Viviere
By CleverAsEver
He never came here.
He slowly pushed open the gate. The rusted iron structure creaked and groaned as it opened. He entered.
He knew that it would happen eventually, that eventually, every friend of his would die, that everyone he considered family would reach the Heaviside Layer, rejoice in the company of the Everlasting Cat himself. It comforted him to know that they were all at rest.
Not like him. Never like him.
Years had passed. First five, then ten, twenty, a hundred… He had long lost count. And yet, the memories would never fade.
He couldn't remember the last time he looked at his reflection. He looked like a skeleton, he knew that much. He didn't care anymore. He was long past caring.
He walked down the path, brushing his hand slowly against every grave, every headstone.
And he remembered.
Electra.
She had been the first to go. Hit by an out-of-control car, she had died on impact. There was nothing more.
She had been fifteen years old.
Plato.
The ginger tom had died young, a victim of leukemia. He still remembered the day. No one had expected the diagnosis, much less planned for it. He had fought valiantly, his family and friends alongside him, but his battle could not, could never be won.
He had been seventeen years old.
Pouncival. Tumblebrutus.
The news had taken him a while to absorb.
Dying in your sleep happened when you were old and frail, when you choked on your spit or vomit or perhaps when your body had simply shut down.
It didn't happen to young adults. It didn't happen to your best friends.
It didn't take long for Tumblebrutus to go too. It was well known that the two were passionate lovers, despite how hard they tried to keep it a secret. It was also well known that Tumblebrutus had severe bipolar syndrome. His death was one of a broken heart.
They had been twenty-one years old.
Munkustrap.
He had died of a heart attack. Perhaps it was the stress of his job as Protector, or perhaps it was simply bad genes. It couldn't have been bad health. No, it couldn't have – Demeter was too paranoid about him to let that happen.
He had been thirty years old.
Skimbleshanks. Jellylorum.
No one knew what happened. Perhaps it was a bad scuffle, or perhaps it was some sort of horrible accident. Regardless, he had died on the train, his scratched-up body deposited at the station by an uncaring janitor.
Jellylorum had died a few months later. Technically, she had died of a lung infection she couldn't fight off. But everyone knew she simply wouldn't fight. Everyone knew that she had truly died of a broken heart, as Tumblebrutus had.
They had been thirty-six years old.
Bombalurina.
Breast cancer.
When she first told the tribe, everyone had joked about it for a while, laughed at the irony of the situation. As it progressed, the jokes slowly became the only thing keeping her strong. He had been there to reassure her, to tell her she still looked beautiful after her mastectomy.
He had been there when she took her last breath.
She had been thirty-nine years old.
Coricopat. Tantomile.
Like him, they, as vessels of the Everlasting, were cursed too. However, unlike him, being mystics, rather they were cursed to die after only half the time that they would have had had they been normal cats.
They died together, peacefully, in their sleep. Their hearts had simply stopped.
They had been forty-one years old.
Alonzo.
He had never quite been right after Munkustrap's death.
It certainly hadn't been his lifestyle. He never smoked nor drank, and he kept to himself mostly, silently carrying out his duties as Munkustrap's successor day after day, month after month, year after year.
He had kept many secrets, that much was known. But his biggest secret would have to be his Parkinson's.
Why it had started so early was a mystery. He kept it all to himself, the herbs and the insomnia and the fits of shaking on the floor in his den. But when he knew he was gone, that he had lost control, he had told.
He died in Cassandra's arms.
He had been forty-four years old.
Mungojerrie. Rumpleteazer.
A large junk pile had collapsed on top of them. He remembered the scene. Their bodies had been crushed to the point of being barely recognizable.
At least they had died together. Somehow, that made it just a little bit better.
They had been forty-six.
Victoria.
She had been his only confidant, the only one who just barely understood his pain. The world had continued revolving, yet they remained together, tighter than ever.
But then the blackouts started.
Sometimes she forgot things. Things that had happened long past, then things from a week ago, then a day ago, then an hour ago. She could go for days without knowing who or where she was.
Soon, he had to take care of her, bathe her, feed her, help her go to the restroom. And yet, she continued to slip away.
One day, she woke up. She talked for hours about everything. The balls long past, their friends long gone. They had laughed and smiled and cried. He could see in her eyes that everything would be alright.
They fell asleep together. He felt her heart stop, felt her breathe her last breath.
She had been sixty-eight.
Demeter. Cassandra. Tugger. Jemima. Exotica. Etcetera.
The next deaths came in waves, almost like a blur.
Demeter had died of a heart attack, like her mate. Cassandra died of a bad case of pneumonia. Tugger drowned in the Thames, the result of an ill-fated bet over who could swim for the longest. Exotica had a stroke; Etcetera and Jemima had simply died of old age, passing away in their sleep.
He had watched as all of them died, some of old age, some of other unfortunate natural causes. He had observed as his friends' children, the children of their children, and their children of their children grew, prospered, and too, died. He observed as the tribe prospered, fell, grew again, prospered, fell, grew. Centuries passed. He remained.
His best friends, his family, his loved ones. His everything. Now only faded names carved onto unmoving, grey stone.
He spoke to them all. He remembered their voices. Their scents. Their faces. Their laughter. Their smiles.
He remembered everything and everyone.
And he laid on the last grave and cried.
He lived a sadder existence than death. He begged for it. Yearned for it. Craved it. Cried for it.
Oh, how he wanted to be with them once more. How he wanted to just see them again, touch their fur, breathe in their scents.
His tears soaked the earth. There was nothing else he could do. There was no way to change his fate.
He closed his eyes. His breaths turned quiet and deep, then shallower and shallower. His mind slept. His body stopped.
...
An arm shook him. He jumped up, afraid of being caught. He knew the day would come eventually, when the others would find him to be more than a fairy tale, more than an urban legend passed on from generation to generation. He was ready.
Except, he laid eyes on something he hadn't seen in decades.
Tears filled his eyes.
He took a deep breath in. For the first time in centuries, he laughed.
He was enveloped in arms and hugs and kisses and heard their voices, smelled them, saw their smiles, felt their warmth. They were as he remembered them best.
Victoria squeezed him tight and kissed his cheek. Tugger smirked and rolled his eyes at how wimpy he was acting once again, patting him on the back and engulfing him in a tight hug. Electra nuzzled him, as did Jemima and Exotica. Etcetera squealed and jumped up and down. Pouncival and Tumblebrutus, hands linked, grinned and waved, Pouncival jumping onto his back and nuzzling him. Skimbleshanks and Jellylorum wrapped him in yet another tight hug, whispering words of love into his ears. Plato punched his arm while grinning, before hugging him and ruffling his head fur. Cassandra smiled gently and bowed to him. Coricopat and Tantomile shook his paws firmly. They spoke up.
"Are you ready?" They asked, grinning.
He looked down on himself. His fur, usually coated in grime and overgrown, was trimmed and nearly combed. He had fat, he had muscle.
He looked around. Everyone he considered to be of relation was here. His nephews, cousins, uncles, aunts, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren…
Everyone was gathered.
"What?" he croaked, reveling in the foreign sensation. He hadn't spoken in decades.
Coricopat spoke up, his voice gentle.
"Are you ready for the after-life?"
It wasn't death. It was so much more than that. It was everything he had ever dreamed of and more. He wasn't dead. He was finally alive. Finally, finally, free.
He nodded.
Mistoffelees died that day. And he came back to life.
He waved goodbye as an old friend. He carried on, waiting, yearning. Hoping.
He gently brushed his headfur aside and walked out of the cemetery.
Once more, everything was gone. And once more, he was all that remained.
All he wanted was to break away from his hell. His torture. His curse. For a magical cat is forever destined to immortality.
Centuries passed in a blur. He remained.
He waited for the chance. Wasted, waited, wished.
To finally be free.