Time, for Lysander, had lost its meaning. The concepts of hours, days, or weeks, once so crucial to his work schedule and old life, now melted into an indistinguishable haze. His first days in the world of Amrita passed in constant confusion and a flood of new sensations he had never experienced. Each awakening in the luxurious cradle was always preceded by a piercing disappointment: a complete, sharp adult consciousness, trapped within the utterly helpless body of an infant.
He would wake with a pressing hunger, or the discomfort of a damp, cold diaper. There was no alarm button, no way to meaningfully shout for help with words. The only way to express his protest, to convey that something was wrong or needed, was with an uncontrolled, piercing cry. A voice so alien, a primitive wail that erupted from his own throat, made his ears ring and his heart ache.
Then, the soft, soothing voice of a woman, whom he perceived as his mother,Seraphina. That's what he gathered from how people around him called her. Her touch felt so warm and gentle on his sensitive skin, a touch that sent waves of comfort and security throughout his tiny body. He felt himself being lifted, cradled with extraordinary tenderness.
The mother's scent would soon fill his senses, a unique blend of tropical flowers, a hint of spice, and a natural, calming aroma. Then, he would feel the irresistible warmth of a breast approaching. Breast milk. This was his sole source of nutrition, a reality that, to his adult mind, felt so fundamental and, frankly, a little embarrassing. The gentle, rich sweetness filled his mouth, flooding his taste buds, providing instant relief that quelled the hunger.
Although deep down he yearned for the familiar textures and tastes of solid food from his previous life, he could not deny the efficiency and comfort of this breast milk, which often sent him back into slumber shortly after, as if his infant body was programmed for it.
This routine repeated, day after day, forming a monotonous yet vital cycle. Wake, cry, eat, relieve himself, get changed, and sleep again. He felt his muscles strengthening slightly, his movements becoming a little more directed, though still very limited.
From behind the haze of his slowly clearing infant vision, faces began to form more distinctly. Seraphina's gentle face, with eyes that always radiated boundless affection and a calming smile. Roric's firm face, with a strong jaw and eyes that exuded deep power and pride, a man who was clearly a leader. And other less distinct faces, the nursemaids and servants who moved silently around his room, ensuring his every need was met with efficiency and respect. They are efficient shadows, part of the large machinery of this household.
The unknown exotic spice aromas and the unique fragrances of Amrita's flowers never faded from his senses. They permeated the fabric of his cradle, the air around him, becoming part of this new world's identity. These aromas are a constant reminder that he was indeed in a different world, far from the pollution and bitter coffee smells he once knew.
The peak of his frustration often came during dinner. When Lysander was held or placed near the large dining table in the luxurious dining hall, his senses were assaulted by a tantalizing feast of aromas and colors.
His increasingly clear vision allowed him to see Roric and Seraphina sitting together, amidst dishes that looked delicious and alien. Roasted meats that emitted warm, enticing smoke, colorful seafood artfully arranged on exquisite porcelain plates, tropical fruits with vibrant hues that he knew didn't exist on Earth, like a blue version of dragon fruit or a golden skinned lychee and oddly shaped vegetables he had never seen before.
The savory aroma of freshly cooked meat, the sweet fragrance of perfectly ripe fruits, and the pungent scent of spices wafting from these foreign dishes made baby Lysander's stomach churn violently. He felt a wave of hunger that surpassed the need for breast milk.
God, that looks so good! His mind screamed in silence.
That roasted meat… I can smell it from here! I feel like jumping off this chair and grabbing it!
He would try to extend his chubby little hand towards the table, but it would only wiggle weakly in the air, unable to reach anything. His drool would uncontrollably trickle from the corner of his mouth, and he would emit exasperated groans, trying to draw their attention to his unutterable desires. However, the only response he received was a soft laugh from Seraphina or an amused smile from Roric, who would then affectionately rub his cheek.
"Oh, look at him, Roric," whispered Seraphina (though Lysander only caught the soft, amused tone)."He wants to join us!"
"My son has a good appetite," Roric replied, his tone filled with pride that sounded ridiculous to Lysander. "But it's not time yet, son. Just enjoy your mother's milk for now."
And Lysander could only groan louder, kicking his tiny legs in the air, feeling an immense rage and helplessness swelling within him. This was the torment of an adult forced to be an infant, witnessing the pleasures of the world so close yet utterly out of reach, a cruel irony of his new destiny.
Amidst the endless routine of eating and sleeping, Lysander's adult brain worked tirelessly. Language. That was the biggest barrier and the most pressing challenge. The voices he heard from Roric, Seraphina, the nursemaids, and the servants, were an alien melody that constantly flowed around him, a symphony without meaning. He knew they were speaking, knew they were communicating, but the words did not form coherent concepts or meanings.
"This is 'Ōlelo Kai," murmured an older nursemaid one afternoon, as she dangled a rattle in front of Lysander. The woman repeated certain phrases over and over, perhaps trying to teach him his first word, though Lysander only grasped a sequence of sounds. "Ka-i. 'Ō-le-lo."
Lysander listened with all his concentration, trying to crack the complex code. 'Ōlelo Kai. He etched that sequence of sounds into his mind, mentally repeating it countless times. He tried to mimic. His tiny mouth would twitch, desperately trying to form the complex sounds he heard, moving his tongue and lips with all his might, but all that came out was meaningless baby babble, grunts, or dribbles of saliva. The frustration burned like fire in his chest. As Aditya, he had mastered five languages which is English, Japanese, Indonesian, Sundanese, Javanese, and even a little Arabic with relative ease, a testament to his intelligence and adaptability.
However, this was a completely different challenge, his baby's tongue and vocal cords simply would not cooperate with his adult brain. He felt like a genius suddenly thrown back into kindergarten, forced to start from scratch, even from below zero. Every word was a wall he had to demolish.
He would spend hours, his increasingly focused eyes staring at the speaking faces, trying to find patterns, correlating lip movements with the sounds that emerged. When Seraphina sang lullabies, a soft and soothing melody often repeated, Lysander did not understand the lyrics. Yet, he understood the calming melody itself, the genuine tremor of affection in his mother's voice, and the gentle touch of her hand stroking his forehead. That was the first form of communication he fully understood, unconditional love that permeated his soul.
Despite his daily life being filled with profound physical and mental challenges, there were also moments of simple happiness that kept his spirit intact. Seraphina's tight embraces that made him feel safe and loved, Roric's proud smiles who sometimes held him high, or the warm tropical sunlight caressing his skin when he was brought out onto the palace balcony, feeling the gentle sea breeze.
In those moments, he would remember God's promise of a world full of swords and magic. And even though his current world was just a soft cradle, sweet breast milk, and nauseating baby babble, his anticipation for the future adventures in Amrita burned brightly within him. He knew, one day, his body would grow, he would master the language, and he would find his destiny in this foreign land that was now his home.