2 One: the prince of nappies.

Art woke up with his body aching. His muscles throbbed and he felt weak, defenceless and small, his limbs limp and bare. It was a weird feeling, like he had been squeezed through a tube only to get stuck half way through. All his instincts were screaming at him to move, defend himself. First rule of the battle field, not to let your guard down. But he felt so safe and warm that these instincts seemed muted somehow, like a nagging sensation in the back of his mind. There was something there too. Something he was forgetting.

That was it! He died. He had actually died. Stabbed in the back as he accidentally saved that pompous git of a hero. What a wonderful way to die. He recalled the emotions he had felt, the pain, the fear, and the hope. Those gold eyes of that demon boy drifted to the front of his mind and a overwhelming urge to cry overwhelmed him and he let out a few small sobs.

"Hey," a gentle and familiar voice spoke from somewhere above him. "It looks like our baby is a quiet crier. Hey honey, ssshh it's alright now". Art felt something warm trace under his closed eyelids, removing the tears leaking down his cheeks. He opened them to see the smiling face of his mother bent over him, her fingers gently rubbing his cheeks.

"Hi Arthit", she cooed softly. "Morning sleepy. Did you have a nightmare?" She looked younger than he last remembered. Her ebony hair was cut shorter, just brushing her shoulders, and she was also bigger than the last time he had seen her. Her green eyes were less wrinkled and held more of the sparkle that Art hadn't seen in years. They gazed at him with such fierce love and devotion that he went silent for a second. Then a tilde wave of reassurance and love washed over him upon seeing his mother's face and Art began to cry even harder, sobbing loudly as he held out his arms.

His mother had died when he was fourteen. She had been a serving girl in the local tavern when she had met his father. He had wed her, bed her then promptly left her pregnant with Arthit. But she had struggled on, having her child and proceeding to show him all the love she could give until illness struck. As a poor family, they had not been able to afford the medicines that could have saved her and she had died that summer. After that Arthit had travelled around the country as a street urchin until he became old enough to serve in the army. It had been a tragic death that she did not deserve, and Art had never forgiven himself for not saving her. Seeing her again had caused a damn to break inside him as all the anguish and pain he had endured over the last years of his life began to seep out.

Instantly his mother frowned in concern upon hearing his sudden cries. "Oh dear. That must have been some nightmare. It's okay baby, I'm here now", and she was scooping him up into her embrace, resting his tiny head on her shoulder. Briefly, Art wondered why he was so small, then his mother's scent washed over him and he calmed down, taking the time to cherish in the physical comfort from which he had been so neglected. He stopped crying, soothing slightly as his mother hummed, rubbing his back with her hand.

It was then that Art began to absorb the information. He had died, so why was he here hugging his mother? And why was he so small? Quickly, he glanced down to see his feet encased in pale brown material. Was he in baby clothes? That was it. He was a baby again. Due to some godly error he had been reincarnated back into a child. This was humiliating. Already Art wanted to crawl away and die in hole. He couldn't believe that he was now so reliant on others. Oh god, why did this have to happen to him? Why not choose some great hero or something? Why him? What the hell was he supposed to do? He just some random foot soldier who had only survived for so long due to luck. He was nothing special. What did the gods want him to do? Change the future or something?

Memories of the holy war crammed his vision and he fought down a shiver. Faces of friends, family, innocents he had seen die filtered across his eyes, each face twisted in terror and fear upon meeting their end. Until the face of the demon king resurfaced and Art paused his train of thought. Was this what they wanted? Could he even do it? Could he change the future? He thought for a moment, relaxing into his mother's embrace and allowing himself to be soothed by her scent. Those golden eyes resurfaced again and Art remembered the feeling of dying, bleeding out on the cold ground and hoping. That small impossible spark of hope which he had taken the time to indulge as he died. Was that the cause of this? He didn't know. But one thing was for certain. This time, he would live.

It turns out that being a baby was a lot worse than Art expected. For one, he was practically immobile. This infant body had not yet developed the ability to support it's own weight, let alone walk. This quickly became old fast, and very frustrating. So Arthit practised. Every day when his mother had put him down for his nap, he wriggled fiercely, the effort stretching and using his barely there muscles. He stretched and uses the wooden edges of his cradle to pull himself around in his cot until he ached. Only then would he fall asleep cheerfully and with a depth to rival the dead.

It was even more humiliating during nappy changing. Having your mother forcefully strip you down and wipe you of your excretion was rather embarrassing and humiliating. Each time he squeezed his eyes shut and thought of different things to distract him but each time he still felt acutely embarrassed.

Feeding time was not much different. It was all Arthit could do was not think about what he was doing.

"Awww look at him", Mrs Dandry, the owner of The Blue Cross tavern, the place where his mother worked, cooed affectionately upon seeing baby Arthit. She was a middle aged woman with a mass of curly blonde hair and a welcoming face. Widowed by her husband, she ran the tavern by herself with the help of the local women in need of work. It was because of her welcoming nature that Arthit and his mother had initially survived for so long. In his last life, Mrs Dandry had supported the local ladies of the village until the local lord had raised the taxes and the inn had to be sold. After that, the sickness had spread through leaving most of the village dead. Mrs Dandry, along with Art's mother had only been two of the countless victims.

She giggled and squeezed his cheeks, making baby noises at his frowning face. "He looks like he's going to be a stubborn one that one. How old is he now May?"

"About six months", his mother replied cheerfully as she balanced Arthit on her hip. "He's already been trying to crawl. I have a feeling that when he gets up and going, nothings going to stop him". The women laughed.

"I bet he's going to be a right looker", Janet, another serving girl with mousy brown hair and a pretty face added. "He looks just like you. Well apart from his eyes, he's got his father's eyes". There was a moment of tense silence among them as all of them were reminded of the scumbag who was his father. Arthit fixed his 'father's eyes' on the other woman, his fierce black stare particularly penetrating for a baby. Janet averted her gaze nervously from those intelligent dark eyes.

"Why yes", May broke the silence, picking up Arthit from her hip and hugging him close to her chest. "He does. But I think that his dark eyes are particularly adorable". She rubbed her nose against his in a Eskimo kiss and Arthit allowed himself to smile, gurgling cutely. The women promptly melted.

After that Mrs Dandry allowed Arthit to stay in the tavern whilst his mum worked. He was looked after by the serving girls, who took it in shifts, passing him around. They balance him on their hips whilst they served drinks, tied him to their backs as the waited tables. In his last life, Arthit had been baby sat at home by the old lady who lived next door. But his time, probably due to his determination to move around, his mother had decided to take him to work with her, if only so people would keep an eye on him.

Soon enough, he became a common face in the popular tavern. As the only person in the village with such dark colouring and pale skin, he stood out amongst the locals with their pale hair and tanned skin. It made him quite the celebrity, all the villagers adoring what they dubbed his 'doll like face'. Adding the fact that Art was a naturally cute baby despite all his pouting, the inn's regulars adored him. They liked to make silly faces at him as he passed, waving and occasionally sneaking him little titbits of their food once his baby teeth began to grow in. Sometimes, Art would reward them with a smile, acting like a cherubic baby despite his grumpy personality. Even Jackson, the stable boy, a pimply faced preteen with a sulky character, began to enjoy Arthit's company.

It was Jackson holding him steady now.

"Come on Arthit", May encouraged, holding her arms open. "Come to mummy". She was knelt a few feet away, watching with a ever expression. Around them, the staff hovered excitedly, arms out in case he fell.

"You can do it Art", a few of the regulars chimed as they watched from around their tankards. The whole tavern was surrounding them, cheering Art on.

Arthit took a breath and raised a foot. Then another, making his way forward with unsteady steps. His mother beckoned to him eagerly as he hobbled towards. Each step took a lot of concentration but Art slowly began to find his rhythm, toddling forwards with increasing speed until he ran into his mother's waiting arms. The whole tavern cheered, holding up their drinks in success.

"Walking at ten months", Mrs Dandry chuckled in surprise. She ruffled Art's hair warmly as he grinned in triumph, the gratification of being able to walk making him happier than usual. "Your boy is going to be trouble someday May. The good kind of trouble though".

"Yess", May replied with glee as she kissed her son's cheek. "He's going to be spectacular".