Disclaimer: Nothing save what is mine is mine.
A/N: Gah. No time to write these days. Final edited edition.
*
It would not be a swift journey back to Salamandastron. Mossflower was three days away with clear skies even for experienced travellers, but with this human on his paws, Clambrithe knew it would be at least a week before he returned. Will I, too, be considered dead by then? The major almost smiled at the notion. Imagined the hushed whispers. The lies that would spawn from his assumed disappearance. He did not blame them. Not in this society. Not in his society. The notion of a hubbub somehow appealed to Clambrithe, appealed to a darker side of him that he knew he should not let loose.
Clar learnt fast, or at least decently quickly. Few words were exchanged. There was little harassment from either party. Sitting together under the dark cloak of night, running together beneath the scrutiny of day, the two barely spoke. At least not verbally. Clambrithe wondered if his companion knew the real truth behind the madness that was the Long Patrol. Or if it was truly merely intuition. Three nights had passed, and four days. The waves crashed silently against the already beaten shore. Reminding Clambrithe, once again, oddly of himself. He cursed his own introspection. It would only lead to a quick demise and a high chance of insanity. They watched. The ocean said nothing to them. Clambrithe inclined his head from his position on the sand.
'Why did you come?'
Not moving. Neither looking at the other. Almost afraid to look in parallel mirrors. Mirrors of a different sort, showing a fate of different sorts. A mad subversion on both sides. Physically and mentally. Perhaps both. Clar shrugged. Clambrithe wondered how many times he must have had shrugged in response to questions himself. Wondered how many times his easy but false smile reassured a number of younger hearts that needed something more than the blade that eventually ended up impaling their hearts. How many times a death had been turned away with a deceptive tear and another notch on an invisible wall. How many walls had they covered? How many walls were waiting still? How many rooms? What sanctuary remained of their stronghold, built from bones? Were the walls closing in? Clar shrugged again, though not knowing why.
'Intuition. Instinct. Survival.'
Folly.
Clambrithe made no comment. The waves continued to crash. They had always reassured him. Wind ruffling his fur, quietly soothing him. The salt in the air keeping him awake. Every fibre of his being concentrated on his surroundings, but his mind wandered. A battle within himself, a battle he had sworn he had long put behind him. A time had finally come, a time when he had to consider his line of work, the integrity of what he did, the truth behind all the carefully veiled lies. Another question found the tip of his tongue, regardless of his protesting conscience. But his actions, his deviant actions. Always betraying himself, always adhering to the motions and lessons that he had ingrained in his memory. Each action bordering surrealism, each action bringing Clambrithe past frontiers both psychological and bodily. Every movement he made was registered in his dull mind, checked and put away, but never paid attention to. A war of mentalities, the age old battle of logic versus intuition, heart versus mind, was brought to the forefront. His consciousness wavered on three planes, co-existing, detaching the major from everything. It numbed all senses save for those he needed, froze all time and broke all barriers.
'Should I let you go?'
Another crash of brine. Madness. Answers that he needed proof for.
'Would it matter?'
Of course it would matter. Clar's gaze was still fixed on the stars. It always mattered. Every action, every word. They always assumed. It had to matter. If it did not, no one would have died. Not one would have needed to kill or be killed. If it never mattered, nothing would exist. Then again, nothing would die, either.
Clambrithe closed his eyes after another long lapse of silence. Clar was already asleep. Clambrithe considered sleeping with his eyes open. Somehow, he doubted it would affect him. Maybe he already was.
*
Clambrithe opened his eyes more out of habit than choice. Dark skies greeted him, woefully foretelling unfavourable weather. Dawn approached, fog and all. A thick layering of mist rose from the sands, the damp conditions depressing. The human slept soundly next to him. Eyes closed, body relaxed, breathing even. Ignorant of her surroundings. Vulnerable. Inexperienced. Young. How old? A sudden rustling of fabric from nearby, barely noticeable, caused the Long Patroller to tense. Something hiding in the early gloom and fog. The hare stiffened, paw already on his sword. Searats. Clambrithe swerved to the left, an action born more of habit than choice, slitting a waiting neck, snarling as he came up. Two more. The major smiled as the blood dripped off the metal. A feral smile, a demon that he fought to push back. His sword glinted.
Clar woke up to the smell of copper and death. The major was sitting calmly on a large rock, wiping his sword clean with a neutral - there was no other word for it - expression on his face. The sands were red. Three bodies lay around her in their own sort of slumber. Eyes closed. Not born of habit, and neither of choice. The human winced, the gore causing nausea to well at the back of her throat. Clambrithe looked up and at her, nothing - no grief nor pain nor emotion - in his blue-grey eyes.
'We had best get moving.'
Clar stood up. Shaky legs did not support her well enough. She felt the brittle sand contact with her knees as she fell, trying to shut her fascinated eyes.
'Why?' A hoarse question from cold lips. A smile, it must have been a smile, edged around his lips.
'I thought you knew.'
'I do not.'
'Self-preservation.'
*
On the seventh day, they arrived. Clar felt hunted as she finally stepped into the clean-cut corridors of the famed Fire Mountain. Curious eyes, callous eyes, always watching, washed over her. From every corner and every room. She knew that no matter where she walked, haunting, or haunted?, eyes would be following her, always monitoring her. Clambrithe walked ahead with an air of one used to scrutiny and fear.
Is this what he feels like when he goes to places like Redwall?
The human did not know whether to feel chilled or smug. Clambrithe was so much like she assumed he would be, yet somewhat different. Not altogether immune to the ideas that completely idolized yet contradicted his survival as a hare, but then again almost indifferent to the actions that condemned others. The major steered past so many corridors, each housing families, a warmth that Clar knew had not yet been exposed to the reality of their lives. Curious, innocent eyes peered from behind homely doors, badly hidden smiles gracing young features. Not so much younger than her, Clar suspected. Some maybe even older.
Clambrithe pushed her into a large room. The forge. Clar had read enough to know of it. The anvil that had broken in so many pieces of metal, tempering them into blade and armour. Broken in like the owners they went to, a liquid metal hardened like the hearts of each hare that spilt liquid blood. Innocent steel tainted, formed into weapons of war.
Just like them. Pawns in a larger game.
Widepaw stood waiting. Clar felt like a ritualistic sacrifice.
Clambrithe inexplicably felt his body tense. The badger lord did not seem look upon the human favourably, yet there was no trace of malice in his eyes. Then again, Clambrithe knew that, like him, there was rarely anything in the eyes of the badger lord. Eyes revealed too much to be safely allowed to show emotion. He felt his temperament flicker slightly as his eyes, his own long-dead, cold blue eyes flit towards Clar for an instant. Did she have to hide like this? Did everybeast else have to hide the way he did? Did all those humans have to hide? Clambrithe wondered who knew more of his life; the child or himself.
Child. Child or murderer?
At least not a murderer born and bred. At least still a child.
Not like them.
Not like him.
Clambrithe fought the urge to shake his head. Self-pity was not an emotion he needed at the moment. Pity was not an emotion he ever needed, not while he killed, not while he did what he was meant to do. Brought up to do, at any rate. The major was not too sure if there was a difference between the two anymore. So many odd contradictions he never bothered with, his eyes opened to a world he could not see.
Widepaw let his eyes wash over the odd creature in front of him. To her credit, Clar neither faltered nor winced, even though the badger lord noted trembling arms and a tightened jaw. Eyes trained a centimetre past the side of his face, a tactic used to avoid eye contact. She was frightened. She was amongst the Long Patrol, yet she was frightened. Somehow, Widepaw doubted that it was because of guilt. If not for guilt, then for...?
For the Long Patrol, of course. Known killers, known assassins. Openly declaring their duty and decision. Or maybe because of something that she had done. Clambrithe was at her side, a respectful distance away, hovering as he always did. A lithe, anonymous figure, waiting to be called upon. Widepaw turned away from the human and nodded to the major. Clambrithe walked up to him, his smooth, if slightly monotonous, voice retelling the encounter to the badger lord in his usual hushed manner. Widepaw frowned slightly, his mind working to sort out the equations of the problem.
Clambrithe was not confident that his voice had not wavered; this situation irked him more than he wanted to allow. Clar was an aggravation he intended to solve - if not end. Maybe not so much an aggravation but a chance. A chance, a leeway, an opening, a - a... a... a... an opportunity. Something. Anything.
Clambrithe did not know why he felt so desperate, the sudden surge of emotion surprising himself.
Looking past the badger lord's shoulder at the many weapons, Clambrithe found himself hoping that his blade would not spill blood - at least not this once. Blue eyes flickered back to Clar again, finding the human child fidgeting and squirming. Not the blade, then. Something more, for a change. The mindlessness of intuition. Time to return the favour.