Chapter Five: The Unjust Pain of a Child

It was the first of November. Just before the lunch hour, Godric heard a commotion outside the Great Hall. Two boys, one eleven and one thirteen, had gotten into a fist fight. Both of the boys had been beaten up pretty seriously.

Godric pushed through the crowd around the boys and split the boys up. He dragged each one into his office by their robe collars, one boy in each hand.

"Now, what's going on?" Godric asked after he was seated on one side of his desk and the boys on the other.

"He stared the fight. It's his fault," replied the thirteen-year-old, a Slytherin.

The younger boy, a Gryffindor, said, "But he insulted my sister! He was the one that started it."

Years before, when Godric and Helga were nine, their father came to Mirkwood to see them, out of the blue. Or, more appropriately, their father kidnapped them late one night. In the morning, the twins found themselves in the Shire.

The whole day, from before the breaking of dawn to well beyond the setting of the sun, their father worked them to death, tending the land. No breaks for food and water, or for using the restroom, made the day difficult. Even worse was the heat of summer. The worst of it all was the twins' father himself.

When the children complained, or dragged their feet, or stopped, or their father felt displeased with their work or the twins themselves, which was most often the case, he would physically hurt them with whatever he had available: his hands, dishes, farm equipment… The one that came out with the most cuts and bruises by the end of the ordeal was Godric.

Just as bad as, or even worse than, the physical pain was the verbal abuse. The twins' father was constantly yelling at them, insulting them, giving them foul names, saying things to make them believe that their mother's death was their fault, and that they would amount to nothing. At the end of the day, Helga started to believe all of it was true.

At night, Godric would wake to hear his sister screaming, fighting their father to keep him away from her and out of her room.

This went on for at least a week before Godric finally snapped. After one particularly harsh comment directed at Helga by their father, Godric threw down his shovel.

"Stop it," he said. "Just… just stop."

"Boy, get back to work," his father said.

"No."

"What did you just say, boy?"

"No. I'm not doing this anymore. I'm tired of you hurting me and my sister."

The father went over to Godric and struck the boy, who fell to the ground. The father towered over the boy, ready to strike again. However, this time, Godric was ready. As his father went to beat him more, Godric fought back, but could not keep his newfound strength for long.

It was then, by some miracle, forces from Mirkwood came from over a hill. The last thing Godric remembered before blacking out was his uncle picking him up and carrying him away as his father was restrained.

Little did anyone know, this would not be the last time that this would happen, nor would it be the worst.

"All right," Godric said to the younger boy, with a sigh. "I understand you're coming from. It was still wrong. That'll be ten points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin, as well as a week's worth of detention for each of you. Now, both of you get up to the infirmary to get your injuries worked on."

"But…" the Slytherin boy started.

"Now!"

"All right, fine."

Godric woke up in his room at the palace in Mirkwood. At first, he didn't recognize where he was.

As he started to sit up, he felt a gentle hand push him back into his bed. He moaned faintly as he fell back into the pillows.

"Rest, Cousin. You need it," a young voice said. "You look awful."

Godric turned his head. "Legolas, what happened? How long has it been?"

"You've been out for a week," Legolas said. "Your dad was about to kill you before mine stepped in. Or, so I've heard."