Disclaimer: Characters created by Brian Jacques and copyrighted to Redwall Abbey Co. LTD. The Ballad of Barbara Allen is an old Scottish folksong and I do not claim ownership. (I did change the lyrics just a bit. See if you can find out why.)

A/N: I'm sorry I haven't been a very good writer lately. I'm going through some school issues right now (i.e. getting into collage, dorms, and scholarships) but I'm just making excuses I suppose. Anyways enjoy this tidbit. (By the way, who reads the notes at the top. When you review write Mossflower at the beginning so I know who reads this. Trust me there's a reason for it.) Another one of my stories featuring some well loved angst with Martin/Rose. Semi-pseudo sequel to "In Favor of Tears" and "I Am Still Walking". Set after "Mossflower" and "Legend of Luke".

Oh, before anyone starts ranting. It states quiet clearly in "Legend of Luke" Chapter1 (on page12 and on for those of you with the paperbacks) that Martin remembers very little of his past before Mossflower and it is my belief that nothing except Love can stand up to time. Including memories. I'm sure Martin remembers he was in love with somebeast a long time ago, but I doubt he ever remembered her name or face. Just her kindness, or her voice. That is however just my opinion.

The words sorry and why started looking really weird after the third time I wrote them.

Apologies

"And from her heart grew a red, red rose.
And from his heart a briar.
They grew, they grew so awful high
Till they could grow no higher,
An' 'twas there they tied a lover's knot,
The red rose and the briar."
-The Ballad of Barbara Allen

I'm sorry.

It was those words that set on the edge of his tongue, that cause the air that whistled between his teeth with each inhale to bitter. It was those words that he could not speak. And yet it was those words that could - should - be his release.

I'm sorry.

So simple. So very, very simple. But so hard.

And to hear them… the trees, the red sandstone walls, the wind, and the spirit of the one they were meant for. And yet, with this attentive audience, he found he could not speak them. Those two accursed words that he felt…that he knew, he needed to speak.

So very, very simple.

I'm sorry.

He knew without knowing of the silent listener that awaited him. He did not know their name, only that he was happy when he felt their presence. The warmth in his heart, the feeling of the slight wind caressing his scarred face, the enchanting song sung for him. He could not speak those words.

He did not know why the pain grew with each passing hour…day…season that he did not speak. He did not know why he must speak them. He had long ago associated that pain and those words with his past. A past he no longer knew, no longer cared to know.

He was precariously happy in his new home, in his new life. But he did not understand why he felt remorse when he was alone with his friendly guardian spirit as his only companion. Why did he feel the need to speak those two simple but painful words? Why did he grow anxious and sadder with each day he did not speak them?

It was so easy.

I'm sorry.

Why did he feel the need to be forgiven?

It was in the past. No longer a part of his life. And he was old now. So very, very old. He had long ago given up trying to discover his past before Redwall, before Mossflower. It would never be the same, it seemed so unimportant now.

But it was important and he didn't know why.

I'm sorry.

No one at the Abbey asked anything more of him than they knew he could give. He had given up his former life and his past when his sword left his paws but now it seemed his past was calling to him. And he knew that he would have to answer that call…but not now. Not now.

He set alone now, as he often did. Just outside the walls, in a place that only Gonff knew of but never bothered him at. The mousethief knew his friend enough to know that he desired solitude when he ventured outside his beloved home and Gonff was more than willing to give it to him.

Here only the wind and trees and sandstone walls and his friendly spirit were witness to the silent mouse's endless contemplation. And he had a lot to contemplate. He was so very old. And so very tired.

So very, very tired.

I'm sorry.

"Why are you sorry, Martin?" That voice, so beautiful. So condemning.

"Because I couldn't save you." Like a dream, he could hear himself say that phrase but he did not understand why he said it. And he did not know who he said to.

Why was he suddenly so afraid?

"I forgave you a long time ago, my beloved Warrior." A gentle paw fell in front of his face from the wreath of light that had preceded his conversation. He reached out and placed his own paw in the out stretched one. He could think of nothing to say but…

"I'm sorry, Rose."

And the light withdrew.

And the feeling was gone.

And the Warrior died.

And the Rose regained her love.