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: 4
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Breakfast at the castle was, I assumed, a rather informal thing. Vague memory of some hazy history documentary gave me the unverified but nagging impression that formal events had the king and queen seated at the heads of the table, opposite and almost comically distant from each other.
Here, in the brightly sunlit dining hall, with the large arched glass windows practically glowing with illumination, the king and queen were seated quite snugly at the end of the table closest to the door. It was still the largest table, but the imposing, throne-esque chairs at the ends were left empty. Instead, to my right was the queen and then Belphegor, and to my left was the king and then the laid-out seat presumably Rasiel's, if you considered 'me' to be oriented as though I were sitting in the empty end chair-throne.
It was a lovely family picture, as long as I focused solely on the smiling and gaily laughing twenty-something couple, and not the bored child kicking his legs and stabbing his fried eggs with a little too much force for comfort.
(And that brought it's own uncomfortable thought: before-me was old enough to be Rasiel's parent. I took small solace in the fact that before-me was most likely still younger than Rasiel's actual parents, if only by a few years.)
I walked up to what was now my seat, internally marveling at the novelty of having furniture taller than my head again, and almost sat down. 'Almost', because the dining hall chairs were adult-sized, and my newly-shrunken height compelled me to have to climb up with one foot on the 'rung' between the chair legs. This put my eyes at direct line-of-sight with a silvery glitter poking out of the plush red cushioned upholstery, in turn compelling me to pause and look closer.
"Is there something wrong, my dear angel~?" a voice worriedly broke me away from examining the thumbtacks embedded in Rasiel's chair.
I glanced up. Belphegor wasn't looking at me. He was pretending to pay no attention, aloof, head (and bangs-covered eyes) bowed over his plate, whose sausages he was intently cutting up into small perfect cubes. His half-concealed, shadowed smirk gave him away.
"No. I thought I saw something. Thank you for asking, mother," I politely quelled her concerns, using that excuse to brush off the push pins onto the floor, where they landed with a clatter, before finishing my hop onto the chair. I didn't want to worsen hostilities, but passively letting Belphegor get away with things that would actually hurt me would set a bad precedent. I wasn't a masochist, and although I conceded I was probably a pushover at heart, years of learning to set and gently enforce boundaries with the troublemaking kids had taught me the importance of figuring out when I should and shouldn't forgive slights, lest I lose all authority and/or respect.
The upholstery was as plush as it looked, and I sank down into it with simple physical delight, turning to face the other three points of the little family square we made.
Both parents ignored the clatter, which was easily covered up by the metallic scrapes of cutlery. Belphegor's smirk shrank. He started eating the diced sausage, chomping loudly and perhaps intentionally obnoxiously. Both parents also ignored the chewing, with the serene attitude of someone either used to disconnecting from reality or editing out inconvenience facts of it with the ease of long practice.
I remembered the queen's visage from the nightmarish last night, and she was as curly golden-blonde and shining ruby-eyed as I recalled. She was smiling at me, diagonally, from where she sat. The king, to my direct right, was eerily closely colored, with stick-straight blond hair just a few shades paler than her golden glory, and eyes just a few shades darker. Straw-blond and maroon-red, I decided to deem him. They were both rather attractive, though, which I evaluated with gratefulness mostly due to the promise of Rasiel getting good genes, and partly because it'd be more enjoyable living with and interacting with them for the forseeable future.
While Belphegor's hair, identical to mine, was as straight as our father's and golden as our mother's, it was impossible to tell as of now if his eyes were also from our mother, or if he took slighter more after our father, or even if it was some blend of the two or an entirely different mutation. Red, I was pretty sure, was recessive, but then again, I was also pretty sure red was linked to a lack of pigment from severe albinism, and my brain had to remind me that 'new world', 'new rules'. And one of those rules just so happened to allow for blonde hair and red eyes, as well as probably-magical fire.
Everyone seemed currently content to focus on their food, with the queen and king cheerfully discussing the latest in kingdom gossip and seasonal crop harvest yield reports. Conversation starters weren't my forte, and though I had plenty of questions I wanted to ask, now didn't seem like the right time to 'casually' slip in an interrogation about 'what is the fire of our bloodline', 'why does activating it make me more qualified to be king', 'how did you let rasiel get away with throwing knives at the staff', 'how have you not noticed the unhealthy antagonism between your only two children who you profess and seem to genuinely adore very much', 'why do you hate me so much and what would convince you to stop it or at least ensure that there will be no more murder attempts', etc.
Ah, my brain corrected me primly, it wouldn't be 'more murder attempts'. I was royalty now, after all. That made me important enough to qualify for upgrading 'murder' to 'assassination.'
Joy.
So instead of tripping over and falling down a conversational hole my mouth would inevitably start in hopes of getting my foot stuck in there, I chose to scrutinize the offerings laid bare before me on Rasiel's plate, and compare them to what my breakfast mates were eating. Also, I was hungry. Near-death experiences (and possible activation of magical bloodline powers), I believed, tended to do that. It was likely the adrenaline burning up calories. Or the hysterical throat-choking nerve-freezing stomach-curdling horrific fear.
… Was that how adrenaline worked? I didn't teach that part of biology, usually.
Fried eggs, sausages, toasted whole wheat bread. Glass of milk. A bowl of what looked like the stewed lovechild of oatmeal and rice porridge. A communal jar of darkish purplish fruit jam I suspected to be a berry mix, a platter of decoratively molded butter, a big dish of apples, cherries, pears, and peaches. The siblings got identical servings, the parents got bigger ones.
I was kind of thirsty, but I was more of a water person than a milk person, especially when I had to assume it was whole milk by default, instead of my usual 1% or 2%. Call me a health fanatic or call me a conscious eater, I had grown out of whole milk since I was a child, and the fatty, creamy taste now just made me struggle to swallow.
Glancing around, I couldn't find a nearby server to request water. We were alone in the room.
… On the other hand, I was a child again. (And who knew how clean the water here was even after boiling, if this turned out to be a more of a medieval setting after all.) I was curious to test that vague, half-recalled fun fact about taste buds stimulating different neural pathways for each person. And Belphegor obviously enjoyed his tall glass of milk, judging by all his emphatic and noisy slurping.
Then I remembered the thumb tacks. If Rasiel liked milk as much as Belphegor did, or even if he didn't, I found it quite easy to entertain the notion that Belphegor, bored of waiting around for his disliked (despised?) sibling to show up to breakfast, had taken the opportunity to spit in their drink. Simple and quick, with a sharp spike of spite. Their parents weren't the perceptive kind, either. Just lean over and hawk up some phlegm.
I didn't consider myself the paranoid type, but I could easily see myself becoming one, living here, unless I got things straightened out with Belphegor and fast. I had looked after siblings before. Sibling rivalry was a real thing, though I'd never handled a case as toxic as this. There were many things one could do to make life less fun for someone living in same vicinity as you, without getting lethal. Pranks covered a lot of ground, and a lot of the spectrum of malice.
I didn't drink the milk.
As an alternative, and because I liked fruit, I grabbed an apple and started peeling it. I was pleased by my lack of reaction to personally handling a knife, even as I split my attention between pondering the strange differences between what I expected from a medieval breakfast and what I expected from a modern breakfast, and trying to get the entire skin off in one perfect unbroken coil. It looked like I'd just have to bear with holding back flinches at having knives pointed at me.
A clearing of a child's throat broke my concentration. My grip jolted slightly - not much, but just enough to break off the forming coil into a simple curl instead. A look at Belphegor's grin confirmed my suspicions that he'd timed it on purpose.
"Ushishishi… Where's your crown, Siel~?" he inquired 'innocently'. Which is to say, not actually with any convincing air of innocence, but instead with that certain tone of easily spotted faux-innocence that all children used when they wanted to be caught out on a lie.
My automatic answer stuck in my throat as I eyed him warily.
Suddenly, I was rather glad I'd forgotten to grab the crown while dressing myself, and had, indeed, forgotten all about associating 'the crown' with 'something I should wear' until now. Whatever he'd done to the crown - and I was sure he'd done something to the crown, with a question like that, spoken in words like that - was probably much less fatal than a knife in the dark, but that still didn't mean I wanted any part of it.
"… I forgot to wear it today," I replied slowly but truthfully, trying to rearrange my facial features into the expression of someone who had tripped the mysterious trap and was attempting to cover up for it. I made a mental note to carefully check the inside and underside of the crown when I next went back to the bedroom.
He smirked with about 50% more teeth - though I couldn't help categorizing it as 50% more 'fang' - and then returned to his breakfast. So I had probably passed the test, whatever it was.
… Was passing the test a good thing, though? He looked happier, but at the assumed expense of myself - or at least 'Rasiel' - so it wasn't very promising for my objective of improving our relationship. Was that a slight I shouldn't have forgiven? It'd just been easier to let him assume his scheme had worked. Still, a tendency to let go of petty things could snowball into allowing big things build up traction, and I was very concerned about what 'big things' would mean in this situation. 'Averting more assassination attempts' was pretty much the most basic simplification of my most pressing and current short-term goal, after all.
I crunched into my apple.
"Ahem," the king coughed. He turned to face me. Okay, game face on. Time to turn up the earnestness.
I swallowed, and then looked at him and tilted my head with a polite smile, simultaneously raising my eyebrows and widening my eyes in the universal cipher for yes-I'm-listening-to-this-very-important-thing-you-have-to-say©. It was a practiced look, after going through formal education, countless job interviews, and way too many 'business mixers'. Although in the case of the latter, it had admittedly gotten me way more free drinks than my attempts at flirting, which always turned out too clumsy or subtle or intelligent (and thus resulting in the same problems as 'subtle', meaning nobody could tell if I was actually hitting on them or if they were just being egotistic).
Belatedly, it struck me that I didn't know how this expression worked out on Rasiel's face, which leant itself more to imperious glances or arch looks. Before I could internally get too anxious over this possible miscommunication of intent, though - what if I looked sarcastic? Could a 4-year-old look sarcastic? I've met plenty of overly cynical 4-year-olds though, and Belphegor seems just the type to snarkily ask adults they don't like where babies come from - Rasiel's father had already continued.
He appeared rather concerned. "Rasiel, you are… aware of why you had hair covering your eyes before?"
Looks like it was time for that conversation.
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It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you.
In which RaCel struggles with patient instincts to sympathize with Belphegor and be nice to him, against the facts of Belphegor hating their guts and having literally tried to kill them just last night.
Although he'd probably expected Rasiel to, like he said before, tackle him off the bed. (Un?)fortunately, he got a much less combat-ready RaCel who freaked out, froze up, and set things on Fire.
At the end of this arc I might just write a PoV!switch chapter from Bel, the maids, etc. Don't you love unreliable narrators?
In answer to a review question: Yes, the Varia will have a presence eventually after the Kingdom Arc.
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[Profile: Chapter Four
Name: Rasiel [Classified]; …?
Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; …?
Titles: Prince; Heir Apparent; Crown Prince; …?
Nickname(s): Siel, Angel Child, Razzy
Age: 4 ½
Gender: AMAB Gender-neutral; Agender
Likes: Living; Soft Things; Neck-covers; Fruit; ...?
Dislikes: Impracticality; Spoiling Children; Outright Lying; Milk (?); ...?
Notes: - Awakened the 'fire of the royal bloodline' earlier than expected.
- Dead ringer for Belphegor, the younger twin.
- Default expression is calm and attentive. Has to consciously change expression. Does not always accurately project their intended expression.
- Scares the maids (+ staff).
- Forgetful of crown.
- Burgeoning paranoia (?).
- …?]
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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!
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That… was…
The most unoriginal name I'd ever heard, if she was being serious. And I've had past students present to me, in all sincerity, their pampered pedigree puppies called 'Spot' and 'Princess Fluffy'. One memorable child had proudly shown me how good 'Mister Wolfy Rex Fido' was at fetching Frisbees.
