God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
The loud voice resonated in hollow tombs below, shaking the ground beneath his feet. He paused, watching as they plodded forward, a sight too painful for even his immortal eyes. With a loud clunk as a rusty lantern hit the ground, the music stopped, the ground being torn apart, the wooden oasis being buried, buried beneath the ground.
He fell to his knees, unable to take this unbearable torture, the unbearable torture that came with the familiar sound of shovels; a sound that every man knows signifies the end. Taking a ring off his finger, he threw it to the ground, scuffing up dust above it with his heavy boots. An inclement hand touched his shoulder.
"That's my boy. That's the way things should have been done in the first place." Laughing heartily, he stopped, suddenly, as he soon found himself in a fatal position, a wand at his throat. "Dare you to take me, my boy. Afterwards, I promise, you will understand all I have taught you."
And with that, he was gone.
Forever.
The winter night blazed outside, sending shivers through the shedding trees in the forest beyond. Water flooded the area around, pounding fiercely on the thin windows of the Manor. A boy, aged about four, awoke with a start, as lightening pounded through the sky like an anvil. Pulling his silken covers closer to his body, he opened the drapes around his bed with one hand, allowing him to see out into his vast and empty room. Luckily, his parents' voices soon blended into his nightly lullaby.
"No!" His mother screamed.
"You dare to refuse me?" After a silent pause, a large thud sounded throughout the house, most likely a fall.
"I will never love you. Love isn't something made, and you sure do know that."
He chuckled, the sound resounding in his chest. "You have loved me, the result being upstairs."
She gritted her teeth, although she was used to him twisting her words. "You force me." She spoke in a low voice, quiet, yet powerful.
This was accompanied by more screams, a loud crash of what typically was a plate or mirror, and eventually sobs, a cry of retreat.
That was simply the way his world was. He wasn't wanted, sure, he might be loved, but he didn't truly belong. He was talked of as an animal, as a thing, a gift you get for Christmas. Sure, you might like that toy train, and be fascinated as it quickly runs around your bedroom, but it will never be as good as that Nimbus 2000 you really wanted.
"Come on, hurry up, throw it back! Throw it back and we'll bloody win!" He shouted, contentedly, at his shorter, rounder friend who stood at the other end of the field. "Wicked!" He shouted, noticing the object fly perfectly towards him across the freshly mowed grass. Catching the flying Snitch, he cheered, throwing it up in the air in celebration, having won his pretend game of Quidditch, in which no brooms were used. It crashed through one of the large, front windows of the Manor.
"Shit." He muttered beneath his breath. For a six year old, he had quite a large vocabulary.
It didn't take long for his father to be running out of the building, his wand in hand.
Sneering at his son's friend, he turned to his child. "So, was it your friend who did this? And tell the truth." He said, motioning to a ring on his finger, which he often used as a seeing ball of sorts.
The boy looked down towards the ground. "I did." He scuffed his feet in the dirt, not wanting to face his father. "This is unlike you," he said, firmly and coldly.
"You. Go home." He said, motioning to the other boy, threatening him with his wand.
His son was frightening, knowing what his dreadful punishment would be. Following his father back inside, he hung his head low, afraid of what would happen next.