Finally, the next installment! I know, I know, it's WAY too short, my apologies. I could massacre you with my "reasons" for not making this longer and getting it out sooner, but you would probably skare your heads, roll your eyes, and mutter "Excuses, excuses" under your breath. So, I'm cutting the crap and getting right to the story! Thanks again everyone for your great support! Please RR!

Riverdoe: I'm pretty sure that Polleekin lives inside the trunk of the tree, not on the limbs itself, so she would be able to have a bed inside the trunk, like Azalea. And as for the hare thing, you've just given me a fanfabulous idea! Thanks so much!

Disclaimer: For the umpteenth time, I don't own Redwall, just the plot of this story. Brian Jacques is the Almighty Owner of Redwallish-ness. I also don't own the lyrics to the song Passive, A Perfect Circle does.

February 2, 2005

Chapter 11

Azalea sat next to the haversacks and canteens, taking in her surroundings. They weren't too far into the forest, and the foliage was only fairly dense. The forest path wasn't due east as they were traveling, so they abandoned it and made their way through the undergrowth. The chipmunk had been very careful about leaving a trail, so they tread carefully and tried not to upset any fallen branches. She had doubted they were being followed until Irritar, or whatever the name of the tree rat was, appeared. She could only hope her friends were giving him a good thrashing.

Azalea was nibbling on an oatcake when Martin and Donovan emerged from behind a rather large oak tree. She smiled when she saw them. "So, did ya use the ol' 'knock 'em out, tie 'em up' method, eh?"

Donovan chuckled as he watched Martin guiltily wipe his blood-stained blade on the grass. "Well, your pal Martin here had a better idea."

Azalea noticed the culpable mouse as well. "Aw, Martin, ya great bully! You just had to run him through, didn't ya?"

The warrior shrugged his shoulders. "Well, instinct just took over, I guess."

"No matter," Azalea replied as she passed around a canteen of cold mint tea, "it was just a tree rat anyways. We'd better get a move on, though, yes we should."

Martin wiped his lips with his shirt sleeve. "Let's head out, friends."

The ocean's salty water sloshed against the high, rocky cliffs three and a half days from the travelers. A beautiful, but very strong-looking squirrel sat on the edge of one of the cliffs and stared out at the sea of sparkling green and blue. She was cross-legged, handling a soft, blue feather. The feather was a symbol of everything that mattered to her in the world. Her husband, a warrior like herself, wore a feather just like the one she was holding in his headband. They had found it when they were walking along the same beach that was below her. It was floating along the breeze, as if wandering until it found a suitable resting place.

"Look at this feather here," her husband, Donovan, said suddenly. "I bet it would look just stunning in your fur."

She had laughed, and stuck it in her tail fur. It did indeed look stunning, but every time she made the smallest movement, the feather would fall out. "Oh, dear," she said, "I don't want to lose it. Here, put it in your headband!" She stood and placed it in the Indian-style headband of the dark furred squirrel.

"It does stay put quite well," her husband said rather sadly, "but now you won't have it with you all the time."

"I know," she replied, "but every time I look at it on you, it will remind me of this moment."

The squirrel sat silently, embracing the scene that played through her mind. The couple decided to settle and start a family right on the cliffs above that beach. Soon, others began to settle there as well. Keeping to their culture, they created a tribe. Days turned to weeks, which turned into seasons. But something was missing from their lives, until the birth of their first child.

"We'll name him Blauveer," the female squirrel said when she cradled the small being in her arms. "It means 'blue feather' in an old language my father used to teach me as a child. It can be after that blue feather that started it all."

Yes, the single blue feather that started it all. It started their tribe, their community, their closely knit circle of friends. Luella didn't know how she could make it without her wonderful friends. They were definitely more like family to her. And her husband, Donovan. Every time she looked at that feather in his headband, she couldn't help but think of the time she first laid eyes on her one true love. And her sweet child, Blauveer. Her first and only kin, a picture of laughter and strength. He was a born warrior, just like his parents, and destined to become great. Alas, his life was cut short by a tragic accident that left his parents in vain.

As Luella stared at the small feather in her paws, she felt the sudden amazement at the symbolism in such a simple object. Love, happiness, discovery, laughter, courage, strength, despair, hatred, loneliness. Loneliness was what she felt right now. She didn't have her son anymore, and her husband had left claiming he 'needed some alone time'. The squirrel couldn't blame him, however. He was taking Blauveer's death even harder than she was. He felt some how responsible for the accident, as if he had a choice in the future. And her friends, once so close and comforting, now felt distant. Maybe it was just a phase.

The loneliness surrounded Luella that bright day. She felt as lonely as the solitary feather in her paws. As lonely as the single tear running down her cheek.

"This looks like a good spot to set up camp," Martin stated as he let down the sack slung across his shoulder. "It's got shelter and it's secluded enough so we're pretty safe from being noticed."

The mouse and his friends were inspecting a small area in the forest that was surrounded by ferns and under a very large maple tree. If it rained, they wouldn't get too wet, and all the foliage would conceal them from passerby. The sun had set and crickets were out. Martin and his traveling buddies were exhausted.

"Well, it seems like we've covered a bit of ground, yes it does," Azalea said, as she arranged a quick supper for the trio. "Only three more days and we should be at the location of Donno's tribe, yup yup."

The dark squirrel's eyes looked away from Azalea's and showed a sudden emptiness. He shook it off, and took a swig of water. "Aye, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can figure out this bloody riddle. My wife is quite good at 'em."

"I'd take another glance at the damned thing if I wasn't so tired," Martin replied. "I'm going to get some shuteye."

One by one, the friends finished their suppers and bedded down for the night. The air was filled with gentle snoring and a certain chipmunk's sleepy murmurings.

It was well into the moonlit night that Martin had a dream. The Warriormouse was walking along an old, dusty path. On either side of the path were endless fields of tall, dead grass tinted with different shades of nasty orange and brown. Swamps dotted the area, muddy and oozing about. Not a sound could be heard, not even a bird singing or crickets chirping. The wind even seemed to be on holiday. Martin looked about, taking in his foreign surroundings. A smell of decaying flesh reached his nostrils and almost caused him to retch. Small red pools were scattered about, marking the graves of fallen victims. The entire place looked a picture of death. It appeared to shout to Martin that nothing could live there, and nothing ever would.

As Martin walked along the deserted road, and spotted a figure lying near another one of those disgusting swamplands. He felt himself rushing towards it, thinking that it might be a dying creature. If he got there in time, he might be able to help him, save him. Martin reached the limp body. He rolled it over, and found himself staring at the agonized face of Badrang. The mouse went numb with fear. He had killed Badrang, he was sure of it.

Despite his pain, the tyrant smiled back into the shocked face of the warrior. His eyes were cold and hollow, almost lifeless. They looked like swirling yellow and black pits in his skull.

'Dead as dead can be' my doctor tells me. But I just can't believe him, ever the optimistic one.

What was with Martin lately? He could hear voices inside his head, yet the creature who was talking had perfectly still lips. And those creatures were either himself, or dead. And what the hell was Badrang talking about? His doctor told him he was dead. Of course he was dead, Martin had killed him. But Badrang didn't accept the fact…?

I'm sure of your ability to become my perfect enemy.

Martin didn't like one bit of this. Martin was Badrang's perfect enemy, but why was the chanting being done only in Martin's head. Why was he even here?

Wake up, and face me. Don't play dead, 'cause maybe someday I will walk away and say, 'You disappoint me.' Maybe you're better off this way.

Martin began to panic. What does it mean Badrang was disappointed in Martin? Did the stoat really want the mouse to rule Marshank with him? His mind was going in circles. Badrang was the one dying, or playing dead, or whatever, not Martin.

Leaning over you here, cold and catatonic, catch a brief reflection of what you could and might have been.

That was it! That was exactly it! Everything was backwards here. Badrang saw himself as leaning over a dying Martin, having fought him to his death. Badrang had really wanted Martin as a warrior for his army, and, obviously, Martin would have nothing of it. Now, instead of being a supporter, Martin was now the stoat's enemy.

It's your right, and your ability, to become my perfect enemy.

But things still weren't making sense. Why was everything happening backwards? And what was Martin doing on this road of death? A sudden, terrorizing thought came into Martin's already paranoid mind. Was he on the path that leads to the Gates of Dark Forest?

Wake up and face me. Don't play dead, 'cause maybe someday I will walk away and say 'You disappoint me.' Maybe you're better off this way.

No matter where he was, the mouse wasn't sticking around to find out. He started running in the same direction he had come from. A dying Badrang slowly stood, brandishing Luke's sword. Martin ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Chancing a look, he glanced backwards to find a still sadistically smiling stoat hot on his heels. For being dead, Badrang could run pretty fast, Martin thought.

Go ahead and play dead. I know that you can hear this.

Martin stumbled, and tried to get back up onto his feet as quick as he could. When he looked up, a dark figure was standing several feet in front of him.

Go ahead and play dead. Why can't you turn and face me?

Martin thought the figure must be another creature that had died in his past.

Why can't you turn and face me?

His eyes connected with steely eyes of a warrior.

Why can't you turn and face me?

Those eyes belonged to a warrior, but not one that had died in his past. This creature was very much in Martin's present.

Why can't you turn and face me?

Martin was frozen with an icy fear. Donovan stood over him, an evil smile playing across his lips, with a large bow in his arms; the string stretched as far back as it would go. The bow was fully loaded, and the arrow was pointing straight as Martin's unprotected skull.

You f- disappoint me!