Headswap

"Halt... oh, Halt..."

A sing-song voice penetrated his consciousness and Halt blinked blearily. There was something very wrong about this scenario. For one thing the bed was too soft, and for another... He rolled over, muttering into the pillow. "Go away."

This earned him a smack with a heavy bolster.

"Hey!" The blankets tangled as Halt whipped around, the first ammunition coming to hand the feather pillow that had cradled his head. He smacked back at the dark-haired youth who had disturbed his sleep. "Get out of my room!"

"It's my room too," said Ferris, ingratiating smile pasted on his face. Sunlight filtered in through the narrow window slits, turning the stonework to brushed gold and giving him an angelic halo. "Liam sent me to tell you that you're late for practice."

Halt's heart began to pound and questions multiplied like rabbits in spring. Ferris had been dead for several years—why was he looking like a kid again? How was he even here? Why were they in their bedroom in Dun Kilty? "Practice?"

"You're not sick, are you?" asked Ferris, putting out a hand to check for fever. Halt swatted it away.

"Don't. Touch. Me."

His brother raised an eyebrow. "Oooo-kay, then. Message delivered."

Ferris turned and swaggered out as Halt untangled himself from the sheets and crossed the room to stand in front of the mirror. To Halt's disbelieving eyes, he too was a bare-faced youth of about fifteen. He felt his chin, watching the movement in the polished surface, and found only smooth skin. "I had a beard," he told himself. His face looked wrong without it.

"You don't look sick." Ferris apparently hadn't actually left.

"Did you shave my beard?" demanded Halt. The idea of Ferris holding a razor to his throat was terrifying.

"Only in your dreams," retorted Ferris. "You don't have one, brother-mine."

"I see that!" His life—years spent as an Araluen Ranger—there was too much, too neat, too orderly, too much sweat and blood and pain to have been a dream—seemed to have rolled back as if the time had never existed. Had his voice just cracked? From the way Ferris was snickering— "Oh no, no, no," said Halt, burying his face in his hands. "I'm never talking again."

[][][]

Dressed in the plainest set of shirt and trousers he could find in the wardrobe, and chivied by Ferris, Halt finally entered the courtyard and found himself facing an irate captain of the guard and the cadre of young nobleman's sons who were supposed to be friends with the royal heirs. He faced them all, unimpressed in turn by their varying expressions of disapprobation. He didn't remember which names went with all the faces and at the moment had little reason to care.

"So good of you to finally join us, Your Highness," said Liam, sarcasm dripping from every word. Himself a master of the art, Halt could appreciate the artistry and frustration that went into crafting the statement. He caught the sword and scabbard Liam tossed in his direction to avoid being slapped in the face by the flying buckles. "Shall we begin?"

Halt looked with distaste at the weapon in his hands and considered trying to get out of the morning practice session. But it didn't seem worth the effort at this point. He sighed and took his place at the head of the line.

He blocked every stroke the gangling youth opposite him attempted, wondering why the captain of the guard had decided that today, of all days, he ought to look semi-competent. He ought to have been paired with Ferris, who had worked to develop skill and panache with the blade, for maximum humiliation.

"Interesting," said Liam. "It seems you've been paying attention after all." He ordered the other boy away and took his place.

For the first couple of passes, Halt held his own. But Liam was a master swordsman and Halt wasn't. Nor was this a matter of life and death—or even reputation. Several breathless minutes later, Halt's sword clattered to the ground. The captain of the guard held the stance, studying the defeated prince with a thoughtful expression, for several long moments before he gestured to the fallen weapon.

"Pick it up."

[][][]

Released to his own devices after two grueling hours of physical drill and relieved to be finished, Halt headed for the armory. Liam had tested his patience and his command of the weapon he carried. He respected the older warrior as a teacher, but enough was enough. He was a prince, not a puzzle to be solved. Halt didn't like the sword, had no intention of learning the sword, and that would be the end of it or what was the use of being a prince?

Ferris found him there, surrounded by the glittering weapons of war. Halt had a knife in each hand, each with a heavy single-edged blade, and was weighing their balance against each other.

"What is your problem?" the other boy demanded.

Halt put the utilitarian and unadorned pair into his brother's grasp. "Which one do you like better?"

"This one?" said Ferris after only a cursory inspection. "I don't know. I don't care. Answer my question!"

"I don't want to be king," said Halt, sheathing the knife Ferris had chosen. He wasn't sure what other problem they'd be discussing. An honest answer would illuminate the current situation between himself and Ferris.

"Of course you want to be king," said Ferris. He threw out his arms to emphasize what he was saying. "Everybody wants to be king. I'd want to be king! Probably Caitlyn wants to be king."

"Everybody except me," said Halt. "I'd be terrible. I'd disagree with my councilors and nobles and throw them in the moat if they irritated me."

"You have people to be diplomatic for you," said Ferris, rolling his eyes at the stupidity of Halt's concern.

"Like you."

"Well, yes," said Ferris. "I'm your brother."

"You're better with people than I am. Maybe we were switched at birth."

Ferris leaned against the rack where the hunting spears were stored and crossed his arms. "For your information, I've already made inquiries. They took every precaution to make sure the proper child was credited with being first and unfortunately, that is you—Albrian Michael O'Carrick. It's written down in the royal chronicle and everything."

"Albrian's the heir to the throne, and Ferris is the younger brother," Halt repeated, his eyes narrowing as he considered the problem again. Apparently he had a little while before he had to start worrying about his shrimp being bad, but the first seeds of bitterness had begun to fester and it would take a great deal of effort on his part to keep Ferris from going sour—but what if he didn't have to?

"Has it finally sunk in?"

"No—Ferris, I've got it! How attached are you to your name?"

"Uh..."

"All we have to do is say that people have been calling us by the wrong name. A nurse switched us at bathtime—put the red shirt on the wrong child—possibly we've swapped names several times. Who knows? Who can prove it? Anyway, you be Albrian and I'll be Ferris. Problem solved and everyone is happy."

"I think you've lost it," said Ferris.

"At least I'll be happy in my delusions," muttered Halt.

[][][]

The archery field at Dun Kilty was a long sward of green with targets at the far end bounded on one side by the castle wall and on the other by a simple log barrier. Afternoon sunlight illuminated the space. It was deserted, except for Halt, which suited him fine. He moved the row of targets as far back as they would go and took up his position. He'd picked the heaviest bow he could find in the armory and it still felt light and flimsy in his hands.

The first arrow landed in the outer ring of the center target. Halt adjusted his stance and found himself as far off in another direction.

"Gorlag's teeth," he muttered, picking up three more arrows and firing them in rapid succession just to see where they'd go. They came out in a loose cluster and he clenched his hands in frustration. He was better than this. He had to be!

"Halt?"

He turned to see a girl with thick dark hair curling down her back. Gray eyes studied him from under thick dark lashes and slender hands offered him a large mug of barley water. Halt took the drink, blinking back the sudden moisture in his eyes, then wiped his face with his sleeve. The sun was blinding off the stones of the wall and he'd been staring at it for too long. He'd got sweat in his eyes. It couldn't be because Caitlyn was standing next to him, her impish face creased with concern.

"Are you okay? Ferris says you're acting oddly—well, odder than usual, even for you."

"I—" Halt didn't actually want to lie to his little sister. His life wasn't fine, but he couldn't expect her to believe he'd seen the future—was actually from the future... "Well, I have a lot on my mind," he defended himself, and hated the way his voice cracked again.

She giggled just as Ferris had; clapping her hands with delight. "You're growing!"

Halt groaned, remembering how both Will and Gilan had stumbled around kicking tables and running into the doorframe and occasionally spending weeks refining their muscle memory to accommodate the changes when they'd had their growth spurts. It explained part of his current predicament. "Thanks, Caitlyn."

[][][]

Ferris held court with his group of friends—mostly young noblemen of Clonmel—and outlined the plan. Halt, lurking in the shadows, was proud of how his brother looked. Ferris had assumed an air of command and dressed the part of the crown prince: gold stitching on his shirt and tunic and small gems embroidered at the cuff and collar catching the light.

It had been a week before Ferris agreed to adopt Halt's plan—a long week where Halt sat through policy meetings where nothing was decided and when he suggested—ordered—a solution he was ignored by the king, councilors, and nobles alike. There were wearying arguments between the brothers about logistics. But Halt had prevailed in the end. It would be better this way.

"You are to address me as 'your royal highness' and 'Prince Albrian' from now on," said Ferris. "When the crown is mine, I will remember your loyal service."

"But what about your brother?"

Ferris smiled, slow and cunning. "You'd rather he sit on the throne?" The questioner was quick to deny the thought. Ferris nodded as if he'd expected nothing less. "My brother lacks my personality and charm. We will address him as 'Prince Ferris' and allow him the role of spare."

The little cadre of nobles dispersed throughout Dun Kilty, and Ferris-Albrian made the most of his elevation in rank. People murmured approval of how well their crown prince looked—so regal and condescending. They'd always known he'd grow out of the awkward, sullen, stage.

Flushed with their success, Ferris-Albrian and his friends returned to the castle where they happened to cross paths with Halt. Halt noticed with amusement the sudden cessation of chatter and the nervous glances exchanged by the conspirators. Only Ferris-Albrian was unaffected. He greeted his brother coolly. "Ferris."

"Albrian," said Halt, inclining his head in the proper greeting from one royal to another.

The gapes of utter astonishment were highly gratifying.

[][][]

"You really don't want to be king, do you?" asked Caitlyn, perching herself on the rail to watch as Halt sent the contents of a rack of knives thudding deep into center rings of the targets. He was constantly in motion, never duplicating the same throw twice. The aim-throw-thud was as regular as a heartbeat.

"No."

She kicked her heels, the light leather slippers she wore dangling from her toes. "Albrian seems to like his new role."

Before going out to retrieve the knives, Halt paused to grin at his little sister. "You're the first person to get that right unprompted."

Caitlyn sniffed. "It's not so hard. You're Halt. Therefore, he must be Albrian. And if we're in company, you're Ferris."

[][][]

Not everyone was so quick to adopt the new order. The queen stopped her son in the upper passage, drawing her brows together in an expression of concern. "Ferris, have you seen your brother? He's been impossible to find all week."

"I'm Albrian, Mother," Ferris-Albrian said, the correction having become almost automatic from frequent use. "Have you tried the archery field? Ferris has been spending all his spare time there. He claims his improving his marksmanship. Frankly, I think he's gilding the lily. Or avoiding people. Really, it's only what one would expect from him."

She pinched her lips together, disapproving. "This joke of yours is unseemly, son."

"It isn't a joke. You've said yourself that it would be better if I were the next in line for the throne. Well, now I am and everybody's happy—even Ferris, and he's impossible to please." The newly-made crown prince gave her his most earnest and wide-eyed expression. "Surely you see the advantages."

The queen shook her head and swept past, leaving the prince standing alone. His shoulders slumped and for a moment Ferris-Albrian looked small and miserable.

"She'll come around."

Ferris-Albrian jumped. Halt had climbed in through the window, a quiver over his shoulder and bow in hand. Halt gave his brother a small grin. "I made twenty-four of twenty-four bullseyes today."

"That's... great." Given the obstacles Halt put in his way to make the feat challenging, it was an impressive accomplishment. Ferris-Albrian sighed. "There has got to be a better solution than ridiculous signs like they wear down in the market to advertise their wares saying: ALBRIAN and FERRIS. I shouldn't have to introduce myself every time I meet someone."

"Give it time," said Halt, amused at the idea of either of them with a placard around their neck proclaiming their assumed identity.

"Well, I'm glad you're happy, brother-mine."

[][][]

Those who knew the brothers well enough to tell them apart at a glance were painstakingly corrected. In the end, there were only a few stubborn hold-outs. Losing patience as the joke stretched on and on, the king called them both into his study and raged at Halt. "I did not hire incompetent nursemaids who let the royal children be replaced with changling brats. You are the heir, like it or not. And I expect you to act like it, Albrian Michael O'Carrick!"

"I'm Ferris," said Halt, who'd allowed his brother to chose his outfit for the day. It was fussy and wouldn't last a week in the woods, but it made the statement convincing enough that the king did a double take.

"I'm sorry, Father," said Ferris-Albrian. "I thought I was acting in the expected manner. What, exactly, do you want me to change?"

The king cursed. The stolid insistence on changing the perceived birth order was wearing on his nerves. "Out," he shouted. "Just... get out."

Halt closed the door softly behind them. There had been another argument between their parents the night before. The queen had taken the side that Ferris was the ideal heir and why were they fighting a good thing? The king could not hold out forever. This was one of the final battles in the war. He slapped his brother on the shoulder. "We've done it, brother-mine."

Ferris-Albrian looked skeptical. "That was not capitulation."

That night when the king entered the dining hall, Halt was seated to the right of the crown prince. The king opened his mouth to order his sons to swap places but then his shoulders slumped as he looked from Ferris-Albrian to Halt-Ferris. Both boys looked content and even the recalcitrant one made a decent showing. "Well," grumbled the king. "Why fight a good thing?"

[][][]

"...Halt? Halt?"

He blinked. From the tone of voice, he'd missed something. The world came into focus, showing the familiar surroundings of one of Redmont's private apartments. The remains of breakfast sat on the table and Pauline was looking at him, half-amused, half concerned.

"You were a million years away, dear."

Halt looked down, one hand feeling his chin and the familiar rough tangle of graying beard. There was a coffee cup in his other hand and the contents were indisputably cold.

"It probably would have worked," he told his wife.

Author's Note: 1) For purposes of the story, Halt is a nickname and not a given name.

2) Just scratching the time travel itch...