Sleep was such a blissful thing, thought Fret as he tried to delve back into the world of dreams. It had been a nice dream. He couldn't remember it, but it had been nice. Something to do with cheese...

"Fret! Fret are you awake?" His mother called.

No! He wanted to snap, but snapping would only make it all the more clear that he was wide-awake and his usual self. He just wanted five more minutes... with the cheese dream preferably.

"Fret? Get up! It's the Feast Day!"

Fret let out a groan so loud he was sure she had heard and climbed out of bed. He hated feasts, not because of the food-no he liked that, what he hated were the endless stares he got, as if everyone expected him to start jumping up and down waving a butterknife like a longsword. It was the one day each season where he couldn't avoid anyone. Where everyone was together for 'fun and merriment', while reminding him that he didn't belong in not-so-subtle ways. It reminded him that he was not one of them and never would be, no matter what his nuncle said or what his mother did.

"Fret are you awake?" He was now torn between answering honestly and diving back under his blankets. Each feast up until now he tried to blend in, but he had decided after the last time that it wasn't worth pretending. He was not an abbey-dweller, he was a ferret. But he was not vermin. No, vermin stole and looted and killed and murdered, Fret was just lazy...and a liar...and could use table manners...

"Fret?" Her voice was coming closer, she was going to check on him. He had to make his decision now!

He pounced back under his blankets, or rather attempted to. He jumped too hard and hit the head-rest just as his mother walked in.

Constance was big for a mouse, everyone said so, and it was so. She was tall, and more muscled than even the legendary Martin. Her fur was soft and brown. Presently she looked worried. "Are you alright?"

Unfortunately, he was in no position to fake sleep, so rubbing his head he answered that he was 'fine'. The last thing he wanted was to be molly-coddled where everyone could see. This had the opposite effect he wanted.

"Are you sure? That jump looked mighty painful." Constance was also the only person who he couldn't lie to. Somehow, she just saw right through him. She stopped grinning and gave him a worried look. "The feast's not so bad."

"Yeah." Fret agreed. "The food is good." Just nothing else.

"It's not going to be like last time."

"No." It's going to be worse.

"You'll try your best to not draw attention to yourself."

"Obviously." And have everyone stare at you anyways because you were trying to avoid attention.

"This time it's going to be great!"

"Yes." If great meant being humiliated and/or punished, than yes, yes it was going to be amazing.

"I mean, everyone's more or less used to you. And it's not like anyone new is coming. I mean we do this every season-"

At that moment Jon Connington burst into the room, looking like he had just run all the way from the abbey. They lived in the gatehouse, and he probably had, to be fair.

"Bad news! Skip's coming."

"He came last season and we didn't have any problems with him." Constance said. The first time he had come was five seasons ago and well...

*Flashback*

"That is my son you cretin! Point another sharp object at him and you will wish you were sorry!" Constance shouted, her fist repeatedly colliding with the otter's nose, while Connington watched from the background making awkward, half-hearted gestures of interference."

*Flashback*

"No, not the local Skip. Our Skip, the one from before...all this." He gestured at the gatehouse, but Fret was sure he had meant to point at him. He didn't like his nuncle much. Jon Connington always seemed to try too hard to understand him. He gave him presents every time he left the abbey, and they ranged from a stuffed otter he had mauled in his sleep, to a round metal bob with a string attached that did absolutely nothing but distracted the mind for a relatively long period of time.

Constance's eyes widened. "Does he-"

"Well...He knows I have a nephew just not..."

"That I'm a ferret."

"Well...yes, but that's not the point. The point is he's coming and well I thought you ought to...be told." Connington was everything his sister was not. He was smaller than even Fret with large ears and eyes and fur that was a dull shade of grey. Presently his tail swished about behind him as he stood with his mouth open. Fret knew this gesture to mean that he was frightened or nervous. He saw it a lot when he and his mother were in the same room.

Constance waved away the worries. "It's fine. We handled one Skipper, we can handle another, all otters are the same."

"Yes but you know how he gets and in the past, I mean Rowl-" He hopped backwards with a squeak as Constance snapped at him.

"I remember Rowland too. You don't need to remind me of him, and neither does he. Now Fret brush up a bit. We'll be waiting downstairs for you."

"Oh and Bella wants to see you." Connington pointed at his sister.

"I didn't do anything!" Fret snapped immediately. Bella the Badgermum had never liked him much. Or at least she gave off that vibe. "Sorry. Force of habit."

Constance frowned. "Will you be alright on your own for a bit?" Constance asked, chewing her lip.

"I know the way to the abbey." He nimbly dodged the question. That was something Constance had not been able to pin him at. Yet. It can't be worse than last time anyways. Last time had really been the worse. Utterly the worst. The cream pie issue hadn't even been his fault. But as the only one in Redwall who's very kind was inclined to do vile things, he naturally got the blame.

They left, and as soon as they did the ferret slumped dejectedly. This was going to be a huge pain in his backside, he was sure about that. But there was no way to avoid it, and if he suddenly disappeared than he would get the more suspicious members of the abbey all riled up. That had happened when he had been five, and there really was nothing scarier than a one-eyed hare finding you while you slept all curled-up in a cupboard.

Fret was taller than most of his peers, and thin, not due to being underfed but simply because his kind tended to gravitate toward lanky builds. They also tended to gravitate towards villainous pursuits but that was not his problem. He wore a black habit, simply because he liked the contrast in his fur. The black mask, ears and paws, the white face. Besides it was either that or a bright red colour and everyone else usually wore that one anyways.

He left the gatehouse, remembered to lock it, then strolled casually towards the abbey that was both his home and the place he hated the most on earth. Lucious and big, and made entirely out of the red bricks that gave it it's name. It represented lots of things that Fret didn't. Honesty, well his lies had never really hurt anyone, and it's not like they believed him in the first place. Chivalry, Fret thought chivalry was being a show-off and to be fair most of the time it was. And kindness, he wasn't evil but people just got on his nerves so much. He snapped almost all the time and while not trying to be unkind he certainly didn't fit into being 'kind' either.

Suddenly something bright red and burly fell on him. "Hello Frettie, how are you on this fine morning?" It was one of his least favorite people on earth. Matiya. The squirrel represented everything what Redwall was, and naturally was drawn to his complete opposite.

"Don't you have a nut to crack!" Fret snapped, trying and failing to push him off.

"Nope, all eaten over winter. So, looking forwards to the feast?"

"Get off of me!"

"Where are your manners?" The squirrel tugged lightly at his ear. It didn't hurt him physically but dealt a huge blow to his ego.

"You're so funny. Now get off."

"Not until you say please."

"Matiya!"

"I shan't do nothing until you say please."

"Please!"

"Rightey. I shan't do nothing!" The squirrel laughed at his own joke and rolled off of him. "I heard we're getting some new visitors. Otters from Southward."

At that moment Fret's least favourite person alive strolled forwards. He was a mouse and looked a bit like Connington (they were both diminutive anyways) except he had way bigger ears. "Halt vermin fiend! You may not pass until you tell us your villainous plot of today!"

"I don't have a villainous plot." Fret snapped, sitting back up. At one point he had played with them almost every day, but that had been before they had all learned what his kind were famous for. And anyways it was not like they had been the best of friends to begin with...

"Oh but you do! You have a history of these games in fact! Remember when we wer what, eight?"

That had been the age they had stopped playing together. And Fret remembered it clearly.

*Flashback*

"But my dad worked hard on those." Complained Grollo.

"We're only tasting one." Fret snapped back. Even back then they had irritated him beyond measure.

"He's right. I mean we're going to have some anyways. This is just a little extra." Matiya agreed.

They watched as Momchillo lead away Grollo's father, Redwall's chief cook, and then scampered into the kitchens. There they were, perfect, sweet and juicy wallnut-cream-filled pies. All of them licked their drooling lips eagerly. Fret, being the tallest, plucked a single pie from the pile and offered it to Grollo.

The hedgehog hesitated, grabbed it, then hesitated again. "I think we should just put it back and leave."

"But we already grabbed it."

"We'll have it at the feast Fret."

"Fine, if you don't want it, I do." Fret tugged at the pie. Grollo refused to let go.

"No! Please just put it back! Matiya tell him!"

"But we're already here!"

"No!"

Fret tugged again, the pie ripped in two and the ferret fell backwards, bringing the whole pile of pies down on top of him. When he emerged through the rubble he found Grollo's father glaring down at him. Naturally the others had all blamed it on him.

*Flashback*

"Then there was the time you misplaced the olive oil and the elderberry cordial. That was both funny and painful to watch."

Grollo, the plump hedgehog had joined them. "There was the time you locked my dad in the oven."

"There was that time your mother beat up my mother." Matiya added to the count.

"None of them were my fault!" Fret snapped back. He stood up. "Anyhow it's not like you care." He tripped over Momchillo's outstretched paw and fell on his face, just as a somewhat old otter bounced forwards with merry delight, accidentally crushing Fret underfoot in his apparent excitement.

"Oh, you're not dear old Jon. You certainly look like him." He winked at Momchillo, who gazed up at him with slight confusion. Matiya, in Fret's opinion, looked like an idiot as he gaped at the otter's well-defined body of thick muscles and scars. "Say, are you my dear sweet nephew I've heard so much about."

"Jon Connington?" Came Fret's slightly muffled voice. The otter stepped off of him, and not looking at who he was talking to he straightened himself up, letting Fret roll back into a sitting position.

"My brother in arms. My number one mate. My-"

"Yeah. I'm your nephew." Fret said bluntly.

Only now did the Skipper take note of him, and his jaw dropped and did the familiar wide-eyed stare of the woodlanders. "B-but you're-"

"Adopted nephew, if you prefer."

"DIIIIE VERMIIIN!" The otter lunged all of a sudden, and a spear formed in his paw, impaling the ferret. The children around him morphed into cruel, laughing faces.

The ferret sat up so quickly he felt the blood rush to his brain as his paws shot out against a wall to steady himself. The whole room was rocking from side to side. It was small and dark and the ferret let out a small whimper. The scariest thing was that he knew nothing.

Matiya came to coughing a large amount of water. So much water he wondered how he was even awake to begin with. Getting weakly to his feet the squirrel found to his delight that he was apparently unhurt. He shook himself mostly dry, and searched the surroundings. No Momchillo, no Grollo, no Hawthorn... no Fret. They had been going home! A part of him wanted to sit and cry, but that would get him nowhere, and anyhow warriors were made of tougher stuff. No tears were needed, only blood and sweat. And a sword, but he didn't have one now anyways. The river must have washed him ashore, for it coursed and twisted like a snake besides him. Well, the Spirit of Martin was defenitely looking out for him today! He did a few quick stretches to make sure he was in mint condition, clicked his neck and punched his fist into his waiting palm.

"Right, find the others, get them back to Redwall. Forget this all ever happened. Good plan." He marched forwards, picking up a large stick he could use as a weapon in case the need arrised. That was when he spotted the large trail of blood that lead deeper into the forest, standing out vividly against the snow. It could have been anything, and normally he'd run, but after all he had seen he knew he had no way to tell whether the beast at the other end was friend or foe. As silently as he could Matiya followed the trail.

Please don't be Momchillo. Don't be Hawthorn, Rosebrush, Tibbers, Grollo or Jack. Or Fret. Or the rat Grey... he had been nice. If it was Sharpfur he'd put him out of his misery, but with how much blood had been spilled he doubted he'd be able to do anything beyond that.

It was none of the ones he had thought of. His white fur soaked in crimson, the stoat looked half-dead and half-alive, his throat torn open and still bleeding. His eyes were lost and wandering, but once they noticed Matiya they grew wide with fear. Weakly, the swords-master pleaded, one paw wringing in front of him, the other clamped against his bleeding wound. The squirrel bit his lip, he was no healer, and either way he doubted he could do anything. Except maybe end his suffering... warriors did that a lot, right?

He walked forwards, stick raised, ready to be brought down with all the force he could muster. Then he locked eyes with the stoat and felt both courage and the twig, fall. The enormity of ending a life, even if one was probably already on their way to the Dark Forest, was enormous. The stories made it sound easy... effortless. A single sword-thrust. They never talked about eyes begging for help. They didn't talk about how hard it actually was.

"Yer pretty tales are all a load of dung!" He heard Sharpfur cackle.

Matiya fell to his knees. "I-I'm not a healer, but if we put some snow on it the cold should er, slow the blood flow."

Threeclaw's other paw fell to the ground. Matiya chewed his lip and looked around. If he left now the stoat would die, and if the stoat died well that was a sort of justice...but Matiya would walk away with the pleading look of his eyes forever buried into him. No, he had to do this. Warriors saved more than they killed... the tales had never talked about saving vermin but they were dung anyways.

Momchillo came to with a head that beat like a drum. The gentle swaying told him he was on a boat, but who's vessel and where they were going were beyond him. His wrists were cold from the cruel metal that bound them together. The place stunk of death and decay. He glanced around. Silvertongue had a bloody lip and a black eye, and his paws were shaking, his harp had been slammed over his head so that it's poor remains hung around his neck like an ugly necklace. His wife, Momchillo could not remember her name, was rocking too and fro, with eyes that were wide with worry. None of her children were there. There was the old and stooped and wrinkled healer, breathing weezily in a corner, while Deathglare lay on his back, a paw over his eye. Copious amounts of blood flowed around and his paw and dropped to the floor.

"Where are the others?" He ventured to ask, to noone in particular.

The mother weasel sobbed into her knees and Silvertongue gave him a hard look, before replying anyways. "Dead. All dead. They got the survivors, that's us, and threw them all here."

"B-but no! That's not possible! We were escaping and-"

"I saw the bodies!" He snapped. "I saw my babes piled up in front of me like flesh over a fire. Don't give us you precious hope, mouse! Hope will only destroy us more!" Tears glistened in his eyes, and he struggled to hide them behind his anger.

Momchillo shrank and fell silent. He was certain that their new captors, whoever they were, were worse. The Honest Bunch hadn't killed anyone...or at least not during their stay. He couldn't help but stare at the couple, one crying openly, the other only just holding back. And he felt his heart rend as thoughts of his own family came to mind. He cried openly, for down here in the darkness noone he cared about could hear him.

Footnote: You know I really don't want this fic to be depressing and suspenseful (but you know...it is). My writing style is usually bubbly (I think so anyways), which is taken to the max in Hercules and more or less removed from this XD Interestingly the both serve as 'experiments' to try out things that may or may not appear in the Stories of Saras at some time. :P That said this isn't a lab rat, and now has a working plot!

I was torn between redoing the earlier chapter and continuing as is. In the end I decided on the latter, but by that point I had already written a good chunk of the remake (which would have been a tad bit less depressing), which actually lends itself nicely to Fret's current situation. Which I expect you to figure out :P

I'm also open to ideas for cover art (I'm an artist, not Picasso (but I don't like Picasso anyways), but I can draw a few shapes XD) if you have any, because my profile picture... really doesn't suite the story. If you know an image I could use instead that would also be useful.

Also since I do four updates a week pretty smoothly, I think you might see a bit more Black and White (though Hercules is still monthly).

Enjoy!