Morgana, his father, Gaius, the undercook who always went pale when Arthur looked at him - at least he knew how to use a knife. There was no good reason why Merlin was his choice of saviour, except that he was the first person to catch sight of him.
“Not really, but you’re the first person I bumped into, and,” he hesitated a second, unwilling to admit anything. But pride be damned for the next few minutes because if he did not get back to how he was supposed to be he really had no need for it. “You seem to actually have some inkling of what’s going on. Unlike the rest of the morons in this place.”
“It’s nice not to be called a moron for once,” Merlin said with a smile and Arthur almost, but did not quite, smile with him.
“I never said you weren’t a moron. You’re just a moron who’s actually being observant for once,” he corrected. There was no need to be nice, Merlin definitely would not recognise him then.
“You keep talking like we know one another.” Merlin said, looking back at him curiously once more.
“That’s because we do.” A servant began to walk through the room, her shoes padding across the floor. Arthur fell silent and watched her pass as Merlin waited for some further explanation. As she disappeared into the next corridor, Arthur let his gaze fall back onto Merlin. “This is going to sound crazy.”
“Crazier than: you’re wearing your own clothes that were made for you, except you’re not you?” Merlin asked, and Arthur glared again, infuriated by the fact that Merlin, when he wanted to be, was far quicker that Arthur remembered him being.
“Yes…” he said after a second.
“Really that’s-” But before Merlin could retort again, Arthur cut him off.
“Stop interrupting!” he snapped, grabbing Merlin’s shoulder and making eye contact, willing the truth to come across through his eyes, if nothing else. It might have worked, or maybe Merlin was just afraid that, if he said anything more, the stranger would kill him in some particularly painful and interesting manner. Either way he was quiet and that was good enough for Arthur. The Prince took a deep breath and decided to make it all very simple. Really, it was his fault for overcomplicating the matter anyway; he should have remembered that Merlin could not handle subtlety. “I’m Arthur.”
There was a beat of silence as they stared into each other’s eyes, Arthur trying his hardest to look like himself, Merlin trying his hardest not to laugh in the stranger’s face.
“You… are Arthur?” he asked slowly, as though speaking to a mad man. Arthur released his shoulder in exasperation and paced away to the wall.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me…” he muttered. “I don’t know why I even tried. But Morgana was talking to that… Imposter like she didn’t even notice that it wasn’t me and you at least looked a little confused. I should have realised that that’s just how you always look.” He did not notice Merlin staring at him as he paced backwards and forwards, his posture perfectly balanced, every foot landing exactly and correctly. He turned smoothly at the end of each line before stalking back again. He crossed his arms as he noticed the scrutiny, and his steps became more jerky. It was uncomfortable, being stared at in this unwieldy body, almost as though he were naked in front of a crowd of people.
“You’re Arthur?” Merlin asked again, and the Prince turned to him more hopefully. He had not sounded derisive then but more thoughtful, as though he were reviewing things in his mind.
“Yes… I’m Arthur.” He paused, and watched as Merlin thought it all through. He noted to himself that he really did not give his manservant enough credit a lot of the time. The man was an idiot, but when he put his mind to it he might actually be able to work things out.
“Okay… if you’re Arthur,” Merlin began, Arthur crossed over to him, wondering what the test was going to be. “How did you defeat the Avanc?”
“I…” he began, about to launch into the story he had told his father, but he stopped himself in time. This was not an excuse for boasting, this was a test and he had to pass. There was noplace for his pride here. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. Merlin huffed under his breath and shook his head and Arthur ground his teeth in frustration. That was where the truth got you. “No… I know what happened; I’m just not sure how it happened.” He paused and leant back against the pillar again, keeping his arms crossed against his chest and looking down at the floor. “I had the torch, and it wasn’t working properly… but then there was this gust of wind and… the torch grew more powerful somehow.” He paused and looked up. “Happy yet?”
“Arthur?” Merlin peered at him incredulously, but despite the questioning tone, that was definitely his name, addressed to him. Arthur could not hold back a smile of relief.
“You believe me?” he asked, straightening up in astonishment. That had been easier than he had expected. “Why?”
“I’m not sure I do…” Merlin admitted, “But it makes a strange sort of sense.”
Arthur slumped back against the wall, closing his eyes in defeat and letting the cold stone dig into his shoulder blades.
“I’ll agree that you’re acting more like Arthur than he is, though… and if it is true…” they stopped and looked at each other for a moment, a long look and Arthur could see in Merlin’s eyes right then that his manservant did believe him because he could tell exactly what he was thinking. It was exactly what they were both thinking: given how many times his life had been at risk - a dagger hurled by a mad woman, a living shield, poison - this was not a great stretch of the imagination. Someone had merely found a way to get rid of him without having to go to all the mess and complication of actually killing him. They were probably proud.
“I’m going to get my life back Merlin, whether you help me or not.”
“If I don’t help you, you’ll probably end up dead,” Merlin retorted and then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway: if you are Arthur, then I’m supposed to be working for you anyway. If you’re not then the real Arthur just fired me so I have a lot of time on my hands as it is. So… where do you want to start?”
“I need to speak to Morgana,” Arthur said calmly, grateful that Merlin was taking this so well. There had been no screams of ‘Sorcery’, nor any problems convincing him what was happening was possible. It was almost as though he understood the situation better than Arthur himself did. “If I can convince her that I’m me, then she can talk to my father and we can work this out properly.”
“Arthur…” Merlin began to speak, his voice lowering to barely a whisper. “Your father hates magic… even the suggestion of it.”
“I am aware of that, Merlin,” he said calmly, feeling more like himself than he had done all day, even in the boots that were far too big and with the arms that hung awkwardly at his sides.
“What I mean is - once your father gets involved, how exactly do you think this is going to work? If he even believes you and Morgana in the first place.” He paused, glancing over Arthur’s shoulder.
“He’ll force the Sorcerer to reverse the spell.”
“And if the Sorcerer refuses?” Merlin asked.
“Then…” Arthur thought for a second, but Merlin finished off his sentence for him.
“He’ll have his head cut off… your head cut off. And then one of two things will happen, as far as I can tell: either the enchantment will be broken, in which case you’ll return to a headless body, or you’ll be stuck inside this body forever…”
“We didn’t switch bodies.” Arthur interrupted. “At least, I don’t think we did.”
“Then what did happen?” Merlin asked, as though discussing the ins and outs of Sorcery with the son of the most magic-hating man in the world was an every day occurrence.
“I woke up in my room like this; exactly where I’d gone to sleep the night before. Surely, if we’d switched bodies, I would have ended up wherever his body was… not mine.” He flexed his fingers into fists reflexively. “I think he just, changed our appearances.”
“Whether he did or didn’t,” Merlin said, brushing off the minutiae for the minute to focus on other problems. “He’ll probably still know what you look like right now, and if he knows that you woke up in your bed then he’ll know that you’re probably still around here, and he’ll be looking for you.” He paused, the meaning of his words clearly dawning on him as he said them.
“What is it?” Arthur asked impatiently. Merlin had a point, one he had already thought of himself, but there was something else he seemed reluctant to say. He was looking at Arthur appraisingly.
“If you’re really… Arthur, then you can’t stay here,” he said and Arthur nodded solemnly, that much he understood. “But if you’re not, I’m actually making the situation worse by helping you.” The Prince straightened his back, trying to push unfamiliar features into an expression that approached the one he liked to use when Merlin was being particularly stubborn or idiotic.
“The worst situation by far is if I am Arthur, which I am, and I get my head chopped off because you were too scared to do anything other than um and ah over who was telling the truth.” He pointed out to his manservant and Merlin nodded slowly, piecing through the situation in his head before speaking.
“Fine… come with me.”
***
On to Chapter 4
-
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G/PG
Wordcount: This part: 4072, Overall ~44000
Pairing/Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Percival (OC)
Disclaimer: Merlin does not belong to me, I just borrow its characters and slowly destroy their minds mess around a bit.
Warnings: Vague corruption of Arthurian Legend
Spoilers: Up to the Gates of Avalon
Author’s Note: Many thanks to wrennette for the beta work. This part is a little shorter, but there seemed to be a natural break in the story so… the next chapter’s a lot longer though.
Summary: In this part: Arthur explains things to Merlin… badly and Percival wonders why the Prince puts up with his manservant.
Previous Chapters: 1| 2
Arthur’s chambers were a mess when his manservant walked in, and Percival stood stiffly in the middle of it all, looking perplexed. He knew immediately that there was something wrong with his expression because, as soon as the servant caught sight of him, he stood, frozen in the doorway for a moment before Percival managed to school his features into a more ‘Arthur’ like look and turned to glare at him.
Percival knew how to dress himself, of course he did; he was not some helpless pampered fool who had to be spoon-fed everything. But in order to do things for himself he had to have the items to do things with. How was he supposed to go to whatever feast it was tonight if he didn’t have anything to wear? He had no idea how Arthur ever managed to get things done, not that he really had to do anything, he was the Prince after all, he had probably never done a hard days work in his life. Although the callouses on his (and Percival was no longer entirely sure whether the pronoun meant him or the real Arthur) fingers attested to some work.
He stared at the Prince’s manservant for a moment, speechless. It took a second for him to remember the name - some sort of bird or something…
“Merlin!” he exclaimed after a few embarrassing seconds of standing there mutely. “Where are my clothes?” Merlin hesitated a second, and Percival was beginning to recognise that look in his eyes as one that meant he was about to be deeply insulting.
“They seem to be all over the floor, sire.” Merlin stated calmly, although there was a hint of amusement pulling at the side of his mouth. He did not even seem to notice the lack of respect as he stood there, hands clasped behind his back, the perfect servant except for the sly smile on his face. Percival took a deep breath. It was not supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the Prince. He was supposed to have everything he wanted, not smug menservants gloating at him behind his back.
“My other clothes!” he spat out, venting his rising anger. The woman in the forest, she had told him that this would change his life, that he would be treated better, but apart from some bowing and scraping by people whose names he did not know and the fact that his clothes smelt of expensive food and ale rather than the cheap slush the inn kept, he couldn’t really see the difference.
“Um… you’re wearing them?” Merlin hazarded. Percival felt the overwhelming urge to throw something at his head, but he restrained himself. That would not be proper behaviour, even if you were Prince of an entire kingdom.
“The ones you said would be here,” he continued, making sure to enunciate properly. The regal tones of the Prince’s voice were so much better for that than his own. “The ones you said you left here yesterday.” He did not know why he was so angry all of a sudden. Perhaps it was Merlin’s amusement earlier at his inability to find his own chambers, or the complete lack of anything he recognised in this place - not even his own face was familiar. He had been walking half the night and now he was expected to perform like some trained bear.
“I’m sure they’re around here somewhere,” Merlin said and proceeded to wade through the mess Percival had made. It was really quite impressive. Percival had not expected, when he had looked for things to wear, that Arthur would have had so many. He had never seen such a collection of riches, all wasted on someone who did not even seem to enjoy them. He recalled Arthur’s face when he had bumped into him on the road: bored and arrogant. The Prince had been riding one of the finest horses in the land while other people had to walk, and wearing a thick cloak over expensive armour and he had had the gall to look unhappy.
Merlin did not appear to be having any luck.
“I left them by the table yesterday afternoon,” he muttered and Percival was not sure whether he was telling him that, or reassuring himself. “They must be here somewhere.”
Percival was about to kick an unassuming pile of clothes when he realised suddenly what must have happened.
The other Prince Arthur… the no-longer-Arthur Arthur. He would have slept in these rooms the night before. He would have woken up and realised something was wrong: if Percival could see himself as Arthur, then Arthur presumably saw himself as Percival. He blanched.
This had not been mentioned. He was not sure what he had thought, but that the real Arthur would be in the castle was not part of it. She had conveniently left that out of the explanation, but it made sense. She had not switched their bodies, but their appearances. He had started out where he was and therefore Arthur must have started out where he had been the night before - presumably curled up in his too big bed covered in warm blankets which were worth more than the whole of Percival’s village.
Somewhere out there, Arthur was wandering around trying to work out what had happened and no doubt trying to reverse it. If he found any weak point at all then this would all come crashing down again.
“Are you alright?” Merlin asked, looking up from his awkward position under the chair.
“That’s about the fifteenth time you’ve asked me that today,” he said bitterly, “do you think I’m going to change my mind?”
“No… but there’s always a first time for everything,” his manservant commented, nudging aside an undershirt with a little disgust. “And you don’t really seem yourself today.” Percival froze.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest.
“It’s a bit like you’re trying too hard,” Merlin answered, stretching out his hand to grab what might have been a boot - it wasn’t. Percival laughed warily.
“Well, I’m fine. So stop interfering.” He watched Merlin pull himself back into a kneeling position and wince as he placed more pressure on his knees on the hard floor. He looked at him again, as though he were assessing him for something. “What is it now?” he asked. He had intended for it to sound more exasperated, but his control over Arthur’s throat was apparently not complete enough yet, and it came out sounding more as though he was scared.
“It’s just, you… I would have expected you to reply with ‘at least one of us is trying something’ or ‘I don’t need to try’…” he said, in a passable imitation of the Prince’s haughty tone that Percival would have laughed at had he still been himself. But Merlin was still surveying him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, if he looked too closely then Percival would end up on the chopping block before any good had come of the situation. “You usually take every opportunity to insult me,” the servant continued. Percival kicked himself, of course he would, Arthur was not the sort of person to just stand back and let himself be insulted, but the idea of witty retorts worried him. He had never been much good at the shouting matches that had happened in the village, always ending up being laughed at for coming out with something stupid or slow or just plain silence.
Merlin, he decided, was dangerous. Every look the other boy gave him he could feel separating his head a millimetre further from his body; every conversation they had left with him under that little bit of extra suspicion, and it did not look as though he could get rid of him.
Why had he called him back again?
The boots. He cursed himself. Merlin was still looking for the boots and, if he was looking for them, he might notice them on another person - on Arthur - and that would raise questions, which could lead to him being asked questions, which would probably - since he had no idea of the woman’s name or anything about her other than that she had amazing blue eyes - lead to him being executed for sorcery.
He wished he had thought this through before agreeing, or that he had at least asked what he was agreeing to. He tried to remember why he had agreed, but all there was in his head was a hazy feeling of dreaming and a pair of haunting blue eyes that might have belonged to her, or might have belonged to the wolf.
“Never mind the boots,” he said quickly. “I’ll find some old ones.” He watched as Merlin frowned.
“I’m sure I left them here,” the manservant complained though, going back to his search.
“I said to forget them!” he snapped wildly. There was nothing else he could do: he had to get Merlin out of the castle before he bumped into the real Arthur somewhere. He had to get the man away from him before he realised just why ‘Arthur’ was not acting like himself. “Can’t you ever listen to orders?” he asked. “Honestly, I’ve had it with your insubordination and constant comments. You are insolent, unhelpful and…” he spluttered for a moment, desperate for words.
“I’ve saved your life.” Merlin stated, matter-of-factly.
“I hope you don’t expect me to return the favour,” he said walking across the room to the chair by the fire. Behind him Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, watching the Prince almost stumble over a small pile on the floor. “I can’t put up with this any more… you’re fired.” Percival said firmly, telling himself that it really was the only way. As he spoke, he threw the clothes he had left on the chair back onto the floor and flopped down into it.
“Right, I’m fired, again,” Merlin said rolling his eyes.
“Yes, you are.” Percival agreed, wondering when Merlin had been fired before and how he had managed to get his job back. It would be typical if he had the only servant who refused to be fired. “Now, get out of here before I throw you out.” He held his breath, waiting for a stubborn refusal. Instead, Merlin stood up straight, his chin raised angrily as he glared across at him.
“Fine - clean the mess up yourself then,” the servant said, dropping the doublet that was in his hands and crossing over to the doors without looking back. Percival did not say anything as Merlin walked out, his footsteps clipped short by barely contained anger. The door slammed behind him leaving Percival alone in a sea of clothing.
For some reason he felt even more lost than before.
***
“What’s going on?” Arthur looked up from his contemplation of a hunk of bread (he had managed to grab it from a plate that was carried past earlier) to see Merlin standing over him looking as terrifying as Merlin ever could. He resisted the urge to laugh in his manservant’s face because, if he was honest, he was far more terrified of the kitchen’s half blind ratter than of the man in front of him. He pulled himself to his feet awkwardly, almost kneeing himself in the eye with a leg that did not bend quite the way it was supposed to. “You somehow know me, when I don’t remember you and you’re asking me for help, while Arthur’s being completely insufferable…” he paused for breath before revising his comment, “more completely insufferable than usual anyway. And he just fired me… again. Only this time I didn’t do anything. Not to mention he seems to have forgotten everything - including how to walk properly. And…” he broke off, staring at the floor.
“And what?” Arthur asked, assuming nonchalance, in order to cover his slight amusement at Merlin’s rant - except the part about him being insufferable.
“Where did you get those boots?” Merlin asked, looking up. His face was a picture of confusion and Arthur could feel laughter bubbling up inside of him, it felt slightly hysterical so he smothered it down. “And that jacket and… everything you’re wearing?” He gaped at the other young man for a moment, the total silence of the hall underlining the ludicrous nature of the situation giving Arthur even more of an urge to laugh. “Did you steal them?”
“No. They’re mine.” Arthur replied truthfully.
“No…” Merlin chuckled uneasily. “They’re Arthur’s. I’d recognise them anywhere. I’ve spent most of the last few months cleaning them.”
“Like I said… they’re mine.” Arthur repeated, wondering just how much longer Merlin was going to take to catch up with what was going on. “They were made for me,” he said, trying to make the connection more obvious. And Morgana called him slow.
“They don’t fit very well.” Merlin said, but the comment didn’t have the usual cutting tone of his insults. It was more of a query.
“That’s because they were made for me.” Arthur grumbled. He wriggled his toes around in the too-big boots, glaring at them as though he could make his feet the right size again by merely will power. Needless to say, it did not work.
“You’re not making any sense,” Merlin told him.
“I’m making perfect sense,” Arthur said firmly. “I did not steal these clothes, they are mine. I, however, am not me…” That was about as obvious as he could get without actually reintroducing himself to the idiot. Merlin still did not get it though, and Arthur had to resist the urge to bash his manservant’s head into one of the pillars.
“Ri-ight… do you need to see Gaius?” Merlin asked, stepping backwards, probably seeing the stranger’s fists clench with anger. Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll have a better idea than I do of what’s wrong with you.”
“I know what’s wrong with me,” Arthur insisted, “and Gaius won’t be able to help.”
“And you think I will?” Merlin asked, and it was really a good question, Arthur conceded. Yesterday the idea of him going to Merlin for help with a situation like this was… probably exactly what he would have done, but for the life of him he had no idea why. Anyone would be better really: one of his knights, Morgana, his father, Gaius, the undercook who always went pale when Arthur looked at him - at least he knew how to use a knife. There was no good reason why Merlin was his choice of saviour, except that he was the first person to catch sight of him.
“Not really, but you’re the first person I bumped into, and,” he hesitated a second, unwilling to admit anything. But pride be damned for the next few minutes because if he did not get back to how he was supposed to be he really had no need for it. “You seem to actually have some inkling of what’s going on. Unlike the rest of the morons in this place.”
“It’s nice not to be called a moron for once,” Merlin said with a smile and Arthur almost, but did not quite, smile with him.
“I never said you weren’t a moron. You’re just a moron who’s actually being observant for once,” he corrected. There was no need to be nice, Merlin definitely would not recognise him then.
“You keep talking like we know one another.” Merlin said, looking back at him curiously once more.
“That’s because we do.” A servant began to walk through the room, her shoes padding across the floor. Arthur fell silent and watched her pass as Merlin waited for some further explanation. As she disappeared into the next corridor, Arthur let his gaze fall back onto Merlin. “This is going to sound crazy.”
“Crazier than: you’re wearing your own clothes that were made for you, except you’re not you?” Merlin asked, and Arthur glared again, infuriated by the fact that Merlin, when he wanted to be, was far quicker that Arthur remembered him being.
“Yes…” he said after a second.
“Really that’s-” But before Merlin could retort again, Arthur cut him off.
“Stop interrupting!” he snapped, grabbing Merlin’s shoulder and making eye contact, willing the truth to come across through his eyes, if nothing else. It might have worked, or maybe Merlin was just afraid that, if he said anything more, the stranger would kill him in some particularly painful and interesting manner. Either way he was quiet and that was good enough for Arthur. The Prince took a deep breath and decided to make it all very simple. Really, it was his fault for overcomplicating the matter anyway; he should have remembered that Merlin could not handle subtlety. “I’m Arthur.”
There was a beat of silence as they stared into each other’s eyes, Arthur trying his hardest to look like himself, Merlin trying his hardest not to laugh in the stranger’s face.
“You… are Arthur?” he asked slowly, as though speaking to a mad man. Arthur released his shoulder in exasperation and paced away to the wall.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me…” he muttered. “I don’t know why I even tried. But Morgana was talking to that… Imposter like she didn’t even notice that it wasn’t me and you at least looked a little confused. I should have realised that that’s just how you always look.” He did not notice Merlin staring at him as he paced backwards and forwards, his posture perfectly balanced, every foot landing exactly and correctly. He turned smoothly at the end of each line before stalking back again. He crossed his arms as he noticed the scrutiny, and his steps became more jerky. It was uncomfortable, being stared at in this unwieldy body, almost as though he were naked in front of a crowd of people.
“You’re Arthur?” Merlin asked again, and the Prince turned to him more hopefully. He had not sounded derisive then but more thoughtful, as though he were reviewing things in his mind.
“Yes… I’m Arthur.” He paused, and watched as Merlin thought it all through. He noted to himself that he really did not give his manservant enough credit a lot of the time. The man was an idiot, but when he put his mind to it he might actually be able to work things out.
“Okay… if you’re Arthur,” Merlin began, Arthur crossed over to him, wondering what the test was going to be. “How did you defeat the Avanc?”
“I…” he began, about to launch into the story he had told his father, but he stopped himself in time. This was not an excuse for boasting, this was a test and he had to pass. There was noplace for his pride here. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. Merlin huffed under his breath and shook his head and Arthur ground his teeth in frustration. That was where the truth got you. “No… I know what happened; I’m just not sure how it happened.” He paused and leant back against the pillar again, keeping his arms crossed against his chest and looking down at the floor. “I had the torch, and it wasn’t working properly… but then there was this gust of wind and… the torch grew more powerful somehow.” He paused and looked up. “Happy yet?”
“Arthur?” Merlin peered at him incredulously, but despite the questioning tone, that was definitely his name, addressed to him. Arthur could not hold back a smile of relief.
“You believe me?” he asked, straightening up in astonishment. That had been easier than he had expected. “Why?”
“I’m not sure I do…” Merlin admitted, “But it makes a strange sort of sense.”
Arthur slumped back against the wall, closing his eyes in defeat and letting the cold stone dig into his shoulder blades.
“I’ll agree that you’re acting more like Arthur than he is, though… and if it is true…” they stopped and looked at each other for a moment, a long look and Arthur could see in Merlin’s eyes right then that his manservant did believe him because he could tell exactly what he was thinking. It was exactly what they were both thinking: given how many times his life had been at risk - a dagger hurled by a mad woman, a living shield, poison - this was not a great stretch of the imagination. Someone had merely found a way to get rid of him without having to go to all the mess and complication of actually killing him. They were probably proud.
“I’m going to get my life back Merlin, whether you help me or not.”
“If I don’t help you, you’ll probably end up dead,” Merlin retorted and then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway: if you are Arthur, then I’m supposed to be working for you anyway. If you’re not then the real Arthur just fired me so I have a lot of time on my hands as it is. So… where do you want to start?”
“I need to speak to Morgana,” Arthur said calmly, grateful that Merlin was taking this so well. There had been no screams of ‘Sorcery’, nor any problems convincing him what was happening was possible. It was almost as though he understood the situation better than Arthur himself did. “If I can convince her that I’m me, then she can talk to my father and we can work this out properly.”
“Arthur…” Merlin began to speak, his voice lowering to barely a whisper. “Your father hates magic… even the suggestion of it.”
“I am aware of that, Merlin,” he said calmly, feeling more like himself than he had done all day, even in the boots that were far too big and with the arms that hung awkwardly at his sides.
“What I mean is - once your father gets involved, how exactly do you think this is going to work? If he even believes you and Morgana in the first place.” He paused, glancing over Arthur’s shoulder.
“He’ll force the Sorcerer to reverse the spell.”
“And if the Sorcerer refuses?” Merlin asked.
“Then…” Arthur thought for a second, but Merlin finished off his sentence for him.
“He’ll have his head cut off… your head cut off. And then one of two things will happen, as far as I can tell: either the enchantment will be broken, in which case you’ll return to a headless body, or you’ll be stuck inside this body forever…”
“We didn’t switch bodies.” Arthur interrupted. “At least, I don’t think we did.”
“Then what did happen?” Merlin asked, as though discussing the ins and outs of Sorcery with the son of the most magic-hating man in the world was an every day occurrence.
“I woke up in my room like this; exactly where I’d gone to sleep the night before. Surely, if we’d switched bodies, I would have ended up wherever his body was… not mine.” He flexed his fingers into fists reflexively. “I think he just, changed our appearances.”
“Whether he did or didn’t,” Merlin said, brushing off the minutiae for the minute to focus on other problems. “He’ll probably still know what you look like right now, and if he knows that you woke up in your bed then he’ll know that you’re probably still around here, and he’ll be looking for you.” He paused, the meaning of his words clearly dawning on him as he said them.
“What is it?” Arthur asked impatiently. Merlin had a point, one he had already thought of himself, but there was something else he seemed reluctant to say. He was looking at Arthur appraisingly.
“If you’re really… Arthur, then you can’t stay here,” he said and Arthur nodded solemnly, that much he understood. “But if you’re not, I’m actually making the situation worse by helping you.” The Prince straightened his back, trying to push unfamiliar features into an expression that approached the one he liked to use when Merlin was being particularly stubborn or idiotic.
“The worst situation by far is if I am Arthur, which I am, and I get my head chopped off because you were too scared to do anything other than um and ah over who was telling the truth.” He pointed out to his manservant and Merlin nodded slowly, piecing through the situation in his head before speaking.
“Fine… come with me.”
***
On to Chapter 4
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