Ustela stopped speaking at last, wiping her striped brow with a massive forepaw. Her narrative had remained strong and forceful, yet it was evident that the recollections were a weakness to her. She quivered ever so slightly, expression distant and far more vulnerable than what was proper for her post.
The youngbeasts of Redwall sat in a semicircle facing the Badger Mother, silently transfixed by the tail. Perhaps it was too gruesome for their ages, but one might argue that the earlier a deep point is made, the more significant it remains in the mind. Such was clearly the case for Ustela.
Out of the silent semicircle, one voice finally offered remark—the voice of Grumby the molemaid. Urr, marm, wot arpened to zurr others, miz bat, and zurr Troit, and thur wurrier?
Ustela hesitated, considering how to put these things for the age of her audience. She soon realized, though, that nothing was any more horrifying than what she'd already disclosed. The badger swallowed a few times, then continued.
Troyte left to go back home. He'd left a family when he was captured, and he wanted to go back there. His real home was more than what Redwall offered to him. He did visit every so often. It really does make sense.
Thadius Roth the fox went off somewhere...I don't know where. I'd like to think that he's still resolved to make up for what all of his previous work did. At least if we've heard nothing, that means there's been nothing else bad.
Mattachin, well, he became more arrogant and pompous by the day—which I shouldn't or couldn't say at the time. But he's gone now, and I can talk. He grew extremely paranoid and went entirely against the judgment of all others—he wouldn't listen to anybody about anything. Even food. He ate something rotten once, and it's ironic that his stomach took him out, just like Nadal's did.
And Nyctllr, well, she never got over it all. Things should get better with time, but her state of mind only deteriorated with each anniversary. I think she blamed herself—incorrectly, I say—for Mattachin's setting off that last arrow. But it got worse, and she decided that she couldn't have any more anniversaries. So she, well, made them stop. With a dagger.
Ustela stopped again, breath heavy, expression still distant. It was clear she'd had more than enough emotional strain from her retelling.
The semicircle of Dibbuns reached a collective realization that the tale was at its narrative conclusion. Standing in groups at at a time, Redwall's youngbeasts wandered off in their own ways, solemn and contemplative, not at all the rambunctious group that had gathered earlier for a tale of rampant heroism.
Grumby alone stayed behind, gently tugging Ustela's habit with a digging claw.
Ustela looked down at the tiny mole, managing a weak smile.
Oi'm roight sorry Oi wuz troyin to floiy. Oi didn't know, burr aye. But iff'n Oi ever do floy, Oi prummis Oi'll make eem bad floyers stop. Grumby nodded emphatically, looking up into the clear blue sky.
Ustela smiled sadly. Dibbuns were so utterly fanciful—and yet, they so clearly learned. The value of experience would live on, and the values of previous deaths would serve to help future lives.