Willow was not having a good day at all.

He could feel a stress headache crawling in from the corners of his thoughts, and he was trying very hard not to let it overpower him. The last thing he needed on top of everything else was a damn headache.

It was unfortunate that he didn’t have as much control over his external environment as he was attempting to employ over his internal one.

He rubbed his temples as he glanced at the prone figure on the bed and tried to work out what the hell to do next.

He had been impulsive.

Perhaps he was still spiraling with guilt over his time as a failed prince, but when he’d seen the half-dead drunkard on the side of the road, he thought, I should help him. It was stupid. Pointless.

Willow wasn’t one of those foolishly selfless people who sacrificed their meager belongings to help someone less fortunate. It was dumb.

He reasoned that it wouldn’t really cost him, though. Yes, he’d have to deal with a belligerent drunk, but offering a bed to sober up while Willow worked didn’t cost him much except for the stench of grime that filled the room.

He also had to spend a bit of time while he carefully altered some of the clothes he’d purchased for his own use so that they would fit the drunkard, but he had lots of time to give. That hardly counted as an investment.

It should have been a very simple and brief interaction.

But now that damn drunkard had been stabbed, and it was Willow’s fault for getting him involved with all of this. Willow slid a frustrated hand down his face as he considered matters. He couldn’t just leave an injured peasant to die on the side of the road. He had to take responsibility for causing the fool to be targeted to begin with.

That was the other issue.

Willow’s gaze flickered to the remains of the assassin that he’d dragged into the room. It hadn’t been hard to finish the job. The assassin had been incapacitated by the drunkard, and it only took a quick flick of Willow’s wrist to slit his throat.

Willow didn’t have a lot of patience for assassins.

The trouble was, he ought to have left this one alive. He killed him out of habit—assassins had become quite a nuisance when he was heir to the throne—but it was only after the bastard had bled out that Willow recalled that there shouldn’t be any reason for the Assassins’ Guild to move against him.

He was so used to people trying to kill him that he stopped questioning why a long time ago.

Willow sat down and looked the assassin up and down, tapping his finger against his knee as he thought. The assassin was definitely from the guild. Willow could recognize the distinct midnight black uniform anywhere, and the credentials he’d fished from the dead man’s pocket confirmed it.

The only reason that someone would have to send an assassin after a shepherd from nowhere. Willow was obvious but uncomfortable.

Someone else remembered the future.

Willow had been comforted once he’d arrived in the capital. There would have been chaos in the streets if the citizens knew what would soon happen to their kingdom. Furthermore, he would have certainly been recognized by at least one of the people he met on his journey.

But as no one recognized him, he falsely assumed that he might be the only person to remember.

Now the evidence that he wasn’t alone was lying in a heap in front of him and, worst of all, he had no clues as to who it could possibly be. He had numerous enemies who would happily see him beheaded when he was the crown prince. It would be far easier to count those that didn’t want him dead than to list the people who would benefit from his death. Even then, he couldn’t be sure that there weren’t those with duplicitous intentions.

Why had he ever wanted to be king?

It was a delayed realization to have after dying and being dragged back in time, but a position in which he had to suspect even his closest companions wasn’t one that he ought to covet.

Even his fiancée often looked at him like she’d like to personally slit his throat. The concubines were hardly any better. The damn servants as well. Obviously the majority of nobility. The only person in the palace whom he thought treasured his life was that treacherous bastard.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

Willow had to have been out of his damn mind to want the throne.

A groan from the bed attracted his attention, and he turned back to his hopefully recovering charge. Willow did the best he could with the supplies he had. The stab wound had been luckily quite shallow, and Willow had been able to clean and bandage the injury before insisting that the drunkard rest.

He ought to get a doctor.

The trouble was that doctors were expensive, and even the discreet ones had a tendency to talk. People were natural gossips. That was something you learned quickly in the palace.

If he died because he’d been ill-fated enough to be picked up by Willow… It didn’t sit well with him. His pride wouldn’t allow for it.

He approached the bed and looked over his patient for signs that he might have bled through his bandages. Luckily that didn’t seem to be the case. He ought to get stitches though. Willow had given stitches to sheep before, but sheep and humans were different.

For starters, sheep kicked harder. Perhaps giving stitches to a human would actually be easier?

His gaze flickered up to his patient’s face, and he frowned.

The drunkard looked a lot younger than he’d initially thought. Covered in grime, he’d looked like any other dilapidated peasant starving at the side of the road. Usually they were adults although occasionally you would see children. Although there were far more adults than children, given the mortality rate.

This kid probably wasn’t that far from Willow’s physical age. Maybe a year or two younger. It wasn’t a comfortable thought.

Willow spent his life resenting that he couldn’t have more when he lived on his family's farm. He always presumed that he deserved more and was destined for great things. This belief ultimately stemmed from self-pity and toxicity.

It was hard to maintain self-pity in the face of actual hardship. But Willow made the attempt anyway. Some habits died hard.

“If you made better decisions, you wouldn’t be like this,” he said, attempting to shift the guilt from himself.

A crimson eye peeked open lazily.

“If you feel guilty, get me a fucking drink,” said the peasant. “Peach wine would be my preference.”

There was an impressive insolence to the bastard. Willow could definitely admit that. It eased some of his building remorse about getting him injured.

“A drink isn’t going to help your injury,” Willow replied coldly, folding his arms over his chest.

The man snorted derisively. “So you want me to die sober? Asshole.”

Willow was affronted. “Who said I want you to die, of all the insolent—”

“I was stabbed in the gut. Most people don’t live to tell.” The man rolled his eyes as he leaned back against the pillow. “Do you have some miracle cure? Because my cure is to get drunk.”

He really had a unique way of getting under Willow’s skin.

Willow clenched his fist against his elbow. “You’re not going to die.” He wouldn’t let that happen. The failure would be far too shameful. “Stop being overdramatic. You’re not even bleeding right now.”

That was a bit curious though. Willow’s eyes flickered back to the white bandages with a frown. He ought to have bled through the bandages even if the stab was shallow. He was right about the fatality rates of getting stabbed.

One would normally at least expect some pink by now, but the bandages were still pure white.

“I’m overdramatic? Cute. This is your faul—” He cut himself off with a disgusted snort. “I need a fucking drink.”

“You’re an alcoholic,” Willow accused. He wondered what the man stopped himself from saying.

“Oh? You figured that out? Good fucking job. Do you want a prize? Here’s your prize, go buy me a drink.”

Really. The man was just terminally unlikable. Willow scowled.

Whether he liked him or not, it was Willow’s responsibility to ensure that he lived. Doctors were a bit much, but he didn’t have any better options. He gritted his teeth as he made up his mind. “I’m taking you to see a doctor.”

“Nah.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Lemme just bleed out and die here. Just give me a fucking drink and I’m good.”

“Excuse me?!”

The remorseless drunkard sent him a dry look. “You’re excused.”

Willow’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t understand it. Not from the tips of his toes to the ends of his hair. Willow was a man who strived to live. He’d become a bit overzealous in his desire to thrive at times, but his first priority was to live. He’d even wondered if his time regression was caused by his own virulent desire to survive.

He’d met people who accepted death before, although normally they were elderly or sick, but he’d never met someone who was so flippant about death.

The idea that someone might even want to die was entirely foreign to his narcissistic perspective on living.

He wanted to survive. He was working his fingers to the bone to ensure that the ones who dared to threaten his life would suffer as they deserved.

And here was this crazy bastard acting like death wasn’t a big deal.

Crazy.

He was just a crazy person. Willow scowled, regaining his composure and glaring down at the insolent drunk. He was a crazy and stupid drunkard who didn’t understand the importance of life. Willow would just save his life and then never see the bastard again.

He had no interest in indulging this man's insanity.

“We’re going to the doctor,” he repeated. His voice was firmer this time and left no room for argument. The damn drunk let out a miserable groan in response.

Willow decided that he didn’t care if he complained the entire way. He was going to make sure this stupid bastard survived, and then he was going to hunt down the person who sent an assassin after him.

“You’re a pain in the ass.” The drunk groaned, looking as though he was about to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. 

Willow glared at him and placed a hand on his leg. “Don’t move.”

“Why? Aren’t we going?”

“You’re injured. I’m going to carry you,” Willow said, speaking as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“…What?”

Willow repeated himself, slower this time in case the fool didn’t get it. “I’m going to carry you.”

The look he received was unfairly judgmental and strangely perturbed. The drunkard finally shrugged, rolling his eyes once more. “Fine. If that’s your kink.”

“What?” Willow pulled his hand back, confusion and distress crossing his face as he tried to comprehend what this ingrate was trying to insinuate. The crassness and overt disrespect were particularly jarring to Willow after his years as the crown prince.

A dirty grin spilled over said ingrate’s face. “Oh my god, is it really your kink? Your face is so red! This is hilarious.” He let out a rough, barking laugh that made Willow’s eyes flicker worriedly to his stomach, concerned that he might aggravate his injury. “Go for it, fucker. I’ll be your princess or whatever,” he mocked, still laughing.

Willow really, really didn’t like this punk.

But he was still responsible for getting him help and taking care of his injuries. The sooner they met with the doctor, the sooner Willow could wash his hands of this entire affair.

Willow, despite his many faults, had an unfortunately strong sense of responsibility. It was what had led him to accomplish so much as the crown prince.

It was also why he’d been killed.

Willow endeavored to live as selfishly as possible though, and his hope was to get revenge and live long.

“It is not my ‘kink,’” Willow said sternly. He made a concentrated effort to control his expression, putting on the unaffected apathetic face that he would normally face his political opponents with. “I was startled by your crude language.”

“Sure,” the drunkard replied, a distinct note of doubt in his tone. It was just as infuriating as every other part of him.

Willow tried not to lose his temper. He just needed to fulfill his responsibility. With a strained smile that belied quite a bit of his internal frustration, he held out his arms. “I’m going to pick you up now. Then we’ll go to a doctor. Then I’ll never see you again.”

“Ominous,” the drunkard replied. He made no effort to move into Willow’s hold.

Willow gritted his teeth.

Whatever monotonous argument might have continued from there was interrupted by a sound from the other side of the room.

The side with the dead assassin.

Two pairs of eyes darted toward the corpse, disturbingly finding nothing but the immobile body. Willow stiffened, his eyes darting around the area.

It shouldn’t be happening so soon.

In his previous life, the first signs hadn’t occurred for several more years.

Then again, there was always the chance that one of those responsible had their memories still. It still felt too soon though. Willow felt tense over the possibility that it had already started and gnawing anxiety over having no defense against it.

A hand on his arm caused Willow to jump out of his skin. He turned a ferocious glare toward the drunkard, whose face was contorted with concern. “You look like shit,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

Willow looked back at the corpse and the surrounding area. There really was no sign of it. But then, what had been the sound they heard? He hadn’t imagined it; they’d both responded to it.