I never asked my parents for anything for Christmas. Not once. I mean, they got me stuff, the tree was usually piled high every year with gifts wrapped in exotic, shimmering paper from wild, foreign lands. One year I got a Vision Stone from Mu that let me actually see my dreams right in front of me, played out in a surreal, holographic projection. I still have the thing, somewhere.
But I never made a list, and I never asked them for anything.
How could I when the next time they went out the door could be the last time I ever saw them? Seeing them come back home was worth more than every Christmas morning. Grandpa would always tell me not to worry, that they would come back, that they always came back, that when the two of them were together there was nothing that could stop them. 
And looking at them together, my mom and my dad, I believed it. The fierce, raw power that flowed between them, born of their love, could defy Oblivion - and had, on more than one occasion.
But then they would go, and the fear would creep in. Grandpa would take me fishing, or we would go up north to watch the stone-people work the underground gardens. He would show me ancient, secret magics that had been passed down to him by his father, that he passed on to my father and would someday be handed down to me. But always there was the fear.
Weeks would go by, and sometimes months, but Grandpa was always right. Mom and dad always came back and there would be hugs and presents and stories, and for a little while the house was bright and warm and full of life. 
Until something happened and they had to go away again.
Unti something happened and they didn't come back.
Grandpa woke me up in the middle of the night and promised me everything would be fine, that he was going to bring my parents back home.
And two days later Hack showed up at the door, the sapphire light in his eyes dim.
"I'm sorry, boy," he said. 


Christmas was taken off the calendar after that.