Consciousness returned slowly, like a hesitant dawn breaking through an impenetrable fog.
But it was not the stark, unforgiving reality of a prison cell that greeted him. Instead, he was enveloped in the soft embrace of silk, the air perfumed with unfamiliar, delicate scents. The searing pain of the electric shock receded, leaving behind a strange, infantile vulnerability, a fragility he hadn't experienced in decades. Yet, beneath this newfound helplessness, a core of his old self remained, the hardened Ethan, the man forged in the fires of injustice. He felt small, fragile, a stark contrast to the prisoner who had faced his execution with a defiant resolve.
The first sensations were of being held, of gentle murmurs in a language that was utterly unknown, yet somehow, inexplicably, comprehensible. It was as if the words were being imprinted directly onto his consciousness, bypassing the need for learned understanding.
A new name, a new lineage, began to form around him, like threads weaving themselves into a tapestry of identity. But the old threads, the indelible memories of Ethan Blackwood, were still there, interwoven with the new, creating a disturbing, yet fascinating, duality of a new person.
The shock of remembering was as profound as the transition itself. Ethan Blackwood was gone, a man executed, a life extinguished. He was now Nikoli Darkmoor, a babe swaddled in the luxurious cradle of nobility. Yet, every memory, every scar, every ounce of rage that made his past life remained, now accompanied by an inexplicableclarity, a perfect recall of every detail. The faces, the names, the injustices – all were preserved with a vividness that was almost overwhelming. This duality, the innocence of a helpless infant juxtaposed with the bitter, hard-won wisdom of a condemned man, created an unsettling, precarious foundation for his new existence and reality. It was a constant echo, a persistent reminder of the life that had been violently ripped away, now layered onto a life that was utterly new, utterly strange.
He was a walking paradox, a soul reborn with the weight of a past that refused to die. The injustice he had carried in his heart as Ethan Blackwood had not vanished; it had merely found a new vessel.
The nursery was a testament to opulence, a stark contrast to the barren cell that had been his world for so long. Silken drapes, embroidered with sigils he did not recognize, adorned tall, arched windows. The air was warm and carried the faint
scent of lavender and something else, something subtly floral and calming.
Sunlight, a warm, vibrant caress, streamed through the panes, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
He tried to open his eyes, but the effort was monumental, as if his eyelids were fused shut by an invisible force. When they finally fluttered open, the world swam into view in a blur of soft, muted colours. Sunlight, diffused through what felt like impossibly fine fabric, painted the room in hues of warm amber and gentle cream. The air itself was a tapestry of scents – something delicately floral, a whisper of lavender, and an underlying sweetness that was both comforting and subtly exotic. These were not the smells of despair and disinfectant that had permeated his previous existence.
A face swam into his blurry vision. It was soft, rounded, framed by dark hair that cascaded in gentle waves. And it was smiling. A genuine, unrestrained smile that reached the eyes, crinkling their corners with an emotion Ethan Blackwood, even in his wildest dreams, had rarely encountered outside the pages of fiction. He was nestled in a cradle artefully crafted from a wood he couldn't identify, smooth and polished to a mirror finish, lined with the softest down.
His tiny hands, surprisingly nimble for their size, instinctively reached out, grasping at the air.
They felt alien, vulnerable, a far cry from the calloused, scarred hands that had known the rough texture of prison walls and the sting of manual labor in his old life.
Yet, even in this state of profound physical limitation, a flicker of his old self remained. The mind of Ethan Blackwood, now the mind of Nikoli Darkmoor, observed this new reality with a detached, almost clinical curiosity. He cataloged the textures, the scents, the sounds – the distant clatter of servants' feet, the melodic cadence of voices speaking a language that still, somehow, resonated within him.
A woman, her face a gentle landscape of refined features and kind eyes, cooed softly as she adjusted his silken swaddling.
Her touch was warm, her presence radiating a maternal affection that was utterly foreign. He registered the curve of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the effortless grace of her movements. She was his mother, a concept that still felt abstract, a role he had long since abandoned. But as she murmured soft words, her voice a soothing balm, a strange, almost primal recognition stirred within him. It was a connection, however nascent, to this new life.
He watched her, his infant gaze surprisingly steady. He saw the love in her eyes, a pure, unadulterated emotion that he had only ever seen reflected in the distorted lens of his own yearning for justice. This was a love that had not been earned through deception, not built on a foundation of lies. It was simply… given. It was a concept he was still struggling to fully grasp, accustomed as he was to a world where every interaction was transactional, every kindness a potential manipulation.
The AI, a disembodied voice that had first manifested as a cacophony of static and then coalesced into a strangely charming, if somewhat eccentric, companion, remained a silent observer in the background for now. It was a part of him, a fundamental addition to his being, but its active presence would likely manifest when he was capable of more than just observing. For now, it was a dormant power, a latent potential waiting for the right moment to awaken.
Ethan marvelled as he was a paradox, a living testament to a reality-bending event. Ethan Blackwood, a wrongfully convicted man consumed by vengeance, was now Nikoli Darkmoor, a noble infant bathed in luxury and love. The rage that had been his constant companion for two decades was still there, a smoldering ember deep within his core, but it was now overlaid with something new and fresh. A nascent sense of wonder, a tentative curiosity about this new world he had been thrust into came alive.
His past life, with all its bitterness and pain, was not forgotten. Oh no. It was preserved with a terrifyingly pristine clarity. He could recall the exact texture of the concrete in his cell, the precise shade of grey that had dominated his vision for years.
He remembered the faces of every guard, the subtle shifts in their demeanor that betrayed their own weariness, their own compromises, and their indifferent attitude toward their wards. He remembered Eleanor Vance's perfume, a sickly sweet floral scent that had always accompanied her presence. These memories were not fading; they were sharpening, becoming more vivid in contrast to the soft, gentle present.
This duality was a constant internal negotiation. The infant's needs, the simple biological imperatives of hunger and comfort, warred with the adult's complex tapestry of memories and emotions. He felt the overwhelming urge to cry when he was uncomfortable, a purely reflexive action, yet his mind was simultaneously analyzing the efficacy of the silken swaddling, the precise temperature of the room, the nutritional content of the milk he would soon be fed.
He observed the servants who attended him. Their movements were efficient, their expressions respectful. They referred to him with titles he didn't yet understand, their voices tinged with deference.
He was no longer a number, a designation in a penal system. He was a scion, a future leader, a part of a lineage that held significant weight in this world. This shift in status was almost comical, given the circumstances of his arrival. He, Ethan Blackwood, who had been scheduled to die in the electric chair, was now a cherished infant in a world that seemed to operate on entirely different principles.
His newfound photographic memory was already proving to be an asset, albeit a strange one. He absorbed every detail of his surroundings, every nuance of the language he heard, every expression on the faces of those around him. He was learning at an exponential rate, his mind, now unburdened by the constant anxieties of survival within a prison, readily absorbing information. It was as if the electrical surge that had transported him had also unlocked latent cognitive abilities, amplifying his capacity for learning and retention.
He felt a peculiar sense of freedom, a liberation from the physical and mental chains that had bound him for so long. The walls of the execution chamber had dissolved,
not into oblivion, but into a boundless expanse of possibilities. Yet, this freedom was tempered by a profound sense of displacement. He was in a new world, a stranger in a strange land, carrying the heavy baggage of a past that felt both impossibly distant and acutely present.