He dreams of weird things.

Of a mother who cradles him in her warm arms looking at him with loving black eyes. Of a soft voice singing lullabies. A yellow blanket.

And then there are the more sinister things. Arguing. Loud voices. Wings unfurling, becoming black.

And lastly there is the crescent shaped scar.

When he asks his father about them, he says with a dark look in his eyes:

"No reason to worry about that, dearie."