I hated this.
Every moment of it.
The helplessness. The slowness. The sheer, unrelenting frustration of being trapped in a body that refused to obey me. I had once commanded armies, wielded a sword with precision, and stood tall as a symbol of strength. Now, I could not even lift my own head without effort. My limbs flailed uselessly, my cries came out as incoherent babble, and my vision blurred if I tried to focus on anything for too long.
Infancy was a prison.
But even in this prison, I was learning.
The days blurred together, a monotonous cycle of sleep, feed, and observe. My parents—William and the woman whose name I had yet to learn—were constants in this strange new existence. They were always there, their voices a steady hum in the background, their presence a source of warmth I could not yet fully comprehend.
William was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He moved with purpose, his hands calloused and strong, his demeanor calm but firm. He often sat by the window, cleaning an object I did not recognize—a long, metallic thing with a wooden stock and a narrow barrel. It was unlike anything I had seen in my past life. The way he handled it, carefully disassembling and reassembling it, suggested it was a weapon of some kind. But it was no sword, no bow, no weapon I could name.
Sometimes, he would glance at me, his expression unreadable, before returning to his task. I wanted to ask him what it was, what purpose it served, but my voice was useless, my questions trapped in my mind.
The woman—my mother—was different. She was softer, her voice a gentle melody that soothed the edges of my frustration. She held me often, her arms a cradle of warmth and safety. Her touch was careful, almost reverent, as if she feared I might break. And perhaps, in this fragile body, I might.
But it was not just her touch that intrigued me. It was the way she spoke to me, as if I could understand her words. She told me stories, her voice weaving tales of faraway places and brave heroes. She sang lullabies, her voice trembling with emotion, and whispered promises of a future filled with love and happiness.
"One day, you'll grow strong," she would say, her fingers brushing against my cheek. "Just like your father."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that this weakness was temporary, that I would one day reclaim the strength I had lost. But the days dragged on, each one a reminder of how far I had fallen.
The Frustration of Growth
Growth, I quickly realized, was a slow and agonizing process. My body was changing, but not fast enough. I could feel the muscles in my arms and legs growing stronger, but they were still useless. I could lift my head for a few seconds at a time, but the effort left me exhausted. My hands, once skilled and precise, now fumbled clumsily, unable to grasp even the simplest objects.
The worst part was the lack of control. I could not speak, could not express the thoughts that raced through my mind. I could only cry, a sound that grated on my nerves and made me feel even more helpless. My parents, of course, interpreted my cries as hunger or discomfort, and they would rush to soothe me. But their efforts, while well-meaning, only added to my frustration.
I wanted to scream. To demand answers. To tell them that I was not just a helpless infant, that I had once been someone important. But the words would not come. All I could do was lie there, trapped in this weak and useless body, and wait.
A Glimpse of the World
Despite my frustrations, I was not completely blind to the world around me. My parents' home was small but cozy, the walls lined with wooden panels and the floors covered with worn rugs. The air was often filled with the scent of herbs and smoke from the fireplace, a comforting aroma that reminded me of simpler times.
The room I spent most of my time in was sparsely furnished, with a wooden crib, a rocking chair, and a small table. A window let in natural light, and I could see the faint outline of trees swaying in the wind. Outside, the world was a mystery, but I was determined to uncover it.
My parents' conversations were another source of information. They spoke in hushed tones, their words often laced with worry. I caught snippets of their discussions—talk of money, of the war, of a world that seemed to be changing too quickly. But there were also moments of laughter, of shared glances and quiet affection, that hinted at a deeper bond between them.
One word, in particular, stood out to me: Eleanor.
It was my mother's name, though I did not yet know it. I heard my father call her by it one evening, his voice soft and tender. "Eleanor," he had said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You should rest. I'll take care of him."
The name lingered in my mind, a piece of the puzzle that was my new life. Eleanor. It suited her, I thought. It was elegant, refined, yet warm—much like the woman herself.
The Passage of Time
As the days turned into weeks, I began to notice small changes. My vision improved, allowing me to see more details in the room. My hearing sharpened, and I could distinguish between the different sounds of the house—the creak of the floorboards, the crackle of the fire, the distant chirping of birds.
I also grew more aware of my parents' routines. William would leave early in the morning, often returning late at night. He smelled of sweat and something acrid—gunpowder, though I did not yet know the word for it. His hands were rough, his face weary, and he carried that strange metallic object with him wherever he went. Eleanor, on the other hand, stayed home, tending to the house and to me. She cooked, cleaned, and sang, her presence a constant in my life.
But there was something beneath the surface, a tension that I could not yet understand. Eleanor often glanced at the door, her eyes filled with worry. William's shoulders were always tense, his movements quick and deliberate. They were hiding something, I realized. Something that they did not want me to know.
A Mother's Love
Despite the mysteries surrounding them, my parents' love for me was undeniable. Eleanor, in particular, doted on me, her affection unwavering. She would hold me for hours, her voice a soothing presence as she told me stories or sang lullabies. Her touch was gentle, her hands warm against my skin.
"One day," she whispered one night, her voice barely audible, "you'll understand why we do this. Why we protect you."
Her words sent a shiver down my spine. Protect me? From what?
But before I could dwell on it, exhaustion overtook me, and I drifted into a restless sleep.
The Promise of Strength
As I lay there, my mind racing with questions, I made a silent vow. I would not remain weak. I would grow stronger, faster, smarter. I would uncover the secrets of this world and reclaim the power I had lost.
But for now, I was just a baby. A helpless, fragile baby.
And I hated it.
But I would endure.
For Eleanor. For William. For the future that awaited me.
I would endure.
(PS/: I'll try to make it slow paced so we can develop our Arthur and knows more knowledge about Earth, which he didn't have. If you have any suggestions please comment, I'll read it and make sure to include it on the next chapters)