As my newborn body finally succumbed to its natural, overwhelming exhaustion, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest. It wasn't a physical sensation. It was… contentment. A deep, quiet sense of belonging that settled into the corners of my soul, a place that had always been empty. Maybe this whole "mother" thing wouldn't be so bad after all. I drifted off to sleep, feeling the faint pull of what I imagined was a tiny, self-satisfied smile on my chubby baby face.
My peaceful slumber was rudely interrupted by a cacophony of voices. People were cooing, whispering, and generally making a ruckus around my ornate crib. The sounds were a chaotic tapestry of overlapping congratulations, hushed medical reports, and the rustle of expensive fabrics as visitors came and went. The sheer volume of it all, filtered through my highly sensitive infant ears, was like a wall of noise that was beginning to grate on my nerves. I needed quiet. I needed to process.
"Tes, can you tune out these sounds?" I projected into the quiet of my mind. "Like, create an auditory filter. A firewall for my eardrums. Don't disturb me unless it's genuinely important."
"Acknowledged, Master. Engaging auditory filter. All non-critical acoustic data will be dampened to a baseline level. Good night."
Instantly, the world went quiet. The sensation was akin to slipping on a pair of high-end, noise-canceling headphones, but far more sophisticated. I could still perceive that people were talking the vibrations in the air, the faint pressure changes but their voices became a gentle, ignorable hum, a background murmur that faded into the tapestry of my consciousness. It was the perfect tool for an adult mind trapped in a baby's body, needing rest without the constant disturbance of well-meaning but incredibly loud visitors.
It felt like only minutes had passed, but it must have been a few hours, when Tes's voice gently nudged my consciousness, a cool stream of logic in the warm darkness of my sleep. "Master, a query. Should I engage defensive protocols? User's physical vessel is being shaken vigorously."
"What?"
My eyes snapped open. A man was holding me, his face mere inches from mine, and he was, in fact, jiggling me with a gentle but persistent rhythm, clearly trying to get some kind of response. He was a mountain of a man, not in fat but in solid, disciplined muscle. His frame was powerful and broad-shouldered, speaking of a lifetime of combat and command. His regal black attire, a formal ducal uniform edged with silver thread, was tailored perfectly to his imposing physique, made from materials that seemed to absorb the light while simultaneously radiating an aura of quiet, unassailable authority.
His hair was silver, a perfect match to my mother's, but it was cut short and practical, a military style that brooked no nonsense. Subtle streaks of grey were beginning to show at his temples, not signs of age but of experience, of countless nights spent poring over maps and making decisions that carried the weight of life and death. And his eyes… they were the color of a stormy sea, a deep, turbulent grey that held the weight of immense responsibility, but right now, they also held a startling amount of raw, genuine emotion. This had to be him.
The moment my own sapphire-blue eyes, a clear inheritance from my mother, met his, he stopped shaking me. The focused intensity in his gaze faltered, his stern expression melting into something that was almost, but not quite, a smile. It was more like wonder, a look of profound, stunned discovery. It was only then that I noticed my mother, Seraphine, hanging off his arm like a determined and very beautiful koala, desperately trying to get him to stop his overly enthusiastic examination of his newborn son.
"Tes, who is this imposing but admittedly good-looking man?" I asked internally.
"Based on the verbal introduction provided by your mother moments ago, that is Duke Kaelen Wight, your father. He reportedly rushed back from his post commanding the northern border as soon as the news of your birth reached him via magical communique. He covered a three-day journey in less than one."
Ah, that explained it. The man was probably running on pure adrenaline and overwhelming emotion, completely unused to handling something so small and fragile. A general accustomed to commanding armies and defending a kingdom's borders would naturally be uncertain when faced with a helpless infant. The fact that he'd abandoned his military duties to ride hell-for-leather across the country spoke volumes about his priorities.
My parents, now reunited, began to argue. It wasn't a hostile argument, but a playful, competitive debate, their voices a low, affectionate murmur. The topic: what my first word would be. "Mama" or "Papa." They leaned in close to my crib, their faces filling my limited field of vision, and began making the exaggerated, high-pitched sounds that adults universally believe will encourage speech in babies.
Are they insane? I was born maybe three hours ago. My brain, with its decades of experience, was fully functional, but this body's hardware was brand new. Human infants don't typically form words before six months at the earliest. My vocal cords were likely little more than delicate, undeveloped tissues, barely capable of basic crying, let alone articulated speech. This was a ridiculous, if endearing, exercise.
But… I could still play along. I could give them something to work with.
"Tes, search your database. Find a string of sounds my infant vocal cords can plausibly produce that will best convey contentment and what might be perceived as advanced development."
"Search complete," she replied instantly. "Optimal vocalization: 'Ga Ga.' It is a common pre-linguistic utterance that can be interpreted in various ways by parental units, often as a sign of intellectual precocity or general satisfaction."
Perfect. I focused my intent, marshaling what little control I had over my new vocal apparatus, and a soft, gurgling sound stumbled out of my mouth. "Ga Ga."
Then, for good measure, I summoned all my latent baby-acting skills and formed a tiny, deliberate smirk on my chubby face, the kind of expression that suggested I was far more aware of my surroundings than any normal newborn had a right to be.
It worked like a charm. My parents' eyes lit up as if they'd just witnessed a divine miracle. They immediately began lavishing praise on me, calling me a genius, a prodigy, the most brilliant baby in the thousand-year history of the Wight lineage. Their problem, not mine. If they wanted to interpret random baby noises as evidence of exceptional intelligence, I wasn't about to correct their delightful delusion.
"Tes, re-engage noise-canceling mode. Full dampening. I'm going back to sleep."
I didn't even get ten minutes of peace before Tes's cool voice interrupted my retreat into slumber. "Master, it is feeding time."
Oh, shit. No. My eyes shot open again, and my brain, running at full adult capacity, immediately processed the scene before me. My mother was sitting on the edge of her bed, her expression one of gentle, maternal resolve. She was unbuttoning her silk nightgown with the kind of practiced efficiency that suggested this was simply another necessary, natural task. My chubby baby face, if it could, would have contorted into an expression of pure, unadulterated awkwardness. This could not be happening. My 21st-century, adult-male brain was not equipped to handle this situation with any degree of grace or emotional stability.
"Tes! Do you have something like an autopilot function? A subroutine? Anything? Please, you handle this part. I can't. I just can't." My thoughts were a frantic scramble of panic.
"Affirmative," she responded, her calm a soothing balm on my frayed nerves. "Engaging 'Autopilot - General Infant Behavior' protocol. I will manage all motor functions, sensory inputs, and biological necessities. The user can remain in a passive conscious state while I interface with the physical vessel. You can resume direct control at any time."
The feeling was bizarre but immensely welcome. It was like a form of induced sleep paralysis, but without the terror more like being a passenger in my own body. I was aware of what was happening, but the sensations were distant, filtered through Tes's cool, logical core. I could feel the warmth, the nourishment, but it was all data, processed and cataloged without the emotional baggage. I could take over the controls whenever I wanted, but I had no intention of doing so anytime soon. I have morals, damn it.
"Tes, from now on, engage autopilot automatically whenever it's feeding time."
"Affirmative. Standing order recorded." Hearing her reply, I retreated deep into my own consciousness, letting the comforting darkness of my internal world take me. Tes would handle the messy, awkward business of being a baby. I would handle the sleeping. It was a perfect division of labor.