Disclaimer: Everything save Clar, Widepaw, Clambrithe, Sandfur, Cleft, Vande and the idea that this fic is based upon is copyright Brain Jacques.
A/N: Written for the Chris Bradford competition on the RFF. Final edited edition.
Warning Notes: AU, dark. Really dark.
*
Major Clambrithe. One of the most celebrated hares known to Salamandastron in recent, or maybe ancient history. Showing brilliance in every aspect known to classify a high-ranking Salamandastron hare - dutiful, mindful and possessing an incredible survival instinct. In Salamandastron, everyone had to have a survival instinct. Those who did not too oft ended up dead. It was just the way of the world, the sacrifices made for the job of which they were obliged to take up. As guardians, as protectors, as the buffers of Mossflower.
'Do you think they will ever realize it?'
'Never. Not yet, at any rate. Not us.'
'It's been this way for ages, major.'
'It would be best that it stays this way.'
Silence.
'Why the farce? Why the slang, the "wot" and the "bally" and the entire flippant attitude?'
Silence.
'You'll understand someday.'
*
Clambrithe sighed, looking at the young hares prepared to go for their first march. Filled with pride and joy and youthful exuberance. It was almost nauseating. Bright eyes. Often dimmed within the first seasons of combat. Voices, always clear, always tainted. It was disgusting. Clambrithe turned away to face his sergeant, smiling.
'They'll be fine.'
*
Lord Widepaw. Feared and exalted, having the cleanest record of any badger ruler on the mountain for a good while. Searats rarely managed to infiltrate past the River Moss now. Sands were often stained red. Only the sands, though. Clambrithe walked into the forge, soundless and at attention. The majestic, moralistic, upright badger lord turned to face him, motioning him into a seat and pressing a large paw to a glass encased map of Mossflower. Clambrithe's eyes traced every well known contour, each landmark, the familiar outline of the shores that he had lived patrolling all his life. There. There. And there. Everywhere. Blood had been spilt there. That was the place where two of the youngest cadets had died not a few weeks back. And there. He had nearly been killed there, once, long ago. He looked up simply. Not really sure whether his eyes looked alive, attentive. Maybe they looked dead. He had been hiding for so long already, from Redwallers, from Mossflower citizens, that he was not sure whether his mask ever slipped. A smile, it must have been a smile, edged around his lips.
'Yes, sah?'
Almost cringing. Echoes of that useless slang that usually slipped and disappeared whenever hares meant business. It was a farce. A well planned farce, but a farce none the less. A screen used to hide the real truth that lurked behind flippant attitudes and easy speech. Widepaw's expression did not change. The paw traced a path. Clambrithe knew that path. One of the longer patrol routes, moving back and forth along the shore. The heavy tone, monotone?, of Widepaw's voice was not comforting.
'Sandfur and his brother, Cleft. You know them?'
Sandfur, Cleft. They sounded familiar. Ah. Yes. The intuitive ones. The ones who thought something was wrong with the entire scheme of things on the mountain. Two who did not understand the lack of fear. Two who actually comprehended the true meaning of death before it hit them. Already thinking of them in past tense.
'Trained under me a two season back, sah.'
Widepaw nodded, tapping a region that come near Mossflower country.
'There. They've been missing for neigh a week. I would have you look into it.'
Clambrithe nodded seriously. Or maybe wearily. It was sickening. An endless cycle. Voices, endless voices. Never to be heard again. Think of the Redwallers. Think of others. Always repeated. A masochistic self-sacrifice. Clambrithe exited the forge with that thought on his mind. May they never know this carnage.
*
Armed. Always armed and ready. He was alive yet. Clambrithe walked alone, eyes darting from side to side, never loosing track of his surroundings, noting everything. A bird, somewhere far to the east. The sound of running water nearby. The scattered sand that did not come from the winds. The cool shade of the trees did not distract him. Like a trapped doe, every fibre of his being resonated, every vein inflamed with the possibilities of what lay around the next corner.
A humourless smile graced his lips.
Death, of course.
He parted two large ferns. And stared.
'Who the hell are you?'
Something Clambrithe had never seen before. Standing slightly shorter than him, holding a crossbow. Loaded. It appeared to be a she. Lanky, with paws he had never seen before. The usually short digits were long, curled defensively around her weapon. Eyes and a nose that made her facial features appear nothing like any species he had yet come across. Brown eyes that looked black. And a long flowing fur. But only at the top of her head. Dressed differently from anything he had ever seen before. Something out of this world.
And at her feet, Sandfur and Cleft. Dead, of course. The folly of youth.
'Who the hell are you?'
The question repeated. A slang unknown to Clambrithe. His sword never moved from its position in his paw as the creature, vermin, continued staring at him with panicky eyes. His heart never fluttered. There was only calm. A raised eyebrow. 'What does it matter to you? What are you, what manner of evil spawned you?'
Panicked eyes became angry.
'I am not evil.'
Clambrithe motioned casually to the two bodies on the ground. A mere inclination of his head. I knew them. The two dead bodies. I knew myself.
'Neither were they.'
'I am not evil.'
'You killed.'
'It's called self-preservation.'
'They were not evil.'
Silence greeted his words. The strange creature stared at him. Obviously not accustomed to battle. Obviously having had an advantage of range and surprise over the two dead hares. Young. Not from Mossflower. Maybe from someplace far away. Clambrithe sheathed his sword. The quarrel was slowly loosed from the crossbow. Wary eyes followed him as he pushed his way into the small glade. Well disguised. He would not have noticed it if not for the trail of blood from outside. It had been faint, but it was there. A fire pit. Ashes. Scattered berries. The smell of meat. Vermin-fodder. Clambrithe narrowed his eyes. The vermin in question leaned against a tree.
'Who are you?'
No more cursing. A careful front.
'Major Clambrithe.'
Something akin to fear flashed across her face. Fear of the Long Patrol. Of course. Feared by vermin everywhere. Maybe not just vermin. The crossbow was griped tighter, but remained unloaded.
'Why are you here?'
Clambrithe made no answer. The creature looked at him. Understanding shone for a moment in her eyes.
'A Salamandastron hare, then.'
A quick nod.
'I am Clar.'
'I am rather more interested in what you are.'
'A human.'
'A human? Something that I have never heard of before.'
'Not unlikely.'
The human looked scared. You ought to be.
'You killed them.'
Clar looked down at the dead.
'Are Long Patrol hares as merciless in battle as they say?'
They, always they.
'We uphold justice. We have our ways.'
Clar looked up at him. There was some spark of quick intelligence in those eyes. Clambrithe leaned against his own tree. The two studied each other for a moment. Clar continued looking at him.
'Did they tell it to you outright, then? "Give up your lives so that others can live?" Or do they throw you into the world, and hope, or maybe not hope, that you find that out yourselves?'
Clambrithe's body did not twitch, as badly as his mentality wanted to. It was a reflex action, to calm himself, to stop himself from showing any outward signs of perturbation. It acted as an advantage. Always be emotionless when dealing with potential enemies. There had been no words exchanged. Clambrithe had a feeling that this Clar knew more than she should.
'All of us know what our job entails.'
Clar's eyes, frightened eyes, darted to the felled hares.
'Did they know?'
'We are sworn to protect.'
'Do you know what you kill?'
'Vermin.'
Clar paused.
'Am I vermin, then?'
'You have killed.'
'They tried to kill me. It's called self-preservation.'
There it was again. Self-preservation. Maybe something that Clambrithe himself should have considered a long while ago. Clar continued.
'I've seen your kind. You kill, and continue to kill, all that you so classify as "vermin".'
Clambrithe shrugged. It was almost nonchalant.
'We do what we must. Our actions are justified. You pose a threat.'
'What threat?'
Clambrithe paused.
'Maybe your intuition.'
A odd sense of a possessive defence sparked.
'It is a gift. Or so they said. Giftedness.'
Something akin to bitterness in her tone. Cynical humour in his own voice.
'A gift to kill, then?'
'Self-preservation. They would have done more than merely confront me. They would think as you think. I would be dead before I had the chance to explain.'
Oddly like myself.
'You kill.'
His own argument starting to sound futile in his ears. Clar nodded. Agreed.
'Where I come from, all humans kill, in one way or another. Greed. Lust. Need for power.'
A pause.
'Blatant stupidity.'
Another pause. A sigh.
'Endless wars. Wealth. Sadism. Rape. Slaughter of kin.'
Clar shrugged.
'Nothing very unusual. And mental clarity.'
A sneer.
'They call it a gift, then they ridicule. A jealousy, I suppose. They classify the talented, or the assumed talented, and then they ridicule them. Always wanting what they can never have. Or something that never existed, maybe. There is no "giftedness".'
Clambrithe did not say a word, only pushing himself up from his position and standing properly. Clar looked up at him and grinned faintly.
'They call it a gift.'
Clambrithe's expression did not change. He motioned out of the glade and towards Salamandastron.
'You had best come with me.'