Darkness surrounded Scrooge. Indeed, there was no visible break between floor and sky, all was black. No reflection, no indentation. Had he not himself been lit by some strange ambience, somewhere, which left no glare nor flare, he would think he'd gone blind.

"My cane... I must..." Scrooge said, scrabbling at the floor. He crawled, achingly, forward. In both the past and the present, he had rarely felt this twinging screaming pain in his legs and side, pain hidden away by awe, fear, sorrow, and regret. But it came now.

He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and began to cough. His lungs lurched just as he did, coughing up a splat of greyish green ick onto the ground, leaving a smear on the perfect obsidian surface.

There was the beat of a hoof, and a slight whinnie of a horse, as he had heard earlier that night in his past. Yet this bray was so enunciated as to be fitting of a capital letter. With the clop of the hoof came his cane, rattling across the ground and rolling its side into his spat up phlegm.

He rested a palm over the shaft of his walking stick, and looked up. Awe and regret and pain melted now into the utter face of fear.

There stood the pale horse, and its rider was death.

The skeleton atop it had gleaming green pinpoints in the back of his skull, his bones an unnatural chalky white. Where ambient light hit him, he was aglow, yet where it did not there was no gradient, just the perfect pitch black of sleep, or perhaps worse.

He wore about him darkened overalls, stained by dirt, and a straw hat that aided in casting a perfect black silhouetted shadow over his face, leaving only the eyes to shine out where the skull was not perfectly defined. He turned his head up after Scrooge looked to him, and adjusted his exposed jaws, grinding the teeth and playing about with the wheat stem that he held between them.

On the horse also sat a bushel of wheat, behind the saddle. The free hand of the spirit held on the side away from Scrooge, and did not become visible to him, now matter how he angled his head.

He looked back down, and without voice or tenor, said, Up now, Scrooge. came a voice directly from the darkness behind Scrooge's eyes, Stand and face the ghost of Yuletide yet to come.

"Oh, dread spirit..." Said Scrooge, rising to his knees and pulling his cane against his chest, "Dread spirit! Have mercy upon me! I have seen the folly of my ways! I have seen what I have done to all, especially to myself! My greed and spite has inflicted untold harm to not just my family and those who would be my friends, but me as well! My mistakes are my own, and I must right them, that I see! I know now you are here for my betterment, but I beg you, pale spirit, do be merciful with my poor regretful soul!"

There is no mercy, Scrooge. The ghost of Yuletide Yet to Come said, There's just me.

The spirit pointed away from himself. The darkness broke like a fog around Scrooge, emanating from that point. The shadows left, peeled back like skin from a rotting body, and revealed the cold and dark streets of Amalen once more.

"Oh dear..." Scrooge said, standing in the snow. His uncovered foot felt immediately chilled, and ached for warmth, his bones stiffening. He stepped forward, even now having to limp, despite his cane, "What will you show me, Dread Ghost? What shall I atone with that which has yet to come?" Scrooge's malice dripped away to reveal the icy terror that lurked beneath.

The ghost pointed from his horse to where he had pointed before, a building, squat. It was a short rather shabby looking home, with a window nailed over with boards. He noticed now that three figures were entering it. One human woman, a literal rat-like fink of a man, and a goblin. He hobbled, or rather limped, towards the door, and stepped through.

"So'z, whatz didz ya manage?" Said the ork man sat at a couch. He had his arms akimbo, spread out across the back of the seat, while he looked over those who he ruled over. He was lazy looking, with a stained shirt, and yet finer pants than was fitting for scenario or personage.

"Barely anything!" Said the Fink, hunched with buck teeth beneath twitching nose, "Place was barren when we got there."

"But we got there first thing in the morning! The body's still warm!" The woman said, "I have no idea what's up with that! The man was rich!" The human woman was more a girl, at least to Scrooge's mind, perhaps barely out of her teens, with brash torn clothing, and a shabby looking ring on one finger, as well as tattoos and brigandry chains most foul about her person.

"No way they cleaned it out already! I bet that old codger didn't hand over a coin to his relative!"

"Maybez he'z burryin 'imzelf wid it." Said the Ork, slurring around his tusks.

"Maybe!" The woman said, shrugging, "But there was nothing there for us, and breaking into a place in castle town sucks..."

As the woman fell into the couch, Scrooge was already stepping out. Something about their words, though confusing and misappropriated, sent him reeling into deep thought and consideration. Someone had died, someone... rich? No, they didn't get anything from his home, did they? What did they say about... burying? It was confusing, and seemed to fade from Scrooge's mind as he contemplated.

He backed into the pale horse, and turned up to the bone face of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

But his feet did not feel cold, no, they felt... chilled, and pained by the hard floor he was walking on. And where was he now but a funeral service, a closed casket laying at the end of a hall. And yet though this was clearly a currently running one, barely a soul was present, especially the one that had been lost.

"I wouldn't have come if there wasn't free lunch." Said a woman wearing all black and a veil to her colleagues.

"Wait I... recognize her... I recognize her, yes..." Scrooge stared.

And them? Said the Ghost.

"Yes," exclaimed Scrooge, "They are my f... ehrm... peers, at the Silver Guild! That's Mary Mason, and Joshua Slaughter, and Terrance Carpenter!" He pointed from one to the other to the other before approaching to listen in.

"It's pretty bad lunch..." Said Terrance, "I think I'd rather have just gone out to that Taiyenese place that just opened up on Broadway and Sugar Lane."

"Oh I've heard good things about it!" Replied Joshua, "It's an all you can eat. Maybe we should go after the service!"

"Eating... take out after a funeral? Why are they even here! Who has died?" Scrooge turned his face to the Pale Horse, and then gazed back to the conversation.

"How did he die again? I keep forgetting." Mary said.

"Oh... a heart attack? Or maybe a fall. They know he was dead for a day or two before they found him at the bottom of the stairs." Terrance replied.

"Truly? That's miserable. You can't live completely alone at that age." Joshua added.

"I think it was foul play." Terrance grinned, "His nephew will be getting all the will, since the old goblin didn't write one. And he was also the one who just so happened to find the body! How hard would it be to push an old man down the stairs?"

It was then that Scrooge scrambled forward, throwing himself into a slump over the casket. He pawed his hands at the coffin, willing his fingers to grip onto the lid, and pushing with all his might. He felt as though his hands would fall through at any moment, pass through the bars that went alongside it... but... he managed it.

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He stared at himself. Laid there. A scowl on the bruised and battered body, a body that had had too much time to rest before the embalmer had gotten to it. Puffy lipped, angry eyed, with wrinkles a plenty. The rigor mortis'd face keeping his glare far into the future.

Scrooge stepped back, his breath caught in his throat, along with his stomach and his heart, tightly. His cane barely found the stair, and he stumbled back, until he fell onto his tailbone. He let out an anguished cry and leaned back before falling completely onto his back. He had fallen down the steps, just as the Scrooge in front of him did.

"Ghost... what is this? It cannot be! I cannot be dead yet! I cannot have died so painfully and alone! Please, ghost..." Scrooge's face welled up with tears and squeezed into pain as he turned over onto his front and gazed up, "I cannot be alone! No, ghost, ghost I beg of you spirit! Show me, please show me but one person affected by my death! Not these... colleagues who care so little they would jest about my perishing! Please!"

And thus, the scene peeled away, and Scrooge was met with a breeze of cold upon his back which blew his hat off his head. The door that had opened slammed shut. As scrooge reached and grabbed for his cap, he heard their voices.

"Oh Nancy!" Said a human man, approaching his wife, "Nancy, the news! It's wonderful!"

"Wonderful? Oh, darling! Did you get that job!"

"No, not yet, not yet! But, I have heard something nearly as good!" Said the man.

They spoke in a hovel, a one room affair, with a hearth for cooking and a bed for sharing their love, the bungalow was nothing but this, and Scrooge pitied them for it. But they did not share the feeling for him.

"Ebeneezer has died!"

"He has?" Said Nancy, with an amount of joy that shot like an icicle through Scrooge's chest.

"Yes! Our loan will be passed to someone else! Perhaps another broker, perhaps his nephew, praise be to Aude should that be the case! The man's as fine and understanding as ever! But, nevertheless, we shall have a break from payment, at least a month to ration!"

"Oh that is wonderful!" Nancy said, smiling bright at her husband before hugging him tight.

The husband spun her around, "I'll get that job, Nancy! I'll get it, and we'll be freed from debts soon enough! I'll give you what you deserve, my love!"

And they kissed, there. Their lovely moment of passion built on the death of Scrooge.

"Fred... Fred! Fred must feel a twinge, sorrow! Please, oh please Spirit! Show me Fred, do not leave me in such despair that nobody would care for my loss!" Grovelled Scrooge, tears hitting the cobbled floor as they flowed freely and chillingly down his cheeks. He looked up at the Ghost of Yuletide Yet to Come. That bushel of wheat, and the hidden hand that so eluded his gaze, and the darkness opposite where the light of the sun hit.

And then, with a point, they were in Fred's home. But the warmth of the party was no longer there, rather a cruel darkness set out upon the place. Fred was speaking from another room, and Scrooge could not will himself to rise.

"My inheritance? Oh- Oh my! Oh dear Aude! Good lord! This is my inheritance?!" The questioning rose in passion, and smiles, "Oh Ebeneezer! Aude bless you!"

"Why didn't he go to my Funeral? Why did he not go, Spirit? Where was he?" Said Scrooge, leaning to his left and holding onto the chair from whence he sat a lifetime ago, in a present he had failed to be present for.

You remember, yes, about what you said to his mother? The Ghost of Yuletide Yet to Come asked.

"Too vividly..." Scrooge sobbed.

It was not the last time you said such a thing. You are lucky he checked up on you at all, after your new clerk mentioned you failed to come into work. He didn't want to go, of course, he was mad then. He will feel regret, I expect. But his pocketbook will feel full for a long time...

"New Clark... but... wait, no... Bob! What of Bob! Surely he would grieve! Surely I would hire him again! I intend to! And- And- Spirit! What of Bob Cratchit?!" Scrooge scrambled forth again, grabbing onto the leg of the pale mare of night that carried the Ghost.

You wish to see him grieve? Asked the Spirit.

"Yes!" Scrooge exclaimed, "I do! I do wish! Please! Show me that someone still cares! Show me that I am not alone in the next world!"

And the cold air once again hit and surrounded Scrooge. Mist pooled about his knees and the cold wet grass stained his sleeping gown. He pushed his hands into the mud and held tight to his cane to pull himself up to stand, fog spilling about him and wafting across his fingers while he did so.

When he came to his full height, he could see his name. The grave was musty, old, barely carved. It did not feature his age. Neither did it list his deeds, for he had none. He stared upon the grass before it, empty of flower or bouquet, empty of offering or pleasantry, empty of grief.

"Spirit! Where is he? Where is Bob?"

And the Ghost of Yuletide Yet to Come did not speak, but merely raised the chalk white skeletal hand, half disguised in opaque darkness from an overhanging nearby tree and the shadows of the gloomy evening overhead.

And there was Bob, stood nearby, just a mere few yards away!

"Bob? Bob, what are you doing? My grave lies here! Here, man!" Shouted Scrooge. He hobbled forth again, pain striking his hip, but he fought against it to stand and struggle. His bare foot squished into mud and tried to suck him into tripping, but it failed, and he made his way to his clerk.

And there knelt Bob Cratchit, laying a bouquet of lilies upon a grave, with a small plaque.

And on the plaque;

Timothy Cratchit.

2642-2650.

Scrooge's breath stopped. He had not had to breathe for a long time now, as he was no longer alive, but the habit ended there and then. He stared at the grave, eyes open. They were open so wide as to let in all of reality, to see all sorrows, all horrors, all things. "No..." Scrooge said, "No..."

The hoof beats clomped closer, and the spirit stood on his steed behind Scrooge. The hand he had been hiding revealed itself. Twisted wood ached up to a slim shard of metal, a scythe, so perfectly sharp.

"You took him..." Scrooge said, turning to the spirit, "You took the poor boy... why?"

I? Said the spirit.

"You gave him sickness!" Said Scrooge, his voice shaking as it came, "And then reaped him like a stalk of wheat!"

There was nothing to be done for him. Too many appointments unmade, too much... unpaid.

"That's nonsense!" Scrooge said, "Bob Cratchit is the hardest working man I know! There is no clerk in Amalen who is better than him! By the Saints he could have opened his own Business with-"

With the references you gave him? 'Charity Case Cratchit', you said. You called him a slouch, a laze, a thief. That is what you thought him, and that is what you told all in your work, and all who came asking after him. He did not get a job for months, but Timothy did not starve, only he and Emily felt that pain, you will be glad to know.

"But the- the shians have... plans, don't they? They have charity! They treat freely..."

The Equipment, The Materials, all costs money. They cannot give more than they have, Scrooge. And when something is fargone... well. A hungry child will die, no matter what, Scrooge.

"And Bob... What will he do now? He has lost his son! I have forced him to lose his son! I have killed a child!" Wailed Scrooge, falling to his knees and casting away his walking stick.

Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses? Said the Ghost of Yuletide Yet to Come, Should not the sick die in the gutter? In the streets? As long as its away from your business.

And with that, the sudden choking sensation, and the pain! Scrooge's head snapped back as metal chains wrapped about his chin, his chest, his arms! He was yanked away! He slid across the ground, gagging and choking and struggling! All he might, he could not escape the pull, taught and strong, of the iron. And his eyes strained from his skull as he turned his head, and saw behind him...

67 Years, Fine Gold, 999.9

And it fell into his grave.

And so did he.

He hit it with such a pain as he had never felt before, his bones breaking under his skin against the hard metal as he was bent over it, slouched. His arms struggled, pained but not paralyzed. A sudden spattering of mud hit him in the face, and it was with a shake of his head that he saw the fully black silhouette of the Ghost high above him. he was perhaps yards and yards away, the grave nearly a true pit of mud and dirt and worms, and in his hands not a scythe but a shovel!

"This cannot be!" Scrooge said, spitting out mud, "No! No it cannot be!" He wailed through pained tears as a blot of dirt hit him on the chest.

IT WILL BE, SCROOGE. The Ghost of Yuletide Yet to Come, said, raising another shovel full of dirt. ONE CHANCE SCROOGE. He dropped the load onto Scrooge, burying his arms. ONE. CHANCE.

"NO!" Shouted Scrooge, the mud growing higher and higher about him. Struggle all he might, now it felt as though all the dirt was steel chains clasped upon him, pulling him down and down into the muddy hole as dirt became thicker and thicker, and buried him, and he could struggle no longer! "No!"