87. Epilogue: A Few Moons Later.

Kethra heard resounding cracks of an axe chopping through wood well before seeing Suran's new dwelling. Southsward winters were much milder than what she had to live through on Ergaph. Many of the locals even used nothing but brushwood and small sticks to warm their houses and burrows. But Suran clearly did not approve of this custom.

Suran stopped, and with one last strike lodged his axe in the thick wooden chunk on which he was chopping up smaller pieces, when he noticed her approach. The fox stripped himself to the waist for the sweat-inducing work. Now he was breathing heavily, small clouds of steam issuing from his mouth. With his left paw, he adjusted the strip of cloth, tying together the three unmoving fingers on his right. With the barely-moving thumb, Suran could sort of use his right paw for some clumsier tasks, though Kethra suspected that something like helping to strike hard wood with it was quite painful.

"This humble fox greets our great chieftain at his humble burrow."

"Oh, cut it off. And hello," Kethra looked around. "Your burrow is not humble, by the way."

Gwynfren Squirrelking settled his new subjects on a patch of land at the southwest of his country, with sea at one side, and swamps crawling with reptiles forming the land border. Outside of their territory toads and lizards were supposed to be little more than annoyance, but enough to make some of the woodlanders living here abandon their homes. Others ran away or went to join the Squirrelking's army during the war, and many of the survivors decided to start new lives in quieter places, so the land was now almost entirely free, but not completely wild – there were some fields, even if mostly overgrown, and dwellings, even if mostly in disrepair. Suran, as second in stature only to Kethra herself, got a fairly expansive underground dwelling, under the roots of a great beech tree that could be restored to living condition relatively quickly, at least if its inhabitants tried. To Kethra's continuing surprise, Suran did try.

"Better get your cloak at least, frost and famine, Suran, the closest friendly healer may well be in Castle Floret." Kethra avoided mentioning the fact that Suran was not young anymore, apparent from streaks of grey in his fur.

"Now, you cut it off. Do you think I need a nanny, eh? As if the three prophesised reasons to despise myself weren't enough…" But the fox did as he was told even though he kept muttering under his nose.

"Wasn't Amber prophecy's false? She must have been just tricking you out of spite."

Suran laughed. "False? As if. All my life I thought I'd sooner die that be unable to fight, and now look at me. All my life I thought I'd sooner die than be some hard-working sweaty farmer, and now look at me."

As he spoke, the wooden board that for now served as a door, blocking the entrance into the burrow, was moved aside, and Silverbrush looked out. By her looks, the vixen could be expected to give birth any day now. "Suran? Oh, Kethra, greetings. Come in, you both, the lunch is hot."

"One moment, dear." For a moment Kethra could swear that Suran's face contorted in an ugly expression for a faction of a second when he looked upon his wife, but the fox' voice was jovial. He looked at Kethra, and continued quietly enough that only she could hear. "And all my life I thought I rather die than… be a family beast. Instead of following my heart, you know. But now look at me. All that's left is to slowly rot from age and illness, then the joke of fates will be complete."

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On this clear winter evening Ewalt was standing on the western wall of the Redwall Abbey, watching the windswept plain, the distant forest, its great canopies covered by snow instead of leaves, and the low mountain ridge which separated Mossflower from the coastal country around Salamandastron – an endless expanse of pristine white with streaks and patches of black, under the pastel red sky. This winter season promised to be even harsher than the previous one, but inhabitants of Redwall had little to fear, for their thick walls kept them safe from icy winds and storms, and everything needed to live though the cold days was stockpiled in abundance. Even actual brothers and sisters of Redwall enjoyed some respite from their labors for now, while those woodlanders of Mossflower, falling ill in severe cold, or finding themselves too poorly prepared to survive the winter, were not yet flooding the Abbey. Honored guests of Redwall could rest as much as they wanted.

Rowanbloom walked quietly, and there were sounds of beasts, old and young, reaching the walltop from the Abbey grounds, for most creatures of Redwall were happy to play or just stroll outside on this beautiful day, with no fear of frost – they knew that hot fireplaces and hot dinners will be there to banish any chill from their bones. But still, Ewalt turned towards her as soon as she appeared on the wall.

After spending some weeks at Redwall, the warrior mouse looked healthier, no longer so thin and ragged. In his heavy winter clothing with the cowl, that covered his torn ear, he could almost be mistaken for a peaceful Abbey creature.

"What a beautiful view," Rowanbloom said as she approached. "Though it is even more beautiful in summer, you'll see."

"Not as beautiful as this," Ewalt gave a nod towards the main Abbey building.

Rowanbloom looked in that direction. She saw Weitla, ruffled in pretend anger, as she helped a couple of Abbeysisters to herd unruly dibbuns inside, Selvathy, laughing, as she tried to keep up with Redwall otters, skating on the ice of the Abbey's pond, and Smalltooth – he preferred to be called Snowpaw now, but Rowanbloom still used his former name in her thoughts – in his winter fur, as pure and beautiful as snow itself cheering Selvathy up in the company of younger Redwallers, whose liking of the stories he told quickly overcame their understandable wariness.

"I remember," Ewalt spoke, as Selvathy looked in their direction, and Rowanbloom waved her paw to her. "I remember Suran once saying that he was just not born for a quiet, peaceful life. At least in that we're different completely."

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Abbess Chamomile watched like a hawk for any sign of disorder as she walked through the long gallery, where the great tapestry of Redwall was hanging. But there seemed to be none. There was no dirt or litter, no draft from cold-proofed big windows, no mold or cobwebs anywhere, the tapestry looked just fine. And the Sword of Martin again was at its usual place, resting on iron hangers beneath the tapestry. Leriann, son of Belk, who took up his father's duty as the Abbey Warrior, refused to carry it, when no real danger to Redwall or other pressing need was anywhere in sight.

Though Chamomile was an entirely unwarlike creature, she stopped for a moment to admire the beauty of the legendary weapon, elegant from its glinting sharp point, to the great red stone, forming its pommel.

Then her heart skipped a beat. For a moment it appeared to her, as if there was a tiny, nearly unnoticeable scratch on the metal holding the red stone. But that was an obvious impossibility, for everybeast knew, that even a direct lightning strike could not damage the ancient blade in the slightest! She looked closer, and shook her head. Of course, her eyes and uncertain evening illumination must have played a trick on her. Sighing in relief, she resumed her rounds. Even as some things changed, some things always remained the same, and Martin's eternal vigil was one of the latter.