The Little MatchGriff

by Melody Song

Rating: teen
Tags: Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Second Person, Dark, Death, Gallus
Length: 3069

A young griffon tries to sell matches on a cold winter day. (Second Person)

A young griffon in Griffonstone tries to sell matches to survive, it's the only way they can.

(There are two chapters, but it's the same story twice -- one is in Second Person format, the other is in First Person)

This story heavily based on The Little Matchgirl. If you have heard of the Matchgirl story before, you know what this entails. Read on at your own risk.

Published 2021-12-25 04:10:00 UTC
Last updated 2021-12-26 03:44:52 UTC

Winter (Second Person Version)

It is lonely in the winter.

The snow blows hard against your feathers as you desperately clutch the ragged scarf that is your only source of warmth. The other griffons pad on, heading to their broken old homes that were at least shelter from the cold. You wish you could do more than bundle yourself in your wings as you see two young griffon chicks happily craft a snow-griff while two adults watch, offering mugs of steaming tea before all four fade into the background of white.

It is barren in the winter

Your matchsticks never sell. You’d think in winter griffons would want something to help ignite a fire for their homes. Even just to light their smoke pipe so they can breathe their clouds of grey into the pure white abyss of sky above them. But they treat you as if you were never there. The matchsticks clearly aren’t selling, but they’re the only thing you could scrounge up from around the town, in such good condition too. But they just ignore you, even though your blue plumage stands out the most in the crowd of grey and brown. Differences make others see you less.

It is dark in the winter.

Though you can’t tell, the sun has gone down. You only know this by the significant drop in griffons wandering the street. The snow begins to fall faster as the winds pick up, as it often happens at night, especially up here in the mountains. You notice the sky has slightly darkened, but the flurries of white flakes hinder your ability to tell too much. After stumbling, the matches fall into the dirt. You clumsy fool, you’re lucky they didn’t get wet. You have to get back to your own shelter… your home…

It is bleak in the winter

The broken, shattered library. The only home you know. It’s amazing it hasn’t collapsed into rubble by now. You hunch over in your familiar corner, by a ratty old blanket with your name imprinted on it. Gallus. It’s the only link you have to your past… your grandmother made it, that old buzzard in the fez told you once. She looked after you when you were a chick, and your parents had disappeared. You imagine her a lot more often than you imagine those runaways. You don’t think they’d mind.

It is desperate in the winter

You stare at the tiny carrying crate for the matches. You could light one and have some warmth as the wind moves faster and faster. No. Resist the temptation, that would mean one less to use to haggle bits out of the more well-off griffons. Bits that you need, you haven’t eaten in days. But the snow blows harder, the tiny flakes being whisked up into the air and back down. It’s taunting you. In frustration, you pick up a match and strike it against one of the bookshelves, igniting the tip.

It is warm in the winter

The fire is so beautiful, dancing and shining with the warmth of spring as you hold up a claw to block it from the wind. You gaze into the flames, and suddenly you’re greeted with the image of a fireplace. You can practically feel the warmth, this matchstick is magical! It must be! Eagerly, you rush forward and begin warming yourself with the fire. But just as you hold up your claws to the flickering flames, the image vanishes, and the matchstick has burnt out.

It is starvation in the winter

Why did the fire go out on you? It wasn’t fair. You just wanted some warmth. You take another match, stare at the tantalizing stick of wood. It would be so easy… your stomach growls and you grip it, biting back a gasp of hunger. You can’t take it. You reach out with a trembling claw and strike the match against the library. This fire is bigger than the last, and you watch in amazement as it spreads out and overtakes the rotting bookshelves before you.

It is feast time in the winter

A whole chicken! It’s huge, roasted and steaming and perfect! You reach a claw and as the fire spreads, you can see more! Griffon scones, fish, a huge cake… everything you could ever wish for to stuff yourself silly with. You reach for the chicken and tear off a leg, revealing it is perfectly cooked, and you move to take a bite… only for the image to fade, revealing you were about to bite into the matchstick. The wind blew out the fire on the matchstick, again… and snow just landed on your head… now you’re cold and hungry…

It is harsh in the winter

You can’t believe this. Why would this magic fire do this? The food was so close, finally, a relief from the hunger pains that have been striking you for days. Why would someone ever make magical matchsticks if they always went out? Always showed you something you want before taking it away from you? You snatch up another, shaking the remaining matches free of snow that had fallen into the carrier, and stare at one. You hesitate, then strike it against the stone floor, staring into it, willing for something to happen.

It is royal in the winter

A golden carriage, gleaming with the brightness of the sun, rushes up to you, powered by its own magic. It looks like a chariot fit for the fabled kings of old Griffonstone, but much warmer and cozier even than them. You leap and spread your wings, diving into the warm carriage and watching as a thick blanket is wrapped around you. It too has your name embroidered into the fabric. This Gallus is threaded in gold, matching the royal blue of the quilt. You feel very royal indeed.

It is magic in the winter

Then, the carriage takes off, and you nestle inside as it carries you away, past the windblown houses of the good for nothing griffons who wouldn’t buy your matchsticks. Past the edge of the mountain, spiraling down an invisible staircase until you fly out into the forest at the base of the desolate mountain. The carriage pulls up to a large wood cottage, it looks like a gingerbread house, the snow decorating it like frosting and giving off a warm glow..

It is home in the winter

You run up to the house and peek into the window, rubbing away the frost and looking in. It looks familiar… so familiar… you rush to the door and knock. The door opens, revealing a light tan and goldenrod yellow griffon. The same yellow as the color of your crest and chest feathers. You don’t recognize her but from the way she looks at you, with that warm, welcoming smile, you’re sure it’s your grandmother. You cry out in joy and reach, hugging her tightly… only for her to disappear in wisps of smoke. The third match has gone out.

It is pain in the winter

You’re close to tears now, why does this keep happening?! You just want warmth, and food, and someone who loves you… is that really too much for a lowly street rat to ask for? You bite back tears and grab the final three matches in frustration. They strike against the library’s stone floor and you hold them out like a lantern. Together, they burn as one, three flames braiding and intertwining, creating one huge, and possibly final, scene.

It is family in the winter

Your grandmother approaches you, smiling her warm, kind smile. You beam and rush to her as she holds you. Then, she leads you into another room, where a golden glow is coming from. A huge, green, lush pine tree awaits the two of you. It’s lit with candles and surrounded by wonderful toys and presents wrapped in shiny papers. Your grandmother passes you a matchstick, which you use to catch a flame on a lit candle and reach to light the final three candles. You finally shed tears of joy as you slip into her arms and let her hold you close. You smile, and your eyes close as you rest in her arms, for the first time tonight not caring if the flames went out.

~~~~~~

As the morning sun peeks over a glacier sky, shining upon a city of icicles, a single beam touches a rotting, unstable library. It seems not a single living thing is inside it, until the light hits a mound of soft blue and yellow.

A figure steps up to the mound of griffon, and gently touches it with a claw. A female griffon, waiting patiently as her grandson slowly wakes, before seeing her. He holds out his claws for her, and she happily takes them.

Lifting the boy up from the snow sticking to his paws, she holds him tight as together they walk out of the library, flying high into the sky…

Leaving behind a frozen mound of a blue and yellow griffon, his claws and beak turned from gleaming gold to icy blue, a smile on his face.

End

It Is Winter (First Person Version)

It is lonely in the winter.

The snow blows hard against my feathers as I desperately clutch the ragged scarf that is my only source of warmth. The other griffons pad on, heading to their broken old homes that were at least shelter from the cold. I wish I could do more than bundle myself in my wings as I see two young griffon chicks happily craft a snow-griff while two adults watch, offering mugs of steaming tea before all four fade into the background of white.

It is barren in the winter

My matchsticks never sell. You’d think in winter griffons would want something to help ignite a fire for their homes. Even just to light their smoke pipe so they can breathe their clouds of grey into the pure white abyss of sky above them. But they treat me as if I were never there. The matchsticks clearly aren’t selling, but they’re the only thing I could scrounge up from around the town, in such good condition too. But they just ignore me, even though my blue plumage stands out the most in the crowd of grey and brown. Differences make others see me less.

It is dark in the winter.

Though it's hard to tell, I'm sure the sun has gone down. I only know this by the significant drop in griffons wandering the street. The snow begins to fall faster as the winds pick up, as it often happens at night, especially up here in the mountains. I notice the sky has slightly darkened, but the flurries of white flakes hinder my ability to tell too much. I stumble and the matches fall into the snow. I’m such a clumsy fool, I’m lucky they didn’t get wet! I have to get back to my own shelter… my home…

It is bleak in the winter

The broken, shattered library. The only home I know. It’s amazing it hasn’t collapsed into rubble by now. I hunch over in my familiar corner, by a ratty old blanket with my name imprinted on it. Gallus. It’s the only link I have to my past… my grandmother made it, that old buzzard in the fez told me once. She looked after me when I was a chick, and my parents had disappeared. I imagine her a lot more often than I imagine those runaways. I don’t think they’d mind.

It is desperate in the winter

I stare at the tiny carrying crate for the matches. I could light one and have some warmth as the wind moves faster and faster. No. Resist the temptation, that would mean one less to use to haggle bits out of the more well-off griffons. Bits that I need, I haven’t eaten in days. But the snow blows harder, the tiny flakes being whisked up into the air and back down. It’s taunting me. In frustration, I pick up a match and strike it against one of the bookshelves, igniting the tip.

It is warm in the winter

The fire is so beautiful, dancing and shining with the warmth of spring as I hold up a claw to block it from the wind. I gaze into the flames, and suddenly I’m greeted with the image of a fireplace. I can practically feel the warmth, this matchstick is magical! It must be! Eagerly, I rush forward and begin warming myself with the fire. But just as I hold up my claws to the flickering flames, the image vanishes, and the matchstick has burnt out.

It is starvation in the winter

Why did the fire go out on me? It wasn’t fair. I just wanted some warmth. I take another match, stare at the tantalizing stick of wood. It would be so easy… my stomach growls and I grip it, biting back a gasp of hunger. I can’t take it. I reach out with a trembling claw and strike the match against the library. This fire is bigger than the last, and I watch in amazement as it spreads out and overtakes the rotting bookshelves before me.

It is feast time in the winter

A whole chicken! It’s huge, roasted and steaming and perfect! I reached out a claw and as the fire spread, I could see more! Griffon scones, fish, a huge cake… everything you could ever wish for to stuff yourself silly with. I reached for the chicken and tore off a leg, revealing it was perfectly cooked, and I moved to take a bite… only for the image to fade, revealing I was about to bite into the matchstick. The wind blew out the fire on the matchstick, again… and snow just landed on my head… now I’m cold and hungry…

It is harsh in the winter

I can’t believe this. Why would this magic fire do this? The food was so close, finally, a relief from the hunger pains that have been striking me for days. Why would someone ever make magical matchsticks if they always went out? Always showed you something you want before taking it away from you? I snatch up another, shaking the remaining matches free of snow that had fallen into the carrier, and stare at one. I hesitated, then struck it against the stone floor, staring into it, willing for something to happen.

It is royal in the winter

A golden carriage, gleaming with the brightness of the sun, rushes up to you, powered by its own magic. It looks like a chariot fit for the fabled kings of old Griffonstone, but much warmer and cozier even than them. I leapt up and spread my wings, diving into the warm carriage and watching as a thick blanket was wrapped around me. It too has my name embroidered into the fabric. This Gallus is threaded in gold, matching the royal blue of the quilt. I feel very royal indeed.

It is magic in the winter

Then, the carriage takes off, and I nestle inside as it carries me away, past the windblown houses of the good for nothing griffons who wouldn’t buy my matchsticks. Past the edge of the mountain, spiraling down an invisible staircase until I fly out into the forest at the base of the desolate mountain. The carriage pulls up to a large wood cottage, it looks like a gingerbread house, the snow decorating it like frosting and giving off a warm glow.

It is home in the winter

I run up to the house and peer into the window, rubbing away the frost and looking in. It looks familiar… so familiar… I rush to the door and knock. The door opens, revealing a light tan and goldenrod yellow griffon. The same yellow as the color of my crest and chest feathers. I don’t recognize her, but from the way she looks at me, with that warm, welcoming smile, I’m sure it’s my grandmother. I cry out in joy and reach out, hugging her tightly… only for her to disappear in wisps of smoke. The third match has gone out.

It is pain in the winter

I’m close to tears now, why does this keep happening?! I just want warmth, and food, and someone who loves me… is that really too much for a lowly street rat to ask for? I bite back tears and grab the final three matches in frustration. I strike them against the library’s stone floor and hold them out like a lantern. Together, they burn as one, three flames braiding and intertwining, creating one huge, and possibly final, scene.

It is family in the winter

My grandmother approaches me, smiling her warm, kind smile. I beam and rush to her as she holds me. Then, she leads me into another room, where a golden glow is coming from. A huge, green, lush pine tree awaits us there. It’s lit with candles and surrounded by wonderful toys and presents wrapped in shiny papers. My grandmother passes me a matchstick, which I use to catch a flame on a lit candle and reach to light the final three candles. I finally shed tears of joy as I slip into her arms and let her hold me close. I smile, and my eyes close as I rest in her arms, for the first time tonight not caring if the flames go out.

~~~~~~

As the morning sun peeks over a glacier sky, shining upon a city of icicles, a single beam touches a rotting, unstable library. It seems not a single living thing is inside it, until the light hits a mound of soft blue and yellow fur.

A figure steps up to the mound of griffon, and gently touches it with a claw. It's an elderly, goldenrod yellow colored, female griffon, waiting patiently as her grandson slowly wakes, before seeing her. He holds out his claws for her, and she happily takes them.

Lifting the boy up from the snow sticking to his paws, she holds him tight, and together they walk out of the library, flying high into the sky…

Leaving behind a frozen mound of a blue and yellow griffon, his claws and beak turned from gleaming gold to icy blue, a smile on his face.

End