The mousemaid sighed, arms folded across the pinkish sandstone sill, her head resting on them as she gazed out across the orchard, large, fat flakes of snow drifting lazily down from the heavens to alight on the dead-looking branches of the trees, leaving them covered in what looked like big, soft pillows. Frigid ones, of course, but still they looked so appealingly soft the mouse couldn't help but want to curl up and rest her head on one. It wasn't like she had any reason not to, aside from them being really cold; there really wasn't much to do at the peaceful old abbey.
"Hey! Stop daydreaming, you're on sweeping duty, Tirim!" that voice was, admittedly, the only thing that could get Tirim to do any work in these long, cold, dark days, and as Tirim dragged herself away from the windowsill she turned to face the older, tawny-furred mouse currently standing with her arms over her chest and a slight frown on her face.
"It's barely dusty in here, nobody's been here in weeks except you, mom," Tirim mumbled, grabbing the broom from beside the window and started sweeping, though like she had said there was barely anything to sweep up. "And you never make a mess!"
"You do, I'm never letting you rearrange these!" Tirim's mothermouse said, pulling jars out of the cupboards, "It's a good thing nobody's needed the infirmary, I'd never find anything, how did you organize these?" Tirim didn't reply, just letting her mother grumble about the lack of organization while the younger mouse worked on cleaning the already clean room.
As Tirim made her way to the open cupboards and tables where dozens of bottles of pastes, poultices, and pungent plants stood waiting to be organized, the mouse realized her mother wasn't there. That wasn't, exactly, a surprise as Tirim's mother was quite quiet when she wanted to be. Had she left to get snacks?
WHUMP!
A horrific chill slid down the back of Tirim's habit, the snowball already starting to melt from the heat of Tirim as she spun, furiously at the culprit, glaring at her mother who was innocently looking out the window, like she had no idea what she had just done, despite the suspicious claw marks in the little snow pile along the window sill. Tirim dropped the broom, her claws desperately reaching awkwardly behind her, trying to drag snow out of her habit before it melted enough to get under it, the frigid water melting into her fur but it was too late; somehow her mother knew how to throw the worst snowballs, and now the younger mouse simply had to wait for it to warm up enough to not be uncomfortable, waiting for the water to be absorbed into her thick winter habit, while glaring at her mother.
"Did you drop the broom? My, you can be clumsy sometimes," Tirim's mother said, giving her daughter a cheeky grin. Tirim wanted to throw a snowball at her mother's face so badly, but she was nowhere near what little snow was available to the two mice, leaving her defenceless were her mother to decide to unleash another attack. Tirim kept her gaze on her mother as she reached over with her foot, knocking one of her sandals off against the floor so she could try to use her toes to grasp the smooth, wooden shaft and pick it up, though each time either it slid out immediately, or she lifted it just a little and it felt to the floor with a clatter so she was forced to awkwardly bend over and grab it by hand, still watching her mother like a hawk, and yet somehow, it had to have been in the blink of an eye it couldn't have been longer, Tirim's mother had another snowball in her hand.
"How?" was all Tirim could manage, lifting the broom up, as though she could block her mother's sharp aim. Her mother grinned wicked, idly tossing the snowball up and down, once again refusing to divulge her swift secret, before she whipped her arm back and threw it with the force of a legendary Skipper hurling a javelin at a helpless vermin. Tirim barely had any time to react, swinging broom and, to the surprise of both her and her mother, it collided with the snowball, the momentum of the swing flinging the remnants of the snowball towards the doorway, right as somebody walked in.
Snow from the first impact splattered onto Tirim's face and chest, while the rest of the snowball flew threw the air before coating the face of the old otter who had just walked into the doorway, and not just any old otter, but the abbot of the abbey. Both mice froze in terror as the old otter rested one hand on his thick, knobbly black wood shillelagh, leaning on it to support himself, while his other hand slowly rose to wipe the snow off his shaggy furry face, the mother and daughter not moving even to blink during the arduous process. Would he be mad? They both doubted it, neither had seen him mad in all their seasons, but perhaps it would lead to an even worse emotion than anger; disappointment.
"My, my, it's nice to see everyone having fun, if I were a few seasons younger I'd pelt you both good," the old otter said, a smile crossing his ancient face, inviting his companions to smile with him, relaxing. "Sister Siobhan, the infirmary is looking nice and clean, no doubt thanks to your daughter," he said, walking in, the shillelagh loudly clacking against the sandstone with every step. He stood by the window, Siobhan moving out of the way to let the stooped otter look out from it. Siobhan stood beside her daughter, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling Tirim close, affectionately, as they looked at their abbot, wondering what he was doing in the infirmary at this time. He didn't seem injured, so what could the reason be?
"Do you need anything, Father Melchior?" Sister Siobhan asked, the ancient mustelid took a few moments before replying.
"I've been having trouble of late sleeping, and I was wondering if you had anything that could help me have a little nap," he asked, giving the two mice a smaller smile, "I was hoping to perhaps have a nap before lunch, and the infirmary is so quiet, even if you don't have anything to help me sleep, perhaps I could just…rest here?" he asked, stretching as he made his way to the bed nearest the window and just flopping on it, face first.
"Well if you're in a rush, I have a little valerian tincture over here that should do just the thing, though if you're really tired it might keep you under its spell until dinner," Siobhan offered, and upon the Abbot's quiet affirmation she started looking through the bottles to find what she needed. Spotting the vial faster, Tirim snatched it up and offered it to her mother. Siobhan gave her daughter a small smile, "I think we're done in the infirmary today, why don't you head to the cellars and see if the Cellar Keeper needs any help?"
Normally, nobody would be happy being sent to see the Cellar Keeper, but one of Tirim's best friends was helping to clean the cellar, and since the basement was so big, the two could probably hang out all alone, or skip out and do their own thing; either way Tirim and Siobhan knew that very little, if any, work would be done in the cellars.
"Yeah, I'll do that, if you need anything you know where I'll be, mom," Tirim said, and after dropping the broom off in the corner, the younger mouse sauntered out, listening to Father Melchior's old, yet still strong, voice telling Siobhan about his nightmares while she readied the medicine until they were out of earshot, and the quiet of the abbey was once again absolute. Normally the abbey was almost a rowdy place, what with people singing, working, and playing, but in the winter it all died down, their lives slowing to an endless crawl waiting for the snow to recede and the ice to melt. The only thing that kept Tirim sane in these long, brutal winters were her best friends, and with how long it felt this winter was dragging on for who knows how long they alone could keep her sane.
Even with fires crackling in the braziers throughout the Great Hall, as Tirim passed through it she could feel the chill of winter seeping into the abbey. Perhaps there was a hole in a window, or a gap in a door that hadn't been there before, but it wasn't nearly as warm feeling as the infirmary had been, even with the open window. She'd be glad when the spring came, as would every beast in the abbey. Her eyes flicked to the large, heavy wooden doors leading outside, looking at the snow and slush around the entrance. Normally the heat from the braziers kept it at bay, but the reminders of the arctic outdoors seemed to be creeping ever further into the abbey, as if the winter itself were assaulting the ancient fortress. She shuddered, pulling her heavy habit tighter around herself as if hoping that would stave the chill away while she headed towards Cavern Hole, the entrance to the cellars being near there.
If the Great Hall was this cold, how could would the cellars be? The thought alone gave her pause; perhaps instead of seeing Fliuch in the cellars she could do something in a warmer place? Maybe the kitchens needed another dishwasher? They were always warm in there, with ovens and stoves going as long as beasts were up to work them! No, in the end she decided to travel down the dark depths to the dank cellars, where one of her two best friends likely was, though time with him would come at a great cost.
"You'd better not be here to make more trouble," the sharp voice that greeted Tirim in the cellars was far colder than even the winds outside; the familiar voice of the current Cellarkeeper; Garia. "Your last swordfight almost knocked over a keg of Buide's cider." The sharp eyes of the permanently scowling otter looking up at Tirim from the parchment she was writing on, no doubt finishing her annual report on the contents of the cellars. If her words were cold, her dark eyes were worse; an endless void of frigid intensity staring straight into Tirim's soul, so the mousemaid looked away, unable to cope with the strength of the otter's gaze.
"Yeah, I won't swordfight with Fliuch again, I'm just here to help him sweep or whatever you have him doing today," Tirim said, looking for the nearest broom to grab and go. The otter sighed, though her expression never waved, turning on the small stool she was sitting on and picking up a broom from the floor and tossing it to Tirim with surprising strength for her lithe frame.
"Sweeping; he's probably down a few aisles that way, get to sweeping and don't make too much noise," Garia said sternly, eyes returning to her paper as she made notes, even from this distance in the semi-gloom of the cellars Tirim could see that, despite how fast the otter Cellarkeeper wrote, every letter was perfectly formed as always, neater than nearly anyone else in the abbey's paw. Not wanting to spend anymore time with the grouchy otter, Tirim gripped the broom tightly in her hands and dashed off in the direction Garia had indicated, the scratching of her quill soon fading into nothingness; somehow sound didn't seem to travel far in the cellars, leaving it almost suspiciously quiet, and with how large the cellars were and how poorly lit it was by the torches it wasn't hard to imagine getting lost in here, or in finding some ancient treasure. That wasn't even too far-fetched; the cellars seemed infinitely endless and dark and in seasons long past they'd found hidden tombs, passageways, treasures, so perhaps one day Tirim herself would find something amazing!
Not today though, she soon heard the soft, familiar sound of snoring and followed it, coming across a a soft, furry treasure. Curled up in a surprisingly large nest of blankets was her red-furred friend Fliuch, a contented, peaceful expression on his face as he slumbered under a rather thick blanket, one of his tufted ears twitching every now and then as though a draught were tickling it. The broom Fliuch was supposed to be using was laying neatly beside the little blanket nest, a few mounds of dirt piled nearby where the squirrel had started his task and probably rather quickly ended it. As expected the cellar was quite cool, but under so many blankets the squirrel had to be quite warm. Thinking back to Garia, Tirim had no idea how the otter wasn't freezing! She was still wearing the same habit she wore in the summertime!
Well, I guess I'll let him sleep a little longer, Tirim decided, sighing a bit to herself as she started sweeping, the bristles of the broom making a nice 'tss' sound as they brushed over the well worn sandstone beneath her paws. She sighed, she had just gotten out of sweeping the infirmary, and here she was right back at it, with her friend snoring beside her. He looked so peaceful she didn't want to wake him, but at the same time just sweeping was so boring, and so she slid into her fantasies as she often did when doing such dull work alone.
In her fantasies, she wasn't just Tirim, just some mousemaid at the abbey, no; she was a warrior! A certified, vermin slaying, rat killing machine! She could just imagine herself in the stories the older beasts told the younger ones before bedtime in front of a lit hearth, but not just in them; starring in them, doing better in them! She remembered the stories of Badrang the Tyrant, and now in her mind as she swept she relived those stories, imagining being the hero they needed, swooping in from afar with magnificent swordsmanship to save the day, cutting down scores of wicked slavers, their cries of terror at the sight of her fueling her; standing over the wicked Badrang himself to cut him down, receiving the adulations of the freed slaves and other warriors at how mighty she was!
So lost was she in her fantasies she didn't notice Fliuch was waking up until his soft, drawling voice broke through the roar of the crowd around her.
"Are you cheering your own name?" and with that the imaginary fans faded from her mind, leaving her once more not on the shores by Marshank but a cold, dank cellar with a lazy squirrel and a strict otter as the only beasts nearby. She mumbled something quickly in protest but he just gave her a cute, lopsided smile, always smiling more on the left side than the right, though his eyelids always seemed half closed, like he was about to nod off again at any moment. "Aww, don't stop, it's cute when you do it! Go you," he said, giving her a gentle, playful punch to the shoulder before picking up the heavy blanket and wrapping it around himself, cozy as a mole in a hole.
"How was your nap? Dreaming of Matthias again?" Tirim teased back, noticing the squirrel's ears flick back a little, her own smile growing; called it. "Which adventure did you dream of being on with him this time? Fighting Cluny? Stopping Slagar?"
"First one," he replied quickly, shaking his head, "So, uh…" he looked around, "Yeah, we're still in the cellars, what're you doing down here? Done cleaning the infirmary already?"
"It was already clean, and the abbot needed a place to rest for a bit so here I am, tada!" she explained, getting back to sweeping, "Doing more in five minutes than you did in the whole morning!" Fliuch shrugged, leaning back against the wall.
"Yeah, but I had a pretty good nap, so I think I'm doing pretty good," he said proudly, Tirim just shaking her head at her friend. After letting Tirim sweep the dirt into a single pile for him, the squirrel gave another suggestion, "I think we've got a bit of time before lunch still, why don't we stop by the kitchen, grab some food and bring it out to Domhan? I'm sure she'd like that more than trekking through the snow to get to Cavern Hole!"
"Yeah, let me just deal with the dirt," Tirim said, sweeping it all under a nearby keg, "Done, let's go!" Fliuch left his blanket in his hidden nest, carrying the broom back along with Tirim, no sounds but their paws stepping on the stone floor until they finally got close enough to Garia to hear her mumbling again.
"The gin is still too weak, I don't understand what I'm doing wrong, not enough juniper?" even talking to herself her words were fast and sharp, and as they came around the corner they saw her reading from a small, poorly handcrafted book and sipping from a small mug she used to test drinks; so as not to tempt herself to drink too much. Hearing the two friends approach, her dagger-like gaze rose to land upon them, eyes narrowing just a little. "Early lunch?" before they could reply, she just waved them off with the book, "Leave the brooms by the stairs, see you tomorrow." The two friends were, admittedly surprised at the ease at which Garia let them leave, but neither protested, running up the stairs where they soon found their snouts filled with the tummy-grumble-inducing scent of some of Redwall's finest soup; nothing too fancy, but delicious and hot, the perfect meal for a frigid day.