Writer's Note: This is a tale of love and circumstance and a bit of twisted conflict...that I really didn't expect to turn into anything, but somehow it did. Special thanks for Fidge forpreviewing,editing, and coming up with the warlord's name. Enjoy!

The Next Page: A Redwall Love Story

From the heart is where the most despicable and vile creatures emerge, and it is from the heart that the beasts of courage and valor come. Strangely enough, it is where love comes from, and love is the most powerful of all.

• • •

"So is this love?"

Liz spun on her heel, her hard look completely loaded and aimed at Mark.It was a look that could make the average person run. Mark was past being an average person in her life, so he only took a step back. He feared he would become an average person again, and that was what made him keep his ground. He knew what was coming.

"Mark, that is not even a real question. Love does not even exist. And if, for an improbable reason, it existed—between us, it is not even a factor."

She stalked down one of the aisles, and Mark, unperturbed, followed. He attempted not to think of the words said. Not just her last statement, but all the statements said in the past few hours. It was scary to think it had been a few hours, and they were still talking (whispering, actually; it was a library after all). When a relationship is declared over, it hopefully happens quickly and with as little pain as possible, sorta like death, except death involves less pain. Instead of the situation, Mark tried to focus on his surroundings. Books with millions of titles blurred by as he kept up with Liz's long strides. He was not going to give up.

This would keep going forever, he realized, if he kept following and composing lines that would never work to fix this. All his words were turning into clichés, gushing into the air. The headache burning at the edges of his consciousness wasn't helping.

Before he knew exactly what he was doing, he took her arm.

• • •

What did he think he was doing? It was over, and she did not want to deal with this anymore, and if she had to look him in the eyes one more time, she...

She did not know what she would do. Her feelings were mussed up in some bubbling bog of discontent, and there was no way of figuring anything out past the junk. She was having trouble thinking, period. She was wandering aimlessly through this library with somebody following her everywhere.

Mark was not just a 'somebody', some voice within corrected her.

The building was getting oppressive now; after row after row of books, she did not know where they were anymore. A glance at the wall revealed it to be the children's literature series section, not that it mattered.

She took a breath and turned to Mark. "This is over. We agree that we don't know what we feel and that this is...uncomfortable. We can't continue this."

"But I..."

"Listen," Liz hissed, "I know what I feel. I like you...that is all. Nothing more, nothing less."

"That's all that's needed." His grasped her other arm, so that they were fully facing each other. Liz was having some doubts now, looking at him, at his long face, at those cheerful eyes, at that short brown hair. She averted her gaze to the bookshelf, along the titles, and it settled on a certain series.

"Redwall..." It was Mark who said it; he must have followed her gaze, "Heh, I read that series."

"So did I," she said, squinting at the titles, the binding worn and cracked under the laminated surface. "I loved those stories." She had spent hours in a secret nook, fading into that fantasy world of animal characters.

"So did I."

Why were they reflecting on childhood books? Liz wondered.

Mark was sinking his face into her hair.

She struggled to back away.

Mark was doing nothing wrong; he had done that before, but it was just not the time, when they were trying to break up. As she stepped back from the Mark's contact, she tripped; whether on the carpet, or a fallen book, she didn't know. She tripped, and Mark, his hands on her arms, tried to catch her, and instead fell with her.

Then there was a sensation, as if falling backwards into an unknown drop, not knowing when she would meet the ground. The drab glow of the buzzing florescent lights blurred, and the books melted away. A rush upon the skin, as if encountering frigid water, and the feeling of coming apart and coming back together at the same time—a very long blink and a breath.

And then it was raining. The water showered down over leaves uncountable in a cascade of sound, filling the dark that submerged the forest. Rain covered almost as much as the inky black of night, and it glistened from vague, ethereal moonlight that filtered through fleeting gaps between thunderheads. And on the forest floor shadowy masses swirled together, struggling against each other in urgency and confusion until one of the wet shadows kicked away the other, into the trunk of a thin oak tree. The impact shook the tree to its branches and sent a downpour of water upon them. Under a canopy of leaves, water fell everywhere around them anyway, where they lay in the foliage.

"Ow, my head," the shadowy beast that was Mark groaned, rolling over the wet grass onto his back. As he said the words, it didn't feel right; it was as if his mouth was not moving the right way, as if his tongue were not the same. He grasped this throat, and slowly felt his tongue across his teeth. There was something odd here. Disorientation submerged him as he sat up and tried to catch sight of Liz. Movement of his limbs even felt odd, and there was a tugging feeling somewhere, but he couldn't figure where.

Liz was going through a similar experience after kicking Mark off her: a sudden sense of awareness of her surroundings. Rushing in at her were details and information, all with some importance. When the shadow rose that she had kicked off her, a sensation to run came. Everything was telling her this was bad, that she needed to escape. She couldn't see, she couldn't hear past the storm, but she could smell something that didn't fit. Smell? How could she smell something wrong? Her attention was focused on the figure, who she knew to be Mark, who she knew to be something bad. She wanted to grasp him in an embrace; she wanted to flee from him.

The thunder crashed. The lightning flashed. Hearts froze at what the white flash showed. The image glowed in their eyes, fading into the wet darkness.

"Liz..." Mark tried to say. The word sounded foreign—in the same voice, yet different. "Is that...? I don't..."

Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed.

The buzz in Liz's mind was unbearable, pulling her in different ways. Unknown thoughts welled up within her.

Mark managed to get to his feet, shifting his...tail...to do so. He didn't know what he had seen, what he was, where he was.

Crash. Flash.

The red squirrel was away into the trees, dashing across the branches and through the leaves, gone into the darkness before the lightning faded away.

The weasel stood alone on the forest floor, staring off in the direction she had gone, letting his fur become saturated by the still falling rain.

• • •

Liz awoke in a cold sweat, half delirious. She found herself under the covers of a bed in an unfamiliar room. A headache pounded at the back of her head, and her stomach felt nauseous. She glanced about the room curiously, trying to remember what had happened, but her fevered mind was not letting her uncover any answers. All she knew now was that she was tucked in up to her neck in bed covers, and there was a sweet smell mixed with the zest of spices floating in the air. She took another breath and relished the wafts of fragrance.

Carefully, she sat up in the bed, rubbing her eyes, and then paused. She pulled her hands away from rubbing to see them; they were not exactly hands. She glanced down from her 'hands' to her arm and saw fur.

She decided she should be panicking by now. She kept delaying it, even as she exited the covers and noticed the difference in her legs and face and bushy tail. Tail?

And then the vole entered.

"Deary me, miss, you're awake!" the vole maid exclaimed in surprise. "We were worried 'bout you last night, comin' to our gates so cold and wet. Nothin' a bit of dryin' and rest couldn't fix. Thank Martin you're well now." The vole fussed with Liz's smock, straightened it, and attempted to flatten the fur on her head. "Now, if you're up to it, I'll just pretty you up a bit and present you to the rest. They're all quite curious. If we hurry we can catch some lunch before Skipper's holt can tuck it all."

Liz was beyond speaking; she was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she had a tail. The vole took no notice of Liz's befuddlement as she pulled out a modest dress from a wardrobe.

"Now this shall bring out your features, dearie. Just slip this on and oh, dearie, I quite forgot to ask—what's your name?"

Liz stared from the strange bluish dress, to the vole's kindly face, to the room. The soft light shimmered off the redstone walls and the homely features; she felt as if she would faint, or wake up, at any time.

"Elizabeth," she finally heard herself say. "Yes, Elizabeth."

• • •

"Markus," Mark stated in a level, dazed voice.

The fox wrote this on the parchment on his desk. Mark could hear the quill scratch out the name, and he could even smell the wet ink; he smelled many other things too, though he could not yet place them. He would have called it sensory overload, if it was actually overflowing his senses. Actually, it seemed that his senses had refined in order to take more information in.

This made sense, since he knew officially he was now a weasel—as the fox warlord, Velaren, was now writing on the paper.

"What is your business in Mossflower Country?"

Mark could only shrug; his mind was focused on the details of the tent, the maps strung at one side, weaponry on the other, the armor just behind the Velaren 's chair, the oddly formal attire of the fox. Considering the grimy appearance of the rest of the beasts in this camp, it was a notable contrast.

Velaren tapped his claws upon the table impatiently. "Markus is an interesting name for a weasel," he said.

Mark's ears perked up, and he noted Velaren had temporarily skipped the previous question. He wasn't sure how to respond to this one, so he shrugged again.

"You are not from around these parts, I see. You appear fidgety, as though you are confused and lost."

"No, I'm not from around here exa—"

"Flinch, I give any beast I meet a choice: either you contribute to my horde, or you contribute to my fur coat." The fox presented a cloak to Markus's view, made up of the pelts of various creatures. His stomach suddenly felt hollow.

"So, Flinch, what is your choice?" Velaren asked, a grin, evil incarnated into a smile, slipping across his features.

Markus blinked, not fully catching that he was now 'Flinch', his mind reeling in a profound fear of the fox. So this was a warlord.

"I'll...be in your...horde," Markus managed.

"Welcome, Flinch. I am sure that this shall be an...educating experience for both of us."

• • •