electricalgwen | Fic: The Little Match Girl (Spike, PG)

Retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's famous story, written for

noel_of_spike. Just over 1000 words, rated PG. Thanks to

cordelianne for beta reading; any remaining typos are entirely my fault.

The Little Match Girl

It was cold, so cold, on the last night of the year. Evening crept on apace, and the snow began to fall fast and hard. Through the cold and gloom came a little girl, with bare head and bare feet, wandering the London streets while the snow caressed her hair. She had had shoes when she left home, but they had been many sizes too large, having belonged to her mother, and they had fallen off as she scrambled to get out of the way of an onrushing carriage. One had been lost, and a teasing boy had run off with the other. So she went on her way with tiny naked feet, numb and blue from cold. In her tattered apron she carried several packages of matches, and she held a bundle in her hand, vainly showing them to passers-by. No one had bought anything from her all day; no one had given her even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a picture of misery.

Lights shone in every window. The air was full of the savoury smell of roast goose – it was New Year’s eve, and folk were celebrating. She remembered that. In a corner between two houses, she sank down in a huddled heap, pulling her freezing feet underneath her. She was getting colder and colder, but she dared not go home. She had sold nothing, made no money even from begging, and her father would be furious, almost certainly beat her. Besides, it was almost as cold at home. Though they had a roof over their heads, the wind whistled straight through, despite their attempts to stuff the larger holes with straw and rags.

Her hands were almost dead with cold. Perhaps a burning match might warm her? Just one. No one would miss one.

Scratch on the wall, and the match sputtered into life, burning with a warm, bright flame. She held her hand over it, and its wonderful light warmed her like a small candle. She imagined she was sitting by a large iron stove, with shining brass knobs and a brass ornament on the grate. How wonderfully the fire burned, how comfortable she was! She stretched out her feet to warm them too – and the tiny flame went out, the stove vanished. She had only the curled, blackened stub of the match in her hand.

She struck another match against the wall. It burst into flame, and where the light fell upon the wall it became transparent like a veil. She looked through into the room beyond. A dining table stood set with a snowy white cloth and beautiful china and silver, and it was laden with food. Steam rose from the roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes. Then, wonder of wonders, the goose jumped down from its dish! It waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork piercing its breast, towards the little girl. Her mouth began to water – and the second match went out. Nothing but the thick, cold wall remained before her.

She struggled with clumsy fingers and hastily lit another match. Now she was sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree, even larger and more splendid than the ones she had seen through the glass door of the rich merchants’ houses. Thousands of candles burned on the green branches, and from every bough hung a coloured picture like those in the printshop-windows. Father Christmas, cherubim, shepherds, the baby Jesus – all smiled down at her. She reached out both hands towards them in supplication.

The match went out, but the Christmas lights remained in her vision, and she watched as they rose higher and higher until they were bright stars in the sky. Then one of them fell, a long line of fire. “Someone is dying,” she thought. Her grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star fell down, a soul was going up to God.

She rubbed yet another match on the wall, and she saw an angel.

Light blossomed round her and in the brightness he stood gazing down. Hair the golden-brown of barley fields in late August, and eyes like pieces of the summer sky. His face was dazzling by matchlight, shining with unearthly beauty.

She gasped in delight, and in fear that he too would leave her. “Take me with you?” she whispered, “o angel, take me with you! I know you will disappear when the match burns down, you will vanish like the stove, the goose, and the beautiful tree!” And she struck the whole bundle of matches on the wall, to keep the angel by her side.

The matches burst into flame, a glow brighter than the noonday sun. The angel drew back for a moment, and the little girl was terrified – he was angry she had wasted her matches! she did not deserve paradise! – but as the flames began to die down, he bent and lifted her in his arms, cradling her to his chest.

“Speed on to Heaven,” she heard him say, and she closed her eyes in bliss. So numb was she with cold, that she barely felt the sting at her throat, and only knew that she was fading, flying, soaring up among the stars to where there was no longer any cold, or hunger, or pain.

When morning came, they found her, leaning against the wall. Pale, so pale, but with a smile on her frozen lips. The New Year’s sun shone down on her tiny corpse, still clutching a bundle of burnt matches.

“She tried to warm herself,” some said, “but alas, she froze to death on such a cold night.” Others, who noticed the marks on her neck, made the sign of the cross and muttered, “No, she lit the matches to hold back evil.” None imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor how joyfully she had given herself to the creature who sent her into heaven on New Year’s Day.

ETA: Some concerns have been expressed about this post. I must admit to displaying my own cultural biases here; it did not occur to me that some people might not be familiar with this (public domain) fairytale. This is not an original story, and I posted the link to one version in the introduction so that people could read the original. I deliberately wrote as close to the original as possible, working from two different translations, although rewriting every sentence, to try and recreate the Victorian idiom. Once again: the style of language and the plot are not mine - and I certainly never tried to claim they were mine - only the insertion of Spike into the story is. (And as you all know, Spike's not mine either.)