heavy is the crown: The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire.

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/ / Age: ? ? ?

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The first thing I felt upon waking up at the light brush of something against my forehead, seriously sleepy and severely confused in a bed that didn't feel like the one I usually fell asleep in, was fear for my life.

This was not my usual reaction to waking up - even to waking up in an unfamiliar bed - because a profession as a part-time live-in caregiver, part-time childcare consultant, and a part-time tutor to the wards of the wealthy was not exactly anyone's typical idea of a 'dangerous' occupation. Except, perhaps, the constant occupational hazard of being wrongly blamed by upset guardians for their charges growing up spoiled. (Personally, my sterling record had never been marred by accusations of the sort, but you heard all sorts of helicopter-parent horror stories when you mingled in the youth education circles.)

However, a primal fear of death was, I believe, rather justified in this such scenario, due to the grinning child stabbing down a knife mere inches away from my abruptly adrenaline-wide eyes.

All traces of sleepy confusion evaporated faster than the steam from a kettle on a sweltering Sunday morning. Their eyes were covered by the most impractical haircut I had ever seen, but I could just about pick out enough details about their finely-embroidered old-fashioned nightclothes to determine they were probably as well-off as any of my employers.

If it weren't for the f- freaking knife in their hands and the fact that I would've been entirely unable to forget any impression of such a distinct hairstyle, I could've easily come to the conclusion that I had, somehow, accidentally fallen asleep on the bed of my newest student, after a late night grading papers or carefully soothing sugar-high toddlers to sleep - both equally mentally fatiguing tasks.

(Self-censorship was a necessary marketing skill for any professional caregiver and/or tutor. No one, upper-class to filthy rich, was paying for their educator to dispense an education on cursing, no matter how inevitable it was that their kids would eventually pick it up somewhere else, or how trying their kids were on said educator's well-tested patience. Profanity, as anything forbidden did, positively fascinated the young and innocent.)

The blade didn't glint. There wasn't enough light in the dark room for that. My night vision had strained enough on trying to analyze the quality of my child murderer's pajamas in a desperate bid by my brain to remain calm under pressure - namely, by diverting away attention from my imminent death. But the blade did descend a few centimeters closer, and no amount of last-ditch distraction attempts by my faithful squishy mass of neurons could keep me from hysterically noting how little distance remained between my eyes and the tip of the lighter patch of darkness that was a metallic knife of some sort.

Time, which I had subconsciously registered - since waking up to a knife in my face - as stretched out like the tug of a toddler on freshly boiled taffy, slowed even more, to the rough approximation of syrup's first droplet, dangling from the lip of the metaphorical bottle.

If I was frozen and unable to move, that was only partly from adrenaline's double-edged effect on my body. The other part, I figured, was entirely attributed to there not being enough physical - as opposed to perceived - time to dodge. Though, curiously enough, I could sure hear my poor heart pounding fast enough to set a real-time beat.

Brain, stop trying to distract me from imminent death, please. I appreciate your efforts, I really do, but while distracting and supposedly logical tangents are great for keeping a serene expression in day-to-day interactions, they're kind of irritating in the literal face of a knife about to spear into my fleshy eyeballs and possibly straight down to you, depending on how much muscle and how good of an aim a child with their eyes covered has!

The blade descended another few millimeters, in the milliseconds I'd used up scolding what was essentially myself, in a lifelong habit of offbeat humor.

Well. Not lifelong anymore, pretty quick, pretty soon. Life-short?

I was about to get murdered (or at least horribly blinded and bled out) by a mysterious maniac who I didn't even know, and who, perhaps more concerning, was maybe less than ¼ my age at most. And I was about to die not knowing where I was or what I'd done to deserve it, on the back of a truly awful pun nobody but me would be able to not-appreciate, having lived a life learned lawfully and lovingly, but probably not having drank enough for my much-beleaguered nerves, since I'd only been of legal drinking age in America for few years and I responsibly never drank underage except for that one time at high school graduation, and oh my agnostic god BRAIN you've done it AGAIN.

My pupils were probably pinpoints trying to focus on the knife tip now. If I blinked, my eyelashes might just touch the edge, just like if I dared make a noise now, it'd probably be uncontrollable panicky giggle-shrieking.

… Fuck self-censorship and internal discipline. My cursing skills were likely rusty after swearing it off (no pun intended) post-graduation, but dying was astonishingly fantastic motivation for me to brush them off and give 'em the workout of their non-lives, although I didn't recommend it as a first, or anything other than last, choice for anyone.

What the hell was going on was a fucking kid really about to kill me oh my fucking god what the fuck what the fuck what the fucking fuckity fucked up fuck oh fuck no hell no shit no damnit-

I didn't want to die.

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The second thing I felt, in a room not my own, confronted by a child not my own, about to be stabbed for reasons not my own, was fear for my own sanity.

Now, modern political correctness frowned sternly upon the casual use of 'crazy' as a descriptor. I respected this. But I was pretty sure that a sane person didn't hallucinate unnaturally red fire that burst from their eyes and disintegrated a knife about to end their life.

(Fire had red in it, sure, but it wasn't completely red, and the outer edges of it certainly weren't darker in redness than the paler inner core. Also, fire burned, and whatever I had just seen myself produce from my visual orifices did not burn or melt the knife, it had outright vanished it somehow. Erased it. Judging by the flakes of something I could barely glimpse falling from the hand of my would-be murderer, 'disintegration' was the most fitting word I could currently dredge up for what 'It' had done to the knife.)

Therefore, some form of 'craziness', I strongly believed, was my right to claim. Reclaim? Was that the proper term in this context?

Brain! Good to see you're back in action, redirecting my thoughts to prevent outwards expression of internal hysteria. What would I do without you? Probably have had this presumed psychotic break much earlier and snapped under the stress of keeping my nerves in socially functionable working order!

My eyes were still on- on- on tentatively deemed 'Fire' with a capital 'F'.

In the reddish light the Fire exuded, I observed the visage of my would-be murderer. Pale, Caucasian, thin face and delicate features, eyes still covered by that ridiculously impractical (and thus thoroughly believable as a byproduct of wealth) hairstyle, child-sized crown (the way some people doted on their children, really… and then they thought it wasn't their fault their wards grew up spoiled?), short golden-blonde hair, sex indeterminable and younger than I'd thought, elaborate dated children's nightclothes with rather more ruffles than currently fashionable, mouth open on in a surprised 'o' of shock. Still crouched over me and probably staring just as hard as I was, though they seemed solely focused on my eyes, indicating either more familiarity or just more fascination in particular.

I rose to a sitting position - after confirming with a quick once-over that they weren't holding anymore knives - and gently but firmly pushed them back with a silk-sleeved hand to give me space, the other silk-sleeved hand absently brushing away the bangs that automatically fell in front of my eyes. I had to concentrate on my breathing for a few seconds to make sure it was steady, before I properly looked that them and offered a small, soothing smile, carefully making sure I kept back any hint of the hyperventilating and nervous but relieved laughter I wanted to express at the absolutely absurd situation-

Wait what, my brain helpfully stopped me.

I glanced at my hands. Pale, Caucasian, thin fingers and delicate joints, covered by silk sleeves that looked identical to the sleeves on Would-be Murderer.

Far too calmly, I reached up, fumbled around my ears where they'd been brushed back, and dragged a lock of hair in front of my- (nope, not burning) my- my Fiery eyes. Golden-blonde and short when it wasn't supposed to be. Eye-covering bangs when I didn't have bangs.

I looked back up at Would-be Murderer, who had settled back on their haunches and was curiously watching me examine what was Not My Body. Or so I assumed, since their eyes were still hidden.

Not My movements had shifted Not My position on the bed slightly, and something nudged Not Me in Not My hip. Numbly, I delved one hand under the heavy silken covers of Not My bed and unearthed a crown, unsurprisingly identical to Would-Be Murderer's.

I stared at it in my blanket-spooled lap, both pale hands clenched on its silver rim, the entire image tinted pinkish by the reddish light of Not My eyes.

I looked up at WbM.

I looked down.

I looked up, then down, then turned around the crown and looked back up again, desperately craving some sort of refuting proof that the dawning conclusion in my mind (if it even was my mind and not Not My mind, although that didn't quite make sense to me right now) was wrong.

WbM returned my previous child-please-calm-down-for-your-teacher-now© smile with a twisted, snide, sneering mockery of it.

"Ushishishi," they snickered - sniggered? Was that a laugh? What kind of a laugh was that? I mean, I tried not to judge the habits of small children but that was a seriously worrying mark against normal vocal development- voice high with what I normally thought of as the charming pitch of prepubescent children, but on them was more of a chilling, jarringly unexpected juxtaposition of age and clear malicious intent. "What's wrong, brother~? I'm surprised you haven't tried to tackle me yet. Is that my win then? Fancy fire eyes and that trick with the knife might have stopped that try, but that was just revenge for the worms last week, Siel."

From outside a patch of dimly-lit wall that I vaguely recognized must be a door, came rapid footsteps and knocking, followed by a gruff, official-sounding announcement. "Prince Rasiel? Prince Rasiel! Their Royal Highnesses are entering your bedchamber."

The wall-door creaked open. I winced and squinted against the sudden bright light, only making out the tall pair of silhouettes in the doorway, flanked by a few other silhouettes cut off from view by the doorframe. Not My hands were still clenched on the crown, Not My shoulders tensed and trembling; I was too drenched in blank, numb horror to order Not My muscles to move them, and, indeed, to do anything else but turn my unblinking, watering stare onto the newcomers.

"My dear angel~! And my adorable little demon! How joyous an occasion~! We felt you awaken the fire of our bloodline, and at such a young age, too~! All the more proof you're the rightful heir our kingdom needs~!" a womanly voice sang out with genuinely ecstatic happiness.

"Rightly spoken, my love, rightly spoken. What a lovely brotherly bonding activity, witnessing the royal right being activated firsthand. Aren't you so happy for your brother, Belphegor?" a deeper and more sedated, but no less sincerely warm voice chimed in.

A few inches away, WbM - Belphegor? Odd name for a child - shifted, shoulders stiffening, and mean smile dripping into a curt frown.

"Yes," he (presumably) snapped out sarcastically.

The queen and king (what) clapped cheerfully and approached the bed, apparently seeing nothing wrong at all with that answer.

I was suddenly acutely aware that just because I didn't see another knife didn't mean he didn't have another knife, and if these were the sort of parents that believed Belphegor and 'Rasiel' had a good sibling relationship, they were also likely the sort of parents who would excuse blatant attempted stabbing as something else entirely.

"Angel? Oh, my sweet little angel, are you quite alright? You haven't spoken a peep! The bloodline's first awakening can be a rather rough one, can you hear me?" the queen (what) bent down over Me and grasped My face tenderly with cold pale hands, cooing lovingly.

"Yes, yes, can you hear your dear mother? Oh, no, Rasiel? Razzy? Rasiel my boy, are you quite alright, answer your mother now, that's a good boy," the king (what) gamely attempted to join in on the prompting.

I could barely glimpse, out of the side of My vision, Belphegor scowling and crossing his arms. He caught My glance and bared his teeth nastily, before childishly sticking his tongue out (like the child he was, I reminded Myself).

The Queen shook me gently.

"Rasiel?"

I gazed deeply into her ruby-red eyes framed by golden-blonde curls, let out that nervous giggle I'd been holding back, blinked once and saw that unnatural redness no longer tinted My vision, and then slumped forward into a dead faint.

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/ / Age: ? ? ?

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(I figured out pretty soon in the days to come that this first experience in my life as 'Rasiel' - prominently featuring both fear for my life and fear for my sanity - was a remarkably accurate indicator of what was to regularly come next in my ridiculously traumatic and traumatically ridiculous second life. It came with being the only sibling to a fratricidal prince with way more issues than I was qualified as a professional caregiver, tutor, and all-around fancied-up babysitter to handle.

I suppose you're my 'conscience' that I narrate to, or maybe my 'psyche', since I've already got a 'brain' in charge of sending me off on tangents to preserve my frayed sense of calm.

You could call me 'Siel', like Belphegor sometimes does, from the technically correct pronunciation of the misspelled 'Rasiel'. Or even 'Razzy' like my new parents sometimes do, from the technically correct pronunciation of the originally spelled 'Raziel'.

Please don't call me 'angel' though. I get enough of that from the castle staff - after I managed to get them used to the new 'me', anyway - and it's kind of unsettling, despite how admittedly grounded it is when compared to the 'demon child' that Belphegor loves to portray around the servants.

I'd prefer if you called me 'Si', though, like I quickly worked on convincing Belphegor to call me instead, in hopes of further differentiating 'Siel' from my 'Rasiel' enough that he'd lay off or at least lessen the assassination attempts. Some amateur psychology, I've learned, is often surprisingly applicable to childcare, and even more surprisingly applicable to adult-guidance.

… Well, he calls me that when he's in a better mood, at least, so, goal half-succeeded?

Still, the thought of a single-letter moniker has always been attractive to me, the person who grew up on a diet of wallflower presences and escapist fantasy books before I learned to project the kind of warmth I always wanted to receive from others. It makes me feel… special, I guess, and something straight out of fiction.

Hah. As if being mysteriously transmigrated into the 4-year-old body of a crown prince with unexplained 'bloodline fire' powers and a severely unhealthy family dynamic, with varyingly blurred memories of a past life, isn't straight out of fiction enough.

Brain, stop it.

So… 'Si' is probably how Belphegor thinks of me, and I've given up on correcting Rasiel's parents away from their persistence on 'angel/demon' nicknames, despite the worryingly entrenched psychological insecurities this can cause in siblings, especially those close in age or appearance.

But you, my conscience, my critic of my conscious narrative…

You can just call me 'C'.

Pleased to meet you, superimposed figment of my imagination.

[Seriously, brain, not helping right now.])

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And thus begin the adventures of RaCel, constantly stressed and rather high-strung people-pleaser ISFJ with no knowledge of KHR!. At all. (Using 'the Nurturer' interpretation.)

What do you think so far? Is my foray into Asian translated novels (light or otherwise) that apparent? Reincarnation/Transmigration is a popular genre all by itself.

I know I always say this, but I have a good feeling about this story. I'm also on summer break, and so have more time to work on it. Plus, I've probably done the most planning on a story on this than I have for anything else (although if you've read my past works, you know there's a reason most of them are one-shots or dead!fics). Butterflies will be ahead, as will lore, because I finally have a canon-plausible reasoning for why Belphegor's nationality can't be revealed to the UN, and how a kingdom with an active monarchy can exist in modern day.

My stash: 2 more chapters and 6k more words, 5 more chapter outlines, and a definite story progression for the 'Kingdom' arc.

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[Profile: Chapter One

Name: Rasiel [Classified]; …?

Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; …?

Titles: Prince; Heir Apparent; Crown Prince; …?

Nickname(s): Siel, Angel Child, Razzy

Age: ? ? ?; …?

Notes: - Awakened the 'fire of the royal bloodline' earlier than expected.

- …?]

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Please F&F, and review with what you'd like to see added onto the [Profile], which will evolve over chapters, or what you'd like to see in the story, or questions you'd like answered. They may be answered in the next author's note. HitC appreciates the support!

[Next Chapter Preview:]

Eye for an eye, and all that. Like Ghandi said.

I didn't know about the world, but I'd personally come startlingly close to becoming blind last night, and was not interested in inviting a repeat performance.