He wished he could say that it had always been he and his mother against the world. Maybe it would have been easier that way – to know nothing but the hardship of isolation. Easier to have never known the touch of love and acceptance that would have come so naturally had he been what he was meant to be.

But he could still remember his father's kind eyes. He could still remember the way his aunt used to laugh at his childish antics. He remembered them, and it made things so much more painful.

Perhaps it hurt so much because of the acceptance they received from those who knew nothing of their background. The reality of their identities weighed heavily upon his mother, who knew very well that with him in tow she couldn't fit entirely in either world.

His mother loved him. But as time passed he couldn't help but think that her love was a burden on them both. It was a poison that infected them a little more with each action and word that avoided speaking of their heritage. It was a darkness that sunk a little deeper in every time either of them tried to find wonder in the mundane.

Because in the end, the mundane was just that. Perhaps some could find wonder there, but to them, it was simply a world without magic.