Disclaimer: Not mine.
Title: Child-like.
Word Count: about 300. (one-shot)
Summerary: Tom Marvolo Riddle had never cried in his entire life-time. (So why should in death be any different.)
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Light. Much too bright. Pain. Pain like he had only felt once before in his lifetime. All of this and nothing at the same time.
Death.
Little one.
A soft voice, a breeze, tantalizingly gentle and yet so timid his former self would loathe to hear it. So gentle he wished to raise his burning, itching, dead, hands and strangle the wind out of it. It made his agonizingly burnt and raw body feel like it was on fire a million times over.
Oh, my poor Tom.
He had always prided himself on his strong, diligent mind. His stead-fast emotions. Perhaps, he was not in need of that here. Here, where the tame wind soothed the burn of his flesh with merciful stroking.
"Mother."
His voice was hoarse, yet small and he was hit with an overwhelming urge to purge the empty contents of his stomach, dead and cold and burning. Weakness. He could practically smell the sharp-sour stink of it. The urge rose.
She was a ragged angel, poor, broken, but oh so very utterly satisfying. A small, crooked hand eased over his tired eyes and down his scorched cheek.
"I did it for you." His voice, child-like now, sounded. The words rolled over his dead and heavy tongue, confession tasting bitter-sweet. "All I did, I did for you. For blood. Ours."
Coldness, one so sharp and poignant he wished to curl in on himself to escape the new sensation of flames so hot they froze his weak body, fell to his face. Tears. His angel, his mother, was crying.
"I know, Tom."
The burning lessened, and he became accustomed to the cold. Her hands stayed on each side of his face, stroking, soothing, caring. She gave him all a mother could.
"I forgive you."
He cried. Salty, bitter tears that stung his still crisping flesh. He was newborn.
Tom Marvolo Riddle cried in his Mother's arms. For his past, present, and future.
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A/N: I know some of you will view this as being terribly out of character, but well, I call it artisitc license. This came to me, with the rain pouring down outside, in the context of what happened to Voldemort once he reached "King's Station", and what would happen if he was met by his mother, Merope Gaunt. Sad little one-shot...but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.