How did I become a baby? Well, obvious birds and bees aside, maybe it's better to phrase this question as: How did I get into this body? Then he remembered the crash, the pain, again, better not to think about this. The only possibility is reincarnation, only if that was the case was, he not supposed to have lost his memories? At least that is what he thought that process to entail. He was always a fatalist, as most of scholars, the death is final, the end. Life, or rather death, proved him wrong.
Don't panic, just wait and see. he thought trying to calm his rising emotions.
To pass the time he focused on the sounds in his surroundings and the things he saw in that brief window as he was moved about. His vision was the same as before, a solid -3, all blurry and not focused. Yes, I remember that kids don’t have their visual organs developed integrally when born. Still, he saw a young woman, light skinned and raven of hair, was on the bed and bleeding from a laceration on the lower part of the stomach. Individuals of all kinds of ages and sexes were hovering around her, putting their hands around the wound, probably trying everything they could to save her life. That's probably the mother. It looked like her life was slowly drawing its last breath. Weird how someone he didn't even know or have any interaction with at all could trigger this sadness. Maybe there truly was something else that connected a mother and child in ways other than pure genetics. Thoughts about the family that he left on Earth wanted to drill in his head but he blocked them at the moment, to much in shock at the moment for a depression.
He firmly planted his gaze on the yellowish ceiling and mourned for her passing, silently crying. The world continued to move around him, yet his lament took over him he didn’t take notice of anything else until that same young woman he thought was dead for sure took him in her arms and started cooing and whispering things. How is she alive? That bloody thing was like 30 cm long, at least. He panicked and started thrashing his arms and legs about. She cradled him near her bosom in an intimate attempt to calm him, but how was he to get or for that matter remain calm?
In his blind panic, another surprise made itself known, his watery eyes did not see it coming. His supply of oxygen stopped; he could not take another breath through his mouth. Luckily his nose kicked in. He still tried pushing away whatever was blocking the way, but his short jelly arms could do nothing to it. So, he tried biting the block. That didn't help, but there was a change. His efforts did grant him a reward of a kind. Milk. This is milk. The woman was breastfeeding him. Just a minute ago she was supposed to be dead and now she was throwing milk down his throat. No wonder babies cry all the time, everything hurts, no personal space and above all, you can’t move your head. It was a miserable existence and probably the reason that babies didn’t remember their childhood. As uncomfortable situations go, this one was a solid 9 out of 10.
He calmed himself down and stopped squirming. He knew he had to eat and this was the best food probably the only one for him right now. So he slowly drank till he could no more and then slowly detached his mouth and politely knocked his arm on the side of the milkmaids' apparatus to let her know he was full. He got another reward a moment later when she flashed him a radiant smile and kissed him on the forehead. His new mother was a beautiful woman and her breasts were a feast, in his case in more ways than one. She was young, maybe mid-twenties at most with emerald green eyes that had small golden flecks sprinkled about the iris. A heart-shaped face with a delicate nose of just the right size for it. Small yet full lips concealed a set of perfect teeth, that had only just begun to lose their perfect white color. She also had a small scar on the far-left side of the face, below the ear, but it healed nicely although you could still see it below new skin. It did not take away anything from her charm, if anything it added a certain ferocity.
He was honestly relieved she was well and for more than his well-being. But he was eager to find out how did those people get a woman with a laceration that large, who lost God knows how much blood, back on her feet and walking in a mere half an hour. It looked like a miracle. Even with the best medical care, patients are required to stay in bed under meds for some time. He was almost certain there was no medicine or procedure like that back home. There were plenty of tales that were straight out of some sci-fi story, things that can be done theoretically in labs, but none were implemented world-wide.
He trusted his eyes and they told him that this happened. What these people did would be a useful thing to know how to do, so if an opportunity to find out presented itself he should probably grab it. Even learning a few tricks, could prove life-saving. And now he was sleepy, tired out of nowhere.
How long until I can do a thing on my own? A few years? he thought.
As the drowsy sleep caught him in his clutches he thought about the situation he was in. Should he be in some coma and continue this figment of his imagination so be it. But he should also be prepared for the possibility that this was some sort of transfer and that everything was real. He honestly liked that option the best. There were people back home he would miss, the depression creeping out from its hole, but being alive and depressed was better than not existing at all.
For a few minutes he was the main attraction in the room, everyone wanted to meet him and tell something to his face. Not a word of what they said sounded like something he heard before, so he allowed his tiredness to wash over him, with strange faces escorting him to sleep.
Regret came first after waking up; a suffocating blanket woven from the threads of what could have been. It wasn’t the dramatic, operatic regret of a hero’s fall, but the insidious, gnawing ache of a life abruptly truncated—a symphony left unfinished. Memories flickered like fractured holograms: his home, a bastion of comfort and coziness; his office, with boards of calculations; Sofia’s laughter, a vibrant melody now silenced by the cold finality of death; his mother’s voice, a final, unanswered question ringing in the hollow chambers of his mind: “You’ll visit soon, yes?”
He had traded the life he had for the brutal, unyielding reality of a crosswalk, the blinding glare of headlights a stark, violent punctuation mark on his life’s narrative. Now, reborn? into a world both alien and achingly familiar, he was a prisoner in his own flesh, his mind a sharp, crystalline entity trapped within the clumsy, unresponsive shell of an infant. Each involuntary twitch, each frustrated gurgle, was a cruel, mocking reminder of the intellectual heights he had scaled, the vast landscapes of knowledge he had traversed. Thoughts for tomorrow. He was always proud to be an optimist and a happy person, the thoughts about his loss will be processed in due time, but not now. As a baby he will have a good 6 months to take care of it, bit by bit. His stomach though, was a more pressing matter.
He woke up hungry, his stomach was starting to rumble in a threatening way, one that made him think of hungry beasts eating him from the inside. It was pitch dark at a first glance, yet his eyes soon adjusted to what little light there was and he was able to see a few silhouettes. The woman that gave birth to him was sleeping right next to him, her steady breath tickling his ear. Another rumble. He wanted to give this woman some more time to sleep, after all, it was a tiring business delivering a baby. Rumble. So he waited a bit to see if someone was going to come and check on him. And waited... RUMBLE. But no one came, and she remained asleep. RUMBLE! So he figured he would do a favor for his new parent and get them here to feed their child before they lose it to something so easily preventable. He thought that his stomach was probably making a bit of an exaggeration, but better safe than sorry.
Never a good actor he still made an attempt to cry. "Waaa!" That sounded like someone kicked a seal. I can do better.
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"Whaa?!" Now that just sounded… confused.
The next few cries went out into the night and silence was the only answer, then he felt offended that he couldn’t even make a decent baby sound. Then he went with a few half-hearted attempts, an experiment to start with. He monitored how the woman reacted to each. The one that finally did the trick was NEEEH!, he held it for a few seconds, and in moments he could feel and hear movements in the dark, right next to him. Success! he would high five himself if he could do it.
He heard the woman’s voice gently whispering as she did something he could not observe from his position. A small light bloomed in the night and then she came near him with a lamp in one hand and the other held the sheet she used to cover herself with. Her voice followed everything she did, from checking his diaper to breastfeeding. He tried to cover his face with his hands while she inspected the content of the diapers, the embarrassment almost too much for his little heart, but then he thought about how many more times this precise thing would happen until he was able to do it on his own. He helped babysit a friends’ baby, and now he understood that neither role is nice.
Babies had a task to eat and shit, so looking at it from that perspective made this a task very well done. High marks. The stain he saw was probably occupying half the rag. After clean-up and feeding, she carried him for a bit around the room speaking with him with a soft voice. He could tell she was tired, so he pretended to fall asleep and soon she gently lowered him onto the bed and made herself comfortable next to him. She was asleep in mere moments as a toll for all she did earlier today. He once read somewhere that babies can sleep up to twenty hours a day, some even more, and he could feel the truth of that coming over him.
In the morning he was woken up when the bed moved as she got up. She noticed and talked at him again, again he understood nothing, then she changed his diaper again, and for a moment he saw the way that things would go in the next few months. Eat, shit, sleep and think.
Repeat. And again, repeat, what a nice future.
Even if I survive physically, will I do the same mentally? he asked himself, suddenly concerned. While he pondered the implications of being a baby, then a toddler, the woman, whom he decided at that moment to call "the woman" and not "mother", took him to have a check-up with that old lady. Only she was no lady. She went and poked and prodded every part of his body, some too private to even mention and after ten minutes of that, she seemed pleased, and he felt violated. And then he felt sleepy again, and with sleep being the only escape he was currently capable of, he did not resist.
Worst were the dreams. Fragments of his past life surfaced in the liminal space between sleep and waking, each a cruel mockery of his current state. Flashes of the previous life, equations spiked with meeting, games and sword fighting, now reduced to the incoherent scribbles of a child’s mind. He'd see the complex, branching diagrams, each line a thread in the tapestry of reality he once manipulated, now replaced by the simple, blurred shapes of his infant's world.
He remembered the weight of a stylus in his hand, not a clumsy rattle, but a tool of precision, etching intricate designs onto touch-sensitive displays, manipulating virtual models of subatomic particles. Now, his fingers could barely grasp a cloth, let alone command the delicate instruments of his past. The hum of his computer, a marvel of human progress that allowed him to play any game or do simulations, was replaced by the monotonous rhythm of a creaking cradle, a constant reminder of his helplessness.
He’d recall the tabletop games played with friends, the strategic battles waged across intricately painted maps, the complex rules and intricate dice rolls a test of his intellect and cunning. Laughter would echo in his ears, the boisterous camaraderie of late-night sessions, the shared triumphs and the good-natured ribbing. Then, the crushing reality of tiny fists, the helpless flailing of limbs he couldn’t command, the inability to even roll a simple wooden toy.
And the LARP sessions, those vibrant, imaginative escapes into fantasy worlds, where he’d wielded foam swords and cast imaginary spells, embodying characters with grand narratives and complex motivations. He’d remember the ridiculous costumes, the improvised dialogue, the sheer, unadulterated joy of pretending. The time he’d tripped over his own shoes, the moment his elaborate roman helmet had fallen off during a crucial battle, the sheer, unbridled laughter that had followed. Now, he couldn’t even control his own body, let alone the movements of a fictional hero.
Then he’d wake to the crushing reality of tiny fists, the helpless flailing of limbs he couldn’t command. The dissonance was a wound that never scabbed over, a constant, agonizing reminder of the life he had lost, the skills he could no longer use, the experiences he could no longer share. The vibrant, complex world he once inhabited had been reduced to the simple, blurry existence of an infant, a stark and brutal contrast that tore at the fabric of his being. Happy thoughts Leon, happy thoughts. He was waking up sometimes nightmares, crying and flailing.
Then—warmth. Not the sterile, humming warmth of his office, nor the electric buzz of neon-lit city streets, not even the central heating of his cozy apartment. This was something primal, something deeply rooted in the earth itself. The heat of skin against his cheek, the steady, rhythmic thump of a heartbeat beneath his ear, the earthy scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs clinging to rough-spun cloth. It was the warmth of life itself, a stark, visceral contrast to the cold, metallic tang of his own blood, a memory that lingered like a phantom limb.
A voice, soft but firm, murmured above him, a gentle command whispered in the darkness. “Easy now, little one. Breathe.”
He obeyed, his lungs burning with the unfamiliar air, thick with the scents of damp earth, iron, and something bitter like crushed leaves. His vision swam, shapes shifting in and out of focus, then sharpened just enough to reveal a woman’s face hovering above him.
Mother. The realization settled within him like a stone, a quiet, undeniable truth. This was Elara, his mother now, a woman forged in the crucible of a world far removed from the sterile confines of his past life, or at least it was the impression that he had. It was easy to pick the name since every interaction between her and others started with it.
The second day he met his father. Maybe the man had been there yesterday too, but he was too occupied and shocked to care. It was already noon if the light from the narrow windows was an indication. He woke up after another meeting with his fears, crying like a champ.
A man’s voice rumbled nearby, deep and resonant, a sound that radiated quiet strength. “He’s crying a lot more than the other one was. At least that’s what the old lady said.”
Leon turned his head—a monumental effort—toward the sound. A broad-shouldered figure stood near the bed. He looked to be in his early thirties, clean-shaved with piercing blue eyes. But it was his clothes that gave Leon pause. The man wasn't wearing a suit or casual wear; he was clad in heavy leather and a quilted vest that looked like a gambeson. There were visible scuffs and dark stains on the material, the kind of wear and tear that came from hard, physical labor—or combat.
What year was I born in? Leon wondered, his mind racing through historical eras. Is this a reenactment? No, the smell of iron and sweat is too real.
Beside the man stood another woman, distinct from the one who fed him. She wore a crisp, dark dress topped with a stark white apron so stiffly starched it looked like it could stand on its own.
A maid? Leon’s internal gears turned. Either I’ve been born into a very dedicated historical commune, or this family is wealthy enough to afford live-in help.
The man looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, and he moved with a slight stiffness, yet he seemed genuinely happy as he leaned over the crib. A tired, lopsided smile touched his lips.
"Well," the man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he looked from the maid to the infant. "I suppose that’s the end of that. Goodbye to our night's sleep for the foreseeable future. I thought the noise at the site was bad, but you’ve got a real set of pipes on you, little one."
The maid didn't crack a smile, but she adjusted the blanket with a precision that felt practiced, almost clinical. Her presence was a sharp contrast to the man’s rugged, worn-down appearance. Between the starched apron and the scuffed leather armor, Leon felt a growing sense of unease. This didn't look like any "modern" home he had ever seen.
“Every child is different,” Elara murmured, her thumb gently brushing his cheek. Her touch, rough yet tender, sent a strange, unfamiliar warmth through him, a primal connection that transcended words and logic. It was a warmth that spoke of care, of a bond forged in the crucible of life itself. Even if she was tired, since let’s be real, one day is not enough for a full recovery she still put his needs above hers’.
He fell asleep again after another session of feeding and cleaning, ignoring the discussion that passed between his new parents. Luckily his father didn’t try to take him in his hands since it would have been awkward for both.
