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kissjane · 4 years

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DELAYED DATE / Short(ish) fic

#12 from this prompt list.

TW / Mental illness, mention of suicide (but no actual attempt)

We dated in high school but then you moved away but now you’re back in town

“Have you guys heard?”

Basile came running towards them, ten minutes late for the gang’s weekly pizza night. As soon as he was near enough, he came to a skidding halt, bent double, his hands on his knees, his face red and ruddy, taking in gulps of oxygen while he tried to tell them his big news.

“Daphné told me, she heard from Imane, who had it from Sofiane, so that must mean it’s true, because obviously Sofiane would not just make something like that up, would he? Anyway, so Daphné heard it this morning when the girls went all shopping together, and she came over to my place to tell me just as I was about to leave, so that’s why I’m late, sorry about that, guys, have you ordered yet? You remembered to leave off the mushrooms on mine, right? Anyway, so what do you think about it, huh?”

He looked around expectantly.

“Baz, my man,” Arthur said, shaking his head fondly but exasperatedly, “why don’t you sit down first, and then tell us this piece of bombshell gossip Daphné thought was more important than pizza with your friends.”

Basile did as suggested, and then looked around again with aplomb, eager to share his news.

“Eliott is back in town!”

Silence fell, as Yann and Arthur glanced over at Lucas.

“Eliott Demaury?”, Yann asked after a long beat.

“Of course, Eliott Demaury, do we know any other Eliotts?”

Basile was so extraordinarily proud of surprising his friends with his announcement that he completely missed how Lucas suddenly had gone pale.

“We should text him, ask him if he wants to hang out again, like before!”

Lucas noticed how Yann elbowed Basile in the arm while Arthur frantically shook his head, and it made him feel bad. If the boys wanted to hang out with Eliott again, they should be able to. But Yann knew, and Arthur could probably guess, that Lucas would very much prefer not to. But whether Basile tried to set something up or not, chances were Lucas would run into Eliott at some point anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” he therefore said. Better to meet him with Yann there for emotional support, than running into him alone and when he was least expecting it. This way, he could prepare.

But not enough, it turned out, when Basile immediately took out his phone, and before anyone realized what was going on, announced gleefully, “That’s arranged! He’s coming over.”

Lucas choked on his own saliva, and a worried look appeared in Yann’s eyes, but the damage was done, and when a familiar figure walked up a few minutes later, Lucas took a big gulp of air and hoped for the best.

“Hi,” a hesitant voice came, and Lucas had to close his eyes against the memories crashing over him.

Eliott calling him late at night, his voice warm with sleep.

Eliott whispering nonsensical words in Lucas’ hair, against Lucas’ skin.

Eliott breathing out Lucas’ name into Lucas’ mouth, his lips taking on the shapes with Eliott’s.

“Hey,” he crooked, willing himself to act normally, to just greet him like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while.

And why wouldn’t he? Of course, he had had the biggest crush on Eliott for most of the time they’d known each other, and Eliott had definitely given him the impression it had been reciprocated, until he had just disappeared – but nobody needed to know that.

Only Yann knew the full story – he had confronted Lucas one night, a few weeks after Eliott had left. Lucas had barely left his room for days, not speaking, eating only because Manon forced him. When he finally came back to school, he had been silent, withdrawn, and pale, and he snapped at the boys a couple of times for no reason. And then Yann had shown up, demanding answers, and Lucas had broken down and cried his heart out, telling his best friend about his whirlwind romance with Eliott, and the bitter taste it had left when Eliott had just packed up and left, not answering Lucas’ attempts at communication.

He would have sworn, only this morning, that he was definitely over Eliott Demaury, after three years – although maybe his glaring lack of any boyfriends in that time might suggest otherwise. Oh, sure, he’d kissed the occasional guy here and there, but nothing serious. And now, seeing Eliott, watching his grey eyes shine and his hands gesture wildly, he was forced to admit that the reason nothing ever went further was that he was the farthest thing away from being over him.

Basile was already jumping around Eliott like a young puppy, bouncing up and down, asking him how he was, what was going on, whether he was back for good, where he had been, why he had moved without notifying any of them – all in rapid-fire, without giving the older boy a chance to reply.

Finally, Eliott spoke up.

“It’s not the happiest story, but if you guys are up for it, I would like to tell you all.”

He stared straight at Lucas, and Lucas needed to turn his head, afraid of falling for Eliott all over at the slightest opportunity. He steeled himself not to believe any of his beautiful words this time, not to walk into his trap again.

But Yann nodded solemnly, and Eliott gangly sat down, folding his long limbs and hunching his shoulders.

“So, uh, I am bipolar. I don’t know if you guys know, but it’s a mental disorder…”

A silence fell. They all knew what that meant. Lucas had finally told the gang about his mom’s admission into the mental ward in their last year, and Basile had told them about his mom’s mental illness.

“We know,” Arthur said. “That sucks.”

“Uh, okay, yeah, it does. So we didn’t know at the time, but a lot of the stuff I did at my old school was due to episodes. It’s also why I failed my bac and got expelled from my other school and came to your high school. But like I said, nobody knew at the time and so, one day, I went into a manic stage and I tried to jump off a rooftop because I thought I could fly. A police agent managed to talk into me enough to get me down safely, and I got brought into the station. They called my parents, and they thought I had tried to commit suicide – which wasn’t true. I had everything to live for, and I wouldn’t want to give up –”

He looked at Lucas again. So did Yann. Both sets of eyes were trying to gauge what Lucas was thinking, feeling, but Lucas was numb.

“Anyway. They had me admitted into a psych ward near Le Havre, where they had moved to a few months earlier, that same night. I couldn’t keep my phone or anything, I couldn’t contact anybody, I –”

Again, his eyes found Lucas, pleading.

“I wanted to call you so badly, I swear, but they wouldn’t let me, and then when they finally gave me my phone back, it was weeks later, after they had diagnosed me, and I just – I thought you would be better off without me. Or that you would have forgotten me, or had moved on, and so I just… didn’t.”

Lucas saw Eliott’s eyes shine with something different now, as if he was blinking back tears. He wasn’t sure his own eyes looked any better.

It remained silent for a while. The boys looked from one to the other, unsure what was going on.

“So why are you back now, then?”, Yann asked, when nobody else made a move.

“The simple reason is that I finally got accepted into the Arts program at the University of Paris,” he answered, but his eyes still never left Lucas.

Yann nudged him with his elbow, willing him to ask the obvious reason, but Lucas was still too much in shock to do so.

In the end, it was Arthur who finally broke the heavy tension.

“And the complicated reason?”

Eliott took a deep breath.

“I had to leave something behind I never wanted to leave. Or someone, rather. Someone who I hadn’t even known all that long, but who meant everything to me. Someone who I missed every goddamn day I was out there. Who I have written thousands of texts to, and deleted them all, who I wanted to call millions of times, but never did. Someone I made so many drawings for over the years I could barely get them all to Paris with me – I just hope he gives me a chance to show them to him one day.”

“Sound like someone pretty important,” Yann said, when Eliott’s voice broke.

“The most important person I ever met,” Eliott agreed. “I loved him then, and I hate the fact that I never got to tell him, so I just hope I get to tell him now.”

“Do you – still?”, Lucas whispered. “Love him?”

Eliott nodded. “I never stopped. Please, Lucas,” he said, suddenly giving up all the pretense, beseeching him, “I swear I never meant to hurt you, it all happened so fast, and I know I am years too late, and you probably have somebody else by now, I just – I need you to believe me. I fell in love with you the first day I saw you walking the hallway at school, and I never stopped.”

Basile gasped.

“You are in love with Lucas? Our Lucas?”

“Oh, come on, Baz,” Arthur said as he stood up. “Let’s go get pizza. You coming, Yann?”

And as Basile still protested indignantly – “But I didn’t know! Lucas never said anything!” – Arthur and Yann dragged him along, the latter winking over his shoulder at Lucas.

As Basile’s voice finally died down, Lucas lifted his eyes to Eliott’s, and then dropped them to his mouth almost immediately.

“Lucas?”, Eliott said tentatively, gingerly reaching out a hand to Lucas’ shoulder.

“You drew for me?”

He didn’t know why he came up with that, after everything Eliott had said, but he was rewarded when Eliott smiled.

“Hundreds of times. Hundreds of happy hedgehogs and raccoons.”

Lucas smiled.

“Do you… I mean, maybe… If you wanted… You could come with me and I could show them to you?”

Eliott’s tone was hopeful, but cautious, and suddenly Lucas didn’t want to waste another minute. He’d pined over Eliott for years, and here he was. Nobody could predict the future, but tonight, he wasn’t going to let Eliott slip away.

“Only if I can stay the night,” he said, softly, and he laughed as Eliott’s eyes went wide and his breath hitched.

“I can’t wait until we get there to kiss you,” Eliott replied just as softly, when he was sufficiently recovered.

“Please don’t.”

And when their lips found each other again after all those years, they both knew it was going to take a while to get to the drawings – but neither of them overly minded.

#I write things #50 cliché prompts #Elu

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theaggresivepacifist · 4 years

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As I Go Wandering

Mossflower’s four chieftains have a summer reunion. Some Songbreeze/Dannflor fluff for @myrose-of-oldredwall! Happy holidays, friend!!!😊

(And many thanks to @redwall-secret-santa for setting this up!)

It had been many a season since Redwall Abbey was ruled by such young creatures. Abbess Songbreeze Swifteye and Abbey Champion Dannflor Reguba were wise leaders, stout warriors, and kind and cherished friends to all at Redwall, from the tiniest molebabe to the prickliest old hedgehog; they were also energetic creatures, and occasionally somewhat restless. Song in particular, used to wandering since infancy, sometimes felt a longing pull towards the woodlands, towards campfires and swift waters and sleeping beneath leafy bowers at night.

“I can’t believe that a year ago we were fighting Marlfoxes and finding secret islands,” she observed to Dann, during one of these wistful moods. They were in the orchards, beakers of ice-cold raspberry cordial in paw, as they supervised a herd of adventurous Dibbuns reenacting the great battles of the previous summer. “I feel like it was a lifetime ago.”

“Or like it happened to different creatures.”

“Younger, sillier creatures.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Dann, feigning indignance, though the impression was undermined by the daisy crown a trio of giggling mousebabes had placed on his head.

“And it’s been a while since we’ve seen Dipp and Burble,” Song continued thoughtfully, brushing pear blossoms from her shoulders. “I wonder what they’re up to.”

“Probably off havin’ all kinds of adventures. It’s a wild life out there in Mossflower.”

“I wonder if we’d still be good at adventures.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” said a new voice, full of gentle mirth.

Song and Dann turned to see Cregga Rose Eyes, the ancient Abbey badgermother, lounging in the sun. She had been following their conversation with a smile on her scarred face.

“You should go and visit your young friends. It’s a perfect summer for travelling,” she said, almost suspiciously casual. “And a few weeks to yourselves might give you a chance to rest up before the autumn harvest.”

“We have plenty of time to relax here,” Dann protested. As if on cue, a stout young molemaid tugged on his habit hem, while a slightly older squirrel called to Songbreeze from across the Abbey lawn.

“Hurr, zurr, Daisy be’s making mudpies an’ trying to eat em all oop. It’s an orful mess, hurr hurr.”

“Abbess? The cook needs you straight away – something about a disaster in the larder and a whole season’s hazelnuts spilled all over the floor?”

“Think it over, anyway,” Cregga said, still smiling, while the two conscientious squirrels rushed to their duties.

*****

After much deliberation, and cleaning up spilled hazelnuts and mud-covered Dibbuns, Abbess and Abbey Warrior decided that perhaps a little summer reunion might be just the thing they needed.

“Are you sure you won’t need us?” Dann and Song both asked Cregga, multiple times. Cregga generously let them realize on their own what a silly question this was to ask a former Badger Lady, former interim-Abbey-leader, veteran of multiple wars, who might not be able to see but could hear a pin drop and snap steel or iron like a forest twig. Meanwhile, Rusvul, Janglur, Rimrose, Gawjo, and Ellayo, all creatures of solid experience and good sense themselves, cracked frequent jokes about having more than enough squirrel perspective on the running of the Abbey anyway.

“You’re only young ‘uns once,” Ellayo added sagely, in a tone that brooked no argument. “It’s high time you had a little fun, without us old ‘uns hanging around!”

And so it was that a few days later they set out on a glorious midsummer morning—only for a few weeks, of course, but farewelled as if they might be gone for a full season. Dann carried the sword of Martin belted across his back, and Song a light walking staff. Dibbuns, elders, Abbey brothers, Abbey sisters—all of Redwall Abbey and some from the country around—stood at the gates or on the walltops to see them off. The Abbess left them with a song, sweet and true as always, which left many a creature sniffing slightly behind cover of paw or habit sleeve.

“Though this journey borrows me,

I promise I won’t be far away,

For I carry you in my heart with me,

In ev’ry place my pawsteps stray.

When you see the summer sky,

Or river in its royal blue,

Think of me as I go wandering,

And know that I’ll come home to you.”

“Good ‘un, Song,” said Dann appreciatively, when they had passed beyond sight of the red sandstone walls.

“Now you sing us one.”

“Ah, you know me. I don’t sing.”

“I’ll teach you. We have all the time in the world.”

The two spent several days wandering on their own: lazily, enjoying the journey, occasionally stopping to chat with creatures who made their home in Mossflower Wood. They followed the river in a vague sort of way, and one morning reached a tranquil stretch of water that they recognized from last year’s quest.

“Dippler and the Guosim should be somewhere close,” said Dann, searching for pawprints in the soft sand. Song had another idea.

“Logalogalogalog!” she called, in an echoing, birdlike trill. Dann followed suit, paws cupped around his mouth.

“Logalogalogalog!” he shouted, slightly less melodically, pacing a little farther up the riverbank. “LogalogalogaOOF!”

Song whirled around in time to see Dannflor flattened by a blur of grey fur. She charged, wielding her walking staff, raising her voice in a thunderous cry of “Redwallllll!”, before skidding to a halt as she recognized a stout spiky shrew kitted out in rapier and colored headband.

“Mornin’, Dann. Mornin’ Song. What’s with all the shoutin’?” Dippler grinned, paws still locked around Dann in a bear hug, as he heaved them up from the ground. “We’ve already been tracking you for half a mile.”

“You never,” Song protested, giving Dippler a hug herself. “Where are the Guosim, anyway? Did they kick you out already, you great rogue?”

Giggling shrews emerged from a screen of rushes just up the riverbank, almost all of them already known to Dann and Song from the Guosim’s time at Redwall last summer. The two squirrels shook so many paws that their own paws soon felt weary.

“Come see the new fleet of boats we’ve built,” Dippler said finally, extracting them from a shrew tussle over who would get their honored guests some cold mint tea. “I told ye we were going to make lighter craft, like the Riverhead vole tribe had, faster and easier to manage.”

Dippler nodded to a shrew standing guard over a willow grove, and he parted a curtain of leaves to let them pass. A fleet of sleek, beautiful boats, masterfully carved from rich honey-colored wood, were docked in a shallow section of the stream, bobbing gently with the motion of the water.

“They’re wonderful, Dipp,” said Dann, admiring the shine of the varnish and the tiny carvings of waves and flowers ornamenting the prow of each boat. “Are they sea- er, riverworthy yet?”

“Better than any craft on water!” Dippler replied, puffing out his chest proudly.

“Well, in that case, how about a little river journey?” Song grinned. “We were thinking of traveling upstream to visit Burble, too, and the Riverhead vole tribe.”

“Haha, I miss ol’ Burble too. Why not? We’ve been in one place far too long. But first, you’ve got to enjoy our famous Guosim hospitality,” Dippler said firmly. “We had a feeling you’d be comin’ our way! And I want to hear everythin’ that’s happening at Redwall, too, mates!”

They camped for the night in a lovely watermeadow, where dragonflies flitted through the evening sky and paper-white and purple lilies floated on the water. Song and Dann and Dippler caught up together and then spent many hours retelling old tales for the amusement of the Guosim, who especially loved the ones about Megraw Eagle, the Marlfox islands, and Song’s unexpected aunt the hedgehog. Shrewcooks filled their bowls with piping hot tater’n’watershrimp stew and heaped wooden plates with hearty shrewbread and soft white cheese, generously studded with leeks and hazelnuts. When everyone was beginning to yawn, they bedded down on soft sleeping rolls beneath the stars, with the piping of frogs and crickets and waterbirds for a lullaby.

“It’s like being in the forest when I was a little one,” Song murmured drowsily to Dann, before they fell asleep. “I’m ever so glad you came with me.”

They spent several days on the river with Dippler and the Guosim, who were taking advantage of the warm weather and calm water to tend to their logboats and teach the younger shrews how to paddle and swim. Dippler, like the old Log-a-Log before him, was patient and kind with the youngsters. When the group agreed (after much time-honored shrew debate, of course) to embark on a visit to Burble’s tribe, he captained a boat of nervous young shrews just learning to row, encouraging them the whole way and tirelessly helping to back their boat out of sandbars and tangles of tree branch whenever the young ones accidentally crashed into the bank. By the time they had reached the end of their expedition the young shrews were keeping up with the best of them, grinning proudly, and Dippler was able to ship oars and sit at ease.

“Comin’ up on Riverhead vole territory now,” said Dippler, arms crossed, looking every bit the sage Log-a-Log. Sure enough, in the distance they could see the ruddy glow of orange lanternlight muddling the evening lilac, and then a fleet of illuminated watervole coracles gliding a path through the reeds and rushes.

“Is that old Burble Bigboots, Horror of the Leafwood?” Dann called teasingly from the prow of his shrewboat.

“That’s Burble Bigthrone, Holder of the Leafwood to you,” a familiar voice called back. “An’ Commander of the good ol’ boat Swallow, yiss yiss!”

Burble and his tribe of watervoles had soon surrounded the Guosim boats in a flotilla of their own. Shrews and voles exchanged greetings and traded favorite watersongs as they paddled ashore to the Riverhead tribe’s cavern home, where a welcome party was scraping up reels and jigs on an orchestra of well-loved instruments. Burble, once on dry land, kept shaking Dann and Song’s paws vigorously.

“We’ve been meanin’ to come to Redwall, y’know, but there’s been so much to do here. It was a powerful cold winter, so we’ve been improvin’ our little hideout here, getting everything shipshape, y’see!”

They recognized the Riverhead voles’ cavern, but sure enough, the place had been spruced up and made even more cheerful and comfortable than a year ago, thanks in great part to Burble’s exuberance. Cozy moss-covered arms and footstools were drawn up around the hearth; lanterns glowed in wallsconces; woven rush mats with a sweet, grassy perfume covered the floors and decorated the walls. Little trinkets from their various travels—beautiful carvings, pressed and dried flowers, pieces of smooth seaglass—were scattered throughout as decoration, giving the place a very homey feel.

“You kept it, you rogue,” said Dann, horrified and amused, as he spotted a familiar carved chair against the wall of the cave near the dining table. “The Marlfox throne you plundered.”

“Och, yiss, I kept it, but we mostly use it as the babbies’ high chair,” Burble burbled. “Now sit ye down! I want to hear all about what goes on at your Abbey, hoho!”

After long hours feasting and catching up with their two friends, Song and Dann stayed up late into the night talking and toasting last autumn’s russet apples over the fire, while watervole lullabies keened softly around them on fiddle and reed flute. Burble and Dippler, propped up by the hearth, were both snoring uproariously, with Burble clutching the greenstone-topped Leafwood even in his sleep.

“Just like old times, eh?” said Song.

“Should we wake up early and steal a boat in the morning?” Dann said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“Oh, yes, I was hoping we’d get chased back to that horrible swampy creekbed again.”

“Get bit by all manner o’ bugs.”

“Fight a few ferrets and weasels while we’re at it.”

“No, thank you, I’m happy right here.”

Their conversation dissolved, as usual, into laughter. Burble shifted a little, pawing at his nose. “Madbeasts, both of ye, yiss yiss,” he snuffled aloud, though still sound asleep. “You’re perfect for each other.”

*****

After several whirlwind days of feasting and dancing, boating and hiking, Dippler and the Guosim set off for farther reaches of Mossflower, and Song and Dann found themselves missing the orchards and sandstone walls of Redwall Abbey, the faces of friends and loved ones, the sound of the evening bells. They bid farewell to Burble and the Riverhead voles (“visit us again!” one and all clamored) and broke camp on an early morning, haversacks filled with homecooked food for their travels, sword and staff in scabbard and paw.

The path home stretched out before them, twining through lush groves of oak and elm and nodding willow. They stopped a moment to stare in awe of it, smell the sweet grasses and blackberry blossom in the air, listen to the sweet warbling birdsong and the soft winging of the sun-yellow butterflies through the trees of Mossflower Wood.

“After you, mighty warrior,” Song said finally, inclining her head with grave solemnity.

“After you, Abbess Songbreeze,” answered Dann, matching her nod with a fantastically elegant bow.

Song gave him a playful shove. Her touch lingered a little on Dann’s shoulder, and Dann turned to her with a soft contented smile. This time it was Dann who picked up the melody of an old wandering song, surprisingly practiced for one who claimed he never sang.

“The road ahead is long and weary,

But walking it with you, my dear,

Though the miles go slow and dreary,

I feel aglow with summer cheer.

See the trees bedecked in flowers,

All alight with green and gold,

Oh, how I love to share these hours -

Let’s wander on ‘till we grow old.”

Paw in paw, side by side, Abbess and Warrior began the journey back to Redwall Abbey.

#Redwall #Redwall Secret Santa #Marlfox #Songbreeze Swifteye #Dannflor Reguba #redwall fanfiction #Dippler #Burble #myrose-of-oldredwall #AAAA I hope you like this! <3 #redwall secret santa 2019

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crustaceanenjoyer · 4 years

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Sonic the hedgehog crying and it says "me life's in ruddy shambles mate"

#undecided on the font #suggestions welcome tbh #also im having a hard time finding a fitting pic of sonic crying??#he cant express those emotions because all he knows is cowabunga and being awesome and or totally rad dude #when you think about it sonic really is a central figure in modern toxic masculinity🧐#if im bullshitting its only bc my life is actually in shambles #ohh. australian sonic 😶

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aresworld-suniverse · 4 years

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Can you draw sonic and his daughter together please

La paternidad es dura.... y más cuando tus hijos heredan tus habilidades :P

#sonic the hedgehog #my art #amy rose #sonamy #sonamy family #sonic oc #sonic #amy #ruddy the hedgehog #ask

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shyrebelchild · 3 years

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Ranthambore National Park

The National park is just 7.8 kilometers from Astroport Ranthambore. When you arrive at the park you can take a safari and see around the Park. The Park is celebrated for the faunas like the Tigers, Leopards, Striped Hyenas, Sambar deer, Chital, Nilgai, Common or Hanuman langurs, Common Palm Civets or Toddy Cat, Common Yellow Bats, Macaques, Jackals, Jungle cats, Caracals, Sloth bears, Blackbucks, Rufous-tailed Hare, Indian Wild Boar, Chinkara, Desert Cats, Five striped Palm Squirrels, Long-eared Hedgehogs, Ratels, Small Indian Mongoose, Small Indian Civets, Indian False Vampires, Indian Flying Foxes, Indian Foxes, Indian Gerbilles, Indian Mole Rats, Indian Porcupines, and Common mongoose. Different types of reptiles are likewise found in this park.

Ranthambore is quite possibly the most pursued spots to see tigers. Seeing them in their characteristic territory is inside and out an unexpected involvement with comparison to seeing them confined. They don't look scared, yet they look savage. They look great. There are additionally an assortment of birds you will discover there like, Brahminy Starling, Oriental White Ibis, Wooly-Necked-Stork, River Tern, Indian Scops - owl, Large Gray Babbler, Purple Heron, Hoopoe, Greater Coucal, Indian Pond-heron, Rufous Treepie, Black Drongo, Ruddy Shelduck, Bar-headed goose, Peacock, Brown stone, Red-wattled Lapwing, Purple Sunbird, Gray Francolin, and Baya Weaver.

#ranthambore #Wildlife #astronomy #tigers #rajasthan #adventure #traveling

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cloudtales · 4 years

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Meet the insects that are defying the plunge in biodiversity – new findings

A ruddy darter dragonfly perches on a stalk in Coleshill Park, Wiltshire, UK. Ian_Sherriffs/Shutterstock

In 2019, there were 44 million fewer breeding birds in the UK than there were in the 1970s. There are thought to be fewer than one million hedgehogs, compared to 35 million in the 1950s. Two-thirds of British…

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exquisitelyeco · 7 years

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First time round.....

Ok. So yesterday I mentioned that holding onto my house tightly had actually happened to me before.

And that I only just realised, I had done it again.

About 16 years ago, before after the birth of son number 5, I was given a housing association house. Three bedroom. Semi detached. Large garden.

I had rented, at that time, I had also nearly died, due to a tumour in my brain, the size of an orange, been threatened with death, by my babies dad, had to run and be protected and hidden from him, and just about, literally to have a baby. So being given a stable home was a real blessing.

I had two children who were just starting to really kick off, and two others I desperately wanted to spend time with, that lived elsewhere. So having a base of my own was wonderful.

But emotionally and mentally, as well as physically, I was very, very sick. I knew the physical part - I’d had a brain tumour that left me partially sighted, epileptic and with a weak left side. Emotionally, I knew I was falling to pieces. For years I had struggled with dark thoughts and feelings, that terrified me. I did not dare tell anybody about them. Mentally my mind hardly ever stopped, in the day.

At the time my mum was staying with me, to help with my baby son. She has a twin. Her twin had visited a therapeutic community church. It offered emotional and mental healing, through therapy. Basically they helped you look at WHY you were sick. The roots of it. And undo them, so you could have healing.

Now I had had, prayer, in other churches and by people who I considered righteous (And some genuinely were). But though it might work for a week, sooner than later, those thoughts would come back. I dreaded it. I still did not really think there was anything wrong with me. Just how I felt and thought. And I blamed my life choices on those things. Or the demonic.

So I listened to the tape, my mums twin gave to her. It talked about prickly hedgehogs, I think. How we use certain behaviours to defend ourselves, and try to stop people hurting us. But that these behaviours not only make us sick, but actually make us sicker.

They said that God did not want us to stay sick. That normal prayer did not always work, because of the sin/issues that held our damage in place. Blanket prayers were not helpful, for most of us. For some of us, we had to go back to where the sickness really started, normally in our childhood. Go back with the Lord and undo the damage that had been done, so it no longer had its hooks in us.

By doing this we were free from the sin/damage and could develop new habits and new ways of life.

So apart from the tape, my mum also had the book, and I read it. I cried. I so wanted what this woman, Susan B Williams had.

I add now, this does NOT have to be done with God! You can do this by listening to your emotions and following your nose. So those Atheists, humanists etc, don’t panic or turn your nose up. This WORKS. And it works WITHOUT God.

Now, you may not believe this next bit, especially if you do not believe or have a God. I do. I am not ashamed to say, I need a crutch. Without my God I would be dead. Plain and simple. I have tried to take my life, but He has always saved me. Sometimes in very humorous ways. ( For example, I once walked in front of a car. The ruddy car turned round!!!!) Morbid as it is, I actually do find that funny…..

So, as I said, I believe in God. I talk to Him. Always have. And believe it or not He answers me.

I love car boots. Never, ever want to miss one. Bargains! Woo hoo! And where I lived there was a boot fair, regularly.

Now at this community, they advertised workshops. The tape I listened to was the Introduction one. And they did Introduction workshops. Teaching all the stuff I just mentioned.

It was a Sunday. Their office was closed. (They had a church office, for the sake of the workshops etc) And I wanted to go on to this car boot.

Yep, this is disjointed. You’ll see why in a mo. Reeeead on……

So I wanted to car boot, but God had other ideas. Now this particular day, I had a ‘feeling’ I guess you could call it intuition or gut feeling, that God wanted me to stay at home. Stay home???? On car boot day??? Not ruddy lightly!! But the feeling was strong.

So I did what I normally do. I really stamped my feet. “I’m going!” I said to God. “I don’t care what you say!” ( more on the words we always repeat to ourselves another day….)

So I put my boy in the pram, and off I marched. But the feeling persisted. So I argued with God. I was determined. I WAS GOING to the car boot. But God couldn’t and wouldn’t leave the ruddy subject alone. Not that He spoke out or any thing, just then. But I just KNEW. So I kept stamping and declaring and arguing at Him that I wouldn’t go home.

Finally I said to Him, “ What have you ever done for me?” This voice, not angry, or shocked at me, or anything. Just a normal voice, said “Died.” Ruddy, RUDDY HELL. You Blasted swine!!! Pull the F******Ace card, why not!!!

So I STAMPED back. I was really cross with God, I can tell you. But, within 10-20min of me being home, Susan her self rang. (Think I’d left a message or something, about her book and wanting help) She offered me to come on a work shop. I answered I had no money. She replied, “So what? Come anyway” I said I had two children with me, and a baby, and I was breast feeding. She said “So? Bring them with you” So I booked on.

Had I not been blatantly BULLIED by God, I would not have been home to take this call.( He got worse, much worse, later. I tell you, God can be A blatant, shameless STINKER when He wants to be…..)

So. To cut it short, I went on this workshop. Not only did I go free, as the workshop was hours drive away, and over the weekend, they arranged accommodation and hospitality for free. A trained nurse helped look after my baby, and they brought him to the main house, when it was feeding time, so I could feed him.

I understood hardly anything they said really. They talked about keys to help us find freedom…..took me 10 years to work that one out. Coming from a fundamental Christian background I did not understand all the theology. It was SO out of the box……

But this workshop, and in the place it was, was peace. Peace like I had never felt. Susan taught about how we bring our past into our future, by the ways we build up habits and belief systems that are untrue, but that we believe, or choose to believe and live. Mostly to defend and protect ourselves.

For example. Because my father was a cruel, sadistic wicked man, where I lived in fear 24/7 , I chose to make fear my friend ( for example as I got older, I’d watch horror movies, and go out with violent men, allow my self to get hurt, to ‘prove I was hard’ cut my self (which is another story) etc)

So by the time I was thirty, I had totally forgotten that I had any choice. I lived fear. Pure and simple. And to cope with the fear, I had also chosen hate. It gave me power and made me believe (wrongly) that I was in control. This too, I picked up from mum and dad. My dad showed his hate in the way he tortured my sister and I. Mum showed hers in feeding dads behaviour. So I leant hate is power.

Anyway….. at the end of this workshops I brought LOADS of their tapes, blatantly. No one accused me of having money. Or made me feel guilty. And at the very end every person on the workshop - (it was ladies only) had a word from the Lord. I remember mine. Though I did not understand it then. It was “Just keep coming.”

And I decided a I wanted to up sticks and move down. I can be a bit random and sudden……

So I told Susan, she welcomed it and said they would help me find somewhere. I was introduced to a lady called Kate after I returned home, who was to co ordinate finding me a property to rent and move. And a team of men to come in a van and do my move, for me, as well as unload the other end.

That’s when it started to go pear shaped. I got home and saw my little home. My little home that was MINE. Not rented as such. No short term tenancy. I was secure, low rent, lovely house.

I did not want to move. My heart was holding tightly to my 'Treasure’ (my house) So I started to argue, cos you’ve guessed it, that is where God wanted me to go, to Susan's church to get well.

I was cross with God and stubborn. (Anger is another of my coping mechanisms - the emotion I choose when I'm fearful, cross or confused etc) I pick it up so automatically, it's not even conscious - note how I said we forget our original choices? My anger started righteously, at my fathers unfairness and cruelty. But it had built up, over the years, and become poison. I was destroying my children and many others with cruel or angry words.

I started picking holes in the theology I did not understand. Emailing Susan with my retorts of how it didn’t fit my 'truth’ having picky words with Kate, when she rang to help. Susan emailed back. She was not angry. I think she replied, that I should not just not trust what I thought was the only truth, but give them a go, and see, but I was under no pressure. She said I did not have to come. No forcing? No bullying? That is what fundamental Christianity had shown me. 'If you are not healed it’s a problem with your faith!’ 'If you don’t tithe the devil will get you,’ all that stuff. Also, attacking others and 'demanding' I was not going was one thing. Having the anger diffused with kind words and being told I didn't have to come was another!

And God started to interfere too. I was getting magazines through the door that said 'A fresh new start’ etc. What a cheek! Blasted God. I dug my heels in. “You mean a new start in my house!” I declared. So what did I do? Re- carpeted it. Ahh tenacity. It’s kept me alive. But also got me in lots of trouble. But it was going to get worse. I raged at God in temper. “I don’t WANT to leave my house!!!” And then He did it again. Pulled out the ace card. Only this time it broke me. He was not really angry. Just pissed, if I remember rightly. He retorted “What good is your house with no one in it?”

And I cracked, because I KNEW what He meant. I was so damaged, eventually I would drive my children away, as I would be too toxic (angry, critical, hateful, fear driven) to be around. Now for all my faults and bad choices, I love my children. And God knew it. So He used them as a carrot. I told you He was shameless....And I thank Him, He is. That's real love. Thanks God.

So I rang the church office in tears and left a single sentence on it. “Your right, I’m wrong, I’m coming.”

And that was it. Within a matter of probably six weeks I had relocated miles and miles away.

If I had known what was coming, I would have been paralysed with fear. Susan said, once trouble came, “ I knew you had to relocate, and here seemed a good a place as any.”

Obeying God, even though I was kicking and screaming, not only saved my relationship with my children, it saved them and saved my sanity, as well as my life.

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ebook-ebooks · 7 years

Text

Chapter 1,247

"Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery, guessed at his intention. Besides, had any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged with people who had then been observed by Elizabeth. Perhaps." Would you give me an indolent man, who lived his whole ruddy bloody as in a garden of public exposure. "Whose, then?" They had always been measured for it. "Gregor, Gregor", he called, "what's wrong?" "Willow, you decided to grace us with your presence," Orion mocked. If I or she had ever behold. Night also closed around; and when I could get was anyone's guess), everything. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that." She got up from his sleep. He was much money your uncle has laid only a round dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the job and if that could lead to give the hedgehog a blow to his back of the car. "Can you move it, laughed at me." He can't think of all that many synonyms, unless he includes metaphors like "the butter's slipped them sequentially onto his eye. His name was the thing he was build for."

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theaggresivepacifist · 5 years

Text

and you, my oldest friend

For the lovely @thegoldensoundtwice, based on this amazing post.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Since I moved home from college in May, I’ve kind of lost contact with a lot of good friends and colleagues, and your amazing blog has been a little bit like having a friend to chat with – especially about the wonderful world of Redwall. Even though we don’t really know each other, your kindness, sense of humor, and incredible eloquence (I will NEVER be over the fic you wrote for me!!!) has been such a gift, and so instead of studying for the GRE I wanted to write you this tale as an early Christmas present and a heartfelt thank-you. Surprise!!!

It is un-beta’d, massive af (I think almost 7K words, so let me know if you’d like a .pdf!), and a tad bit angstier than I was going for at first, but hopefully still an entertaining yarn.

Cheers!!!

It was a glorious midsummer’s evening when she saw Redwall Abbey for the first time.

Her grandfather, a silver-furred old badger named Buckthorn, had told her stories about it, of course, promising to take her there the next time they held one of their fabled feastdays. He was a good storyteller, perhaps the best in Mossflower. But even he couldn’t do it justice.

The Abbey stood tall and proud and majestic at the border of the woodlands, battlements and belltower of ruddy sandstone soaring to the sky. The setting sun gilded the myriad ivy leaves that crept across the stone, turned the climbing roses to an incandescent shade of ruby red. The broad main gates stood open to all comers, and inside she could see colored lanterns glowing in the branches of the trees, reflecting in swirls of red and yellow on the surface of a tranquil pond.

Constance had never before seen anything quite so beautiful.

A motely group of squirrels, mice, hedgehogs, otters and moles welcomed them to table at once, as if they were old friends, and loaded their plates with the most delicious-looking foods a creature could imagine: breads and cheeses, salads and pasties, puddings and berries and flans. All of them were talking at the same time.

“Welcome, both of you! You look famished! Here, this plum cake goes perfect with clotted cream.”

“How about some of this hotroot soup?”

“Don’t be shy, take a few more of these nunnymolers.”

They were given places of honor at a table of Abbey Brothers and Sisters, pleasant mice in cowled brown robes. Being rather solitary by nature, Constance spoke with them only when spoken to, preferring to let her grandfather hold the conversation. She devoted the rest of her attention to eating serving after serving of the scrumptious food and watching the other jolly creatures with interest.

As supper was winding down, with everyone sipping their favorite drinks and nibbling at their favorite sweets, some of the woodland guests, the two badgers included, took it upon themselves to provide entertainment for their kindly hosts. A troupe of voles played reels and jigs on a battered bodhran and sweet-toned reed flutes; a family of harvest mice performed several comedic skits. But Constance and Buckthorn’s act was the most anticipated of the evening. Many Redwallers had never even seen a badger in the fur before, as old Mara, Redwall’s last badger mother, had gone to her rest many seasons ago. The pair of them performed feats of marksmanship with yew longbows, and Constance obligingly wrestled stout waterhogs and burly otter champions, shaking them off like raindrops as the Redwallers shouted words of advice and encouragement.

“That’s the stuff, missie!”

“Hohoho, ole Skip’ll be sore for a full season!”

“Hurr, moind the choild don’t toss ’im into yon pudden!”

She enjoyed the competition, the adrenaline, the feeling of her own strength. The attention was slightly overwhelming. Having humored her hosts, she left her grandfather deep in conversation with old Abbot Cedric and slunk off to the orchards with a pawful of mushroom and leek turnovers, throwing herself down on the cool grass to eat. The night air was velvety-soft, sweet with the perfume of rose and blackberry and late blossoms, and she snuffed appreciatively at it between bites of savory pastry.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said a quiet voice, surprisingly close at paw.

Constance bristled slightly, but then relaxed when she spotted the creature, resting against the trunk of a neighboring plum tree. He was just a young mouse, dusky brown, wearing the sandals and sage-green habit of a novice. His eyes were wise and kind.

“I always like to come here in the evenings,” he continued. “It’s nice to sit and watch the sun set over the Abbey. And it’s especially nice to be surrounded by all these good creatures, and hear them laughing and enjoying the feast.”

“I live with my grandfather in Mossflower. I’ve never seen so many creatures all at once,” Constance said. It was unlike her to admit something like that to a strangebeast, but the mouse’s gentle manner somehow put her at ease.

“Do you have many friends in Mossflower?”

“Not really.”

“Well, now you’ve got lots of them here.”

Constance had to smile at that. She extended a broad black paw and gave his a gingerly shake.

“I’m Constance. Pleased to make your acquaintance, friend.”

The mouse made a grave gesture in return, bowing his head over his own folded paws.

“My name is Mortimer,” he said.

By the end of the feast Mortimer and Constance were inseparable; the one’s serious nature perfectly complemented the other’s slight shyness. When she and her grandfather returned for the autumn harvest he showed her around the interior of the Abbey: the dizzying height of the belltower, the best places to sit in Great Hall, the labyrinthine aisles of the cellars where their resident Cellarhog kept special firkins of mulled wine and flowery mead.

Of course, they were both still young creatures, so these sights were soon followed by a tour of the spookiest corners of the attic, the hallways with the best curtains to shelter behind during games of hide-and-seek, and the kitchen larders that held the best snacks. They played in the crisp autumn leaves and dared each other to step paw in the icy pond. He also introduced her to Martin the Warrior, explaining the legend to her as she gazed, transfixed, at the richly embroidered tapestry.

“A mouse fighting a wildcat,” she marveled aloud. “I can’t wait to tell my granddad about this.”

“I thought you’d like to know about Martin,” said Mortimer. “He was brave and strong like you.”

“And then a mouse of peace, like you,” she replied thoughtfully.

Buckthorn was growing too old to make the journey to Redwall as often as Constance would have liked, and so in the springtide she argued and pleaded with him until, finally, he gave her permission to make the trip on her own. She woke well before dawn, packed a generous haversack of supplies, and set out through the woodlands at a steady pace, already full of excitement for the day she had planned. The miles passed swiftly. She arrived at the Abbey by midmorning, just as the Redwallers were finishing their breakfast, and stealthily motioned for Mortimer to leave Great Hall and join her in the orchard. He was thrilled by the surprise, but also full of questions.

“Why are you being so secretive? Where’s your grandfather? How in the name of seasons did you get here so early?”

“I’m here to take you on an adventure,” she told him in a stage whisper. “Think you can sneak out to Mossflower for the day?”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed,” said Mortimer. “I have to help with the washing for the dormitories and –”

“Come on! I’ve been to Redwall lots of times, now you should see where I live. Just tell them you can’t do it! Make something up!”

“I’ll try. Wait here.”

He disappeared for several minutes, leaving Constance to sample some of the early gooseberries. Finally he returned with a subdued expression and a heavy green travelling cloak draped over his Redwall habit.

“I told Brother Oswin I was gathering herbs for the infirmary,” he said, already self-reproachful.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a fib. We can find some on the way back.”

He cheered up as soon as they set paw in the emerald forest, where new leaves were budding and a kaleidoscope of varicolored wildflowers were blooming. He had never been so far into Mossflower Wood before. Constance named the many birds for him by their plumage and their dulcet voices, and Mortimer paused often to admire fuzzy bumblebees and jewel-toned dragonflies, or flitting butterflies with wings like stained glass.

After a few hours’ march they sat down on the riverbank to rest, shaded by the boughs of an ancient willow. Mortimer said a simple grace over their midday meal. Constance watched the way his eyes closed, his shoulders relaxed, his paws steepled.

“What is it like, being in the Order?” she asked him, around a mouthful of strawberry preserves.

“Well, there’s a lot of book learning.” He brushed oatcake crumbs from his lap and cut a wedge of yellow cheese studded with hazelnuts, whiskers twitching thoughtfully. “Lots of history. We learn about the founders of Redwall and where they came from, and about the rules and vows that all Abbeymice live by. But our most important duty is to provide help and healing and charity to any creature in need of our assistance. Just a few days ago there was a poor weasel with a racking cough –”

“You mean you let vermin into the Abbey?” Constance interrupted.

“He was an honest creature. Sister Teazle and I made him a draught of strong herbs. He was as good as new by the next morning, and gave us some beautiful mussel shells in token of his thanks.”

“He probably came by those while he was off pirating at sea,” she replied dryly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you can’t trust just anyone. There are a lot of dishonest creatures who would try to take advantage, even here in Mossflower. We’ve had quite a few brushes with robber foxes and ferrets.”

“Trust them or not, my duty is to help them if they require it,” Mortimer said patiently. “But I suppose it’s safer living at Redwall than out here in the forest.”

“I don’t know. It’s not so bad.”

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean it that way at all, truly. Mossflower is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I think I could stay here by the riverside forever.”

“Well, I think Redwall’s got to be the best place I’ve ever seen,” said Constance, pleased by her friend’s compliment.

“Who knows! Maybe you could come and live there someday.”

After luncheon they crossed the stream, picking a careful path over the slippery stones, and made their way at last to at the badgers’ cottage. It was a snug little house of smooth clay, built back against a rock shelf so that the soft-mossed surface served as the fourth and largest wall. Trailing nasturtiums wove over the doorway and windowsills, their flowers like bright medallions of orange and sun gold. Inside were tables and chairs of Buckthorn’s making, carved out of honey-colored wood, and little trinkets from his many travels: pressed mountain flowers, many-colored stones, bits of seaglass worn smooth as silk.

“It reminds me of our Cavern Hole at Redwall,” said Mortimer, his eyes aglow.

“A neighbor helped me to build this place, a clever old beaver, when I first came to this part of the woods.” Buckthorn straightened from stoking up the hearthfire. “That were when young Constance here was but a tiny badgermaid. Her gran was still with us then.”

“She must have planted that wonderful herb garden of yours.”

“Aye, that’s right. She was a healer like you are, y’know. There’s some rare plants growing there that might interest you.”

The old badger and the young mouse were kindred spirits. Over the course of the afternoon Buckthorn swapped stories with Mortimer and shared with him some of the badger lore that Constance had known since she was a cub, the workings of the tide and the secret phases of the moon, the way to sense the first changings of the season – even old fireside tales, like that of the great snow badger who brought deep winter to Mossflower Wood. Constance was just about to remind them that they needed to get back to the Abbey before nightfall when a sudden spring rain began to lash through the trees, obscuring the woodlands with a heavy sheet of silver.

“Not travelin’ weather, I’m afraid, young ’un,” said Buckthorn, shaking his grizzled head. “You’ll have to stay here for the night.”

“Oh, no,” Mortimer groaned. “I’m going to be in a lot of trouble when I get home.”

“Don’t worry. We can leave as soon as the sun rises,” said Constance, secretly ecstatic that the elements had intervened. “Let’s have a cup of tea, and then I’ll show you how to make a seafaring dish my granddad taught me. Skilly and duff!”

In the morning, as promised, they set out at a run with the first rays of dawn, slipping and squelching on the muddy road. Though they made it to the Abbey in record time, Mortimer’s prediction was soon proved correct. Brother Oswin was waiting for them at the gate with a face like yesterday’s thunder. Without hesitation he took hold of Mortimer’s habit sleeve and began lecturing the young mouse severely.

“We were up all night worrying about you. Abbot Cedric was about to send out a search party! And where in the fur is the sanicle and valerian you were supposed to be gathering?”

Constance blushed at the Brother’s righteous fury, beginning to feel sorry for the part she had played in the whole affair. But Mortimer, recalling the sleepless night they had spent telling tales and playing games while the rain drummed on the cottage roof, could only smile.

For many happy seasons they visited back and forth in this way, growing up and growing ever closer, Constance trekking to the Abbey for feastdays and bringing Mortimer back to the cottage to enjoy languid spring and summer evenings by the riverside. She eventually taught him how to find his way through the woodlands unaccompanied by reading the signs of moss and leaves, and after much effort prevailed upon him to carry a stout ash staff with him on the road (“Someday I won’t be there, and you might have to defend yourself!”), though only because he decided he could use it as a walking stick.

Mortimer made his way to the den often in the winter days when Buckthorn’s health began to fail him, brewing soothing teas and medicines, keeping him company while Constance slept. When the old badger went to his final rest it was Mortimer who said the funeral service, tenderly placing a bundle of early quince on the grave Constance had hacked from frozen ground.

Several days had passed since then, and the two of them sat at table together, sharing a jug of blackcurrant wine to drive off the icy chill. Constance was red-eyed but composed.

“I was thinking of taking some time to myself. Travelling someplace new, like my granddad liked to do.”

“Outside of Mossflower?”

“Perhaps.” She drained the last dregs of her cup, set it carefully back down on the tabletop. “He told me a lot of stories about Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard, where his father and brothers ruled. Maybe it’s time for me to pay a visit there.”

“But surely not until the springtide, friend.”

“No. No, I’ll wait until the snow melts.” Seeking to reassure him, she gave Mortimer a tired smile. He had taken his final vows and now wore the wide-sleeved brown robe of an Abbey Brother, which made him look, if possible, more solemn than ever. “But the sooner the better. I don’t think I’m meant to spend the rest of my life as a farmer. You’ve already found your path, you old fogey, and I’m glad for you. I don’t have that yet.”

For a moment silence fell. It was an end and a beginning. They always had known it might come to this, but hoped it never would.

“You’ll come back to us, won’t you?” Mortimer asked her.

“Of course I will.”

***

It had been a long struggle across shifting sands, chilled and buffeted by the wind. Her mouth was full of grit and her paws stinging from the many tiny cuts left by jagged rocks and sharp blades of spiky sea grass. She was hungry and thirsty and weary to the bone.

But at last, after weeks of travel, the great mountain was in her sights.

A military hare in a buff-colored coat was waiting her at its base; curiously, he seemed to have been expecting her for some time. He swept off his jaunty feathered hat and made a low bow, to which she responded in kind.

“Is this Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard?”

“The very place! And surely you must be the charming Lady Constance, daughter of Iris and Birchstripe, grand-niece to Lord Oakpaw the Valiant, eh wot! By the left! My pater’s pater served under your great uncle!”

“Just Constance, thank you,” she replied firmly, shaking his paw with a grip that made him wince.

“Just Constance, what an odd moniker! Right-o, I’ll give you the full tour. Please to jolly well follow me, madam!”

He led her upwards through a warren of stone corridors, grey and bleak, but fresh with bracing sea air and the tangy smell of salt and seaweed. He was chattering all the way.

“This, dear gel, is the ancestral home of badgers such as your good self, although it’s a few seasons since our valiant Lord went off questing after some wicked corsairs to the south—vile creatures, nasty tatty rats, all of ’em, need a lesson in cold steel. And so but a few of us gallant and handsome hares, such as myself, the humble Corporal Merriwether, remain here, guardin’ his domicile while he’s away, keep the home fires lit, so to speak. I’ll show you the common areas, dormitories and kitchens of course, the forge room, the terrace gardens, perchance even the entrance to the sacred jolly hall of badgers itself…but here’s the ticket, just the place to start. The mess hall!”

As they approached Constance could hear a commotion – at first what she thought was the sound of several creatures shouting, but then recognized as one creature doing three or four different voices, as the mood suited him. Corporal Merriwether sighed.

“That’ll be one of our new recruits. My apologies for the disturbance, marm.”

They rounded the corner and found themselves abruptly in the Salamandastron dining hall: brightly lit by westward-facing windows, with a crackling fire along one wall and long wooden tables and benches arranged in the center of the room. A slightly bucktoothed grey hare in regimental red was leaping and bounding from table to table, his long ears flopping comically about as he berated his lunching comrades, each of whom ignored him steadfastly. Constance had never in her life seen a creature behaving in such an outrageous manner.

“Cowards! Bounders! Fiends! Yah boo, ya rotters, I can outscoff any three of you with my paws behind me back, so there!”

“Steady in the ranks there! What’s all this about, you young terror?” barked the Corporal. The mad hare came smartly to attention and threw him a swift salute.

“Sah! Was simply interested in a little pie-scoffin’ competition, sah! First beast to finish their pie jolly well wins, sah!”

“You ’orrible animal, what on earth for?”

“Simply a spirit-raisin’ game, sah, fun for the troops, good for the morale, eh wot!”

“I could eat,” said Constance mildly, to general surprise. Several of the Long Patrol hares instinctively stood upon seeing the badger in their midst, and the red-coated hare made an elegant leg.

“By Jove! Honored to have such a worthy opponent, I’m sure! May we commence with the challenge, sah?”

The Corporal looked doubtful, but turned on his heel to shout in the direction of the kitchens.

“Oh, dash it all, if the badger Lady wants to humor the lower orders…Cook! A mushroom ’n’ tater pie for the young badgermiss, wot!”

Constance took a seat on a comfortable bench across from her challenger, who sat poised with wooden fork and knife hovering over a massive golden-crusted pie. In a twinkling a stout hare came hurrying over to place before her a pie of similar size, tugging respectfully at one of his ears.

“With the compliments of me goodself, Cook an’ Colonel Puffscut, marm. Rules for a Long Patrol scoffin’ competition are simple: on the count of three, start eatin’. First beast to finish their plate’s the winnah. One…two…three!”

Without further ado the hare across the table began shoveling down forkfuls of pie, gravy dripping from the corners of his mouth. All eyes were on Constance, who in turn was watching her challenger with great amusement. She waited until he had almost finished his portion before locking eyes with him, opening her massive jaws, and wedging the entire pie into her mouth. After three leisurely chews and a draught of nettle beer she swallowed and shrugged at him, wiping her paws fastidiously on a napkin.

“What was that you were saying about outscoffing three creatures at once?”

There was a smattering of applause from the Long Patrol hares, most of whom were glad to see their eccentric comrade taken down a peg.

“Good show, marm!” the strange creature cried sportingly, still covered in mushroom gravy, as he extended a paw for her to shake. “The name’s Basil Stag Hare, doncha know. I think we two fellow faminechops would make awfully good pals!”

“I certainly ’ope not,” the Corporal remarked despairingly to the Colonel. Constance had to hide a sudden grin.

She soon fit in at the mountain fortress: she was a badger in her prime. The hares kitted her up with a runner’s pack and sling, and she took to galloping alongside the patrols in daylight, telling jokes and gulping nutbrown ale by firesides at night. She spent hours in the forge room, smashing metal into arrowheads and sword blades, although she still preferred a simple javelin or the strength of her own limbs above all else. Basil, the renowned, if ridiculous, fur ’n’ foot fighter, taught her to box, a pursuit in which she excelled. A single right cross from one of her massive paws was enough to lay low a ferret or stoat (or once, by accident, an unprepared Lieutenant Swiftscut) for half a season.

A few of her most impressive feats became the stuff of legends in later days, such as the time when Basil convinced her to skip kitchen duty for an unauthorized day of leisure on the shore. It was a baking-hot summer’s morn, and they had unbelted their weapons so that they could swim in the cool green sea. They then sat wolfing down purloined fruit salad and honeyed damson tartlets, using a massive chunk of driftwood – perhaps the wreckage of a lost corsair ship – as a table. It was the badger who heard the approaching pawsteps first, and turned to see two weasels and a fox trying to sneak towards them, toying with their bladehilts.

“I say, chaps,” Basil said, feigning indignance. “This is a private party, d’you mind?”

“Shaddup, rabbit!” snarled the fox. “Don’t try to go fer yer weapons, they’re too far. Wot kind of vittles have ye got there?”

“Oh, a smidgen of this, a smidgen of that. ’Fraid there’s not enough left to share.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Hand ’em over, or I’ll gut ye!”

With eye-blurring speed the fox drew his rusted cutlass and slashed at the air a hairsbreadth in front of Basil. The hare sidestepped and moved swiftly to stop him, but Constance was faster. With a mighty heave and a sky-shattering roar she levered their picnic table out of the sand, sending food flying and swinging the heavy spar in one fluid motion in the direction of their assailants.

“Blood ’n’ vinegarrrrr!”

CRACK!

All three vermin were knocked poleaxed to the ground, stricken completely senseless. Constance tossed the spar aside with a snort of satisfaction, only to see Basil dancing about on the sand about like a madbeast.

“What’s the matter? Are you wounded?” she demanded, but the hare was merely overcome with awe.

“Absoballylutely spiffin’, wot! Strewth, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Well, I thought I heard him ask you to pass the damson tartlet,” she said modestly.

Then there was another incident that aroused much mess-hall gossip later, not all of it friendly. Corporal Merriwether, driven half mad after several seasons’ of Basil and the badger’s endless capacity for trouble, had allowed the pair of them out on a weeklong patrol, accompanied by two companions. They were a few days’ journey from Salamandastron, in the last hours of their assigned mission, when a runner named Gurdee spotted a shabby lean-to built precariously against the cliffs. A mangy grey and white rat was crouched outside at a feeble fire. He did not appear to be armed, but Gurdee’s fellow runner, a hare named Bayberry, was taking no chances.

“Paws where we can see ’em, laddie buck! Just what d’ye think you’re doing on these shores?”

“Tryin’ to keep warm,” the rat said dully.

“Wouldn’t happen to be one of Zivka Bluesnout’s scummy corsairs, would you?”

“A deserter, probably,” Basil suggested, in a voice that seemed to propose moderation, but the rat made no reply, and Bayberry ground his teeth together at the slight. With a nod to Gurdee the pair of them drew their rapiers, perhaps seeking to intimidate him into an answer. Bayberry cut the ropes holding together the rat’s dilapidated tent, and Gurdee stirred up the seacoal with the point of his sword, extinguishing the last frail sparks of the fire.

“Stay mum if you wish, but we can’t have questionable characters campin’ out on our Badgerlord’s territory. You’ll need to clear out by nightfall.”

The rat had not made one move to stop this destruction, but instead sat watching listlessly from the sand, one grubby paw splayed protectively over a deep wound in his foreleg. When she saw it Constance barked out a sharp order, her voice echoing off of the cliff walls like a thunderclap.

“Hares, leave that creature alone!”

Obediently they froze, but there was surprise and perhaps even slight resentment in their eyes. Constance ignored them and turned her attention back to the rat.

“How did you injure your leg?”

“Slipped,” he said hollowly. “On the sea rocks, foragin’ the tide pools.”

“When?”

“Few days ago.”

Constance tugged her haversack from her shoulders and began rummaging through it, coming up with a clean strip of bandage and pawful of pungent leaves and mosses.

“Clean the wound in sea water, and then bind it with these herbs. It may sting, but it’ll heal. In the meantime, you’ll want to stay off it as much as you can. Do you have enough food here to last you a day or two?”

The rat shook his head. Constance dug through the haversack again and then set the last of her field rations, a strong wheat loaf and some good mountain cheese, atop the empty cask that served him as a table.

“Take these and move once when you’ve had time to rest. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”

Then without waiting for a word of thanks she turned on her heel and marched away from the scene, accompanied swiftly by Basil. Gurdee and Bayberry sheathed their blades with a last warning look at the rat before jogging to the badger’s side. They disapproved and did not try to disguise it.

“Not entirely sure I understand you, marm, givin’ away healing medsuns like that to a rat, of all creatures.”

“Rather, wot! An’ beggin’ your pardon, but it sticks in my gizzard to see proper gentlebeasts’ tucker wasted on a villain like that!”

Basil, seeing the strange look in her eyes, was the only one who remained silent. Constance continued to stride ahead at a purposeful double-march.

On the journey back to Salamandastron she seemed somehow a changed creature, moody and withdrawn. She no longer hungered after battle and danger the way the young hares did. Even the ballads and marching songs, rousing tales of glory and peril and heroism, had lost their charm. She trusted only Basil for counsel, sitting up to talk with him late into the night.

She missed the new green of oak leaves in the woodlands, the ruddy rose of sandstone in the setting sun, the stillness and sweet fragrance of the Abbey orchards. She missed a gentle, kindly mouse in the habit of his Order, cooling his footpaws with her on the banks of the River Moss.

One morning she left the mountain behind and went home to Mossflower Country.

***

She could hear the ringing of the Joseph Bell even from a distance, clear and strong and exultant, and almost in spite of herself began to run, paws churning up the pathsoil. Through the lacework of budding beech and elm leaves she soon saw flashes of pink stone, and then she found herself before the gate. She had to pause for a moment to catch her breath and calm her emotions. She had dreamed of this moment every evening of her journey back; perhaps she would wake up to find that this too had been nothing but her imagination.

Then she stepped forward and rapped at the door.

After a few moments a chubby little dormouse heaved the doors open, peeking cautiously around the corner. At the sight of her his mouth fell open, and he nearly dropped his bunch of gatekeys in surprise.

“May a weary traveler enter?”

“Heavens above!” the dormouse said breathlessly. “You must be that badger our Abbot talks about so much! Come inside, come inside and rest yourself. My name is Brother Abel. I think I remember you from a midsummer’s feast.”

No sooner had the gatekeeper let her into the Abbey grounds than another mouse materialized as if from thin air. Before she could say a word he flung his paws around her, laughing and weeping all at once.

“Constance! Constance!”

“Mortimer!”

“Constance, my dear, dear friend!”

Mortimer was a young mouse still, but his fur was already taking on a tinge of silvery grey. His face was alight with joy. He stepped back to get a better look at her, awed by her obvious strength and size.

“You’re as tall as an oak! Where have you been all these long seasons?”

“You’re the same height as you always were. I’ve been traveling, like I said I would.”

“You must tell me all about it! Let’s go for a walk in the cloister gardens. Thank you, Brother Abel, you can close the gate.”

Brother Abel made a respectful bow, a gesture which surprised Constance. But she soon forgot about it as she related to Mortimer the story of her travels. For what felt like hours she told him of the mountain and the great gray-green sea, the hares she had befriended and the dangers she had faced. With every step they took through the familiar gardens, every time Mortimer laughed at a funny story or gasped at a tale of a narrow victory over vicious foebeasts, her heart felt a little lighter.

“Well, that’s about it,” she finished at last, wanting to hear about what he’d been doing all this time. “I’ve had plenty of adventure, like I wanted to. And now I don’t know what to do.”

“So does this mean you’re here to stay?” he asked hopefully. Constance let out a sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. Does Abbot Cedric have a use for a large, grouchy badger like me?”

“Good old Abbot Cedric. I’m sure he would have, but he went to his rest two seasons ago, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry, Mortimer. I know you were close to him.”

“He was a wise and compassionate soul. I hope I am serving well in his stead.”

“What do you mean?” asked Constance. Then, suddenly, she understood Brother Abel’s bow. Mortimer seemed to draw himself up a little, a creature fulfilled and fully at peace.

“Just before Abbot Cedric passed on, he told me that he’d decided to leave Redwall Abbey and all its creatures in my care. I am Abbot Mortimer now.”

Constance was still grappling with this news when she felt somebeast step on her footpaw. A mousebabe and a small squirrel, both clad in the linen smocks of Abbey young ones, had attached themselves to the hem of her tunic, tugging and pushing. They were addressing her in what they imagined was their best imitation of a badgers’ voice, trying to make themselves sound gruff and fearsome.

“I’mma bigga strong badger, make you falla down!”

“We’re not scareded of anybeast!”

Constance was not used to little ones, but she felt her heart soften. With a wink to Mortimer she scooped the pair of them up single-pawed, tumbling dramatically into a patch of clover and coming to rest with a bump.

“Phew, what fierce warriors! You’ve slain me, you little rogues!”

“Yee hee! Again! Again again again!”

“These little scallawags are Holly and Jessamine, two of our most ferocious Dibbuns,” Mortimer said, smiling. Constance looked aghast.

“Dibbuns? What in the world is that?”

“It’s what we call the young ones here at Redwall.”

“Nonsense. I’ve never heard something so ridiculous.”

“Again again again!” interrupted the squirrelbabe Jessamine, trying to clamber up onto Constance’s head. Constance struggled to her feet in mock exhaustion and bent to take each of them by the paw.

“How about you two ruffians show me and Mor – the Father Abbot to the kitchens first? I’m famished!”

“What does badgers likes to eat?” Holly demanded.

“Naughty little mice and squirrels!” Constance said, raising her eyebrows and showing off her shining canine teeth.

“No!” shrieked Holly in terrified delight, while Jessamine giggled. “They likes chesknutters an’ strawbee cordial!”

“Oh, that’s right! I forgot. I bet you like chestnuts and strawberry cordial too. Here, let’s wash our paws off in the pond first.”

“I think we may have a use for a large, grouchy badger after all,” said Mortimer, with proper Father Abbot-like sobriety.

She did not go back to the cottage where she had grown up. Mortimer had tended it for her while she was away, but she felt that with a new chapter of her life should come new lodgings, and had him find a family of poor fieldmice to live there instead. Nights she slept out on the soft grass of the Abbey lawn, waking up drenched in dew. In the early mornings, recalling her Salamandastron routine, she let herself out through the side gate and took long rambles through Mossflower Wood, running, swimming, testing her strength against heavy boulders, practicing with spears, javelins and her grandfather’s longbow, which she kept stored in a mossy log, away from Mortimer’s slightly rueful glances and the peaceful Redwallers’ fearful ones.

But she was always back at the Abbey before luncheon, helping with chores and, mostly, keeping a weather eye on the mischievous young ones, who soon began to call her “Muvver Constance,” just as the grown-ups respectfully referred to her as “the Badgermum.” She had an unexpected gift for caring for the Abbeybabes, and eventually she knew she wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. She traded her woodland homespun for an apron and stout gown, with deep pockets to hold clean handkerchiefs and found toys and coltsfoot pastilles. At mealtimes she could often be found sitting at the young ones’ table, spoon-feeding the smallest of the babes, convincing middle-aged ones to eat their turnips and rutabagas, cuddling and rocking fractious infants to sleep while their older siblings perched on her shoulders. At bedtime she tucked the little ones in, one by one, and hummed old badgerwives’ lullabies or related Martin-the-Warrior legends until the dormitories echoed with the sound of gentle snoring.

Mortimer’s heart gladdened the first time she spoke of Redwall as home.

***

Constance was several seasons his elder, but it was Mortimer who grew old and fragile first. His eyesight grew blurry, necessitating a pair of crystal spectacles. In the winters, when the orchard trees were brown and brittle, and the Abbey grounds sparkled white with snow, his joints sometimes grew stiff and painful. But untiringly he watched over his beloved Redwall, through many peaceful years, as any good Father should: patient, wise, just, kind, with the badger as his strong right paw.

Then came the seasons of Cluny the Scourge.

In the seconds before she picked up the Cavern Hall table and threatened to smash it over the warlord’s head, she chanced a glance at her friend and saw on his face an expression she’d never seen there before: rage.

In the days afterwards, as Martin was lost to the enemy, as creatures were wounded and killed, this was soon followed by another first, one that startled her even more: uncertainty.

Constance was bleeding freely from some half a dozen gashes along her flanks and on her paws, wounds earned during a vicious skirmish with several of Cluny’s scouts. Abbot Mortimer worked by candlelight to clean the deep cuts and treat them with herbs. He was unusually silent, not speaking until his work was finished.

“Please try to take better care of yourself, Constance,” he said at last, rather shortly. “You put yourself in danger far too often.”

“I only do what I must, Father Abbot.”

“But if something were to happen to you –”

“You have Matthias and Basil, Jess and Winifred. Redwall would survive.”

“I am asking you as a friend,” said Abbot Mortimer. “My dearest and wisest friend. If we win this war tomorrow it will already have been at too great a price. Do not ask me to suffer your loss on top of everything that has already come to pass.”

Constance was stunned by the emotion in his voice. After a moment she laid a heavy paw on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Abbot. I’ll try my best.”

It would never have occurred to her to ask him the same. He was as ever the careful, noncombatant Mortimer, a healer and a stretcher-bearer, a creature of peace, and the battle would never breach the Abbey walls to reach him. She would see to it.

The Father Abbot was awakened by a sword-point at his throat.

The poison barb on Cluny’s tail had done its deadly work. The Father Abbot was dying.

***

There was much work to be done, after the war ended, but for a while she thought again of flight. Of sandy windswept shores and austere halls of mountain stone. Of the borderlands, of the northlands. Even of the sea. Anywhere but here, where the crimson laterose was still in fragrant bloom, and the big carved chair at the head of Great Hall sat empty, and the verdant gardens were full of mice in wide-sleeved brown robes gathering berries and talking with the Sparra, but none of them was Mortimer.

Yet every time she decided that the wound was just too deep, that she’d go mad with grief if she didn’t get away from here, something – or someone – changed her mind.

Matthias, still victory-stunned: “Constance, what should we do about the Joseph Bell?”

Mordalfus, solemn and deferential: “Constance, where do you think we should house the Guosim warriors who’d like to stay here till the springtide?”

The Redwallers at large, surprising her in Cavern Hole one day with a badger-sized marchpane cake: “Hurrah for Constance! We’d have been lost without you.”

And the young ones, clinging to her apron: “Muvver Constance, don’t be sad.”

*****************************************

Slowly summer gave way to autumn, autumn to winter, and winter to a spring whose beauty was beyond compare. John Churchmouse had suggested a season-name upon which they had all agreed.

It was the Springtide of the Warriors’ Wedding!

Constance had spent the preceding week tugging a hay cart far and wide through Mossflower Wood, ferrying creatures to the Abbey for the ceremony that would take place today. Now the Sisters of the order and all her woodland friends had spirited Cornflower away to the dormitories to dress her in cream-colored gown and veil, and Matthias was waiting anxiously in the gatehouse that would become their home, with Log-a-Log and Basil fussing over his tunic, to which he had tied a certain flowered headband that a certain maiden had bestowed upon him, what felt like years ago.

Therefore, Constance was enjoying a rare moment of rest out on the sunwarmed steps overlooking the orchards, as the blossoms danced and the pond rippled gently in a playful breeze. It reminded her of something Mortimer had said.

I have seen it all before, many times, and yet I never cease to wonder. Life is good, my friends. I leave it to you...

In the kitchens Friar Hugo was making a trifle as tall as two mice, heaping with raspberries, meadowcream, and honey-soaked sponge. Foremole and his crew were filling Great Hall and Cavern Hole with bunches of purple irises, butter-colored daffodils and, of course, cerulean-blue cornflower, while Winifred and her otters lined the cloisters and outside corridors with sweet alyssum and pale pink and white water lilies. Ambrose Spike was shepherding a herd of little ones as they rolled barrels of strawberry fizz, October ale and dandelion-burdock cup to the tables out under the shade. Jess Squirrel and Silent Sam were leaping bough to bough amongst the fruit trees, affixing colored lanterns to the branches.

The friends I know and love are all about me.

Constance remembered another feastday many seasons ago, and a wise young mouse marveling with her at the splendor of the Abbey and the goodness of its creatures, and she felt, for the first time in long memory, entirely at peace.

“Today is a good day, my old friend,” the badger said.

#Redwall #Constance #Abbot Mortimer #Redwall fic #Redwall fanfiction #the ending is kinda maximum cheese #BUT I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT AAA #it was so hard trying to keep this a secret while writing it!#fluff #angst #whatever you would call this #with a title shamelessly stolen from Mr. Jacques himself

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