Arthur's eyes flicker bewilderingly from the two prone figures on the forest floor to the one frozen in shock, one of his own hands still outstretched aimlessly before him. Arthur drops it and finds the man staring straight at him, eyes so wide in fear he can see their whites from where he is standing. The man backs away, one, then two steps before turning and making a run for it. Arthur blinks past a strange red heat passing over his eyes and rushes over to his own, seemingly lifeless body. For now, he ignores the unconscious attacker, his first concern making sure Merlin is alive. His hands flutter from the too pale face to the injured arm and back, uncertain of their actions, fearful of making matters worse. There is a short moment of relief when he sees the chest rise and fall and then a realization he should straighten out the broken arm before Merlin regains consciousness.
Arthur swallows hard, his hands falter, fists clenching and unclenching a few times, before he places one hand at the wrist, the other just below the shoulder. He moves as gently and slowly as possible but still flinches when Merlin groans in his insensible state. The fact that his body still has the strength to do so however, lifts a heavy weight in his stomach, and Arthur straightens, knowing he should check on the villain next. He carefully pulls his sword from underneath Merlin and advances on the unmoving figure. But the weapon is not needed, his opponent being clearly dead. The impact with the tree has broken his back and his eyes stare unseeing at the sky.
He doesn't understand. The fleeing man seemingly had nothing to do with it and Merlin was unconscious. Knowing it is a useless move, but unable to stop himself, Arthur scans the surrounding forest, only to see no one. It is as if the man was knocked back by an imperceptible force.
When realization comes, it is a bone-chilling trickle that starts at the top of his spine and works its way down until Arthur is cold all over. The heat behind his eyes, the wine goblet that should have fallen over during the feast but miraculously didn't, the power that surged through him when he shouted no which he had mistaken for panic. He staggers back a little, dropping the sword and lifting the hand that had been holding it.
Arthur stares at it. Slowly, the fingers flex toward the palm one by one until they form a fist. The thumb folds over the knuckles last and they tense until turning white. It all clicks. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as a sharp breath hisses from his throat. All those incidents, all those inexplicable rescues, all those times he should have died and branches fell out of the sky or roofs collapsed. All those moments he was certain to be his last only to wake up in his bed, or on Gaius's table or by a campfire with Merlin acting all innocent and giving him credit for the miraculous escape. It was him all along.
So many feelings course through him it makes Arthur feel sick. He stares at his own motionless body, then up at the darkening sky. He turns and his gait is a little unsteady, a little staggering, as he walks away with one hand still clenched in a fist, the other pressed against his mouth.
#
Merlin wakes twice. Once, only to feel a shattering pain run down his left arm but nothing else penetrates the veil of dim awareness. The second time his eyes flutter, first showing nothing but white until he blinks and looks up at a darkening sky. The pain in his arm is still beyond endurance and when he lifts his head, it throbs nastily. All he can do is croak Arthur in feint question before passing out. Before the darkness has the chance to pull him down again, Merlin has one thought. He is alone.
#
First there is complete incredulity. His mind wants to shut it out again, wants to believe it is something else, not this. But he understands this is what has been happening all along. He didn't know because he didn't want to know.
Then there is anger. Why? Why Merlin? Of all people why the only person he-. Why does he always, always have to be so-.
Panic. Now what? No one can find out, it would cost his head. But can he really keep such a thing from his father, betray him in the process? Can he really hide a- he can't finish the thought, not even in the confinements of his own mind- someone like him in the heart of Camelot? He is the prince and he would be committing treason.
Then hurt. Why didn't Merlin tell him? Merlin knows everything about Arthur. True they can't really acknowledge each other as friends but deep down Arthur thought-. What did he think? No matter, Merlin should have told him, should have trusted him to-. To what though? What would Arthur have done if he had found out? A year ago, no doubt… But now?
Obliged. How many times did Merlin save his life? How many times? And other people's lives? What has he really been doing all this while? What sacrifices has he been forced to make? While Arthur always poked fun at his laziness, his weakness, his-. All this time Merlin was really-.
He even protected him from other sorcerers. His own kind. For Arthur.
Resolve.
He stares at the hand again and allows it to open, fingers feeling numb from clenching them for so long. What a burden it must have been to carry alone.
#
Merlin wakes a third time, a wineskin being pressed to his lips.
'Drink,' someone tells him, and he obeys, a warm hand supporting the back of his neck. The darkness deepens and draws him in just as he thinks there is something different about his arm.
#
He wants to tell himself he does it because he is the Future King of Camelot. The Future King of Camelot needs to be able to fight, needs to be able to carry a shield and lead his troops on horseback. No one would follow a damaged man.
But he knows that is not the truth. It is a convenient circumstance to vindicate his behavior.
The truth is, now that he knows, he can feel the power of Magic run through his veins and wonders how he could possibly not have felt it from the moment their bodies had been swapped. And with that power comes the knowledge he can fix Merlin's arm. It is an overwhelming need to do it. So overwhelming in fact, that Arthur barely recognizes his feet have carried him there until he actually bends down beside the body that is him but also Merlin. The need is so overpowering, all Arthur has to do is close his eyes and hold out his hands. The heat flows behind his eyelids again and it spreads through his body, until he can feel it gather in his fingertips, it is warm and soothing but most of all good he knows, as it swells nearly to a point of intolerance before it surges into Merlin. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to and when his eyes flutter open, he sees the bones set, the skin healing and Merlin's ragged breathing calms down.
He carefully doesn't consider the other truth, that it was quite simply impossible to watch Merlin be in so much pain and do nothing about it. And to make sure he continues not thinking about that fact, Arthur believes now is probably as good a time as any to drink an entire wineskin. Or two.