Sif had not eaten a single bite of the food prepared for him, and instead gave the tray to the old woman, holding it out to her with a fierce look until she took it.

Upon returning to the large house where he had woken up, he shut himself into the room, and curled up in the bed. It was dry, the mattress stuffed with straw. The smell reminded him of the barn stall where he had been born, and he found himself missing his mother, who he had not thought of in years, desperately.

What could she have done for him? She wouldn't recognize him as her child; she was a cat! She would probably just brush against his leg and ask for a scrap of meat off the table.

It had been so long since then, she was dead anyway. Perhaps she had died the same night the village burnt to the ground; he hadn't seen his mother or his siblings since. It had never occurred to him to look for them. Why would he?

Most cats didn't have good lives; most cats didn't live as long or as well as he did. Most cats never grew to understand the world around them, only learning to blindly love and trust people that would be taken away from them...

He was beside himself, kicking and clawing around, wishing he could shred up his bed, but Helna's fingernails were round and thin, not sharp hooks like his claws.

Eventually he grew so exhausted from his fit that he collapsed down on the mattress and slept.

The night was dreamless.

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