Golden Gates
Or
Whatever Became Of Tiny Tim?
A/N: This is a one off, for my devout reviewer and friend, Isabelita Rox. I felt I owed her something for all the review she's given me except virtual cake. XD
For the sake of this little fic, let us pretend that Tiny Tim did die.
Whaaaaat? He would have had to eventually!
-ahem- Am I being too macabre here?
...Yes. I am.
And yes, I tend to use 'blinding light' to great extent in my fanfics. It seems to work with the whole afterlife theme. XD
Some of this is taken from Dickens, just so you know. The actual text, I mean. )
Inspired by:
"It would be interesting to read your description of someone who wasn't doomed, like one of the Cratchits."- Isabelita Rox
Timothy Cratchit had died peacefully on Christmas Day; his favourite day of the year. His family had known he was unlikely to make it past his twelfth birthday, but they'd kept up hope. Now, their hopes were dashed.
When the child awoke, it was to see a large hall filled with golden light, not unlike a church or cathedral in size and splendour. As his eyes grew accustomed to the sudden brightness he could see the walls were adorned with stained glass, depicting scenes from the Bible; scenes of peace, laughter and joy.
Tiny Tim smiled.
Before him stood a host of angels dressed in elegant white robes, golden wings glimmering. Some held harps in their slender hands and were playing a tranquil tune; the most beautiful sound Tim had every heard.
"Welcome, Timothy Cratchit," intoned one of the angels, stepping forwards, arms outstretched in welcome. He was very different to the rest, this spirit; in one hand he held a sprig of holly, atop his head was a crown of holly leaves, and the hem of his robes seemed to melt away into blackness.
"W-where am I?" stammered the suddenly terrified young boy. He knew about angels, of course he did, but this one seemed different, foreboding.
"There is no need for fear," intoned the angel, his voice melodic and calm. "You are Home now."
Poor Tiny Tim didn't know what to do. He could tell he would be safe here; the angelic beings seemed to radiate peace and tranquility, but at the same time it didn't feel right.
"What about Father and Mother?" he asked softly. "Martha and Peter?"
"They know you're here, Tim, and they're glad. For your sake. They will never forget you!" replied the mysterious spirit softly. "Watch."
He gently took the child's hand in his own, and Tiny Tim saw his family again, sitting by the fireside in their small cottage. Bob Cratchit, Tim's father, was speaking.
"It's just as likely as not," said Bob, "one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But however and when ever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim -- shall we -- or this first parting that there was among us."
"Never, father!" cried they all.
"And I know," said Bob, "I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it."
"No, never, father!" they all cried again.
"I am very happy," said little Bob, "I am very happy!"
Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook hands.
"Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God," the angel said as the vision before them dissolved.
Tiny Tim could feel tears welling in his eyes. He missed them all so much. But then, he knew, he could watch over them, especially on Sundays when they went to walk in the church yard.
"I am very happy," he repeated. "I am very happy!" His sad little face suddenly broke into a smile again, and the tears falling down his pale cheeks were those of joy.
The angel nodded, smiling too. With a wave of his hand, the room vanished, and he and Timothy Cratchit passed through the golden gates into the heavens.
-The End
God Bless Us, Every One.