Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights hummed their endless monotone dirge. He didn't notice anymore—hadn't noticed in months, maybe years. The sound had become part of the white noise of his existence, along with the clicking of keyboards, the gurgling of the coffee maker that was overdue for replacement, and the occasional sigh from the cubicle two rows over.
His monitor displayed three different spreadsheets, two email windows, and a project management dashboard that screamed red warnings he'd deal with tomorrow. Except tomorrow there would be new warnings. There were always new warnings.
Just finish this report. Then you can go home.
The same thought he'd had at 6 PM. And 8 PM. And 10 PM.
His phone buzzed. Probably his mother again, asking when he'd visit. When was the last time he'd visited? A month ago? No, that was when he'd worked overtime on the Orion Automotive account merger.
The chest pain started as it always did—a tightness, like someone had wrapped a rubber band around his ribs and was slowly twisting. He rubbed his sternum absently, reaching for his energy drink with his other hand. Third one today. Or fourth?
Just finish this report.
The spreadsheet cells blurred. He blinked hard, trying to focus. The numbers were important. Crucial. If he didn't finish this, his boss would reassign it to someone else, and then where would he be? The guy who couldn't even handle a simple quarterly report.
Not that anyone would notice. Not that anyone—
The pain intensified, radiating down his left arm.
Indigestion, he thought distantly. Should've eaten something besides convenience store food.
When had he eaten? Lunch? Was there a lunch today?
His hand slipped from the mouse. Strange. His fingers felt numb.
The office swam in his vision. The humming lights seemed louder now, or maybe that was the blood pounding in his ears.
Need to finish this report.
But god, he was tired. So tired.
When was the last time he'd felt rested? Really rested, not just sleeping until noon on a Saturday and still waking up drained?
After this project, he told himself. The same lie he'd been telling himself for three years. After this deadline. After this quarter. After the merger. Then I'll take a vacation. Then I'll rest.
His phone buzzed again. He couldn't reach it. Couldn't remember why he should.
Just want to sleep, he thought hazily. Just want one morning where no one needs anything. Where I can wake up and there's nothing urgent, nothing critical, nothing only I can handle.
No emails marked URGENT. No supervisor asking about progress. No clients calling with last-minute changes.
Just... quiet.
A life where he didn't matter so much that missing a day felt like catastrophe. Where he could be—what? Unimportant? Overlooked?
That sounds nice, he thought, awareness fading at the edges. Being no one. Having nothing expected...
The spreadsheet cells blurred into abstract shapes.
When do I get to rest?
The fluorescent lights flickered once, twice.
His last coherent thought was almost wistful:
Maybe tomorrow.
And then there was nothing.
***
The sensation was all-consuming.
Not pain, exactly. Not anything he had words for. Just wrongness. His body wasn't right. Nothing was right. He tried to move and failed. Tried to see and couldn't focus. Tried to breathe and—
Sound. Muffled, distant, but definitely sound. Voices?
He attempted to open his eyes and the world exploded into blinding brightness. He tried to cry out and what emerged was a weak, gasping wail that terrified him because it wasn't his voice, couldn't be his voice, what—
"A son, Your Majesty! A healthy son!"
The words were wrong. Nothing he recognized. But somehow he understood them anyway, the meaning sliding directly into his brain like it belonged there.
Where am I?
He tried to move again. His arms—were those his arms? They were tiny, flailing uselessly. His legs kicked at nothing. Everything was too big, too bright, too loud.
"The thirteenth prince," another voice said. A woman's voice, warm and tired. "My little one. My last little one."
Hands lifted him, and the panic that seized him was primal and absolute. He was being held by a stranger, a giant, and he couldn't move, couldn't escape, couldn't—
Something warm and soft pressed against his face. Instinct older than thought took over and he found himself feeding, his panic subsiding into confused exhaustion.
This isn't real. This is a dream. I'm in the hospital. I collapsed at work and this is some kind of fever dream and I'll wake up and—
But the warmth was real. The heartbeat he could hear, steady and strong, was real. The exhaustion pulling him down into darkness was real.
I died, he thought with sudden, crystalline clarity. I died at my desk and now I'm...
What? Reincarnated? That was insane. That was light novel protagonist nonsense. That wasn't real. That didn't happen to people.
Except he was here, wherever here was, in a body that definitely wasn't his, being held by a woman who called him "prince."
Prince.
He would have laughed at the absurdity.
I wished for a life with no expectations. No responsibility. No one demanding anything from me.
The woman—his mother? Was she his mother now?—shifted him gently, and he felt himself being passed to someone else. Larger hands, more careful.
"Welcome, prince Hans," a male voice said. Deep, formal. "The thirteenth son of the Southern Isles."
Thirteenth.
Even in his exhausted, confused state, the implications penetrated. Thirteenth son. In a monarchy. That meant twelve older brothers. Twelve people ahead of him in any line of succession. Twelve people more important than him.
Twelve people who would be expected to do things while he...
While he what? Read? Studied? Lived quietly in a corner somewhere, forgotten and undervalued?
A hysterical giggle bubbled up in his infant throat and came out as a gurgle.
Be careful what you wish for, he thought as sleep dragged him down into darkness. You just might get it.
***
The next few weeks—months? He couldn't tell—were a blur of overwhelming sensation and frustrated helplessness.
His infant body was a prison. He couldn't control it properly. Couldn't communicate beyond crying, which he hated doing but sometimes happened anyway when the needs of this tiny body overwhelmed his adult sensibilities. Couldn't even control basic functions, which was humiliating beyond description.
But slowly, things began to improve.
His vision cleared. The blurs resolved into faces, into rooms, into a world that looked like it had fallen out of a history book. Or a fairy tale.
Stone walls. Tapestries. Servants in livery. Women in long dresses and men in tunics and breeches.
When is this? Where is this?
The language continued to make sense, though he was certain it wasn't anything he'd ever heard. Yet he understood it perfectly, as if the knowledge had simply been downloaded into his brain along with... everything else.
His mother visited often. The Queen, he gathered from the way servants addressed her. She was kind, warm. Tired in a way he recognized from his own mother in his previous life. Too many children, too many responsibilities.
His father appeared less frequently. The King. Stern-faced, formal, always busy with important matters that didn't include inspecting his thirteenth son.
And his brothers.
They came occasionally, a parade of faces ranging from men in their twenties to boys barely older than toddlers themselves. Some were curious. Some were indifferent. One made faces at him until the nurse shooed him away.
None of them seemed particularly interested in him.
Perfect.
The thirteenth prince. The spare's spare's spare. The one who didn't matter.
He began to notice patterns. The servants who attended him were fewer than those who attended his older brothers. The third prince's nursery had oil paintings of ships and battles. The seventh prince's had imported carpets. His had whitewashed walls and a single tapestry—decent quality, but clearly from storage. When his brothers talked—and they talked constantly, even the younger ones seeming to operate under the assumption that babies didn't understand—they spoke of lessons, responsibilities, expectations.
None of those conversations included him.
He flexed his tiny fingers, watching them move with increasing coordination.
I can relax now. Read. Study. Learn things at my own pace. Live a quiet, comfortable life.
No deadlines. No expectations. No one demanding anything from me.
This is exactly what I wanted.
Sleep pulled at him, warm and irresistible.
He had an entire new life ahead of him.
Finally, he thought as consciousness faded. Finally, I can rest.
A quiet, unremarkable, comfortable life.