Break
He decided soon after his recovery he must be allergic to roses. And perhaps his long forgotten mother had sang a song similar to Columbine's once upon a time, in the dark caves of his homeland. Perhaps he had a sister, or a cousin, somewhere in the northlands, whose giggle was sweet as those of the maidens near the infant abbey's new pond.
He liked to imagine himself, just a season out of infancy- perhaps he looked like little Gonflett, all bright dewy eyes and velvety ears- and sniffling all summer because of the hardy little roses blooming by the cave. And he would play with the infant maiden- and her eyes were hazel, the clearest hazel- until the sun set and Mother would sing them to sleep.
And the daydreams he liked to believe were memories would bring dull throbs of heartache, of loss, and he regretted every new day not telling Gonff his entire life story, whatever it might have been.
But in the end, it was little more than longing, and far less at first than the fire of Tsarmina's claws.
In the end, it wasn't the subtle sweetness of the roses in the garden, nor the clear giggles that drifted across the pond, or even Columbine's singing in the gatehouse's small kitchen on cold winter days when she and Gonff spent the long nights visiting.
It was the wedding ceremony he woke halfway through, and the laughter of the dancing bride rising with the fire's embers.
It hit him late in the night, in a certain hour when his abbey's stones shone silvery-gray in the moonlight and he could just see a shadow sliding, crumbling at the base of the wall.
It was baby Gonflett, new and crying and blind in the trembling arms of his gracious father when Columbine collapsed with exhaustion against the fouled bedsheets, and Martin fought but could not stop himself wondering- why is that not me?
When giggles turned to shrieks, and the little mousebabe was tossed a little too hard while wrestling the mole Dibbun… When Gonff had to restrain him, bodily, when the blood filled his eyes and his paw shot to the sword.
"Where did you learn that song?"
He held her by the shoulders, his grip vicelike, and the cutting knife fell from her paws.
"Martin?" She tried to release herself, laughing, but the smile turned down when the Champion's grip failed to lessen. "What-"
"The song," he demanded, and a watchful mousethief entered his peripherals.
"I-I learned it… a long time ago," there was a question in her tone. "When a group of travelers visited Loamhedge." The paws slackened, fell to the warrior's sides limply as a new panic seized him. "Martin, what's the matter?"
They called his name.
He needed air.
And the abbey walls were far too high.
The marbled clouds were fingers of white and pale blue against the deep murk of night, and the phantom shadows were sliding down the walls.
And for once, he didn't want to remember.
"...Look for me at dawning when the earth is asleep.
Till each dewdrop is kissed by the day,
'Neath the rowan and alder a vigil I'll keep,
Every moment that you are away..."
A/N: Hola, amigos! This fic is set somewhere between Mossflower and Legend of Luke, and the last section after construction of the abbey is completed. I wanted to explore Martin's amnesia and it's effects. Let me know what you think. All reviews are welcome!