The light at the end of the tunnel

I NEVER BELIEVED in the whole "light at the end of the tunnel" folly where

people, after having a near-death experience, would startle awake in a cold

sweat exclaiming, "I saw the light!"

But there I was, in this so-called "tunnel" facing a glaring light, when the last

thing I remembered was sleeping in my room—the royal bedchamber, as

others called it.

Had I died? If so, how? Was I assassinated?

I didn't remember wronging anyone, but then again, being a powerful public

figure meant others had all sorts of reasons to want me dead.

The pressure forcing me toward this mysterious light made me forgo the hope

that this was all a dream. Instead, I relaxed—that seemed to make things

more comfortable—and went along for the ride.

The journey seemed to take an eternity. I half-expected to hear, at any

moment, a choir of children singing an angelic hymn, beckoning me toward

what I hoped would be heaven. Instead, as if I were looking through a foggy

window, everything around me turned into a bright blur, forcing me to shut

my eyes. Indiscernible sounds assaulted my ears, making me dizzy. When I

tried to speak, the words came out as a cry.

The cacophony of indistinguishable sounds slowly mellowed, and I heard a

muffled voice saying, "Congratulations, sir and madam, he's a healthy boy."

…Wait.

I suppose I should have been coming to the conclusion that I had just

experienced the miracle of birth firsthand, but I was momentarily overcome

by the thought of my own demise. I couldn't be dead, though, if I was just

being born, could I?

Assessing my situation in the rational manner befitting a king, I made note,

first of all, that wherever this was, I understood the language. That was a

good sign.

I slowly and painfully opened my eyes once more, and they were bombarded

with different colors and figures. It took a bit of time for my infant eyes to get

used to the light. A not-so-appealing face moved into my line of sight—a

man with long, greying hair on both his head and chin, wearing a pair of thick

glasses. He seemed to be the doctor, but he wasn't wearing a doctor's gown,

nor were we in anything remotely close to a hospital room. I seemed to have

been born from some satanic summoning ritual, because we were on a bed of

straw, on the floor of a small room dimly lit by a few candles.

I looked around and saw the woman who had clearly just given birth to me.

It

seemed reasonable to call her 'Mother.' Taking a few more seconds to see

what she looked like, I had to admit she was a beauty, though that might have

been due to my still-bleary eyes. Rather than glamorous, I would better

describe her as lovely, in a very kind and gentle sense. She had striking

auburn hair and brown eyes, long eyelashes, and a perky nose, and I felt an

urge to just cling to her. She exuded an irresistible maternal warmth, and I

wondered if all babies felt this instinctive bond with their mothers.

I peeled my eyes away and looked at the person standing to my right. By the

idiotic grin and teary eyes he gazed at me with, I assumed he was my father.

Immediately he said, "Hi, little Art, I'm your daddy. Can you say dada?" I

glanced around to see both my mother and the doctor roll their eyes as my

mother managed to scoff, "Honey, he was just born."

Taking a closer look at my father, I could see why my lovely mother was

attracted to him. Aside from the few loose screws he seemed to have,expecting a newborn to articulate a two-syllable word—I decided to give him

the benefit of the doubt and believe he had been overcome with the joy of

becoming a father—he was a very charismatic-looking man with a cleanly-

shaven, square jawline that complemented his features. His hair, ashy brown

in color, was kept trim, while his eyebrows were strong and fierce, extending

sharply like two swords. Yet his eyes held a gentle quality, perhaps imparted

by the way they drooped a bit at the outside corners, or the deep blue, almost

sapphire, hue of his irises.

I heard my mother's voice ask, "Doctor, why isn't he crying? I thought

newborns were supposed to cry."

While I finished studying my presumptive parents, the bespectacled

gentleman who called himself a doctor dismissed my mother's worry, saying,

"There are cases where the infant does not cry. Please continue resting for a

couple of days, Mrs. Leywin. Mr. Leywin, I'll be available in case you need

me for anything." And that marked the first day of a new life.

The weeks following my journey out of the tunnel were a new kind of torture

for me. I had little to no motor control, other than being able to wave my

limbs around, and even that got tiring quickly. I soon realized that babies

don't really have much control over their fingers. When you place your finger

on a baby's palm, they don't grab it because they like you; they grab it

because it's like getting hit in the funny bone. It's a reflex. Forget motor

control; I couldn't even excrete my wastes at my discretion. I was not yet the

master of my own bladder.

The satanic demon-summoning place seemed to be my parents' room. As

best I could tell, I seemed to have traveled back in time to be born into my

own world, in the days before electricity had been invented. At least, that was

what I hoped—but my mother quickly proved me wrong.

My idiotic father had been swinging me around one day and bumped me

against a drawer, scratching my leg. And my mother healed it.

No, not like 'a bandage and a kiss' healing—this was a full-blown,shining light with a faint hum from her freaking hands type of healing.

Where the hell am I?

My mother and father—Alice and Reynolds Leywin—seemed to be good

people. Hell, possibly even the best. I suspected my mother was an angel; I'd

never met such a kindhearted, warm person. She frequently took me with her

to what she called a town, carrying me on her back in a baby cradle-strap of

some sort.

This town, called Ashber, was more like a glorified outpost in my

opinion, seeing as there were no real roads or buildings. We walked along the

main dirt trail, which featured tents on both sides with various merchants and

salesmen selling all sorts of things—from common, everyday necessities to

things I couldn't help but raise a brow at, like weapons, armor, and rocks…

shining rocks!

Probably in an attempt to help me learn the language faster, my mother talked

to me while shopping for the day's groceries and exchanging pleasantries

with various people passing by or working in the booths. But it was never

long before my body turned against me once again and I fell asleep…

Damn

this useless infantile form of mine.

I woke in my mother's lap. She was caressing me absently, intently focused

on my father. He was reciting a chant, and continued for well over a minute, something that sounded like a prayer to the earth.

I leaned in closer and

closer, almost falling off my living seat, expecting some magical

phenomenon like an earthquake splitting the ground or a giant stone golem

emerging. After what seemed like an eternity—and for an infant with the

attention span of a goldfish, it was—three boulders, each the size of an adult human, emerged from the ground and slammed against a nearby tree.

What in the name of… That was it?

I flailed my arms in anger, but my idiot father interpreted that as excitement.

With a big grin on his face, he said, "Your daddy is awesome, huh?"

Whatever magic he had accomplished with the boulders, he was undoubtedly

much better at fighting. When he put on his iron gauntlets, even I was impressed, despite my experience fighting top-notch experts in my past. With

quick, firm movements that were surprising for his bulky build, his fists

carried enough force to shatter boulders and topple down trees, but were fluid

enough to not leave any openings for an opponent. In my former world, he

would have been classed as a high-tier fighter, leading a squad of soldiers,

but to me, he was just my father.

The days passed quickly, and I drank in as much information as I could,

listening intently to my parents and observing everything I could see. Every

day I devoted myself to honing my new body, mastering the motor functions

residing deep within me.

That comfortable regimen soon changed.