Hi, everyone. This is just another mildly angsty fic about getting old. How would one of our favorite Austen couples fare as old people? What happened through the years?

DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN EMMA.

"How is he today?"

The little old woman sat on the window seat; her hair was gray and features withered, but her hazel eyes still retained the quickness of her youth. She refused to raise those sharp eyes, however, choosing instead to focus on hemming her granddaughter's dress. Her gnarled hands trembled as she attempted to push the needle through the silken fabric.

Mr. Edmund Perry, the son of her long-deceased father's favorite physician, looked especially solemn as he gazed out the window. "Not well," he admitted, knowing that honesty was something Mrs. Knightley always appreciated, no matter how blunt or painful. Still, he could not help but add, "Although I daresay, Mrs. Knightley, his constitution will be much improved if the two of you continue your daily conversations. It may help him remember, see if he won't. Communicate mundane everyday things with him—the weather, your grandchildren, perhaps..."

Emma carefully folded the little dress, and began to put away her sewing things. It was the same thing Mr. Perry said last week, and the week before that. She was no fool. "You may take your leave, sir. I thank you for your assistance."

He bowed awkwardly and wished her family well. He quitted the room in great haste, sparing her a look of worry as he did so.

Mrs. Knightley took a deep breath. None of her children and their families will be visiting, nor will old friends—the Churchills and the Martins, among others—grace the household with their presence.

She was on her own.

Emma took light steps to her husband's chamber—for they no longer stay in the same room, due to his condition—and gingerly pushed the door open. "My love?" she said softly, like she did when they were young lovers. "Are you awake?"

Mr. Knightley eagerly pushed the blankets aside, his wild white hair sticking out in all directions. "Frances!" cried he, regarding his wife with an innocent, childlike disposition. "Have you come to read me my story, dearest Fanny?"

She smiled. "Indeed, George, if you wish it."

"I want to hear more about the fairies, in the woods! And horsepeople, and mermaids!" His dark eyes, filled with joy and looking so young despite the aged flesh that framed them, broke her heart. She cleared her throat a little, perched gracefully on the bed, and motioned for him to place his head on her lap, to which he eagerly complied. "That sounds interesting, my dear, but I would rather talk about a story. It is about a young lady and a gentleman—a love story.

"Once upon a time, there was a frivolous young lady—"

"What does 'frivolous' mean?"

"You mustn't interrupt, George!" Emma laughed, stroking his hair fondly. "But if you really must know, it means 'foolish.' This young lady did not care about important things. She turned all her attention to herself, convinced that she is always right, and because she is most beloved by her family and friends, she did not see the error of her ways. She was rather earnest in her belief of her perfection."

"I should like to meet her."

"George!" She shook her head at him, but nevertheless carried on with her tale. "But there was one gentleman, who saw not only the good in her, but also the bad. They quarreled constantly, and even if the gentleman always seemed to know better, sometimes, the lass would manage to win a debate with the use of such ridiculous logic that left him stupefied. The gentleman and the lady were good friends, and they always will be."

"Does this story have fairies or not?" wondered her companion. "Can you include fairies?"

Exasperated but not annoyed, she replied, "If it will please you, I shall." And once she was assured of his contentment, she continued.

"They were a pair perfectly matched, but somehow they never realized it, until a...fairy boy (she rolled her eyes here) magically descended from the heavens and enchanted the lady." Knowing that Mr. Knightley liked a good description, she quickly added, "The fairy boy wore a green tunic, with a colorful flower, and he had wild hair the color of...of...spun gold.

"The gentleman was extremely jealous," she added playfully, "and he is, er, secretly a wizard, so he plotted to use magic to destroy the fairy boy, but he realized that if his darling loved the fairy boy, he was powerless, even with all his powers. He wanted nothing more than to make his old friend, whom he know realized that he loved very deeply, happy. And happy he shall make her, even if he will sacrifice his own."

"He sounds like a fine fellow! I do not like that fairy boy. I am sorry to have asked to include fairies."

"Thankfully," Emma said, "the lady decided that she did not love the fairy boy. She did not know why, but she felt increasingly bothered when her friend the gentleman transferred his attentions to her friend, who was a water sprite. And then she found out that she loved the gentleman, too. Only she did not know that he loved her.

"The fairy boy did not love the lady after all. He was attached to someone else—a mermaid who can sing and play the pianoforte exceedingly well. So he married the mermaid, and they were very happy together. 'But what of my friend?' thought the gentleman, and he hurried to see if his lady was faring well with the news, for he believed her in love with the fairy boy.

"She was distressed, because she found out that her water sprite friend had affections for her gentleman, but the gentleman thought that she was upset about the fairy boy. So after a series of misunderstandings, they discovered that they loved each other." She turned her head, feeling mist pass her eyes. "Undoubtedly. Passionately. They married, and that, dearest, is the conclusion of my tale."

"But what of the water sprite?" he inquired, not liking any little detail left out. Emma closed her eyes. Just like the Mr. Knightley she knew.

"Well, she found out that she did not love the gentleman after all, and married a very nice man. They also lived happily ever after."

"Oh," her George said quietly. "That was a great tale, Fanny, but what are their names? You did not tell me of their names."

"Oh, how foolish of me!" Emma cried in mock horror. She quickly swiped the wetness under her eyes and smiled down at him. She planted a soft kiss on his head. "Well, my love, I suppose that is up to you. What should we name them, indeed?"

He was quiet for a moment. "The gentleman seemed more of a knight than a gentleman," he said finally. "You know of what I mean: the stories of men in armor and horses that you like to tell me."

"That is true," she agreed. "He always seemed to save the lady, even when she did not deserve to be saved, for she usually created her own problems. To her, he is a hero. A true knight."

"A knight," George mused. "Let us call him Knight, then."

Emma smiled. "Nobody would be named 'Knight'!" she cried. "That is not proper. Not a proper name at all."

"Well, he is named Knight!" He stuck out his chin stubbornly. "And you said that it is up to me to name them. I choose to name him Knight."

"Fair enough," she replied. "Knight it is, then. And the girl?"

He was silent for so long that she thought he was asleep. "George, darling? Are you alright?"

"Emma," he said suddenly.

Her heart stopped. "What?"

"Emma is a nice name," he said, smiling brightly now. "Yes, Emma it shall be. Is it not a nice name, Frances?"

Mrs. Knightley's hands trembled. Stifling a sob, she whispered, "Yes, my love, it is a nice name. It suits her."

"Indeed it does!" he said proudly. "Knight and Emma. Emma and Knight. They suit each other most agreeably!"

"They do." Gently moving his head from her lap, she stood. "I must have your tea prepared, my George. The maid will be in shortly."

"But Fanny," he whined. "Will you not stay for a while longer? You can lie down with me, I would not mind. You must be very tired."

Emma managed a stronger smile. "I suppose I can."

And there, basking in each others warmth, they stayed together for the rest of the night. And with his arms wound tight around her in his sleep, Emma could almost pretend that they she was one and twenty and he seven and thirty again, and that they were young lovers once more, undoubtedly and passionately in love with each other.

Yeah...that's it. Mr. Knightley's constant questions is inspired by how he had a running commentary during the part of the book when he read Frank's letter, along with the annoying curiosity kids usually have. In case you haven't guessed yet, Mr. Knightley, who is I guess is at least eighty years in this story, is senile. Thanks for reading, and please review!