"When I investigate and when I discover that the forces of the heavens and the planets are within ourselves, then truly, I seem to be living among the gods."

~ Leon Battista Alberti

It is a dream unlike any he has ever experienced before.

One might say a god king does not dream. Dreams are mere, idyllic fantasies of the common man, whose ambitions, desires, and lust are restricted by their inherent human limitations. A king who lacks humanity does not dream, for there is little meaning in dreaming of things already within their divine right and possession.

Yet, he dreams. How else does one bide his time in a world filled to the brim with his endless wealth and puissance? He is above and beyond all mortals, therefore the value of his dreams simply cannot be compared.

Occasionally, the king's dreams surpass the imaginable; crossing the realm of surrogate reality to touch upon the senses. Those dreams are often closely intertwined with visions bestowed upon him once in a blue moon.

He supposes this is one of those times, as he awakes to air unfamiliar to his nostrils.

A knock sounds on the door. "Your Majesty, my King? It is time. The council humbly requests your timely presence. The tournament will begin once you make your attendance."

A tournament, he says? A match of strength should be within his knowledge well before its initiation. If he finds some cur has defied his golden decree, they will know the true meaning of agony indeed.

"K-King Arthur?" The voice sounds strange to his ears, its words demarcated by a thick accent hailing from a distant land to the likes of which he has never heard before.

"What tournament?" The voice that comes out is clearly not his own. It is low and deep; though it bears with it a clear hint of femininity, the silvery dulcet rings with firm authority and conviction. It bears the same kind of peculiarity as the voice currently grating on his nerves, although this one has a clearly distinguished cut-glass accent to it. It distracts enough for him to momentarily set aside the oddity of the name in which he is just now called.

"Err….your engagement with Lady Guinevere took place yesterday…? As you are surely aware of, it is customary for the Pendragon family to celebrate this momentous occasion with a conjugal tournament, as a way to honor the strength of our ancestors who came before us and bless our future royal progeny…. Is something the matter, Your Highness?"

"...I see. Very well, you're dismissed."

"Um….if you are feeling unwell, I can—"

"Are you deaf, mongrel? I ordered you to leave!" He hisses, and it comes out with a virulence akin to a viper's sweet toxin.

He hears the voice squeak a garbled jumble of words that vaguely resembles an apology, followed immediately by a frantic scurrying of footsteps, leaving him to simmer in silence.

How vexing. He has no idea what is happening anymore, and there is a limit to what he can take. Dream or vision, he has not yet decided; he is only sure that his patience is depleting apace.

Rising from the bed, he proceeds to take in his surroundings with a sweeping, derogatory glance.

By his standards, it is a scarcely embellished chamber, barely befitting that of a supposed monarch. Drab, stone walls line the whole periphery of his vision, damask curtains billowing in the morning breeze that flit through the windows. Sunlight pours through the portholes and filter through the cracks of the wooden awning that stood out conspicuously in the corner.

Primitive. Dreadfully primitive. Even his dungeons are more pleasing to look at than this pathetic excuse for a royal bedroom.

Although that contraption over there looks quite appealing. He's never quite seen something like it before…

Before he knows it, he has already begun to drift towards the object of inspection, when he catches a glint of a mirror on the edge of his vision.

He turns.

For a second, he considers shattering the mirror to rid it of its potential mage craft.

Have Ishtar's paltry wiles caught him off guard for once? To manipulate his dreams to this degree; it was truly an admirable accomplishment for a goddess as subpar as she. Perhaps the goddess realized her own incompetence and sought Ereshkigal's help in the underworld. In which case it was scarcely plausible.

The person glaring back at him is fair. A fair complexion and slender physique, pale blonde hair falling to the shoulders, a shade or two lighter than his own brilliant gold, with eyes gleaming pure turquoise. The thin, white material of the night gown is flowy, yet barely hides soft curves and pointedly feminine features, and the truth bares itself for him to partake in all its glory.

He is a woman.

A girl.

The raucous laughter comes like a merciless tide, wracking his tiny, fragile frame like a boat rocking violently on the seas.

He can't stop. This is it. Is this dream trying to kill him?

"A woman king? How ludicrous. What a nonsensical dream this is."

When Arturia wakes up, it is as though she has just risen from a deep, yet invigorating slumber. It brings her a sense of contentment, for it is not often that she wakes up freshly rejuvenated. Unfortunately, taking up the mantle of the Once and Future King of Britain effectively keeps her away from her bed for long periods at a time, spending late nights poring over paperwork in her chambers with a slowly eroding oil lamp for company or riding out to maintain order within Camelot and its neighboring territories. When she does find time to recuperate, it is within a strict time allotment and almost always accompanied by troubled, fatigue-induced slumber.

As she changes out of her nightgown into her court dress, she ponders over her most recent dream. Come to think of it, she recalls seeing a big, fluffy lion through the thick, murky fog of her dream. It had looked so real, so soft that she could almost nuzzle into its luscious, radiant fur…

A stray glance at her desk jolts her out of her fond reminiscing instantly, replacing it with unadulterated horror.

She has an extremely hard time believing what she is seeing. Papers are strewn from their immaculate pile at the corner and dabs of ink stain some of the documents; as though a newborn baby, curious of objects he has never seen before, clambered on the table, dipped his thumb in ink, and haphazardly ransacked her meticulous arrangement.

The shock and confusion morphs into abject lividity as, upon closer inspection, the ink stains are crude and jagged, callously running across her documents and thoroughly desecrating its integrity. Various scrolls are torn from ink that was applied with an disproportionate amount of pressure; its carefully preserved writing now a charred, ripped discombobulation of words that used to hold significant meaning. What remains of her quill is now ruined along with any sense of composure she has left.

It is not a stray animal that has caused such disorder, no. Her windows remain closed and locked at night, and is not opened until she wakes up in the morning, so there are no chances of birds swooping in while she is out of commission to commit such atrocities. And even for a prank, this has gone long past what is morally admissible.

As she rifles through the papers on the desk and names in her head, she spots an empty scroll with words. It is legible handwriting that is not mere scribbling or scratching, although it is far too rough and unrefined to be hers. She procures it from the pile and brings it closer until she can clearly make out its contents, and her eyes widen in affronted disbelief.

Since when do they let court jesters become king?

Before she could react, there is a soft knock at the door, and impulse compels her to shove that particular document underneath a new stack of papers she has accumulated, consecutively stomping down on the viable rage that threatened to bubble to the surface.

She'll take care of it later.

"Arthur?" There is a sweet voice, gentle and lilting. "May I come in?"

"Lady Guinevere?" Arturia wonders aloud. It is not often that Guinevere visits her in her chambers, having her own duties to attend to as Queen-to-be of Camelot. She hurriedly steps away from her desk and turns to her mirror, pretending as though the last few minutes hadn't happened. No need to cause undue alarm yet. "You may enter."

Guinevere's footsteps are as light and fleeting as her countenance, a wave of elegance and poise befitting of a future Queen. Arturia has to look towards her to see that she has stepped into the room with quiet grace.

She closes the door behind her with a final click before she addresses Arturia by her true name. "Arturia, how are you feeling today?"

If the King finds the question odd, she does not show it. "I'm feeling rather well today, Lady Guinevere, thank you. Also, forgive me for asking, though I am curious as to what brings you here so early in the morning."

Guinevere chuckles as she approaches, her silver headpiece glinting as she steps into the sunlight where Arturia stands. Her golden, wavy hair frames her face like a halo, radiating warmth and muliebrity. "Oh, nothing much, really. I merely intended to pay my future husband and king a visit. I certainly don't mean to impose."

"Not at all." Arturia musters a smile. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Guinevere motions towards an idle comb and ribbon on the dresser, and the implications of it are clear. Preferably, Arturia would not deign to trouble anyone with making herself look presentable, but since it is Guinevere, she relents.

They spend a few moments in amiable silence as Guinevere stands behind a seated Arturia, brushing her hair to loosen her knots and smooth out her tresses. Her ministrations are thoughtful and placid, but not hesitant. It is a nostalgic feeling, having familiar hands run through her hair and work its delicate magic.

As if tuned into her thoughts, Guinevere decides to speak. "Honestly, you needn't be so stiff with me, Arturia. I am still the Gwen you know, your closest ally and friend. It saddens me to see you withdraw from me so."

Arturia would be fooling herself if she says she honestly didn't expect this coming. Her hands clench within the folds of her dress as she makes a point to avoid Guinevere's solemn gaze, falling to her own blue dress reflected in the mirror. Part of her hoped that Guinevere would not take heed to her rigid formality —one she retained a proclivity for subsequent to being crowned King— but she knows better. "I...I apologize. It's just… I feel I owe you much, after constraining you into this...political arrangement. As king, I am responsible for soiling your honor and denying you the freedom in which you wholeheartedly deserve. And I vow on my—"

"Arturia, please. We've been through this before. I've told you time and time again; this was entirely my decision. I truly believe this is the way things should be, for the prosperity of our kingdom." She exhales wistfully, leaning over her king to retrieve her ribbon. "Is it not possible to return to the days when were younger, laughing together without worry and loving without reservation?"

The King recalls visions of halcyon days, a time when she was but a mere knight princess, jubilant and heady after days and months of journeying, each time reuniting with Guinevere displaying a broad smile and cheerfully recounting numerous adventures with her treasured comrades. She remembers the days when she would drag Guinevere out with her on hunts after expeditions to hunt for game, when in reality a small, childish part of her was merely eager to impress Guinevere with what she learned. "But were it not for King Leodegrance's camaraderie with my father—"

"In spite of being the one to petition this union, my father has nothing to do with my personal beliefs." She interjects firmly. "My desires are my own, you must understand. I would choose to give up my life for you if it means you do not bear the burden of kingship alone, and I would do again so should the opportunity arise once more. I have no regrets. I will stand beside you, I swear it." With a last flourish of her nimble artistry, the ribbon is neatly woven into her braids, coiled beautifully around a bun like a wreath.

Arturia closes her eyes and huffs in defeat, belied by a hint of a smile tugging the corner of her lips. "You have interrupted me twice, invalidated my every refute, and rendered me speechless. Truly, I know of no woman more tenacious than you. I am blessed to have you as my soon-to-be Queen and closest advisor."

To her surprise, Guinevere laughs, light and fluttery. "Oh, sweetheart. Surely you jest! After the stunt you pulled yesterday, I think we both know there is someone much more tenacious than I, and you are looking right at her."

"I…" At that moment, she forgets what she was about to say. "Pardon me… yesterday? What happened yesterday?"

Guinevere gives her an odd look. "Yes. You don't remember? During the tournament—"

"The tournament?!" Arturia interrupts, feeling the mirth trickle away from her face like sand in an hourglass. How could she have forgotten something so significant? And yet she could not recall anything from it; as if she had never attended at all. "Tell me, did something happen?"

The Queen-to-be looks positively flustered. "Well… I don't quite know how to put this. I know how much you pride yourself in being proper and punctual, so it did strike me as odd that not only were you late yesterday to the council briefing, prior to the tournament, but also looking a little out of sorts. And you were acting strangely...aggressive. When we were together at the joust, you displayed fairly heavy physical intimacy. I assumed it was for the sake of the crowd, but it was still awfully unlike you."

Arturia feels her world start to splinter. "...And?"

"I'm sure you're aware that tradition dictates members of the royalty behave as spectators to the tournament, but you...you took it upon yourself to step into the fray. Forgive me for saying this, Arturia, but you seemed almost…possessed. You were constantly laughing like a madman, and it worried all of your knights. You wouldn't listen to anything I said, nor the council. And the way you fought… I've never seen anything like it. It was almost as if you were the quintessence of brute force. You singlehandedly defeated the victor and disarmed all the other knights that followed after him. It certainly was captivating to look at, even if you were acting very off…Arturia?"

"No…" Arturia whispers, utterly faint. She feels the nausea rising from Guinevere's retelling of events so outlandishly absurd to the point she could not remember a single thing. This was a case that was only possible given a case of heavy alcoholism, and Arturia knows for a fact that she did not drink, especially for such a pivotal occasion. "That can't be. I've no recollection of any of this!"

"Arturia, you might want to rest again. You'll work yourself up too much. I can take over your duties for today." she advises, the worry in her voice tangible. "Merlin might be able to help—"

"Merlin!" Arturia snarls. "That cheeky, infuriating court magus. Of course. He must be the one behind all of this."

Guinevere's sigh is deep as she watches Arturia spring from her seat, as if that one name has returned to her all the energy she was robbed. "Arturia, I know you distrust him, but he is not all that bad. Yes, he can be mischievous and inconsiderate at times, but surely even he would not pull off something like this to such a degree."

Arturia has already fastened her steel armor alongside the king's mantle and is preparing to leave her chambers. "You place too much faith in him, Gwen. Merlin is not above anything, not even the pettiest knavery, so long as it amuses him. The only reason I still allow him in court is because I owe him a great debt." Her lips tighten into a fine line. "I shall have a word with him."

A/N: If the tags and content haven't given it away yet, this fic is basically a huge Kimi no Na Wa/Your Name AU, with its only similarities being that of body switching. Yes, if you've seen that movie, you'll know that there will be a tons of body switching. Tons and tons of it. This story will hopefully reach outside the scope of Gilgamesh and Arturia, into the fruits of their people, labor and civilization, and communicate with the ordained kings in ways that face-to-face conversation can't.

This fic will be comprised of two segments: Camelot and Babylonia. Each chapter will focus on the adventures of one in the other's era and vice versa (so there will be overlapping times between chapters) until they will eventually, inevitably intersect.

This is a collaboration project written by me and a friend of mine. Unfortunately, we have no idea how this is going to pan out, since we're figuring things out ourselves as we go along. Despite that, we don't need Gilgamesh's clairvoyance to tell us that a lot of things are going to go murderously awry. Hilariously awry, awkwardly awry, and everything in between. That's what you get when you mash together Gilgamesh and Arturia in any kind of situation. But honestly? It works.

If you've read this far and intend to stay with us, you have all our gratitude! We hope you're excited for what's to come, because we totally are.

P.S. This story is originally posted on AO3 and includes art! You can check my profile for the original link.