There are thirty seconds until the guillotine's blade falls through your neck.

 

Thirty.

 

You take a second to scan the crowd. Your people are jeering and calling for your death. You, the firstborn heir to the throne! How irritable! You may not be particularly well-liked, but to cry for your death? How barbaric your people are. Though, you concede, the beheading of a royal is a once in a lifetime event.

 

Twenty-nine.

 

You didn't kill the Duke as they've accused you of, of course. The Duke may have been a greedy old man, but you wouldn't murder him over it. Perhaps if you can determine the true culprit, they might let you go?

 

Twenty-eight.

 

It's no small secret that you dislike the Duke. Loathe, rather. Yes, you may have gotten into an argument with him at your recently hosted party and made some vague threat to behead him.

 

Twenty-seven.

 

And yes, he may have been found dead the next day after ingesting allergy-triggering food. But that doesn't mean you triggered them. Why do they think you knew about his almond allergy at all?

 

Twenty-six.

 

Ah, because you demanded that the walnut dessert be changed to an almond one the day before. But really, walnuts are in rather low supply this season, so wasn't your decision ultimately a wise one?

 

Twenty-five.

 

Oh, wasn't that because you'd demanded the cessation of walnut circulation a season before? That is, until your father had caught wind of it and reversed the decision. You'd gotten a fine beating for it, of course. You can't see your parents now, with them sitting up and out of your limited vision range, but you can imagine them looking down at you with the same frigid expression.

 

Twenty-four.

 

Your parents, the king and queen. They had at least chosen a good date for your execution: a once in a millennium phenomenon in which the stars and moons align. A very lucky day, one good to ensure you die and stay dead. You're pleased; if you had to die, it should be at least on such a rare and auspicious day.

 

Twenty-three.

 

Why had you ceased walnut circulation again? Right, because you'd caught wind of your younger sister passing personally baked walnut goods to the Duke's son, so you wanted to send her a warning to not amass power and covet your spot as heir.

 

Twenty-two.

 

She tried to hand you one, you suddenly recall. You slapped it out of her hands. Who could say if she had poisoned it? She then smiled at you with bitter resignation. You must have foiled her attempt; how sneaky of her.

 

Twenty-one.

 

It hadn't always been like that, had it? You used to be close to her, as children. You would hug her and she would look up at you with wonder in her big eyes. It lasted until you started to understand your position as firstborn.

 

Twenty.

 

You look at your sister now, trembling in the front row, held in the grasp of the Duke's son. Her eyes are full of rage but there's tears of grief in them, and none of the smug mockery you expected. Ah, you realise rather belatedly. She loves you. She'd loved you throughout the years, even when you'd plotted to kill her. She shouldn't, you muse. Family, such an ill-fated concept.

 

Nineteen.

 

But yes, it seems that you have indeed inadvertently killed the Duke. Not on purpose, but due to a series of unfortunate coincidences. You didn't know of his allergies, but since you're the heir, everyone expects you did. Plus, death from a common tree nut? If he was so weak, he deserved to die anyway.

 

Eighteen.

 

But coincidence or not, you are undeniably the cause of every event taking part in this unfortunate tangle of situations. So, you suppose, you cannot particularly object to your execution.

 

Seventeen.

 

A wild thought strikes you, one born from the acknowledgement of certain death. Maybe, just maybe, none of those ill-fortuned events would have taken place if you had a good heart. If you had been kind and caring as they praise your sister to be. Maybe then you wouldn't be here, head pressed to the guillotine.

 

Sixteen.

 

But that isn't fully your fault. Your parents had raised you to be vicious and untrusting. If they didn't want you to go down this path, shouldn't they have stepped in on one of your plots? Grabbed your hand and pulled it away instead of encouraging you to press deeper and twist the knife?

 

Fifteen.

 

It's rather cruel, you realise with sudden clarity. How they'd stepped back when the struggle between you and your sister grew deadly, silently condoning the fight. They probably shouldn't have done that, but hey, what use is this realisation now?

 

Fourteen.

 

And regardless, your sister had gone through the same thing but is still adored by the masses. Moreover, she's always tried to reach out to you, no matter how many swords you respond with. You've always thought her rather stupid for that, but perhaps it's because she's strong that she could keep doing so?

 

Thirteen.

 

But why are you thinking of such useless things now? Why must you have all these belated epiphanies only in the face of death? When you were happily alive you'd admittedly avoided thinking too deeply into useless things like emotions. So why must it happen here, amidst the cries for your head?

 

Twelve.

 

Frustratingly irrationally, you find yourself hoping for a miracle. A fight for your release to break out, an explosion on the other side of the plaza, a single utterance of stop from the lips of your parents. Anything to show you that fate has more in store for you than this miserable, wretched life you've lived.

 

Eleven.

 

Wait, wasn't there something? An old legend speaking of powers granted by the gods on this once in a millennium day that the stars and moons align? You shut your eyes and pray wildly for a miracle, to be granted something, anything! There's a short lull in the jeers as startled gasps ring out-

 

Ten.

 

- but they're not horrified. You open your eyes and see your sister glowing with a golden light. Ah, it makes sense. The gods must have chosen her. You suppose you truly are unequivocally doomed, then.

 

 

Did you truly live such a heinous life? Sure, you might have schemed multiple assassination attempts against your sister, but they've never worked, have they? Yes, you may have been wilful and cruel, firing and trampling on servants at will, but you have all the rights as their employer.

 

Eight.

 

So what if you wiped out one or two noble families that crossed you, or murdered ten or a hundred civilians who annoyed you? You're a royal! The heir to the throne! They're to be your subjects; you're allowed to do whatever you want with them.

 

Seven.

 

Or were. You're not going to be heir for much longer. Your people will be happy to have your sister on the throne, you think.

 

Six.

 

Oh. You're about to die.

 

"Five!"

 

Your people, apparently having gotten over the shock of your sister's tacky golden light, have started chanting the countdown. You're close to death, it seems.

 

"Four!"

 

Ah, you don't want to die.

 

"Three!"

 

Yes, you're realising with increasing intensity that you honestly, in truth and in actuality, do not want to die.

 

"Two!"

 

You don't want to die. You don't want to die, don't want to die-

 

"One!"

 

 

"Zero!"

 

Oh, too late. All you can hope is that death is as painless as it see-

 

-

 

You wake up with a gasp, then turn your head to retch. You're back in your bedroom. You stumble to the mirror on trembling feet, clawing at your neck.

 

Your pale but younger face stares back at you. Your head is still attached to your body.

 

A once in a millennium event- the stars and the moons aligning, powers granted by the gods-

 

"Heavens above," you whisper, voice scratchy. You've returned to the past.