If you're not interested in where this story comes from and just want to read a funny Redwall parody, skip to the italics. But I strongly encourage you not to skip this lengthy tract. You see, the story of this fic is interwoven with my own.
I haven't written a Redwall fic in a long time. Over time, my tastes shifted, and this is reflected in the different fandoms I've written for at different times. Some, like Stargate, I keep going back to because they still haven't lost their appeal to me. Some, like Redwall, I've never looked back from. It's no accident that I haven't written a Redwall fic in over a decade.
But Redwall was a turning point in my story as a writer. The first fic I ever posted online was a Redwall one. Fight for Freedom, a frankly quite bad parody of Mossflower. I think only a handful of people had ever read it, but I was young and hadn't had any exposure yet. Suddenly, I realized I could write this stuff in my head and people would read it. To me at the time, Fight for Freedom was a runaway success that I tried to duplicate for years after.
I dabbled around in Redwall for a bit before switching to Stargate, which remains my favourite sci-fi and one of my favourite fandoms to this day. I wrote Halogate, the first and worst SG-1/Halo crossover. I thought it was the best thing ever, and today I can't even read it. I wrote SGD. It was rough, especially at the beginning, but it had some good ideas, and I was a much better writer by the time I called it quits three years later. I wrote a bunch of little stories before one just happened to take off. Emergence spawned three sequels and a few spinoffs; it was influential and controversial in RWBY circles.
I've pulled back from fanfic a bit. My time is increasingly limited and I want to focus on things with real-life gains. I'm writing a book, building a game, doing school and taking little jobs. I'm wasting more time than I'd like to admit playing Battlefield, trawling Reddit and watching Netflix. I'm slowly plodding away on one fic, a Mass Effect/Stargate crossover and that's about it.
But this one is special enough for me to make time for.
Fight for Freedom was posted ten years ago today. At least to me, it's important. I cringe when I try to read it today- it was an early work and it shows. I've come a long way since then, and if it weren't for the title and this note you might not even realize the fic you're about to read is written by the same guy. But this is where I started. This is where the journey starts.
It's time to go back to the beginning. This is the story of a young mouse with a mysterious past, who rose from nothing to become the greatest hero the land has ever known. This is the story of a land shrouded by darkness and wracked by war, torn apart and rebuilt into a shining beacon of freedom and virtue. This is the story of heroes and villains, of leaders and followers, of protagonists and antagonists and everyone caught between…
Late autumn winds whistled around the open gatehouse door, buffeting it back and forth like the rapidly browning trees visible through the opening.
Bella of Brockhall drew herself deeper into her armchair by the fire. Eyes half closed, she rooted around with her left paw for a tall amber bottle sitting on the side table. She grabbed, missed, and it went clattering to the floor, joining four others in a pile. Irritated, her eyes snapped open and it was then when she noticed the small brown mouse peering around the doorway.
"Come in, little one," the old badger growled, reaching down for another bottle and popping its top off. She took an experimental swig, the familiar burn of rye whisky cascading down her throat. "Or don't. Just close the fuckin' door."
Wordlessly, the mouse scurried inside. He peered at the badger and her bottle, considering climbing up her arm to the well-cushioned chair before thinking better of it. Instead, he perched himself on a worn stool off to the side.
"You said you would tell me a story, miss Bella."
"Did I really- god damn it." She sighed in frustration, putting the bottle down. "Alright, kid, here's your story."
She paused. "Once upon a time, in a land- scratch that, it was this land- look, it was your ancestors, the peaceful beasts of Mossflower, here. Okay, so you hear that? Open your ears. That's freedom. Or a screaming bald eagle bump-firing an AR-15, same difference. Anyway, a long time ago- not that long ago, actually- there was no freedom. Only dark. And sadness. The woodlanders were oppressed brutally under the Brit- I mean, under the harsh rule of Verdauga Greeneyes.
"Now, you've probably heard of some nasty motherfuckers. Cluny the Scourge. Charles Manson. Mark David Chapman. Lee Harvey Oswald- god, what's with shooters and middle names, right? Anyway, this guy, he's as bad as Hitler. And his daughter, whoa, total psycho.
"So you're probably asking, well, what happened? How did we get all these freedoms we now enjoy? Well, a mouse happened. A mouse like you. His name is one we all know by heart: Martin The Warrior."
The mouse bounced up and down on his paws, excited and waiting for more.
Bella raised an eyebrow. "What, that's not enough for you?"
The mouse looked at her expectantly.
Bella sighed. "Jesus Christ on a pikestaff, don't tell me you want the whole fucking story."
The mouse nodded rapidly.
Bella took another swig from her bottle before setting it aside. "Alright, fine. Here's the story. Let's start from the beginning, then…"
XCVG/Chris7221 Presents
FIGHT FOR FREEDOM
(10th Anniversary Edition)
It was cold, grey, and lifeless. The gently rolling hills were once beautiful, covered in rich green grass. The grass had long since been stripped away, leaving only rapidly eroding dirt behind. Choking ash covered the hills and also burned-out skeletons of trees that could no longer survive. It was a land utterly devoid of life, with even the hardiest vegetation long gone.
The same ash and dust that coated everything blotted out the sun, letting only a grey half-light illuminate the stark landscape. Occasionally, rain clouds would form, but they were worse than the parching drought. The rain was lethal, slowly withering away anything that it touched. The very waters of life that allowed the region to prosper were destroying it.
Heading north, the land began to flatten out, revealing traces of what used to be farms. Husks of barns and farmhouses dotted the landscape. They were filthy, decaying shells, with nobody inhabiting them in a very long time. The fields were as badly damaged as the rest of the landscape- only plains of dust now.
A river snaked through the area, dividing the fields from the city beyond. The water level was very low, and it was filthy, poisonous and unusable by anything. A single stone bridge spanned the gap, heavily eroded over the years and caked with filth, but structurally sound.
Beyond that, what was once a thriving city stood in the distance. Once upon a time, skyscapers stood tall above the horizon. Now only the lowermost sections remained, everything above reduced to piles of weathered rubble. Most of the smaller buildings had fared better, but anything made primarily of wood was long gone. Like everything surrounding it, the city was cold, grey, and lifeless.
"Wow, thank god we don't live there, huh?" Ben Stickle remarked to his family, crumpling up the postcard and tossing it into the fire blazing in the hearth. "I mean, yeah, taxes, but at least we don't live in a nuclear wasteland. We even have a halfway stable government."
His wife, the Goodwife Stickle, sighed. His children snuggled down into their blanket, spines visible through the fabric.
"Come on, it's not that-" Ben was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the door. He laughed heartily. "It's probably the tax collectors."
"Ben, Ben, yo, homie," a voice accented in the charming rustic molespeech called from the other side. "It's your bro, Urthclaw! Open up already! I'm freezin' my fuckin' balls off out here!"
Ben's paw hovered against the door handle. He sighed before turning it and letting the mole in.
"Earthclaw."
"Benjamin." The mole trudged his way over to the fire, rubbing his claws together in the heat. "Came by to warn you. The fuzz are out in full force tonight. They out to shoot some niggas. You got a bolt-hole, now's the time."
Ben crossed his arms. "Unlike you, I am a productive, contributing member of society. I pay my taxes, I obey the law. I have nothing to fear."
"I'm just sayin-"
"Is this a racial thing?" the Goodwife Stickle asked.
"You shut up and get in the kitchen, woman!" Ben snapped. "Sometimes I wonder why I married you. Only four children, god! What are you even good for?"
"I am a modern woman!" Goody shouted back. "My life does not revolve around cooking meals and making children. I am an independent member of society who chooses to-"
"Hey, hey," Urthclaw interrupted. "You got problems with your ho, maybe you need counseling or some shit. Ain't my business. Look, I'm just saying, they're gunnin' for us moles, they're gonna come for you next. No one left to speak for you and all that shit."
Ben let out a deep sigh and shook his head. "We'll never make it north of the border, not in the middle of winter with four young ones. Especially not with those, well, you know, queue-jumpers."
The mole opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another sharp rapping on the door.
"WHAT IS-" Ben began to shout. Once he saw who stood on the other side, he stopped immediately, subconsciously smoothing his shirt with one paw. "Erm, my apologies. Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do you for?"
A ferret and a stoat wearing the uniforms of Verdauga's army waited in the doorway. The ferret appeared to take the lead, straightening up and asking, "Just a routine community patrol, making sure the neighbourhood is safe. May we come in?"
Ben smiled pleasantly. "Sure, go ahead. I've got nothing to hide."
They marched inside, the ferret taking the lead. He looked around, eyes landing on the mole in their midst. "We've had reports of a disturbance from this area-"
"I DIE FREE!" Urthclaw shouted, grabbing a kitchen knife and plunging it into the ferret's throat. He gurgled and grabbed at his throat, dropping his spear as blood gushed from the wound.
"Earthclaw!" Ben shouted, rooted in place by shock.
The stoat dropped his spear, drawing a dagger and moving into a crouching combat stance. Urthclaw mirrored the movement, picking up a burning stick from the fire and waving it in the stoat's face. Suddenly, he threw it, kicking out the stoat's legs from under him as he attempted to dodge the embers. The stick landed on the drapes, which quickly caught and ignited the dry paneling behind.
"We gotta run!" Goody shouted. Ben, for once, didn't argue, grabbing two of his children and bolting for the door.
As they bolted out into the cold, the mole and the stoat continued their deadly dance. The stoat slashed at Urthclaw, who leaped back into a pile of pots and pans. He grabbed one and swung, but the stoat dodged at the last minute and it slammed into his shoulder instead of his head. He bolted forward, grabbing the mole and sliding his head along the counter toward a cauldron at the end. Urthclaw twisted his body and kicked, sending the stoat flying upward. He grabbed an icepick and swing upwards, catching the stoat in the chest. As the vermin clawed at his deadly wound, he made his exit, joining the Stickle clan outside.
Goody shrieked in despair as the flames engulfed their home, the sturdy timbers turning to charred cinders before her eyes. The children watched with curiosity, unable to understand what had happened or its implications.
Ben turned to his guilty-faced companion, rage burning in his eyes. "Earthclaw, you… you… you… mole!"
"Wow, I am glad I was not part of that," a young mouse with dark eyes remarked, observing the fire from the distance. He took a deep breath and stood up, dusting himself off. "Alright, you got this. You're Martin- no, not just Martin. You're Martin the Warrior. Martin the Motherfucking Warrior! Raaaaagh!"
The skinny mouse charged forward with reckless abandon, rusty sword in hand. His target was a pair of rats with spears, busy chatting to each other. Easy prey for a warrior like him. He turned the sword around in his hand and went in for the kill, swinging hard.
And missed. He didn't get a chance to recover, the end of a spear slamming into his stomach and knocking the wind out of him. Before he knew it, he was on the ground with his sword kicked away and paws bound by rope.
"Who are you guys?" Martin asked, equal parts shocked and amazed. Whoever these guards were, they must have been the cream of the crop, the tip of the spear, tier one elites.
"Customs and immigration," the rat snapped. "We're gonna haul you in, and we're gonna deport your ass."
Martin groaned, struggling uselessly against his bonds. "Fuck my life."
Lord Verdauga Greeneyes coughed roughly, rolling over in his four-poster bed. Across from him, his two children sat, one concerned and one uncaring. An old fox- Fortunata, if he recalled correctly- knelt next to his bed, fretting over a pile of herbs. By the door stood Ashleg, an old disfigured pine marten who looked on impassively.
"Please, father, you must take your medicine," Gingivere urged, standing up and crossing the room. "The healer is only trying to make you well again, and if you resist she cannot be of any help."
Tsarmina didn't even look up from the phone in her hands, continuing to click away on its virtual keyboard as she carried on three conversations at once. "If dad doesn't want to take his medicine, he's an adult and that's fine. Yes, use the extra poison, he's a cat."
"Poison?" Gingivere asked.
"Sorry, wrong conversation, I'm texting Witch Doctor over there," Tsarmina excused, pointing to Fortunata with one claw.
A rat appeared briefly in the doorway, whispering something to Ashleg. The old marten raised his head as far as his crooked back would allow and announced, "My Lord, the guard just brought in a prisoner. Would you like them to be brought in?"
The ruling wildcat growled. "I would want to see them, why?"
He had no good answer for that. "Authorial fiat?"
Verdauga sighed raggedly. "Bring him in, then."
Ashleg whistled, and two rats brought in a tightly bound mouse, tossing him roughly to the floor.
The room quieted down to an eerie silence as both parties sized each other up. Finally, the mouse broke it by asking excitedly, "Is this your place? Wow, it's really nice!"
Verdauga nodded from his bed. "It is. Welcome to Kotir."
Martin's eyes lit up. "Kotor? Man, I loved that game! Some people say Baldur's Gate or Neverwinter Nights, but-"
"Not Kotor, Kotir!" Tsarmina snapped. "God, what is wrong with you people?"
"It's one of those words that sounds the same," Martin snapped back. "Uh, what do you call it?"
"A homophone?" Gingivere suggested.
The mouse recoiled in shock. "Oh, come on, one of my best mates is gay!"
"Young traveller," Verdauga orated, cutting off their conversation. "It is against the laws of Kotir to carry arms or trespass upon this domain. What say you to these charges?"
"I didn't know." It came out more as a question than a statement. Seeing nothing but disapproving looks, he changed his argument. "Um, I was just following orders."
"And so said Göring, Bormann, and Keitel," Verdauga replied ruefully. "You are not by chance a rocket scientist, are you?"
"Uh, no."
"Then I am afraid you must be tried for your crimes."
"Are we talking show trial or proper due process?" Martin asked between bites of candy.
"It's a- How did you slip your bonds?" Gingivere asked. Along with the other royalty and guards, he watched flabbergasted as the mouse munched snacks from their king's side table.
Martin shrugged. "Iunno. They weren't very tight."
"Arrest that mouse!" Tsarmina shrieked.
"I'm already under arrest- oh shit!" Martin dodged to the side as two of the guards rushed at him with swords drawn. He tripped over Fortunata, landing on Gingivere and knocking him off balance. The cat windmilled his arms as he tried in vain to not fall over, knocking the sword out of one of the guards' paws and slamming it into his father's chest and falling onto the handle, driving it in deeper.
The room once again dropped into shocked silence, which Martin again broke. "Did I just commit accidental regicide?"
"Gingivere! It was Gingivere! Murder, murder!" Tsarmina shouted hysterically.
"What? It was an accident!" Gingivere objected.
"The king is dead!" Fortunata wailed. "Prince Gingivere has killed his father."
"No, like, I'm serious, I might have just committed accidental regicide," Martin repeated. "It was- and I'd really like to stress this- an accident, but it was me."
"You!" Tsarmina shouted furiously, pointing an accusatory finger at the mouse. "You are a co-conspirator. You will rot in my dungeons for the rest of your short, miserable life!"
As soldiers surged into the room to make the arrests, Martin remarked nonchalantly, "Well, I mean, it beats trying to find a place in Vancouver, right?"
Before the late king's body had even been removed, the majority of the Kotir castle guard- perhaps some 538 strong- had gathered in the castle's spacious main hall. At the front stood Tsarmina, looking wound up, Gingivere, looking nervous, and Ashleg, looking as unreadable as ever.
"My lady Tsarmina, would you like to address the creatures of Kotir?" the wrecked pine marten asked.
"Sure, I'll go first," Tsarmina agreed. She turned to face the eager crowd. "Things are bad. Our jobs are gone, rapists and murderers are coming over our borders, the king is dead. Let me tell you what we'll do. We're gonna build a wall, a great wall, it'll be magnificent. The best wall."
"It's not that simple," Gingivere interrupted. The crowd immediately turned away in disgust. "Right now we sit at a crossroads between the present and the future. The king is dead, and that is a tragedy of incredible proportions. But the world is changing, and it is time we change with it. It will be difficult, and not everyone will be happy with the change, but together we can move forward."
"Don't listen to him!" Tsarmina snapped. "He's weak. Oh, it will be difficult, we'll have to change some things. Let me tell you, I'm going to bring back the good times. I will make Kotir great again!"
"Make Kotir great again!" the crowd echoed. "Make Kotir great again!"
Tsarmina smirked and flashed a thumbs-up. "See? Get behind me and it'll be great. The best. We'll ban all mice, keep terrorists out. We need to, let me tell you, we need to protect this country. Strong on crime. We're gonna find that illegal email server, too."
"What emails? That investigation found nothing!" Gingivere narrowed his already narrow eyes. "You're all deplorables!"
The crowd gasped.
He apologized quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean that."
"Sorry, I didn't mean that," his sister mocked. "Sad. He's crooked, you know. It's true, some very smart people told me. Is that really who you want in charge?"
"No!" the crowd started. "We choose Tsarmina! Make Kotir great again!"
"Lock him up!" Tsarmina ordered, pointing a claw at her brother.
"I'm gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket…" Gonff the mousethief sang along, stolen iPod Classic in one paw and stolen Extra Old Bitto in the other. He pocketed the cheese and grabbed a stack of chocolate bars from a shelf in the walk-in refrigerator. "I-I-I'm hunting, looking for a come-up. This is fucking awesome!"
With a twirl, he slammed against the door handle and stepped out, only to come face-to-face with a weasel and a rat, both armed and looking none too pleased with his behaviour.
"Hiya, mateys. Just grabbing some stuff for the chef, you see," the mouse said with a broad smile and a little wave.
The weasel sighed. "Jesus, I thought there was a thief around. Listen, if I were you I'd quit the dancin' and lollygaggin'. Chef don't like that too much."
"Yeah, last time, I had to scrub pots till my paws bled." The rat paused, listening. "Is that Macklemore?"
Gonff sheepishly paused his music. "Maybe."
"Well, then." The weasel turned to his friend. "What do you say, Blacktooth, we lock him up downstairs a few days, let him rethink his musical life."
The rat cracked his knuckles. "That's a fine idea, Wrathclaw, a fine idea indeed."
"Hey, easy, I just got this shirt!" Gonff complained as the two vermin beasthandled him into a dank cell. His nostrils wrinkled at the acrid stench of marijuana.
"Should've thought of that before you chose that awful song!" Wrathclaw jeered, slamming the cell door shut. As an afterthought, he tossed the offending music player in after him. "See you in three days, you tone-deaf fool."
It took a moment for the stunned mousethief to realize he had a cellmate. He turned to his companion, a brown mouse looking like he'd run a serious gauntlet. What might have once been smooth fur was now mottled and dirty, and a scruffy beard had begun to erupt on his face.
Gonff recoiled at the sight. "What did you do, drop the soap?"
"I might have committed regicide," the haggard mouse answered. He quickly added, "Accidental regicide. Really, at worst it's manslaughter. Criminal negligence causing death, even."
"Well, I suppose it could be worse. You could be a child killer, or a serial rapist," the mousethief commented lightly, examining his iPod. A worrying thought occurred to him. "You're not lying to me, are you?"
"No."
"Good."
After a pause, the other mouse asked, "What are you in here for?"
Gonff smiled slightly. "Crimes against music, apparently."
"Oh, where are my manners?" the other mouse chided himself. He extended a paw and cleared his throat. "I'm Martin. Martin the Warrior."
"Gonff, Prince of Mousethieves," he reciprocated with a flourish, fistbumping the warrior.
"That sounded better in your head, didn't it?" Martin asked after a moment of quiet.
"Yeah, yeah it did," Gonff answered with a small sigh. "I bet Martin The Warrior did, too, eh, matey?"
Martin chuckled ironically. "Speak for yourself."
"So… cellmates?"
"Cellmates."