A/N: Blame Oreramar again. She reviewed, and my Muse is in a volatile state. In fact, immediately upon reading her review, I was hit with the irresistable urge to do this...Companion piece to Redmont. Nicer if you read that first, please.

Thanks.

Mountain

When the Dark Times came, Salamandastron stood tall. Proud and worthy, her back straight despite the constant pounding and squabbles, she resisted the erosion of good that the so-called Chosen wanted to create.

They had tried, her equally worthy warriors, to aid Redwall, but the creatures weren't quite as strong or battle-quick as her own. Redwall was overrun, though she knew Martin still stood there. He had conveyed his grief at his poor Abbey's destruction, the icon of peace becoming that of tyranny and evil. The crumbled sandstone destroyed in the battle was rebuilt, fragile and brittle compared to her naturally shaped walls, smooth by ancient flows of molten rock she remembered when she was so young, only centuries old. Such a volatile state she was in then, energetic and vigorous in her energy. Then she calmed, as those do as they age. She calmed, yes, and became sharper, more observant.

The first Badger Lady arrived, and she allowed the being into her great halls. Taken into a trance, she had carved upon her walls, pain shooting through her veins. But the fire was dull, it was minor, compared to her bright youth. The Lady fell out of the trance, and foresaw her own death. But the badger, surprisingly, accepted it as lore and truth. Badgers only could read the now ancient language.

Then the hares came, a loyal fighting force willing to die for their Mountain and for their Lord or Lady. Leaders came and went, some more bloodthirsty and blood-wrath faulty than others. And always, there were corsairs, there were vermin, knocking on her walls with leers on their faces.

Sometimes, she felt empty when they aided the fellow Woodlanders (as she soon learned), leaving only a token force behind. But when few came back, she became angry, and fire roiled in her belly, pleading to be let out. Those attempting to lay siege on her would die, they would fall, and they would be eradicated in a wave of blistering heat and molten suffocation stripping the flesh of their bones. How she lusted for the sweet taste of revenge.

But there were stragglers, ragged and worn, who came upon her door and were accepted, growing and becoming courageous, their offspring populating her long-dusty halls as they prepared for yet another battle.

Then one child, one mousemaid, she believed the term was, came with the most precious of gifts. Though she was weary and hungry, cut and bleeding drops of short-lived fire, the babe was healthy, its coat shone with a luster of wellbeing.

And that babe was a badger.

Finally, a ruler to rule in her castle, in her passages that roiled and winded. More than ever, now, she kept the fire down, made sure it would not destroy a chance for hope. Perhaps their precious Abbey would be saved—when the badgerbabe grew, he would know how to read the ancient inscriptions. And he would know the true name of this 'Redmont'—she knew the descriptions were enough.

She sighed, and straightened further, peering out through malicious eyes at the surrounding forces, scared of this natural phenomenon, this enigma they could not put a name to.

She was the fire-breathing lizard. She was the Mountain. She was Salamandastron.

And so help them, she would unleash fury upon those who dared to face her.