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tinybookgirl · 7 months

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Can You Forgive Me If You Don't Remember What I've Done?

This is actually one of the most difficult things I've ever written. It was supposed to be about both Martin and Timballisto but now it's really just about Timballisto and his trauma. This is also me experimenting with trying to make my prose more eloquent because I always feel like it's so plain and everything else I read is so beautiful. Unfortunately I could never in a million years matches Brian Jacques amazing style, so I can only hope I at least got the characterization correct. I find Martin very difficult to write but we've tried.

Timballisto had scars on his wrists. Thick bands of scar tissue wrapped all the way around, only now finally given the time to heal properly, but the chains had cut deep over the seasons. The fur had been scraped away, dug deep through his skin leaving heavy indents and even now it almost seemed as though the chains were still there.

He didn’t bother hiding them. Some of the slaves freed from the Bloodwake had left, rejoining the shrews or heading off to see what was left of their old homes, or maybe build themselves a new one. Still, many others had stayed with the woodlanders in Mossflower. Timballisto was far from the only creature in Brockhall to bear the scars.

Martin had scars on his wrists. Not so thick, not so deep. If he brushed his fur the right way he could almost hide them, the grooves where the fur would never grow back nearly disguised. Enough at least that one might not notice if they didn’t bother to look.

Timballisto had seen them as Martin had pulled him onto the deck of the Bloodwake. What Timballisto had long suspected, but long since given up hope on getting an answer for, finally confirmed.

They weren’t deep enough for Martin to have been a galley slave, Timballisto was certain of that. At least Martin had escaped that fate, suffered by Timballisto and the rest of their tribe. There was no doubt about it, though. Martin had been kept in chains.

It was nearly a week after waking, long after the battle with Tsarmina, that they realized she had left Martin with more than mere physical scars.

It was Timballisto who realized it. Martin was still confined to bed in Brocktall, no matter how much he insisted to Abbess Germaine and Columbine that he was more than fine. It only took a single glance to make it clear that was not true. Just sitting up in bed was an effort, the heavily bandaged wounds still prone to reopening and bleeding if he moved too much. Even simply being away too long was a chore.

Yet, Martin continued to insist that he was fine, repeating that he had been through worse. The statement made Gonff laugh, but filled Timballisto with nothing but guilt.

Both Gonff and Timballisto were reluctant to leave Martin for long, the Abbess having had to force them out of the room more than once when she and Columbine needed to attend to him. For now though, Martin was awake, Timballisto seated on one of the chairs next to his bed while Gonff stood on the desk, in the middle of telling a rousing tale about one of his trips to the Kotir larders.

Timballisto laughed as Gonff pulled his cap low over his eyes, grabbing an old quill to mimic a sword.

“Martin,” Timballisto said, “do you remember, I think you were maybe four seasons or so? And Vurg and Twoola had-”

Martin frowned, “Who?”

Timballisto straightened instantly. “Vurg and Twoola?” He repeated, a note of desperation entering his voice. “They were in our tribe… Vurg was your father’s best friend. You… Martin do you really not remember them?”

Martin’s brow creased, struggling through the fog both the pain and the medicines left in his mind.

Something was wrong, Timballisto realized. There had been other things too, Timballisto remembered. Little things, things they had put off to nothing more than the coma, the injuries, the medicine.

Martin staring at the Abbess for far too long before managing her name. Martin simply nodding and going along when Gonff mentioned parts of their adventure, adding no memory of his own to the tale.

When, three days ago, Martin had woken up and nearly panicked, unable to remember where he was at all.

This could be nothing more than that. He had lain at the gates of the Dark Forest, after all. Surely it was all normal? Surely, struggling with things as simple as names and places and events was normal after all Martin had just been through.

Timballisto couldn’t shake the feeling that something much worse had happened to his friend.

Upon realizing they were no longer watching him, Gonff trailed off. He tilted his hat back onto his head to see them properly. “Everything alright, matey’s?”

Timballisto was staring at Martin. Martin glanced between the two of them.

“Yes,” Martin lied, “you- you said… you said Cludd almost spotted you?”

“Martin-” Timballisto said, but Martin cut him off.

“I’m fine,” Martin insisted. No one in the room, including Martin himself, looked convinced, but Gonff continued with his tale anyway.

The firelight was bright and warm, the shrew’s celebration in full swing for the return of those thought long lost, the former slaves of the Bloodwake.

It couldn’t last forever, of course. Martin still had a job to do, they were nowhere near Mossflower and still had days of travel ahead of them. They still have to defeat the wildcat Martin had told him about. For now though, Timballisto would allow himself to enjoy his newfound freedom as much as he could.

Timballisto joined Martin, leaning comfortably against a fallen log in front of one of the fires. Martin’s paws were running over the hilt of his new sword. Timballisto set a plate piled high with food between them.

“I quite literally don’t think I’ve ever had food this good,” he said. They had always managed to keep the tribe above starving, even after Luke and his crew had left, even on the harsh coastline where so little. There had been enough to live on, but never enough to cook like this, never enough for as much as you really wanted.

“You’ll make yourself sick if you eat too much,” Martin said, choosing a chunk of cheese studded with nuts from the plate.

Martin had his sleeves pushed up against the warmth from the fire, and the scars on his wrists, the ones Timballisto had seen when Martin first pulled him from the galley, stood out stark. Timballisto picked up a scone that looked to be more fruit than bread, dripping with honey. “Good.”

Even as night was falling the festivities continued around them. Gonff was entertaining a group of shrewbabes with magic tricks, Dinny helping a shrew at one of the cooking fires. Even Log-a-log looked happy, holding tight onto the children whose lives he had missed out on so much of.

Something panged harshly inside Timballisto. He forced himself to finish the scone, pulling the last of the crumbs from his whiskers. Martin was right, it was making him sick.

“Martin, that wildcat you told us about,” Timballisto said, “you’re going to kill her.”

“Yes,” Martin said. He pulled the sword from its sheath. The firelight bounced off the blade, making it glimmer like pure gold. It was a far cry from the blade Timballisto remembered. Martin, only a few seasons younger than him, dragging the sword about wherever he went, always leaving a furrow in the sand from the end of the blade. It had rarely been hard to find out which tracks in the sand where Martin’s.

That had been sturdy sure, a good blade no doubt. But it had been old as well, and starting to show its age. This one… well, it was hard to imagine a blade more impressive.

“Have you killed before?” Timballisto knew the answer before Martin said it. It was the way Martin carried himself now, the determination and strength that now sat behind his eyes.

“Yes,” Martin didn’t look at him.

The silence stretched between them like a gorge. Martin sheathed his sword. Even tucked away, the pommel stone glinted.

“What happened?” Timballisto said. “When you- we looked, Martin. I swear, we tried, but-”

“I don’t want to talk about what happened to me,” Martin said, his tone leaving very little room for argument. Timballisto argued anyway.

“Luke left me in charge, Martin,” Timballisto begged. “Please, what happened?”

“I can’t talk about it, Timbal,” Martin said. He was staring into the fire, arms resting across his knees, the scars on his wrists still on full display. Timballisto couldn’t look away. He placed his paw over Martin’s wrist, Timballisto’s freshly bandaged by the hares from Salamandastron.

“Please.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Martin pulled his arm away, clasping his friend's paw in his own instead. He looked up. “We’re free now. Both of us.”

It wasn’t a lie, but Timballisto knew it wasn’t the full truth. Martin wouldn’t really be free until the wildcat was dead.

Timballisto didn’t feel freed either.

“Something is wrong with Martin,” Timballisto said.

Columbine looked up, busy grinding herbs for another set of medicines, not only for Martin but for those who still carried injuries from the battle. “What do you mean? I changed his bandages yesterday, he shouldn’t be bleeding again-”

“Something’s wrong with his mind,” Timballisto clarified. “His memories.”

Columbine frowned, setting the mortar and pestle aside. She wiped her paws on her apron. “Memory loss can be common after severe injuries, especially ones as bad as Martin’s. And the medicines we’ve been giving him for the pain sometimes cause the same issue. Usually they return in time.”

“And what happens when they don’t? What if something more than just memories is wrong, what if- what if Tsarmina clawed his brain or something?”

“I highly doubt she clawed his brain,” Columbine assured him. “As for the memories… I’ll have to ask the Abbess, she knows more about it than I do. What makes you think something is wrong?”

“Earlier today, I mentioned- something. Something from when we were children, but he didn’t remember it,” Timballisto said.

“Are you certain?” Columbine said, “All I mean,” she said, forstowing any argument on Timballisto’s part, “is that it would have been quite a long time ago. Are you sure this isn’t something that it would be normal for someone to forget?”

“The event itself, maybe,” Timballisto agreed, “but that would have been fine. He didn’t remember the others from our tribe that I mentioned either. And I know he would. Something is wrong.”

Columbine tilted her bowl of herbs into a small pot. “The Abbess is more adept with things like memory loss than I am. I’ll speak to her, see what she thinks we should do.”

Timballisto sighed, relieved, “That’s all I ask.”

Martin was no longer in danger of death, but he had yet to awaken, and Abbess Germaine had cautioned them all not to leave him alone in case he was to take a sudden turn for the worse. Timballisto had barely left his bedside since Martin had been moved into Brockhall. There was no telling when he might wake, and Timballisto had heard Abbess Germaine whispering of the chance that he never would.

He hoped desperately that she was wrong.

Martin was wrapped heavily in bandages and blankets. He had seized muttering in his sleep the way he had been in the beginning. If not for the bandages one could almost think that nothing was wrong with him at all.

“What happened to him?”

Timballisto looked up to see Gonff leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed across his chest.

“You saw the battle,” Timballisto said, “same as I did.”

“And,” Gonff pushed himself off the door lintel, leaning his paws on the back of one of the other chairs waiting empty by the bed, “I saw the lashes on his back.”

Timballisto looked away. They all had when his wounds were being dressed. None of them had said anything about it. There had been no point, Martin couldn’t answer their questions, not while still trapped at the gates of the Dark Forest.

“I don’t know what happened,” Timballisto said.

“Because Martin told me,” Gonff continued, swinging himself around to sit. “That he simply wandered down south on his own. Knew it was a lie the moment we shook paws, of course. Wandering doesn’t get you those,” he inclined his head to indicate the scars on Timballisto’s own wrists.

Timballisto crossed his arms. “I don’t know what happened,” he repeated. He was no longer sure if it would be better or worse to know.

“If anyone knows, it’s you.”

“If Martin didn’t tell you, maybe he doesn’t want you to know,” Timballisto said. One could only just see Martin breathing, his chest rising and falling slowly under a mound of blankets. As long as he breathed, he was alive. As long as he breathed, maybe Timballisto hadn’t lost everything.

Gonff didn’t answer. He simply sat there, watching Timballisto expectantly.

“He disappeared,” Timballisto said finally. “One day, Martin and his grandmother were both gone. The only other thing missing was Martin’s sword.” He shook his head. “We didn’t find them. We didn’t find where they might have gone,” he lied. He found himself unable to admit what had really happened, unable to place the blame where it truly belonged. “We just knew… they hadn’t left on their own. We knew they wouldn’t be coming back.”

Gonff studied him. Timballisto tried not to squirm under the mousethiefs gaze.

“That’s all?”

“That was the last I saw of him,” that at least, was the truth, “Until he pulled me from the Bloodwake.”

“He was a slave,” Gonff said.

Timballisto couldn’t look at Gonff, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Martin. “I know.”

Gonff braced his feet on the bed, tilting back on the legs of his chair. “Any warlords up north?”

Timballisto whipped his head around to glare at him. “Martin was my friend first. If I knew anything else I would tell you. I don’t. That was the last time I saw him, and he never told me more.”

Gonff’s chair landed heavily on the floor. “Then I suppose the only question left is for when he wakes up.”

“And what would that be?”

“Do we ask him?”

Brockhall was lovely. Timballisto couldn’t argue with that if he wanted to. It was warm and homey, the ceilings were high and the rooms were huge. The place had been built for badgers, after all. As winter approached the fireplaces were always lit, effectively blocking out any chill from Mossflower itself.

Timballisto didn't really… like it. Or, it wasn’t that he didn’t like it. It was that being underground, without daylight, sometimes reminded him far too much of the searats galley.

Which was ridiculous, he knew it was. Brockhall was warm and comfortable, it was never stinking and stifling. He could go anywhere he wanted, never chained down. There was all the food he could eat from the kitchens, never starved and waiting for whatever scraps were thrown at them. It wasn’t the same at all.

It didn’t stop him from feeling as though the walls of Brockhall were closing in on him, that he might never be able to escape.

So, Brockhall was fine. It was. He simply would rather spend his time outside in Mossflower when he could. For the past few days, more often than not, that had meant aimlessly wandering. Sometimes gathering firewood or helping with foraging parties or whatever other work needed to be done. Mostly, however, it meant trying to avoid thinking about the fact that he had done nothing but avoid Martin for days.

Abbess Germaine and Columbine had confirmed it. A large portion of Martin’s memories were lost, the longer ago the more that was missing. Anything before his arrival in Mossflower was nothing more than a blur.

Timballisto hated being right.

He was chopping wood alone, more for something to do than any actual need for it, when he heard footsteps. It hadn’t begun to snow yet, but a thin layer of frost still lay across the woods. It cracked under Martin’s paws as he approached, wrapped in cloaks and leaning heavily on a wooden crutch.

“Need some help?”

Timballisto split one more log, looking at Martin only long enough to confirm it was him. “Are you allowed out?”

“Under supervision,” Martin nodded towards Gonff, watching them from just out of earshot.

“I think,” Timballisto said, struggling to sound as though nothing was wrong, “The Abbess would have my hide if I handed you an axe.”

Martin laughed, wincing as he slowly sat himself down on a nearby tree stump. He rested the crutch next to himself. “I’ve been trying to talk with you.”

They hadn’t been alone since the extent of Martin’s memory loss had become clear. Although, Timballisto wasn’t sure they had been alone since that first night after the Bloodwake had been taken. At least, not while Martin was awake.

Timballisto stared at the axe in his paws to avoid turning to look at Martin. Finally he spoke. “Do you remember me?”

“I know you,” Martin said.

“But you don’t remember me.”

“No,” Martin admitted. “I remember rescuing you from the…” he faltered, “... from the ship. But nothing before that.”

Timballisto nodded. He grabbed another log, splitting it in half with one strike. One thing being an oar slave left you with, even with the starvation, was plenty of arm strength. “You don’t remember anything about our tribe? Our home?”

“I know… I know you,” Martin repeated. “I know my father’s name. I know my sword was his. But, it’s not like remembering. It’s simply knowing. Germaine said some things will be like that. The same way you know how to breathe or walk or speak.”

“So what do you remember?”

“It’s all jumbled. Germaine thinks the things that I do remember will become clearer over time, though perhaps not perfect. Especially if someone else can tell me about them.”

“Except,” Timballisto said, filling in the unspoken implication, “that’s for the things you can remember. What about the things you can’t?”

“Germaine think’s they’ll stay that way.”

“So,” he was out of logs to chop. He picked up one that had already been split and split it again, “even if I tell you everything I know, everything I remember, you still won’t remember it.”

Martin didn’t answer. Timballisto dumped the axe by the woodpile. “I’m going back to Brockhall.”

Martin grabbed his crutch, getting stiffly to his feet with no small effort. “Are you angry with me?”

“No!” Timballisto hadn’t looked at him since Martin had first sat down, and he didn’t look at him now. “I’m not angry at you.” His paws had curled into fists.

“What did I do?” Martin said. “If I did something- I don’t remember-”

“That’s the problem!” Timballisto snapped, finally turning to face his friend. “You don’t remember! Finding you again- seeing you alive- you rescuing me was like a dream. I had…” he shook his head, struggling for anything at all. “You were here! You were alive and- and I- and you could- I had you! I had- I could tell you- I had you and now you’re gone again!

Martin’s face turned to stone. “You think I’m not myself anymore?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“I can’t talk about this,” Timballisto turned away. “You should know what that’s like.” That was cruel and he knew it. “I’m going back to Brockhall.”

Martin didn’t follow him. Timballisto wished that he would.

Timballisto ducked into the central cave.

“Windered, I was hoping you-” he frowned. It was empty. Odd since Windered was usually there preparing for dinner by now. It was normal for her to be alone in the cave, getting a start before the rest of the tribe, but it was strange for no one to be here at all.

Maybe she had simply been caught up in doing something else. Surely, that was why the cave in question was empty, the fire put out and the ashes long gone cold.

Timballisto let the curtain fall back over the entrance. “Twoola!” He called, spotting the old mouse tottering along the sand. “Have you seen Windred?”

“Not since this morning,” Twoola said, pausing. “She’s not in there?”

“I’m- I’m sure she’s fine. I was just going to- you know, it’s not important anyway.”

Twoola raised an eyebrow but nodded, returning to his walk. Timballisto scanned the beach. A few were tending to the struggling crops up on the clifftops. Two mice were busy repairing one of the curtains used to hide the cave entrances. Another group was braving the cold shallows, gathering mussels and shellfish and whatever else they could find.

Windred was nowhere to be seen. Even more alarming, Timballisto realized, neither was Martin.

Trying very hard to not run, Luke had placed him in charge, it wouldn’t do to look distressed, Timballisto made his way to the smallest of the caves.

It had lain mostly empty since Luke and others had left. More than enough weapons had been prepared in case they were needed, so there was no need to spend time in there making more. There was plenty of more important work that needed to be done.

The firepit in the center was cleaned out, stacks of javelins, bows, and arrows all lined up neatly along the walls. It wasn’t uncommon to find Martin in here, swinging Luke’s sword about where Windred wouldn’t find him and tell him off for nearly taking some beast’s eye out.

Except Martin wasn’t here.

When had he seen Windred last? This morning for certain. She had insisted he actually sit down for breakfast and he had brushed her off. There was too much to get done. He remembered grabbing a slice of bread and heading out as quickly as he could. He remembered Martin running out after him. He had brushed Martin off too.

“I don’t have time to play warriors with you, Martin.”

“I don’t want to play warriors, I want to help!”

Timballisto had stopped, looking down at Martin. Timballisto had his growth spurt last summer and was now over a head taller than Martin. Martin, however, was still young, Luke’s sword at his side, creating a furrow as the tip dragged across the sand behind him.

“You’re too little Martin,” Timballisto told him. “Go ask your grandmother.”

“You’re not that much older than me!”

“No, but Luke put me in charge. If you want to help, I’m sure Windred has something you can do.”

Martin kicked at a stone, skidding it towards the waves. “I can do more! When my father comes back I need to show him-”

“Luke’s not coming back, Martin,” Timballisto said harshly. Martin was the only one still under the impression that he would. Everyone had known the moment the Sanya sailed past the horizon. They wouldn’t be seeing it again. There was no point in wasting time thinking about what would happen if it ever returned.

Martin’s face fell. Timballisto sighed. “I’ll figure out something you can do tomorrow, okay? I have to go, we’re running out of firewood and I need to make sure we have enough for the next few days.”

The Brockhall kitchen was empty except for a young mousemaid, another of the rescued slaves from the Bloodwake. Timballisto found Lissy busy chopping fruit for a pie filling, the counters coated in a thin layer of flour and fruit juice from her work. The kitchen already smelled heavenly.

Lissy smiled at him as he entered, her face stretched out and lopsided from the thick scar that stretched across it. An old result of a searats rapier, Timballisto had been there when it happened. It was nearly a miracle she had even survived it, trapped as they were with no possible medical care aside from rinsing it in seawater when they could.

“It’s nice to see you inside for once,” she said, still chopping away.

Timballisto sat across from her, snatching a slice of apricot. She swatted his paw away playfully.

“I’m inside plenty,” Timballisto said. “What are you making? It smells delicious.”

“Apricot and plum pie now,” Lissy nodded towards the oven, “but I have a nut loaf baking as well. And I might make biscuits.”

Lissy had a clean white bandage around one of her wrists. She had been scratching at her scars again. Timballisto had seen her when she was distressed, trapped too deep in horrific memories. Clawing might be a far more accurate description.

“Lissy,” Timballisto said, “are you feeling alright?”

She paused, the knife trembling in her paw. She returned to work with more force than strictly necessary. “I’m fine. What about you?”

Timballisto leaned back. “I don’t know. It’s… Martin. He’s lost a lot of his memories,” Timballisto said. He stole another apricot.

“I heard,” Lissy set the knife aside, sweeping the fruit into a bowl. “But the Abbess said it should get better, shouldn’t it?”

“No, yes. More recent memories, yes. The older things are going to be harder. She thinks…” he shook his head. “Most of before he came to Mossflower is gone. It’s unlikely it will come back.”

Lissy had started rolling out her pie dough. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding him?”

“I have not been avoiding him!”

“Yes,” Lissy said, “you have. Before he woke up you were with him all the time, by his side all hours of the day. And now it’s been days since you’ve even seen him.”

Timballisto was silent for a long time. Lissy didn’t push him. He watched her rolling out her dough, adding her filling, and carefully cutting out shapes for a decorative crust on top. It was only when she slid it into the oven, taking the nut loaf out in return that he finally spoke up again.

“He doesn’t remember me,” Timballisto said. “He doesn’t remember our home, or our tribe, or- or anything. He doesn’t know that…”

Lissy sat next to him, “Know what?”

“That..” Timballisto couldn’t look at her, “He doesn’t know that what happened to him is my fault.” He leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling, the twisting roots that formed the roof. “What would you do, if you met someone from home again? What would you do if you’re responsible for something horrible happening to someone, but they don’t remember it? They don’t know… they don’t know that they shouldn’t be acting as though nothing is wrong because everything is wrong?”

“I think those are two separate questions.”

“Fine,” Timballisto rephrased, “what… what if you met your brother again? The one who sold you to the searats? But he didn’t remember what he did and expected everything to be the same as it was before?”

It was Lissy’s turn to be silent. She quickly stood, grabbing a fresh bowl and a fresh sack of flour.

“I’m sorry,” Timballisto stood up as well, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset, Tim,” Lissy assured him. “I’ve just… I have been thinking about it. My brother. A lot lately. And what I would do if I did see him again.” She looked up, locking eyes with Timballisto. “I think I would take the nearest weapon and kill him with it. But what happened to me and my brother is not the same as what happened with you and Martin.”

“You don’t know what happened with me and Martin.”

“I don’t know Martin well,” Lissy agreed, “but I do know you. My brother was only thinking of himself, and didn’t care what happened to me. He was selfish and cruel and he had been that way our whole lives. But you? Timballisto, you are one of the best creatures I have ever met. And you can’t make me believe that you ever, in a million seasons, would hurt Martin on purpose.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Timballisto said. “I would never have done that on purpose.”

“So what did you do?”

Timballisto sunk back into his seat. “Nothing. I did nothing.”

There wasn’t enough of the tribe left to risk sending out anymore than one search party, just Timballisto and two others.

The tracks ended where sand became stone. They scoured the rocky coast for anything that pointed towards Martin and Windred. The light was dimming quickly, but they were reluctant to light tortures. If someone had captured them, they didn’t want to bring attention to themselves in return, and by extension the rest of the tribe. Over the seasons they had all learned the dangers of the northern coast far too well. They knew better than to risk shouting either. The only remaining option was to hope they could be spotted.

“Timballisto,” Caitir, one of the searchers, a bowl and arrow slung over her shoulders, motioned him over to where she and Resta were ducked down behind a ridge. “You’ll want to see this.”

Timballisto was instantly on alert. Caitir pulled him down next to them, pointing towards the beach. “Look.”

It was a ship. Crashed onto the rocks, smashed far beyond repair. It hadn’t been there long Timballisto was certain of. At the very least it hadn’t been there the last time a foraging party had gone this way.

Even from here, Timballisto could see what Caitir and Resta had truly been concerned about. It was a galley ship, the oars smashed and tossed aside on the rocks, the rusted chains still attached to them glinting red and orange in the light of the sunset.

“We have to go-” Timballisto tried to stand, only to instantly be pulled back down by Resta.

“We can’t,” Resta said.

“Martin and Windred only disappeared this morning, they can’t be far,” Timballisto snatched his arm from her grasp. “A crew like that can’t move fast, we can catch up with them and-”

“And what?” Caitir said. “You know very well the three of us cannot take on a whole crew of searats.”

“We need to get back the caves,” Resta said. “They may be coming this way next.”

“You want to just leave them?” Timballisto couldn’t hide the tremble in his voice. It wasn’t very becoming of someone who was supposed to be in charge. He struggled to regain a semblance of command. “If they have Martin and Windred-”

“If,” Caitir shook her head. “Even with the whole tribe we couldn’t fight them. Timballisto, you know we’re right.”

“Luke left me in charge!” Timballisto snapped. “Not you! We can’t just leave them captured- or worse-”

“Luke left you in charge,” Resta said, “Because he trusted you to do what is best for the entire tribe. And you know what that is.”

He didn’t want it to be. Timballisto looked back to the ship. It was large, perhaps not the size of the red ship that had terrorized them so long ago, but still far larger than the Sanya had been.

Even if every member of the tribe could fight, which was far from being the case, there was no guarantee they would be successful. Resta and Caitir were both right, and Timballisto knew it.

Timballisto sunk down behind the ridge, his eyes closed. Resta and Caitir were watching him.

Maybe they didn’t need to take on the whole crew? If all they needed was Martin and Windred they could sneak into the corsair camp once night fell and simply grab the two of them and get out before anyone even noticed they were gone? But surely they had other creatures enslaved as well and it would take more than three of them to get them all? Did they have time to go back to the tribe and gather everyone who could fight? What if the corsairs didn’t even stop for the night? What if there were more guards than expected? Even if they got Martin and Windred out, what if the corsairs tracked them back to the caves? What if they got themselves captured as well? Resta and Caitir both had children waiting back with the tribe, could he risk leaving those children orphans?

Timballisto wasn’t Luke. Resta and Caitir would not follow his decision simply because he was the one to give the order. If Timballisto was to make a decision, it had to be the right one.

Two creatures weren’t worth the whole tribe.

Oh how he wished they were.

“He’s Luke’s son.”

“Then,” Caitir said, “it’s a good thing Luke will never know.”

Timballisto opened his eyes, taking one last look at the crashed ship. “We’re going back. We’ll disguise the caves, wait a few days to make sure no one comes back this way.”

He had to protect the rest of the tribe, didn’t he? Even if it meant leaving some of them behind?

"Why are you avoiding Martin?”

Timballisto looked up to see Gonff, leaning casually against one of the nearby beds. Of course the mousethief had been certain to corner him in one of the Brockhall dorms, when there was no one else was around, and Timballisto was standing too far from the door to make a quick and easy escape. Gonff was far more clever than some would give him credit for.

“Will everyone stop saying that?”

“Maybe when it stops being true,” Gonff laid back on the nearest bed, his paws behind his head, his eyes closed, the picture of relaxation. Anyone would think he wasn’t even listening. But Timballisto knew better than to think he would be leaving this conversation without an answer.

“So,” Gonff said, “why are you avoiding Martin?”

“He nearly died,” Timballisto said, “and yet I’m the one he’s worried about.”

“That’s Martin for you,” Gonff cracked open one eye. “Germaine put him back on bedrest, so he doesn’t have a lot else to do. And you won’t visit him.”

Timballisto crossed his arms. There had to be some way to get Gonff to leave. “I’m not angry at Martin.”

“Good. So why are you avoiding him?”

The silence stretched on. Timballisto uncrossed his arms, only to cross them again a moment later. “If I tell you I have something very important to do, can I leave?”

“No.”

“If I tell you I’m going to visit Martin, can I leave?”

“Of course, but I’m walkin’ there with you.”

There was more silence. Finally Timballisto, deciding his options were either run for the door at breakneck speed or attempt to form an answer, he attempted to form an answer. “He doesn’t remember.”

“So? That means you aren’t mates anymore?”

“No!” Timballisto shook his head. “It’s not about him. It’s- it’s about me.” Timballisto sat heavily on one of the beds. “I can’t see him.”

Gonff rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one paw. “Go on.”

There was another very long silence, made worse by the fact that Gonff was now actually looking at him, instead of his previously feigned disinterest.

“It’s my fault,” Timballisto said finally. “I’m the reason Martin disappeared.”

Gonff sat up like a bolt, any and all traces of civility gone. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t hurt him!” Timballisto clarified quickly. “Not on purpose or anything. But… when Martin’s father left, he put me in charge of the tribe. I should have been watching him or- I was in charge. And when Martin and his grandmother disappeared… I called off the search. If I had kept going- maybe we could have gotten him back. Maybe we could have-” Maybe he could have saved Martin. Maybe if he had been able to save Martin he would have known how to save the rest of the tribe as well.

Martin and Windred had been his first failure in leading the tribe, but they had been far from his last.

“How long ago was this?” Gonff interrupted.

“What? Um, I don’t know.” Timballisto had long since lost track of how many seasons had passed while on the Bloodwake. “A while ago?”

“So, how old were you when you got left in charge?”

“Uh,” Timballisto shook his head. “Ten or eleven seasons maybe? I’m not sure.”

“You were ten seasons old,” Gonff said, taking the more generous estimate, “and you were put in charge of the entire tribe?”

“Luke took everyone who was old enough to fight with him,” Timballisto explained. “And it wasn’t a very large tribe, so there weren’t too many of us left. We didn’t have enough to go after Martin-”

Gonff held up a paw. “There was no one else who could have been in charge?”

“I suppose there was,” Anyone would have been a better choice than him, Timballisto thought now. They would have known what to do when Martin and Windred had left. They would have known what to do when that winter Timballisto hadn’t planned the crops out right and they got hit by an early frost so there wasn’t enough food to go around. They would have known what to do when the searats landed on their shores and tore down every defense they had ever made. “But it doesn’t matter. Luke chose me. I was responsible and I let Martin disappear, I let him get captured, and- and then I let the entire tribe get captured and I couldn’t do anything to stop it!”

Timballisto leapt to his feet. “It was my tribe! They were my creatures and I let all of them down and now Martin is-” his rant began to falter, the anger that had been in his voice a moment ago fading, “If I had Martin again, maybe I hadn’t failed. Maybe I could fix it. At least… at least I wouldn’t have failed all of them. Except I don’t have Martin anymore.”

“You want Martin to forgive you.”

Timballisto sunk back to the bed. “I was supposed to protect him,” Timballisto said softly. “And I failed. I failed Martin, and his grandmother, and Luke, and the entire tribe. How can I- how can I be around Martin- how can he be around me if he doesn’t know? If I can’t… if I can’t apologize?”

It seemed like a pathetically small gesture, but what else was there to do? He couldn’t change whatever it was that had happened to Martin. He couldn’t change what the rest of the tribe had suffered. If he could apologize, if Martin could forgive him then… well, then maybe he could at least live with himself. Maybe he could at least look Martin in the eyes without thinking of all the ways he had failed.

Gonff leaned forwards. His expression, for once, was solemn. “Martin doesn’t blame you. With or without his memories.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know Martin,” Gonff pushed himself to his feet. “You won’t believe it from me though. So, go talk to Martin.”

It took another day before Timballisto actually managed to work up the courage to visit him. But he couldn’t avoid Martin forever. Maybe he could?

No, he couldn’t. Not unless he was willing to leave Mossflower and somehow that felt like a worse option.

Martin was awake when Timballisto arrived. He was propped up in bed, sketching something out on a parchment alongside Abbess Germaine. Martin looked up, setting aside the parchment the moment he noticed Timballisto.

“Tim!”

“Can I speak with you? Alone, if that’s alright, Abbess?” Timballisto asked. He had one paw clinging to the doorframe. He could still leave. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t want to know the answer. Gonff had told him not to worry, sure, but the worst outcome wouldn’t leave Timballisto’s mind.

What if Martin didn’t forgive him?

Abbess Germaine stood, looking to Martin, who nodded.

“I’ll be back later,” Abbess Germaine smiled, patting Timballisto on the shoulder as she left. Timballisto only just managed to free his paw from the lintel as the door clicked shut behind her. He didn’t move any closer to Martin’s bed. He wasn’t sure he could say it if he did.

The second between the door closing Martin speaking felt as though it lasted an eternity. Martin looked incredibly young. He was strong and hardened and grown now, still heavily bandaged, but propped up under pillows and blankets, with the parchment and charcoal staining his paws Timballisto couldn’t help but think of Martin when they were children, before everything had gone wrong.

Timballisto supposed he himself had been a child too, but it had never felt that way. You were always old, you were never a child, and those younger than you were always children.

Martin hefted himself into a slightly more upright position, “Timbal-”

“Stop,” Timballisto said quickly. If he didn’t say it now, he wasn’t sure he ever would, “I need to go first.” He took a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you. I’m not upset that you can’t remember our past. Well, I am, a little, but it’s not you I’m upset with. It’s… I need to tell you, because you don’t remember, but I can’t keep going around like everything is normal when-” he was rambling now, Timballisto knew he couldn’t allow himself to stop, “I tried to talk to you about it, after the Bloodwake, but you didn’t want to talk about it, so I assumed that was fine, you had a lot happening, we can talk about it later, but then you were injured and there wasn’t a later because you were injured and when you woke up- there wasn’t a later anymore.

“It’s my fault,” Timballisto said, speaking so quickly the worse almost ran together. The space between the bed and the door may as well have been miles between them. “Whatever happened to you between when you disappeared from the tribe and when you arrived in Mossflower. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, and I know that saying I’m sorry doesn’t do anything, I-”

Martin just shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is,” Timballisto insisted. “Luke left me in charge. It was my choice not to keep looking for you and your grandmother. I was in charge, and I let you disappear. I let you get taken.”

“Whatever happened to me,” Martin said, “is not your fault.”

“How can you say that if you don’t remember?”

Martin didn’t answer at first. He was looking down at his wrists, running one of his paws over the other ones. “I’ve been trying to remember. I can’t.” He looked up, “I never told you what happened to me?”

“No,” Timballisto said. “I tried to ask. You said you couldn’t speak about it.”

Martin nodded. He paw continued to hold at his wrist. It was one of the few wounds on his body that wasn’t currently wrapped in bandages. It didn’t need to be. Unlike so many of the others, these were long scarred over.

“I know you,” Martin said. “I know how I felt when I saw you on the Bloodwake. I remember that I had never thought I would see you again. I…” Martin frowned, his brow furrowed, struggling to sort through whatever memories remained. “Whatever may have happened to me, I never blamed you for it.”

Slowly Timballisto stepped across the room, sinking into the chair by Martin’s bed. The first few days after the battle the chair had never been empty. Either Timballisto or Gonff had been seated in it more often than not. The few times they were kicked out, to eat or bathe, or to simply not be in the way while his bandages were changed, Columbine or Abbess Germaine had taken their place instead.

“It’s not just you,” Timballisto wiped tears from his cheeks. He wasn't sure when he had started crying. “The rest of our tribe is lost because of me. I failed you, and I failed them. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t… I shouldn’t have been in charge.”

He shouldn’t have been in charge, Timballisto realized for perhaps the first time. There had been others more adept at leading the tribe. Windred, Caitir, even Twoola. Anyone who had more life experience than a ten season old orphan who was only alive because he was good at rock climbing.

Luke had made a terrible choice in who he left behind.

“No,” Martin took Timballisto’s paw. “What happened to me is not your fault, nor is what happened to the rest of the tribe. The only creatures to blame are the vermin who cares nothing for the lives of other beasts. Gonff told me you want me to forgive you.”

Timballisto let out a choked laugh, his throat thick with tears. “Of course he told you. Hold on, did you tell him to talk to me?”

“You wouldn’t talk to me!” Martin laughed, he had tears in his eyes as well, “And Germaine wouldn’t let me out again. But all he said was that you were worried I was the one angry with you. Timbal, I can’t forgive you because there is nothing to forgive.”

More tears poured down his cheeks. A weight he had never even realized was there had been pulled from his shoulders. Timballisto clutched Martin’s paw tighter. “Our entire tribe, Martin. And we’re all that’s left of it.”

Martin didn’t let go of him. He moved the parchment he had been working on back onto his lap. It was blueprints for a castle or fortress of some sort. “Then we can make certain that what happened to our old tribe cannot and will not happen to our new one.”

#redwall #brian jacques #redwall fanfiction #my writing #martin #gonff #timballisto #mossflower #martin the warrior #legend of luke #columbine #abbess germaine

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aservantofgod · 1 year

Text

Walk-in-Sunshine, please forgive me for the delayed one shot!! This is my thanks to u for the wonderful drawing u did of Martin and Matthias. I hope u enjoy the read!!

Summer Evening

The soft trills of songbirds in the trees above made a beautiful chorus to Martin’s ears as he wended his way down the woodland path. The late summer evening’s warm breeze sent his tunic fluttering behind him as he walked, and he lifted his face, enjoying the air rush against it.

Just yesterday, Chibb had flown into his little gatehouse cottage window, to inform him that Columbine had invited him to dinner for the following night and that any excuses he might offer would not be accepted. Apparently she had been planning a special meal for some time and was insistent that he share it with them.

Not wanting to come empty pawed, he had loaded up a bag with maple almond scones, spread with crystalized honey and grabbed a jug of fresh strawberry fizz, knowing little Gonflet loved the stuff.

Saint Ninian’s came into view and he caught the smell of something savory cooking, sending a sharp pang through his stomach.

He knocked softly on the old church’s door and waited. From inside came quick pawsteps and then the door opened, and Columbine’s harried face peeked out. “Oh, good evening Martin. Come in please, I’m glad you were able to come.”

“Good evening Columbine” the warrior mouse took her paw and kissed it. “Thanks for the invitation. I brought along some scones, and a jug of fresh strawberry fizz for Gonflet.”

“Hmph! Not that he deserves it, the little rogue!”

Martin felt a grin creeping around his whiskers, “Oh dearie me, don’t tell me he is up to his mischief again!”

“Leave it to his father! The both of them are going to make me grey before my time! I baked a blueberry pie for after supper, and hid it in the one place I did not think they would find it, in the woodpile! I turn my back for one second and its gone! Just wait until I get my paws on those two! My surprise, ruined!”

Martin tweaked her whiskers fondly, “Well I might be able to fix that. Here” he handed her the bag of scones. “Its maple almond, with crystalized honey. I thought we might like that with our after supper tea, but it seems it has a more important role to serve.”

“Oh Martin, you are so sweet. Thank you” Columbine took the bag and tucked it into her cloak, hanging on the wall. “There wouldn’t have been enough time for me to make another. There, that should do. Not likely they will find it in there.”

Martin looked around and smiled, “I guess I ought to just make myself right at home then, seeing as how my matey will be delayed. It’s a pity though. I had a real fine prank planned for him.”

Columbine laughed and turned back to her oven. A moment later she straightened suddenly and said, “Oh Martin, I wish you would go out and try to find Gonflet. He’s not supposed to be outside the house, and I cannot be entirely sure his father is with him. I would go but I have to watch our supper.”

“Certainly” the warrior mouse set his jug on the table. “I’ll fetch him back to you in a tic.”

“If he’s covered in blueberry stains, make him wash up. There’s a wash bowl just outside the door.”

Martin chuckled and began scanning the countryside, hoping for a glimpse of the little mouse, but there was nothing but trees and shrubs. With a sigh, the warriormouse started down the path, scanning the woods on all sides, looking for fresh pawprints. He was just about to turn back when he saw lying near a bush, a piece of pie crust.

Moving on silent footpaws, he crept through the trees until his ears caught the sound of some creature grunting and smacking loudly. Stifling a chuckle he peeked around a large oak and saw Gonflet sitting underneath it, stuffing blueberry pie into his mouth. He stood watching him for a bit and then spoke, “Well now, what have I caught myself here? A tiny pie scoffer?”

Gonflet turned to him, his face, whiskers and clothes completely stained blue, and Martin had to stifle another laugh. He leaned against the tree, a mock stern expression on his face, “Y’know you're not supposed to be out here by yourself Gonflet. What is yore mum going to say when she sees those clothes?”

Gonflet waved his paws expressively, “Ho, she won’t know, Uncle Martin. I gonna stay out ‘ere ‘an play!”

“Oh, you are, are you? Well yore mum sent me to find you, so I think it’s a nice hot bath waitin’ for you, young’un.”

Gonflet stood up, dropping the remains of his pie on the ground. He grinned cheekily at the warrior, “Well, Gonflet say he’s going to play in the woods. Can’t catch me hehehehe” the youngster took off giggling.

Martin went after him, not wanting to let the little mouse out of his sight, calling in a playfully authoritative voice “Now you just stop right where you are, Gonflet, and everything will be fine. If you don’t, you may find yourself wishing you had, little one.”

“Hehehe, can’t catch Gonflet, dozy paws! I run faster then you, wiggle whiskers!”

Two big paws looped themselves around the little mouse’s middle and picked him off his footpaws.

“Wiggle whiskers! Dozy paws is it? I warned you to stop didn’t I? I think I’d better teach you some respect for your elders!”

Martin sat down on the ground and pulled the young mouse tightly against him, “This is what cheeky little pie thieves get!” He began tickling the young mouse under his arms.

Gonflet shrieked loud enough to almost deafen the warrior’s ear and tried to wiggle free, to no avail. He tried to turn the attack back on his captor, causing Martin to chuckle, “Oho, so that’s how you want to play, is it?”

Gonflet found himself tipped halfway off the warrior’s lap, and his small footpaws seized in one of the warrior’s paws, which were now completely holding Martin’s undivided attention.

“Hehehehehaahahaha, daddee, save me!! Uncle Marhahaaaha…”

Martin stopped briefly, before the little mouse’s sides could start aching and picked him up, turning him on his back so that Gonflet was looking him full in the face. The warrior’s grey eyes were twinkling, “Now, what was that you called me back there?”

“Hehe…uh…did-didn’t call you anythin.”

Martin raised his eyebrows, “Oh, you didn’t?”

“Hahahahahaha, noooo! I soreeeeehahaha!!”

“That’s better” Martin said chuckling, and picked the young mouse up. He gently patted the small heaving back. “No wonder yore poor mum is run ragged, having to deal with a little snip like you.”

“I not a snip! I’m a thief!”

“Yes, and a tiny terror also. Now, lets head back.”

“Want more tickles Uncle Martin!”

Martin laughed, “Really? I thought I had given you enough already, with all the protesting you did!”

“Please?”

Martin stopped walking and looked at the small mouse. The youngster’s face was still flushed from laughing, but he was watching Martin with an undisguised hopeful look. Martin shook his head incredulously and chuckled, tweaking Gonflet’s nose fondly, “Alright, after supper little one, if you really want me to.”

“Yay!” The little mouse clapped his paws in delight and the sight of the blueberry stains all over him reminded Martin of Columbine’s request. Outside Saint Ninian’s door he set the little mouse on an upturned barrel and wet his kerchief in the wash bowl. Gonflet saw what was coming and tried to make a quick escape but Martin caught ahold of him and began to wash his face, ignoring the dibbun’s squirming protest.

“Urg…noooffff!! Uncle Mar…let me go…no wash…”

Martin held the young mouse firmly, rinsing and wiping gently but thoroughly, until most of the blueberry stain was gone. Gonflet sulked through the bathing, kicking his footpaws back and forth against the barrel.

Martin helped him out of his stained tunic and wrapped him cozily in his own cloak, before carrying him inside.

A booming laugh reached the warrior's ears and he looked up to see Gonff standing by the fireplace, holding a cup of tea in paw. "Looks like ye found the little rogue!! Martin o'l mate, welcome to me darlin' wife's feast!! Hope ye brought a splendid appetite with ye, cause the spread will be magnificent!"

Martin chuckled, turning little Gonflet over to Columbine who immediately started scolding him, "Shame on you Gonflet!! How many times do I have to tell you not to steal! It's an early bedtime for you tonight, young'un!!"

"No no! I ne'er took the pie! Da gave it to me! He foun' it inna wood and said somebeast musta left it there, so I could eat it" Gonflet grabbed his ear, nose scrunched up, "That's da truth, mum!"

Columbine rounded on her mate, paws planted on hips, giving him a look that could scald a frog, "Gonff, you glutinous, dozy whiskered, cheeky faced, excuse for a father-"

"Now, now, my sweet sugar plum" Gonff held up his paws, "It's all a misundersta-"

"Don't you 'sugar plum' me! You-"

Gonflet ran over to Martin who was bent over holding his sides as he shook with laughter. The little mouse grinned cheekily and then thrust his little paws under Martin's arm, "Yah!! Thus is fer wot yer did to me!!"

Martin quickly straightened up, eyes twinkling and swiftly pinned the mouselet on his back, gently scribbling his little tummy, Gonflet's squeaking laughs warming his heart. He caught the little beasts paws in one of his own and swept Gonflet's arms above his head, chuckling softly, "You asked for it, little one" and proceeded to tickle under his arms.

Above the shrieking laughter, Gonff's voice was speaking placatingly, "Now, do listen to me my sweet apple cake, I didn't-aaaahhh!!"

Martin glanced up from his tickling to see Columbine chasing Gonff around the room, holding a wooden spoon in paw, the mousethief leaping and dodging as quickly as his tubby belly would let him, his wife hot on his footpaws.

The warriormouse shook with helpless laughter, turning his attention back to Gonflet who was begging for more tickles, and obligingly tickled his ribs, his own deep chuckles filling the cozy room as the chaos ensued. Keeping a firm grip he bent down and blew on the little tummy, running his whiskers up and down, cause Gonflet to squeal with laughter.

At last, sensing the young mouse was getting tired he stopped and scooped the dibbun up on his lap, gently rubbing his back to ease the fit of giggles.

The chase ended abruptly as Gonff barreled into Martin and Gonflet, all four creatures ending up in a tangled pile on the floor. Gonflet shrieked and broke out in a fresh bout of giggles as the other three thrashed about in an attempt to break loose.

Columbine was up first, throwing aside her spoon, and then dove right back down into the mess, shouting, "You deserve every bit of this" before attacking Gonff's belly with tickling paws, "Martin, help me!"

Martin rolled over, taking in the scene, before chuckling softly and joining her. Gonflet jumped on top of the pile and joined in by attacking his dad's ears, while Martin and Columbine teamed up on Gonff's belly and footpaws, the happy laughter of all four of them echoing resoundingly throughout Saint Ninians.

#redwall #martin the warrior #gonff

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