A/N: *Sigh* yeah, this was a bit late, but I'm alive. No need to worry. Valentine's Day was nice. Now my excuse list is as follows: Was working/still working on a Valentine's Day special, got stuck, wrestled with it for a while, decided I could save it for later and theeeeen started working on this. Re-wrote most of the chapter into it's current format and yeah. This chapter and the next two should be quite... Entertaining to say the least. It should be obvious why when you're done.
Now review responses... Don't think I've ever gotten that many reviews for a single chapter (I mean half of them are from Abrahem- but STILL!) I'm also at 7.5K views (and that's also probably mostly Abrahem, but considering that my second most viewed fic is at 2.3K I'd say it's still a milestone)! Okay, that's my self-back-patting sorted.
AlexFalTon (I know more Alex's on FFN then in real life...) Yeah, names aren't really my strong suite (really should have called Snakeskin Snake-eyes and made him a gambler but there are too many eyes running around already!) Still, glad you found it neat.
Berserker88 Hard to believe something good is happening to them, eh? Says a lot about how much misery I put my characters through XD
Sebias of Redwall Honestly not a bad idea, but I think since 'clarity' is more important than 'mystery' at this point (some of you have already guessed the way this ends 0.0) I might as well put it here that Marik's potential offspring are, Fret, the replacement Whimper and Thornflame.
Abrahem (and One-eye) I don't know, I don't see them ever being lovey dovey, and seeing how I didn't take it beyond the first chapter it could have just been early instalment oditties but it seemed fitting to delve into Fret's character. Also the jab about molespeech is mostly me voicing my frustration at figuring out how to write it (coz goddammit that is the hardest part!) Yeah, Fret is Fret and Fret will do the Fret and embarrass himself.
To be honest I'd love to do an audio book. I figured it wouldn't be so hard if we did it chapter by chapter and put it on YouTube. I think I could do a decent Sharpfur and Greyclaw. If anyone else is interested you may take part (since there are a lot of characters). Though at the same time it's not exactly a priority and I don't want to force people into labour.
Typical Fret amiright? Funnily enough I think their smell is why ferret's are vermin (and the masks). Though I wanted to highlight that the main issue with raising Fret is that basically noone knew how to do it (noone knew how to bathe him, and in their attempts to curb his stink (verminness) they only made it worse (Fret the snappy is a direct result of the rest of the abbey being subconsciously speciest).
Stammered means stammered. Snakeskin was mostly just highlighting the differences between Feet and his supposed mother (I suppose I could make this clearer?)
Threeclaw and Snakeskin... Needless to say I expected this to happen...
Yeah, I still have the documents, so most likely I'll recycle things later in the story.
I don't really understand the question, but, as for why Fret wasn't tied up, I just think Thornflame didn't see any reason to. Fret wasn't taking his peers anywhere and if he tried she probably would have punished him more severely. I think she was mainly drawn to Fret (and why the Honest Bunch found him so interesting) was because, although very much vermin, he behaved nothing like a vermin.
Not a bad idea I suppose, might use that (although I had different ideas for Sharpfur getting a dirk back, since you seem so keen on him having one)
Well... That's it for now. Enjoy the chapter!
"With all due respect." Friar Gord said, sounding… not particularly respectful. "My family have been in charge of these here kitchens for dozens of seasons, more than anybeast can even remember! Y-you can't just 'relieve' me."
Abbot Martin had expected opposition, and he was ready for it. Frowning severely and mustering all the strength a small, old, partially-blind mouse could muster, the abbot steeled himself. "Oh I think I can. I'm sorry Gord, I truly am. But I feel like your duties to the abbey are not so important at the moment."
"If this is about the porridge than I'm sorry." The hedgehog rubbed at a wrist. "It's just I always used to cook with Grollo and well…and this missus hasn't… well…"
"And that is exactly why it is simply inconsiderate of me to let you remain here." The abbot cleared his throat. "I do not know any more of Grollo's situation than you do. But I do know that your wife misses him- as no doubt, do you. I insist that you take some time off for your own sakes. What good is a miserable father to a lost son?"
Hanging his head in shame, the former friar removed his apron and waddled away. Half-heartedly, he forced himself to ask. "And who's going to make breakfast then?"
"Don't worry about breakfast." Was the Abbot's vague reply. As soon as the cook's footsteps faded away, Constance, Bella, the Recorder, the Foremole and Roseheart came bustling in from another door, equipped with aprons and every manner of cooking utensils, right down to the chef hat far too small for a badger that decorated Bella's head.
"Alright then." Abbot Martin wiped at his spectacles. "We have got a lot of work to do. Pick any recipe you like and as many as you can make before this afternoon. Start with anything that needs to cool and cram the warm foods into the last hour. I'll handle breakfast- simple porridge- no onions- as for lunch… I suppose a simple salad would do. Nobeast eats that much anyways." Donning the Friar's abandoned apron, the abbot adjusted his spectacles one final time. "I suppose we had better get started."
"Ee be s'posin' gurt Abbot zurr. But moibe 'ee should've foired oop the ole Friar when 'ee was done with 'em dishes?"
"And where was this logic before-paw?" Martin sighed and turned. He was faced with a truly massive pile- or rather tower- of filthy dishes of every shape and form that threw his comparatively tiny form into a shadow. The old mouse nearly gave up then and there. It would be so much easier to call the Friar back… But life had to go on. "Don't worry, I'll handle the dishes." Rolling up his sleeves, the abbot got to work. Like all things in life, it was easier said than done.
The Log-a-log was in a foul mood. Honestly it looked rather like he'd chosen to wear a thunderstorm over his head. He stomped into the Great Hall at breakfast time, followed at a distance by the rest of the weary 'rescue party'. A few cast hopeful glances in their direction- perhaps by some miracle some news of the children would come- but the shrew's foul mood turned all away.
Despite being a shrew, the smallest of all woodlander and vermin species in Mossflower, the Log-a-log was a fearsome sight. Half-an-inch taller than the rest of his kind and with a belly that, in it's prime, could crush a lesser beast (for it was much smaller nowadays when nourishment was not to be found), the shrew did not need scars to convey the message that he had fought in a dozen battles and won them all.
Now he seemed to be looking for another battle, anything he could tear to pieces… if only he could find some no-good rat to vent on.
A few spaces down Mormont giggled. He could not help it. A young, fit mouse of the abbey, and soon a father to a litter of no less than six little mouselings. Despite the doom and gloom he could not help but be cheerful. Especially not when discussing the names of their babies.
"Not Mortimer, please. My great uncle would never let the poor boy go."
"But what if he has that nose!"
"What nose?"
"Your family's nose! The one your cousin has! You know, all square-like."
Now he snorted with laughter and banged a paw on the table. "I'd much rather name him after my cousin, thanks."
"What kind of a name is Tumbledee?"
Both chortled merrily- until the Log-a-log snapped in their direction.
"Very funny isn't it? That your kids'll be the only one in this here abbey this spring, isn't it? It's very funny that the giggling dibbuns are going to be the only parents left inside these dumb great walls."
Mormont murmured an apology, but none heard it over the shrew, who now spoke loud enough to be heard all through Mossflower.
"Oh don't be sorry mouse! You've got no reason to be! Smile, go on! Smile and laugh and giggle and chortle while I go mad!"
Nobeast dared look at the Log-a-log, but he went on, talking more to himself than anybeast present. "I mean, we've all got plenty of reasons to be happy, don't we? Don't we!? It's not like our kids are missing! It's not like we don't know if they're dead or alive! Oh no! They're just getting tucked into bed by some nice old badger! Hedgehogs are making them tea and stoats are giving them dance lessons aren't they? It's the only explanation! No tracks, no scent, not even a piece of their skeletons! All bleeding winter!"
He rose, and everybeast cleared a wide path for him to stomp through. The shrew came to a halt at the foot of the great tapestry of Martin the Warrior.
"All I ask, is for a sign. If they're dead, tell me and let me have peace! If they're alive, tell me, so that I know I'm not just wasting my time!" He waited patiently for the whole of five minutes, the hall so silent a pin would have echoed like a bell, until finally he exploded.
"TEEEELL ME!" Frantic paws tugged shamelessly at the foot of the tapestry, and threatened to rip the thread apart.
"What on earth is going on?" Came Abbot Martin's voice.
The Log-a-log shot towards him, and before the old mouse could blink he was nose-to-nose with the chief shrew, a mad gleam evident in the creature's eye as the warrior's much stronger paws clung tightly to the abbot's front. "Haven't you noticed!? My son is gone. Whoosh! Vanished! Maybe he's dead, maybe he's on an island thousands of leagues away! Perhaps a bird swooped down and swallowed him whole! You have no idea, how much this hu-u-u-urts!" And then the shrew released a deluge of tears and buried his face into the abbot's front.
This was no laughing matter as, although shorter, the Log-a-log weighed at least twice as much as the old mouse, who very nearly fell over. Friar Gord came to the abbot's rescue, and being a rather bulky beast himself, had no trouble helping the shrew sob away the pain- even if the hedgehog wished he still had an apron on.
This was the final reminder the old abbot needed, to realise just how important this feast was for the sake of the abbey at large.
It had begun to snow over Mossflower and the lush green of the world, accentuated here and there by flowers of every shape and colour, clashed viciously with the white, now trying once more to carpet it all one final time.
Matiya was grateful for the snow. The arrival of Lily Prickla, as the old hedgehog was called, had reminded him that he looked like something a wildcat might cough up, and the cool, melting snows helped scrub off the dirt behind his ears. If he was going to be back at the abbey by nightfall, as the old hedgehog predicted, he did not want to look like he'd spent the past few weeks in a mudbath. The good old, bright red gleam of his fur however, only served to highlight the dark bruises that covered him like patches of fur, which would no doubt lead to some awkward questions.
There would be a lot of awkward questions of course, and Threeclaw was uncomfortably talkative all of a sudden. Yet despite all misgivings, he was excited by the prospect of finally being back with Momchillo and Roseheart and Grollo and Hawthorn (who had no doubt reached Redwall by now). Perhaps he and Sharpfur could have a rematch… he could show the weasel a thing or two Threeclaw had taught him. Maybe even give a bruise or two…
Funnily enough Fret was probably the first beast he'd encounter. That promised to be awkward, but Matiya was looking forwards to it. What better way to cement the lack of hatred than to land a surprise 'good to see you'. That was if the ferret was in the gatehouse anyways, he was probably in class… or dish duty.
"So what exactly happens when we are dedans the abbey?" Threeclaw asked, as if only slightly curious, but Matiya thought there was a hint of nervousness there.
"Dud- on?" Asked the old hedgepig hobbling between them. Being a fanatic of grammar (much to Threeclaw's chagrin) she was simply fascinated by the stoat's knowledge of 'foreign tongues'. The fact that he had no idea how to write any of the words he said, proved more than anything, that Matiya had been right and 'French' was made up.
"It means inside en Francais. So when we are being inside the rouge-"
"That's red isn't it!" Lily exclaimed, rather like a dibbun in school.
"Oui." The stoat said through gritted teeth. Matiya had to stop himself from laughing.
"And that's yes?" For an old beast she was wide-eyed with wonder.
"Yes." There was so much exhaustion and annoyance in that one syllable, that Matiya felt compelled to rescue Threeclaw.
"Well, knowing our history as well as I do, they'll probably throw a feast." This too, was another cause if excitement. And even if they didn't pull out all the stops, any meal from Redwall would be a welcome relief from the diet of nature. Not that berries were bad, but nuts were better and Matiya could not remember the last nut he'd had. As a squirrel he was practically obligated to eat at least five a day!
"And?" The stoat persisted, apparently determined to know more- and speak in as few words as possible.
"Well they're all going to be happy to see us aren't they?" It was only after he said those words that Matiya realized the true meaning behind the question. And by then, Threeclaw had spelled it out even more clearly.
"I meant what's going to happen to me! Or are you forgetting that I'm the one that kidnapped you?" The accent was lighter now- as if it had come as an afterthought.
"Oh." The squirrel rubbed at his chest, avoiding eye contact. "Well…"
"Well?" The stoat asked, a strange mix of fear, desperation, his usual cockiness and an underlying tone of a threat, all painted into the twitches of his face.
"I don't know." Matiya said flatly. Threeclaw recoiled, as if struck. "But!" He said loudly, as if to override parts of the stoat's brain. "But we are peaceful creatures. And Abbot Martin'll listen. Y-you may have kidnapped us but you're not a bad creature. I mean, if you were I probably wouldn't be alive."
"I'm such a sweet little flower, aren't I?" The stoat spat. "The one that doesn't murder babies. I've poked eyes out of hares, I poked a hole in the shrew's shoulder. You think the abbeybeasts will forget that?"
"They won't." Matiya swallowed, now backing away from the stoat. "I haven't. B-but I also remember you teaching me to swordfight, and cutting down the berries I couldn't reach so I could catch them."
Threeclaw grabbed him by the front, and for the first time in a long time, Matiya was scared. As was Lily, who was now curled up behind the pair.
"Supposing they try and prick my shoulder, and I prick them back-"
"You w-won't have to prick anybeast. Look. I don't care what you did to anybeast else. If it weren't for you I probably wouldn't have survived a whole winter out here. And what do you think m-matters more. Saving a life or t-taking an eye?"
"Are you scared of me?" Threeclaw asked, letting go of the squirrel's chest and using the same paw to ruffle the fur between his ears. "Well you do not have to be. Parce que c'etait une blague. I was joking."
Matiya did not reply. He doubted the stoat had really been joking, but like everything to do with Threeclaw, that too was an enigma.
"I suppose the abbeybeasts will ask a few questions." Said the stoat with a nonchalant shrug. "Mi pienso que you should hold the rapier." The blade landed squarely between Matiya's feetpaws.
"A-alright."
The old hedgehog was beginning to uncurl now. Evidently the danger had passed. The young squirrel breathed a tiny sigh of relief.
Shaking his head, Threeclaw marched forwards. "I am walking into the heart of all woodlanders, unarmed and hordeless." He laughed loudly, but Matiya was pretty sure it was forced. Sheathing the rapier, the squirrel swiftly caught up to him.
"Don't worry. I'll vouch for you. And this time next season…" Matiya trailed off. Threeclaw was ignoring him and quite frankly he had no idea what would go down later that day- let alone next season!