In the end the weather smothered the flames. The Redwallers fought the blaze all day and into the night. As the daylight faded the weather shifted as a cold front approached. It was heralded initially by cold winds, which only stirred up the fire further. The firefighters of course felt doomed by this intervention of nature, but the whipping wind was shortly replaced by a gentle autumn rain, so contradictory in character to the rest of the day. A relieving contradiction.
Unsettling, however, was the view as the rain washed out the smoke. The entire West Wall of the Abbey had been dislodged. It had not, however, been entirely blown out. The vast section sagged downward and outward. The bricks were smashed and crumpled, the ornamented edges ripped into jagged asymmetrical rockslides. The bared edges of the wall that remained upright were burnt black, their endplanes sharp and treacherous rock faces, parts of which had even been twisted and bent by the persistant heat of the blaze. Part of the main Abbey wall had been demolished as well, its foundation and framework sticking out like a skeleton. The parts that were still standing were pitted and charred; in the dark that section maintained the illusion of being nonexistant as well, as whatever light was present caught on the diagonal heap of the former West Wall.
Redwall Abbey—a square with three sides.
Entirely robbed of their senses of humor for the time being, Bransles, Rohan, Gregory, and the other firefighters forced their red-rimmed eyes to stay open as they followed the clearly trampled route of the fleeing Redwallers through Mossflower. All were ghostly silent, and explainably so. Dark Forest Gates could not have possibly looked any more frightening than the former West Wall of Redwall Abbey did. The rain persisted as they trekked. There was no clear way to tell if the moist tracks cut through the ash caked on their fur was rainwater or tears.
The general population of the Abbey had congregated in a clearing not far from the River Moss. Though the noise of the rain did echo about and would have muffled most noises anyway, it was painfully clear that the entire group—normally a bustling community of conversation—was silent.
The Sword of Martin the Warrior still clenched tightly in his paws, Mattachin approached the returning heroes. All stared stonefaced at each other for quite some time, knowing that they had important messages, but at the same time unable to comprehend, incapable of realizing or making sense of what needed to be said.
Mattachin finally broke the silence. The fire...Is it out?
Rohan nodded solemnly, his neck moving creakily. Gregory responded verbally, his voice dry and seemingly unpracticed. Aye...But you'll...need t' see... He scrunched up his forehead and averted his eyes.
Her long ears further shadowing her already half-lidded eyes, Bransles felt a duty to ask a question that in any other situation woulde only be considered morbid. Who's still alive? Who's dead?
There's not an exact count yet, Mattachin explained, whiskers twitching slightly. Nobody's wanted to count yet. I'll start...soon.
Bransles bit her lower lip. Anybeast...y'know, prominent?
Mattachin turned his head slightly. To follow his line of sight, one's gaze would fall upon the furred hulk of a lifeless creature on its side in the damp leaves. Badger Mother Marne had managed to clear ground zero with her full cargo of dibbuns, her strong frame fully capable of the effort. As Badgermum, Marne had carted dibbuns around constantly. She'd been built for it, practically. Her lungs, however, were not accustomed to an ashy atmosphere. The dust and smoke gradually clogged the small airsacs in the linings of her lungs. She reached camp, lay down to sleep, and the weight of the deposits prevented her lungs from reinflating. She died without ever knowing.
Any others? Bransles did not look up as she spoke; she was concentrating on clearing the ash from Marne's still face.
I haven't seen Friar Millet, Mattachin considered. He sighed heavily. The kitchens were on the west side...
That's all? Bransles wasn't able to manage even a relieved wot. Such an ill-fitting word. Have you spoken with the Abbot? He needs to see...
Mattachin's eyes widened, and he gripped the sword so tightly that his entire forepaws went white. His claws dug into the black binding of the hilt. The Abbot! The warrior mouse inhaled sharply and then realized what his expression looked like. His facial muscles went rigid as he attempted to control them. I think...I know where he is. Mattachin darted off into the woods.
The Warrior of Redwall is there to be a protector, and the Abbot is a leader, of course. It only makes sense that the quarters of the two would be essentially adjacent. Mattachin had apparently forgotten this fact as he fled the Abbey with his sword. In his terror he had left his purpose in his abandoned room, next door to the old Abbot, the mole who was reknowned for his evenpawed leadership, not to mention his snoring loudly through impenetrable sleep.
As he came upon Redwall, Mattachin fell into physical pain as he simply beheld the collapsed wall. And to contemplate the odds of survival for one still inside...
Finally sheathing the great sword, Mattachin padded up to the former wall.
There were some living creatures already present, a young bat and a small badgermaid, sifting through the rubble with mixed expressions of devastation and hope.
Mattachin placed a cold and shaking paw on Nyctllr's wing. I should have listened to you!