A/N: Oh my gosh, I'm actaully alive! Will wonders never cease?
And it's not a Sue-Bashing fic, either? I'm going to pass out from the miracles, one right after another...
Thank Aelin (Oreramar) for this, though. She's the one who told me to write a one-shot about Redwall. Then this idea formed...
If Redmont has ever before been used, I apologize. It was not intentional in any way, shape, or form. My muse pestered me to do this, though.
It is meant to be a one-shot. It may be expounded upon, but I'm not sure. Have to think of a way to make a character not-Sue...Suethor in recovery, that's me.
So, without further ado (And I hope I don't scare you...)
Redmont
Every woodlander, young and old, free or enslaved, knew what the old, red sandstone building was. A place to be feared, to skirt, to stay away from, lest they be caught as well and forced to work there.
Few slaves lived in that dark place, tending to corridors and putting up with cruelty and misleading kindness of their Masters. Thus, he'd always send more and more soldiers out, sneering and cheering, looking always for new victims, new caretakers of their domain.
The vermin who'd conquered the place called it Redmont Castle.
The name stuck.
Rebellion after rebellion failed to free the once-peaceful dwelling representing freedom and justice from wrongdoers, and the rebellion died out, reducing the once-grand woodlanders to poor creatures scurrying from shadows. The vermin elevated themselves, forcing those opposing them to call the assortment of vile creatures 'Chosen'. Their reasoning, was that the 'woodlanders' were called that for a reason. They were livestock, meaningless lives wasting the precious air. As such, they were treated so, given enough to survive their work, nothing more. True enough, nothing less, either.
When a child was born to the woodlanders, it was roughly taken away, and raised in a harsh world where it knew no relatives. Nobeast knew, either, which was their child. No name could be given, no special virtues could be found in the sparse seconds they were together. It was a brutal place, but not filled with extreme cruelty. If a Chosen killed a slave without provoke, they would be relieved of their life as well. The Chosen who lived in the Castle needed their forcefully bound servants too much.
Even so, a strong soul was born or taken every few seasons. Struggles ensured, and those who wanted to live were broken. Those who were reckless died. It was the way things were.
The slaves were reduced to squabbling, cruel, vindictive creatures. The strong preyed upon the weak. The weak eventually died. This was the new way of life, the only way to survive.
The only way a life could be lived. You could not afford to be weak here, for if you were, they thought, to Hellgates with courtesy. They were hungry. You had food. They wanted it.
They would take it if you didn't guard it carefully. And if it happened once, they'd get bolder and bolder, dish some of the workload on you. Didn't matter if you were youngling or elderly, though the latter didn't happen often. They'd do something and blame it on you.
The sad thing is, the Chosen would believe it.
In a slightly dusty corridor, where the Chosen, oddly respective of the object hanging there, Martin wept for what his Abbey had become. Beasts dared not go there often, for an odd chill would come upon them. Martin wanted them to feel the warmth, but their minds immediately felt the cold. Never the warmth.
It made him sad. It made him weep. For his precious dream, his post at which he guarded, was overrun by cruel vermin and mindless woodlanders, bitter with the years.
He could only hope that some day, some time, their rule would be broken and the Woodlanders relieved of their barbaric state.
Some day.