Vitch stumbled over to Mattimeo, gradually growing more steady-pawed as the feeling returned in his legs. "I'm going out to gather twigs for the fires. I want to do something, instead of laying around all the time."
"I don't think that's such a good idea, " replied Mattimeo. "You can barely stand up, and if something happens to you while you're away from the camp..."
"I can handle it," insisted Vitch. "I just can't lie down anymore," he repeated. He felt an urge to distance himself from the others, to be alone for a while.
They didn't try to stop him once he'd made it clear his mind was made up. "Don't get too far away!" Tess called after him, as he turned to leave. "Bring the twigs to this fire here, so the shrews can make breakfast before we hit the road."
"Will do!" he called back, as he reached the tree line. He wandered through the woods, shortly coming to a small grove not far from the camp. From off in the distance, he could still hear laughter and jokes from the congregation of beasts.
Picking up small twigs with quick, easy movements, as if by habit - had he done this often before? - Vitch came across a small stream. He drank deeply of the water, and took a few pawfuls to cool off his temples and neck. His head began to ache less, and he started subconsciously thinking about what he'd learned.
Slaves... Slagar the Cruel... What a name for a beast! Who was this fox, that had had such a tremendous impact on these beasts?
And this Mattimeo… annoyed him. Vitch felt some hostility towards the little mouse, but the emotion made no sense to him.
As he gathered along the creek, he came to a place where the flow split off a small trickle, which flowed down into a glassy puddle. He bent down, staring at his reflection.
So this was the rat they called Vitch. A thin rat muzzle, small curled ears, poorly kept fur, and head bandages with red-brown spots of blood.
Vitch gazed at the unfamiliar reflection. To think that, with all the things that he'd forgotten, he couldn't even remember his own face? With a sigh, he picked up his bundle of twigs again and returned to the camp.
Near the fire that Tess had indicated, a young vole sat with a grim look on her face. I can talk with her, thought Vitch. Females are usually more talkative; If Tess had been alone earlier, she would have told me everything.
He stopped himself. What kind of absurd thought was that? Even if the stereotype - for it couldn't be anything else - were true, the only purpose it could serve was gathering information for…
Espionage. Of course. It always came back to espionage.
He paced over to the fire and carefully piled the twigs beside it. He tried to smile good-naturedly to the vole, but he probably looked like a real nightmare with his fever-swollen rat's muzzle and bloody, bandaged head.
"Hello!" That might have been to loud. "Um, I brought some fuel for the fire."
The vole looked at him with fear and drew back slightly.
Vitch wanted to try to calm her down, but he couldn't think of a way to do it. "Um, what's your name?" he asked.
She paused for a while, blinking in confusion. Finally she said, "You know my name."
Vitch put his paw to his head and tried to smile.
"Yes, probably, at one time. But I forgot, everything. Can you help me remember?"
She was silent, but her expression spoke volumes of barely disguised hatred.
"I wish I could forget," the vole said finally. Her voice sounded sad and angry.
"Forget what?" The undersized rat asked.
"That my mother is dead!" She stood up. "That when I will return to Redwall, she won't be there for me!"
"I'm so sorry..." Vitch uttered the only phrase that he could, knowing it couldn't change her plight.
Her eyes widened, her lips were trembling. She clenched her paws into fists.
"You... you can't be sorry!" she shouted. Then she turned and ran, her eyes filling with tears.
He watched her leave, his mind filled with incomprehension. Why couldn't he be sorry about that? The question filled his thoughts the rest of the morning, as he consumed his breakfast in silence and sat through the somewhat less painful process of changing his bandages again.
Then came the time to pack up camp. The few tents in the area were collapsed in seconds, and the fires were doused. Despite his protests, the elderly mouse - Mattimeo's father Matthias, Vitch had overheard - convinced him to lie down on a stretcher. Two shrews lifted him with their deceptively strong arms, and everybeast set off.
Vitch swayed gently in the makeshift bed. With paws settled on his chest, he stared up at the sky; clear and blue, with white clouds slowly drifting across its expanse... It was swaying in time with the stretcher.
Swinging, swaying, and then - it shattered, turning over in millions of tiny shards, then slowly tore apart as the intolerable ringing returned to his ears.
Then came the darkness, as Vitch lost consciousness again.
