The woods were quiet as Martin walked through them. Out of habit he avoided the dead leaves and twigs on the forest floor, moving silently among the trees. Birdsong echoed through the treetops, and he could hear the distant sounds of squirrels calling to each other. That was good. It meant that he was still within yelling range of the camp, as he'd promised Gonff. The mousethief almost hadn't let him venture into the woods alone, although Martin couldn't truly blame him when he considered that he'd been comatose not two weeks before. Gonff had agreed to give him some time to himself on the condition that he stay within yelling distance of the camp. So now here he was, alone in the woods with his thoughts.
The sound of a dipper singing somewhere off in the woods brought him back to his current problem. His memories, which had been largely nonexistent when he first woke up, had finally started to return in full. Gonff had ensured that he didn't forget the trip to Salamandastron for long. Just a few days after he had woken, Martin had found himself sitting listening to Gonff for a good portion of the day as the mousethief related the tale of the journey. Ever since then Martin had remembered bits and pieces each day, slowly getting closer to understanding his own story. Now he faced a dilemma. What was he going to tell Gonff about his past? Thus far the mousethief hadn't pressed him for details on his life prior to arriving in Mossflower, but Martin was sure it was only a matter of time. The scars on his back had not become any less prominent following the battle with the wildcat, and his accent was undeniably northern. Eventually somebeast was bound to become curious about his past, which would lead to questions that he could not answer.
With a sigh, Martin unsheathed the beautiful blade he wore upon his back. It was good that the blade had been reforged. He was no longer forced to remember the pain and torture he'd suffered under Badrang's rule, nor relive the final battle he'd fought for the sword. The hilt was still the hilt from his father, but the blade was uniquely his.
Gonff would have to be told the story of the blade eventually, unless Martin could keep him from asking. Truthfully, Martin did not wish to keep secrets from his friend, especially when his oath had been sworn to ensure that no foebeast would hear of Noonvale from his lips, but he could not break the oath in good faith. Staring at the blade in his paws, he recalled what he had said to his friends on his last day with them. Who could understand what we've been through? He'd asked. Now he knew. Gonff would understand -Skipper, Lady Amber, Bella, Columbine, and Abbess Germaine- they would all understand. They would not pity him if he told them, they would accept it as part of his past and move on. But could Martin himself move on. He'd asked himself that same question many times since that fateful day. He knew that, even if he could let go of his past, he would never be the same mouse again. The losses had changed him.
The sword grew heavy in his paw and he sat on a fallen tree limb, allowing the sword to rest against the ground. If he was honest with himself, he knew that he could tell the tale without breaking his vow. He had sworn never to speak of Noonvale, but he had made no vow regarding Marshank and its terrors. If he referred to Noonvale simply as the 'secret place of the north', then he could tell them. He could tell them of Felldoh, of Brome, Pallum, and Grumm. He winced as another name crossed his mind, and in that moment he knew that he could not tell them. For to tell the story of Marshank he would have to speak that name with he had not spoken in over a season. He would have to tell of how she had saved his life on more than one occasion, and how he had failed to save hers. He had not spoken her name since she died, truly he felt that he no longer had a right to speak her name. He had promised to take care of her, to consider her life more precious than his own. And in her time of need he was nowhere to be found.
His paws went numb and the sword fell, landing heavily on the forest floor. He could not be bothered to pick it up. Silent tears coursed down his whiskers as he once again mourned the death of the maid he had hoped to share his life with. He had known her for no more than a few short weeks, and yet she had come to mean so much to him. Had he known what fate awaited her inside the fortress, he would have ordered that she remain outside. He would have asked Grumm to take her someplace far away from the battle, where he could be sure that she wouldn't be hurt. It did not matter what the others had told him. Her death was on his paws. If he had not allowed himself to become caught up in the rage of battle, then maybe he would have seen the trouble earlier. Perhaps he could have come sooner, caught her when Badrang threw her away. Maybe then she wouldn't have died. But he had allowed himself to fall prey to the warriors' wrath, and it had cost him a part of his heart.
When the tears finally ran out, Martin stood a sheathed his sword. The familiar weight between his shoulders helped to calm him. He turned back toward the camp, knowing what he must do. He could not tell Gonff of his past, nor any other beast, for the loss was too painful for words. He would stay silent, allowing them to think that the memories hadn't returned. They would come to their own conclusions easily enough. They had seen the marks on his back, and though they had been slaves themselves, they had seen the scars on the backs of the galley slaves rescued with Timballisto. They would know that he had been a slave but they would not ask where, or how he had escaped. They would believe that he did not remember, and he would let them think so. He did not wish to keep secrets from his friends, but the terrible burden of that death at Marshank was one that he alone would bear. He would never marry. The part of his heart which should have been given to caring for a family was locked, forever holding only one name. He made a silent vow that he would never speak her name again. She was locked within his heart for the rest of time.
With a great sigh and much rubbing of paws against eyes he made his way back to camp, silently walking through the trees. The secret of his past would remain such. Perhaps the tale would make its way south someday, but for now he would remain silent. He would embrace his new life here in Mossflower, and no one here would be any wiser. Firm with his new resolve, Martin set out toward whatever new adventures awaited him.