Henry's Cat
The old man rolled and turned, grunted and cursed. His withered body, from its long limbs to its slender fingers, ached with his every exertion. It was a common tale, one age had told him again and again, every morning, every evening, until even the sheets across him, and the gown veiling him ground his skin like slithers of glass.
And yet, through his frown, those thin lips drew up, rising to that rare height few ever saw. Someone was tickling his chin.
"'Morning, Bess." He drawled, not caring how his lips split with the words. "Sleep well, love?"
Something small and wet gave a curious snuffle and roved forwards, butting at his long nose. The tickle at his chin clamped to a baby's grip, stinging with tiny claws. Opening an eye, he felt the smile leave, and the pain return. Not one born of rusted joints and dried marrow, but of unhealed wounds, gashes to his soul's pit, open scars, all salted, seasoned with citrus.
"Bess is gone, Henry." He muttered to himself. "And all Henry has is Henry. And all Henry does is sleep and talk to himself."
Upon his chest, the black cat simmered in its merry way, those two golden eyes taking a long and drowsy blink.
"And you, poppet." The old man grimaced, a skeletal finger crooking beneath a furry chin. "Since you seem to insist upon my company."
Grunting, Henry sat up, ignoring whatever bone was clicking, and scooped the bundle of fluff into his arms, oddly amused at its bewildered chirp. The intruder was persistent, he'd give them that. For six nights he had laid upon that bed, and for six mornings, the cat had been there to greet him.
At first he had been curious, and then annoyed, but when he realised that he could neither explain the cat's appearance, nor muster the heart to simply have it thrown out the nearest window, Henry gave up. And there, in a murky corner, was laid a brass bowl of clear water, and a humble plate of half-gnawed chicken from the kitchens. A bag of bones he may have been, but no one would ever call Henry Tudor a bad host.
"Come along, little one." He spoke aloud, surprised to hear something of the old trill in his voice, some little flame in a dusty hearth. "Come along and have your supper."
Already confused to find itself cradled like an infant, the cat squirmed and fidgeted as Henry rose to his feet, those dark ears twitching this way and that, as though he were leading it to a cooking pot. The cat needn't have worried. Henry had no more heart for whisker-pulling, or tail-tugging. He simply set his friend back down upon his legs, and stood guard, staring at windows curtained shut.
Henry was tired. Tired of waking, tired of sleeping, tired of the faces and names, the petitions and pleasantries. They danced about him, singing so sweetly, but singing through fangs. An entire life, a whole youth, had been wasted, given up to the dance. But now he was tired, and wanted none of it. He didn't want the Sun in the sky, mocking him with all the hazy recollections of Summers past. Nor the Moon among her stars, jeering at him with her skull-like face, jeering at the old man, the old crag, telling him what he already knew.
God, a voice kept repeating, just let it end, just let it be done. No more fighting, no more squabbling or feuding or scheming. Just let it end, let it end.
He had done his bit, he had fought and clawed every day of his life, he had given every last ounce of his blood, and still the flies gathered, buzzing greedily, hoping to suck dry the very dust of his carcass. Wasn't it enough? Hadn't he given enough? Couldn't the whole sorry performance just stop? Even the worst actor could leave when his lines were done, and though they may leave to the hisses and curses of the rabble, they could sling up their masks, walk outside, and be themselves again. But not Henry, never Henry. There was neither mask nor man, just a used up old puppet, watching impotently as all its strings were plucked away, until the only one remaining seemed more a noose.
And so the performance went on, just hanging and rotting, hanging and rotting. But no butcher's shank ever had such an audience for its decay, no stewed rabbit ever enjoyed a rapturous applause for marinating in its own blood.
At his feet, the cat swirled, black mist enclosing his legs.
Another singer. Another dancer.
"And yet not, I think." He contented himself, painfully reaching down, running his palm along an arching back. "You don't care, do you? You have your silly cat problems to deal with. You can be here, and this very night fight to the death in some unlit alleyway, or dance across the rooftops of the City, or scare a child in the night with all your wailings. All of this means absolutely nothing to you. You have absolutely no idea who I am." Strangely, the knowledge soothed him. "Unless, of course," he wryly added, "you've been squirreling away some paper or parchment in all your hidden corners. I know how you cats are. Consistently inconsistent, dizzying even the ghosts with all your tricks. Is it so, my friend? Have you some well-countenanced young kitten you'd like me to Knight? Or perhaps you've come to discuss the high price of sardines?"
Full of knowing outrage, the cat stopped dead, stared up, and mewled, its clawing feet almost a stamping boot, pounding the floor in a tantrum.
"I'll have you know," it seemed to sulk, gold eyes narrowing, "that my cousin's countenance has absolutely nothing to do with this. I happen to think he deserves to be a Knight. You need more cat-Knights, anyway, your Majesty, all these humans are boring and smell bad. Look, just give him Derbyshire for a few years, no one'll miss it."
"Ah." He pondered. "Lord Mittens of Derbyshire. I'm almost tempted, little one. It would make a fine epitaph, no? HERE LIES HENRY: HE ONCE KNIGHTED A CAT."
At the thought, there seemed to ring a sudden chime, a sweet string plucked wildly. And yet it came from him, strolled out of his lungs, sauntered up his throat, and leapt into the air. Henry was laughing. A strange laugh, all things considered. Not the braying guffaw of a drunkard, slouched in his tavern. But more the slow turns and creaks of an old lock, the jangle of a rusted key, the squeak of an eye pressed tight against a keyhole.
Yet when he listened very carefully, when he squinted his dark eyes, and wrung his aching hands, it seemed that the lock was broken, the key turned, the door opened. And someone else was laughing with him. A woman with skin of a Sun-blanched Winter, and flowing hair as bright and terrible as a red dusk, promising a sunnier day to come.
Henry called her name to the darkness. He called her name when he plucked the cat up again and laid it on the bed. He whispered it when the curtains came down, and the light whispered through, full of wasp stings and scraped knees, and ribboned boxes.
"Bess." He pined, lowering himself back upon the sheets, not caring how they itched. "Bess." He repeated, enjoying how it sounded.
"Hrmm?" The cat grumbled, nudging at his cheek. "Who's that?"
Henry smiled, closing his eyes. "A friend." He said.
"A friend?"
The old man's head quivered forwards. "The best."
"She sounds nice." The cat remarked with a sniff. "I'd like to meet her."
His shoulders nudged up, shrugging. "You can't, sweetheart. She's not her anymore. She's gone."
"Gone." The black cat croaked melodiously, a paw gingerly venturing upon his chest. "Gone beyond the fun'ral shroud, gone beyond the wormy ground, gone beyond the passing cloud, gone beyond where we're allowed."
"Well," mused Henry, not feeling his lips open, nor his tongue move, "I suppose we'll just have to seek her out for ourselves, won't we?"
His friend settled upon him, still, silent. And Henry Tudor fell asleep.