Arthur remembered reading somewhere that since memories are by their nature imperfect they couldn’t actually be relied on for accuracy. Memories of good times are sugarcoated, making it seem like everything was perfect. Memories of bad times are nightmarish in comparison.

He sighed and looked at the drawing. It was a child’s drawing. He’d drawn it when he was only six. It had been shoved in his pocket before his mother had sent him away to safety. His memories of his parents were fading. When he visualized them, it was only as they were in this drawing – stiff, lacking detail; yet somehow perfect. He wanted them to be perfect. They were his parents after all.

However, there was also the fact that they had been captured and enslaved because of the nature of their magic. There were times when he wondered if what the people of their island believed was true. Was darkness magic inherently evil? Did just using such an element bring that darkness and evil quality into one’s life? He sighed and set the drawing aside. It was time to go to school. Maybe he would get his answers there.