Little Damian wasn’t particularly concerned with his physical safety. His protective, well armed family seemed to have that under control. It was his so-called blessing that caused little Damian concern as of late. He didn’t know if his was rare or common. For all he knew, it could have been a powerful ability for witchcraft or a remote killswitch hidden in his head by the gods.

For a single second after the velvet cloth deflated, little Damian’s world changed. He saw something everywhere, even where he could not see with his eyes, behind him, above him, below him, everywhere. It was attached to everything around him, even the air and the people. The people were especially bright. What this stuff was and how he was “seeing” it, were two more things little Damian couldn’t be sure of, but he had a hunch that what he saw was magic, and for a single second he saw it in all directions. Then came a splitting headache for a few seconds  before he passed out.

He assumed it was because of the “eyes” that let him see the knowledge that made him, or something like that. What his blessing really did was give him a splitting headache. It was like the magic eyes were inside him, but they were being blocked by a giant boulder. When Little Damian strained to move the metaphysical boulder, it made his head hurt. He didn’t know why the gods would give him a blessing that only hurt, and thought that maybe, if he could only move that border, he’d be able to use his ability.

It was just that the splitting headaches and loss of consciousness was stopping him. Maybe it was dangerous. It could be that it’s a really great ability that he’s supposed to spend years developing, until he’s an old man even. He couldn’t wait that long, he had problems now. Mostly that he was ignorant, and his ability could help him figure it out, so little Damian excepted the risk of attempting to use an unknown magical blessing, granted by shifty looking witch deity, with an infant’s body, and day after day he tried to move his mental boulder. Four times a day he’d concentrate, get a migraine, and pass out. Maybe he was making progress. Maybe he was giving himself brain damage. He didn’t know, but when old Dean lit the fire he accepted the risk and heaved his metaphysical boulder with all the mental might his baby mind could muster.

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He saw it. It was vague, but he certainly saw it. Magic streamed out of the tip of old Dean’s wand as he chanted. Each of the spoken syllables made symbols that arrange themselves into a circle in front of his wand. When the incantation was complete, old dean dimmed for a second while the spell was active.

Rose was first to notice little Damian losing consciousness and happily asked, “Is somebody getting sleepy?”

His mother's rhetorical question was the last thing he heard before blacking out. “I really hope I wasn’t born into a loving family of highway robbers” was his last thought.

The next morning little Damian woke up in an unfamiliar place. “Am I in a cage? No, it’s a crib.... Fantastic!” he thought. His nights playing third wheel to his parents intimacy seemed like a thing of the past.

Little Damian‘s grin became a frown as he recalled the events of the night before. Randomly passing out was not a good look. The rewards were worth it this time, but he didn’t want to be narcoleptic as well as retarded. Typically he would strain his brain at naptime, a practice he should stick to, but right now he was too excited to wait. He was determined to use his ability. He just needed to eat something first. This was the first time he woke up without Rose diligently noticing, and providing nutrition.

Little Damian was in a predicament. He had not yet made any noise voluntarily. It was his intention not to, until he was old enough to plausibly speak properly.

“That might not be a reasonable plan,” he thought while his tummy rumbled. If he was going to be sleeping in a separate room, he would need to make some kind of noise to inform his mother that her baby was awake and hungry. He was wrestling with this idea when the door opened. It was not his mother.

“You must be hungry,” old Dean said, holding an unfamiliar bottle.

“Did he hear my stomach grumble? It definitely has to be enchanted hearing,” little Damian thought, eyeing the new glass bottle. It had a nipple that looked unsettlingly like a real one and was filled with whitish fluid. He assumed it was breakfast, but that prompted one big question.

Where was his mother?