The first snows were a soggy thing, and made the damp soil muddy. Winter was the season Fret hated most. Since food was scarce and snows made it hard to travel everybeast flocked to the Abbey. The cottages were emptied and everybeast lived within. That meant that for an entire season he had to endure everyone's near constant gaze. And that wasn't the worst. The Guosim shrews turned up more often than not, and many had given him queer looks. One had even asked loudly who had painted a poor mouse black and white? The jest had fallen flat. The otters never turned up, thankfully. They travelled further south where it was warmer. Badgers, hedgepigs, moles and their annoying accents. And there was no way to avoid any of them. Some like Blind Agatha stayed well away from him, others approached cautiously, but rarely stayed longer than it took for him to snap at something they had said. The abbeybeasts who lived with him tried particularly hard to keep him out of the way, and for that he was glad, but with so many mouths to feed it was hard to focus on one ferret. Connington was swarmed away by others who fancied themselves warriors and Constance was busy with cooking, and cleaning. She was also swarmed away by other mice and mothers. But there were no vermin to swarm him away. It got even worst when the ground hardened into ice and the snow set. And it was on one such day, on the morning of the Great Feast of Winter, that Fret's story truly began.

He was idly flicking the toy, when a great pile of snow fell on top of him. This was followed with laughter. His head broke free of the snow to glare at the usual cast. Matiya clambered down a tree clad in white, and grinned as he admired his work.

"You make a great snowbeast Fret." Momchillo commented, grinning at his own wit.

"Very clever." Fret snapped, climbing out of the snow and shaking himself free, before digging a paw in to retrieve the yo-yo. Then a ball of snow caught him on the side of the head.

"Let us do battle vermin fiend!" The mouse shrieked, Fret threw a pawful of snow into his open mouth.

"No thanks." The ferret responded.

"Aw, why the long face? Cheer up for once matey and you might even enjoy yourself!" Matiya poked him on the nose.

"I don't find getting frozen very enjoyable." And he brushed off the squirrel's paw.

"You'd only be frozen till the feast." Grollo pointed out, throwing a snowball that was aimed for Fret at Matiya. "My dad made pies and soups and cheeses-"

"Your dad is the cook." Fret snapped. "I know he cooks."

"What's that noise?" Momchillo asked, his ears twisting around.

"Your voice." Fret responded dryly. But then he heard it too. It was... Music?

"Dad got friendly with the beer again." Momchillo sighed.

"Those aren't any abbeybeasts. They're the-"

And then Fret could hear the words playing out clearly as the singers approached the doors.

"We're the long patrol." Came the loudest voice, followed by a chorus of roughly twenty voices.

"The Long Patrol, the Long Patrol! Merry old souls, we're the Long Patrol, come one come all, welcome to Redwall. Be ye thin and tall or fat and small, we're the Long Patrol! We serve till we're dead and cold, the wise and old, the young and bold, we're the Long Patrol!"

The doors opened wide as twenty hares marched through, their movements in perfect coordination with the tune.

Matiya stared at them almost worshipfully. "The Long Patrol!" He squealed, overcome with excitement.

Fret was somewhat less excited, but used the opportunity to sneak away from the trio. His last encounter with any famed vermin-fighters was still fresh in his mind. The Skipper almost ran him through with a spear. He shuddered. That had been traumatic. Still the trip had been decent in the end. He had told nobeast about the weasel or the rat, however, they would just come up with their own endings, the way they always did.

He passed Martin's fabled sword and the tapestry. He paused to eye it with disdain. Martin the Warrior, leaning on his blade while a score of vermin fled before him. He snorted. Whoever had made it left out Martin's army, and the dead bodies of both. Somehow he felt that that many vermin would have just flattened the mouse.

"I suppose your magic sword saved your tail." If Fret had a magic sword the first thing he'd do was slice up Matiya's wooden one. But the only magic sword was Martin's and the abbey had had no warrior for generations, and had never had a vermin for one either... Ever. He was almost tempted to take it, to try and spin it around, to prove that he wasn't a vermin... That he was a-

"Ferret." He snarled into his reflection in the sword. "I am that is." The words inscribed on the blade certainly felt different than they must have to Mathias, when the mouse had beaten Cluny the Scourge and saved Redwall. Fret saw them as another cold reminder, forged a thousand seasons past- that he could never be one of them.

"You're just a dead mouse." Fret spat at the still-smiling warrior.

"We're all dead meat in the end. Even if we had a pretty blade."

Fret leapt a foot in the air at the sudden intrusion. The Badgermum was one of the few whose meer presence made him mumble a lot more than snap. "Oh, Miss, I-I didn't mean anything, I was just er-daydreaming is all." He was reminded horribly of the bloodwrath, how some warriors went mad in battle and tore any in their path.

"I am that is." She murmured. "Enjoy the feast." And with that she dismissed him, and he wasted no time leaving. Before he shoved it to the back of his mind he couldn't help thinking that Fret sounded somewhat like ferret.

With nothing better to do, Fret climbed up to the walls, and found himself staring out into space. The land looked neater, he decided, when it was carpetted in snow.

But no neat backdrop could crush his inner turmoil. Everything had gone back to normal after the otter's visit. The back of the class in History, falling asleep at the endless tales of some abbeybeast's great deeds. Abbot Martin was softer, that much was true, but that didn't stop him from giving Fret the harder questions. The only difference was that the mouse encouraged him to study harder, and even helped out from time to time. But no matter what Abbot Martin tried Fret was heavily reminded that he didn't fit in.

One ferret, scores of mice, shrews, squirrels... And he was the only ferret. He was different, too different. Yet what was so different about him that nobeast wanted anything to do with him? What was the wall between him and everybeast? His snapping? His laziness? He shook his head clear, he was a ferret...he just had to accept that. And after him... The rest of the abbey.

It was dark, and snow covered Mossflower Woods as Sharpfur leaned against a tree, waiting for his friend. He didn't have to wait for very long, as the rat fell on him a moment later, sniffing the air with his madly-twitching nose.

"Do you smell that?" The rat asked.

"All I smell is you." The weasel responded, wriggling loose of his companion's girth.

"It's like... Vittles!" The rat grinned so wide you could count his teeth. Greyclaw fell on all fours, his nose leading the way.

"It better be!" Sharpie snapped, following anyways.

The feast had separated him from Fret and Constance most wonderfully. Constance was dining with the ladies, laughing at their jokes and passing dishes around. Connington was seated opposite the Log-a-log and the Long Patrol. Fret he could not see, and hoped dearly that he was behaving and being treated properly in turn.

"And how come you ain't the abbey warrior Connie?" The grizzled, one eyed hare looked a monster, yet was more mannered then half. "A magic sword- someone ought to swing it, wot."

Connington smiled sadly. "Alas, I prefer shorter swords, and ones that aren't magic. Ghosts are frightening."

The hares hooted at this and banged the table. The shrew looked disappointed.

"Tis too large for a shrew matey, and too small for any these hares. You'd best start swinging it soon."

"In times of peace the abbey needs no warrior." The small mouse dismissed, in truth guilt kept the sword out of reach... Forever out of reach.

"Peace, eh? I don't want to frighten you mouse, but I'm afraid peace won't last long. I've heard that vermin are banding together in great numbers, flocking to the lands of Always Winter. We might well have a fight on our paws before next snow!"

"Good! I haven't had a good fight in years!" The one eyed hare joked, then pointed at the hole in his head. "I still need to repay the favour."

The small mouse felt his stomach churn, and even as the talk turned elsewhere he couldn't help but worry. If war with vermin was imminent, what became of the vermin within Redwall?

"I don't think we should be here." Grey gulped as he stood in the shadow of the abbey's red walls.

"Nonsense! Ghosts can't harm us coz we're not grownups yet, anyhow we have my dirk."

Grey sighed with relief.

"Now, to vittles and beyond! Grey, sniff it out!" And the weasel tossed his dirk into the air, watching the blade glint in the darkness.

It was as Grollo had promised. Every table was piled with so much food it was a wonder they didn't break. And yet Fret was not hungry. He sat, slumped and bored out of his wits, next to him was a little shrew of the Guosim, who seemed positively frightened of him. Opposite him, positively pigging out behind a mountain of food, was Grollo. Momchillo was on his other side, laughing uproariously at a young hare sharing there table.

"For the night is dark and full of turnips!" He yelled, stabbing into a turnip with his fork. "We must pray for some carrots!" And he wiggled his long ears. Everyone except Fret laughed. "So fellow youngsters, when we are all as big as we can be, what do we desire? What shall we use ourselves as? A dibbun must plan ahead, no?"

"I'm going to be the greatest abbey warrior ever!" Matiya exclaimed, stabbing a turnip himself.

"I'll just cook stuff." Grollo shrugged, before diving back into his dinner.

"He who leaves his destiny undecided is the wisest of them all." Momchillo tried to quote something Abbot Martin had once told them.

"I'm going to be the Log-a-log!" The shrew squeaked.

"And what about you?" It took the ferret a while to realize he was the one being spoken to.

"I'm going to sleep." He snapped instinctively. Had the hare been implying something?

"Fret here is the number one spy in the abbey." Momchillo said seriously.

"Aye, you'd think he's a mouse more often than not." The table laughed at what he thought was a pathetic excuse for a joke. Deciding that he could distract himself with food he reached for a baked apple as big as him. Only for the hare to snatch it away and start juggling it along with a turnip and a carrot. He was also singing, though so horrendously Fret did not hear the words.

"Are you actually a ferret or are you an otter painted like one? You know, like the Mask." The shrew asked innocently.

Fret felt an eye twitch in annoyance. "I'm a ferret."

"You see, an impressive spy. You never know what he is. I swore yesterday he was a rat." Matiya joked.

Fret reached for a bowl of soup. Just as the turnip fell inside, throwing the contents of the bowl over Fret and the shrew. The Guosim boy shrieked with laughter and licked the his fur. Fret though, was scowling.

"You did that on purpose." The ferret accused.

"I did not!" Scoffed the hare. "Besides, you look better now."

"Aye and much tastier." Matiya added.

The table laughed once more, but Fret was not amused. He left the table after that, leaving a trail of creamy soup behind him. He heard laughter, and was sure it was directed at him. He left the hall, hot and angry.

Grey had sniffed out a miniature dent in the wall, and had dug in, sniffing madly, leaving Sharpfur to toss his blade into the air as he waited for the vittles to show up.

The snow was cleared to form a path towards the wall. It was dark and cold, but Fret liked it better than the Hall and all the laughter. He was just a joke, as usual. The joke, the vermin. He kicked at a pile of snow and sat on the edge of the wall. It was cold and freezing and he was sure the soup was freezing over him. He should probably be getting back... He was about to leave when he spotted a bright glint in the moonlight. He leant forwards, and almost slipped over the edge.

"Careful Fret." Came Matiya's voice, as the squirrel caught him by the back of his habit and pulled him back. "You ought to be more careful, you almost fell right off."

"I didn't!" Fret snapped automatically. He shivered and pulled himself free of Matiya's grip, turning to leave.

"Why are you always in such a bad mood?" The squirrel shot back as Fret turned to leave. "Was it something I said?"

Fret paused. Did this squirrel honestly have no idea what he put him through? No! He was just pretending! "It was a lot of things you've done!" Fret snapped.

"A couple of jokes? Pshaw, what's wrong with you? Learn to laugh a little. Tibbers got as much soup on him as you did, and he didn't run off crying about it."

"I wasn't crying. And he doesn't have to deal with stuff like this every day!"

"Stuff like what?"

"Like you! Like being vermin! Like being a liar! You've lied so many times to get me in trouble, but I'm the liar. Nobeast's as hated as me and you're asking what I go through?" Fret exploded, the emotions he had surpressed since the trip with the otters came boiling to the surface.

"Hated?" The squirrel looked confused. "Nobeast hates you." The squirrel's response came to him like slap to the face.

"The Skipper tried to run me through! You and Momchillo and Grollo hate me just for existing!"

"Hate you? We don't hate y-"

"Liar! Liar liar liar liar liar!" Fret yelled, his voice echoing in the darkness.

"Fret..."

"Go back to your feast." Fret finished, in a quieter voice, spinning on his heel and walking away.

Matiya stood there, the same confusion painted on his face.

Fret was seething as all the memories came rushing into him. He was Slagar the Cruel and Cluny the Scourge. They didn't hate him? He almost laughed out loud. Nobeast loved him. Where was Constance? Where was Connington? Love! Now he did laugh. They hated him, why did everyone go out of their way to pretend they didn't? Something else glinted in the darkness, and he hated it. If not for that stupid glint he wouldn't have exploded.

His momma loved him. Connington liked him. But he was just too different for all the rest. The hare's question rung through his mind... What would he do when he was older?

"I'll be a ferret." He snarled, peaking over the wall in search of the maddening glint. Then he slipped on an icy ridge, and fell right off, his habit tore against a parparet and, arms flailing madly, he screamed into the cold, empty night.

As tempting as it was to follow the sound of music, Grey knew better. Where there was music there was people, and although the vittles' smelled the strongest from a grand hall, he followed another scent, down a flight of stairs, past a shiny sword and a fancy tapestry, and into a smoking hot kitchen. His jaw fell slack at the sight of all the food. He licked his chops, rubbed his paws, and jumped right in.

Matiya walked back into the feast room feeling a lot less jovial.

"He's not sore about the soup is he?" The hare asked, sounding somewhat guilty.

"No... He just needs... To think." The ferret's face was yelling into his own. Was he lying? He had never thought much about Fret, aside from him being queer, and snappy... But hate was putting it strongly. They weren't mates exactly, but Fret had grown up with them. They couldn't hate him. And they didn't.

"Nevertheless I shall go apologise!" The hare exclaimed. "He's in the cellar?"

"The wall."

"Thought so!" And the hare skipped off.

"Is he really a ferret in Redwall?" The shrew called Tibbers asked. "Aren't they mostly rotten."

"I've never met another ferret." Momchillo pointed out. "But Fret's just grumpy, not rotten."

"Normally he eats a lot." Grollo commented. "But he's a bit messy."

"He's just as rotten as you are shrew." Momchillo summarised. "Though somewhat less apetizing."

And again they laughed.

"Ferret!" The hare whistled loudly. "Here ferrety ferrety Frettie! Aw, come on matey, don't be a spoilsport! It was my mistake. I swear you may soak me in any dish you like-so long as it's not that otterly spicy one. Here ferrety, ferrety, Frettie!" But nobeast replied. He hopped around the wall, and found no hair nor hide of him.

"Constance dear, there's some pie down in the kitchens. Could you get them for me?"

Glad for an excuse to leave the hall, she nodded. The music was pounding her ears wildly, and she had already stuffed herself silly. Talking was entertaining and all, but she had to surpress a yawn one too many times. She hoped Fret was alright, and would have checked on him, but found no way to do so without leading him to some form of humiliation. She passed the sword of Martin the Warrior and the tapestry and smiled. The mouse's spirit guided them all.

She proceeded further down to the kitchens and heard a clatter as something fell to the floor. Probably the cook, that hedgepig was always a clumsy one.

"Excuse me, Brother-" But she found herself staring...not at any cook, but at a head, poking out of a half-eaten pie.

The rat gulped the pie. "Hullo." He said nervously, waving a paw at her.

The eyes... The tail... She placed a paw over her heart, and stumbled backwards, falling on her back with a loud clatter.

Grey Claw gulped, and heard doors opening and closing. "Constance! Do you have that pie?"

And he raced away, barging out the other door.

"Constance?" Rosebrush, Momchillo's mother, a brown mouse, poked her head from the door, and gasped at the sight. "Somebeast help! Something's happened to her!"