Author's note: This could serve as an alternate vision for almost any of the characters from the Abbey chosen by Martin to be heroes over the course of the books, from Matthias to Tiriah. The vignette explores some of why Martin bothers to reach beyond the grave to raise up heroes in the first place, as well as what it might feel like to be so chosen.

With inspiration from White Wolf's Exalted role-playing game, as well as the story of the Annunciation from the Bible, and countless other tales of chosen heroes.

I found myself standing in the light of the moon, looking out over the Redwall Abbey pond. Had I wandered there, dazed with grief at the Abbey's woes? Or walked in my sleep? Or was I dreaming still? I don't even know to this day. But suddenly I realized someone stood beside me, a noble mouse in armor, looking out the same way as I.

"Do you see what I see?" he asked, his voice sad.

Then a vision came to me over the waters. An enclosure with a sharp wooden stockade, inside of which an abbey's worth of goodbeasts slaved away, hauling heavy loads at the cruel orders of taskmasters stationed above them on the battlements. Though I heard no sound, the scene wailed of tears, dirt, and pain.

"I do see," I said, trembling, "but I do not know the place."

"I did," he told me, "and such places still exist today. You may live to see it even here, if you permit injustice to thrive within these red stone walls."

"How can it be my duty to prevent?" I asked in confusion. "I am no Abbott or Foremole or General."

"But you could be," he said quietly.

"My life is happy and simple," I told him with all the stubborn conviction I could summon. "I have no desire to change my place in the world."

"Your life will change," he said, his voice stern, "as mine did. I hesitated a moment too long, and the one I loved fell away from me."

A new image arose from the pond of a mousemaid slain, falling lifeless from the platform of that slaver citadel.

"Will you lose the same by your neglect?" he pressed me. "Will the sacrifice I have shown you, one of many that led to your safety in this Abbey, go to waste because you chose to reject it?"

"I have no skill for toppling thrones and waging war," I said feebly. "I am just a humble workbeast of the Abbey."

"Look!" he cried, almost in frustration. "Look upon my sword!" As he said the word, that brilliant blade shone out over the lake, and I stood as one transfixed, unable to turn away though the light stung my eyes. "Was I born carrying this sword?" he demanded. "Did it spring full-forged from the ground before any paw wrought it? Was it mighty, did beasts tell tales about it, before ever mouse unsheathed it in battle? Look upon it and tell me!"

I squinted against the light, only to see that what he implied was true. Beneath the glory lay a simple piece of metal, a hunk of steel the same as any other mined and tempered. "Am I to be the same?" I asked, beginning to understand, though it frightened me. "To rise up from dirt, and someday have tales and legends told about me?"

"It is hope for all goodbeasts that you may," he said, beginning to smile again.

I had not known the concept of destiny until that moment. I could still reject it, if I accepted my fear and choked down my exultant joy at being chosen. "Why me?" I asked, in wonder.

"That I cannot tell you," he said, enjoying a moment of quiet laughter. "If you accept the journey, you will discover your answer along the way."

With that he wandered off, or simply faded away; I did not see. So there I was, without a vision before me save the reflection of the moon in the Abbey pond, and yet I knew exactly what I had to do.