So, this is my festive offering, I don't really know why I wrote something depressing cause I'm in a very Christmassy mood today..
(I know dwarves don't actually have Christmas)
I don't own anything.
Christmas Candles
One winter, it was terribly cold in a little village of men east of the Blue Mountains; it snowed each night, and the days were never warm enough to melt the ice away.
On the dark and windy night before Christmas, a small dwarfling walked along a darkened street, clutching a small tattered bag with fingers that were blue and stiff with cold. He had once had a pair of gloves, but they were long since lost in the dark, dropped as he dodged through the streets, avoiding the horses and carts that clattered past so quickly.
The bag was light in his frozen hands, for it was empty save for a torn scrap of paper and a few pebbles. No one had given him anything today, not a single coin had been forthcoming from any of the villagers. So he walked on, clutching a ragged blanket around himself as a cloak. Snow had begun to fall, settling gently in his golden hair, already unkempt and matted with dirt.
In the windows lining the street, he could see trees sparkling, like constellations in the night sky. Candles shone out from each window, and the smell of roasting meats and baking bread filled the air, for it was Christmas Eve.
At last, his numb feet could walk no more, and so he huddled against the wall of one of the houses, sheltering himself as best he could from the wind. It would be no warmer at home, in the ramshackle hut that was their house; and he could not bring himself to return to his mother with nothing. He could not bear to see his little brother staring at him from hopeful brown eyes, a weak and sickly baby who had never once had enough to eat, for their father had died before he was born.
Shivering, the dwarfling pressed his icy hands against his stomach, trying to warm them a little, and to suppress the gnawing pain biting at his insides. A hurrying figure carrying a large woven basket paused to glance at him briefly, tossing a crust of bread in his direction.
Hardly realising what he was doing, he snatched it up, devouring every crumb. It was the most wonderful thing he had ever eaten, filling his hollow stomach, a feast of roasted goose accompanied by every kind of vegetable. And then the feast was gone, yet so was his hunger.
The ground around him was littered with leaves and twigs, fallen from the tall tree that stood at the corner of the street. He caught one up, twirling it in mid-air before him. It was the most beautiful Christmas tree, grander by far than any he had seen in the windows; it was surrounded by a sea of brightly wrapped gifts, all bearing his name.
A sudden gust caught him unawares, tossing the tree and all its trimmings away into the night. He looked up at the sky, and the tree was still there, now sparkling with a thousand tiny candles, pinpricks in the black blanket that separated this world and the next. One of the candles fell, trailing white sparks as it soared across the night.
"Someone is dead!" he whispered in awe, for his mother had told him that falling stars were the souls of the newly departed, leaving to find their place in the halls of waiting.
It was growing ever colder, and so he fumbled in his bag for the paper and pebbles. Striking the rocks together, a spark grew, setting the paper aflame almost immediately, for dwarves had always been skilled at setting fires. In the warm glow, he saw a figure smiling down at him, glowing gold, face full of love.
"Father!" the dwarfling cried in amazement. "Take me with you!" The flames began to fail, for the paper was all but burnt to a crisp. And so the dwarfling bundled his tattered cloak into the little fire, lest the flames should die, and take his father with them.
The fire flared brighter than ever before, as bright as the sun on a midsummer's day. He reached out a hand to his father, and caught a tight hold of his arm. His father smiled down at him, as they walked out into the night, leaving the flames flickering behind them, no longer troubled by cold, nor hunger, nor worry.
But on the next morning, the cold light of dawn fell upon a small dwarfling, face lit by a beaming smile, blanketed by a soft covering of snow, hair bejewelled with tiny crystals of ice. He lay hunched against the wall, frozen to death on Christmas Day.
"He wanted to warm himself," people said. They saw the blackened remains of his cloak, saw the matchstick arms and legs, and they took pity on his mother and baby brother.
And yet, not one of them suspected the wonderful things he had seen, on that cold dark Christmas night.