"I can see the sunrise!" Matiya let out a whoop of wild joy. He hadn't climbed a tree in ages, and the familiar feeling of wood on his feetpaws was comforting on it's own. But the bright orange globe that slowly peered over the treetops like a shy, overripe fruit, and bathed the squirrel in it's warm, colourful glow was beyond familiar. It was comfort. The snows were melting slowly but surely, and he swore he'd spotted a new leaf shyly peaking out a pile of snow. That particular find, however, had cost him a blow to the head.

"Okay. You can get down tree-lover!"

"Five more minutes!" He called down, wanting to bathe slightly longer in the aura of light.

"You sound like a pup who doesn't want to get out of bed, now get down!" The stoat insisted from the foot of the tree.

Matiya sighed and began his descent, hopping daringly onto a lower branch. He landed in a crouch, and promptly swung himself over to the main trunk. Hugging to it tightly Matiya scampered down quickly. A few moments later he had returned to the relative darkness of the forest floor, illuminated only barely by small, lonely rays of light and the white snow. Threeclaw was almost indistinghuishable from his surroundings until he opened his eyes.

"So, which way will the sunrise be going?"

Matiya was more than used to the albino's speech pattern. He made up words from other languages that were also, no doubt, made up. French? Spanish? German? He wondered why he did it more than anything. He stood out enough just based on his swordsbeastship, throw in the white coat and he was like a sore thumb. Perhaps it had made him feel different to the rest of the Honest Bunch. But... he'd been different enough surely? And why do it if only Matiya could hear him? The squirrel was sure that there was a deep, dark, secret reason behind it all, but had yet to confront his companion on it.

The winter had been spent in traveling and mostly silence. Matiya did not speak about Redwall to somebeast he knew would make fun of him for it. Threeclaw kept his deep, dark soul to himself. And yet a kind of mutual trust had grown between the two, insofar as the stoat was sure the squirrel was not interested in running away and Matiya felt relatively safe in his presence. He even got to hold the stolen rapier on occasion, wondering which pirate had lost so fine a weapon.

"Over there." Matiya pointed West.

Threeclaw was using one of his claws to map out the terrain. He'd been doing this all winter and yet they were no closer to Redwall than ever. Matiya was uncertain whether or not this was on purpose. He had theorized that Threeclaw was worried about the reception he'd recieve upon their arrival, but then the stoat had thrown a tantrum about giant, invisible, cursed abbeys and Matiya's thoughts had gone back to square one.

The stoat rolled to his feet, kicking away the half-drawn map. "Wait here." He said, going to map out the forest visually.

Matiya obeyed. It had occured to him of course that he ought to run away at some point and strike it out on his own... but then he'd be loosing the single best sword tutor of all time. Well... the only sword tutor that had actually bothered teaching him anything. He had eleven older brothers who currently lived down at Southswards and their younger days had been spent fighting and wrestling. Very good fun and he had grown strong from it... but it had been crude, often interrupted combat of the mostly biting and barking variety. His only decent opponent had been Grollo, who was quite strong but didn't like fighting, and Fret who had apparently never been a willing participant. He frowned deeply. He could have sworn the ferret must have enjoyed it at one point. He had had his wooden sword as well but whacking it around haphazardly was not in the best interests of the weilder or their companions. Threeclaw seemed to know all their was to know about twisting a blade.

Sometimes he wondered whether the others had already gotten back without him. Well... hopefully they wouldn't need to miss him for much longer. And hopefully they recognized him when he eventually got back. He doubted he looked the same. Then he also wondered, if they had gotten back without him what had happened? Was Fret being punished in some way? Was Momchillo all right? Was Abbot Martin imparting grave wisdom to them all? What was for breakfast? Was his mother even eating? Did his brothers know he'd gone missing? What about the other vermin? Had they been killed? By other vermin? Or the abbey?

This was when he began thinking of ways past the stoat. If the abbey had killed all of Threeclaw's old friends, would the stoat not do the same in revenge? And if so Matiya was placed precariously close to him. Yet at the same time his chances of returning without the stoat were significantly smaller. He could survive of course, at least until the snows melted completely. After that though he would be just as lost as always.

Threeclaw came back in a very good mood. Which bode well. It meant the day's walking could be done without the constant threat of getting run through, and occasionally the stoat would hum a little tune or ask for a story Matiya knew. Sometimes the stoat would even stay awake for the entire tale. Most of the time though, he fell asleep halfway through it.

"Ah mon compadre. We have une petitte problem. We now know where the sun sleeps. But not where that stupido big red-bricked wall is. So I'm going to let you decide. Where in the name of Hellgates do we go next?"

"Um." Matiya turned a full circle, unsure where to go. If his chosen direction did not lead to Redwall then he could not hold the stoat responsible. He swore Threeclaw was too clever for his own good. "Right?"

"My right or your right?"

"Your turn to choose."

"Alright. My right it is."

This was why all they had done over winter, was go in circles.


"As-pixy-ation. The art of stran-gull-king somebeast to death." Spring had made her presence known with only one significant change. There was still snow to be trudged on under-paw and the air carried an icy chill. Yet one large, red, sweet fruit made all the difference. A large patch of strawberries reminiscent of Redwall Abbey's orchard and the kindly hedgehog allowed them to go and pick at the fruit.

Grollo snorted loudly, his quills quivering in barely-surpressed laughter.

"It's pronounced ass-fy-ksy-ation." Hawthorn corrected. "And there's no 'k' in strangling."

Sharpfur scowled darkly at the two. "Not funny spike-pillow. Ye learned all the fancy vobaculary in yer fancy abbey. At least I know how to survive in the wild an' don't have to wait fer rescue."

Almost nonchalantly Grollo's reply flew back at him. "Your back healed yet?"

Sharpfur, who's back wounds still stood out from between newly-grown sharp fur, began snarling as he always did when faced with a retort he could not immediately parry.

"Read the next word." Hawthorn proposed. It would not do to listen to him snarling while they worked.

"I won't, so there." He slammed the dick-tie-narf-ey shut in his paws and, fuming, began kicking at the snow.

"You could help you know." The vole persisted.

"Yeah. You seemed really keen to join us when we were leaving."

It was Sharpfur's turn to snort. "Only coz I didn't want te get stuck with Old Spiky. She'd have me in a bath afore I could say 'die hedgepig!' Do ye have any idea how uncomfortable it is gettin' scrubbed clean by somebeast that ain't yer mammy? I hate it! Plus all vermin know that bathin' makes ye weak."

Grollo exploded with laughter. And even Hawthorn could not surprised her fit of giggles. Sharpfur stormed off, growling mutinously.

He hated it! Every second of the cursed, hellish condition he was forced to endure night and day! And all his companions ever did was laugh. It was sickening. He never thought he'd miss the big, fat, clumsy Grey Claw (mostly since he had doubted they'd ever be sepparated to begin with). He had had doubts about the rat to be sure, for nobeast was like the rat. He was not smart or cunning or cruel. He was stupid and kind and... So perfect it was sickening! Sick-Eyes had liked him, for he had never bothered her with petty wounds. Sickle-tail had loved him for hundreds of reasons. Perhaps his eagerness to help out was why she'd always given him such large portions of food. Hellgates even he, Sharpfur, King of Cruelty, had loved the rat in his own strange way.

The weasel shook his head, safely out of earshot of his companions. "Keep thinkin' like that ye dumb brain an' the next song'll be the rat, the rat and the weasel fair. Love, pshaw!" He spat determinedly into the snow. "Grey Claw was me brother. All there was to it. I had to put up with him coz he was me brother. If we weren't related I wouldn't even be thinkin' of him right now! Or missin' him. Gah! Dumb rat, why didn't ye just stick te me." He lashed out angrily at the snow at his feetpaws.

"An' it wouldn't be so bad if I still had the others. I wouldn't have to get covered in mucky soap! I wouldn't have to know the five times tables! I wouldn't have to know what ass-pixy-ation is! I wouldn't be forced to spend my time with stupid fat Woodlanders who only think about their mammies and daddies tryin' te rescue them." He scooped up a pawful of snow and began shaping it until it was perfectly round. "I wouldn't have to worry about how to sneak away from this dumb place! I wouldn't have to wear spectacles every time old Spiky Macmuffin's is in the room temperature scold me. Daft old bag of bones! So blind she thinks I'm blind!"

"I reckon you look better with them spectacles than without em'." Came Grollo's voice, making Sharpfur freeze. "What do you think Hawthorn?"

"Oh yes! Why, they make you look like an adorable, cute, fuzzy-wuzzy-" She narrowly ducked a hastily thrown snowball. "Educated weasel! Far superior to the thug you'd have grown up to be."

Sharpfur hissed and hopped in rage. The diminutive weasel's fangs were bared. "Yer not funny abbeybeasts! Mark me words! One day ye'll be sorry!"

"Soooooorrrry." They said in unison, before almost dropping to the ground in violent laughter.

"Ye know... I can't believe yer ferret lasted more than ten seasons with ye lot. If it was me I'd have hurled meself off the top of the walls seasons ago!" Both were too busy laughing to hear him. Sharpfur stormed away once more, determinedly keeping his thoughts to himself this time.

He'd flay Hawthorn bit by bit and make the Hedgepig watch. Then he'd bathe her in the hottest, saltiest water he could get his paws on and listen to her screams. Then he'd do the same to Grollo.

Alter-native-lee, he could try and eavesdrop on one of their private conversations and make fun of it. Seeing as he did not have any salty water he would have to choose the alter-native. Sneaking backwards silently he began hearing their voices.

"I reckon he's off to cry now." Grollo said wisely. "Let's throw snowballs at him."

"That would be cruel." Hawthorn said, scoldingly.

"And calling him a cute, fuzzy-wuzzy gentlebeast, isn't?"

"That was a joke. Throwing snowballs at somebeast who's crying isn't."

Grollo shrugged. "He'd have done it to us."

"Well we ought to be better than him." The vole reached out towards a particularly ripe strawberry.

Sharpfur had heard enough and entered the scene once more. Being slightly taller than the vole he tugged down the desired fruit and handed it to her, the very essence of innocence painted on his muzzle. "Don't ye mind me now. I just had to cry me eyes out fer a bit. I'm alright thanks. Ye know just going about me business being the better beast. Not dropping eaves on everybeast in sight." He cackled gleefully once more. "Whoops got a tear in me eye, better go and cry meself dry away from the pair of ye! Have a lovely day!" He grinned widely from ear to ear and slunk away once more.

He walked off merrily from then on. The success of catching them by surprise had more than made up for his humiliation earlier. Cheerily he began singing all the verses he knew from 'the hare and the weasel fair. The shanty had been his father's pride and joy and singing it (alone and to himself for no doubt everybeast else would laugh at his his skueaky voice) reminded him of days gone by when he and Grey had been younger and the only thing there was to worry about was getting wet.

It had been a simpler time and one Sharpfur sorely missed. What he would give in exchange for his mammy's cooking? Hellgates, he was calling her mammy again... Nothing so childish had left his lips since he was a babe. He stopped singing abruptly, knowing full well his father was far, far superior when it came to music and shanties.

"Dumb Woodlanders!" He hissed. "Yer all makin' me soft an' mushy an' gushy an' ew! It's not natural!" He kicked despairingly at the snow in front of him and was unpleasantly surprised when his footpaw met something hard.

"Yawch! Great stupid snow lump! Go an' melt!" He yelled, hopping on one footpaw while he massaged his throbbing one. Once the pain had subsided and he'd ran dry of fresh profanities he inspected the offending lump of snow, gingerly brushing away at it until he caught sight of something that was not white.

Tugging sharply at it he found a thick, but small black chest. Cackling in glee Sharpfur tore it open, having been raised on tales of lucky vermin who'd managed to find something extra-precious in their loot. He almost yelled in pain again as the contents made themselves clear to him. Books! It was filled with small books that were in turn filled with the messy scribbling of a child with a crayon. He almost threw it aside in disgust.

"Sharpfur? Sharpfur are you there? We're supposed to get back afore nightfall! Sharpfur!"

The weasel scrambled to hide his find, burrying the chest back under a mound of snow and leaving a single twig to stick upwards so that he would recognize the place. That was when he remembered he still had one book in his possession. "Hellgates!" He managed to seethe before the file was upon him. He turned round to greet her, the book hidden safely behind his back.

"I can look after meself." He snapped. Then shrugged. "Nowhere te run off te anyways. Back to the old hedgepig then, are we?"

Hawthorn stared at him suspiciously. "I heard you yelling."

"Course you did! Now come or we shan't be back afore nightfall!"

Hawthorn frowned deeply but turned anyways. "Alright then."

Sharpfur breathed a minute sigh of relief. He wasn't too sure why he's kept the books secret from her, but come to think of it these squiggles looked faintly familiar. Perhaps he'd be able to read them even.


Footnote: Been a while again. Was busy, apologies. I meant to update earlier (on this fic's one year anniversary) but was held back by unforeseeable circumstances. Gotta say the way these characters are spread out is another reason the updates take long. Presumably the story needs to take place at the same pace which is a nightmare for timing things. Doesn't help that by the time this is done it'll be my longest fic yet.

Another thing that kind of makes this fic hard to plan is which groups to follow. I want to follow the kids as much as possible but at the same time don't want to have to re-introduce a long-forgotten character at the end of the fic. So yes... Ahem. Tiny spot of bother. Though I have a semi-good solution which should come into play in the next chapter. I say semi-good because it will 'potentially' increase this fic's size greatly. Oh well.

This chapter would have been longer but I decided to keep the bit on otters for another time (after the chapter that comes next).