1 Chapter 1: The-boy-who-died.

I died.

The thought hit me harder than Mike Tyson's left hook, I died. It wasn't an accident, nor a murder; that would be too glamourous, wouldn't it?

No, what I got was as mediocre as the rest of my life. Let me explain, it all started with a nasty little fella called cancer, who started his life in my stomach before spreading through my body; thereby ending mine.

Why was it mediocre? This type of tumour usually appeared due external factors; smoking, obesity etc.… I did none of these things. I never smoked, nor did I plan to as the mere smell of cigarettes were enough to turn me into a coughing mess. And I wasn't fat by any mean, my fit body was one of my few redeeming qualities.

And yet, I got cancer. Because of a flaw in my genetics, I died. Spending the last dollars of my inheritance to pay up my medications and experimental treatments. I shouldn't have to worry about those things, I should have been in some high school cramming for my exams and getting drunk, not in a hospital bed choosing a memorial service.

Sadly, life was hardly fair.

I learned that a long time ago. I was raised by my grandfather, that old hawk put some sense and stability in my young life, he taught me everything I know. Sadly, he died from pneumonia.

But I walked forward, lived life, learnt more lessons along the way. I had a good head on my shoulders, and enough money to pay for a university. I could have been something, became someone…instead of dying a nobody.

I was not a particularly religious person, I knew that Jesus was born in Christmas, that he changed water into a wine and came back for Easter to find chocolate eggs. At least that's what grandpa used to say, we were rather content trying to be as nice as we could and making the most of what we had. If there was a creator out there, I just hoped he wouldn't throw me in hell.

The last two years of my life were spent resisting, clawing my way out of the ever-growing pit. It was pointless, but I had to try; I owed it to myself. Barely preserving my sanity by throwing myself in books, movies, manga and all kind of entertainments. I eventually developed an appetite too great to be satisfied by mainstream products; it was about that time that I took the final step; fanfiction.

It was strange, weird, queer, odd, abnormal and all kinds of messed up.

I loved it.

But I was living on borrowed time, my body too weak to endure anymore treatments and my wallet too light to even try. Just like that, my heart stopped beating and my brain stopped sending anymore signals.

I died, but curiously enough instead of the expected complete mental collapse. Or if you prefer a more spiritual approach, reaching an afterlife of sorts. I found myself in a state of total sensorial deprivation, retaining my conscience along the way. I did not know where I was, how long I was there or if I even was.

All I could do was wait.

As I started wondering if I would go mad, or if my mind would eventually shatter. I felt the urge to sleep, which was impossible, since… I …didn't have a body…

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Did you ever wake up from a deep slumber, only to find out this was in fact not your bed? Did it ever happen to you when you weren't drunk or stoned? If not, then you wouldn't be able to understand the kind of instinctive dread I was currently facing.

This is not a hospital bed. My eyes were still closed, but I felt the hard mattress below me and it wasn't the one I practically lived in.

This isn't a hospital's smell. Instead of clean, sanitised air with a hint of medicaments. It smelled like old clothes and my grandpa's old gardening shack. It stank, but in a nice way.

This is not my room. I didn't have to open my eyes to know that, but it didn't matter; I was dead aft…

"Fuck." This wasn't my voice! My mind went blank as it tried and failed to make sense of the situation, relying on my instinct I quickly got up to assess the situation.

It was a small room, scarcely furnished. Fortunately, I was alone, I didn't want to imagine what I'd do otherwise. There was an old bed, if it could even be called that. the frame was one of those rusted monstrosities likely to give you tetanus if you tried to clean it while the mattress was so uncomfortable I'd rather sleep on the floor.

There was a worn-down wooden closet, the kind my grandfather used in his house. As well as a small table and a chair. The windows were covered by some hideous pink curtains, but from the light that passed through them it should still be early in the morning.

As I recovered enough mental awareness to slip out of auto-pilot, the reality of the situation hit me harder than Tyson's right hook.

"This" I mumbled looking at my small, pale hand "is not my body."

It was strange. I have of course read many reincarnation fanfics, half of them were like that after all. But they were just that, stories; wishful, fantastic escapes from the monotony of the mundane. Who in their right mind would believe that? People could be ridiculous, but there were limits to credulity.

Yet here I am, either having the most realistic pre-mortal hallucination. Or a post-mortem transmigration; a revival. None of those were particularly convincing, but I'd stick with the second; if only for the sake of my sanity, or what remains of it.

I got up, nearly falling down as I forgot how to properly walk for a moment. The cold wooden tiles on my naked feet felt real, the air I breathed felt real. The lack of discomfort was an alien, but welcome experience.

I'm alive.

This was real. I did not know how or why it happened, and I really didn't need to. It was real. I was alive, that was more than enough.

"It is an undeniable quality of man, that when faced with extinction, every alternative is preferable" The words resounding within my mind were spoken by a deep, elderly voice. Their familiarity brought some much-needed warmth to my speeding heart, cold pragmatism could be oddly comforting.

'I need to know more about my situation' I thought, carefully inspecting the room for anything I might have missed in my haste. I was desperate for more information, I needed to know where I was and whether or not it was safe.

I was in an old house, 'a poor household, perhaps?' another look made me reconsider; there was no photo, no toy, the table was devoid of anything save a few books and writing supplies. 'No, it's too impersonal. Too empty to be a room in a family home.' That was not good.

Carefully making my way toward the closet, mindful of not getting more intimate with the floor than I necessary. My lack of balance was acerbated by the unfamiliar, diminutive body I found myself in though.

'It's a child's room.' I judged from the few sets of clothes inside 'Not a particularly wealthy one, there is only a few and they're not of ideal quality' Taking a look at my own, threadbare pyjamas, I selected some more suitable garments; namely old black trousers, a grey cotton jumper and a pair of ratty sneakers.

Done with putting them on, and feeling considerable better. I went to what was certainly my biggest hope of finding out about this body's situation; the desk.

It was an old thing, I rather liked that. There was a few books on it; mostly standard primary school stuff, though it was pretty informative. 'I'm in England as a nine years old' No matter how humorous the thought was, it partly answered the 'where' even if more precision would be appreciated. 'I've always wanted to visit Europe.' I thought as I idly went through the drawers searching for anything remotely informative.

"Bingo, baby." I grinned, picking up the very best thing I could possibly find there; A simple notebook of vital importance, a diary.

Two words were written on the cover: Magnus Arran

I forced down the bile that threatened the flow up my stomach, my blood ran cold as I finally quit being a self-centred selfish piece of shit and realised I took over the body of a child. 'I didn't ask for anything, but neither did that boy…' even if I knew it was not my fault, I couldn't help but be disgusted. Disgusted at what happened to him, disgusted at how happy I had been, disgusted that the price of my survival had been the life of an innocent child.

If the price of your rebirth had been the life of a little boy, would you accept it? Could you live with yourself afterward? The only thing that made it bearable was my own cluelessness, and the hope that he received the same opportunity. 'Or better yet, that he was already dead when I took over…'

It took all of my nerve to open the notebook, but I had to. To know the one whose life I had usurped if not for my own survival.

I am now Magnus Arran, for better or worse.

Magnus Aran was an orphan, named after many Norwegian kings and one Frankish emperor. His parents disappeared a long time ago under unknown circumstances, the lack of known relatives saw him put in an orphanage near the capital with other similarly unfortunate children.

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I continued reading.

It wasn't the most accommodating place, but they were clothed, fed and schooled. The orphanage was managed by a strict, scarcely seen headmaster who did his best to keep them afloat. A couple caretakers and Mr. Duncan, an old, funny janitor with a good heart.

The later was a good friend of Magnus; he'd tell him stories about his youth, cheer him up when he was down and offer both wisdom and a listening ear without complain.

Magnus was a bright little boy it seemed, school wasn't hard for him. Though he had troubles making friends, even with the other orphans. Old Duncan told him that he shouldn't worry about it, and the boy was perfectly fine with the arrangement; he preferred playing chess with his elderly friend and reading books in the library over running around kicking balls with the other children.

Though he had some strange things happen to him, it wasn't anything i should worry about, it seemed to be his imagination; He claimed finding himself in the kitchens when he got hungry at night, those same kitchens were locked and he was in his bed a second before. A child trying, and failing to bully him tripped over his own legs several times in a row, the poor boy ended up crying and blamed Magnus for the whole debacle. The latest one involved spontaneously starting a small fire in his room, he luckily managed to stifle it before caused any damage other than a few scorching marks on the floor.

I wouldn't put any stock on those stories normally; but I just woke up in a child's body after experiencing my own death, there was indeed faint burning marks in the corner of the room and more importantly; I was levitating.

"Fuck" was all I could say when I did indeed, get very well acquainted with the floor.

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Hey guys, it's everyone's favourite cheesemonger here!

This story is a little thing i've written some time ago before promptly forgetting about it. I stumbled on it between the guts of a politician and his non-existent honour and thought ' Hey, why not give it to the mortals? These guys would take any half-decent story with the kind of chicken-damned stories they have to deal with '

And here it is, Enjoy, or don't. I've got some pretty nice chapters in reserve and i'll just write new ones if you sirs (and ladies) are on board.