Cersei Strauss
She was afraid that the child she had been assigned to care for would refuse to even let her come close. The thought lingered in her mind, heavy and persistent, that she might be sent back to the orphanage in disgrace, with every bit of money spent on her demanded in return. It was not just fear of failure, but fear of being discarded again.
She looked at Hila, trying to read her. There was a certain ease in the woman's expression, a composed warmth that did not feel forced. Nothing about her suggested the kind of person who would go to such extremes. If anything, she seemed patient, assured in a way that made Cersei believe she would not be judged so quickly.
"Arin, Mama is here," Madame Hila called out as they stepped into the garden.
Cersei's attention shifted forward.
The garden was larger than she had expected, stretching out in careful order, at least thirty meters across. It was well-kept without feeling rigid, each part placed with intent. At the center stood a Japanese palm tree, its presence immediately familiar to her. Hila had donated one just like it to the orphanage, and she remembered how much attention it had drawn at the time.
Beneath the tree sat a small figure.
For a moment, she thought it was a doll. The stillness of it, the way it seemed almost placed there rather than simply sitting, made it hard to believe it was a person.
Then she realized. It was him. Arin. The boy sat quietly under the shade, his jet black hair falling naturally over his forehead. He did not react immediately to Hila's voice, and something about that stillness made Cersei hesitate without fully understanding why.
"Arin," Madame called out again. This time, he heard her. His face lit up so suddenly that it caught Cersei off guard. The change was immediate, like a quiet world coming alive in an instant. The softness of it, the pure, unguarded joy, made something in her chest tighten, her breath faltering just slightly.
If there was ever a simple answer to what adorable meant, it would have been him in that moment. He pushed himself up without hesitation and ran straight toward her, small steps, quick and eager, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
Hila did not move until he reached her. Then she bent slightly, lifting him into her arms with practiced ease, holding him close. Madame kissed his cheek before turning toward her.
"Arin, this is Cersei. Cersei Strauss. She will be staying with us from now on, and she will take good care of you."
For a moment, Cersei forgot how to breathe.
Her attention went straight to the boy's face, bracing herself without even realizing it. She had expected hesitation, maybe indifference, something distant or uncertain. Instead, she found a smile.
Bright. Open. Completely unguarded.
It was the kind of expression that did not hold anything back, the kind that settled into memory without effort and refused to leave. For a second, everything else faded, and all she could focus on was that single, disarming warmth.
"Hello, Miss Cersei."
"Hello, Master Arin," she said, giving a small, careful bow. "It is nice to meet you."
He blinked, then his expression shifted almost instantly. "Huh? Do not bow. And do not call me Master, that is so embarrassing." He laughed, a light, unrestrained sound. "Just call me Arin."
"There, you see?" Hila said, gently bouncing him in her arms, her tone playful. "My poor little Ari does not like being called Master. Just treat him like your best friend."
Cersei hesitated for the briefest moment, the words settling in her mind.
Before she could respond, he leaned forward slightly in Hila's arms, looking straight at her with that same bright expression.
"Yes, I will be your best friend, Cersei. You can call me Ari, too, if you like."
"I will try my best to be your guardian and your best friend, Ari," she said, the hesitation still lingering in her voice. "I will not let you down."
Arin tilted his head slightly, studying her for a second.
"Hmm," he nodded, as if coming to a decision. "You also need to drop that formal way of talking. I do not like it."
His tone was not harsh, just a matter of fact, like he was setting a simple rule.
Cersei paused, caught off guard by how easily he said it.
"Just talk normally," he added, a small smile returning to his face, as if that alone would solve everything.
"Did you have your lunch, my little angel?" Hila asked, her voice soft as she looked at him. Arin nodded easily. "John and I ate together."
"Good." She turned to Cersei then, her attention shifting without losing that same calm warmth. "Did you have your lunch, Cersei?"
Cersei straightened slightly. "Yes, madame."
"Good. Now it is time to rest."
"Huh? But I want to go play," Arin protested, his tone rising with immediate resistance.
"Not without resting first," Hila said, tapping his nose lightly. "You can play as much as you want after you wake up."
There was no real room to argue in her voice, only a gentle certainty that made it clear the decision was already made.
She walked back toward the tree and sat beneath it, settling in comfortably. Arin stretched out across her lap without hesitation, as if it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
After a moment, she looked up and gestured for Cersei to join them.
Cersei hesitated only briefly before moving closer and sitting down beside them, careful and composed, though her attention kept drifting back to the boy resting so easily in Hila's lap.
===============
Arin Valmiki Étienne de Valenbourg
Things are about to get more fun with a new person in this estate. He thought as he relaxed into his mother's lap, the last of his resistance fading as her fingers moved gently through his hair. It was a familiar rhythm, one he never seemed to tire of, and before long, his body grew still under her touch.
It had been five years since he was born into this world.
His mother was a French noble, a Marquise by title, carrying herself with the quiet authority that came with it. His father had been an Indian British. Arin had never known him beyond a name and a handful of stories. The man had died before he was born, leaving behind only fragments of how he and His mother met, the kind of person he had been, and the way she spoke of him when she thought no one was listening.
As for money, I have never really thought about it. I know I am loaded. Old money. The kind that does not need, you know, explanation.
We have vineyards, farms, and estates spread across France, Luxembourg, Monaco, Switzerland and Italy. Not small ones either. The kind that people recognize, the kind that has been around long enough to matter.
From my father's side, there were two estates in London. Mayfair and Knightsbridge.
I have never been to either. Still, they are ours. If I ever had to put a number on it, I would not bother being exact.
It is well into the billions. Euros, not dollars. And paired with whatever remained of his past life, that instinctive, analytical edge he could not fully explain, it put him in a position most people could not even imagine.
Yeah. He was set for one hell of a beautiful life.
But, I am fucked. Completely, utterly, and royally fucked!
One day, I was just sitting there, watching TV like any normal kid. And then I saw it. Stark Industries. At first, I thought it was just a movie promotion or something. Some brand, some company, someone made up. Then it kept showing up. News, interviews, tech showcases. The name did not go away. And there is an Actual Tony Stark played by Robert Downey fucking Jr.
And then it got worse. Wakanda. An actual country. Not fiction. Not some story someone told to sound interesting. A real place, spoken about like it had always been there.
That was the moment it clicked.
This was not my world. I was in the motherfucking Marvel Cinematic Universe. Hopefully.
Because if this turned out to be some AU where things went even more to shit than I remembered, then whoever put me here had a seriously twisted sense of humor.
I lay there, staring up through the leaves, trying to piece it together. Stark Industries was real. Wakanda was real. Tony Stark looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
There was no room left for doubt.
Which meant everything else was real too.
Aliens. Gods. World ending bullshit. And I was five. Yeah.
Whoever dropped me here, if you are listening, I am going to need some fucking help.
He closed his eyes.
And for some reason, my memory was fucked.
I knew I had lived before. That much was clear. There was this constant awareness at the back of my mind, something that told me that this was not my first life.
But when I tried to reach for anything concrete, there was nothing. No name. No face. No past. Just fragments of awareness without substance, like trying to remember a dream that slipped away the moment you woke up.
If I had to guess, I would say I was missing more than half of it. Sixty percent, maybe more. Enough to know something was wrong. Not enough to do anything about it.
He felt a soft kiss brush against his eyes.
"Sleep, Arin. Your eyes are moving too much," his mother said gently.
"Okay."
Just like that, the tension in him eased. The thoughts, the questions, all of it slipped to the back of his mind without resistance.
That was a problem for the older him.
For now, he focused on the feeling of her hand moving through his hair, slow and steady, grounding in a way nothing else was.
His breathing evened out. He yawned.
And before long, sleep took him.