A/N. This story is dedicated to my son, a soldier; Bouncer, who kept on purring even as cancer overtook him; and Mischief, who's enabled me to laugh again.

Rumple sits in his rocking chair (acquired in a deal with a furniture maker) before a crackling fire. Outside rain is falling, but his house is tight and warm. A kettle is heating on the brand-new stove in the new extension he's had built on his house. There's a proper bed in that extension, so Bae has a comfortable place to sleep when he comes to visit, and a curtained bed in the corner of this part of the house. It's replaced the pallet that Rumple slept on most of his life, and it's done wonders for his damaged ankle.

The rain doesn't bother him. He welcomes it; his garden is thriving, planted with some exotic foods, the seeds for which Bae carried back from King Maurice's castle. When he harvests, he will trade most of his produce to his neighbors in exchange for their more ordinary vegetables, potatoes and parsnips and the like. He eats pretty well (though not as well as the nobles do); he has a pair of solid boots, a heavy cloak, three unstained tunics and three hole-free pairs of trousers; he has nine books and a fishing pole and all the tools he needs to maintain his house. When the kettle boils he will have four canisters of tea to choose from, along with a slice of white bread. He has a seventeen-year-old son who's already making a good living in the King's Home Guard, and he has three friends he can count on, one of whom has just left.

And he has a cat. A ten-year-old black cat that sits in his lap each evening. They're two friends growing old together as their children are out changing the world, Rumple likes to muse with his friend Fort. The cat sleeps most of the time these days. He allows it; she's more than earned it.

He pets her in a single stroke from head to tail. That's how he's always rewarded her, never with table scraps. Never, because she had a job to do, clearing out the mice in the neighborhood. Never, until three weeks ago.

And now he would gladly get down on his knees with a slice of his best mutton between his fingers, if he could get her to eat that way. He'd do it gladly and has, but to no avail. Not that she won't try. She'll cock her head and stare at the tidbit, she'll take a hesitant step forward, but then she sits down again and makes a little cry. She seems to think she's disappointing him.

In the beginning of her illness, she retreated to the clothes cupboard where she had birthed her babies, five litters over her long lifetime. She'd sleep in the dark space for hours on end. He thought nothing of it: she was just aging, like he was.

After a few days he noticed she never went out hunting any more, and that alarmed him. Midnight was the acknowledged Artemis of the Frontlands, the hunting queen of cats. She'd starve if she didn't hunt, and Bae would never forgive him if that happened. He'd never forgive himself. So he knelt at the cupboard and coaxed her out with chunks of mutton, fish or chicken. She crept out, studied the first chunk, then when her confusion faded she accepted it and crept back into the cupboard to eat. She seemed embarrassed. He chopped up more raw meat and left it in a bowl in the cupboard. When he came back in the morning, he counted the chunks: she'd taken only one more.

So he chopped the meat finer and cooked it, and another day passed with a full bowl. On the third day he sat on the floor, lifted her out of the cupboard, and cuddled her on his lap while he held a bite of chicken within reach of her mouth. Perhaps she was blind and that was why she hadn't gone hunting. Perhaps she couldn't smell any more and that was why she hadn't taken from the bowl. So he held the tidbit to her mouth. She tried, cocking her head and sniffing. Then she lowered her head with a throaty meow. He laid the meat aside and petted her as she lowered her head to his knee and fell asleep. Hours later, he paid for the privilege of sitting on the floor when he tried to stand up again and his ankle gave out.

They continued on this way, him feeding and watering her by hand, her taking an occasional bite just to please him. She'd toss her head as she chewed, and that led him to wonder if she had a tooth problem. He called in Fort, a farmer who knew more about "dosin'" animals than anyone in the village. While the cat whimpered on Rumple's lap, Fort pried her mouth open and peered inside, with Morraine holding a candle high to give him light.

Fort's inspection took a long time. When he withdrew and Morraine blew out the candle, Rumple asked, "A tooth?"

Fort shook his head. "She's lost a tooth, but that ain't the problem." He glanced at Morraine. "Maybe this ain't for young gals to hear."

"I love this cat," Morraine said stubbornly.

"She stays. What is it, Fort?"

"It's her tongue. I seen this before on one of my goats. The tongue's rotten."

"What does that mean?"

"It means she's dyin'. You been noticin' the droolin'? It hurts when she swallows."

"We'll cut it out. Get a sharp knife and cut out the part of the tongue that's rotten." But even as he suggested it, Rumple knew it was an awful idea.

"Rum. . . .the rot's spreading through her mouth. Won't be much longer now. Only thing is, starvin' and thirst will take her down before the rot will." Though a big man, Fort has a soft heart that he seldom lets others see. He showed it now, and not just because he sympathized with Rumple. He reached out and scratched the cat's ears. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "She did her work, Rum. Let her go."

"Not yet." Rumple shook his head fiercely. "Not yet."

Fort clasped a hand to Rumple's shoulder. "When you're ready." He walked slowly out into the morning. Morraine remained long enough to prepare a cup of tea and a plate of bread and cheese for Rumple, then she bade him a soft goodbye.

He's been sitting in his rocking chair ever since. His tea's gone cold and the bread is stale, but it doesn't seem right to eat when his old friend can't.

The sicker she gets, the more she purrs. He's learned that's a false hope. Or maybe it's her thank you.

There are other cats in the village, now. He could go out tomorrow and for a copper purchase one of her descendants, a black one or a white one or a yellow one. Or Bae could bring one home from the castle on his next visit. There are other cats, but none like Midnight.

"Not yet," he says to her. "Stay until Bae can come home and say goodbye."

But a pool of saliva has formed on his knee and he can feel only bones beneath her fur, which is matted. She used to take such pride in keeping herself clean. She's starving, yet her eyes are bright and she purrs and sometimes she gets bursts of energy that enable her to leap onto chairs, like the old days. And she's trying so hard, fighting the illness just as fiercely as she's battled mice all her life, and she deserves to live.

He doesn't know the right thing to do.