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redwallthoughts · 3 years

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Redwall Midwinter Miracle: Day 4 Part 1

As promised, it has not taken another three years to update! Just... well, you know, six months... which is better than last time!

On a more serious note, I’m sorry for taking so long to update. I had hoped to have this chapter up sooner but as I’m sure most of you know, this past year has been rather crazy, for lack of a better word, and that slowed down the writing process.

The original work I mentioned at the start of the last chapter hasn’t fared much better, unfortunately, although the blog is still up! Go check out @moiranvall-official if you’re at all interested in getting updates once I get further into the story.

Once again thanks to @raphcrow for her help with editing, beta-reading, and generally being there for me to spout ideas at until something sticks

On with the story!

FF.net, AO3, DA

[Ch.1] [Ch.2] [Ch.3] [Ch.4] [Ch.5] [Ch.6]

The next morning dawned dark and gray, accompanied by a bitter wind that blew so fiercely it rattled the windows of Great Hall in their frames and was so cold that, even with the warmth rising from the kitchens below, Rose felt the chill in her bones. Her footpaws ached so terribly that she could not rise from bed without Sister Amyl’s assistance. The good sister helped her bundle into the warmest clothes she had and wrapped a thick woolen shawl securely around her shoulders before accompanying her down to Cavern Hole for breakfast.

Great Hall, when they emerged, was far quieter than it had been the past few mornings. The dibbuns, it seemed, knew better than to ask to be allowed outside in this weather. A great gust of wind buffeted the windows as it howled past, rattling the windows and sending a shiver down Rose's spine. She turned as she heard the great wooden doors close at the far end of the hall. Rowanoak and Ballaw stood speaking quietly before the doors, occasionally glancing over their shoulders as though they could still see the snow on the other side. A light dusting of snow covered both their shoulders, though it didn’t seem that they’d spent long outside.

Ballaw huffed, twitching his ears this way and that until the snow was gone. “Well,” he said as they drew closer, “I s’pose there’s no helping, after all.”

Rowanoak nodded her great, striped head. “It would seem so. Good morning, Rose,”

Rose nodded to the pair, trying to smile but grimacing instead. “Good morning, Rowanoak, Ballaw.” She leaned heavily on her crutches, slowly turning to make her way to Cavern Hole.

“Care for a lift, dear?” Rowanoak asked, holding out a paw to Rose.

“Yes, please,” Rose said. She surrendered her crutches to Ballaw before Rowanoak swept her up with gentle paws.

The festive air that had permeated Cavern Hole the previous mornings was subdued, but still present. Rose gazed out across the room from her vantage point in Rowanoak’s arms, spotting familiar faces scattered throughout the crowd. Keyla and Tulgrew had integrated seamlessly with Redwall’s otter population, sitting and chatting with the new friends as though they’d lived here for seasons. Celandine appeared to be flirting shamelessly with three different young squirrels at once. Rose couldn’t see Grumm, but she was sure he was present somewhere, enjoying his time with the mole crew.

“Auntie Rose!”

The familiar cry came from a table off to Rowanoak’s right, and Rose had to crane her neck to see her eldest niece, Myrtle, seated on a bench between Mayflower and a young squirrelmaid Rose didn’t recognize.

“Good morning, Myrtle,” she said as Rowanoak turned. “Good morning, Mayflower.” Now that she was no longer contorting herself to see Myrtle, she realized her niece had joined a larger group of similarly aged dibbuns that included Mayflower’s brothers and Tintin. The group was supervised by yet another familiar face. “Good morning, Trimp.”

The hogmaid looked up at her, dark eyes twinkling as she smiled. “Good morning, Rose.” She patted the bench next to her. “Care to join us?”

Rose considered for a moment before her gaze moved to the head table, unbidden.

Down on the bench, Trimp laughed softly. “I haven’t seen Martin yet today, though I’m sure he’ll show his?face sooner or later.”

Rose squeaked and resisted the urge to hide her face in her paws as she realized she’d been caught. “I’d love to join you,” she managed to say, shoving down her embarrassment so that her voice was only slightly squeaky. Guilt bloomed in her chest as Rowanoak settled her onto the bench and Ballaw tucked her crutches carefully under the table before leaving to find their own seats. “I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied the last few days.” She’d meant to spend time with Trimp when she saw her friend that first night, truly she had. But then Martin had walked into the room and her world had turned on its head. To her surprise, Trimp only grinned at her.

“I was the one who said you’d like Martin, if I recall correctly, “ she said. “Seems I was right.” A mischievous twinkle shone in her eyes as she patted Rose’s paw gently. “Besides, he seems quite taken with you as well.”

Rose did hide her face in her paws at that, certain her ears had flushed a brilliant crimson. She suffered Trimp’s gentle laughter in silence. Protesting further, she was sure, would not help the matter. Eventually, Trimp’s laughter faded to a soft chuckle, and Rose allowed herself to be coaxed upright by the smell of food.

Trimp was still smiling at her, but the expression had softened somewhat from pure amusement. “My apologies,” she said, catching Rose’s paw in a quick squeeze, “I’ll try not to tease too much.”

They ate in silence for a time, listening to the gentle hum of chatter from the dibbuns around them.

“So,” Rose said, “You’ve told me how you came to Redwall, but not why you stayed. I thought you planned to wander until the season turned you grey?”

Trimp nodded slowly, spreading a scone with honey before she answered. “That was the plan, originally, until I came here.” She split the scone and offered half of it to Rose. “You remember how I told you that my family used to live near the North-western coast?”

Rose nodded, her mouth full.

“I got to see the place, on that same adventure when I met Chugger. It was so strange and quiet, lonely, even. I remember looking up at those cliffs and feeling so terribly alone and small.” Trimp smiled again, her eyes soft and far away. “And then I looked down at the beach below and saw all the friends I’d come to love while we traveled.” She laughed quietly. “Little Chugger was waving his paws for my attention and the others were all preparing for the return journey, and I suddenly found myself thinking that I was ready to go home. Except home wasn’t really a place anymore. It was the creatures I’d met and shared such a wonderful adventure with. So when we returned I didn’t feel the need to leave again. I was home.”

Rose had to blink back tears before giving Trimp’s paw a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you’ve found your home,” she said. Some small part of her had hoped, seasons ago, that Trimp would settle in Noonvale when she finished wandering. They had so few visitors that found the hidden town and each one was a treasure. That hope had grown smaller with each new season, however. And now, having joined Rowanoak and Ballaw on their final journey, Rose could see why Trimp hadn’t settled in Noonvale. The town was too small and isolated for such a social creature. Trimp would have felt stifled, just as Brome had when they were young. She wondered if Martin would have felt stifled, had he returned. Sighing heavily, she rubbed her paws across her face. It had been a long time since she found her thoughts so consumed by Martin. She wanted to focus on Trimp and forget everything else for a while, but now even Trimp was tied to Martin in her mind. A gentle touch on her shoulder pulled her from her thoughts as she let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry, Trimp. I haven’t been very good company this morning.”

Trimp’s face, when she looked up, was full of concern. “Are you okay, Rose?”

“I’m fine,” Rose said, forcing a smile onto her face, “Just a bit sore due to the cold.”

Trimp held her gaze for a long moment before turning back to breakfast. Cavern Hole was beginning to clear as others finished their food and turned to doing chores or enjoying the day together.

“I don’t think it’s just the cold,” Trimp said after the dibbuns eating with them left.

Rose didn’t look up from her plate, her breath caught in her throat.

Trimp glanced around Cavern Hole, presumably checking to ensure no beast would eavesdrop when she continued. “You’ve had a far-away look on your face all morning, I’ve seen it before.” Her smile was almost sad, and Rose could feel her own smile slipping slightly. “Lavender told me about your search for your old friend. I assume that’s who you’re thinking of when you look like that.”

Rose bit back a sigh. There was no reason to hide the truth, even if she wasn’t sure how to explain everything just yet. “It was seasons ago,” she said quietly, “I fell in love with a memory.”

Trimp patted her paw yet again, and Rose got the feeling she would have been pulled into a hug if Trimp wasn’t being careful of her spines. “Your mother told me,” she said. “She said you’ve fallen in love half-a-dozen times over the seasons, but none as deep of true as your first love. She said you followed him into battle, that he promised to protect your life more fiercely than his own, and that he never returned.”

Rose closed her eyes and bit her lip, but she couldn’t stop the tears welling up to overflow. She’d known that Martin had made a promise to her mother, but she hadn’t known what exactly. “He was so brave,” she whispered, “So determined to protect as many as he could. And…”

“And Martin reminds you of him,” Trimp finished for her.

Rose opened her mouth and shut it again. She wanted to shake her head, to explain everything, to shout ‘it was Martin! It’s always been Martin!’ But words failed her and she could do nothing more than cling to Trimp’s paws as the tears poured down her face. She’d fallen in love with a memory, and now she was falling for him all over again. He was not the same Martin she’d known in those wild summer days. He was older now, and wiser, and the rage she’d seen in him when they were young had been tempered by the seasons. But he was still as driven and kind and gentle as she remembered. He still had a deep-seated need to protect those around him. And she was starting to hope, in some small corner of her heart, that there was a chance that he might come to return her love. If she could find a way to remind him of the past. She wasn’t sure she could bear it if he remembered nothing, or worse, if he denied it had ever happened.

It felt like a long time before the tears stopped flowing and she was able to loosen her grip on Trimp’s paws, but Rose felt better for having shed the tears and Trimp was still looking at her with gentle hope.

“Im sorry, Rose,” she said, “I just want you to be happy.”

Rose brushed the last of her tears from her eyes and offered a watery smile. “I think , for the first time in a long time, there’s a chance for that to happen.”

Then sat and talked for a while longer, Trimp more than happy to distract Rose with tales of her travels prior to arriving at Redwall, as well as a few stories from her time already spent at the abbey. Rose allowed herself to become lost in the stories, reveling in time spent with an old friend. It was all too soon, however, that Rowanoak approached the table and Rose had to make her apologies for leaving in the middle of a story. Trimp merely waved her off with a laugh and promised to finish the tale at a later time.

Brome couldn’t help but feel a touch smothered in the crowded library as they waited for Rowanoak and Rose. The original members of the Rambling Rosehip Players, Ballaw, Trefoil, Celandine, Buckler, Gauchee, and Kastern were all in attendance, settling themselves on the floor or various pieces of furniture. Keyla and Tulgrew, who usually sat out these meetings, were cuddled together against a bookcase. They hadn’t had any specific ideas when Brome asked for their help the evening before, but had been willing to sit in on the meeting in case either thought of anything useful. Brome had settled himself into a low chair next to a sizable pile of blankets he’d prepared for Rose, knowing the cold surely had her footpaws aching terribly.

Gonff the mousethief sat a bit apart from the others, perched on the edge of the desk that sat before one of the windows, his footpaws swinging idly back and forth. He looked vaguely unsettled.

Brome’s thoughts were broken when the library door swung open and Rowanoak strode in, Rose carried safely in her grasp. Once he was satisfied that Rose had been suitably tucked into her seat, he passed her a mug of tea with a wink and a smile. “Our friend missed you at breakfast,” he teased, smiling when her ears flushed pink.

Rose smiled and watched her tea studiously. “I was catching up with Trimp,” she murmured into the mug.

Brome bit back a smile and forced himself to observe his sister with a more discerning eye. She’d been crying, he could see, though she hid it well. Whatever had been weighing on her mind seemed not so troubling anymore, or else she’d pushed it aside in favor of the issue they were meeting to discuss. Her eyes were on her tea, but her mind seemed far away, judging by the soft smile on her face. He’d seen that look countless times before, but this time it didn’t hold the usual sad taint.

“Well then,” Ballaw said, drawing everybeast’s attention as he squeezed into the small space at the center of the room. “Now that we’ve all arrived we’d best get down to business.”

Rowanoak nodded and fixed her gaze on each member of the party in turn. “I know Brome has told you all the most important reason we’ve gathered today, discussing how to help Martin recover his memories.” She paused until everybeast had nodded silent affirmation. “However, before we can discuss-” she broke off suddenly and looked about the room, counting heads on her claws. “Where is Grumm?”

“You’m’ll ‘ave ter fergive Grumm, Mizz Row’noak,” Buckler said. “Foremole Dinny askered ‘im if’n ‘e’d loik t’ ‘elp wi’ ee zoop fer ee feast.”

“I see,” Rowanoak said, nodding.

Grumm was, after all, quite talented at making soup.

“Very well,” Rowanoak returned to her earlier thought. “The first thing we need to discuss is our stay here at the abbey.”

Brome saw Rose tilt her head in confusion out of the corning of his eye. She’d missed that conversation at breakfast.

“The snowfall has been consistently heavy since we arrived,” Rowanoak explained. “Travel, at this time, is possible but likely difficult. Thankfully, both Bella and the good Mother Abbess have offered the abbey’s hospitality for as long as we may need to stay. The question now is, do we wish to risk continued travel? Or shall we stay at the abbey until the weather lightens?”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Gonff piped up from his seat on the desk. “I know you lot’ll need to head back North eventually, but it seems to me that the snow’ll just get worse the further North you go right now.”

“And there’s no point in traveling further South,” Keyla added, “Not when the only reason we even came this far was to search for Martin.”

Gonff nodded. “Exactly. Besides, I know there’s quite a few creatures here who’d like to see you stay a bit longer.”

Brome nodded thoughtfully. It would certainly be nice to not need to wade through heavy snow on the way home. He looked to Rowanoak and Ballaw. “You’ve led us well thus far,” he said, “I’ll trust your judgement on this matter.” Murmurs of agreement sounded from around the room.

“Very well, then,” Rowanoak said. “We’ll stay until the weather improves for travel.” She nodded decisively. “The next matter of business is to consider what to do tomorrow evening, given that Ballaw has already promised a performance to the dibbuns.”

Ballaw grinned and twirled his ears. “We could always do the Marshank play,” he suggested. “Two birds with one stone and all that nonsense, wot wot. Give the good abbeybeasts a thrilling story and jog the warrior lad’s memory at the same time. It’s abso-bally-lutely brilliant.” The hare was beaming with pride, but Brome had a feeling things wouldn’t be so easy as that.

“No,” Rose said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Rowanoak looked at the maid curiously. “While I’m inclined to agree with you, I would like to hear why you feel it would be wrong?”

Rose sat quietly for a moment before speaking. “It’s one thing to perform that story at home where nearly everybeast knew Martin personally or at least knows of him. Or when we perform for strangers who don’t know us or Martin at all. But this is his home now. It wouldn’t be right to tell his story here when he doesn’t remember it himself.” She stared resolutely into her mug as she finished speaking, her expressions set in a way Brome hadn’t seen in ages.

“I’m with th’ missy on this,” Gonff said. He’d pulled a small dagger from somewhere and was twirling it easily in his paws. “It’s going t’ take a bit more than just puting on a play t’ bring Martin’s mem’ries back.” He tossed the dagger in a lazy arc and sighed, looking around the room before settling his gaze on Rose. “I doubt it’s a terribly fun story you have t’ tell, but I think I can be of more help if’n I know what Martin’s fergot.”

Rose nodded and began her tale. Brome had heard her tell of the events many times before, but as he sat watching Gonff’s face he tried to imagine hearing the tale for the first time from Gonff’s perspective. Some parts were so undeniably Martin, he was sure Gonff would have no difficulty believing what had happened. Other things, such as meeting Aggril, or when father forbade the carrying of blades in Noonvale, were met with looks of disquiet.

Gonff had returned the dagger to its place on his belt by the time Rose finished, his eyes hard and serious. Though, Rose didn’t seem to notice through the haze of memories. Gonff’s mouth had set into a grim line when Rose explained how she’d attacked Badrang and been thrown against the wall for her efforts. His own gaze was nearly as far away as Rose’s.

“Well,” he said, some time after Rose had lapsed into silence, “That would explain a thing or two.” He looked around the room again, fixing each of them with his bright stare before returning his attention to Rose. “I’m certain, now, a play isn’t what Martin needs to remember his past.” He hesitated a moment, his gaze softening slightly. “It’s going t’ have t’ be you who reminds him, Rose.”

Rose sat up straighter, tilting her head in confusion. “Why me?”

Gonff sighed and looked down to his paws grasped in his lap, then up again to glance around the room. “I’ve got my reasons, though I’m not sure…” he trailed off and looked at his paws again. “It’s something I haven’t spoken of but once since th’ night it happened.”

Rowanoak nodded. “A private matter, then.” She motioned to Ballaw, “Why don’t you take the others and work on choosing a play. Rose and I can join you once we’re finished here.” She turned to Kastern. “I’m trusting you to speak in my place until I arrive.”

Kastern nodded her agreement and stood, joining the others as they filed toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” Brome said, “But could I stay, please?” He glanced at Rose, uncertain how exactly to voice his concern with leaving her to such a serious discussion without offending her.

Gonff interjected before he had to. “I think that’ll be alright.” He waited until the door shut behind the others before speaking again. “I’ll warn you, it’s not a pleasant story. Hopefully, if all goes well, I won’t need t’ ever speak of it again.” He sighed again and kicked his footpaws back and forth before settling them on the edge of the chair in front of him.

“It happened one night during the war,'' he began, “While Martin, Dinny, an’ meself were traveling to Salamandastron.” He spoke to all three of them, but his gaze was fixed firmly on Rose, all signs of his usual joviality gone and his tone far more serious than it was during his performances in the evenings. “We were getting so close to our goal. Dinny an’ Log-a-log were already asleep.”

Gonff closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, as though the action could transport him back to that far-away night. “I saw Martin sitting by th’ fire holding his sword hilt. He was staring into th’ fire like he was a world away. I remember saying to meself ‘such a shame ‘is sword’s broke, must o’ been a beautiful blade at one time.’”

“It was,” Rowanoak said quietly. “Well made, too, with a near perfect balance. It’s no wonder Badrang wanted it.”

Gonff smiled sadly, and continued. “I got up, wasn’t sleeping yet anyways, plopped meself down next to him, an’ waited fer him t’ notice I was there.” He chuckled. “That took a while.

‘Something wrong?’ he asked me.

‘Think you’ll ever find a new sword, mate?’ I asked back.

He went quiet again. I figured he was just thinking it o’er, ‘til I looked at him.” Gonff ran a paw across his face, turning his gaze to the wall behind Rose. “He weren’t crying, but the look on his face was worse, some’ow. He looked like his heart had been torn out an’ cut t’ pieces. I almost wish he would‘ve cried. I would have known what t’ do. It was like he’d already cried, like he still wanted t’ cry, but he’d run out o’ tears.”

Brome swallowed past a sudden knot in his throat and blinked back his own tears. Looking at Rowanoak, he saw her doing the same. Briefly, he recalled what she had told him seasons prior.

“He didn’t speak at all, except when he woke after the battle and the day he left. As soon as he was strong enough, he would go into the forest daily to grieve alone.”

It seemed likely, then, that Martin had indeed run out of tears.

Gonff continued. “An’ then, when he spoke he was so quiet I almost didn’t hear him.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I can’t. If Boar is willing, I’ll ask him t’ remake th’ blade, but I will never take up another sword again.’ He were clinging to that broken blade like it were th’ only thing b’tween him an’ death. ‘She died because I insisted on getting it back,’ he said. ‘I swore to protect her, but I failed and she died.’” Gonff broke off suddenly, clearing his throat and wiping a paw across his eyes. “He told me- he told me it should’ve been him that died instead. But he didn’t, so now he needed t’ live, because she would’ve wanted that.” He lapsed into silence, the quiet broken only by the occasional sniffle.

“Who was it?” Rose asked. “Did he ever say?”

Brome didn’t have to look to know Rose was holding back tears, he could hear it in her voice.

Gonff shook his head. “He never told me th’ name. Just said she was a maiden as sweet as summer with a heart of gold who didn’t deserve to die so young.” He focused his gaze on Rose again. “But I’ve got a suspicion.”

Rose let out a strangled sound and this time Brome looked at her. She wasn’t crying yet, but he could see tears gathering in her eyes. “Trimp told me this morning- she told me-” another strangled sob “-she said Mama told her that Martin promised to protect my life more fiercely than his own. She didn’t know it was Martin but-” A tear spilled over and trickled down her whisker before she buried her face in her paws. “You’re saying he thought I was dead?” She shook as she cried, and Brome felt his heart breaking for her and for Martin.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” Rowanoak rumbled, breaking the daze that seemed to have settled over them. “I should have told you.” She crossed the room and gently gathered Rose against her chest, one huge paw rubbing across the mousemaid’s shoulders. “I knew that Martin thought you were dead. All of us who stayed with Polleekin thought you were dead. We didn’t know otherwise until we returned to Noonvale, and by that time, Martin had already gone. There didn’t seem to be any reason to tell you and bring you more pain. I thought he left because of memories of the others who had died in battle. If I had known how deeply your supposed death had affected him specifically, then perhaps- perhaps we might have tried harder to find him again.” Rowanoak pulled away, her voice full of sorrow and regret.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” Brome murmured, moving closer to clasp her paw between his own. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Gonff cleared his throat softly, drawing their attention back to him.

“Unfortunately, there’s more.”

Gonff froze when Rose looked at him, a few tears still trickling down her face, and he almost wanted to take back the words. To say he was mistaken, that he’d mis-remembered and that she’d already heard all there was to hear. But that would hardly be fair to her, or Martin. He was sending her into battle, in a sense. This was Martin’s best, if not only, chance to remember his past and put old ghosts to rest. He would not do Rose the disservice of sending her in without telling her what she needed to know.

“What else happened?” Rose asked quietly. Her voice was small, but firm and she’d wiped the remaining tears from her face.

“After the war,” Gonff said, unable to meet her gaze, “Once we’d realized ‘ow much Martin had fergot, I set t’ helping him remember.” Exactly how long that had taken and how badly Tsarmina had wounded Martin he didn’t say. Martin could tell her later, when the knowledge was less likely to send her back into tears. “I was going o’er our adventure with him, figuring out what he knew an’ what he’d fergot, when I remember that evening I just told you about. I asked him if he remembered it, and what he’d said.” Gonff voice caught in his throat, the words hanging on the tip of his tongue.

They were all watching, waiting with baited breath for Martin’s answer. Brome had shifted closer to Rose again, but she sat straight, not leaning into the comfort her brother offered.

“He got real quiet,” Gonff said, staring at his paws again rather than meet Rose’s too-bright gaze. “Then he said, ‘please don’t ask me about that. I don’t remember who we spoke about, but I remember the guilt.’ He had that look again, like he wanted to cry but couldn’t. ‘It hurts too much when I can’t remember,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I can bear remembering again.’” He sighed and dragged a paw across his face. “He didn’t talk again for the rest o’ th’ evening, an’ he seemed to forget by the next day.” He forced himself to meet Rose’s gaze. “That’s why it has t’ be you that tells him. Everybeast has a weakness, and Martin’s weakness is you.”

He half expected Rose to burst into more tears and refuse to be comforted, but she didn’t. Instead, she met his gaze, her eyes rimmed pink from her earlier outbursts, and nodded. “I understand,” she said. Her voice rang hollow, and looked like she was clenching her jaw to keep from crying. “I-I’ll have to think about how to remind him, but I promise to do my best.”

Brome looked as though he were about to say something, but stopped before the words escaped. Gonff didn’t blame him. Rose had all the information now, what she did with it was up to her.

Gonff found that he suddenly felt extremely tired, as though he’d set down a burden he hadn’t known he was carrying. In a way, he realized, he had. The responsibility of helping Martin remember, and come to terms with, his past no longer rested on his shoulders. And while he did feel a slight bit guilty for placing such a heavy burden on Rose’s slim shoulders, he was also unshakably certain that she was up to the task. Even with her face streaked with evidence of her tears, she still radiated a quiet strength that reminded him in many ways of his own wife. He made a mental note to Columbine as soon as he was finished here, and make sure he told her just how grateful he was to have her in his life.

Rose nodded again. “Thank you for telling me what you know. I’m sure it will be most helpful.”

Rowanoak huffed out a woosh of air. “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s go make sure Ballaw hasn’t suggested too many more crazy plays for us to do.”

Gonff took his leave quietly as the trio went to join the rest of the troupe. The sun was still obscured by the storm outside as he made his way down to Great Hall, though the faint murmur rising from the stones beneath his footpaws told him it was likely later in the afternoon than he had thought. Columbine would be working in the kitchens again, he thought, turning toward the stairs with a re-energized skip in his step. Perhaps he could convince her to spare a scone or two before the feast, after he stole a few kisses, of course.

#Redwall #Redwall Midwinter Miracle #Martin the Warrior #Rose of Noonvale #Gonff prince of Mousethieves #Brome #Rowanoak #Trimp #Rose #Redwall fanfic

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scrivenerofmossflower · 6 years

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Martin of Mossflower Chapter 12

Word Count: ~2.4 read on ao3 Chapter Summary: Ferdy and Coggs are missing, and Mask infiltrates Kotir.

First Chapter : : Previous Chapter : : Next Chapter

Unfortunately for the would-be questers, several of the elders sat near the fire, sipping warm cider and discussing theories and strategies, old times and new. Martin listened closely to the proposed methods of getting Mask into Kotir without arousing suspicion, but idea after idea was rejected as either too tenuous or dangerous. Finally, it was decided that Mask would slip into the ranks of a returning Kotir contingent, and if Tsarmina didn’t send one out within the next few days, that Skipper, Amber, and Vurg would provoke her with a sally upon the main gates.

Still, the later it grew, the fewer excuses Martin and Gonff could offer to linger in the grand hall, and they retired to the dormitories, thwarted. Sometime tomorrow, the hall would surely be deserted, and they could tackle the crest then.

Breakfast came first, and with it a fretful Goody Stickle. Usually adept in combating her children’s messier impulses, Spike and Posy managed to mix cream, cider, and hotroot into their porridge before Spike upset his and she caught them at it.

Gonff and Martin grabbed two towels and helped her mop it up. “Thank ye, dears,” she said, tutting at Spike and Posy. “You two scamps, though, what were ye thinkin’, hotroot in porridge?”

“Mr. Skipper does it!” Posy protested.

“Mr. Mask, too!”

“Aye, and they’re both otters,” Gonff said, and flicked the towel so that it snapped at them. They giggled. “And otters eat so hot because they get so cold, spendin’ all their time in the water. You two ain’t otters, and you’ll just set your mouths on fire for nothin’.”

Goody nodded sagely, glancing around her as she did so. “Listen to your brother, you two.”

“I haven’t seen Ferdy and Coggs this morning,” Martin said, finally putting a guess to the source of her distraction.

“Nay, neither ‘ave I,” Goody admitted, and huffed a sigh, looking from one to the other. “They ain’t slept in their beds last night.” Her paws worried at her apron. Posy and Spike took bites of the remains of the doctored porridge and both went for the water jug, eyes streaming. “Asides from that, there’s two oatfarls, a good wedge o’ cheese and some of my best blackcurrant cordial missin’ from the larder.”

Gonff grinned. “That’s a full breakfast an’ no mistake. I’m sure they’re curled up asleep in some corner, Goody-Mum. They’ll wake up with stomach aches.”

“They’ll go bang one of these days,” Martin said with a laugh. “Maybe they’re off playing soldiers. We’ll help you look. Have you let Bella and my mum know? They can help organize a search party, if it gets to that.”

“Don’t go a-botherin’ your old ‘ead, m’dear,” Ben said, pouring two good sized bowls of milk for Spike and Posy, who were still trying to recover from their first taste of hotroot. “Those two are like good button mushrooms, they always turn up at a good meal,” he finished, chuckling.

Gonff slung an arm around Martin’s shoulders, saluting with his free paw. “We’ll start looking around outside. They’ll turn up before too long, don’t worry.”

Goody nodded along with him, though her clear worry didn’t abate. “I hope you two are right,” she said, paws knotting and unknotting her apron strings until they got stuck. “Oh, Ben, get up and go ‘elp, won’t you? I won’t be happy until I see their mucky little snouts again.” Untangling her paws, she went off to ask Bella for help.

Soon, dozens of creatures were abroad in Mossflower, all searching for the pair of wayward hedgehogs. Squirrels swung through the canopy, eyes on the ground below them, otters combed the stream banks, moles trundled through last autumn’s loam. Rowanoak and Bella remained behind in case Ferdy and Coggs made their way back to Brockhall, while Chibb and Ballaw (hares being natural runners) worked to keep each search party abreast of developments.

Fates and fortunes willing, they’d find the pair none the worse for wear.

As it turned out, Kotir soldiers had found Ferdy and Coggs first.

Startled awake in the early morning when Cludd’s patrol collapsed their tent, the brothers were trussed to a spear and slung between two soldiers before they were even awake enough to tell up from down. Terror gagged their mouths and stilled their limbs as effectively as the ropes they’d been bound in.

The next few hours were the most harrowing in their young lives. Upside down and slung from spears, the two brothers endured the march to Kotir, knowing they were in more trouble than they’d ever been in before—indeed, more than they could imagine. Questions and fearful surmises whirled through both young heads.

Ferdy wondered if his parents knew they were missing yet. Surely they did. Surely they’d send search parties. Coggs was more concerned with whether the Corim would organize a rescue, and trying not to imagine how upset Mum and Dad were. If they were crying, or if they were out in the woods, looking too.

By the time they were hauled into Tsarmina’s personal chambers, each had come to the decision to show no fear, so that the other wouldn’t be afraid. They lay huddled together on the floor, pain shooting through their bound paws. Above them, the wildcat sat in her carved wooden chair, and watched imperiously as Ashleg cut the ropes and the filthy gags. They didn’t move or even whimper as the circulation was restored to swollen limbs.

Cludd used his spearpoint to prod Ferdy, who squirmed away from it. “Huh, they look fit enough, m’lady. What ‘ave you got to say for yerselves, eh?”

Coggs rolled over so he was snout-to-snout with his brother, and said, “Don’t breathe a word, matey. We’ll be brave like Martin and Gonff. Brave and silent.”

Fortunata kicked out at the prisoners and immediately regretted it, having forgotten about a hedgehog’s spines. Young as they were, Ferdy and Cogg’s both were hard and sharp, and she cursed as she nursed her footpaw. “Benighted, blasted—ooh, that hurt—”

Cludd stamped the butt of his spear against the floor, ignoring the vixen. “Silence, prisoners! Don’t you know you’re in the presence of Tsarmina, Queen of the Thousand Eyes?”

Heartened by Fortunata’s painful mistake, Ferdy curled his lip in defiance and spoke out boldly. “She’s no queen of ours! We’re woodlanders!”

The rest of the “interrogation” went about as well. Tsarmina tried to use their exhaustion and hunger against them, bribing the pair with food and rest, but made no progress. She was left with two sleeping baby hedgehogs on the floor, a ruined apple she’d embedded her claws in (in lieu of embedding them in said baby hedgehogs and losing a source of information), and absolutely nothing to show for it.

“I don’t see why you don’t just string them up and let them have a taste of your claws, m’lady,” Cludd said, prodding them again with the butt of his spear. “That’d soon get them to talk.”

“You would think that, idiot,” Tsarmina hissed at him. “They’re woodlanders, yes, but they’re only babes. They’d die too quickly for torture to be effective.” She glared hatefully at the pair, arms around each other and snoring softly. “Still, there are two of them. I may try that if things don’t change soon… Hmph. Later. Take them away. We’ll leave them in the cells for the day and see if they’re not a bit more talkative tonight,” she ordered, flicking her paw in dismissal. “Now go—I need to think.”

The sun was approaching its zenith when the woodlanders regrouped in Brockhall. Grim-faced, Gonff tossed a blanket and an empty cordial jar upon the center table. “We found that in a clearing ‘bout halfway ‘tween here and Kotir. Tracks all over the place, and it stank of weasel and ferret. Big party, I’d say.”

“Is there any other news?” Bella asked, though she didn’t sound very hopeful.

“I sent Chibb to Kotir,” Sayna said quietly. “I’d hoped I was worrying for nothing, but he heard Tsarmina interrogating Ferdy and Coggs. They’re unharmed for the moment, but they’re certainly captured.”

Murmurs of consternation rippled through the gathered creatures. “Mates, it doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, those two pore little ‘uns in the vermins’ brig!” Skipper burst out, slamming his paw into the mantel.

Columbine slipped her paw into Gonff’s. “What’ll we tell Ben and Goody?” she asked.

Gonff squeezed her paw in reassurance. “Tell ‘em we’ll rescue them straightaway! That’s what we’ll tell ‘em!” he declared, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

There was a roar of approval.

Bella had to shout to be heard, and a badger’s shout is very hard to ignore. “Please, Gonff! Be sensible!” Eventually, the hall settled again. “Yes, the Corim will mount a rescue operation,” she said, glancing at the other leaders and receiving nods of agreement. “But we must plan carefully so that more prisoners aren’t taken, and more lives lost. We must not run off and do anything reckless in the meantime.” She glanced at Martin.

“I haven’t done anything!” he protested.

“Yet.” Quiet laughter greeted Vurg’s dry comment, and even Bella was smiling in spite of the serious nature of the meeting. He continued on, looking at Bella. “All well and good to say we’ll rescue Ferdy’n’Coggs, an’ I’m all for it. But don’t forget, we need to get this spy business started, too.”

“Mask, brother?” Skipper asked.

Mask saluted with an almost lazy wave of the paw. “I’ve got one or two thoughts, Skip. I’m planning to slip in tonight—no, won’t say how, it’s safer that way for all of you. I’ll see which way the wind blows and figure out a way to get word back t’you through Chibb.”

Sayna nodded. “Having a contact on the inside would certainly help with any future escape attempt.”

“Then it’s settled,” Bella said, putting a paw down on the table firmly. “Mask will infiltrate tonight, and we can hope for some word—when?”

“Tomorrow night at the latest,” Mask promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I ought to get ready.”

“Mask, sah,” Ballaw said, hurrying after him. “Not to tell you how to do th’ job, but the Players and I… Well, we’ve come up with a little somethin’.”

Mask shrugged, and gave the hare a quick grin. “Why not? I’ll take a listen.”

They walked out of the room with heads bent, talking to each other. Bella looked at Rowanoak and raised both eyebrows, demanding an explanation.

She just smiled. “Don’t worry, Bella,” she said, looking rather pleased. “It’s a good idea and won’t impede Mask’s mission at all. Just a little extra, to keep the cat on her toes.”

Amber grinned. “Well, I can’t object to that.”

Bella shook her head. “Neither can I, as long as no one gets hurt from it.” She rose and began to shuffle to the door. “Sayna, come with me. We’ll have to break the news to Goody and Ben eventually, and it’ll be easier on them if it’s us.”

Of all the assignments given in the army, guard duty was the worst. Stuck on a wall all night, nothing to look forward to, staring out into the trees, and doing nothing but waiting for somebeast else to come up and take your place… If you were paired with a mate, it wasn’t so bad, sure, but if not, then it was practically the road to Hellgates.

Skinnose and Mangeface were not mates. They’d also been given a double shift by Cludd for starting a fight in the mess, and so were stuck on the wall top over the main gate, together, for the entire night. The only thing weasel and ferret shared was the righteous indignation of the unjust punishment though, typically, this did exactly nothing to reconcile them.

“Huh, it’s probably gonna rain,” Skinnose muttered under his breath, shifting from one foot to the other. “Cold, an’ wet, an’ hungry—if you hadn’t started that fight, we’d both be inside and warm right now.”

“I started it?” Mangeface growled, taking his eyes away from the treeline to glare at him. “Don’t talk stupid, yore the one who kicked me leg. I was just defendin’ meself.”

“Me? Talk stupid? You tripped me!”

“I never—”

Glaring at each other, paws clenched around their spears and ready for all the world to thwack the other with them, Skinnose and Mangeface were only distracted by a call from below.

“Oi! Lunk ‘eads! Open the gate!”

Startled, both peered down over the wall top. While they’d been bickering, neither had noticed a figure leaving the underbrush. It looked like one of their lot, though his armor was scratched and dirty and in general he looked as if he’d been dragged through a thorn bush backwards.

“Whaddya want?” Skinnose called down.

“What d’I want?” he demanded, waving both arms irritably. “I want to get by the fire and warm up, idiot, and get some decent food in me for starters! Whaddya think I want, a gilded invitation?!”

“You heard ‘im,” Mangeface said, prodding Skinnose with the butt of his spear. “Go down and open the gate.”

“Why do I have to? You go down, I’m not movin’—”

The weasel below danced in place in frustration. “I’ve been sneakin’ about that maze of trees since last night, an’ if one o’ you doesn’t get that gate open right now, I’ll tell the queen you were sleepin’ at your posts when I came back!”

That got them both moving, and within a moments the small door next to the main gate was creaking open, the battered weasel limping inside, muttering under his breath as he went.

“Thorns an’ roots an’ that blasted eagle t’boot—I tell ye, mates, if I could pack it in an’ get out o’ here, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Not worth it, ’s just not worth it.”

“Huh, got that right,” Skinnose whined. “An’ us rank takin’ the blame when the captain does somethin’ stupid? ’S not fair!”

“All of Cludd’s lot got a half extra ration for dinner,” Mangefur grumbled. “Just for bringin’ in two spinebrats.”

“Cludd actually did somethin’ right?” the weasel scoffed. “Makes me wish I’d managed t’stick with his patrol, instead of slidin’ down a stinkin’ ditch.” He rubbed his narrow stomach. “Thanks, y’two.” He shuffled off towards the main door as the pair of guards returned to their post on top of the wall.

Boredom broken by occasional bickering settled back in before much long, and Skinnose and Mangeface soon forgot the minor diversion. It never occurred to them that they’d never seen the weasel they’d just let into the fortress—or that the weasel might not be a weasel at all.

Mask had made his first move into Kotir.

First Chapter : : Previous Chapter : : Next Chapter

#Redwall #my fic #Martin of Mossflower

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sanctuaryforascrivener · 6 years

Text

what’s past is prologue

Word Count: ~4.6k Read on ao3 First in the series Martin of Mossflower. Beta’d by @raphcrow

Summary: One choice remade, and the benefits and consequences of it that spiral outward. Or, what if Luke’s tribe had stayed to fight Verdauga, instead of fleeing North? How much would have changed? How much would have stayed the same?

Next Chapter

The thing about stories, you see…

Almost two score mice huddle together for warmth under the branches of Mossflower woods. Their home lies behind them, a violated wreck of its former comfort. Their leader stands watch at the edge of the camp, paws on the pommel stone of a sword, the tip resting lightly on a scree of autumn leaves. He is uncertain, and afraid, but shows his tribe nothing but confidence. His ears twitch back, listening to the murmurings of the elders, the fitful cries of the young ones, confused and cold.

Something must be done.

A shape looms out of the darkness suddenly, and the mouse brings his sword up, ready to parry or stab or slash. “Peace,” the shape says, voice gruff but gentle, as a badger steps closer.

“Bella,” the mouse says, and stands down to let her pass. Behind him, the mice relax and chatter to each other quietly, the whisper of voices barely louder than the wind through the leaves.

Bella looks down at him, compassion and grief writ in every line of her sturdy body. “I heard what happened—I’m so sorry about your father, Luke.”

The mouse nods once, tightly, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he grinds his teeth. “We’re not safe here,” he says. “Not with that cat and his vermin.” The mice behind him have gone quiet again, listening to every word that passes between Luke and their badger friend.

“My home is yours, Luke, as long as you wish for it to be,” Bella says softly, liquid brown eyes pitch black in the moonlight. “Brockhall was designed for badgers. We’ve easily the space for all of you.”

Luke looks over his tribe again, counting the families, the tiny ones. So many old, so many young, so many lost.

…is that they’re never really settled.

“Aye,” he says at last, and sheaths his sword, the hilt sticking up over his right shoulder. “Thankee, Bella, for your hospitality. Someday we’ll repay you.” He turns, placing both hands on his hips, and issues orders in a quiet, though stern voice. “Vurg, Denno, I want you two at the back concealin’ tracks. Can’t have those scum trackin’ us back to Bella’s home. Pair up, the rest o’ you, an’ carry what little ‘uns you can. I’m not losin’ any more. Sayna?”

A pretty young mousewife slips her paw into his, the other resting over her middle. “I’m here, Luke.” He squeezes her paw in relief.

All a story is is a beast making one choice—

Sayna stands in front of a shamefaced Luke, mousebabe tucked firmly under one arm like a sack of potatoes, her other paw gripping a sheathed sword by the hilt. Bella and Barkstripe exchange amused looks as the mousewife lectures her chief, emphasizing each phrase with the sword. The rest of the tribe keep their heads down, muffling laughter into their breakfast plates.

“And what, pray tell, have I told you about leaving this around?” Sayna demands.

“‘Twasn’t around,” Luke protests. “‘Twas next to me. I had my eye on it, love—”

“Don’t you ‘love’ me, Luke, Son of Martin.” Sayna swings the sword up to point directly at her husband. The babe under her arm watches it avidly. “And if you’d had an eye on it, I wouldn’t have found your son halfway out the dining hall doing his best to haul it with him!”

Luke looks impressed. “Well, he’s gettin’ stronger, isn’t he?” He ducks under the sword and rescues the babe, dancing back out of range again before Sayna can give him a rap with the sheathe. He swings him up onto sturdy shoulders, giving his wife a winning, roguish smile. “Martin’s a warrior born, and knows what he’s after, that’s all—yowch!”

Martin has seized on his father’s ears for balance, grip unexpectedly strong for a mousebabe only a few weeks old. The hall’s attempt at keeping a straight face fails miserably, and Sayna relents, a wry smile stealing over her whiskers as their friends and family laugh. She steps closer, brushing her nose to Luke’s and pressing the sword back into his paws. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she says, and scrunches her nose up at her babe, serious expression framed by his father’s ears. “Both of you.”

—and another—

The three badgers sit before the fire in the common room of Brockhall, sipping mulled cider from mugs the size of Luke’s head. “It’s not slavery,” Barkstripe says, voice slow and measured. “They’ve their own homes, they’re not locked away, they’ll keep the produce come harvest.” He looks at his wife, but Bella only shakes her head.

“Only after giving half of it to the fortress as levy. That cat’s a clever one,” she says, staring into the fire. “Call it protection, discredit resistance. Make it easier to go along. There’re already dozens of families in that compound, those afraid to risk the lives of their little ones by rebelling.”

“Aye,” their guest agrees. “Set curfews, overseers in the fields to guard against outside threats and make sure everybeast is working, leave off chains and locks so they can convince themselves it’s not slavery. Forbid creatures from wandering off the lands, or carrying weapons for protection, because what need do they have for it, with soldiers surrounding them?” She takes a long draught of cider. “It’s not slavery, no, but it’s not freedom either.”

Barkstripe sighs heavily. “Yes. But we’re not fighters, Rowanoak, only farmers. What can we do?”

Rowanoak shakes her head. “I don’t know, friend. I don’t know.”

—and another.

“Somethin’ must be done.”

It is usual, now, to hear the mouse chieftain in discussion with their host, late at night after the young ones have gone to sleep.

“Aye,” Barkstripe agrees, the response worn with repetition. “But we don’t have the skills to fight back.”

“We do,” Luke counters. Barkstripe glances at him. “We do,” he repeats, insistently. “I’ve been about. Those otters can spear a fish quick as a wink, an’ squirrel archers are nothin’ to sneeze at. Gather volunteers, anyone who wants—we can train up a fighting force.”

Barkstripe shakes his head, the flicker of hope dying in his eyes, unnoticed until it has vanished. “Luke, my friend, I respect your spirit. You know that. And you’re right, there are skilled beasts in Mossflower, but those skills haven’t been tested against an enemy before. The otters hunt for fish, the squirrels protect their dreys from rooks and other hunting birds. You’ll have a hard time convincing any of them that outright war against the cat’s horde is wise.”

Firelight glints red in Luke’s eyes. “‘Tisn’t. And outright war isn’t my plan. We’re outnumbered an' under-trained. But this winter’s colder than any I can remember, an' that cat’s sittin' in the fortress warm and snug.” He leans forward, tapping the table with one paw to emphasize his words. “We take the time fate’s given us, and we train now, practice now. Come spring, we strike an' retreat, strike an' retreat, sting Greeneyes like bees. You can’t fight bees with a sword. Eventually, we’ll whittle him down enough that he has to flee.”

The course of a story isn’t like a stream running through the woods.

Luke crouches low in the newly budded undergrowth, paw clenching around his smoke-blackened sword. He breathes shallowly, counting as the vermin patrol passes. A handful of squirrels wait above him, ready at his signal to strike, then flee through the treetops. The rearguard passes. Luke tenses, ready for his ambush.

“Sure now, I’d not do that, if’n I were you,” a low voice murmurs from his left.

Luke twists his head sharply to the side to see a mouse lying beside him, mimicking his own posture. She gives him a broad wink. “There’s another gang comin’ along behind ‘em. Afraid ol’ Greeneyes is gettin’ wise to your tactics, me friend.”

“Who the devil are you?” Luke hisses, more frustrated with himself that he’s failed to notice her than hostile. She clearly isn’t an enemy.

The mouse grins widely, and offers him a lazy paw to shake. “Siobhan, yer honor. Me ol’ man’s at Brockhall with the little ‘un.”

Luke accepts the paw, still looking at Siobhan with a measure of skepticism. “Aye?”

“Aye. Y’know a lot about the warrior stuff, Luke me friend, but ye could stand for a few lessons on sneakin’ about.” Though her eyes hold a twinkle, they’re also hard and unyielding. “That’s why I’m here. Queen o’ Mousethieves, Warrior. At yer service.”

It’s more like a ship at the mercy of the waves.

Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin again. Sayna, and how hard he had had to work to win Windred over to him, to convince her that he loved Sayna more than life itself and would treat her well, that he wasn’t just the rough-and-tumble warrior she saw. How Sayna had beamed at him on the day of their marriage. How she had looked by the fire in St. Ninian’s, cuddled up into his side with the red glow of the embers limning her fur in a halo. How happy she’d been when she’d come to him and told him she was pregnant, that they’d have a child together.

How big little Martin is getting, a season and a half old and following him everywhere around Brockhall like a little shadow. How serious the babe is, watching everyone with wide, grey eyes. Just like his mother’s. Always biting off more than he can chew, too, trying to haul soup pots to the kitchen that are bigger than he is, or carrying Windred’s mending for her, even though every step threatens to get him tangled in the shirt or smock she’s repairing. Sayna always says that’s his fault, his obstinacy, and then she turns around and does the same thing, organizing an expedition to gather medicinal herbs and not taking “no” for an answer.

His little family.

Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin again, as he whirls his father’s blade over his head and slices through a stoat. As he leaps forward across the parade ground of Kotir, crossing his blade with the shaft of a weasel’s spear, slicing through the oak to gut the creature behind it. As he stands, parrying another seeking spear point, as he lashes out, as he ducks and slices at unprotected footpaws, as he cleaves through a shield.

As the arrows thud into his body. As he fights on. As he reaches the doors of the fortress. As he leans against them, trying to catch his breath. Trying to ignore the pain. Trying to hear Siobhan beside him, yelling insults at the vermin surrounding them.

As he reaches the gates of Dark Forest, Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin.

One twitch of the tiller—

Sayna stands outside Brockhall, leaning against the solid oak and watching the rising sun. Her eyes are red rimmed with exhaustion, and the tree is the only thing holding her up, but she won’t move until she knows for sure. One way or another. Martin dozes at her feet. He’s escaped from Windred three times now, always coming straight back to her. The last time, her mother had just left them a blanket and gone back to bed, muttering something about how letting two such stubborn mice have a child was Fate’s mistake. Sayna sinks to her knees and strokes his head, tucking the blanket more firmly about his tiny frame.

When the squirrel messenger drops out of the trees in front of her, Sayna already knows what he will say. Later, she thinks she knew before Luke had marched to Kotir, or perhaps even before she married him. Luke was always going to die fighting, sword in paw. There was no other fate for him.

The day Sayna walks through the gates to the compound with Windred by her side and Martin bundled on her back, she stares up at Kotir and makes a promise to herself. Her weapons are not steel and oak, but she’ll keep fighting, too. She will forge hope and hone it to a point, and use it to strike at the heart of Kotir. Whether it’s in four seasons or a score, she will live to see the fortress fall.

—one push off course—

“Why aren’ you out in the fields wit’ the others?” The weasel confronts a young mouse in the middle of the empty street. He’s missing two teeth.

Martin would dearly love to up the count to three, but he curls his paws into fists and restrains himself. “I’m taking care of my grandmother.”

“Why isn’ she out in the fields wit’ the others?” It’s a ferret this time, another of the squad on patrol through the compound.

“She’s ill,” Martin says. “I’m getting her some water.”

“I’m gettin’ her some water…?” The weasel repeats, using the butt of his spear to tap at Martin’s footpaws. The ferret behind him snickers.

He knows what they’re after, and he would rather swallow his tongue than give it to them. But his grandmother is sick at home, and they need more water. “I’m getting her some water, sir,” he says, taking a step back out of range.

“No you’re not,” the weasel says with a grin. “You’re goin’ out to the fields. It’s ‘arvest time, everyone’s supposed to be out by order of Lord Greeneyes.”

“My grandmother is sick,” Martin repeats, and takes another step back, fury building. “Someone needs to take care of her. Sir,” he adds bitterly, hoping it might give him just a little leeway.

“Likely story, and even if it isn’, she can take care o’ herself,” the ferret scoffs, and prods him in the back, ready to herd him towards the field. “C’mon, mouse, get to work.”

“I’m not going to the fields!” Martin snaps. “And you’re a fool if you think that’s just a story!”

This time, the butt of the spear trips him. The guards stand over him, laughing. “Mutiny, eh?” The weasel says. He crouches down in front of Martin, tone mocking. “Well, mouse, if you apologize, maybe I won’t toss you in the cells for the night. You’re still young enough to learn obedience, aintcha?”

—and the story may land somewhere else.

The stoat has his claws tangled in the back of Martin’s smock as he holds him well away from his body, and he’s too small to do any real damage. He doesn’t let this stop him. Martin swings wildly from the guard’s grip, kicking and writhing and generally determined to be as inconvenient as possible.

“Izzat the one what broke Blackfur’s nose?” another guard asks, watching the stoat with fascination. “Lil’ thing like that?”

“Nah, just mouthed off and managed to get a kick in,” the stoat snaps back. “Just git the door open, would you, my arm’s about to fall off! Oi, hold still, damn you!”

Martin growls, and swipes at the guard’s wrist. The stoat flinches, but the chainmail shirt he’s wearing protects him from any real damage. He’s about to try again when the stoat shakes him, hard.

“‘Ere, toss ‘im with the other one. Easier to feed two at once,” the guard says, heaving open a heavy door. The stoat shakes him again for good measure before chucking him in. He collides with another figure just inside the door, and they both go spinning ears over tail. Before Martin can sort out whose limbs are whose, the door is already shut.

“Coward!” Martin shouts. “Lily-livered scum!”

His fellow prisoner giggles breathlessly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, “But d’you mind not hollerin’ it in my ear?”

It takes another moment or two for the pair to get untangled, until at last two mice peer curiously at each other in the gloom of the dungeon. The older one winks. “I’m Gonff,” he says, and offers a paw. “The guards didn’ appreciate my impression of an ottermaid I know. Seemed to think I was mockin’ Miss Tsarmina, even when I told ‘em it wasn’t true. Didya really break a guard’s nose like ‘e said?”

“No,” Martin says, taking the paw. “Kind of wish I had. I’m Martin. Why did they think you were making fun of Tsarmina?”

Gonff grin widens and he launches into a high pitched voice. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to go out on my own? It’s not fair! I’m going to scream and throw things until I get my way!” There’s a bit of a yowl in his voice. Either he’s imitating an otter very badly, or he’s doing a fair impression of the older, brattier child of Verdauga. Martin laughs helplessly. Gonff joins in, and the pair sit giggling in the straw until they’re both breathless.

Somewhere uncharted.

Sayna’s grip on Martin’s shoulder is tight, but not painful. He knows he worries her, and he doesn’t like to do that, but he dislikes the vermin so callously in charge of their lives more. She doesn’t say a word on the walk back to their hut, doesn’t even look at him, and when they arrive at their door, Martin’s long since prepared himself for a lecture.

Sayna just dabs at a cut over his eye with the corner of her apron. “Telling you not to fight is as useless as telling the spring rain not to fall,” she says at last. “So I won’t.” Martin looks at her, not sure he’s heard her correctly. She smiles, though it looks painful. “I never thought you’d just go along, Martin. But if you must fight, please, do so with your head.”

Martin considers this. He suspects she means something besides headbutting a guard, but he’s not sure what. “How?”

She crosses her arms and looks him up and down. “There are more weapons than tooth and claw, sword and spear,” she says at last. Sayna turns to gaze out over the huts of the hovel—hardly there for five seasons, and already starting to fall apart. “And more strength than that in your limbs. There’s strength in community and joy. Right now, we are scared, scattered. Defeated. But eventually…” She looks back down at her son. “Even if we were strong, our spirit is weak. We could never win, not now. Do you understand?”

“No,” Martin admits.

Sayna hums. “For now, that means helping other woodlanders, cheering them up, and not attacking the guards. Can you do that?”

Martin bites at the fur on the side of his paw as he thinks. “I think so.”

In the now, we can never know what might have been.

“Oi! What d’ye think you’re doin’ there?” The accusation carries over the fields, and Martin looks up to see a ferret guard berating Twoola. “Keep pullin’ up those carrots, don’ stop!”

“Chestnuts, d’you think?” Gonff murmurs next to him.

Martin makes a face. “We do chestnuts too often,” he says. “What about cheeses?”

Gonff groans. “Fine,” he says, sounding incredibly put upon. “But don’t bite m’ear, will you? I could have sworn you took a bit out of it last time.” Without further discussion, he launches himself at Martin with a loud shout. “You rotten little fibber, you take that back!”

“Will not!” Martin yells, as the pair go rolling over and over along the row of radishes they’re tending. Miraculously, they don’t damage a single leaf. “You’re the one who stepped on my tail! Say you’re sorry!”

“Won’t!”

“Will!”

The shouts soon attract the attention of every guard within hearing range, and the ferret leaves off to come rushing over, whacking both of them as they struggle and fight, kicking and nipping and shoving loose dirt down each other’s smocks. It takes more than five minutes for the pair to be separated, but by the time they do, the ferret has long forgotten the exhausted, elderly mouse who wasn’t working quickly enough.

Bruised and dirty, Gonff and Martin are given a good scrub in the bath when they get home, as well as an extra slice of nutty bread to split between them.

We can only choose—

When winter screams across the hills Hey-oh, away-oh! We’ll huddle close against the chill Hey-oh, away-oh! Snow and ice won’t bother me As long as I have family Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

Sayna leads the woodlanders in the old season song as they crawl through the turnip patch, pulling up the roots and tossing them in their baskets.

When spring storms sweep across the plain, Hey-oh, away-oh! We’ll stay inside out of the rain, Hey-oh, away-oh! Rain will help the flowers grow This my friends and I do know, Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

They’re under guard as always. Martin’s paws are scratched, his back is sore, and he’s hungry. But he sings out as loudly as the rest, the song keeping the rhythm quick and easy.

When summer sun shines hot and bright, Hey-oh, away-oh! We’ll swim in streams so cool and light, Hey-oh, away-oh! It’s fun to laugh with friends and play In these high midsummer days, Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

He glances up and sees the bewilderment on the face of one of the guard’s, the way he shuffles away from the woodlanders who are singing as joyfully as if they would be allowed to keep the whole harvest. Martin grins fiercely, and raises his voice.

When there’s a chill in autumn’s breeze Hey-oh, away-oh! And gold and red touch chestnut leaves, Hey-oh, away-oh! Harvest, plenty, feast, and care With all my friends and family share Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

—and choose—

“Your mum would tan your tail if she found out you had that,” Gonff says as they walk bank side.

Martin raises one eyebrow, swinging his smuggled sling back and forth. “Maybe. And she’d tan your tail if she knew who’d been nicking bread off the Spikes’ window sill.” Gonff shrugs, unrepentant. “‘Sides, Skipper says I’m a natural, but I’ve still got to practice.”

Gonff grins. “Skipper says he wishes I were an otter, so I could be part o’ his crew.”

“He never,” Martin challenges, elbowing his friend in the side. “He says you’re a cove and a river pirate. I’ve heard him.”

“Ha! Just goes to show what you know, matey!” Gonff adds a swagger to his walk, swinging his tail as if it’s the thick rudder of an otter. “Blow me, but I’d be part o’ Skipper’s crew faster’n it’d take me to empty a pot o’ good ole hotroot soup.” His feet tangle mid-swagger and he trips, leaping up to the sound of Martin’s laughter.

“You liar! You chugged five cups of water the last time you had a spoonful!”

Gonff quickly changes the subject. “Well, go on, then, I want to see these natural sling talents o’ yours.”

“All right,” Martin says, starting to swing more purposeful circles. “Pick a target?”

“Betcha can’t hit the limb on that dead ol’ ash,” Gonff says, pointing out a tree on the opposite side of the bank and further up the stream. Martin narrows his eyes and, after a few more twirls, whips off a stone that smashes into the limb with a crack. This is quickly followed by a loud and angry buzzing.

With a shared look of horror, Martin and Gonff drag each other into the river, splashing down into the shallows near a bed of reeds, where the water is still enough to not carry them off.

When the yellow-jackets depart several minutes later, the pair of bedraggled mice emerge from the shallows. They’d gotten underwater quickly enough to avoid most of the swarm’s retaliation, and they apply pawfuls of sticky river mud to each other to ease the stings.

“Too bad they weren’t bees,” Gonff says after a moment. “We might’ve had some honey.” Martin shoves him backwards at this, and then races to rejoin the gathering party, Gonff close behind him.

—and hope that we’re brought safe to shore…

Gonff eases the door closed as they sneak away from the gathering in the Stickles’ home and towards Martin’s, where they’re supposed to be asleep. They don’t go in yet. The summer night is warm and the sky clear. Instead, Martin braces himself against the wall, and Gonff climbs onto the roof, hauling Martin up to join him.

“So that’s what’s been goin’ on,” Gonff says at last as they dangle their legs over the edge and stare at the stars. “I thought the guards were gettin’ a bit tense.”

“Mm. Explains a lot,” Martin agrees. His eyes are drawn to the hulk of Kotir, black with slime and shadows. “Verdauga’s ill, so Tsarmina’s taking on more power.”

“Guess Gingivere’s not gonna inherit after all.”

Martin scowls. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.”

“I dunno, matey. Gingivere’s not a bad sort, for a wildcat.”

“A tyrant is a tyrant,” Martin argues, “even if they’re a benevolent tyrant.” He kicks his footpaws against the wall, and voices something he’s been thinking about for a long time. “Even if we do rise up, and get rid of Greeneyes, and Tsarmina, and the army, another one would come along. As long as Kotir’s there, there’s going to be some band of scum that want to come along and take it.”

Gonff snorts. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but what’re we going to do? Tear down a fortress? It’s been there for seasons and seasons.”

“We won’t be free until that thing is gone,” Martin says, still staring at Kotir. “Not really.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, then,” Gonff says, and leans back on his paws, staring up. “We’ve still got an army and three wildcats to worry about before we get that far, matey.” Martin just nods, leaning forward to put his chin in his paws, thinking. “Someday ole Mossflower’ll be free again,” Gonff says after a long, pensive silence. “You’ll see.”

“Aye,” Martin agrees, eyes hard and glinting in the moonlight. “Someday...”

...and not lost at sea.

“...even if I have to die to make it so.”

#redwall #Martin the Warrior #Mossflower #fic #redwall fic #Martin of Mossflower

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redwallthoughts · 4 years

Text

Redwall Midwinter Miracle: Day 3 part 3

As always, huge thanks to @raphcrow for her help with beta-reading and editing

*looks back at previous chapter*

Ch. 6 might be a little bit longer in coming...

I promise I didn’t actually mean that it would take three years. That was an accident.

However, I don't anticipate new chapters of RMM returning to the original once-a-month schedule. You see, during the three-year break, I have begun working on a piece of original fiction. It's still in the early stages of development (first draft hasn't been completed and there's still a lot of world-building to do), but I've been trying to work on it diligently. I'll be posting small updates on it at the end of new chapters from now on, but if any of you lovely readers would like to see more in-depth info on it, please feel free to follow the blog I've started for it, Moiranvall-official.

FF.net, AO3, DA

[Ch. 1] [Ch. 2] [Ch. 3] [Ch. 4] [Ch. 5]

Rose followed Martin through the cellars and up the passageway toward Great Hall. He was talking animatedly about the collection of books, new and old, in the Redwall library. Rose smiled as she listened to him talk. When she first met him on the northland coast they hadn’t had time to discuss books and reading. They’d been far too focused on the rescue of the other slaves to be bothered with such mundane activities. Now she wished that she would have shown him her father’s books. Perhaps Urran Voh would not have reacted so strongly to him then.

“I'm hoping Vurg and the others will be up there,” Martin was saying as they walked up the sloping passageway that led to Great Hall. “I think they'll enjoy meeting you.”

Rose shook herself, recalling her mind back to the present as she placed a steadying paw on the wall of the passageway. Her footpaws were feeling a bit sore. “Who?”

Martin grinned at her over his shoulder, matching his pace to hers as she slowed down. “Vurg, Denno, and Dulam were all good friends of my father when I was a baby. They came back to Redwall with us after we found them in the North two summers ago. Though I should warn you that it may be a bit rowdy if Beau is up there too. He and Vurg are always engaging in friendly arguments.”

Rose giggled. “Sounds like Rowanoak and Ballaw,” she said, smiling at the thought of her two friends. Wanderers though they were, they had become quite fond of Noonvale, even coming to call it home.

“Do they argue often?” Martin asked.

Rose rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “All the time. Oh!” She nearly ran into Martin as he came to a sudden stop at the end of the passageway.

“Sorry,” Martin murmured. He peered around the corner into Great Hall looking both ways before he stepped out of the passage. He held up a cautionary paw, still looking around the hall.

Rose peered around at the empty room. There was nobeast in sight. “What are you looking for?”

“Dibbuns.”

Rose rubbed a paw in her ears, not entirely certain she’d heard right. “Dibbuns?” As far as she knew, all the abbey youngsters were engaged in the scavenger hunt.

Martin nodded. “Call it habit,” he said, “You never know where they're hiding. Normally it wouldn't be a problem, but they’ve figured out that I usually award the prize for the scavenger hunt. A few of the rogues have taken to trying to find it in my pockets before the game’s finished.”

Rose grinned. “So that's why you've got those candied chestnuts with you. Tintin said he saw you pocketing them on your way through the kitchens this morning.”

Martin nodded. “Aye, and I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire if they spot me.” He peered around once more and began across Great Hall.

The sandstone floor of Great Hall was warm from the heat of the kitchens below. Bright spots of color danced about on the stones, cast by the sunlight streaming through the colored glass in the windows. Rose could hear dibbuns laughing somewhere in the distance.

Martin, it seemed, had heard them too. He turned back toward the steps that led down into Cavern Hole, staring briefly into the shadows of the passage before grasping Rose's paw. “Hurry!” He hissed, walking faster

Rose did her best to keep up, but her footpaws were beginning to ache.“Ow!” Rose's footpaws twisted beneath her and she nearly fell to the ground. Martin caught her before she hit the ground, his face creased with concern. Looking over his shoulder Rose saw the shadow of a great cat climbing the stairs from Cavern Hole. She struggled upright, her left footpaw still twinging painfully as she pointed at the approaching shadows.

“Hold on!” Martin hissed in her ear. Looping an arm about her waist, he swung her up and carried her into a nearby alcove.

Rose froze as Martin pressed her against the pillar, keeping her close as he peered around the edge. They were in no real danger, but the short, sudden run and the intensity in Martin's eyes had startled her, to say the least. Martin still had a paw around her shoulders, pulling her close. He had gotten taller, Rose realized with a start. They'd been nearly the same height when she first met him at Marshank. But now, pressed close as she was, she realized that he was at least half a head taller than her. She caught his eye as he glanced away from the dibbuns, and found herself captivated by the soft grey stare. He did not look away. She felt as though her heart might beat out of her chest. Martin's stare intensified, and for a moment Rose thought she saw a faint trace of recognition in his gaze. If her heart had been pounding like a drum before, then Rose thought surely it must be doing a decent impression of a percussion ensemble.

“Hoi, what's all this?” The moment was shattered as Tintin's voice carried across the hall.

Rose found herself shaking as Martin looked back to the dibbuns. He whispered in her ear. “We'd best make a run for it while your nephew has them distracted.”

Rose was about to remind Martin that she couldn't run, when he threw one arm around her waist and the other behind her legs, swinging her up once again as easily as if she were a dibbun herself. She barely had time to grab hold of his shoulders before the warrior mouse took off toward the stairs, grinning broadly.

It took only a pawful of moments to reach the stairs. Martin did not set Rose down until they were sufficiently hidden from view of Great Hall. “Sorry about that,” he said, still grinning as he caught his breath. “I had to take the chance while we had it.”

Rose leaned against the wall, the rush of the moment having left her breathless. Now in the relative safety of the stairs she could finally catch her breath. A sudden burst of giggles overtook her, and she clamped a paw across her mouth in an attempt to stifle them.

Martin looked at her in confusion. “What?”

It took a moment before Rose could answer. “Look at us, two grown mice running away from dibbuns.” She broke off as the giggles returned.

Martin soon joined her, chuckling at the supposed danger they had just escaped. “I suppose if dibbuns are the only thing I have to run from for the rest of my life, it'll be more than enough for me.” He held out a paw for Rose to lean on, and the two of them continued up the stairs, still laughing.

Brome froze, temporarily robbed of breath. The silence of the infirmary hung in the air nearly as tangible as a sheet of dust brushed from something long forgotten. He swallowed, trying to think of a coherent sentence. How had the abbess known? Taking a shaky breath, he forced a smile onto his face and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

Abbess Germaine smiled knowingly at him, her dark eyes shadowed by sadness. “Come now young one, there is no need for secrets.”

The smile fell from Bome’s face, and he stared at his paws in shame. She was right, of course, there was no need to keep her in the dark. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I may be old and hard of hearing,” the Abbess said, leaning forward with a smile, “But I still have my wits about me, and my eyes have yet to give out. I saw you and your sister the night you joined us here in the abbey, when Martin came into Cavern Hole. Any other creature who had not seen a dear friend for some time would have run to greet him, yet you did not. I also saw the look on your sister’s face when Gingivere told of how Tzarmina broke Martin’s sword before throwing him in the dungeon. Many passing travelers have heard that tale, and many of our own. And yet, until that night I had never seen a creature whose face, upon hearing the tale, so perfectly mirrored the agony our warrior must have felt at the loss of his sword.”

Brome nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall each time he thought of how Martin must have felt when the sword snapped. “Rose knows how much that sword meant to Martin, and how much it cost him to retrieve it.” He stood, and moved to sit next to the abbess, staring out the window at the snow-covered wall beyond. “Many of the creatures I travel with believe it a good thing that the sword was reforged. They feel that remaking the blade has removed the tarnish on it from the seasons spent in the paws of a warlord. I only hope Martin would agree. He doesn’t remember us, but he doesn’t remember the seasons he lived as a slave either, and I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.” He fell silent, waiting for the Abbess’ response, still watching the sun play upon the snow on the wall.

Dust motes floated gently through the air, dancing through the sun like specks of gold while the silence stretched on.

Finally, the Abbess spoke. “Perhaps it is not for you to decide. Martin may not remember anything from his time as a slave, but that does not mean that he does not know that he once was one. Scars may fade over time, but they do not always disappear. It is a noble thought to try and spare him unnecessary pain.” She sighed softly, and, turning to her, Brome saw the hints of a smile playing across her mouth. “But a part of me wonders if perhaps it is akin to my wish to spare new mothers the pain of childbirth. Sometimes a bit of pain makes the joys of life that much brighter.”

Brome nodded, turning the thought over in his head. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I cannot blame you for that,” the Abbess said. “You’ve only just recently learned of Martin’s lack of memories. Two busy days is hardly enough time to consider all the different ways you might approach the problem.” The smile fell from her face. “A part of me worries, though, that if you leave without telling him his past then he may never regain those lost memories. Martin is a strong creature, and quite brave. But even the strongest and bravest among us have their struggles.” She paused, as though considering her next words. “I cannot tell you what you should do, that is something you will have to decide for yourself. But I do hope you will consider telling Martin what you know about his past. In the past few seasons he has begun to stress over his lost memories far more than he had previously. After the events of this past summer I fear it has begun to affect his health.”

“What happened last summer,” Brome asked, his chest suddenly tight at the thought of his old friend suffering in any way.

Abbess Germaine smiled reassuringly. “Oh, not to worry, he’s perfectly fine now. Had a nasty summer cold that turned into a fever and had him bedridden for the better part of the season.” She laughed quietly. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if part of that was because of the dibbuns that kept sneaking in to play with him. I had to threaten to have him moved up here to the infirmary before he agreed to tell them to leave him alone so he could sleep.”

“He does seem to be quite popular with the youngsters,” Brome said with a chuckle. He wiped his eyes briefly with the edge of his sleeve. “I’ll ask Keyla and Yarrow what they think we should do. They spent a good portion of their dibbun days together with Martin, and know better than I do what all he’s forgotten.”

Abbess Germaine nodded. “Very good. You might talk to Gonff as well.”

“Gonff?” Brome asked. “The Mousethief?”

“He was largely responsible for helping Martin remember their journey to Salamondastron. He might have a few tips on how you could jog Martin’s memories now,” Abbess Germaine said with a smile.

Brome considered her suggestion for a moment before nodding. “I’ll do that.”

“Thank you, Brome,” Abbess Germaine said. She lay back against the pillows. “Would you please tell Bella that I’ll be taking a short nap up here before dinner? To much celebration and not enough sleep wears down on these old bones of mine.”

Brome nodded, standing and walking toward the door. “I will. Sleep well, Mother Abbess.”

A hush lay across Cavern Hole as Gonff emerged from the kitchens later that afternoon with a bundle under one arm and munching on a honey biscuit. Dibbuns sat clustered in groups of three and four around the hall, some huddled around adults, others off on their own as they pondered over scraps of parchment and slate.

Gonff spotted Columbine sitting with a group near the stairs to Great Hall and made his way to her.

“How goes the scavenger hunt, my Dearest Darling?” he asked her when he got closer.

He was answered by a round of shushing from the nearby dibbuns, and one baby squirrel who glared sternly at him.

Columbine stood quickly and beckoned for him to follow, guiding him onto the stairs. Her eyes shone with laughter.

Gonff looked back over Cavern Hole, whispering, “Goodness me, Columbine. What did you give those babes to make them so ferocious?”

Columbine laughed aloud then, shaking her head at him. “They’ve nearly solved their riddles for the prize,” she said. “You distracted them.” She looked at the bundle under his arm. “Have you finished moving Martin in from the gatehouse?”

Gonff nodded and patted his bundle. “Aye. Found the last of Brother Scrittum’s measuring tools too. Figured I’d bring ‘em up with me and save Martin the trip.”

“How very kind of you,” Columbine said, smiling at him. “If you happen to see Martin, could you let him know the dibbuns are nearly finished with their quest?” She didn’t wait for his response but kissed him briefly on the cheek before returning to her group.

Gonff smiled after her for a moment before continuing on his way upstairs.

He found Brother Scrittum in the library, in the company of Sister Amyl. The pair were pouring over some old text on the desk in front of them with extra quills, ink, and parchment arrayed on either side.

The library was a cozy little room situated on the western end of the second floor of the Abbey. Afternoon winter sun streamed in through the single window above Brother Scittum’s desk, tinting the air with a warm, golden glow. Candles supplemented the fading sunlight and banished shadows from the corners of the room.

Soft murmurs sounded from one of these corners, and Gonff turned to see Martin and Rose sitting together pouring over a book. He recognized the book immediately not as the Legend of Sheodin, which he had expected, but rather as the hefty tome Denno, Dulam, Vurg, and Beau had written on the last quest of Luke the Warrior. They looked so natural sitting there, with Rose wrapped in a blanket and snuggled next to Martin while he held the book so they could both see, that Gonff almost would have thought that they did this regularly. Martin had a soft, quietly content smile on his face. A smile Gonff had seen before, but only rarely. He cleared his throat softly, making his presence known.

The pair looked up quickly with matching quizzical expressions. Gonff couldn’t help but laugh.

“Shall I have the kitchen send yor supper up ‘ere?” he teased. “You two look comfortable enough to stay there for hours.”

Martin scowled at him, although Gonff knew the look well enough to know that there was no real weight behind it and merely continued to grin. A moment later Martin’s resolve cracked and he began to grin as well. “Is it that late already?” he asked.

Gonff shook his head. “Not quite. But Columbine wanted me to let you know that the dibbuns are nearly done with their scavenger hunt. They’ll be wanting their prizes soon.”

“I s’pose I should head down to hand them out, then,” Martin said. He set aside the book and stood from the pillows he and Rose were seated on, stretching languidly. Turning, he retrieved the book and offered Rose a paw to help her up. “I hope I haven’t bored you.”

Rose shook her head as she stood. “Not at all.” She smiled at him. “I enjoyed it immensely. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Martin stared at her for a moment before turning sharply on his toes to put the book away, his ears practically glowing red.

Gonff let out a hearty laugh and patted Rose on the shoulder. “Ahaha! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybeast fluster ‘im so quickly.” He turned to Martin. “Don’t hide yor face, you great lump. The maid’s being sweet, you’ll make ‘er think you took it the wrong way.”

Slowly, Martin turned back to them, his ears still red. He glanced around for a moment before motioning to the bundle Gonff carried. “What’s that?”

“What, this?” Gonff held it up. “Dinny found th’ last o’ Brother Scittum’s writin’ tools for you. I figured I’d bring it up ‘ere.”

“Thank you,” Martin said. “I’m sure you can leave it with Brother Scrittum and Sister Amyl.” He turned to Rose. “I’m going to head down to Cavern Hole to give the dibbuns their prizes, would you like to come along?”

Rose sighed and lifted a footpaw. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I need to fetch my crutches first.” She shooed Martin toward the door. “You go on ahead and don’t worry about me. I can still walk, I’ll just have to go a bit slower.”

Martin nodded slowly, reluctantly making his way to the door. “Gonff, could you-”

“I’ll stay with ‘er ‘til she gets ‘er crutches,” Gonff said. He mimicked Rose’s shooing. “Now off you go, those dibbuns won’t wait forever.”

Martin nodded. “I’ll see you both downstairs in a bit, then,” he said and left the room.

Gonff watched him leave before returning the measuring tools to Brother Scrittum. The elderly brother patted his paw several times and tried to offer him a candied chestnut.

“No, no, really, I don’t need anymore,” Gonff said, waving his paws.

“What he means--” said Sister Amyl, taking the candied chestnut and placing it back in Brother Scrittum’s pocket-- “is that he’s probably already filched a few from you.”

“Oh yes, I see,” said Brother Scrittum, winking at Gonff. He patted the mousethief’s paw once more. “You take care of yourself now, lad.”

“O’ course, Brother,” Gonff said, carefully extracting himself and returning to Rose. He doffed an imaginary hat and swept into a deep bow. “Might I have the pleasure of escorting you to Great Hall, miss?”

Rose giggled and bobbed a curtsy. “Why thank you very much, my kind sir.” She took his offered paw and they swept out of the library, both still giggling.

Once out in the corridor, Gonff allowed Rose to set the pace as they meandered their way down to Great Hall. She was humming a happy tune to which Gonff began to whistle once he caught the pattern. After they’d repeated the tune three times, Gonff turned to Rose and said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a beast turn Martin red that quickly. You’ll have to tell me yor secret sometime.”

Rose giggled. “I’ll be sure to tell you when I discover it for myself,” she said with a wink. “It was a good story.”

“You didn’t get all the way through, I assume,” Gonff said. “It took Denno most o’ the night to read the whole thing to us when we found ‘em on the Arfship.”

“No.” Rose shook her head. “We only just made it past the part where Luke left on his voyage.” The smile faded from her face and she stopped walking. “It explains a lot, really.”

Gonff cocked his head to one side. “Y’mean like where he got ‘is sense of honor an’ such?”

Rose nodded slowly, her eyes looking through Gonff to some distant past. “And why he didn’t believe me the first time I told him he was a warrior.”

Gonff scratched his ear. “I must’ve missed that conversation.”

Rose shook her head, opening and closing her mouth a few times.

Gonff didn’t press her, but simply stood in the silence, waiting for her to speak again.

Finally, Rose let out a long sigh and looked up at Gonff resolutely. “I-”

“Rose, there you are!”

Both mice turn to see Brome making his way up the stairs. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, “And Gonff.”

“Is something wrong?” Rose asked.

Brome shook his head. “No. Were you on your way to somewhere?”

“I’m escorting Miss Rose to Sister Amyl’s room to retrieve her crutches,” Gonff said, standing up straight and striking a pose.

Rose and Brome both giggled at him.

“Shall I join you, then?” Brome asked. “We can talk while we walk.”

Gonff nodded, once again offering his arm to Rose. “Very well. Now, why’re you looking for us?”

Brome fell into step on the other side of Rose. “It’s a bit complicated.” He turned toward his sister. “You recall that I was helping Abbess Germaine in the infirmary this afternoon?”

Rose nodded. “I remember.”

“She’s a rather sharp old mouse,” Brome said.

Gonff chuckled. “That she is.”

“Anyways,” Brome went on, “she told me that she’s figured us out.”

“I see,” Rose said, nodding slowly.

“Figured out what?” Gonff asked, dropping his usual joking manner.

Rose turned to him. “Figured out that we knew Martin before he came to Redwall,” she said quietly.

“You’re not surprised?” Brome asked when Gonff didn’t react.

Gonff shrugged and pulled some pieces of paper from his pocket. “Nearly had it figured out m’self after finding these.” He handed the sketches to Rose, who in turn handed them to Brome.

Brome examined the sketches of himself and Rose before handing them back to Gonff. “Martin’s work, I assume?”

Gonff nodded.

“So he hadn’t completely forgotten us,” Brome said.

Rose shook her head. “But he doesn’t seem to consciously remember us, either.”

The trio had reached the bottom of the stairs as they spoke and entered the bustling noise of Redwallers and travelers preparing to descend to Cavern Hole for the night’s feast.

Gonff motioned Rose and Brome off to one side. “I take it you want my help in jogging Martin’s memories?”

Brome nodded. “Aye. Abbess Germaine said you were the one who helped him regain lost memories after the war with Tzarmina was over.”

Gonff frowned. “I was. But that was pretty soon after he lost those memories, and he still doesn’t remember everything we went through. Gettin’ ‘im to remember now will likely be a bit harder.”

Rose’s face fell.

Gonff smiled at her. “Now, now. Don’t give up hope. I didn’t say it was impossible.” He looked back and forth between her and Brome. “Tell you what, I’ll think this over for the evening and we can meet again after brekkist tomorrow.”

Brome grinned and held out a paw. “We’ll gather the rest of the Players together and let them know what we’re trying to do. Thank you for your help.”

They shook paws and parted ways, Gonff heading off to Cavern Hole, and Brome and Rose to find the rest of Players after retrieving Rose’s crutches.

Gonff found himself distracted during the night’s performance, trying to watch both Martin and the Players as the feast progressed. He did, however, notice that Martin was in unusually high spirits, joining in the laughter and applause with far more energy than he had the previous two nights.

“Are you quite alright, Gonff?” Columbine asked him as they prepared for bed in their little room. “You’ve been a bit quieter this evening. Tummy ache?”

Gonff shook himself and pulled his wife into an impromptu dance. “Wot? Me, quiet? Never!” He spun her around the room until they both collapsed, giggling, onto the bed.

“Hahaha-hu-haha-hush, Gonff!” Columbine gasped. “You’ll wake Gonfflet.”

Gonff smiled at her, cupping her cheek with one paw and planting a kiss on her nose. “The little rascal’s already fast asleep. No need to worry about ‘im.”

Columbine giggled again and sat up. “Maybe not, but you still haven’t told me why you’ve been quieter this evening.” She put her paws on her hips and fixed a stern expression on her face. “Now you’d best tell me before I’m forced to tickle it out of you.”

“No! No tickles!” Gonff cried, throwing his paws in the air in mock horror. “I’ll tell.” He sat up, taking Columbine’s paws in his. “Just a conversation from earlier today that I haven’t quite figured out an answer to yet,” he said. “That’s all, nothing to worry about.”

“You’re sure?” Columbine asked.

Gonff nodded. “I am. Now-” he grinned and flung himself backward onto the bed- “We’d best get to sleep ourselves to make tomorrow come sooner.”

Columbine giggled and joined him. “If you insist, my Prince of Mousethieves.”

“I do.” He blew out the candle next to the bed and they both went to sleep.

#Redwall #Redwall Midwinter Miracle #Martin the Warrior #Rose of Noonvale #Gonff Prince of Mousethieves #Brome #Abbess Germaine #Redwall fanfic

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scrivenerofmossflower · 6 years

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Martin of Mossflower Chapter 7

Word Count: ~2.3k read on ao3 second in the series Martin of Mossflower. Beta-ed, as always, by @raphcrow. Bless and keep her through all her endeavors. Chapter Summary: That little niggling doubt that things are going a bit too easily? Yeah, Martin needs to start listening to that a bit more closely.

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The Rambling Rosehip Players were loath to abandon their cart, though Rowanoak and the hare Ballaw, their leaders, recognized the necessity of it, especially once Martin promised some woodlanders could be sent for it once everyone was safe. This did not prevent the fussy squirrelmaid Celandine from complaining, but as long as she kept her voice down, Martin didn’t care. Not only were Tsarmina’s forces abroad in Mossflower and looking for them, but there was always Argulor to watch out for.

Still, very little could keep Gonff serious. He and Martin played off each other expertly, keeping the mood light and bringing smiles to the somber looking mice. They told tales of some of their sillier exploits against the guards of Kotir, like the time Martin had managed to lead a patrol blundering right into a patch of stinging nettles, or when Gonff convinced a particularly dimwitted guard that if he covered himself in honey and dust, he wouldn’t catch the sniffles that had been going around the barracks at the time. They kept a good pace, and had reached the banks of the River Moss by mid-afternoon.

Ballaw and Rowanoak called a halt, and rations were distributed for a quick lunch. Nothing that needed to be cooked, of course, but bread and cheese and the odd apple were welcome after a long, hard walk.

Several creatures soaked their footpaws in the river, including much of the Rambling Rosehip Players and some of the younger mice. Martin sat further up the bank with the elderly mouse, Abbess Germaine. He scanned the opposite bank and the tree-line, keeping an eye out for the glint of sunlight on chainmail or spear blades. He’d relaxed considerably since they’d reached the wide river without incident. They could expect to meet with Timbal at any moment, but it was better to be watchful, just in case. “You’ve said you were traveling to Brockhall deliberately, ma’am, but where do you come from? Why are you all dressed in robes?” Martin asked, indulging his curiosity.

“We came up from the South, from a wonderfully peaceful place called Loamhedge. Ours is a healing order, one dedicated to preserving knowledge and helping others. But even we could not heal the sicknesses that have begun to spread in the south…” The Abbess trailed off, the slightest sob in her voice.

“Why come to Brockhall? Do you know Bella?” Martin asked, hoping to distract her from what were clearly painful memories.

Germaine smiled, and patted his paw, recognizing the attempt and thanking him for it. “Indeed I do, young Martin. Bella is an old friend of mine, from very long ago. We gave her shelter during her wanderings for nearly a season, as I recall. When she left, she promised that if ever I was in need she would aid me in whatever way she could, and extracted a promise from me in return that someday I would visit her in her ancestral home of Brockhall.”

“Aye, that sounds very like Bella,” Martin agreed with a fond smile. “She did the same for my own tribe, after Verdauga’s forces razed our old home. I was born in Brockhall.”

Rowanoak, who had been sitting nearby, nodded. “I thought as much, though of course I couldn’t be sure. You look very like your father, Martin.”

Martin spun around so quickly he nearly fell from his perch upon the rock, staring at the badger with wide eyes. “My father? You knew my father?” Sayna spoke of Luke the Warrior often, as did Vurg, but the chance for new stories was irresistible.

She smiled and dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I did indeed, though only briefly. I know Bella, too, from her wanderings—I introduced her to Barkstripe, in fact. Several seasons back, the troupe and I wintered in Brockhall. You would have been far too young to remember now, but Luke spent many a long evening in front of the fire with us, sharpening arrows and listening to us talk.”

Wide-eyed, Martin was about to ask more, but he was suddenly pulled from the rock by his footpaw. He yelped and flailed as his attacker dragged him into the water. He was almost instantly released, only to come up sputtering beside a laughing Gonff. He dived at his friend without a second thought, knocking him under and sending them both rolling in the shallows. The second time they broke cover for air, it was to laughter ringing along the banks. Gonff grinned and waved, and Martin turned just in time to see a pretty young mousemaid wave back.

“Showoff,” Martin sing-songed just loudly enough for Gonff to hear, and got splashed for the comment. He laughed and splashed back, and they made their way back to the bank to sun themselves dry.

“Up you get, young feller,” Ballaw said, chuckling as he hauled them each in turn back onto dry ground. “Quickest way to cool off, I grant y’ that, but perhaps we ought to keep movin’, wot?”

Gonff accepted his hat from the pretty mousemaid with a gallant bow, presenting her in turn with a sprig of crowfoot he’d plucked on the way back. She tucked the bloom behind her ear with a small smile. “An excellent idea, matey.”

“We ought to head east along the bank,” Martin offered, wringing out the edge of his tunic as best as he could. “Our friend, Timballisto, went ahead of us to bring an escort, just in case. We’re sure to meet with him soon.”

Martin retrieved his staff from the flat stone he’d been sitting on, and took up a position on the side closer to the forest, midway down the line. Ballaw and Rowanoak led—they had some familiarity with this area as they had been to Brockhall before. Until they needed to turn off into the forest, the path was straightforward enough that Martin needn’t worry overmuch.

At the moment, he was a good deal more interested in finding out more about the pretty mousemaid Gonff was smitten with. She seemed just as taken with Gonff, and Martin quickly found out that she was named Columbine, had been with the Loamhedge order for the last few seasons, and was quite accomplished in healing, often serving as assistant and apprentice to Abbess Germaine, their master healer. Martin encouraged her interest, telling her about times Gonff had snuck out into the woods to fetch various healing herbs, as well as some of his more daring escapades, including the clever ruse he had pulled last winter, hiding right under the guards’ noses to break him out of Kotir.

He left Gonff and Columbine flirting and trotted towards the front of the column to walk again with the abbess. She glanced at him with twinkling eyes. “It is very important, of course, for relationships to be forged between our order and the woodlanders,” she said, “especially if we hope to build a permanent home here.” They exchanged smiles tinted with mischief. It was a relief to know that Abbess Germaine approved, though Martin couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t. It was Gonff, after all. Any mousemaid would be lucky to settle with him.

Martin was just starting to ask Abbess Germaine about her plans when he saw the gleam of sunlight on metal from the corner of his eye. Acting on instinct, he threw himself at the abbess, knocking them both to the ground. A spear whistled over their heads, burying itself in the ground in the middle of the column.

“Ambush!” Martin hollered, springing upright again as the rest of the volley flew out of the woods. “We’ve been caught, ambush!” Several spears found targets among them. At least one Loamhedge mouse fell, and Martin felt his blood boil at the injustice of it. These were peaceful mice, dedicated to healing and helping—they weren’t woodlanders, part of this conflict!

Rowanoak scooped Germaine up with one paw, placing her on her broad shoulders and keeping her steady. “Run! Down the bank!” Her bellow carried farther than Martin’s had by dint of larger lungs and stage training. The Loamhedge mice broke rank and dashed pellmell along the riverbank.

“They’re in the woods to our side and behind us,” Ballaw reported. “C’mon, young warrior, discretion is the better part of valor, don’tchy’know!” Martin hated to retreat, especially from soldiers of Kotir, but he had promised Timballisto he would run—though he, Ballaw, and Gonff did stay to the back to cover their retreat.

Fates be praised that they had noticed the ambush early, and that Tsarmina wasn’t a tenth of the tactician her father had been. They moved too quickly for the slower, armor-laden soldiers to outflank them.

The next few minutes were a blur as they raced for their lives. The soldiers were catching up when they rounded a bend to see a platoon of otters bounding forward to meet them, Timballisto among them. They broke rank, allowing the mice and minstrels to pass through, before closing again, smoothly flowing together to present a united front, double-pointed javelins held at the ready.

Skipper clapped a heavy paw to Martin’s back as he reached them, not taking his eyes off the regrouping Kotir forces. “Good job gettin’ ‘em here, matey,” he said, teeth bared in a ferocious grin. “We’ll take it from ‘ere.”

“Not likely,” Martin panted, turning to join the ranks of otters. Gonff joined him, and they quickly fell in to where they’d most frequently practiced with the crew during their drills. Gonff took his place in the second row of sling-beasts, as he lacked Martin’s proficiency with the staff, while Martin stood in the back rank, in reserve for close combat. Guessing at the form Timballisto’s protest was about to take, Martin interrupted. “Rowanoak and Ballaw know the way, now that they’re closer. Rowanoak’s an old friend of Bella’s, and the troupe has been to Brockhall before. They already knew where they were going. We’ll be more help here.”

Any further argument was curtailed by Tsarmina herself, striding forward through her soldiers. She was dressed in armor, her helmet’s visor lifted and with slits for her ears. A green velvet cape, trimmed with a black ribbon stitched with green, evilly slitted eyes, swirled behind her. Martin supposed it was meant to look intimidating, but really all he could think was how incredibly impractical such a fancy cloak was in the middle of a forest, let alone in the middle of a fight.

She lifted one paw and let a single claw slide free as she pointed. “Those mice are trespassers within my domain, and it is within my rights to do with them as I wish,” she said imperiously. “You are rebels to the true ruler of Mossflower, and I will not hesitate to kill you if you do not let me pass now.”

Skipper stood at ease, a loaded and ready sling dangling from one brawny paw. “Go and chase your mangey tail, pussycat.”

Tsarmina hissed in fury, and raised one paw. A row of archers immediately behind her began fitting arrows to bowstrings, but Skipper was quicker off the mark. Like their commander, the otters already had hefty river pebbles locked into their slings, ready for the order. It came without hesitation.

“First rank o’ slings, fire!”

They ripped off a clattering volley, many of the stones striking the paws of the archers, or finding targets deeper in the soldiers’ ranks. One stone bounced off Tsarmina’s helmet with a loud clang. Martin grinned.

“I imagine her skull’s ringing a bit,” Gonff chuckled from in front him.

“Like a bell,” Martin said. “Careful, here they come!”

Clutching at her head, Tsarmina yowled in fury. “Charge! Charge the blasted rebels! Kill them!”

The soldiers had been slower to organize than the crew, but proper ranks didn’t matter in pitched battle. The second rank of slings got off another volley before they fell back, allowing the lancers forward. The two sides clashed in a flurry of fur and blood. An otter running beside Martin went down, a spear through his gut.

Martin didn’t think about it, throwing himself into the fight with a ferocity that startled him. He lashed out with his staff, targeting paws and unprotected necks, driving the end into chests and stomachs, winding opponents. He tried to keep track of Gonff, but soon lost track of him in the chaos of battle.

It almost came as a relief to fight face-to-face, to literally strike back at the regime that had oppressed him his whole life. He blocked a stab that would have lamed Brook, though it meant the spearpoint lodged in the grain of his staff instead. He shattered the stoat’s paw in retaliation. A step to the left brought him opposite a weasel in a captain’s cloak named Thicktail. For once the rank meant some level of competency, and he blocked Martin’s first strike.

His staff splintered, leaving Martin clutching two halves of ashwood. The roar of battle faded for a moment as Martin froze, his eyes fixed on the shattered wood. “Gotcha, mouse!” Thicktail snarled, raising his spear to thrust at him.

The world surged back into motion.

Martin ducked away from the initial thrust, flinging one half of his staff at the weasel’s nose. It collided as Martin brought the other half to hold double-pawed, grip shifting down to clutch at one end. With a yell, he lashed out, the weight of the ash thudding into Thicktail’s gut. He parried another slash from the spear, and battered away at the captain. Slash, thrust, slash, slash again, parry again—Martin drove Thicktail back and down, batted the seeking spearpoint away. His teeth were bared in a fierce grin as he pursued his enemy—his blade may be too dull to slay him quickly, but he could still slay him—

“Cut and run, crew!” Skipper’s bass bellow rang above the din of the fight, and Martin found himself gripped from behind. He struggled, writhing as he was lifted bodily from the ground and away from his enemy. What was Skipper doing, taking him away from his opponent? “Deep breath, messmate, we’re going for a swim!” Skipper gasped into his ear.

Martin had just enough sense to obey the order before the entire crew bounded into the river, the icy waters closing over his head and dousing the last of his battlerage.

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#redwall #Martin of Mossflower #my fic

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redwallthoughts · 7 years

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Redwall Midwinter Miracle: Day 2 part 2

Thanks to @raphcrow for her help with this chapter. Working with you has been a blast.

FF.net, AO3

[Ch. 1], [Ch. 2], [Ch. 3]

Cavern Hole was teaming with activity, even more so than usual with the arrival of travelers. Martin paused at the bottom of the stairs to wait for Rose as she slowly descended the last two steps. He wondered briefly if she had noticed the hollow sound her crutches had made on the middle step, then dismissed the thought. In all the seasons since the moles had dug the secret tunnel beneath the stairs, nobeast had mentioned anything out of the ordinary. Martin was sure that the only other creatures who knew of the hidden tomb were the leaders of the Corim, Gonff, and himself.

Rose swung down off the final step and looked around. “Primrose,” she said, “Do you see your father anywhere?”

Primrose glanced briefly around Cavern Hole, then returned to playing with Martin’s ears. “Nope.”

Martin chuckled. “I’m sure we can find him,” he said. The words were barely out of his mouth when he spotted Lady Amber weaving her way through the crowd.

“Martin,” she called over the hubbub of voices, “We were beginning to wonder if you'd gotten yourself lost on the way to breakfast. Where’ve you been?”

“Playin’ wiv us inna snow,” Primrose answered before Martin could say anything.

“Was he now?” Lady Amber said, joining them. “And who might you be, little miss?”

Primrose fell silent and ducked down as though to hide behind Martin’s ears. Rose chuckled. “This is my niece, Primrose. She's a bit shy sometimes.”

Martin looked at her curiously. “Really?” He reached up and tickled Primrose, eliciting a giggle from the little maid. “You could've fooled me.”

“You seem to be the exception,” Rose explained.

Lady Amber nodded. “Sounds like our Martin. I don't know how he does it, but I've yet to meet a dibbun he couldn't befriend.” She smiled at Primrose, then turned to Rose. “Hm. You must be Rose.”

Rose looked mildly surprised. “I am,” she said. “How did you know?”

“Brome and his wife are sitting with us for breakfast,” Amber said. “He’s been keeping an eye out for you. By the way, I'm Lady Amber.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lady Amber.” Rose dropped into a shallow curtsy. Amber returned the curtsy with a quick bow, one paw automatically going to her crown to keep it from falling.

“You say Brome’s sitting at the head table with us?” Martin asked.

“Aye, so he is,” Lady Amber said. “Him and his wife, along with Rowanoak and Ballaw.”

Martin nodded. “Could you show Rose to the table? I've got to stop down in the kitchens.”

“‘Course I can,” Lady Amber flashed a broad smile.

Martin glanced up at Primrose. “Time to get down, miss.”

“No!” Primrose cried, locking her paws around Martin’s head.

Rose tried to reason with the little maid. “You need to come to breakfast, Primrose.”

“Wanna go wiv Unca Martin!” Primrose insisted.

Martin tried another tactic. “Your parents are waiting for you.” Primrose shook her head vigorously and held on tighter.

“Martin,” Lady Amber broke in, “You’re joining us at the table after you visit the kitchens, right?”

“I am,” Martin said, trying to unlatch Primrose's paws.

“Then how's about you take young Primrose with you to the kitchens. Rose and I’ll go to the the table and tell Brome and his wife that Primrose’ll be along shortly.”

“Yay!” Primrose cried, finally releasing Martin’s ears.

Martin and Rose exchanged a glance. “I suppose that’ll work,” Rose said, “So long as Martin doesn’t mind.”

Martin nodded and rubbed his ears. “I don’t mind.”

“Then that’s settled.” Lady Amber grinned and held a paw out to Rose. “We’ll see you two in a bit.” She headed off with Rose following.

Martin glanced up at Primrose. “Well now, shall we be off to the kitchens?” Primrose nodded and giggled. “Then off we go.”

The kitchen was relatively quiet as most of the cooks had gone to eat breakfast in Cavern Hole. Martin smiled when he saw the two who had stayed behind. “Good morning, Goody, Columbine,” he said.

“Good morning, Martin,” Columbine said without turning from the bread she was slicing.

Martin lifted Primrose down from his shoulders, and went to help Goody take a pie out of the oven. The aging hogwife waited until the pie was set off to the side to cool and the oven door closed before speaking. “Good mornin’ to you, Martin. You’ve come to get your mornin’ tea, no doubt. Oh, and you’ve brought a liddle friend along with you. Good mornin’, liddle-un. What’re you called?” Primrose hid behind Martin, peering cautiously around him at Goody. Martin smiled, but said nothing. Goody’s spikes had gone grey with age and she needed spectacles to see, but her charm had not faded in the slightest since Martin had arrived in Mossflower.

Sure enough, it took only a few moments before Primrose stepped out from behind Martin and quietly introduced herself. “I’m Primrose.” One small paw still clutched the edge of Martin’s tunic, while the other toyed with the end of her tail.

Goody smiled gently at the little maid. “A pleasure to meet you, Primrose.” She bent down to Primrose’s eye level and whispered in a secretive voice, “Would you like some warm greensap milk with ‘oney in it?”

Primrose nodded. “Yes please.”

Goody smiled and turned to Martin. “Your tea’s on the table over there. I made two cups seein’ as Sister Amyl said one of the maids visitin’ could use a bit too. I’ll be just a moment ‘eatin’ up some milk fer Primrose and pourin’ a bit o’ tea for the Abbess.”

Martin patted Goody’s paw and went to get a tray. “Take your time, Goody. We’re in no rush.” Primrose followed him into the panty, releasing his tunic in favor of his tail, which she held tightly between both paws. Martin did not mind. It let him know where the little maid was, after all, so that he could not lose her. They emerged from the pantry just as Columbine was hanging up her apron.

“I’m headed up to breakfast,” the mousewife called back to Goody. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Goody waggled a paw at her. “You need to spend some time with that ‘usband ‘n’ son of yours. I’ve got the duty cooks to ‘elp me with the rest o’ the food.”

Columbine paused partway through the doors. “Are you sure, Goody?”

“I’m certain,” Goody said, turning back to the stove.

“Then I’ll be on my way.” Columbine waved a quick goodbye and hurried out. Goody nodded to herself, stirring a small pot of greensap milk before removing a steaming kettle from the stove and pouring the warm, dark liquid into a waiting mug.

“‘Ave you got a tray?” she asked as Martin came up behind her.

“Right here, Goody,” Martin said, setting the tray on the table.

Goody nodded again and placed the mug on the tray. “That’n’s one o’ my favorites. Came out just right with the liddle roses around the edge. It was my Posy’s idea, you know, to make it with the roses.”

Martin nodded. He gathered the two other mugs of tea and placed them on the tray next to the mug already there. “It’s one of my favorites too,” he said. The fell into a companionable silence. Primrose climbed onto one of the stools to see the tray while Goody stirred the milk. It did not take long before the thick, white liquid began to steam and Goody declared it was ready for honey. Primrose bounced on her toes as the honey was added and the mixture was poured into a mug.

Martin started to put the fourth mug on the tray, then stopped and turned to Primrose. “Would you like me to carry it, or do you want to hold it?”

“I c’n hold it,” Primrose assured him.

“Very well then.” Martin handed her the mug. He picked up the tray and turned to Goody. “Will we see you at breakfast?”

Goody shook her head, grey headspikes rattling together. “I’ve already ‘ad my breakfast,” she said, “I’ll see you two at the feast t’night.”

Martin smiled and headed for the door. “We’ll see you tonight, then. Thank you, Goody.”

“Thankee, Mrs. Goody,” Primrose echoed.

Goody shook her head again and smiled. “‘Urry up to breakfast you two and get some food. Oh, and tell Columbine that if’n I see ‘er in ‘ere again ‘afore dinnertime I’ll ban ‘er from the kitchens,” she called after them.

Breakfast conversation echoed around Cavern Hole as Martin and Primrose made their way to the head table. Martin walked slowly, balancing the tray of tea while keeping pace with Primrose, who was concentrating on not spilling. She placed each footpaw carefully as though the stone might slide out from under her. Martin had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the adorable scene. He allowed himself a small smile, though. Primrose was a perfect reminder, it seemed, of why he had fought in the Mossflower war. True, she had not been born in Mossflower and was only a passing traveler; but her family likely would not have visited were Mossflower still under the rule of Tsarmina.

“Hoi, Martin, there you are.” Gonff’s cry was the first to greet them as they reached the table.

“Here we are,” Martin said, setting his tray on the table and turning to help Primrose into her seat. The little maid was soon settled between Rose and Brome, happily munching on a bilberry scone.

“Good morning, Martin,” Abbess Germaine said, her wavering voice barely audible over the sounds of the hall.

Martin set her tea in front of her and planted a gentle kiss on her brow. “Good morning, Mother Abbess.” After unbelting his sword and shield. he took his seat, removing his own tea from the little tray and handing the third mug to Rose, who was seated next to him. “Our cook, Goody Stickle makes this,” he told her, “It’s mint tea with honey and who knows what mixed in. Tastes a bit funny, but I’ve found it works rather well to battle the cold.”

Rose accepted the mug with a small smile. “Thank you.” She nodded to Primrose. “Thank you for getting something for her as well.”

Martin returned her smile. “That one was all Goody. She mothers every dibbun she meets, and even some adults as well.”

“It certainly didn’t do you any harm to ‘ave an extra mother or two around after the war, mate,” Gonff chuckled from his seat across the table.

Martin joined in his friend’s laughter. “I s’pose you’re right on that account. Say,” he glanced around, “where’s Gonfflet? He came in to breakfast ahead of us.”

Gonff swiped an oatcake off Martin’s plate and used it to gesture toward one of the other tables. “He an’ Chugger are sittin’ over there with the family o’ otters that were travelin’ with this lot. Er, Keya and Tuggow, or somethin’ like that. Didn’t catch the names properly.”

“Keyla and Tullgrew,” Martin corrected without thinking.

Gonff gave him a funny look. “Aye, that was them. ‘Ow’d you know?”

Martin stared at his plate, barely noticing when Gonff swiped a second oatcake. How had he known what their names were? He couldn’t recall meeting them, although he’d certainly seen them the night before. Finally, he gave the only reasonable answer he could think of. “I must’ve heard their names last night.”

“You probably did,” Brome reassured him.

Martin nodded, but continued to frown. Bella reached over Abbess Germaine and ruffled his ears, saying, “Eat your breakfast and don’t think about it too hard, little warrior. It’ll come to you in time.”

“I’m sure it will, old friend.” Martin shook himself and grinned, pulling the basket of scones closer before Gonff could snatch another one. He selected a wheat scone, then turned to the guests with a sheepish smile on his face. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a terrible feeling I interrupted something when I came to the table.”

“Brome was just about to tell us how the Rambling Rosehip Players came to be in Mossflower this winter,” Bella said, simultaneously slapping Gonff’s paw away from her plate.

“Pish tosh. Nothing to apologize for young sir-me-warrior,” the hare to Gonff’s left said. “How were you to bally well know we were swapping tales, eh? I say, d’you mind passing that leek pastie sittin’ in front o’ the good Abbess? Thank you very much, wot wot.”

Martin slid the pastie over to the friendly hare. “You’ve welcome, sir.”

The hare snorted and flopped his ears comically. “Sir? Sir who? The name’s Ballaw de Quincewold, laddybuck, not sir.”

“Beg pardon sir, er, Ballaw,” Martin said, chuckling. He held out a paw. “I’m Martin the Warrior.”

Ballaw glanced up from the pastie long enough to give Martin’s paw a firm shake and say, “Martin the Warrior, eh? I should certainly hope you’re a warrior, what with that big ol’ sword you’ve got there. Wouldn’t want something like that in the paws of somebeast called, oh, say ‘Fred the Fisher’. No, a blade like that belongs in the paws of a real warrior. Mph, this pastie is absolutely superb, I must be sure to thank the cook.”

Brome cleared his throat loudly, looking pointedly at Ballaw. Ballaw waved a paw at him. “Don’t let me stop you from talking old lad. I’ll sit quiet.” He fell quiet for a moment, then, just as Brome was opening his mouth to speak, said, “I say. We might as well finish the introductions first, wot. Madam badger there is the good Lady Rowanoak, fellow head of the Rambling Rosehip Players. Rose and Primrose you’ve met. The mouse on the other side of sir fuss-tail is his lovely wife, Lavender. And then, of course, we have sir fuss-tail himself, Brome Voh.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” Martin said, nodding to the newly introduced guests.

“If you’re quite finished, Ballaw?” The tip of Brome’s tail twitched side to side as he again stared pointedly at Ballaw.

Ballaw didn’t seem to notice Brome’s irritation as he returned to his pastie. “Quite finished indeed, old lad.”

Brome waited a moment, as though to see if Ballaw would start talking once again. But when the hare continued to eat he turned and began his narrative. “We left Noonvale, our home by the northeastern shore, as soon as the snow had melted early last spring. Ballaw and Rowanoak are planning to retire once we return to Noonvale, so we decided to make the most of the trip and see how many old friends we could visit. A friend of ours, Barkjon, is acting chieftain in Noonvale until we get back, although I don’t think he expected us to be away quite this long.”

Lady Amber, who had been quiet until now, nodded and asked, “So what brought you to Mossflower, then? I don’t recall ever seeing your troupe pass through this area before, though I wouldn’t’ve minded if you had.”

Lavender, Brome’s wife, piped up before her husband had a chance to speak. “They’ve come south lookin’ for a friend o’ theirs who traveled this way after ‘elpin’ them in the Marshank siege.”

Martin winced as a sharp jolt of pain shot through his back. Gonff gave him a concerned look. “You alright there, mate?”

Martin nodded. “Aye, Gonff, I’m alright. Must’ve pulled a muscle in my back towing those dibbuns around.” He turned to Brome. “Sorry for interrupting. Have you had any luck in locating your friend?”

Brome and Rose exchanged a look before Brome responded. “Nothing conclusive, I’m afraid.” A heavy silence fell over the table. Martin stared at his plate, trying to shake the feeling that he’d heard Brome’s story before. He was so lost in thought that he almost missed Rose’s question.

“I’ve just noticed the carvings on your chairs,” she said, indicating the chairs of Martin, Abbess Germaine, and Bella. “I hope you don’t mind my asking what they mean?”

Bella chuckled. “Not at all. These chairs were a gift from some otter friends of ours, one chair for each of the founders of Redwall.”

“Is that why they’ve got your names on them?” Rose pointed to the lettering that decorated the top of each chair back.

Bella nodded. “It is indeed, miss. You can read the Mossflower alphabet, then?”

“Yes. Lavender’s family used to live on the outskirts of Mossflower, so I’ve learned the basics from her,” Rose explained. “I was guessing that Abbess Germaine’s chair had her name on it, since I can’t read that one.”

“That one’s done in loamscript,” said Columbine. She flicked Gonff’s paw away from her plate, then looked over to Rose with a smile. “Each name is done in the alphabet used in the founder’s birthplace. Hence, loamscript for Abbess Germaine, common woodlander for Bella, and northern runes for Martin.”

Lavender leaned on the table, peering down the row to Martin. “So you’re from the north, Martin?”

Martin nodded. “I was born on the western shore, though, not the eastern shore.”

“Is that what’s depicted on the bottom of your chair?” Rose motioned to the intricately carved figures that decorated the lower portion of the chair. Tiny, detailed figures stood out against the scenery.

Martin smiled as he thought of the care the holt of Tungro had gone to in order to properly portray his upbringing in the north. The faces of the figures were rather indistinct, as they only had the descriptions of Vurg, Denno, and Dulam to reference for his tribe. “It is,” he told Rose.

“So you’re one of the founders of this lovely abbey?” Rowanoak asked. The badger appeared mildly surprised, as though she’d not considered the idea.

“Who would’ve thought a warrior could help found an abbey, eh?” Martin said. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the statement, recalling briefly his own reaction when Abbess Germaine and Bella had asked for his help. He’d been younger then, still feeling the pull of wanderlust but not yet strong enough to strike out on his own again. I’ll stay until the walls are built, he’d promised. How foolish he’d been to think that he’d ever want to leave Redwall.

Gonff must have noticed his expression, for the ever carefree little thief laughed and turned to Rowanoak. “Abbess Germaine had the idea, Miz Bella had the support, an’ Martin knew how t’ build it. Well, that, and he had all sorts o’ ideas on how to make the abbey safer in case it’s ever attacked, even became our main architect. Though good luck to the beast what tries readin’ his notes. Martin knows how to write loamscript, common woodlander, and northern runes, and o’ course he writes his notes in runes.”

“Just because I can read and write common woodlander, it doesn’t mean it’s the easiest thing for me to write,” Martin said. He reached for another scone only to find the basket empty and Gonff grinning at him over three freshly swiped scones. Martin didn’t bother to say anything, merely flicked a piece of chestnut as Gonff’s nose. Columbine giggled at the face Gonff pulled, then proceed to give Martin one of the scones.

“Why is the back of your chair blank, Martin?” Lavender asked. She pointed to the back of the chair, which was indeed blank, with naught but the grain of the wood for decoration.

Martin had just taken a bite of his scone, so Bella answered for him. “Martin never told us much about his life before coming to Mossflower, so when he lost his memory after the Mossflower War nobeast could tell him anything about his past. We’ve got a record now of his first five seasons, courtesy of Vurg, Denno, and Dulam. But not even Martin knows what took place in the eight or so seasons between his father leaving the tribe and his own arrival in Mossflower.”

“I see,” Lavender said. She sat back, pushing her empty plate away. “I don’t know about anybeast else, but I’m stuffed after that fine breakfast.”

Lady Amber stood and began gathering empty plates. “Good. Midwinter feasts mean late, large breakfast followed by an early start to the feast. It gives the cooks a bit more time to prepare since there’s no lunch in between.”

“Speaking of cooks,” Martin cut in, “Columbine, Goody asked me to tell you that if she sees you in the kitchen again before dinnertime, then she’s going to ban you from the kitchens for a while.”

Columbine grinned and shook her head. “Thank you for the warning.”

“You’re welcome.” Martin had just started helping to clear the dishes when Amber pulled the plates from his paws and waggled a claw at him.

“It’s a feast day,” she said, “That means no work for you. You work too hard as it is.”

“Surely carrying dishes to the kitchen isn’t to much of a chore,” Martin protested. He was pushed back into his seat by Bella.

“We all know you’d end up helping to wash as well and then volunteer to assist in the kitchen, Martin. You need to take a break every now and again.” The aging badgermother looked down at Martin until he finally sighed and nodded his consent.

“Alright, Bella, you win. I suppose I’ll just have to find something else to do.”

“Why not give Rose a tour of Redwall?” Amber suggested. “Seeing as she missed the one before breakfast.”

Martin considered the idea. He certainly wouldn’t mind showing the pretty maid around the abbey if she wanted, but he didn’t want to push her too hard if her footpaws were still sore. “What do you think?” he asked Rose.

Rose smiled at him, her hazel eyes lighting up. “I’d love to see the abbey.”

“It’s settled then,” Bella said. She winked at Rose. “Martin’s the best one to show you around, really. He knows all the hidden details of the abbey.”

Martin chuckled and stood, helping Rose from her seat. “Shall we begin then, miss?”

“If you’re ready,” Rose said.

The left Cavern Hole together, Martin matching Rose’s pace as he talked. He showed her Great Hall first, explaining how the single hall had taken them nearly a season to complete because of its height. Rose looked about in wonder, asking a question or two whenever Martin skipped something. He found himself smiling more and more as he led her through the dormitories and storerooms. It seemed that no room was too small to be of interest. Rose marveled over the smallest details, from the woodwork in the upper dormitories, to the little figures carved along the hallways, to the built-in shelves in the small but cozy library.

Brome Voh, chieftain of Noonvale, sat watching his daughters play with their mother. The three of them tumbled around Cavern Hole smiling and laughing. Brome smiled at them absentmindedly, not really paying attention to their play. He was lost in thought, memories of Marshank rolling together with the conversation at breakfast. Like Rose, he’d given up hope of finding Martin many seasons ago, choosing instead to move on with his life. He’d focused his time on his family and Noonvale, throwing himself wholeheartedly into his role as chief. Martin had faded into a memory, a creature he’d once known who had done much to shape his view of the world. Brome hadn’t forgotten Martin, of course, he’d even named his son after the warrior mouse, but he had given up on seeing him again.

“Is somethin’ on your mind, Brome?” Lavender asked, coming to sit next to him. Brome turned to look at his wife, smiling gently at the concern in her clear blue eyes. He recalled, briefly, the first time he’d seen her. He’d fallen out of a tree after trying to help Barkjon pick apples. The drop had knocked the wind from him, and when he’d opened his eyes he’d found himself face to face with the prettiest maid he’d ever met. He’d almost thought she wasn’t real for a moment, the sun turning her gold-brown fur into a shining halo. Lucky for him, she had indeed been real.

“Brome?” Lavender took his paws, and Brome realized that he’d been sitting smiling at her for some time without answering her question. He shook himself, and planted a kiss on her brow.

“Just thinking of the conversation from breakfast,” he said.

Lavender nodded knowingly. “He’s the friend you’re searchin’ for, isn’t he?” Brome gave Lavender a startled look. She motioned to Martin’s chair, the carved sword on the back easily bringing the warrior to mind. “That warrior, Martin.”

Brome nodded slowly. “How did you guess?”

“You’re the one who suggested we name our son after ‘im,” Lavender pointed out. She placed her paws on Brome’s cheeks, gently stroking his fur as she explained. “Our son is named Martin after a warrior, and you and Rose have been actin’ strange ever since you met this Martin. He knew Keyla and Tullgrew’s names, even though I’m sure he didn’t overhear them last night, but he didn’t know ‘ow he knew. He comes from the north, same as us. And there are several missin’ seasons of his childhood that nobeast can account for.”

Brome smiled. “You’re right. I should have realized that you’d guess.” He took her paws and clasped them gently. “The question now is whether or not to tell Martin.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell him?” Lavender asked.

Brome sighed. “What happened at Marshank was not pretty, Lavender. The battle was a terrible thing to witness. Martin was enslaved for many seasons before that. Would it be right of us to remind him of such pain, especially now that he’s found a life of peace and happiness?”

Lavender did not get a chance to answer before Primrose threw herself into her father’s lap crying happily, “Auntie Rose is back!”

Brome look up and saw that Primrose was right; Martin and Rose were among the creatures entering Cavern Hole. Lavender stood and began dusting off Primrose’s apron. “I s’ppose that means it’s time to get ready for the feast,” she said. She caught Brome’s eye and nodded to him. Their conversation would continue at a later time, preferably with other members of the Rambling Rosehip Players present. Sighing softly, Brome stood and went to greet Rose.

It did not take long to prepare for the feast, Brome learned. The visitors from Noonvale fell in with the Redwallers, setting plates, lighting torches, and bringing dish after dish of marvelous food from the kitchens. Perhaps it was a trick of his preoccupied mind, or perhaps it was the joyful companionship that filled the hall, but it seemed that only a moment had passed before he found himself sitting down to eat. Martin, Bella, and Abbess Germaine sat in their chairs at the head of the hall, and everybeast listened in silence as Bella intoned the grace. Good food and good company were in full supply as the dinner began, and soon Brome forgot his concerns of the day. He found himself laughing with the others as Skipper and Lady Amber related the antics of Ferdy and Coggs during the welcome party in Brockhall, followed by Bella telling of the search for the map to Salamandastron. There was a brief moment of silent terror in the hall when Goody Stickle told of how Ferdy and Coggs had been captured by Tsarmina, until the two cellarhogs, both fully grown now, stood and waved. The story was highly entertaining, with many creatures contributing and ending for the night with Dinny recounting the events of Bat Mountpit.

It was not until he was halfway up the stairs to Great Hall, carrying Primrose and followed by his wife and children, that Brome realized that Martin had never taken a turn on the floor. The warriormouse had commented on a few things from his seat, but had left the storytelling largely to others. Rose, who was on the step ahead of Brome, seemed to sense her brother’s thoughts.

“Did you find it odd?” she murmured, “The way that Martin never took a larger part in the storytelling?”

Brome nodded. “I would’ve thought that he’d at least have taken the floor with Gonff or Dinny, considering that he was the third member of the questing party.”

Rose swung up onto the next step, winced, and leaned against the wall. Her footpaws must be hurting again, Brome realized. The mousemaid shook her head slightly, a soft frown playing about her lips. “I was watching him most of the night,” she admitted. “He got a faraway look in his eyes when the story started, almost as though he was trying to picture it himself.”

“You think he doesn’t even remember coming to Mossflower?” Brome asked.

Rose sighed and started up the stairs again. “I’m not sure, Brome. I’m not sure.”

Brome had no response for Rose. He simply continued up toward the dormitories, silently considering what Rose had said. Sleep was a long time in coming, but eventually he drifted off into the land of dreams.

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redwallthoughts · 7 years

Text

Redwall Midwinter Miracle: Day 2 Part 1

Shoutout to @raphcrow for all her help beta reading this chapter. It would not be nearly as good without her help.

FF.net; AO3

Rose awoke to the sound of Sister Amyl moving about the room. She was surprised that she had slept so soundly. Ever since Marshank, she'd had trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places without Martin around to keep watch. The realization of where she was and who she'd found the night before hit her almost as hard as she'd hit the wall at Marshank. She was glad that Sister Amyl wasn't looking, otherwise the kindly mousemaid might have seen the few tears that slipped down Rose's cheeks.

A quick brush of her paw was all it took to remove any trace of tears, and then she was up with a yawn and a stretch. Spending the night in a warm bed had done her joints good, she felt, allowing her to rise and dress without the aid of her crutches. She was tying on her headscarf when she noticed Sister Amyl's curious stare.

"I must apologize for being rude," Sister Amyl said, "But I couldn't help but notice the scar along the back of your neck."

Rose smiled at Sister Amyl. "I don't mind." Sitting down on edge of the bed, she explained. "Many seasons ago I became involved in a war near my home. A tyrant had lived on the coast, a few days journey from us, for many seasons. He was using slaves to build a fortress, with plans to rule the northeastern coast."

Sister Amyl nodded, and Rose recalled the tale from the night before. From what she'd heard, Tsarmina had set herself up to be an even worse tyrant than Badrang, although not quite as sound-minded.

Rose continued, "My brother was captured by the tyrant's horde one day while he was wandering, and I followed him to the fortress to try and rescue him..." She faltered for a moment, torn between explaining how she had met Martin or skipping over that fact and explaining it later. Realizing that Sister Amyl was still waiting for her to continue, she decided to leave out the part Martin had played. "That's when we realized it was only a matter of time before our home would be discovered. We joined with the slaves we freed, and many woodlanders, to fight back against the horde. We won, but the final battle claimed many lives. I very nearly died myself. The moles had dug a tunnel into the back of the fortress, and the tyrant thought he could use it as a way to escape. I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he threw me against the wall." Rose paused and looked at Sister Amyl, trying to gauge her reaction.

Sister Amyl gave Rose a strange look, but did not question her. Rose continued, "They actually did think I was dead at first. I can't blame them. My brother, Brome, was the only trained healer we had, and even he was inexperienced in dealing with war. He'd already lost so many creatures important to him, I think he must have convinced himself that I was dead too. In the end, it was his decision to take me back home that saved my life, otherwise I might have been buried alive. Brome had to cut my scalp open at the back to relieve the pressure from all the internal bleeding I suffered. By all rights I should have died that day. I got lucky instead."

"I see," Sister Amyl said. "I suppose you're a bit like our Martin, then." Rose looked up sharply, and Sister Amyl laughed softly before explaining. "Don't tell Gonff I told you. He likes to keep newcomers in the dark until the end of the tale during the fourth feast. Martin went off after Tsarmina on his own. Her troops were stranded on the other side of Kotir, but she was still dangerous and he was already injured. I'm told that Gonff thought he was dead when they found him, lying there in the mud unconscious and covered with blood. It's a miracle that he survived at all." She hesitated and looked at Rose. "I suppose that's why I don't find it hard to believe your story," she said. "I only saw the extent of Martin's wounds once, when I was helping Abbess Germaine tend to him, but it was terrible to see. I've never known any other creature to lay so long at death's door and still recover." She fell silent, and the two maids sat together for a moment before stirring.

Sister Amyl was first to rise, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Well," she said, "I suppose I'd best get on with my chores now. Holiday or not, there's still sheets to be washed and clothes to be folded."

"Is there anything I can do?" Rose said, standing. "I'd hate to sit around all day when others are working."

Sister Amyl smiled at her. "How are you with children?"

"I like children," Rose said, not entirely certain why Sister Amyl was asking.

"Good. Then you can help watch the dibbuns."

The dibbuns, Rose found, were waiting impatiently in great hall. Bella and Rowanoak stood at the far end of the hall, each with a paw on the door handles. They kept the door firmly shut against the pleading requests of the dibbuns.

"'Urry up an' open th' door Miz Bella!"

"Us'ns wanna go out an' play!"

"Burr, oi bain't afeared o' 'ee cold."

"Please Miz Bella! We'll stay out of the way, we promise!"

The last unlikely statement came from Gonfflet, whom Rose recognized from the night before. Bella shook her great striped head, chuckling at Gonfflet's statement. "The moment we open these door you lot will go tumbling out," she said. "You will wait until Foremole Dinny says the moles have finished packing down the snow and clearing the drifts. Then you may go out." This announcement was met by groans of frustration, and the shrill voice of a tiny mousemaid exclaiming loudly.

"We don' 'ave t' wait for da moles at 'ome!"

"You're not allowed out in the snow on your own anyway, miss Primrose," Rose said, recognizing the voice of her youngest niece. The little maid drooped visibly.

Sister Amyl came to stand next to Rose, frowning slightly. "I didn't realize that the dibbuns would be going outside first thing this morning, are you sure you're okay with watching them? Bella said something last night about the cold bothering your joints."

Rose smiled. "I'll wrap up nice and warm in a cloak," she said, "I should be fine then."

It did not take long before a knock was heard at the doors. Bella pulled her door ajar, and Foremole Dinny could be seen momentarily. Then the doors were flung open and dibbuns poured out onto the white snow. It was a winter wonderland the likes of which Rose had not seen in many seasons. The snow in front of the doors had been pushed to the side and packed down to make a safe space for the dibbuns to play without fear of losing any little ones to deep snow. The sky was clear, though a gentle shower of snow fell from where the wind blew it off the roof. Icicles sparkled in the sunlight, and frost patterned the stained glass windows on the side of great hall. Already the dibbuns were racing about, sliding across the snow on their bellies, jumping off small hillocks into drifts the moles had left untouched, and making plenty of snowballs to throw at each other.

Rose had just settled down on the front steps, wrapped in as many blankets and cloaks as Sister Amyl had been able to to find, when she spotted a familiar face. "Grumm," she called. The stout little mole turned at the sound of her voice, black eyes twinkling as he made his way through the dibbuns to the steps.

"G'mornin' Miz Rozer," Grumm said, tugging his snout.

"Good morning, Grumm," Rose said. "I didn't know you were out and about already."

Grumm smiled, gesturing to the scene before them with a hefty digging claw. "Oi joined ee molers t' clear 'way 'ee snow fer 'ee babbies, bur."

"They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves." She couldn't help but smile as she watched the young woodlanders play. Another mole, slightly shorter than Grumm, came to join them at the steps.

"G'day to 'ee zur, marm," he said.

"G'day to 'ee, zur," Grumm said, tugging his snout.

"Be you'm coomin' in wi' ee travelin' players las' noight?" the mole asked.

Rose nodded. "We were passing by the Gingivere farm just as they were heading out, so they asked us if we would like to join them." She smiled at the mole. "My name is Rose, and this is Grumm."

"Oi be Dinny," Dinny said. He turned to Grumm. "Thankee fer thoi 'elp clearin' 'ee snow."

"Et were moi pleasure," Grumm said.

Dinny grinned. "May'aps you'm c'n 'elp oi wi' clearin' a bit more snow? Et's driftered into turrible 'igh piles boi 'ee wall."

"Oi'd be 'appy to," Grumm said. The two moles waddled off, leaving Rose with her thoughts and the dibbuns.

The dibbuns were rather well behaved, Rose found. Though they pelted each other with snow, nobeast came to any harm. A few of the older dibbuns had begun pushing their younger comrades around in makeshift sleds. Keyla and Tulgrew's three sons, Felldoh, Hillgorse, and Juniper, had already made several new friends, and were running about as though they'd lived at Redwall their entire lives.

Rose did not notice the moles returning until the dibbuns set up a cry.

"Th' moles are back!"

"Alla snow be clearered 'way?"

"G'mornin' Unca Martin."

"Uncle Martin! Did you see the snowball I threw at Perrin?"

"Did you bring it, Uncle Martin?"

"Did you, Uncle Martin? Did you?"

Rose was not surprised to see Gonfflet and Chugger emerge from the crowd of dibbuns to walk behind Martin, clearly curious about whatever he was carrying. The warrior chuckled and continued walking toward the steps. He was carrying something under his cloak, though Rose could not make out what it was. "Good morning," she said when he reached the steps, accompanied by Dinny and Grumm, along with a host of dibbuns.

"Good morning, Miss Rose." Martin nodded to her. "Are you out here supervising the dibbuns?"

"I am," Rose said. "I didn't see you earlier, were you helping the moles clear away the snow?" She spared a glance toward the dibbuns, who were now crowding around behind Martin. Several were hopping on their toes in anticipation, and Rose could see a twinkle in Martin's eye. He was purposefully ignoring the babes to heighten the suspense of whatever he had brought with him, something Keyla did on a regular basis.

Dinny chuckled. "Burr, no marm. Marthen were stuck in 'ee gatehouse, buried by 'ee snow. We'm just dug 'im out."

Martin sighed and shook his head. "Looks like I'll be moving indoors for the winter if the snow keeps falling like it has." He began unstrapping his sword, which he was wearing across the back of his cloak. Taking it carefully from his back, he set it down next to Rose.

Rose allowed herself a brief glance at the sword. She'd never seen it up close before. The ruby set into the pommel caught her eye almost immediately. It was a deep blood-red, cut so that it reflected the light no matter how one looked at it. It was, Rose decided, the most impressive feature of the sword that she could see, although she could not compare it to the blade as it was sheathed in a scabbard of hard black leather. She felt a strange detachment, trying to reconcile that the sword Martin had sought after for so long was now sitting next to her on the steps.

Dinny nodded knowingly to Martin. "Oi'll tell Miz Belle tha' you'm'll be movin' in'o 'ee cellar in 'ee evenin'," he said. "We'm c'n move thoi things t'morrow."

"Thank you, Din," Martin said. He waved briefly to the moles as they trundled inside, then turned to face the crowd of dibbuns. "Well now," he said, smiling. "What could you all be waiting for? Is there somebeast still inside?"

Gonfflet ran forward, practically vibrating in anticipation. "Did you bring the shield?" he cried.

Martin laughed and pulled the bulky item from under his cloak. "I certainly did," he said. The shield was small and round with a simple design. The only real ornament was the large 'M' emblazoned on the front. Rose could see two straps attached to the back of the shield, presumably for holding on to it in battle. Martin had been carrying the shield with a rope strung through the two straps and tied in a loose circle which he slung over his shoulder. After removing his cloak, Martin untied the rope and set the shield upside-down on the snow. "Who wants to go first?" he said.

Scattered whispers broke out among the dibbuns as they dared each other to be the first on the shield until Chugger settled the matter. The young squirrel settled himself in the middle of the shield with his paws locked firmly into the arm straps. "I'm ready, Uncle Martin," he said. Martin nodded, then suddenly set off at a run, towing the shield and Chugger behind him. Chugger whooped and hollered, yelling for Martin to go faster. They circled around the area the moles had packed down, snow flying everywhere, before coming to a stop next to the steps. Chugger rolled off, still laughing as a little hedgehog climbed onto the shield. Martin made certain the babe had a tight grip on the straps, then he took off again on his circuit around the main lawn.

It seemed that this was a traditional midwinter game. Every dibbun who was old enough to recall the winter before hurried to fill in the newcomers on what to hold on to and why. Martin made round after round on the packed snow, sometimes towing two, or even three little ones on the shield. Rose could not help but laugh with the dibbuns. They were thoroughly enjoying themselves, as was Martin, it seemed. The warrior mouse joined in with the laughter and hollering, sometimes calling out when he was about to turn and other times just veering sideways suddenly. He always called the turn when the littlest dibbuns were on the shield, though.

Finally, after what had to be Chugger's fifth ride, Martin stopped and sat down on the steps next to Rose, saying, "Go off and play for a while, you lot. I need to catch my breath." The dibbuns obeyed, running back to whatever games they had been playing before Martin joined them. All except Keyla and Tulgrew's sons and Chugger, who still lay laughing in the snow.

Felldoh, the eldest of the three otters, bounded up to Martin. He stood watching the warrior mouse catch his breath before asking, "Why does everybeast call you uncle?"

His brother, Juniper, joined him. "Chug was calling you Uncle last night, too," he said. "Why? You're obviously not his uncle."

Martin, who was no longer gasping for breath, chuckled and said, "Chugger's the one who started it. Why don't you ask him?"

The three otters turned to look at the squirrel, who was still on the ground laughing. Mayflower, Keyla and Tulgrew's daughter, came over to join Martin and Rose on the steps, looking on curiously as her brothers approached Chugger.

It took Chugger a few moments to get her laughter under control, and even then he would break into giggles every few words. "Ahahahahaha. Martin's the one who suggested it. Hehehehehe. My parents were gone when he found me, hahaha. Hehehe, so since Martin doesn't have a family, hahahahahaha,and I don't have a family, hehehehehe, I decided he was going to be my uncle. Hahahaha, isn't that right, Uncle Martin!"

Martin nodded, shaking his head at the chuckling squirrel. "Most of the other dibbuns picked it up from him," he said.

Mayflower nodded, having caught onto what her brothers were asking about. "I see," she said. "So it's like how we all call Auntie Rose 'Auntie', even though she isn't really our auntie."

"Can we call you Uncle Martin, too?" Felldoh asked.

Martin shrugged. "I don't mind," he said.

"Uncle Martin," Juniper began chanting as he spun around in the snow. "Uncle Martin. Uncle Martin."

Martin turned to Hillgorse, who was frowning slightly. "You don't look convinced."

Hillgorse shook his head. "Chug also told us that he's got four grandpas, but that's impossible."

Martin grinned. "No, he's right. Chugger does indeed have four grandfathers."

Now it was Rose's turn to be sceptical. "How in the name of seasons did he manage that?"

"He's an orphan," Martin answered. "I was part of a group that traveled to the north the summer before last. We found Chugger during our journey, and of course we couldn't leave a toddler on his own in the forest. Chugger's been creating his own family ever since."

"I suppose that makes sense," Hillgorse said. "Why were you in the north?"

Martin's smile seemed to falter slightly, and Rose noticed a far away look in his eyes. "I was born in the north, but I came south when I was very young. I decided it was time that I found out what had happened to my tribe, so a group of us went north."

"You're from the north?" Juniper asked, still spinning. Martin nodded. The young otter came to a sudden halt and hopped up on the step between Martin and Rose. "Uncle Martin," he said, suddenly serious, "Have you ever met Auntie Rose before?"

Rose was taken aback by the sudden question, but Martin took it in stride. "You'd have to ask her," he said. "I don't remember meeting her before, but that doesn't mean that I haven't." Rose nearly choked on air, frantically reminding herself that Martin did not remember his time in the north.

"Why's that?" Mayflower asked.

"I can't remember much of my life from before coming to Mossflower," Martin answered. He stared vacantly at his paws for a moment, before turning to smile at Rose and say, "Though I would certainly hope never to forget such a pretty face as yours."

Rose couldn't help herself, she blushed. Martin was up and off to play with the dibbuns again before she could respond. Felldoh, Hillgorse, Juniper, and Chugger bounded off after him, laughing and cheering. Mayflower stayed behind, eyeing Rose suspiciously. "He likes you," she said.

Rose blushed even more. "I'm sure it's not that," she said quickly. Mayflower shook her head, and went off to join the others.

Left alone on the steps, Rose tried to cool her burning cheeks. It had been seasons since she had allowed herself to think finding Martin, but nothing she had imagined had prepared her for this. There was the sound of the door opening behind her, and then Brome was standing next to her.

"How is it that you always end up watching the dibbuns?" he asked, chuckling.

Rose nodded noncommittally. It wasn't as if Brome didn't know the answer. She was good with dibbuns, so she had become the go to for many parents in Noonvale.

Brome wasn't taking her silence for an answer. "Alright, spit it out, Rose."

Rose shook her head and looked at him as he sat down next to her. "Spit what out?"

"You didn't even notice Primrose falling into the snowbank just now, and you're staring at the battlements as though you want to fight them. What's wrong?"

Rose sighed. "I fell in love with a memory, and it's come back to haunt me," she said.

"Martin?" Brome nodded at the warrior mouse, who was engaged in an unevenly matched snowball fight.

"It's been 22 seasons, Brome," Rose said. "Besides that, he doesn't even remember me."

Brome let the silence hang between them for a long moment as they watched Gonfflet and Chugger team up with Felldoh, Hillgorse, and Juniper. "You've never shown interest in anybeast else," he said finally.

Rose shook her head. "I knew him for 14 days, Brome. Every scenario I've imagined has been based on those 14 days." She sighed. "We're not the same mice who met at Marshank. I've changed since that summer, so have you, and so has Martin. He was so serious then, so full of pent up anger and rage. But now," she paused to watch the snowball fight, "Now he seems so happy. I've never seen him smile like that before."

Brome nodded. "He certainly does seem happy here," he murmured. "Do you think it would be right of us? To make him remember all the horrible things about Marshank?"

Rose sighed. "I don't know," she said.

There was a shout from the lawn, and the two mice looked up in time to see Tintin nail Martin in the face with a snowball. Martin sat down hard, brushing snow from his face with a dazed expression. Little Primrose ran up to him, trying valiantly to return her brother's snowball. The little snowball fell to the ground before crossing half the distance. Shaking his head to clear it, Martin swung Primrose onto his shoulders and took off after Tintin.

Brome shook his head and smiled. "How could Papa have ever thought Martin was a threat?" he said.

"He didn't know Martin," Rose answered simply. "I don't think either of us truly knew him either. We only knew him while he was preoccupied with rescuing the other slaves. We never saw him during peacetime."

Gonfflet and Chugger had joined up with Tintin and pounced on Martin from behind. The warrior mouse fell face first into the snow, tossing Primrose into a snowdrift where she landed harmlessly rather than being crushed beneath the falling adult. The dibbuns were upon him immediately, burying him under the snow.

With a sigh, Brome stood, calling out over the chaos, "Breakfast time."

The dibbuns left off burying Martin in a mad scramble to the doors, tripping over tails, cloaks, and footpaws in their hurry. Brome was swept inside with the first wave, yelling for the dibbuns to take off their cloaks before descending on cavern hole. Rose watched them go, laughing at the harmless fun of the youngsters before she started to gather up the cloaks and blankets wrapped around her. She jumped at the sound of Martin resurfacing from the pile the dibbuns had buried him under, shaking his head to rid himself of snow. Chuckling quietly, he made his way over to the snowdrift where Primrose was still sitting. The little maid giggled as he pulled her from the snow and carried her over to the steps, where Rose, Gonfflet, and Chugger were waiting for them.

Rose shook her head as she gathered the last of the blankets. Martin certainly hadn't been so carefree when she knew him before, but she was glad that he had been able to adjust to a peaceful life. Bracing herself against the steps, she pushed upward. Pain shot through her footpaws and she fell back with a gasp, dropping the blankets and clutching her aching limbs.

"Are you alright?" Martin asked. He hurried forward, setting Primrose on the step and kneeling down.

"I'll be fine," Rose gritted out from between clenched teeth. She paused a moment to compose herself, then said, "You go on ahead, I'll be down soon."

"Are yore footpaws 'urting agin, Auntie Rose?" Primrose asked.

Rose nodded. "I'll be fine," she repeated.

Martin did not look convinced. "Chugger, can you carry my shield?" he said to the young squirrel. Chugger nodded and took the shield. Martin picked up the cloaks Rose had dropped and handed them to Gonfflet, together with Rose's crutches, then began buckling on his sword.

"What are you doing?" Rose asked, watching her crutches disappear from her reach.

Before she could react, Martin had scooped her up, carrying her indoors with Chugger, Gonfflet, and Primrose following behind. Once inside, he leaned against the heavy doors until they closed, then carefully set Rose down so that her back was against the wall. Chugger and Gonfflet waited a few moments, until Martin told them, "Go on ahead, we'll catch up in a minute." The two youngsters nodded and left after depositing their things next to Martin, although Primrose stayed behind. Martin watched them go, then turned to Rose and began rubbing the life back into her footpaws. Rose winced as pins and needles prickled her footpaws, but it seemed to be helping. After a few minutes, Martin stopped and helped her to stand. "How's that?" he asked, handing the crutches to her.

"Still a bit sore." Rose took the crutches and leaned on them. She gave Martin a small smile. "It's better, though. Thank you."

Primrose tugged on Martin's tunic. "'ow'd you know wha' t' do?" she asked.

Martin smiled at her. "I had to learn a few seasons ago. The cold tends to set into the bones after a creature's been wounded."

"You been 'urt like Auntie b'fore?" The little maid stared at the warrior with wide eyes.

Martin knelt so that he was level with Primrose. "I have," he said quietly. "War is a terrible thing, even when fought for a just cause. The scars of war can stay with a creature for long seasons after, sometimes for the rest of their lives."

Primrose tilted her head to the side. "If it 'urts you, den why'd ya fight?"

Martin ruffled her ears gently with his paw. "I fought so that youngsters like you could have a better life," he said. "My scars hurt from time to time, but it's worth it when I see dibbuns growing up happy and free."

Primrose nodded, as though deciding that this was a good answer. As Martin stood, she pointed to the sword strapped across his back. "D' you still fight?"

Martin shook his head, retrieving his shield from where Chugger had set it against the wall and hanging it from his sword belt. "Not anymore. I gave up the warrior's life last winter."

"Why?" Primrose wanted to know.

"Mossflower is peaceful now," Martin explained. "We have no need of battles and wars." Primrose considered this, then opened her mouth to speak. She was interrupted by a loud growl from her stomach. Martin chuckled. "It sounds like we're overdue at breakfast," he said. Together, he and Rose folded the blankets and cloaks, then placed them in an alcove to be put away later.

Primrose tugged on Martin's tunic again, this time holding her arms up. "Up please," she said.

"Primrose," Rose scolded, "You're old enough to walk on your own."

Martin swung the little maid onto his shoulders, laughing gently. "She's still small enough to be carried." The three mice crossed great hall with Rose's laughter ringing about them.

#Redwall #Redwall fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #Redwall story #story #Redwall Midwinter Miracle #Martin the Warrior #Martin #Rose of Noonvale #Rose #Laterose of Noonvale #Laterose #Primrose #Gonfflet #Chugger #Sister Amyl

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