Chapter 77
Written by Bayzo Albion
When I turned three months old, my vision finally sharpened. And that was when I truly saw my mother for the first time, as if awakening from a fog.
She entered the room, and the world dimmed in her presence. Her steps were soft, yet each one echoed with undeniable authority. Raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders like a silken midnight river. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain, with a subtle lilac undertone that betrayed her heritage. An elf. But not the whimsical kind who sang to forest spirits or danced with the wind. She was something fiercer—an elf of bloodlines, grandeur, and unbridled power.
Her pointed ears accentuated her ethereal features, but it was her eyes that captivated: deep amber, heavy with command. They fixed on me, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow of a smile softened her face.
She approached, her silhouette eclipsing the light. For the first time, I felt not just a mother's proximity, but the aura of a sovereign—timeless, immovable.
"You can see now?" she asked softly, leaning down.
My elven mother wasn't a constant fixture in my life. She visited sporadically, like a queen inspecting her youngest heir, not a parent yearning for closeness. Her arrivals lacked haste or affection; she regarded me as one might a perilous experiment's outcome.
Each visit hushed the household. Servants turned to stone, the air thickening with tension. She glided in—tall, flawless, aloof. Those amber eyes lingered on me briefly, enough to convey: no love, no rejection, just scrutiny.
Occasionally, she'd sit and watch me sleep. In those moments, her facade cracked ever so slightly, revealing a translucent vulnerability that vanished in an instant. She touched me rarely, but when her hand rested on my cheek or chest, magic pulsed through—not warmth or caress, but raw power, ancient and laced with isolation. It chilled my core, sent my head spinning.
Yet, infrequent as her visits were, I always sensed her approach. My infant mind detected our bond—not tender or kind, but unbreakable.
"What a peculiar boy you are..." she'd murmur when she thought I couldn't comprehend. "I wonder what you'll become when you grow. So much mixed within you—I can't unravel your essence."
Ah, yes: my dream realized—to be small and idle once more. But now I grasped the irony: dreaming of it was far sweeter than the reality.
My tiny arms reached for her instinctively. She didn't respond at first, as if oblivious. But after a lingering pause, she lifted me into her embrace. The gesture was slow, awkward, unpracticed for her—yet it held more genuine warmth than all her prior words combined.
I nestled against her, like a shipwrecked soul clinging to a solitary island amid stormy seas, hoping desperately that this fragile moment wouldn't dissolve like mist.
In that instant, revelation struck: regressing to childhood didn't equate to reclaiming bliss. Infancy wasn't fluffy blankets and endless milk. It was utter dependence—on foreign hands, on alien wills.
*What do others do in paradise?* I pondered as sleep tugged at me. *Sleep, eat, indulge in endless pleasures? Probably. But here I am, seeking not bliss, but purpose. I crave a narrative—not literal, but internal. One where every emotion propels me forward, unveiling new facets of self. Where each touch harbors a story, each glance a riddle. Yet this, I suspect, is my personal hell: chasing meaning in a realm where others content themselves with mere sensation.*
I drifted off in her arms unnoticed, feeling the coolness of her skin and the steady weight of her heart, beating like fate's inexorable clock.
– – –
I grew slowly, deliberately, as if tuning into the subtle rhythms of my own body. At first, I mastered crawling, exploring the world from the humble vantage of palms and knees scraping against the floor. But that wasn't enough. A restless hunger stirred within me—to stand, to step forward, to reach for what had once seemed eternally out of grasp.
Perhaps it was that impatience that propelled me onward, even as it sent me tumbling time and again. The ground seemed to conspire against me, rising up to meet my face with unforgiving solidity. Yet after every fall, I stubbornly rose, tiny fists clenched in determination, ready to try once more.
And then, after five grueling days of endless stumbles and shaky ascents, I took my first solid step. My legs wobbled like fragile reeds in the wind, but inside, triumph surged through me—a victory that transcended the limitations of this childish form.
One day, utterly absorbed in my newfound skill, I toddled across the room, my bare feet slapping joyfully against the cool stone. Each stride felt like a monumental conquest. I didn't even notice her enter.
Mother—Jeanne—slipped in silently, like a shadow gliding across moonlight. She scooped me up gently and peered into my eyes. For a fleeting moment, her gaze softened, shedding the familiar veil of cool detachment for something warmer, more fragile: a hint of tenderness that caught even her off guard.
"What a peculiar child you are..." she murmured softly, her voice a blend of quiet astonishment and veiled pride. "Born so frail, and yet... your persistence is astonishing."
She shook her head slightly, as if doubting her own words.
"Eight months. Just eight months old, and you're already walking on your own, without a hand to guide you."
Her fingers brushed through my tousled hair with careful precision, her amber eyes gleaming with thoughtful introspection.
"And the way you look at me... so aware, as if you comprehend every word I say."
I couldn't respond—my body wouldn't allow it yet—but inwardly, I smirked. She was right. I understood. I saw her doubts, her fears, her unyielding strength. And perhaps that's why my first steps struck her as more than mere infantile progress; they were a miracle, a defiance of the odds stacked against us.
She set me down gently and swung open the doors. Only then did it dawn on me: all this time, I'd been confined like a bird in a gilded cage, never venturing beyond the walls of my nursery.
"Would you like to go outside?" she asked.
Of course, I said nothing—my age forbade it. Instead, I simply turned and waddled toward the threshold without hesitation. My little legs carried me unsteadily forward, while Mother followed close behind, her eyes alight with curiosity, wondering where this inaugural journey might lead her son.
A memory from my previous life flooded back unbidden. For two long years, I'd trudged the same path to work every day. The same monotonous steps, the same drab walls of buildings blurring past, the relentless hum of traffic, the acrid scent of asphalt baking under the sun. Routine had blinded me—I stopped looking around, as if a fog had settled over my senses. The world existed, but I no longer truly saw it.
Then, one ordinary day, something shifted. I lifted my gaze, and there they were: paintings. Vibrant artworks hung along the street by local artists, pieces I'd passed hundreds of times without a second glance. My mind had filtered them out as irrelevant noise. I froze, staring in awe at the colors and forms that had been there all along, hidden in plain sight.
Now, stepping beyond my room for the first time, that same sensation washed over me. But this time, I refused to rush. I moved with deliberate slowness, savoring every detail. My fingers trailed along the walls, feeling the rough texture of ancient stone and polished wood. I inhaled deeply—the crisp scent of aged timber mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of the corridor. Every rustle, every echo of my footsteps, resonated like a whisper from the world itself.
No longer was the environment a mere backdrop; it pulsed with life. Objects I'd once ignored revealed themselves as treasures: the intricate carvings on a doorframe, like forgotten runes etched by time; the subtle grit of the stone floor beneath my soles; the cool draft weaving through the halls, carrying hints of distant gardens. Everything felt fresh, tangible, brimming with untold stories.
This time, I embraced it mindfully, without haste. Each nuance carried weight, a texture, a secret waiting to unfold.
I was no longer a passive observer—I had become a participant.
And in this rediscovery of simple wonder, I unearthed what I'd long sought: true freedom.
My tiny feet pattered across the cool tiles, leading me unerringly to the library. It was as if I knew the way instinctively, drawn by an invisible thread woven from the spines of countless tomes. The air here was distinct: a dry, comforting bouquet of aged paper blended with the chill of stone walls and a profound silence—not empty, but alive with the echoes of thoughts long pondered.
Mother walked beside me, matching my pace without interference. Her watchful eyes held more than maternal concern; there was a spark of intrigue, as if she pondered what drew her child to these towering shelves, guardians of secrets spanning generations.
I pressed on, reaching for the book spines, mesmerized by their ornate patterns, the enigmatic symbols and words that danced just beyond my comprehension. I didn't know what I sought, but a deep-seated urge burned within me—here lay answers, power waiting to be claimed.
"Knowledge holds power," her voice echoed softly…