Black and White

[The Grey Coincidence]

Because The Skarz pointed out that more people are likely to read it if I post it here (thank ye for that matey). This is my first Redwall story and I haven't read a book in years, so there might be some inconcistencies. It takes place several hundred seasons after the events of the last book, so some small changes also exist within the abbey. Now, without further ado...Now I haven't read Redwall in a long time and the accents are alllost one.I will try to replicate it with some characters but not all of them. This story is kind of based of Outcast of Redwall, but not entirely. I always liked the vermin in the books and tended to like them more than the uhum Sue-ish good guys. They were more realistic-save and except that they were all pretty much bad guys.

I don't want to write a 'good vermin' fic. I want to write a 'vermin' fix. What makes them 'bad'? And things like that. So without further ado let it begin!

The Good Vermin

The warrior stood atop the walls of the abbey, looking down at the praising populace, showering him with flowers. In his paw he held the sword of Martin the Warrior, high above his head, behind him the defeated villains were kissing the dirt and begging forgiveness.

"Fret!" The town cried. And he showed off his huge muscles.

"Fret!" The ladies swooned, and fainted clear away.

"FRET!" Abbot Martin was yelling into his ear.

Fret was not like most abbey-beasts. Most denizens groomed themselves daily, Fret was practically forced to take baths. Most Redwallers ate with polite attitudes while making smalltalk. Fret spoke with bulging cheeks, tearing at his food like a hungry animal. Most Redwallers got up early, Fret would have slept all day if he could. But then again, most Redwallers weren't ferrets.

The ferret woke with a start, remembering painfully that he was supposed to be learning the abbey's history.

"You were sleeping." The old mouse scowled darkly. Abbot Martin was a light brown mouse, his whiskers long and crooked. His habit was a bright red.

"No!" He replied too quickly. "I was-"

"And you drooled all over your copy of the History of Mossflower." He seemed to be scowling even deeper. Then turned away from the ferret.

"As I was saying, Mathias defended Redwall against Cluny the-" The old mouse snapped his fingers at a hedgehog near the front of the class. The young hedgepig opened and closed his mouth. "Cluny the S-s-spatula!" This was from Grollo, the large chubby hedgehog was as dumb as a doornail in Fret's opinion. Clad in black pants he went bare footed, for he could not find sandals big enough for his feet. Though as the Head Cook's son he was skilled at naming any culinary equipment.

"No! Matiya!"

Matiya was a red squirrel about as tall as Fret and infinetly slower of mind. He was the best fighter of the abbey's youngsters, but he was also the most pompous and-Fret practically gagged at the word-chivalrous. He wore a grey vest and pants, an empty sword case hung at his size. (His wooden sword had been confiscated). "Cluny the Scewer!"

"NO! Come on this was your homework." The abbot seemed to be torn between Momchillo, a small brownish yellow mouse with humongous ears sticking out the side of his head, clad in a darkish brown habit; and Fret, the black-footed ferret with his sinister a looking black 'mask', wearing a dark grey habit. He went for the mouse.

"Mathias beat Cluny the Scourge, in single combat."

Fret frowned, he had been hoping to get that question.

History was by far his least favorite subject. It was easier for Momchillo, with his proud mousey grin, to learn and remember all the heroics his kind were remembered for, with heroes like Martin the Warrior, Mathias the Warrior and others it was easy for him, all he had to do was imagine himself with a different name. Fret had none of his kind to look up to-the way history said it they all ended up dead or missing, and before that they had all been villainous scum.

"And Mathias's first son was named, what? Fret?" Asked the abbot.

"Um-", it had been a mouse... And Slagar the Cruel had kidnapped them-but Slagar was really called Chickenhound and he was a fox and... "Martin?"

The abbot bit his lip. "Momchillo?"

"Mattimeo."

"Correct."

Fret scowled and slouched. He had known about Cluny the Scourge and Slagar the Cruel, but not about Mattimeo. Why couldn't it have been another question? Why couldn't it have been a ferret wearing Martin's armour, and waving the sword around his head and defending Redwall? Fret imagined himself in his mind's eye, banishing the cheeky grin off of Momchillo with a wave of his sword.

"Fret! Stay awake!"

"How was History?" Constance asked, as she picked up the young ferret. She was somewhat chubby, and taller by a head than her 'son'. She was a mouse, and wore a lighter green habit.

"Great." He lied. That was another oddment. Lying was easy for him, and came naturally. Sometimes he lied so convincingly he wondered whether he was telling the truth.

"You are a horrible little liar." Was Constance's reply. The young ferret frowned.

Of all the people in Redwall Abbey, Constance was the only one who seemed to truly care about him. There was Jon Connington... But there were times where Fret felt that that mouse only acted the way he did because Constance made him. She had raised him from mischievous dibbun to rude youth, and yet loved him like he was an angel.

"I'm not lying! I'm great at History!" He snapped. Fret snapped often, something in his chest seemed to always force him into defending himself. And that defence came out as snapping.

Constance rolled her eyes, and turned him towards their home, pushing him forwards gently. "And I'm a dibbun. Fret you really mustn't lie, it's not what we do here in the abbey."

Fret snapped again. "But I'm not lying!" But he was lying. He was awful at History, he hated history and he wanted Abbot Martin to just go die in a hole! Well, maybe die was a tad harsh.

"Dearie you hate history and wish Abbot Martin would stop being a stick in the mud." Sometimes it felt like Constance was also abnormal-how else would she be capable of understanding his complex mind?

"Yes momma, but it's not my fault. He gives Momchillo all the easy questions! And he only asks me when I fall asleep in class!"

"You fall asleep in class?" Constance chided with a wide grin on her face.

"No! I don't!"

As the two travelled further down towards the mousemaid's cottage, arguing back and forth that Fret was not bad at lying, and that that was offensive to lying! Jon watched from within. He was a grey mouse, smaller than Constance by half and a head bellow Fret. Clad in old, grey armour with a round wooden shield strapped to his back. At his side, buckled and ready was a shortsword. He waved merrily at the duo and walked over to them, beaming.

"Sweet sister!" He hugged her round the middle, before turning to the skinny ferret. "Ah, Young Fret! What ho? Still want to give Abbot Martin a kick up the-"

"Jon!" His sister exclaimed.

"I don't want to kick him! I want to get him to shut up!"

Jon nodded knowingly and hugged his 'nephew'. This was another oddment. Most of his age adored getting babied by their parental figures, and while Fret didn't mind that affection from Constance, he heavily disliked it from Jon, and thus cringed at the feel of the mouse.

"I got you something!" The grey mouse said suddenly, and withdrew a round metal thing, with a string. For a second Fret hoped it was a club, with which he could repeatedly whack Momchillo with. Maybe the next time that mouse tried to lock him in the latrines he could get a black eye... Then his uncle flicked the metal Bob, which spun downwards, and with another flick it spun upwards. It was a toy.

"Thanks. I love it." Fret replied as the mouse placed it in his paw. He was unable to hide his apparent disappointment and dislike.

Connington frowned. But waved away the bad mood. "We'll call you for dinner. Have fun!"

Much to his chagrin Constance gave him a large, wet kiss on his forehead fur. Before shooing him away with a 'have fun sweetie!'.

Fret turned away, feeling grumpier than ever. Constance understood him... Or rather most of him. She lived amongst other mice and nobody treated her like filth, most people treated Fret like an unpleasant smelling slug or some other slimy thing that must be avoided at all costs. But the youngsters loved him-they loved to bite his tail, to pull at his small ears, to try and pull off his 'mask'. And those his age loved him even more. Grollo loved to sit on him, Matiya loved to demonstrate his skill at swordplay on him, and Momchillo enjoyed laughing at him while the other two pretended he was vermin and they were abbey heroes, giving him his due for trying to sack Redwall. One time he had been Cluny the Scourge and was forced down a latrine, another time he had been hung over the wall until 'Slagar the Cruel' told them where their young ones were. And both times the trio had gotten nothing but a trip to the abbey's kitchen to scrub pots and pans.

Seething from the past injustices Fret flicked his paw, the circular item rolled down, but with another flick it rolled upwards. Despite his disappointment Fret came to love the toy. It was entertaining, the up and down swaying of the circle at the end of the string. And distracting too. He idly watched the maids of his age, picking berries, and felt something in him melt as his heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of a pretty albino. He blushed and continued with his toy.

"Hey Fret!" Matiya's paw landed on his shoulder and squeezed tightly. He and the ferret were the same height, but the squirrel was unimaginably more powerful. "What's that new toy you got?" Momchillo and Grollo were not in sight.

"Let me go!" Fret snapped.

"But you didn't answer my question." He sneered.

"My uncle gave it to me!" Fret retorted.

"Let me see it!"

"No! It's mine!"

"He stole it Matiya. You have to take it back by asking nicely." Momchillo turned the corner.

Fret was infuriated. This was not fair. It was his, his uncle had just given it to him. How could they suggest he stole it? "Come on vermin, give i"-the toy doubled as a cheap weapon, Fret unfurled it quickly, so that it landed on the mouse's nose with a loud THWACK! Momchillo fell on his rump and started crying. Fret slumped, he knew what was coming, as the maids gasped and rushed over, the albino giving him a look of utter disgust.

"Why do they always gang up on me? I can take that stupid mouse just fine if Grollo and Matiya aren't there to save his tail!" He complained, ripping the skin of an innocent potatoe he seemed to especially loathe.

"Well darling, they just don't like you." Constance said soothingly.

"It's not fair! I had to crawl through excrement for a whole day and all they had to do was wash dishes! Then I hit him on the nose because he was being a total prat, and I have to clean the dishes, clean the latrines out and polish Martin's ugly sword for three days!" He threw the potatoes into Constance's cauldron with so much anger it bounced back and got him on the nose. "And I had to give that toy to that stupid mouse because he picked on me!"

Fret had been ranting since the Badgermum-he didn't call her by her name- had proclaimed his punishment. The punishment wasn't what truly bothered him, it was that the maids had all vouched along with Matiya, that Fret had attacked Momchillo for no reason, and had hit him multiple times, while cackling madly. It wasn't fair. They had seen Matiya grab him, but had still lied-it had been Fret's word against all of theirs, and everyone was convinced he was a liar anyways, so his word wasbas good as dust.

"Fret calm down." His mother chided. "We all get what's due to us one day-"

"No you do! Because you're not a liar!" He now was violently chopping the watercress. "I'm a lying, sneaky, good-for-nothing ferret! All I get is that stupid mouse's ugly grin!" The knife missed his next target, a pile of carrots, and left a gash in his finger. He hastily dropped the knife and placed his finger in his mouth, tears welling up behind his eyes as he tried to blink them away.

Constance walked forwards and hugged him. "I'll have a word with their parents. They might not like you, but that's no excuse for hurting my baby."

"They didn't hurt me!" Fret snapped, again feeling the need to defend himself. They hadn't hurt him, the albino had. She had vouched for her fellow mouse rather than the innocent. So had the others...

"Of course not,sweetie." Constance murmured, rubbing the back of his head. "Now, wipe away those tears-"

"They're not tears! They're allergies!" Fret snapped. But he was lying again.

"Of course. Now wipe them away and let's chop up those carrots."

Fret picked the knife up again. But he paused. "Why are there no ferrets in Redwall?" He asked.

Constance stopped and paused for a while, thinking of the easiest way to describe the situation.

"And why do they say I'm a vermin? I don't do rotten things!" Except lying. But they think I lie anyways, even when I tell the truth.

"Dearie, I have no idea why they would call you that. They just feel the need to be able to push someone around." She replied, glad for once that his tongue was quicker than his head. She hadn't thought of an answer for the first question.

The door opened and Jon Connington walked in, though now he looked a little more serious. "Oh there's my favorite nephew!" He said, throwing a fake smile at him.

"I'm your only nephew!" Fret snapped.

Connington seemed to deflate. "Look, son, I heard what happened. I'm sorry about the to-"

"I don't care about the stupid toy! It's that stupid mouse, he won't leave me alone!" And the maid... Her pristine white fur wouldn't leave him alone either...

Connington seemed a little hurt by his nephew's rude reply, but beared with it and changed the subject. "Anything I can do to help?" He asked Constance.

"You can start by throttling that fat, ugly son of a-"

"FRET!" Constance yelled.

"WHAT!?" The ferret snapped.

"You're bleeding thick!" The ferret looked down at his paw and found it dripping with blood. He went pale after that. "Here. Come with me." The mouse ushered him to the safety of his bed, where she lay him flat on his back. She bandaged it quickly, and gave him another big, wet kiss on the forehead. "Try and rest up dearie. If you're still hungry I can bring you the soup later and some bread rolls." She gave him another kiss and left him. He sighed, feeling uncomfortably grateful for his mother's support. Uncomfortable? Why was he uncomfortable? Weren't young ones meant to be comforted by a parental figure? He loved his mother. It was normal, wasn't it? Why was he so different?

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Two, In Which A Field Trip Is Discussed

Fret is a good lad!" Connington continued.

Abbot Martin 'humphed' sceptically and tried to close the door in his face. Connington was persistent and clambered in through the window.

"He is! He really is! The others pick on him because he's different but deep down he's a sweet kid-"

"Who lies more often than not, falls asleep during lessons and is always quick to snap at people and resort to violence! He is a vermin Connington, and nothing you say or do can change that." The old man finished heavily.

The mice stared into each other's eyes for a long time.

"The nature of his kind lives inside him. For now he lies to get himself out of trouble, how long until he uses it to cause some?" The old abbot continued.

"That's poppycock! Nobody believes him anyways! And whether he deserves it or not he needs to get out once in his life. He deserves to know what's hidden behind those great red walls. He's old enough!"

"And you expect the Skipper of the otters to let some vermin-pup in, because he 'needs to see something?' No,the boy will stay inside as he always does, and when he's older and eventually gets banished then he can see the outside world all he wants!"

"He isn't Veil Sixclaw, Abbot. He's my nephew-"

"Adopted! His parents were raiders and pillagers and murderers-"

Connington cut short the old man. "My sister is not a raider, pillager or murderer. He's coming this season and if he behaves, next season too."

"And the Skipper-"

"And I have known each other since we were welps, I don't think he'll refuse me."

"And the boy's mother?" The word 'mother' sounded especially forced.

Connington deflated. "Uh, well I suppose you should tell her that-"

"You convinced me to let her precious dibbun out of the safety of our abbey. Yes, shall we go now?"

Connington grew pale. Constance would probanly throttle him if she heard it put that way. "Maybe I should speak to her first?"

"Excellent, excellent! When she insists he goes, he may go." The Abbot pressed his advantage. The battle was won. Constance would never let go of that ferret, not even if her life depended on it.

Fret endured his punishment like he always did. He complained non-stop.

"It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair." He would repeat out loud as he scrubbed the grease off the pans, his paws elbow-deep in hot, stuffy, soapy water. He only shut up when it looked like the cook was going to throw him in as well. Then he continued muttering under his breath.

"Fret!" Rang the familiar cry. All day people had been asking him to do 'favours' he had no choice but to accept. That and the old mole kept asking him whether he saw her pies.

"No! I didn't see your blueberry-cream-coated-custard-filled-sweet-pies!" He snapped, turning to his uncle. He looked surprised for a moment, but was quickly annoyed again. "What do you want?"

"Tsk tsk, your manners always were awful. Still I think you'll be happy to hear what I got you-"

"If it's the stupid toy I don't want it!" The ferret snapped. "It's boring anyways and that ugly mouse can keep it!" Yet another lie. He had liked that toy.

"I wasn't talking about the toy. I was talking about the little excursions you dibbuns have twice a season. You can go."

The ferret eyed him suspiciously. "I can? But... I'm getting punished and-"

His uncle waved away his doubts. "Fret, you're old enough to know what's outside this abbey." He placed a paw on the ferret's shoulder and for a moment Fret wanted to hug him, until he realized that was a soppy thought and pushed it away.

The first trip had been when Fret had been four seasons old. He had not wanted to go, but then Momchillo and Matiya and Grollo had gone on and on and on about how wonderful everything was beyond the abbey. Then he had wanted to go, but his momma had been worried and decided he had to be older. He wanted to go so badly, to see Mossflower woods and prance around in fields of flowers and see the rivers and climb the trees where so much had happened. He had given up a while ago though, why all of a sudden? How?

"But we have to convince your mother first." Came Connington's voice.

Easier said than done.

"Momma please! Everyone's always gone except me! I'm already different enough as it is!"

"Fret, it's, it's dangerous! You can't swim and otter-food burns! You could drown! Breathe fire! Get lost! No, you're too young!"

"But momma-" He whined.

"No buts! I'm sorry Fret, maybe next season."

"You always say that!" Fret complained. "And I'm old enough. I'm not a dibbun momma please!"

"But your finger's still hurt! And your chores and-"

"Please momma, I'll be good! I promise. I won't lie, I won't fight, I won't do anything bad ever, ever, ever again!"

Constance watched him plead, a knot tightening around her heart. He was right, he wasn't a dibbun anymore. He was older... Soon he would be taller than her...but he was not old enough! Not yet!

"Fret, how about you run along now. My sister and I will talk about this."

The ferret gave his mother one last pleading look, before walking out with deliberate slowness.

"Jon, he's too young and-"

"He's old enough. All he's ever known is the abbey-"

"And the otters! They're too loud and rowdy and he's vermin to them-"

"And almost everyone here. He needs to see the world with his own eyes. Let him go."

"But, what if he, you know-"

"He'll come back. I promise you, he'll come back and he'll thank you and-"

Fret walked away from the house. He was torn between the hope fluttering inside him and the dread building up. She would let him in the end. Of course she would, why shouldn't she? And then there was the prospect of putting Redwall behind him. He could walk along Mossflower Woods, teeming as it was with critters great and small, wild and tame. He could smell the air of the forest he could spend hours on end staring at from the walls.

Then he tripped and fell on his front and Momchillo was sitting on his back, idly flicking the stolen toy over Fret's face.

"What ho, vermin? Hast thou smelt sour cheese, for thy strides are long and bouncing."

That made no sense. "If you're going to speak Shaggspearian you might as well do it right."

"A vermin lectures me on the art of speach. This day is stunning to behold!"

Fret zoned him out. He would not let the mouse ruin his mood. He would not.

"We're going to the otters this time. Maybe we can bring back some ferret soup for you?"

"Ferret soup? That's bad even by your standards. And you won't have to. I'm coming too!"

Momchillo blinked, and the toy sailed out of his grip and into the ferret's waiting paw. "Wait, what?! Since when?"

"Since today." Fret couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice as he spoke.

"Oh Momchillo, you've caught yourself a carpet! Budge up for the maids!" Came Matiya's voice, but Fret pulled out and dusted himself. Matiya was flanked by some ugly mole and the albino. His eyes felt like they were warming up just looking at her.

"Momchillo. Helloooo. Is something wrong?"

"He's coming?" The mouse pointed at the ferret. It was all he could do to not grin from ear to ear.

"Coming? Coming? He's-"

"Going to meet the otters." Fret said casually, playing once again with the odd toy.

Everyone blinked at him. "Oim bi thunkin' this moight'n be an joike."

Fret felt his furs shiver. He hated mole speech, he hated mole speech, he hated mole speech. "Why would I joke about that?" The ferret replied smugly. And so he left them, and made his way back home.

His momma still looked grim, but Connington was looking very proud of himself.

"Are you sure you want this?" She asked hesitantly.

"Yes! Of course I do!" He replied instantly.

She sighed. "You can go."

"Yes!" Fret whooped and without thinking threw himself into his mother's arms. She returned the hug just as he began to cringe from his sudden 'mushy' behaviour. Still, he was so excited he didn't let go for a long time.

Fret counted the days until they left. Nothing could dampen his spirits. Not the soapey water, not Abbot Martin.

Then the day finally came and for once he woke up early and was preparing breakfast.

Constance blinked at the sight of him, sporting an apron over his habit, buttering toast and sending a 'Good Morning' her way.

"Good morning." She replied caustiously. "You woke up earlier."

"Yup!" He said with such a large grin. "And I made breakfast momma!"

Constance blinked again. Why was he acting so strangely? When had he learned to cook toast?

"So momma, I'm gonna get ready for the trip."

Constance lost her appetite and stared at the ferret with apprehension. Was he too young? Would everything be okay?

Then Connington waddled in with another loud 'good morning', a bundle wrapped up in his paws.

Constance eyed it suspiciously. "What is that?" "A gift for my nephew, of course." And he held it up. It was a large brown robe with a hood large enough to hide Fret's whole face. Then in a voice he knew wouldn't carry, he muttered. "This way nobody tries to hurt him."

Fret was the first dibbun waiting outside the gates, flicking the odd toy he had decided to call a yo-yo for no good reason, beyond being bored.

The next to arrive was the young mole who had accused him of joking. They gave each other such long looks of disapproval as they looked eye to eye.

"You are coming." Grollo, the large hedgehog that was the cook's son blinked at him.

Fret grinned so evilly it made the hedgehog shudder. Then came the albini, who 'humphed' at the sight of him before joining the mole. The ferret's heart tightened at this. He had done nothing to her, yet she looked at him like he was less than dung.

Then Connington came followed by Momchillo and Matiya, both looked apalled that Fret was amongst them.

The grown-up mouse addressed the children. "Right! Off we go!"

Fret was slightly confused as to why Connington was there, but then he figured that his momma had forced him to do it.

Then the gates opened, and for the first time ever Fret walked through them.

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Three, In Which Drama Ensues, And The Skipper Almost Kills A Kid, Not Because He's Evil Or Anything, He Just Does Not Like Vermin And I Needed Drama

Mossflower was endless, or so it seemed to Fret. The trees rustled gently in the breeze and sent golden leaves floating slowly downwards to pave the path in front of the group. The floor was soft and crunchy and there seemed to be no greater pleasure than to kick at a large pile of the leaves and watch them scatter.

It was cold in a refreshing sort of way and the colours gleamed and shivered endlessly on. The trees were like beasts, all gnarled and wisened and old brown wood that seemed to smile as they passed.

Fret felt the wind blow lightly into his face, his fur rustling in the breeze. He felt the leaves crunch under him as he walked, trying to take in everything, to remember everything from the wind to the wood. He felt the hood of his cloak get pulled up above his face, throwing him into shadow.

"Uncle!" He snapped, trying to take the cloth off of his eyes so that he wasn't walking blindly.

"Sorry, but we wouldn't want you catching a cold now would we? Best keep the hood on."

Abbot Martin was talking about history again, but nobody listened to him.

The albino and the mole maid were giggling continuously. Connington was whistling and occasionally stealing looks in his nephew's direction. Momchillo, Matiya and Grollo were singing like drunk soldiers and laughing at what the trio probably thought were the best jokes in the world, but Fret knew was dull, unsophisticated humour.

Then, every now and then the ferret would spot a nut. A hazel or an acorn or a wallnut. He would pick it up and smash it into a tree until it cracked and he could enjoy the goodness within at a leisurely pace.

Abbot Martin was going on about some Lutra-lady who had misplaced her pearls, and Fret was bringing a hazel into a tree with sufficient force to dent an axe. Naturally the hazel stood still. He was going for the fifth hit when he heard someone behind him.

"Tsk, tsk. You abbeybeasts always were a shade too slow, if I might say so. Here lad, give it here."

He stood with a long, streamlined form, well-toned with muscles. He had a long, jagged scar along his gut, and was missing a finger on his right paw. But he still looked charming.

Fret handed the otter the hazel, which was crushed in a strong paw in less than a second. The shell cracked apart and the otter handed the ferret the nut.

"Skipper! Long time no see, old friend!" Came Connington, stepping in front of Fret and holding out his paw for the otter.

Skipper roared with delight at the sight of him. "Ah Jon, you old rogue! It has been too long? What, three seasons?"

"Indeed! I'd have come sooner, but my sister insisted I stay close to home after that business up north."

Skipper laughed so hard spit flew through the trees, a bit of it landed on Fret's hood, and he was now glad his uncle had gifted the cloak to him. It would have taken forever to wash that off his fur.

"Do you 'member that shrew? The one that became the Log-a-log after he barged that varmint off the cliff." The Skipper wiped his eyes. "And little Queens, oh bless her soul, remember when she caught that rat, barged him into the tree until he pis-"

Abbot Martin thought it best to intervene, so as not to damage his pupil's ears. "Skipper, it's nice that you could come and join us." His voice had an edge to it Fret thought had only been reserved for him. Evidently not.

"Oh, of course. You know how much I love little'uns. Ah, bless my soul. You're adorable, the lot of you." He was staring at them all, and the majority found themselves blushing. Fret frowned instead, nobody in their right mind described him as adorable-except his mother and uncle, but they were never in their right minds anyways, but his look went unnoticed. Matiya had not blushed either, instead he had scoffed and muttered something along the lines of 'I won't be so 'adorable' when I'm splattered in the blood of my enemies', or at least that was what Fret had imagined he would have said. The hood was hampering his hearing. He was about to remove it when Connington whipped out a handkerchief and rubbed the spit off properly.

"My my Skipper, you ought to be more careful. At this rate you could get us all infected!"

Skipper was annoying, Fret realized. He was full of stories of chivalry and gallantry, and daring odds he had narrowly managed to save himself from. Naturally the other children listened eagerly to the tales, asking constant questions such as 'how did you know the sword would break through his armour?' or 'was she really as pretty as you say?'. He looked and sounded like a hero, but Fret found himself having a large dislike of the otter chief. It felt the same as all the stories he hated in history, too nonsensical. With ridiculous odds, and the victory of Redwall and the Abbey undoubtable. It was just the same story with different faces.

To his surprise though, his uncle wasn't listening either. He felt like asking why, but decided he wasn't bothered enough. There was an itch behind his ear, and he bent his paw back to scratch it, and tripped over his uncle's tail. He fell face forwards, and climbed back up, his hood still on, but the itch forgotten. Connington looked sheepish, but wasn't looking him in the eye. Fret supposed it must have been an accident.

He stayed at the back, cracking his wallnuts and listening to the others enjoying themselves.

Eventually, after his head had begun to throb of the Skipper's appalling musical talent, they came upon a settlement. Otters everywhere greeted them, and many had an eye for Fret, in his large hooded cloak. But he ignored them and kept cracking his wallnuts. It was an odd place to live, with tents made of blankets and old sails, or upturned canoes from which came snores and peaked out the occupant's long, slender tail. Otter spears lined the place like a fence, their infamous javelins racked up against trees. There were a pair of younger ones who were hurling rocks at a target with their slings. The target, however, had not been hit once.

"So who's hungry?" The Skipper cried to raccuous roars of 'me', 'me', 'me'. He chuckled, and whistled. The two otters who had been playing with the slings raced over. "Angus, Andrew, give the kids some stew, I have plenty to catch up with me old abbeydweller pals."

The Skipper took the two mice with him, Connington weakly protesting that he 'ought to do something'.

"Ah, abbeydwellers." Said the otter that was Angus or Andrew, Fret could not tell them apart.

"Blessed lil' dibbuns."

"Right. After you m'lady." The otter held out his paw for the molemaid, who blushed, took it and then they were all skipping away, Fret trailing behind the group. There were no wallnuts here.

The twins took them to a large stream, where crystalline water rushed past small, shining stones. There, already smoking, was a cauldron over a flame, with little pots piled around.

The stew smelled strong, and peppery. Fret sneezed audibly. Momchillo peaked inside the cauldron, tip-toeing on Grollo's head so that he could look into it.

"It's not ready yet, but I expect there shan't be a problem with that. So abbeybeasts, we are Angus and Andrew, young un's of the otters and the bes' slingers you'll ever know."

Matiya scoffed arrogantly. "A sling is a weak weapon. Bows are better."

The otters shared a sly smile, then launched into a story. "We knew a varmint once upon a season."

"Aye, an' he said the same pretty thing."

"They was also the las' words that came out his mouth before two rocks flew into his head."

"An' the ferret breathed no more."

"Why did you kill him?" Fret snapped, annoyed. These two were worst than the redwallers, and dumb as dirt if they thought they could hand feed them all their rubbish.

Angus shrugged. "He was up t'no good. All varmint are."

"Oh really, he insulted you so you killed him?" Maybe this was why his mother never let him leave the abbey. If this was the fate that befell all ferrets...

"Well if we hadn't, he'd have killed us."

"Yeah, listen lad, I get it might be too gory for you, but all ferrets are rotten to the core. The best thing for them is to be killed." The other children were silent as the grave, watching Fret and the otters uncertainly.

The words stung so strongly it was as if the otters had both slapped him. He knew they hadn't killed anyone, he knew it was just another dumb story. But he was sick and tired of dumb stories and dead vermin. He rose to his feet and threw off his hood.

Both of their jaws fell open. Fret glared at them. "We're all bloody rotten, eh? You're just too bloody stupid to think! If you had killed a ferret then how come neither of you could hit a larger target?

Angus stammered inelligibly, but Andrew managed to form words. "You-you're a af-ferret."

Fret clapped for them, slowly and deliberately. He felt stronger now, from the shocked looks on their faces. He felt invincible. Then Matiya started laughing at the otters.

"What's the matter? Scared of this little'un?"

The other children laughed too, as if Fret was nothing to be scared of at all.

The otter twins went beet red. "Just haven't met one who could talk."

"Yeah, most are dumb as dir-"

"But still sufficiently dangerous to warrant killing them? Or did you just sit there wetting yourselves?" Fret snapped again. The dibbuns were laughing at the otters, Fret was making them laugh. He felt like he was flying, untouchable, soaring above them all.

Then Angus rose and glared down at him, and courage flew out faster than a candle in a storm. "Your kind are nothin' but bloody butchers and angry lil' people who steal things you can't make for yourselves."

Fret found courage in the urge to defend himself. "And you're so scared of lil' black and white people that you kill them so that you don't wet yourself!"

Andrew was growling, but Fret ignored the danger signs, such was his need to defend himself.

"I'm not a thief. I'm not a vermin. I am a ferret. You are just a stupid, slimy-"

Andrew lunged, leaping over the cauldron pot. He fell on top of Fret, his fist raised. Instinct made the ferret lash out first and his claws sliced through the otter's skin and fur on his cheek. Blood dribbled down, and the otter forgot his anger at the pain, and rose, touching his cheek with his paw.

"You scratched him." Angus muttered, dumbfounded.

"He went for me first!" Fret snapped, but there was a pleading tone to his voice, he hadn't meant to lash out it has just... just happened. He felt dread rush into his stomach. Noone was laughing now, the camp was quite, save for the crackling of the fire. He knew the way this would end. He started it. He always started it. No matter what he said he was going to be punished for attacking Andrew. The others would lie and he would be made to scrub the roofs. But that wasn't the worst part. His paw was still coated in otter blood, the faces around him were shocked, fearful even. "I-I-I didn't. I'm sorry, I just.. I couldn't" His throat was choking up, the pressure in his chest had never been stronger. He needed to lash out, to explain, to, to-

"VARMINT!" The Skipper thundered forwards, and charged at the ferret. Fret froze in fear. He whimpered weakly, he wasn't vermin, he wasn't, he wasn't... Then why had he attacked Andrew? The otter raised his spear. I'll die. He's going to kill me. I'm going to die. The thought made his heart hammer and his eyes wetten, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He was so scared.

Then, before the spear could hit him, Connington's small, grey form flung into the otter's side, and the sharpened wood missed by an inch. Fret was still frozen in place, his eyes watering. He was shivering. He was so scared.

Connington, despite his smaller size, had the Skipper down. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" He was bouncing on the otter's chest.

"What!? What on earth!?" Abbot Martin had joined the screaming. "Skipper!? What? This is madness, madness!" He looked like he was having a heart attack, his brown fur standing on end.

"Varmint! Varmint! Var- Connington! What are you-doing?!"

"Stop! You insane lunatic! Think! He's a child! Look at him!" The little mouse slapped the otter chief hard across the face.

That brought Skipper to his senses. He took a deep breath, glanced briefly at Fret, who looked utterly petrified and then glared at the older mice. "What in the seven seas are you playing at?"

"Well, you see he's a member of our-" Martin began, eyeing Fret with what looked like pity.

Connington cut him off, and hopped off the otter, placing a firm paw on the ferret's shoulder, and patting his nephew on the back. "He's my nephew."

The Skipper opened his mouth, closed it and then tried to form words. "Bu-wha-wh-your sister, and who did you, how on earth-"

"He's Constance's son." Connington replied firmly. "And my nephew."

"I-I, he's a varmint!" The Skipper replied, baffled.

"He's not!" Connington snapped, sounding a lot like his nephew.

"He's a ferret!"

"So?" The mouse was becoming more and more firm with every word.

"So he's varmint! What do you think you're doing with him over here?!" Skipper barked, spit flying out his mouth.

"He's my nephew and may go wherever he pleases!"

"Not if I say so. Have you forgotten everything Jon? What his kind do?"

The mouse hesitated. "I believe judging someone based on their species is wrong."

"Truly? Your nephew's different, eh? He has blood on his paw, I see."

Connington was not ready for that, he had been so caught up with the whole situation he hadn't even noticed the blood.

Andrew explained. "He attacked me, sir."

Connington opened his mouth, and closed it again.

"Aye, we was just joking and he went mad-"

"Liar!" Fret snapped. "Liar liar liar liar liar!" He was crying. The tears were rolling down his face, thick and fast. He pulled out of his uncle's grip and trudged away, sobbing incoherently. He tripped on the hem of his cloak, got up and continued walking away.

He could scarcely see ahead of him, with the salt water falling down his face. The clearing was silent, but for his receding footsteps and occasional sobs.

Connington glared so fiercely Angus and Andrew had the grace to look abashed. "Yes, I'm sure that is exactly how it happened." Andrew bit his lip. Then the small, grey mouse scampered away. "Fret! Fret, it's alright. Fret!"

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Four, In Which A Ferret Named Fret Meets A Weasel Named Sharpfur And A Rat Named Greyclaw

"Fret! Come back! Skipper just overreacted a litt-"

"A LITTLE!" Fret snapped, rounding on the small mouse.

"Okay-a lot, but-"

"BUT NOTHING!" The ferret yelled, gesticulating wildly. "They hate me." He whined. "They all do, they always have! I'm just-just vermin!"

"You're not vermin." Connington soothed, trying to pull his nephew into a hug.

Fret pulled away. "I'm going ho- to Redwall. I'm going to Redwall."

"Well that's fine. We can get this whole incident smoothed over before anyone can get you into any more trouble." Jon said, relief flooding over him.

"Uncle... Can you just... Leave?" Fret asked, biting down the urge to yell 'leave me alone'.

Connington paused, considering the situation. On one paw it was best to get Fret home safe and sound. On the other his nephew had just had a traumatic ordeal... The small mouse sighed.

"Okay Fret, but don't go running off now. And- stay out of trouble and-are you sure you don't want me to come?"

Fret nodded.

He sighed again. "Just... Go home and tell your momma I'm sorry."

Fret nodded again and scampered off back the way he came, until Connington was out of earshot. The ferret made sure he wasn't being followed, then took a different path.

He was sick of it all. They all lied and made him out to be a villain, they hated the very sight of him. The Skipper had tried to kill him... And the root cause of it all was that he was 'vermin'. He was not vermin, but that was all they saw when they looked at him. If that was all they would ever see him as, why should he go back to scrubbing pans and falling asleep in lessons? He could learn to fight, become a travelling warrior-a tourney knight. He could wear steel so thick nobody would know what he was. Suddenly an image came to his mind. Fret, all clad in armour, winning a tourney at Redwall, being respected by the other dibbuns, getting cheered for by the grown-ups... And best of all was the look on their faces when he removed the helm. He could almost hear Constance yelling through the din. 'That's my son! That's my son!' Then as thoughts turned to his mother the image vanished. What would become of her if he left? A part of him wanted to yell that she didn't love him, that it was all a lie- but the other part refused to listen. So much of her life had been dedicated to him.

He lay against a tree, his arms crossed over, fuming. He didn't want to go back to the stupid abbey, but he couldn't just abandon Constance-then he was no better than the vermin everyone thought he was.

"I told him he shouldn't come, but Connington refused." Abbot Martin wheezed, trying to relax the tense atmosphere that surrounded the otter captain.

"Aye, he's a stubborn one. Since when did he have a pet varmint anyways?" The Skipper agreed.

"He's not a pet." The small grey mouse snapped-sounding remarkably like his nephew. "As I told you before, he's my nephew."

Both Abbot Martin and the Skipper humphed.

"Tell me Jon, how many ferrets have besieged Redwall?" The old brown mouse asked.

"More than I care to count, but Fret was not one of them, nor will he ever be." The grey one shot back.

"Aye, mayhaps he'll just be a cutthroat." The otter captain remarked darkly.

"If you treat him like one what do you expect? You tried to kill him."

"He harmed one of mine!" Skipper replied, a low growl building up behind his throat.

"Oh yes, good graces, look at them splashing-oh the scars! Certainly more traumatic than staring death right in the face." He pointed pointedly at the youngsters, currently laughing and splashing in the river. "They don't look very 'harmed' to me!"

"ant you and your sarcasm." The burly otter snapped, for he had nothing better to say.

"Where is the boy now, Connington?" Abbot Martin asked, once again trying to lighten the mood.

"On his way back to the abbey."

"Unaccompanied, alone and on his first outing to Mossflower woods. Tsk, tsk and you expect him to go home? Well, your faith is commendable. Shall we give him a little test? If he returns to the abbey then he is as you say, a good lad-if not then I suppose it was better this way."

Connington looked like he was about to explode. "Fret is going to go home and if he doesn't I will personally march through the Dark Forest and back, dragging him if I have to. He is my nephew!"

"Perhaps we ought to change the subject." The old mouse managed to squeak.

"Have you forgotten Jon? What the varmints done to me? And Rowland, you remember Rowland don't you?"

"I haven't forgotten." The small mouse snarled.

"I think you could do with a reminder."

What was that noise? It was a continuous compilation of grunting and labored breath that cut through the pleasant noise in the forest. Curiosity made Fret want to investigate, but he proceeded with caution. There were many legends of Mossflower Woods. Of cats, and owls and snakes. He crept close to the river, and peered cautiously from the bushes. It was not a cat, an owl or a snake.

A dark grey rat-for no mouse would hold a weasel- was holding a weasel, who was pulling on a thin shaft of wood with an even thinner rope poking into the water.

Fret realized what would happen a second before it happened. The shaft snapped loudly and the two fell into a tangle. Curiosity tightened it's grip on Fret, who had never seen either kind before.

The weasel slipped free of the tangle with practiced ease. "Dammit Grey! I told you the stick wouldn't last!" The weasel scurried over to the river. "I'll get you next time you bloody kipper!" In response the water splashed over him. "Ack!"

The rat had sat up, and was sniffing madly. When he spoke Fret was surprised by how mellow his voice was. Soft and gentle. "Do you smell that?" The rodent stood up, and crawled around, his nose sniffing the shore.

"All I can smell is defeat." The weasel commented, drawing a dirk and picking at yellowing teeth with it, before spitting into the river.

The rat stopped in front of Fret's bush, giving a wide grin that showed off his unevenly sized buckteeth. "Hullo!"

His cover blown Fret stood up. "H-hello." The rat's eyes were wide and warm, and his face looked familiar.

"Ah, a ferret." The weasel interjected.

"I'm Fret." The ferret said politely. Neither seemed to be any older than he was. The weasel was small and thin, about the size of his uncle, yet more elastic. His fur was a bright oramge, but looked like it could redden easily. The rat was taller, but not quite as tall as Fret. He was wider though, and his tail a fat, pink worm.

"He's Grey, I'm Sharpie." The weasel seemed bored and walked back to the river.

"I never smelt you before." Said the grey rat, Grey.

"Me...neither." It felt strange, talking to a pair of strangers. There were rarely any strangers in Redwall, and even less who would speak with him.

"Do you live here?"

"More or less." Fret responded, still unsure.

An awkward silence descended, and was broken by loud splashings of water as Sharpie hurled pebbles into the river. "I'm gonna starve to death!" He whined, falling dramatically to the floor.

"But you had breakfast-"

"Grey, I'm starving now!"

"There are nuts in the woods." Fret offered, trying to be helpful.

Both vermin burst out laughing. Sharpie got to his feet, cackling like a clown."Do I look like a bloody squirrel to you?" He fell back to the floor, his legs kicking wildly as he laughed half-madly.

"No, you don't." Fret said, not knowing why they were laughing so hard. Nuts were nice...When the weasel was left only chuckling occasionally he supplied the reason.

"A few seasons ago, when I was a dibbun, a squirrel maid with twelve kids and no eyes thought I was one of hers-until she tried to shove an acorn down my throat. I put up a good fight and all, but in the end I had to swallow. I bet she would have kept me if her kids didn't point out how fluffy my tail wasn't! After that she kicked me outta a tree, lucky I landed on Grey really."

The squirrel maid sounded like Blind Agatha-who had once called him cute-before she learned that he was a ferret. After that she had whacked him on the head for 'lying'. Connington had covered his eyes while Constance dealt with the squirrel. Blind Agatha had since avoided their cottage.

"What about you tubby, tell him a funny story." The weasel chided, poking his friend in the belly.

"Er okay. Well I don't have any parents and stuff, but Sharpie's family took me in. His ma makes good soup-"

"I said funny! Make us laugh Grey, laugh!"

"Well once we tried to go fishing with my tail, coz he said it looked like a worm. It was a good idea I suppose, but the fishes weren't interested. Then an otter bit it and Sharpie dragged him onto land. I don't know who was more surprised really."

"Well that was progress." The weasel said, patting his friend on the back. "How old are you Fret?"

"Er ten seasons, roughly."

"Me too!" The rat said, grinning again.

"Ha, I'm ten and a half!" The weasel exclaimed.

"That's coz you've got your family to celebrate with you." The grey rat pointed out, sounding sad.

"My family celebrates your one too-remember that giant cheese tart we got off that mole!"

They both started laughing again.

"What about you Frettie? Who looks after you?" The weasel asked.

"Well I live in Redw-er wood. Redw-"

"You live in that cursed abbey?!" They exclaimed, though the rat had left out 'cursed'.

"No, nononono, that place is baaaaad news." Sharpe began, Grey nodding feverishly. "I mean, sure the food's good, but that place is full of woodlanders! There's a badger as well I heard! Do you know what badgers do to you when they're angry?"

"They go all crazy and rip out your bones and use your skull as a drinking cup!" Grey supplied, sounding worried just thinking about it.

"Exactly!" Hissed the weasel. "And it's haunted."

"Haunted?" Fret sniggered. "The badger makes us scrub dishes when she's angry, anyways she'd need a bigger cup than your skull. And now you're just trying to scare me."

Both looked dead serious. "That crazy mouse who built the place. Matinn or something, he still walks around the abbey, and lashes out on any and all verminfolk who enter. They say the sword he weilds burns any vermin who so much as touches the blade."

"You're better off coming with us." Grey supplied. "You can share our room even. We share everything, except for his dirk, that's his and-"

"I've lived in the abbey all my life, and I was never attacked by anyone...Called Martin." Everyone inside Redwall hated him, yet here he was, refusing to go with two strangers, who had in five minutes treated him better than almost everyone he had ever met. How come rats are the vermin, when an otter tried to kill me for no reason and the rat's offering a place to sleep?

"C'mon." Whined Grey Claw. "He'll let you use it from time to time, he lets me use it. And his ma makes good soup and she's really sweet and doting and I can get you a-"

"I have my own momma and I don't give a fig about whatever you can get me!" Fret snapped. Grey looked like he was about to cry.

"Now you've done it!" Sharpie hissed. "Look tubby it's okay, he didn't mean to snap at you. Right Frettie?"

"Right." Fret supplied, the weasel's glare was enough to kill, but the dirk was somewhat more threatening. "I didn't mean to snap it's just that-" Everyone in Redwall hates me and I'm here snapping at relatively nice vermin. "It's been a long day. I should really be getting back right about now." He faked a yawn. "Nice meeting you two." And he scampered off, utterly confused as to why his feet were taking him back to the abbey.

"Well... To put it bluntly we'll never see him again." Sharpie summarised. "Nononono don't cry Grey. It's okay. Ghosts can't get to us because they can't swim."

"Er, neither can you." Grey added.

"I was comforting you, you fat oaf." The weasel murmured

[close]

[Nadaz, voice of the host]

I haven't finished reading it yet and it looks like you'll write more but I find it good so far and I encourage you to keep on writing for there are very few good ''vermin'' in Redwall and I enjoy reading about them.

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Five, In Which Fret Returns

"I am hers and she is mine." Said one tall mouse, thick and muscled.

"I am his and he is mine." Replied another, just as tall.

Then they spoke in unison. "From this day, till the end of my days."

Then as the two mice sealed their love with a kiss, the cheering and the music broke out. The drums were beaten, horns were sounded and everybeast was stomping their feet and clapping paws.

Connington smiled as hard as he could-ignoring the constant pang in his chest. He had to be happy for them. Rowland was his best friend and Constance... Was like a sister. The Skipper gave him a hard slap on the back.

"Cheer up Jon! Your day will come soon." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Agatha's been eyeing you the whole time."

"I'm fine Skip... Just worried is all... Mad-Eye Marik still had half his horde-"

"Aye and a javelin through the rear- I should know, I put it there meself." He roared with laughter, patted his friend on the back again and went to join some otter girls.

But Connington was not relieved. All the Skipper had done was infuriate the ferret. Constance was tripping around as she danced with Rowland... She had never been a good dancer... And Rowland, he looked drunk with love, and was constantly stepping on somebeast's tail. If only he could be happy too...

"He was my friend too Skip! Or are you forgetting that?" Thoughts of Rowland hurt him more than any blade ever could.

"You know what they did to him! To Constance's babes! Your neices! Your nephews! How could you?"

"Fret had nothing to do with that!"

"His kind did! All of his ilk! They butchered them all! Do you remember?!"

Abbot Martin was beginning to feel threatened in the warriorbeasts' presence. He was no fighter himself, and the emotions were running so high it was a wonder the two weren't going for the kill already.

"I remember everything! And I don't remember Fret having anything to do with it!"

"I only recognized him for his tail. Bent a long time ago when he was a dibbun. And I saw that ferret poke so many holes in little Chesters..." The otter took a deep breath. "They smashed Fleece into a tree and threw his wailing body into the river. They'd have killed Constance too if they could!"

"That was gruesome Skipper-gruesome and unforgivable. But Connington was correct when he said that Fret was not one of them. He might have not been born even."

He had been a babe back then... A little thing, alone and helpless. Of course Constance had taken him in and raised her as her own, her family did the same with me.

The air was tense from the silence as the Skipper thought this over.

"Tell your varmint I'm sorry Jon." The otter growled. "He shouldn't have been born one of them. But he could hardly decide that. I overreacted is all... But you know our history Connington. Don't go bringing him here again!"

Jon nodded, eager to return to the abbey. "No worries old friend."

"But you be watchful of 'Im. Maybe he ain't a varmint yet-but if you ain't careful he'll be one within the season. He's got bad blood in his veins."

"I'm aware of your thoughts Skipper." Connington said frowning. "And yours Abbot. But I stand by what I said- Fret is a good lad."

The otter then shook his head, forcing a chuckle. "It's been a while since we disagreed on anything, eh?"

Connington too managed a grin. "Too long."

Constance was pacing her cottage.

She had found Fret mewling like a newborn. He had been alone and helpless, and she had found her heart rushing out to him. Alone and cold and hungry and helpless. Blood ran down the wall, and a corpse lay on the ground. She had killed a dozen fighters to get this far, but she could not bring herself to bring her axe down on the child-ferret or not. Instead, she had pressed him against her cold armour, and rocked him backwards and forwards, until the wailing and whimpering stopped and he was fast asleep. Then when they had found her in the morning, still clutching the frightened babe she had announced that he was hers. The large mouse had to endure cries of outrage and gasps filled with shock. But no amount of sense would make her let go of the babe. She had been reminded, half-a-hundred times, of Veil Sixclaw, who's own mother had called him 'evil' after all was said and done. Constance had replied with a 'ant Byrony, and his name is Fret- not Veil!' For nine seasons she had watched him crawl and waddle and walk. She had seen him cry, made him laugh and recieved more of his snapping than anybeast.

She had lost three babes... Three beautiful babes, before fate had handed her Fret. She had lost three and couldn't bear to loose a fourth. That was the root cause of her pacing.

What if things didn't go well? The Skipper had loved her like a sister, yet had hated vermin of any kind with a passion. And vermin or not-Fret was a ferret. Would the Skipper mistreat him? Would he jump to conclusions? Surely if Jon explained everything properly... Yet Mossflower Woods were huge, and certainly large enough to get lost in. Then the door opened and Fret walked in, looking as worried to see her as she was relieved to see him.

Fret almost cursed his luck. He had wanted to sneak into his room quietly, so as not to alert her of his arrival. Naturally she was there already.

"H-hi momma."

"Oh Fret, you're back already!" She wrapped him in a hug before he knew what was happening. He recoiled from the movement inwardly, but was also glad to be safely home again. "How was the trip?"

The question pressed into him like a hot iron rod, and out of instinct Fret responded. "It was great!"

Constance didn't fully believe his words, but in all honesty she was glad for the reassurance-forced or otherwise.

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Six, In Which Fret Leaves

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!"

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Seven, In Which Fret's Friends Go To Look For Him And They Get Kidnapped

All Matiya could feel was a hard lump in his stomach. Everywhere he looked he could see Fret on the wall, yelling wildly. Did I hate him? I didn't hate him... I never did... I don't.

The air around the abbey was solemn and serious. Mother Constance was broken. She was pale, quiet and frozen. She didn't move, nor did she speak. Her heart was weak they said, in worried voices. Brother Jon had gone mad, it seemed. He had stayed by Constance's side constantly, until someone had brought him news of Fret's absence. Then he had run around the abbey like a madbeast, as if in a panic, searching for his nephew. He had circled the walls so often that Blind Agatha had brought him meals up there, not that he ate much. All they had found of Fret was a piece of his habit. No body, no prints, no scent. The snow had covered the last two, but they had dug for the first. Matiya wondered whether or not that was a good thing. Then the small mouse had cracked like an egg, and lost himself in despair, after having searched Mossflower so thoroughly his paw-prints could be seen in every inch of snow. He ate nothing for a while, and had grown sick and cold. Then the badgermum had physically forced him to eat something.

Tibbers the shrew was practicing with Jack-is-Lucky, the hare. His thin rapier was faster than the hare's axe, but packed less of a punch, and the hare had made him surrender several times over. Momchillo and Grollo watched with solemn faces, though Momchillo had the ghost of a grin on his face. Then again he hadn't heard Fret that night. None of them had. Jack-is-Lucky had hopped back into the hall, unable to find him. But then they had heard Rosebrush's cries and had come running. The Long Patrol had scouted the area in search of the culprit... But they had not found anyone there.

"Yield!" The hare demanded good-naturedly, his axe barely held above the shrew's chest.

Matiya had a wooden sword hanging from a scabbard at his side. What would Martin have done? Or any other warrior in his position? They would have convinced Fret that they didn't hate him. They'd have some way to tell him the truth. All he had done was look stupid. But if they had failed, like him... They'd have found Fret by now. Then Matiya grinned as the guilt left him. He would bring the ferret home if it killed him! Like a true hero!

Fret realized three things before he woke up. One, his head was sore and throbbing. Two, he was on a somewhat soft floor. Three, Grey was sniffing something.

"What are you doing here?" Fret snapped, sitting up and making his head spin like a toy.

"Hullo Frettie!" The rat responded, good-naturedly, waving at him.

"What are you doing here? Who let you in? What about the ghost?" He was in a dimly lit room, lying on a carpet of silk.

"This isn't your bloody abbey!" The weasel said, shrieking with laughter at his confusion.

"B-but-" It made no sense. One moment there was the feast and then Matiya had caught him at the wall and then he had slipped on something cold, and fell off the abbey.

"You fell down the abbey, almost flattened me, then me and Grey took you back home." Sharpie explained, catching his dirk as it fell through the air.

"What were you doing at Redwall?"

"Vittles!" Grey exclaimed, chewing on a slab of cheese he had been sniffing a moment ago.

Disorientated as he was Fret didn't know how to react to that.

"You were meant to bring some to me too you greedy lump!" Sharpfur snapped, making Grey look sheepish.

"I told you, a mouse walked in and fell down. Then somebeast was coming and I ran away! It wasn't like I ate... Much."

"Grey, you ate enough food to last me the whole of winter! And you licked all the soup off of him!"

"I offered to let you have some." Grey pointed out, staring at his feetpaws in shame.

"I wasn't going to lick soup off a dead body!"

Fret tuned them out, his head still turbulent and dizzy.

"Do your feetpaw work?" Grey asked him suddenly.

"I guess..." He tried to get up, and a black spot covered his vision, but after a while his eyes readjusted and aside from the constant throb of his brain he felt no pain. "Where am I?" Fret asked, clenching and unclenching his claws to bring some sense of feeling back into them.

"Mossflower Woods. Do you want to see our camp?" Grey offered.

"Camp? There's more of you?"

Sharpfur giggled. "Welcome matey, to the humble camp of the Honest Bunch!"

"It's cold." Hawthorn complained, as she trailed behind the band, shivering madly.

"Aye, it's winter." Jack-is-Lucky replied, not noticing the underlying tone of a whine.

But the albino vole would not be disuaided. She had heard the boy's mad rush to go in search of Fret and had in turn followed them out to attempt to stop them from getting lost. "Brother Jon failed to find him, what chance do we have?"

"Your mouse went alone. In the Guosim we know that we must work together."

"Fret's our... Neighbour." Grollo summarised awkwardly. "We can't abandon him."

"What he said." Momchillo added, with a cheeky grin, before giving a loud, fake sigh. "Hawthorn, my beautiful queen. Do not fear, when we have spotted his black and white hide we will drag him back to Redwall-and all before supper!"

"Oi thunk he moight hab run awaywards." The mole, Roseheart, who was her constant companion, suggested.

That was what Matiya feared most of all. That Fret had ran off into the night, hating them all. What if some monster had come out of nowhere and made the ferret his dinner? What if he had sworn vengeance on the abbey and had ran off to make his horde? No...That...wasn't Fret. He wasn't evil. He couldn't be evil. The group was quiet, save for the crunching of the snow.

"Why can't you just accept he might be dead?" She sighed in frustration. She had never liked Fret. He smelled funny and was rude and scary. And in the tales of old his kind attacked Redwall ever-so-often.

Matiya paused and looked at her with deep-rooted confusion. "Do you hate him?"

"Hate? No, that's a bit much..." Ladies never hated anyone, not unless their family had been harmed. "But he's not worth risking our lives for!"

"Anybeast is worth risking your life for my fair lady." Jack-is-Lucky finished. To which the other boys said 'aye'.

"Noit Frettie." The molemaid bristled, shivering.

"''Aye!' Mes amigos, bonjour and welcome to Mossflower!" The children turned to the new, accented voice.

It belonged to a large and slender stoat, pale white fur glittered and red eyes glinted with amusement. From a belt hung a rapier, two daggers and one short, straight sword. He was accompanied by a shorter, chubby and pouchy-faced pine marten who had no weapons on his own belt.

"Ah mates, how nice of you to come along! We're looking for a friend of ours. Black and white fur, about yay-high, sort of on the snappy side?"

"Friend or foe? What is a hare wanting with a ferret?" The stoat asked, leaning against a tree.

"How do you know he's a ferret?" Matiya asked, fear prickling down his spine as he glanced repeatedly at the silent marten.

"A squirrel sees things his companions do not. Bravo, mais you must permit me to tell you half the truth. Your amigo dropped down for a visit."

"You kidnapped him." Momchillo gasped.

"Oh, non non, monsieur if it weren't for us your ferret would be a frozen corpse. We saved his life, and now we may even take you to him!" The Long Patrol's teachings kicked in, and noticed the underlying threat.

"Ho-ho mate, if you think we'll come quietly then I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, wot. But no hare of the Long Patrol will be taken by the likes of you." Jack-is-Lucky freed his axe, Tibbers drew his rapier and Matiya, feeling slightly abashed, drew his wooden sword. "Give us our companion, friend, neighbour and you will be left with your lives."

"Long Patrol? Hum hum, do you know a monsieur with one eye? He owes me a few fingers, you see." And he held up, half his paw was missing, and he had two claws and his one thumbclaw left.

"Why, he's my father matey!" The hare roared as he dived forwards. Tibbers was just as quick on his feetpaws and dived forwards, rapier pointed at the stoat's chest.

The white-furred fiend lazily swerved away from the axe-swing that would have split his skull open, and parried the shrew's blade with his own rapier. His rapier's flat blade rapped the hare's knuckles, and his grip on the axe weakened slightly. Then he deftly parried another swing from the little shrew and sparks flew. He drew his straight sword, and parried both weapons with his own pair. Then the flat of the sword and rapier dealt a stunning blow to the hare's skull, making his head ring like a bell. Then Tibbers was thrown onto his back, and in a spray of red, with a cry of pain, the rapier pinned him to the ground through the shoulder.

Hawthorn screamed in terror, and the molemaid fainted clear away. The stoat grinned widely.

"Tsk, tsk I thought the Long Patrol was better than this." Then he drew the rapier free and spun both blades in a circle around him.

Matiya ran at him, swinging his wooden sword madly around him. The stoat sliced the wood clean in two and pressed the rapier's point against the squirrel's throat.

"Nobeast moves!" He ordered. "Or are you wishing for more spilled blood? Deathglare, get the rope out."

The silent pine marten withdrew a rope.

"So you just do whatever you want?" Fret asked, perplexed by the freedom his companions had. T

The camp was small-ish, with twenty patchwork homes. There were holes in the trees, with blankets draped over the entrance. Overturned boats made strange sights, and one pine marten, whom Grey had described as 'scarier than Hellgates' lived in a newly made home of piled snow. They were all vermin here. An elderly pine marten called Sick-eyes who was the resident seer, and so wrinkled and old she looked akin to a folded paper. Gulash, a huge rat that had chased all three of them after Sharpfur had hurled a snowball at his back. Sickletail who was the weasel's mother, and had tried to make Fret eat an extra portion of food. Sharpfur had three elder and four younger siblings, the last one was just a babe, the others mere dibbuns. But older than him he had Heartrip, Redtail and Blizzard, vicious, argumentative and just as snappy as Fret. There was Deathglare, the seer's cousin, whom Grey had warned him about. He never spoke, but his pouchy face could not hide his eyes, which made you shiver just to look at them. Then there was Threeclaw, the blade master, who Sharpfur had insisted could turn anything into a weapon.

Here he was everybeast's 'mate', and when somebeast said something mean it was considered weak to not snap back with your own well-chosen insult. Here, Fret fit right in. Nobeast cared what he smelled like or what Mattimeo's son's uncle's nephew was called. Nobeast cared that he was a ferret. Yet he knew, deep down, that he couldn't stay. Connington and Constance would be worried sick about him, and he couldn't just leave them. Yet every time he thought of the abbey, he couldn't help but feel a twist of his innards. If only Redwall treated him like vermin did...

"Well, I suppose so, so long as we stay away from the otters, the shrews, the abbey and come back alive than yes, we do what we want." Grey was different though. To Fret at least, the chubby rat was different. He didn't snap, he didn't argue, he was soft-hearted and sweet, and scared to death of being alone.

"Ma found him in the river. He was just a dibbun, trying to tread water and ma took him in. I reckon his parents dumped him off some boat. First while he didn't even sleep at night, too scared we just left him behind. That's why he started sharing my room." Sharpfur had explained.

Indeed the rat followed the weasel everywhere. No matter how bitter, rude or snappy he could be, Grey did as he was bid, sometimes wrongly, sometimes with uncertainty, but he did it all anyways.

Fret rubbed at his temple, trying to think of a subtle way to return to the abbey. The largest issue he was faced with was the abbeybeast's reactions. What was he meant to tell them? That he had been nursed back to normal and saved from a snowy burial by vermin? They hated him enough as it was, and would probably throw him out if they heard it put that way. So he ought to lie, right? But what lie? What could satisfy the badgermum?

"So, are you sharing our room, or do we have to make one for you?" The sudden question twisted a knife in his gut. How was he meant to break the news to simple-hearted, simple-minded Grey Claw? Mayhaps he ought to be blunt...

"I-I can't stay Grey." He explained slowly, desperate not to snap at him.

"Why not?" Sharpfur demanded. The little weasel had a habit of demanding things. "Your precious abbey threw you off the wall. Listen to me mate, that ghost got you I swear it. If ye go back then yer a deadbeast."

"And why would you care?" Fret snapped loudly, he had not meant to at first-but he had had to protect himself from the weasel's tone.

"Because Grey here doesn't want to see your hide hanging for the birds!" The weasel retorted.

"They're not going to kill me. Anyhow you can't stop me leaving!"

Grey sat in the snow, sniffing loudly. And Fret felt a mix of guilt and anger. Why was the rat so hurt by the one fact. They barely knew each other.

"Blood runs thicker than water, ferret." Sharpfur scowled, hovering protectively over the rat. "Remember that."

"What does that mean?" Fret snapped. Why was such a big deal being made about all this? He had a family in Redwall, even if he had nothing else.

Before Sharpie could open his mouth to respond a pair of vermin approached. A brown, chubby pine marten with a pouchy face made Fret shiver. The other vermin was a white stoat with red eyes, humming a tune.

And tied by their paws to a rope were the abbey young'uns, wearing confused and frightened expressions. Matiya looked directly at him with visible pain and a look of betrayal.

"Haha, was I not telling you we'd bring you to your amigo?" The stoat asked.

Matiya slipped free of the rope around his paws and dived for Fret. The squirrel and the ferret rolled through the snow. Matiya ended up on top, a fist crashing down into his face. Each punch was punctuated by an angry yell. "Traitor! You evil! Lying! Son of a-"

Deathglare freed Fret from the squirrel's wrath, and threw Matiya to the ground, where Sharpfur pointed a dirk at his throat. The ferret was a mess. His face was dark and blotchy, a tooth had been knocked free and blood was flowing freely from his nose. Grey Claw helped him up timidly. And Fret stumbled on his feet, lost completely in all thoughts, though there was one that swam near the surface of his mind.

He couldn"'t go back to Redwall...

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

 In Which More Drama Ensues

"We're the Honest Bunch, A crew, not a horde! Welcome aboard! Honesty's not our best policy, but we'll stand beside ye! It's what we do! So join us, why don't ye? It's fun and games til someone kills ye! Come on matey, take a swig, take a swing and fall right in!"

Despite the band of vermin's loud, cheerful song, Fret could only feel a pressure in his chest that would not leave. As if a giant was holding him tight and would not let go.

He couldn't return to Redwall. If he returned and lied about not seeing anyone, and if anybeast even believed that, then sombeast would go searching for their young. Then if they were never found their ghosts would haunt him till his dying day. And even worse, if they were found and it was known that he had seen them... Then he was vermin and at best he would spend his days rotting in some dark tower. And if he stayed with the vermin? Then he would become vermin in turn. The last possibility was to leave and somehow take the others with him. But then what? Constance would call him a hero, Connington too maybe, but everybeast else would think he had just gotten cold feet. And what if the Guosim wanted to avenge the little shrew's wounded shoulder? Then they would descend with all their force on the vermin camp.

A grizzly image flew into his mind, of Greyclaw, gurgling blood as a rapier's handle stuck out of his throat. Fret felt himself turning green. He couldn't do that. Not to the vermin who had treated him like a friend. Another image flew into his mind. Matiya was dying from an axe buried in his skull, yelling 'traitor' at his face. He had to choose between his kin and his kind. His kin had never accepted him, his kind had, yet he had grown up with his kin, hating them, and loved the kind he had met this morning. It should have been an easy choice, but he couldn't bare to make it. If he chose kin then he would go back to being hated, and if he chose kind, then his kin had been right all along and he was just another vermin who had stolen their children. Slagar the Cruel indeed...

Yet he had to do something. And it was that knowledge that kept him so miserable. Why did he have to be the one with the difficult choice?

"Ye look miserable."

Fret turned and snapped at the one who spoke to him. "I'm freezing my tail off! Go away and let me be miserable!"

"Do ye want a hankie? Are ye gonna cry?" The other ferret mocked. She was taller than him, and better dressed, with a rapier hanging from her belt.

"No! I just need a fire is-"

"You are a horrible little liar. You want to go back to yer abbey, but yer scared they won't want ye."

It was as if she had read his mind. "No! No I hate the abbey!" It was only half a lie, the abbey meant Constance...and he loved his momma.

"If ye go back without the dibbuns, they find us, if ye come back with the dibbuns then my boys wasted their time, and what if the shrew get prickly about a shoulder cut? They blame you, don't they?"

"Leave me alone!" Fret snapped. The thoughts were bad enough in his head, to hear them thrown at him aloud was utterly painful.

"I do have a hankie if ye need it." She laughed. "I'm sure dem abbeybeast's treated you all fine and swell. Mayhaps I should let you go back to them. Tonight, but for now coz, make yerself at home." She punched his shoulder. It hurt quite a bit, probably more than she had intended. "Now come on, join the fun."

Connington was broken. He had failed her. He loved her more than life itself, yet he had lost them all. All her babes... And mayhaps even her as well.

Jon Connington loved Constance more than he should have. His father had been sickly, and his mother long since passed, when her family had taken him in. They had raised him like their own. Bloomsworth and her crinkled eyes, Corgan with his loud stories. And Constance. Small and shy and young, he had wanted to hide away and blend into the backdrop. She had taken none of it, and had dragged him (sometimes literally) everywhere with her. She was much larger, and technically his sister, but he had loved her more than that. She was his constant support, had helped him become the warrior he had dreamed of becoming. And she had chosen Rowland.

Chosen was putting it strongly, after all she had never known that he loved her. And how could he tell her, when she had not been there to drag him into place? She had married Rowland and he had tried harder than ever to be happy for her. She loved him like a brother, yet she was more than a sister ever could be.

He had been jealous of Rowland since the first time they met. The mouse was everything he was not. Big and strong and loud, and determined to become the Abbey Warrior. Constance and him had done it all together, and he had been there the whole while. Rowland had never known of Connington's plight. How he had been wracked with shame. How could he envy his best friend?

He had failed to tell Constance how he felt. He had failed to squash the snake of envy from his heart. And he had failed to protect his nieces and nephews.

Jon, Rowland, Constance and the Skipper had destroyed a vermin horde led by the infamous Mad-Eye Marik. They had crushed his fleet at sea, with a single boat loaded with oil. Rowland had fired a single, flaming arrow at the boat, and the warlord had been forced to swim right at their waiting forces. Blood had reddened the water and the Skipper himself had sent the ferret packing in humiliation.

Then their had been the wedding, and a knot was tied between his best friend and the one he had to call sister. He had left, to travel, he had claimed, but truly to put himself away from them. They were happy together, the love was true and beautiful and he did not belong there, not when he could not bare to see them together.

But he had never been strong of will, and had returned, only to leave once more. That's when he had met them, his nephews and nieces. Blackgrin, who had loved to smile so much, Chester's, who had chewed on chestnuts, Skip, who had been half a fish in the water.

And they were all dead now. Mad-Eye Marik had returned and nobeast was spared. Chester's had died from half-a-hundred sword thrusts. Blackgrin had had his skull crushed in. And Skip had been thrown into the river. And Rowland had died, half his face had been torn off, and three arrows were buried in his back. But there was no other beast with a tail like that.

He had failed them all, and when he saw Constance, warm paws wrapped over the silent ferret-babe he had vowed to make it right. That Fret would grow old and happy. That Constance would not loose another child.

And he had failed. Constance, Rowland, Chesters, Blackgrin, Skip and now Fret. He had failed them all.

The little weasel circled the squirrel.

Matiya had yelled and shouted and called them all cowards and rogues, their songs had drowned out his yelling, for a while but eventually it had gotten on Sharpfur's nerves. The little weasel, backed by the entire crew, had volunteered to prove them not-cowardly, and had asked for single combat. Matiya had asked for raw steel, and to his surprise the weasel had agreed. Though after a while he had tried to backtrack. Tibbers was being healed by an animal that looked more like folded paper, and could have been considered warm, if not for the fact that one of her crew had injured him in the first place. Then a circle had been made, and the two circled.

The sword was straight and sharp, Threeclaw, the half-pawed stoat had lent it to him, the weasel's dirk was smaller, and jagged. The mustelid seemed fearful of the larger, better-honed blade. Indeed Matiya half-expected him to yield at any moment.

The weasel dived forwards anyway, just ducking a swing of the blade. A rat in the crowd was not looking, his paws over his eyes. Momchillo looked torn between hissing at the foebeast and cheering him on. The rest were scared out of their wits.

His smaller opponent parried the larger blade with his small one, and rolled away, snatching up a pile of snow and hitting the squirrel square in the face with it. Sharpfur seized the moment, and struck, his dirk freed the sword from the squirrel's grip, and a moment later Matiya was on his back, a blade pressed against his throat.

"Haha, coward my teeth! Chew on yer tail abbeybeast!" The weasel exclaimed. And the band of vermin laughed. Threeclaw retrieved his sword.

"I'm un poco disapointed. Non non, Redwall should be better than this!"

Sharpfur sheathed his dirk and hopped off the squirrel. Matiya got to his feet, hot with shame.

"You're a dirty great snake! Let us go! We haven't done anything to any of you!" Hawthorn yelled.

Sharpfur did not appreciate being called a 'dirty great snake' and rounded on the insolent vole. "Snake, eh? You ought to be careful, snakes eat pretty little maids ever-so-often." The vermin crowd laughed once more.

"You're so brave, taunting a lady tied by rope! Release me now, or I shall make you a lady!"

'Oooooooooh', went the Honest Bunch.

"Ye think I'm scared of the likes of you?" He probably was in all honesty. But as the song said 'honesty was not his number one policy'.

"I know you're terrified!" She shot at him.

'Oooooooooooh!' In all honesty it was hard to tell who was more of a child.

"Fine then. Your turn. Get a knitting needle ready, I'm going to shove it down your throat!"

The rope was sliced free and Hawthorn was given a spear. Sharpfur circled her again, and Grey closed his eyes once more. This time however Matiya was behind him. The burly squirrel caught him from behind in a chokehold, and Hawthorn swung for the rope tying her friends. Instead, she hit the big rat Gulash, square on the knee.

He was a simple minded creature with a huge temper. Yelling in pain he freed the spear and threw it aside. He drew an axe, and charged, roaring. The young'uns shrieked, Grollo was pleading, Momchillo was crying, and Hawthorn fell backwards. Threeclaw tried to step in but was sent flying away with a vicious backhand swing. Hawthorn was on her back, the rat's axe raised above his head, ready to be brought down. When Fret's metal toy slammed into his eye, threw his aim off and the axe hit the snow. The rat turned to the ferret, who gulped audibly. Sharpfur was purple in the face from lack of air, and Greyclaw was sobbing into his paws. Hawthorn watched, transfixed, as Gulash lunged for Fret, now frozen in fear. That would have been the end of him, had another, taller and prettier ferret , not barged the younger one aside. Gulash missed his lunge, and was pinned to the snow by several vermin.

"What do ye think yer doing, eh? We're in enough trouble without you slicing her head in two! Squirrel let go of that runt or I will split your head in two!" Matiya let Sharpfur go, the weasel fell to his knees, gasping for breath, shooting a look of deepest loathing at the squirrel. Deathglare was wrapping the rope around the squirrel. Fret found his feet, and stood up, dazed by yet another close encounter. Instinct had made him lash out, he had barely registered the toy, or the force he had used.

Sharpfur was leaning on Grey Claw, shame filling him at having been beaten by the abbeybeast. "It's lucky Fret fancies you princess, else I'd be skinning yer bloody hide."

The vole looked ready to strangle him, and gave Fret a look with enough venom to make Asmodeus jealous. "I don't need the help of vermin!"

The words hurt more than a hot knife. "I just saved your life!" Fret snapped.

"You hit your friend. I'm sure people like you do it all the time." She shot back.

"People like me?" He whimpered. He didn't know whether to yell or to cry. He would get more sympathy from them if he cried, but the Honest Crew would think him weak if he did that.

"Stinky, lying, no good traitorous scum! Redwall gave you food, clothes and a fire. It gave you an education, taught you everything you know now! And you repay them by leading their young'uns to your band of pirates!"

"So what?" Sharpfur was more confident now that he could breathe. "You treated him like vermin, well vermin's what you'll get, pretty-face."

"I wonder how many shades darker your face can go." Hawthorn whispered coldly. Then Threeclaw pulled her away.

"You is needing to learn to control your tongue one day, little miss, or else it'll lead you six feet under."

"Abbeybeasts, eh Frettie?" Sharpfur commented. He did not notice the pained expression on the ferret's face.

"Frettie?" Asked Grey, uncertain.

"Leave me alone." Fret snapped, turning to leave.

But Sharpfur had had enough. "Why do you even care what everbeast thinks! Vermin are vermin, abbeybeasts are not! Evil in the skin, good from the cot!" He pointed at the ferret's frozen back. "If you spend all your life getting beast's to like you, you'll be the most popular deadbeast in Mossflower! Stop caring and grow up or go back to your bloody abbey!"

"Momchillo! Dinner's ready!" Rosebrush's voice echoed through the hall. Through the bell tower. Through the walls, through the snow-covered ground.

"Rosebrush, what is it?" Came Blind Agatha's voice. "Have you seen my son by any chance, the youngest one?"

"No, I haven't." Rosebrush replied. And soon Redwall rung with the names of missing children.

"Matiya!"

"Tibbers!"

"Jack! Wot! Jack!"

But nobeast replied.

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Nine, In Which Grey (me) Realizes That This Story Was Really Angsty At First

Fret felt like a vegetable. Frozen in his choice. He went to bed, sore and tired and in want of sleep, and when he woke he begged for sleep, but his tears were the only ones who heard him. He was vermin. The simple fact made his heart burn and fresh tears well up. He was vermin. No matter what, he was vermin. That was all he'd ever be. No matter what he did.

The Honest Bunch probably thought him a weakling no doubt. Always crying and wallowing in misery. But nobeast understood him. He was different. Too different. Neither abbeybeast, nor vermin could ever call him one of them. And that was the root of his tears. Alone. He'd always be alone. Sad and alone. He was crying again.

"Fret." It was Grey. The rat approached cautiously.

"Go away!" Fret snapped instinctively. He needed a sign. An answer to the question that plagued his mind. What should he do?

"Frettie... Why are you crying?" The rat swallowed cautiously. He didn't want to open a wound.

"Because everybeast hates me!" Fret responded. It was half a whine, half a snap. He did not know why, but he opened himself to the rat. "I didn't do anything rotten, but I've always been vermin to them. Now you've gone and kidnapped them, and I can't go back home. Else I'd just be vermin!"

"Frettie... Mayhaps you ought to consider joining us-hold yer paw... Just look. I mean... Mayhaps you'll miss those in the abbey, but you'll have me and Sharpfur with you. And the others. And your friends, well the captain's got to decide what to do with them, not us, but don't fret, captain's nice. She don't actually skin beasts, just says she will. She might even let you all go back."

"And I'll go back to being hated Grey. I don't belong in Redwall, Grey, I don't belong with you."

"Then where do you belong?"

"I don't know!" Fret whined. "Nowhere. Alone." The ferret shrugged. "I don't even know."

"Sometimes I feel like I don't belong here." Grey Claw confessed. "I can't fight as good as Threeclaw, I'm not scary like Deathglare, I'm not smart like Sharpfur, I'm not cruel. I can't tell stories, wrap bandages. I eat too much, I'm too kind. I don't fit in either Frettie... But they keep me. They laugh at me, with me, pat my stomach, gimme food. They love me...But I'm different. Just... Try to...not cry a bit. We mean what we say here... Just try to... Jump right in..." He finished lamely, twidling his thumbclaws.

Those words and Sharpfur's own buried into Fret's mind. Indeed, they pushed him to his resolve.

Her name was Thornflame, and right now she had a headache like no other. The black rat was tall, and sinewy, lightly armed with cutlass and dagger. His message had been written in blood, whose she didn't know nor cared, but the crimson writing sent shivers down her spine-not that she let him notice.

"Longclaw, King of the Frozen North, demands our presence for his coronation?"

The rat was impassive, and drew his dagger.

Any other member of her crew would have reached for a weapon, but she was not so easily frightened. The rat stabbed at the table, scratching a simple answer into it. 'Yes.'

A mute... Naturally. "Is there anybeast on your boat that still has a tongue to use?" She growled.

The rat scratched another word into the table. 'No.'

She felt another shiver coming, but hid it well. "And if I refuse?"

No word was needed to explain the simple truth. The rat moved the dagger along his throat. She grimaced.

"I will give my answer in a moment. I have my officers to discuss this with." The black rat bowed, and left, leaving the dagger on the table. A moment later Gulash, Threeclaw and Deathglare walked in.

Gulash was the oldest in her crew, a large rat, almost as silent as the beast that had just left. Foul-tempered, angry, yet he had once strangled a badger bare-pawed-or so he claimed. Threeclaw was the best fighter, a sellsword of some notoriety that stayed with them for the fun of it. He had the annoying habit of making up words to use. Deathglare was not a fighter, but his mind worked quicker than anybeast. His voice was low and soft, almost a whisper, so whenever he spoke, the room was silenced.

The albino stoat was humming to himself as he read the letter. "Forgive me, Capetan, but nobeast has ever cqlled himself King of the Frozen North."

Deathglare frowned very slightly. "It's a trap. Anybeast can see that."

"If I refuse them, then we fight now, against a ship full of mutes." Thornflame rubbed her temple.

"Ah, that is excellent! Having no tongue, means they can't plead for mercy." The ferretmaid was not sure if he was joking or not.

"If you accept you follow them into a cave, with larger numbers and greater odds against us. What King would want anything to do with us anyhow?"

"Exactly, we aren't a threat to him. He has no reason to harm us. And mayhaps all he wants is to mark his teritory." She shot up, determined to speak her mind.

"It is colder up there. Moreso now than afore. We can't travel. We have young to look after and raise. We have food aplenty."

"What would you have me do?" She snapped.

"Flee. Turn tails, travel south. To someplace warmer." Deathglare advised.

"Scared?" Threeclaw sneered.

"Very. Who slices the tongue of a loyal crew, I ask you? Not a petty sellsword, he who does this can call himself king, and it wouldn't be a lie."

"So we must flee? And the rats? What becomes of them?" Maybe it was the truth of his words, or the way he said them that made her shiver.

"Slay them. Flay them. Steal their ship at night. It makes little difference. But we cannot go north."

Gulash grunted in agreement, and Thornflame grimaced. "We'll go south then. Make sure the rats are dealt with. We'll need their ship." The smile she gave was evil.

Bella rubbed her forehead, and itched at her muzzle. It was snowing hard and fast outside. And the news made her ill. All Gone... All the young un's of the abbey were missing. Fret had vanished first, and his disappearance had broken Constance and Connington... But now...

The one eyed captain of the Long Patrol's son had gone, as had the Log-a-log's. The foremole's daughter, Blind Agatha's youngest child, Rosebrush's only child, Hawthorn the eldest of two, Grollo the cook's son. It made her chest heavy, and breathing hard. Abbot Martin had fainted at the news. All his students had vanished.

The Long Patrol wanted to leave the abbey, but the snow had piled thick and heavy, and the doors would not open. The hares had naturally made a third option and their ome-eyed captain had taken a team of his best, and climbed down the walls with ropes. Now those still within the abbey were left to worry.

And then the tales poured out of panicked beasts. First a ferret had vanished, then the others. Had the ferret done something wicked?

Bella could not blame them for their suspicions. The young ferret had always been unfriendly, but she could not imagine him harming anybeast... At least not til he was older. Then it didn't take much imagination.

She had to be fair. For the sake of all beasts. The crowd before her were scared and thick with worry. She raised a paw for silence.

"Our young'uns vanished all at once. Mayhaps they are merely locked out by the same snow that locks us in, and are out there in Mossflower, awaiting our rescue. In that case you have nothing to fear. If they ventured further they may have found shelter, Either way we shan't know until it stops snowing. Then we will venture out and find them, and bring them back, unless the Long Patrol has beaten us to it!"

And if they are perished? The last thought was left unsaid.

"I know in mine heart, as you should in turn, that no harm has befallen any of them." Her words lifted the cloud of worry off of everyone... Except herself.

Thornflame was surrounded. Their were maybe twenty rats in all, but none wore armour, and judging from their relaxed postures they weren't expecting a battle. Their captives were in Sick-Eye's tent along with the younger vermin. Gulash stood beside her, leaning on his axe. Threeclaw was in front. Deathglare was no fighter and scared of blood, he had volunteered to secure the ship.

"Your King is no King of ours!" She declared loudly, beaming.

The tall rat's glare made the smile on the ferretmaid's lips impossible to believe. The rat freed a dagger, and sliced open his own paw, letting the drops fall like rain into the snow. It was an act of war.

Gulash's axe freed the rat's head of his body, and scattered more blood into the snow. The headless corpse twitched madly and fell back, spraying the ground crimson. The other rats were a minute too slow on the uptake, and a minute was all Threeclaw needed to put a rapier through one, and a dagger into the other. Thornflame ducked as one rat made a mad lurch towards her, swung too high and died gurgling on the blood that spilled from his throat. She stole his dagger and threw it at another rat, killing him instantly. Threeclaw's paws were a blur as he danced through the black wave, making blood fly in a gruesome spectacle. Gulash knocked one rat aside, and cleaved another in two. Sickletail parried a blade that had almost slverminornflame in two. Heartrip, another weasel, was not fast enough to block a cutlass, which sliced into her shoulder. If not for her tough bones, and Sickletail's knife slicing into the rat's tail, she's have lost an arm. Heartrip finished him off with teeth and fang, biting into the rodent's throat and tearing out his windpipe.

The remaining mutes scattered and fled into the trees. Threeclaw felled one with a dagger, but his next one missed by an inch, and the rats made good their escape. Thornflame smirked at Heartrip, the younger weasel freed the saber from her shoulder. She was feint from all the blood, and gore speckled her muzzle, but she had slain a rat.

"Get that tended to. Sick-Eyes will be with the captives. Deathglare, the ship is ours?"

The pine marten didn't even try to smile, he merely nodded as if his neck was stiff. "Speaking of the captives, what shall we do with them?"

Fret made his move the moment he noticed the oncoming battle. With nearly the entire Honest Bunch busy, they stood a chance at escape. He burst into Sick-Eye's tent and stared directly at the seer, he let panic creep into his voice.

"It's Sickletail! She's bleeding out! I dunno what happe-"

"What?!" Sharpfur was the first one out, dirk drawn, moving with remarkable speed. Even vermin loved their mothers after all. Sick-Eyes followed in a bit less haste.

"Is she alright?" Grey Claw asked, so quietly Fret almost didn't register it.

"I think she's dying." Fret said flatly.

Grey Claw burst out, sobbing, and left the tent.

Fret held back a laugh, the fools had taken it in. Hook, line and sinker. Now he had something important to do.

"It would be such a pity if she died." Momchillo commented dryly.

Fret almost cowered from all their collective glares. "L-look... I-"

"Chumming up with your vermin, are you?" The hated mouse responded.

"No!" Fret snapped. His resolve was weakening at every moment. He had convinced himself that Constance would believe him, no matter what the others said. And the others would know he was friends with them if he freed them, right? He couldn't snap. He wasn't meant to. He just had to convey what had happened. "I fell off Redwall-"

"And got saved by your new mates, huh?"

"No! I was out cold! I didn't ask to be rescued. I was going to come back-"

"To steal us at a later date. What have I ever done to you?" Momchillo barked, and Fret hated him. So much pain would have been avoided, if only the one, angry mouseling could have held his tongue.

"I'm not vermin!" Fret snapped. "I came here to-"

"Join your crew! Did you 'jump right in?'"

"Let me speak!" Fret half screeched, half pleaded. They needed to know he was not vermin. That he was helping them.

"I don't need the words of a liar and a traitor to befoul my ears! You sold us out! We grew up together you black-"

Fret reached for a knife. Action spoke louder than words, right? If he could cut the rope then maybe they would understand. He raised the knife.

"Fret, please!" Matiya screamed. Hawthorn shrieked 'NO!', Jack struggled madly, Tibbers whimpered, and Threeclaw deftly disarmed the ferret.

Instinctively Fret backed away. "I-I-I".

"You. You. You will be telling me what you intended to do with the knife. Cut him, or the rope? Come now amigo, don't lie to me." The stoat's rapier was at his throat, and Fret took another step back.

He had seconds to work. He could tell the truth and get scewered alive and die knowing the others knew he had died a goodbeast. Or he could lie and grovel for mercy. He chose the latter.

"I wanted to kill him!" Fret said, so suddenly it came out as yet another snap. "I was going to kill him... For all the wrong he's done to me. I hate him!"

Fleetfoot One-Eye was not the strongest, nor fastest, nor did he have the most experience. The one thing he had to truly brag about was his hearing, and it was not difficult to hear the yelling coming from an otherwise invisible tent of snow. Further away a small battle was taking place, but it was between some ferrets, weasels and so forth, against a band of black rats. He nodded at his hares.

"Stay here chaps. I will return swiftly." The other hares nodded.

Captain Fleetfoot was as silent as death as he crept through the snow, leaving barely a track in the snow. Silence was his ally. The yelling was continuing, but there were more voices, and panicked ones at that. Then a soft voice he recognized vaguely. Then a response. He caught the last words only. "I hate him!" Entranced by the voice, the crunch of snow beneath his foot was audible.

"Go to hell traitor!"

"Shut it mouse! I heard something." Then the voice he vaguely recognized, and a face he loathed, climbed out of the tent.

Threeclaw and One-Eye took one moment to register each other. Then, as one, they raised their voices.

"EULAILIA!"

"LONG PATROL!"

And their steel moved as if on their own. The stoat blocked the saber with both his blades, and swung at once from two angles. One Eye saw the vermin coming at him. They were outnumbered.

To Fret's misfortune the young ferret had stumbled backwards, out of the tent. Captain Fleetfoot swung recklessly, and Threeclaw was forced to step backwards. Then the hare caught Fret by the scruff of the neck, and pressed his blade against the ferret's throat, just as the other vermin and hares showed up.

"One move!" It was an old trick, yet one that seldom worked on vermin. Yet Threeclaw fidgeted madly on his feet. Evidently his old adversary had a small scrap of honor. "Are the young'uns in the tent?"

"Oui." The stoat said, still fidgeting madly.

"Lumber, set them loose." The other hare obeyed swiftly, but found his way barred by a large rat with a poleaxe.

"Long Patrol? And what quarrel have you with us?" To Threeclaw's relief Thornflame was there now. To take command of the crew.

"Not quarrel. Just our babes. You'll excuse the whole hostage thing, wot, but we're to bring our young back home. I'm sure they enjoyed their visit, but alas, supper is almost upon us."

"Ah." The ferret eyed Fret with a smile that radiated cruelty. "I'm sure the abbybeast you're holding is so excited for the prospect of supper." Her smile widened at the hare's faces. "Oh, you don't know." She grinned widely. "Or am I lying?"

The Honest Bunch broke into laughter. And it was in that moment that Captain Fleetfoot made his move. He threw Fret behind him, with enough force to knock the wind out of him, and swung at the ferretmaid. Threeclaw parried the attack and then battle was upon them all.

"Death, Gulash, get the prisoners! And get to the ship!"

Fret landed hard on his back, wheezing for air. His world spun and him with it as he frantically climbed. Flee for the boat or Redwall? The boat or Redwall?

"Frettie!" Sharpfur was squeezing through the battle, narrowly avoiding death from every angle. "We need to move! Captain's orders!"

Fret was dizzy. "Captain?"

"Thornflame, now c'mon. We need to move!"

Redwall, or the boat? Redwall or the boat? The hare had thrown him aside, and the vermin was helping him up.

"We?" He needed an answer, but couldn't think of one.

"Come on!" Sharpfur yelled, clearly desperate to leave.

Goodbye momma. Fret bit back tears, and took the weasel's paw.

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Ten, In Which I Cringe At Earlier Me's Writings... What Was I Thinking?

The battle was not in the Long Patrol's favour. The vermin band outnumbered them almost three to one, and some had tried to circle around the tent and hit them in the rear. Lugger was rolling on the ground, two weasels and the ferretmaid were stabbing him with little knives. Cornelius Tufthurry was duelling three at once. Threeclaw and Fleetfoot were at the center of it, their steel ringing as it met time and time again. The hare had discarded his halberd in favour of a cutlass, and he swung it so quickly that it seemed he had four blades in paw instead of one. Threeclaw was slower, but with two blades he was easily able to keep up with the hare's furious blows.

Deathglare undid the final knot, Gulash lingering impatiently outside of the tent. Momchillo struck fast, headbutting the pine marten with vicious savagery. Taken by surprise the marten stumbled backwards, and before he could make a noise the mouse and Tibbers and Jack-is-Lucky pounced on him, fists raised and brought them down in quick succession.

Matiya sliced the rope off of him, the other young ones were quick to follow his example. Momchillo held a paw for silence, and in a furious whisper spoke.

"If we all rush out that way, we can make for the woods. Then we rush for Redwall. Jack, can you help Tibbers?"

The hare nodded and picked up the shrew, hoisting him up to his shoulders.

"Right. On three. Two-"

"Wait! What about Fret?" Matiya whispered suddenly.

"What about him? He tried to kill me!" Momchillo whispered back. "Anyhow who cares. Let's go home, the other vermin will look after him."

Matiya looked around at the faces. Grollo, Roseheart and Hawthorn looked like they shared the same sentiment. Jack and Tibbers were irresolute.

"You said anyone's worth risking your life for!" He hissed.

"Well..." He looked sheepish.

Matiya felt defeated. But guilt pressed him further. "Do you hate him?" He whispered at them. "I mean..." The looks on their faces were that of anger. "Before all this..."

"Fret just sold us to slavery."

Words were not Matiya's strong point. A warrior, a true warrior would have been able to convey his meaning to them. That he felt guilty of Fret's predicament. 'Liar! Liar liar liar liar!' "Well... We were never really nice to him."

"Nice? What do you mean we weren't nice to him?"

I didn't understand him either, only that something rubbed him the wrong way. "We called him vermin." Matiya refused to look any of them in the eye.

"This isn't all about the bally soup, is it?" Jack sounded thunderstruck and guilty.

"I mean... Sitting on him... Rubbed him the wrong way..." The looks he got were either confused or dumbstruck. "And we locked him in the latrines that one time."

"That was a joke!" Momchillo hissed angrily. "Does this look like a joke to you?"

"What about that time we hung him over the walls!"

"If you want to discuss every joke we've ever pulled on him can that wait till we get back!"

"What if Grollo had dropped him!" There, he had it. He had them convinced.

"Then none of us would be here!" The mouse snapped. "Maybe we pushed it a little, but we were playing a game! Does this look like a game to you!? Forget Fret and let's go h-"

He turned to leave and saw a very angry Deathglare staring at them. His eyes were spinning, and the world under Matiya spun.

"Run to the boat." Deathglare's voice said in dull monotone. The children did so, except for Momchillo.

"No! He's controlling you! Listen to-" The pine marten brought his fist down onto the mouse's head. Then Momchillo's world was black.

"You overgrowing rabbit!" Threeclaw swung at Captain Fleetfoot's feet. The hare hopped back to avoid the blow, and went in for a strike to the head.

"You stinkin' bogdweller." Threeclaw parried and lunged.

"Mangy cur!" Fleetfoot blocked and slashed.

"Poxy gnat!" Threeclaw ducked and jabbed.

"Fish-fingered yellowbelly!" Fleetfoot diverted the attack and made one of his own.

"Raving lunatic!" Threeclaw flattened himself and slashed.

"Madbeast!" Fleetfoot dived away, and swung.

"Slow-footed fiend!" Threeclaw rolled and slashed.

"Long-eared fool!" Fleetfoot parried and chopped.

"Lanky lackwit!" Threeclaw parried, and their blades held.

"Captain, the vermin are fleeing sah! Should we give chase?" Corporal Higgins was holding up the bleeding Lugger, and was barely standing himself. The other hares were dazed and bloody, but the vermin had more injuries, and judging from the bloody footprints, more injured.

Threeclaw stabbed suddenly, aiming for Fleetfoot's foot. The hare was taken by surprise and slashed wildly. The stoat turned tails and raced away, laughing madly. The Captain ignored the Corporal's dazed 'sah?' and gave chase.

The spell was broken once they were on board. Jack's first move was to pounce on Gulash, and sink his teeth into the rat's shoulder.

The big rat yelled and stumbled to the ground. Overcome with battle mania Grollo slapped at a weasel with a wounded shoulder. Hawthorn chose a small rat as her target (well small compared to the other rats). He turned to her just as she pounced, shoving him to the deck, before slamming a fist into his unprotected nose. Desperate she raised a fist once more, only for a weasel to pounce on her.

Jack did not fare well against the battle hardened rat, who reached him off and shoved him onto the deck, bringing a footpaw down onto the lagomorph's nose in quick succession.

Grollo was choking the weasel, who's face was purple as she tried to scratch at both his paws with one of her own.

The weasel had taken her by surprise, and now the two were rolling on the deck, clawing and kicking at one another. Sharpfur tried to tear at her ear, but her kicks kept pushing him away.

"Stop!" Thornflame yelled. Grollo stopped, and let go of Heartrip, the injured weasel gasping for breath. Gulash stopped mid-swing and Sharpfur stopped biting, but Hawthorn's footpaw connected with his nose.

"Why you-" He clutched his nose in pain, muttering mutinously in anger.

"Gulash tie them to the mast, all of you on your feetpaws! We're moving now!"

The command was like a spell, and the vermin set to the work, pulling the sail open and raising the anchor.

"No!" Captain Fleetfoot bellowed in rage. Threeclaw pounced and caught the anchor by the edge, cackling madly.

"Stay alive hare, I still owe you some fingers!" The albino stoat laughed, then shrieked as one paw was crushed against the boat.

The ship was moving fast down the river. Fleetfoot chased after it on the riverbank.

"Kids! We're coming kids! Keep your chins up we'll save you! Just... Stay alive!"

The vermin jeered from the deck of the ship, and the old hare growled hatefully. He would get them back... And those vermin had better be ready for when he did.

"This is all your fault!" Momchillo snapped at Matiya.

"My fault?" The squirrel looked stricken.

"If we had just ran away when I said so!"

"B-but Fret-"

"Is one of them!"

Fret's ears drooped. Grey Claw on the other paw, looked ecstatic.

"You're staying?" Fret looked at his happy face and felt more lost than ever before.

Sharpfur grinned and stepped between them. "What did I tell you Grey! He'd come around."

The rat hugged Fret and by extent Sharpfur, who was now pinned between them. "So, are you my brother now?"

Fret slumped low, still in Grey's grip. He had no choice. He never had a choice.

A few hours later...

Gulash walked up to the mast and smacked Momchillo across the face. The children screamed, and the mouse went limp. Gulash undid the knot and pulled him loose. He pointed at the ferret and grunted. Fret understood, his fur tingling nervously, he rose and followed the large rat into rhe cabin.

Thornflame was smiling in that way that made Fret shiver. It was almost as bad as Deathglare's vacant expression. Threeclaw was smiling from the shadows, one paw on the hilt of his rapier, the other cocooned in bandages. Gulash closed the door behind them both, still dragging Momchillo by the tail. Fret suddenly felt very nervous.

"Ah, Frettie, that's your name right?" Thornflame's voice made his furs stand on end.

"Y-yes." He stuttered, his claws fretfully twiddling with each other.

"And do you 'fret' much?"

"N-no. Not really."

"That's excellent. Ferrets fretting, Silvertongue would make a song of that." The others laughed.

"Haha, yeah..." He trailed off as the laughter died out.

"Now, Fret. Threeclaw said something about you. You hate this mouse?" She pointed at Momchillo. Fret stumbled backwards.

"N-yes! Yes I-I do! I hate him very much!" He said, nodding feverishly, hoping the lie would be enough to placate them.

Thornflame smiled and drew a dagger. Fret tried to take a step backwards, but Gulash stood in place, preventing the ferret from backing out. "Excellent. Now, you said you wanted to kill him? Was this true?"

"Yes!" He snapped desperately. The walls of the cabin seemed to be closing in on him. "I hate him, he's always been cruel to me!"

"Of course." She tossed the dagger and caught it by the blade, holding the handle in his direction. "Take it."

The approaching panic made Fret accept the dagger in a shaking paw. Deathglare was impassive, Gulash still held Momchillo, Threeclaw's lazy smile. It all made Fret shiver.

"Now. Kill him." And she pointed at Momchillo.

"Wh-what?" Fret gulped. "N-no-"

"But you hate him, don't you?"

"I do! B-but you need him!" He said, grabbing at the first excuse he could think of.

"I don't care about one mouse. You hate him. Kill him."

"I-I-I-" His paw was shaking madly, he was sure the others could see. He doubted he could kill the mouse, even if he wanted to.

"You. You. You. Kill him. Go on. You'd have done it before."

Fret dropped the knife. "I-I can't-"

"But you'd have done it before, surely it should be easier now." They were playing with him, he realized, and he let out a whimper.

"I lied! I lied! I lied!" He gulped audibly. "I was going to free them... T-t-to bring them back t-to R-Redwall." Thoughts of Redwall were painful. He tried desperately to stop shaking.

Gulash placed a strong paw on the back of his neck. He wondered whether death would be a relief.

"Fret, thank you for your honesty. Now, you have nothing to fear. Your friends are our guests. We will not harm them. They are hostages, to allow us safe passage past Salamandastron. We will sell them to woodlanders for food and drink. As for you? Mayhaps we'll sell you too. Or mayhaps you'll join us." She shrugged. "It's your choice. You ought to think about it."

Gulash's grip tightened.

"But... If you are ever inclined to betray me again..." She smiled her dark little smile. "We'll see how strong Gulash's grip is. Understood?"

Fret nodded weakly. "I-I-I-"

"You. You. You. Get out."

"Bloody blighters. We'll catch up to them fast though, never fear. Take care of Lugger, it's all we ask, wot. They'll be travelling south Moss River, the current can take 'em fast, but they'll have to stop at night or sink their boat."

"We are good with boats. And if they have as few as you say we can go doublequick." The Log-a-log stepped forwards with a score of shrews. Fleetfoot smiled a little.

"Well chaps, it's Mattimeo all over again, if I may say so myself."

"I'm coming too." Connington's voice brokered no argument. He was clad in an old chain suit, with some signs of rust, a round, wooden shield was strapped to his back. A sword dangled from his hip. He had failed them all, but if Fret was out there then he'd live up to his promise to the Abbot. He'd go to the Dark Forest and back and drag his nephew home if he had to.

Bella smiled wrily. "Good luck friends, may the fates beut she left that unsaid.

Constance was sleeping when he entered. Good, she'd probably strangle him.

"Constance... I'm not going to fail this time. I... Failed you, and Rowland and your babes," his voice cracked weakly, but he found his resolve. "But there's a chance to save Fret, and I won't fail him... I can't fail him." Jon found that he regretted coming to say goodbye. "I'll be back... See you soon."

And with that he left.

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Eleven , Which Is Much More Tell Than Show And It Shows

"No! It's mine you greedy glutton!"

"But you just said you were full."

"Then why did you ask?"

They did this every day. The first time Fret had made the mistake of telling them to share. The whole crew had laughed at that joke, and in his shame Fret had been reminded of the feast in Redwall. And thoughts of Redwall made his stomach twirl like a dancer. Three days, they had been sailing for three days. Though it had been four days since the feast.

"Fret, tell Grey that he had the pasty yesterday."

"But you had it yesterday, and the day before that."

Fret tuned them out. The abbey youngsters hated him. They had believed what he had lied to Threeclaw about. That he hated Momchillo, that he had tried to put a knife in him... Hate was such a strong word. He had never liked the mouse to begin with, and was tempted to hit him, especially now, when held back by rope, but Fret doubted he could put a knife in anybeast, and Thornflame's harsh lesson had only confirmed that reality. Unfortunately, the mouse had not been concious at the time.

"Gimme the pasty today and you can have it tommorow."

"You always say that."

"I do not!"

"You said it yesterday, and the day before that..." Greyclaw replied timidly.

"A pasty!" Sharpfur's three little sisters pounced onto it, and in a moment all that was left was a crumb.

"That was mine!" Sharpfur snapped, then Cheesenibbles, his baby brother, bit his little tail. "OW! Owowowow Grey pull him off!" Grey obliged, pulling the smaller weasel off.

"Cheese, Sharpfur isn't edible. Go an' ask ma for some food. You three go with him."

"Okay matey!" And together the band crawled off, leaving Sharpfur to nurse his tail.

"Why do they always listen to you?" The weasel whined. "I actually am there brother!"

"Like you spend your days listening to elders. Tsk, tsk. Come Sharpfur mon copain, let's practice in poco." Threeclaw approached with this usual swagger.

The weasel pounced to his feet, dirk drawn. "Har-har! This time you'll be eating splinters!"

The albino stoat, despite having to use only his left paw, soundly defeated him. A few moments later the young weasel was spinning around, clutching his head dizzily.

"I was telling you to duck." Threeclaw commented. "Grey, would you be wanting to try?"

The young rat shook his head. "N-no si-Threeclaw."

"Ah poor Grey, he still thinks this is the bloody Long Patrol, where you say 'sah' and 'wot' like an overgrowing rabbit."

"It's not faaaaaair!" Sharpfur whined, readjusting himself. "You're older."

"No you idiot, you keep missing your lunges." Matiya seemed to especially hold a grudge against Sharpfur.

"That didn't stop you loosing!" The mustelid snapped, his fur bristling.

"You fought dirty." The squirrel replied.

"There is no such thing as fighting dirty squirrel. And you can take your dignity and throw it overboard, you tried to strangle me from behind."

"Would you like to go again?" Matiya challenged.

"I hope you don't beat up Fret again, that tooth was special to him." Sharpfur grinned, showing that none of his own teeth were missing.

The squirrel shot a glance at Fret, and guilt boiled over him. Had he created this? Fret shrunk. "Are you up for it weasel?"

"That is not happening." The stoat stepped between them. "Redwaller, you may be desiring a fight, but we're in a mess because I wounded the shrew. I'm sorry but I cannot let you fight mi amigo, else you might be hurting soon after."

"You're sorry for not letting him strangle your pet, but you're not sorry about holding us captive?" Momchillo's voice was so dry it could dehydrate an apple.

"You are not being captive. You are being guests. Capetan has already been explaining to you. We will catch woodlander boat, and sell you for food. Your kind and brave woodlanders bring you back to Redwall and mi pienso que we are all happy."

"You don't tie guests to masts." Momchillo responded.

"Really? I wasn't knowing. I'll be remembering next time." The stoat chuckled. "Do you have food? Are you cold? Dry? Mayhaps un poco uncomfortable, mais you have what you are needing. If you are behaving we'll even ungag the hare. We are honest, mi amigos, we don't want you dying, cheer up a little and mayhaps we can have some adventures together. Sharpfur on your feetpaws, now we are moving quicker, yes?"

Later that day...

"And stole the honey from her hare, the hare, the hare and the weasel fair!"

Silvertongue's sole talent was singing. And sing he did. Sharpfur's father looked almost exactly the same as his son. Taller by a bit, the weasel strung his loot as he danced around the deck, his voice echoing in a fine melody.

"The hare smelled his honey in the air, in the air, in the air, he smelled it there!"

Then the whole crew sung up. "The hare, the hare and the weasel fair!"

"He chased the weasel from here to there and there to here! And smelled the honey in the air!"

"The hare, the hare, and the weasel fair!" The crew bellowed back. And then a cacophany of hoots and cheers filled the deck.

Silvertongue grinned, and bowed to the applause. Then Sickletail put her arms around him. "You were excellent, my weasel fair."

"And you, my honied hare." He responded in the same voice.

"Use the cabin if you're going to get all lovey-dovey again." Sick-Eyes snapped, making her way past the two.

"What about you abbeybeasts? Do you know any good music?" The weasel inquired, his mate and him pulling away from each other.

Sick-Eyes sat next to Tibbers and began undoing his bandages. "If I hear any more music out of ye, I'll shove your head up that loot. Snap at me and you'll be needing bandages."

Silvertongue backed down, and went to join Gulash and Threeclaw at a fire the two had built on-deck.

"I can't stand his bloody loot. Every time he sings that stupid song another one of his babes shows up, and I can't stand them either!"

Sharpfur snarled at her. "Right back at ye, ye sack of bones."

"You'll be a sack of broken bones if you don't shut yer trap!"

Sharpfur shut up.

"Now, now hare, I'm going to ungag ye. Behave yerself or it shall go back on."

Jack-is-Lucky was quite at first. "That song was in poor taste ole chap."

Silvertongue grinned, and approached. "It's a fair shanty I say. Know any yerself?"

Jack burst into song. "O vermin if you dare, come and visit us someday. Bring all your friends and weapons with you 'll find a good warm welcome, let nobeast living cold steel was never good enough for you. You won't find no helpless beasts all undefended. Like the old ones, babes, and mothers that you've slain. And you'll find that when your pleasant visit's ended. You'll never ever leave our shores again. All you cowards of the land and you flotsam of the sea. Who murder, pillage, loot, whene'er you please. There's a Long Patrol a waitin', we'll greet you cheerfully. You'll hear us cry 'Eulalia' on the breeze.'Tis a welcome to the bullies who slay without a care,All those good and peaceful creatures who can't fight. But perilous and dangerous the beast they call the hare. Who stands for nought but honor and the right."

Then the deck filled with laughter and hooting. Nobeast but Fret could stand upright, or look at the hare without laughing like half-madbeasts.

"What!? This isn't bloomin' funny!" The hare scowled.

Deathglare sent a chill down the hare's spine when they made eye-contact. "Old ones, babes and mothers?" He shook his head and for half a moment he wanted to laugh.

"We are not butchering you, babes." Silvertongue pointed out. "And mine mate is a mother, and Sick-Eyes is the oldest one!"

"Mayhaps we're not dead yet, but we're tied to a mast and are for sale like a slab of fish. Tell me, what beast ties babes to masts!"

"We do." Silvertongue grinned. "Pretty song." And then the crew laughed like madbeasts.

The vermin went below deck afterwards, or into the cabin, leaving Fret to laze on the deck. These times were the worst of all. He was left alone with the others to watch and loathe him while he slumped into a depressed pile of fur.

He tried very hard to keep Redwall out of his mind, but he knew almost nothing that wasn't related to the abbey. Food reminded him of the feasts, or Constance filling their whole hut with steam. She had always tried to instill manners into him. She had insisted he use a fork and knife and spoon like a civilized beast. Constance made things worse. He saw her face in his dreams, asking him to come home. And in his dreams Fret was always whimpering that he couldn't. Thoughts of his uncle were almost as bad. Connington was telling him that he wasn't vermin, that he never would be. And Fret's mind responded the way it always did.

Look at me now uncle. What do you think I am?

Jack could feel the lack of joy around him, and hated it. "Now, now chaps and chapettes, we mustn't let our moods fall down, wot. The Long Patrol has never lost a fight I should say, wot, yes yes, we'll be alright and good."

But the sombre mood would not leave.

"Come on chaps, let's make the best of a bag bargain! Who knows a good story?" Honestly the depression was starting to get to him.

"I know one." Momchillo said loudly. "Once upon a time, Redwall Abbey took in a young ferret babe. They raised him, and loved him, and in the end he lead them all to slavery."

Fret curled up further into a ball.

"That was the worst story I have ever heard!" Sharpfur commented. "Then again, you abbeybeasts don't have many good tales, do you?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hawthorn fixed him with a cool, piercing gaze.

The weasel took a step back from her gaze, despite her lack of freedom. "That you muckers don't know how to tell a good story."

"Burr we're moighty good at it oll methinks."

Cringing from the moletalk, Sharpfur held up a paw. "Your stories all have: your magic sword, some undefeatable fighters, the good ole evil vermin and yer happy endings." He listed, grinning toothily.

"Oh please-like you could come up with a better story." Momchillo snapped.

"I could. All vermin do! We all write the stories of our lives." Sharpfur said, puffing out his chest.

"Very eloquent." The mouse's sarcasm was palpable.

Sharpfur chuckled, and poked the mouse's nose. "My point is, yer stories are all the same. Every vermin's different. Our tales are realistic."

"Well you all end up dead, so yes. Very realistic."

"Everybeast ends up dead." Sharpfur shrugged. "But I ain't dying anytime soon." And with that he walked off, his tongue poking out mockingly.

"I'm going to kill him." Momchillo growled. "One day, I'm going to kill him."

Sharpfur sat down next to Fret. "Seasick?"

Fret was glad of the excuse, and nodded weakly. He couldn't show any weakness around any of the other vermin.

"It happens. If yer gonna puke, stick your head overboard." The weasel advised.

"Wutt if oim feelin' loike oim about to emptea moine stomach?"

"Then yell 'bucket' and hold it in." Sharpfur withdrew his dagger and began tossing it up and down.

"Make sure to get some on him." Hawthorn advised.

"I heard that." Sharpfur snapped.

"Good. I wouldn't want to catch you off guard. Again."

Sharpfur's fur bristled in anger. "Listen vole. If you don't close yer mouth, I'll cut yer tongue out!"

"Sure you will. You're just a scared little rodent." All eyes were going from Hawthorn to Sharpfur.

"Scared? Pah! Of you! Pshaw! I'll gut ye here and now."

"Then get it over with you gutless coward!" She yelled.

Greyclaw burst out from the cabin, the little weasels hanging from his ears or clutching at his tail. "Is something wrong?"

"We are being held against our will by a pack of stinking rats! What do you think is wrong!?" Hawthorn was red in the face from yelling.

Grey was slow on the uptake. "Er..."

"Ignore her Grey. She just wants to count the trees in the Dark Forest." Sharpfur growled.

Fret, feeling a twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with the rocking on the boat, climbed up and threw his head over the side of the boat.

"Better out than in matey." Sharpfur said, patting the ferret on the back.

"Rat. How long until you get sold into slavery?" Momchillo turned his head to Greyclaw.

"Er... Never?"

"Really? I thought so too. Until you know, I got sold into slavery. I'd be careful if I were you. Fret has a habit of selling his 'mates'."

"Frettie?"

"He's going to lead you to a ditch and leave you there to rot!"

Grey looked stricken and turned to Fret. The ferret was in no position to tell him otherwise. "You're abandoning me?" He said in a hollow voice.

Sharpfur was on him in a heartbeat, piggybacking on the rat to stroke his head. "Nononono the mouse is just lying. We're mates Grey, I would never dream of getting rid of you."

"But he said-"

"He's just a mean, mean mousie. Nobeast's gonna separate us."

Momchillo opened his mouth to argue, but Sharpfur was quick on the uptake. "Can you smell that?"

"All I smell is you."

"Mmmmm, vittles. Ma's cooking. Go ahead, I'll join you in a minute."

Grey nodded weakly and walked back into the cabin, a vacant expression on his face. Sharpfur walked up to the tied mouse, and grabbed him by the front of his habit, his small claws outstretched and hanging dangerously close to his face.

"You hit a nerve mousie." He growled dangerously low. "Say something like that again and when I'm done with you your own mother wouldn't recognize your stinking tail." The weasel let him go and skulked off, slamming the cabin door shut behind him.

That night...

Fret shivered on the deck. It was cold and raining and Silvertongue was singing loudly. Something tasty was cooking, but Fret had no appetite. He couldn't keep anything down anyways, so what was the point of eating?

His fur was wet and filthy, and he was shivering like a madbeast.

"Why are you here?" Matiya asked him suddenly. Fret looked up. The captives were drier than he was, with the sail acting as an umbrella. They were warmer too, all snoozing next to each other. Matiya, it seemed, was the only one awake.

Fret looked back at the deck feeling even more miserable.

Matiya tried a different tack. "You remember the feast at Redwall?"

Fret wondered whether the squirrel was tormenting him on purpose.

"You remember at the walls... What you said to me?"

The ferret nodded.

"Well... I don't hate you."

Fret sniffed and stared a his feet. He didn't have the energy needed to snap. "I already know what you think. You don't have to lie anymore."

"No... Fret. I'm serious. I don't hate you. I never did."

They stared at each other for a long time.

"It doesn't matter. I can't go back anymore. I just proved you all right. I was vermin all along."

"And what does that mean? So what if you're vermin? Look Fret... I've probably said a lot of stupid things to you. I've done stupid things to you-but I never meant anything by them. It was all just a game. I didn't realize I was hurting you when I-"

"Whacked me sore with your stupid sword?" Somehow he could snap again. "When you said I was Ungatt Trunn or Badrang? When you laughed while your brothers tried to pull my mask off?" Fret stood up. "If you didn't know then you're an idiot and if you did then you hate me same as everybeast else."

"Then I'm an idiot! I'm sorry Fret... I didn't know that it bothered you so much-"

"Bothered me? Your lying bothers me! You didn't know? How could you not know?"

"You never said anything! I'm sorry! I was a stupid squirrel and I didn't think! "

Fret stared at the squirrel. His mouth open.

"We were looking for you the day they caught us. If I hated you would I go looking for you?"

Fret was dumbstruck. He blinked and thought up more arguments. It's a trick. Was his first instinct. Matiya was lying to him. But the squirrel's face said otherwise.

"I'm sorry."

Fret's jaw fell open. "I-I-" Another thought popped up and his ears perked up slightly. "So... The others..." Had he been wrong all along? They had come looking for him too.

"I... Don't know."

Fret's ears drooped. "It doesn't matter now. I can never go back."

"Don't say that. We'll get back, okay?"

Fret sniffed glumly. "You might."

There was a short pause. Matiya chewed on his tongue,, trying to choose the best words for the dripping ferret.

"Are you cold?"

"No." Fret lied instantly. He sneezed loudly. "N-yes."

"Come here. It's not so wet, and it's warmer."

Fret hesitated.

"Come on. You're going to catch a cold."

The ferret shook himself mostly dry. He walked over and slumped next to the squirrel.

An awkward silence descended.

"So..." Matiya wondered how long he'd have to string words together to save the day. "Were you going to... Kill Momchillo?".

Fret gave the squirrel a quick glance. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. He's being nice! And that was exactly why Fret lied. Since when was Matiya nice to him? "Kill... Not really. I was..." Going to free you. "Hurt him... But kill is a little... Much." Vermin are vermin, and you'll always be one. He knows it and you know it.

Matiya sighed. "I can't speak for the others. But... It's okay. I forgive you."

Fret almost smiled, but his own thoughts prevented him from doing so. A goodbeast would have told him the truth. You're just a vermin, and you know it. Mayhaps he'll forgive you now, tied to a mast and lonely, but what about when he's all safe and sound? Do you think he'll give a fig about you?

Fret didn't know the answer, but at least it was warmer there.

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Twelve, In Which Sharpfur Becomes A Murderer

The deck was clear when Matiya made his move the next day.

"What do you think of Fret?" He asked cautiously, expecting a full on rant from them all.

Momchillo sighed in frustration. "Why are you suddenly obsessed with him? We went to bring him back to Redwall, because you convinced us to. We would have gone home if it weren't for your obsession with him back at the tent. And now, you want us to talk about him. Okay. Let's talk. Why do you care so much?"

"Well... Fret is a... Complicated beast." I should have payed more attention to the recorders. Talking is so difficult.

"Oi. He be moighty difficult to be a thoinkin' about."

"He thinks we hate him." Matiya finally blurted out.

"And we do!" Momchillo snapped. "Or did you by chance not notice that we are tied to a mast?"

"I'm angry at him too!" Matiya shot back. "But-"

"And before he sold us to slavery he was mean and weird. He kept looking at me!" Hawthorn added.

"Well yeah but-"

"But what do you expect? He's vermin Matiya!"

"But he was hurt when-"

"When what? Everybeast feels pain you idiot! Stop acting like he's our friend. He's with them and that makes him an enemy!"

"But he's a good enemy-"

"The only good enemy is a dead enemy." Sharpfur grinned.

"Don't you have some village to raid?" Grollo grumbled.

"Me? Nah, I'm too little." He chuckled, laying safely against the mast. "Please continue debiliating vermin psychopathy."

"We're not 'debiliating' we're 'debating'." Matiya corrected icily.

"That's what I said!" The weasel snapped.

"Liar. Liar, liar, liar, liar!" Hawthorn sung in sing-song.

"One day my lying tongue will save yer pretty hide. Shut it princess."

Before Hawthorn could reply, Matiya interrupted. I swear the word 'liar' should be burned off the dictionary! It's going to drive me mad. "Look Fret has problems expressing himself. It's why he gets all snappy sometimes-"

"Bahahahahaha!" Sharpfur was thumping the floor with his legs as he laughed his head off. Matiya desperately wanted to kick his tail.

The squirrel tried to continue explaining. "He thinks that everyone hates him because he's vermin-"

Sharpfur started laughing even louder.

"And it's hard to explain to him that we don't. This thing was an accident! He's as captive as we are-"

"Stop!" Sharpfur shrieked from under his laughter. "I'm gonna wet meself hahahaha!"

"Nothing is funny!" Matiya bellowed, making the weasel squirm harder. Then he stopped and waited for someone else to resume the conversation. Everyone was silent, save and except for Sharpfur, who was still laughing. Eventually he composed himself. Giggling occasionally he opened his mouth to say something-but his words fell short when something ploughed into the underside of the ship and he fell on his rump. Suddenly very annoyed.

"Hey! Do you miiii-oh um hello." He gulped weakly as a massive rat clambered silently onto the deck.

The deck became deathly quiet as the rat approached slowly, an axe hanging loosely from his belt.

Sharpfur flattened himself against the floor of the ship. "P-please great one-t-take them! I'm just the watch-beast. Mercy, great one. Mercy."

The rat stomped forwards, giving a dark chuckle. He made to unbuckle his axe.

Sharpfur was quicker, and pounced forwards, his small claws freeing his dirk and plunging it into the invader's throat.

Hawthorn screamed. Rosebrush almost fainted. The rest were drawn to the loud, gruesome spectacle and could not look away.

The big rat struggled weakly, but Sharpfur was quicker, sliding and twisting and sawing his dirk into the flesh, while blood emptied itself all over, spilling around his paws, splashing around his dirk and staining his cloth. The battle was over though, the second the dirk tore the rodent's windpipe. The rat fell, gurgling and twitching frantically as blood filled his lungs and the air he gasped in flew back out his throat.

Nobody could stop staring at it. Sharpfur was shivering, though it was not cold and was wide-eyed and horrified by the sight. Evidently the young weasel had not killed before. He looked wordlessly at the bound woodlanders, his mouth open but no words coming out-his cocky demeanour entirely gone.

Then a hundred hooks flew from the side of the ship and sunk into the wood. From the way they strained it was evident someone was climbing aboard.

Sharpfur froze,his eyes wide with fear. The dirk remained in the rat's throat.

It was Matiya who reacted first. Complain all they wanted, the vermin hadn't been cruel to them-there was no telling what these other ones would be like and it was not a risk the squirrel was willing to take. "ALL PAWS ON DECK! YOU'RE UNDER ATTACK! ALL PAWS ON DECK!"

Sharpfur looked at him, utterly speechless.

"Cut us loose!" Jack hollered at him. "We're no good being sitting ducks!"

Sharpfur didn't move. Then the first black rat popped it's ugly head overboard just as Threeclaw burst from the cabin, armed with his broadsword and rapier. The stoat wasted no time cleaving the rat's head in two, and was just as fast at slicing the ropes. But he was not fast enough to prevent a fight.

Fret woke from his first-thankfully dreamless sleep to the sound of shouting. Confused he sat up suddenly as the crew around him suddenly milled about in a drastic frenzy. Threeclaw shot up to the deck first and soon everybeast was arming himself. What was going on? Gulash gave him an accidental shove and barged past, the rest of the Honest Bunch came racing out, hollering madly.

Then he heard a distant voice yelling about 'attack' and stood up with a jolt. Then Grey was looking up at him.

"Frettie! Where's Sharpie? Have you seen him?" Fret shook his head dumbly. Would it be the hares? Would they kill him? And Grey? Or Sharpfur...

"I-I don't know." Anything. It was tempting to sit and cry-but the only one who he cried to was Constance and she was back at Redwall... If I ever go back. I'm going to sit in the cottage and cry till it floods.

"Well, let's go find him to make sure he's safe- and and we can bring your friend too. The squirrel and them."

"He's not my friend." Fret snapped automatically. "I- it's-complicated."

"I heard you, you know. Talking to him. You want to go back, don't you?" Grey tried to hide the hurt in his eyes. He wasn't very good at doing it.

Fret opened his mouth, he didn't know how to respond. Luckily, he didn't have to. Unluckily, it was because a black rat dropped down from the deck in a shower of splinters.

The fight was the most gruesome thing any of them had ever seen. Even Sharpfur-who threatened to gut them all at least twice- was frozen by the gruesomeness of it all. Blood sprayed and fell like rain, vermin rolled around on the deck, clawing and biting. Heads lay slit and bodies fell and made pools of red.

Sharpfur had not moved an inch and Matiya had stopped yelling after he'd seen Gulash crush a rat's skull bare-pawed. They had all seen the Honest Bunch, singing their shanties and joking and laughing. But this reminded them heavily that they were surrounded by killers.

Freedom came in the form of an axe that missed Deathglare's skull and split the rope inbetween Grollo and Rosebrush. The mole had already fainted and now fell forwards as the rope no longer bound them.

Still stunned, the youngsters all shared looks of shock. Then suddenly, Momchillo was struck by a great idea.

"This thing has a dinghy, right?"

Tibbers nodded incromprehensively.

"Let's get out of here!"

The group blinked and then faint smiles grew slightly. Home, was tantalisingly close.

"Hey!" Sharpfur shouted distractedly. "Y-you're-"

"Leaving." Matiya finished coldly. "Going to stop us?" The weasel made no move to do so. "Guys, our best hope is to crawl towards it, otherwise we won't get far. Grollo, help Rosebrush, Jack-"

"Don't worry, I've got the shrew."

"Okay. Right. Let's go then."

And so they bent forwards and crawled forwards one by one, leaving Sharpfur to stand there trying to say something.

It was hard work, crawling. Matiya was at the back of the line and the constant movement of the rolling and clashing vermin was difficult to navigate. The dead bodies were even harder.

Matiya had always dreamed of fighting, of being the Abbey Warrior, of slaying countless villains with a mighty swing of his sword. Yet the stories had never been like this and he was starting to believe what Sharpfur had said about vermin tales being more realistic. He caught sight of Threeclaw, frantically battling three at once. He had never seen anything like it. With small, sharp and sudden movements of his paw the stoat could parry any attack thrown at him. And with broad stroaks and decisive jabs he ended any who faced him. He danced over the carnage, light on his feet and fast, not slipping on any stray guts, hopping nimbly above a still-breathing comrade. It was the most beautiful thing he had seen-and it was butchery. He found suddenly that being a warrior was perhaps not the best career choice. Matiya forced his eyes away and made faster work.

He reached the dinghy last. Tibbers, Jack, Grollo, Rosebrush and Hawthorn were ready to leave and already on board. Momchillo looked relieved at the sight of him.

"Come on. Let's get out of here." The mouse said, and together they joined the others on the smaller boat.

The dinghy was held up by two ropes to either side and now they lowered it, one rope at a time. Slowly, gently. An eighth of the way. Heave. Ho. Slowly, surely. A quarter of the way down.

"Wait!" Yelled Matiya suddenly. "What about Fret?"

The looks he got varried from Matiya's scowl to Tibbers and Jack's appalling attempt at not making eye contact.

"What about Fret?" Momchillo asked through gritted teeth. And for a moment Matiya was filled with righteous fury.

"Just because you don't care about him!" He snapped. "We left Redwall to bring him back. I'm not leaving without him!" He scrambled the ropes they had been tugging low with the worthiness of his species.

Momchillo growled. "Idiot. What an idiot!"

The rat swung at Fret first and likely would have killed him in one move had the ferret not managed to flatten himself backwards. The dagger stuck in the wood, and the rat left it there swinging bare-pawed he dealt a mighty blow to Fret's nose. He followed up by grabbing him by the throat and squeezing cruelly.

He had forgotten Grey, and while he himself was no warrior, if not for his mismatched buckteeth Fret would likely have died.

The black rat hollered as the smaller one's teeth tore into his shoulder. His grip loosened and Fret managed to slash open his cheek, creating three, short gashes on his face. Acting quickly, the rat kicked the ferret off of him, and tore his shoulder out of Grey's mouth. Pain fueled his power and with a vicious backhand the rat tumbled away.

Fret helped Grey to his feet as the black rat freed his dagger.

"What do we do?" Grey whimpered.

Fret noticed that they were right in front of the staircase.

"Run!" He yelled, dashing forwards and up the ship with speed he had not known he had. Then again he had never quite felt fear like this before either. He reached the cabinin record time and vaulted up, he snatched the trapdoor and prepared to slam it shut. Grey burst through, panting madly and Fret slammed the door shut as the black rat's face came into view. Then he bolted it shut and breathed deep sighs of relief.

"Frettie, are you okay?" Grey asked tenatively.

Fret nodded.

"Okay. Let's go find Sharpie." He said simply.

Sharpfur was in the same spot as before. He willed his body to move, to help, to do something... The look of pain and fear in the black rat's eye froze him once more. Why couldn't he move? He had hurt people before. Once, he had pinched Grey's belly until the rat had cried, yet that hadn't frozen him and he actually cared about Grey. Why couldn't he just move?

He managed to shift his paw slightly and promptly slipped on a pool of blood. He landed hard on his rump and the sudden feeling of something helped him regain control of his body. And it was a good thing too, since at that moment a black rat with a dirk that looked remarkably like his, noticed his existence.

Going back through the chaos was the hardest thing Matiya had ever done. The stench of death was thick and heavy and made his head spin around. He could see no familiar faces, probably since every face was splattered heavily with blood and gore. He thought he saw Threeclaw once, but he hoped it was not the stoat, for what he had seen was a writhing corpse. He stumbled forwards as a horrible thought gripped his mind. What if Fret was dead? He shook his head wildly and continued. The heroes never died-he tried to assure himself. But that was a lie. Felldoh had died. Boar the Fighter had died. Skarlath the hawk... The list went on and on.

It was then that he noticed Fret.

Fret spotted Sharpfur, scrambling and slipping away from a black rat. The weasel's face radiated a panic that had not been there before. Then again neither had the threat of death.

"Sharpie!" Grey yelled in anguish, trying desperately to reach his friend. Sharpfur dodged another knife and lashed out, sinking his sharp little teeth into the rat's stomach, his head tearing from side to side. Grey fell trying to get to him.

"Fret!" Fret turned and Matiya was scrambling towards him. "Fret, we're leaving. Come on we're at the dinghy! We're going home!"

Home. Redwall. It was so close he could feel it. Don't think. Just go home.

"Help!" Sobbed Grey as a rat advanced on him, dirk drawn. Fret froze. Go home. Forget Grey. Go home. But he could not forget Grey, Grey who had been nice to him, who didn't want him to leave.

"Fret! Come on Fret! Let's go!"

Fret barged the rat on the side. The rat turned to him and Fret lost his courage. He turned tails and ran, slipping, tripping, he ran away as the rat slipped and tripped after him. Then as he reached the dinghy he realized that he had run out of boat. He swerved to the side just as an axe plunged into the wood of the deck. He tried to run, slipped and tried to scramble backwards on all fours. The rat towered over him. Sharpfur was running forwards, tripped on something and fell overboard. The rat slammed a foot over Fret's chest, making him cough. The rodent bent to pull the axe free.

Sharpfur hit the dinghy's deck headfirst with an almighty thud. Dizzily, he reoriontated himself and blinked at the confused faces that surrounded him. He was followed by Grey Claw-who lannded right on top of him.

Matiya plunged the sword through the rat's throat, where the blade appeared on the other side,splattered in blood. The rat fell to the side. Dead.

Matiya was frozen for a moment, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins helped focus him. He reached a paw out to Fret.

"Come on. Let's put this... Behind us." He panted.

Fret reached out to take his paw. Then the ship lurched violently and Fret's skull hit the side of the boat and knew nothing more.

Momchillo was stunned. "What are you doing here!?"

Before he could get a reply the boat shook, launching the dinghy forwards. Then it swung back. Hawthorn hit the boat with her head and slumped. Jack lost balance and teetered. Tibbers grabbed him by the front and then they both fell. Then one rope snapped. The dinghy swung, now held up by the other and spilled Sharpfur and Greyclaw into the water.

"Matiya!" He shouted, holding onto the remaining rope for dear life. That was when the squirrel's form flew off the side of the ship. "Matiya!" He hollered desperately. Then the last rope snapped. The dinghy fell down and Momchillo was tossed into the air. The deck came up to meet him, it seemed. There was pain, and then he knew nothing more.

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Fourteen, In Which I Start Developing My Side-Characters, Of Which There Are Already Far Too Many

Tibbers came to slowly. His eyes cracked open slowly. His shoulder hurt more than ever and his whole body ached. He had been swimming most of the night, making sure Jack-is-lucky didn't go under. He had no idea how he managed to do it, but he and the hare had made it to the riverbank before passing out. He didn't know about the others.

Rising slowly to his feet he stretched weakly. He moved to where Jack had been to check on the hare.

His and Grey's eyes met and both yelled in surprise. Tibbers lost balance stepping backwards and fell on his rump, Grey tried to bury himself into the nice winter jacket he'd dragged to the riverbank.

Jack sat up suddenly as a cold, wet thing shot itself down the front of his coat." Gaaaaah! Cold! Cold! Cold!" He tore open the front and Grey spilled out like a ragged doll. Jack screamed in surprise and jumped a foot in the air, his fur standing on end.

Grey heard the battlecries and curled into the sand, his paws over his head. "I surrender! I surrender!" He whimpered, waiting for an axe to end him.

Jack calmed his heart rate and steadied his breathing. "My hearts! Oh my... Oh my..." Then he shook himself dry and shivered. He coughed to regain his composure and straightened up. "Well chappie, you have surrendered and shall now be spared on my honor as a hare of the Long Patrol."

Grey sat up and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then he remembered all of Sharpfur's survival plans and began grovelling. "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!"

"But! You may be useful to us a hostage in the case that one of ours is still on board your vessel, therefore you are now a captive of the Long Patrol!"

Grey opened his mouth dumbly. He had no idea what that meant. He decided more grovelling was in order. "No! Pleeeeaaaase! Anything but that! Mercy!"

Well I say... Vermin must have quite a high regard for the Long Patrol. "It is the only way! Now, on your feetpaw! Chop chop!"

"Wait! We should tie him up!" Tibbers squeaked nervously. "In case he tries to run away."

"Nooooooo! Please! I'll do anything! Anything!" Grey pleaded. He hadn't even heard the shrew's suggestion.

"Now now chap! It's not too bad, wot. Just an extra precautionary measure!"

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Tibbers undid his bandages clumsily. His shoulder was a mess. The wound had a nasty shade of green around it, and the poked flesh was beginning to smell bad. "We can use this," the shrew suggested, holding the soggy bandage.

"Your shoulder looks bad. You should put some dockweed on it." Grey provided helpfully.

Tibbers gave his shoulder a glance and looked away again. "It's not important right now. Well, er, hold your paws out."

"And no funny business, wot!"

Grey nodded and did as he was bid. "Why are you bandaging my paws together? Your shoulder needs it more than I do."

Jack-is-Lucky blinked. Then regained composure once more. "Right well, uhum. Our comrades should be along this riverbank somewhere. We just have to... Find 'em. Right, Tibbers climb on my back., give the bandage here. Rat with us, wot. Now... Um... Don't try anything."

Grey nodded, then remembered something. "Where's Sharpfur?"

"The weasel, wot? Well, he's er-" The hesitation made Grey decide that it was something bad.

"Is he dead?" The rat's eyes were wide and quivering. Jack did not have the heart to hurt such a sweet little- kidnapper. He's a kidnapper. Remember that, Jackie. Now, we need to get him moving!

"Aye, he is, and you'll be dead too if you don't start moving." The hare said in as angry a voice as he could muster. "Now-"

Instead of cowing the rat into submission as he'd hoped to do, Grey Claw burst into tears and bawled like a newborn.

The dingy crashed into a stony bank, knocking sweet, blissfull sleep away from Hawthorn. The vole's eyes snapped open, and suddenly she was wide awake. Grollo was sprawled on the deck, half-awake himself. But the others weren't there. With a sinking feeling in her gut last night's hazy events returned.

Fret that cold-footed scum and Matiya the dumb fool. We'd have gone home if you hadn't tried playing the hero for that dumb ferret. She hissed angrily to bite back tears. They had been so close to going home. Away from the stinking vermin. She climbed up to the back of the dingy, where a bit of rope dangled weakly.

There's no point crying now. She thought. This is the river Moss. If we follow it against it's course we'll get to Mossflower woods. From there we'll find the abbey. They will help. We should be fine. We should be fine.

Then she caught sight of him, with bleared eyelids, barely clinging on to the rope, Sharpfur's claws tried desperately to fight the mounting exhaustion and retain his grip. Then he caught sight of her, and in desperation, redoubled his efforts to scramble onto the wood and escape the freezing current.

"Help me! Help! I can't swi-ack! Help!" He missed a scramble and almost disappeared into the water.

Hawthorn felt three things simultaneously. The first was a stab of pity at the pathetic sight of the desperate weasel, the next was anger, for he had been one of their captors and had prevented them from returning home. The third was a sense of justice. Sharpfur didn't talk half as tough in the water as he did on dry land. She remembered his stunned look at having ended a life and felt pity again.

"And why should I? You'd push me in quick as a flash." A small part of her wanted to cut the rope off entirely and be rid of him.

"N-no!" Unable to add anything he continued begging. "Please! Please! I can't swim. Please!"

"What happened to 'a good enemy is a dead enemy'?"

A large wave made him slip to the very edge, his claws only just holding on. "H-E-E-E-ELP ME!" He sobbed in panic.

Hawthorn hesitated a moment longer. He was their enemy. He'd have sold them without a second thought. "Why should I?" She snapped, all her anger coming to a boil.

"B-because I-I I know Mossflower! I can lead you b-back to your abbey! Just DON'T LET ME DIE!" Another large wave weakened his grip. The next would take him down the river, most likely to his death.

Hawthorn tugged at the rope, the weasel clinging on for dear life. With some effort the albino vole managed to get the little weasel onto the boat, where he shook himself mostly dry and wringed the water free from his tail, shivering madly the entire time.

"You'd have let me drown." Hawthorn complained.

The weasel scowled at her. "Yes I would have. Got a problem with that?"

"I should throw you back into the river." She growled, approaching him with clenched fists.

The weasel straightened up to his full height. Being a runt he was not much bigger than her. "Such a pity you can't pretty-face." He stuck his tongue out at her as he slapped water out of his ears.

"Yes, but he can." Sharpfur realized too late that Grollo was now fully awake. The hedgehog grabbed him by the back of the neck and raised him into the air.

"H-hey put me down! I w-was joking! Joking! Haha, come on, you can take a joke!"

"Answer my questions." The vole demanded, straightening up. "Is this the River Moss?"

"Um, no-yes! Yes it is!"

The vole glared at him. "Are you lying?"

"No! No I swear it's not the River Moss! This is the River S-styx!"

"There is no river Styx-"

"No there is-you woodlanders just d-don't call it that, yeah! You say some other name I-I dunno what that is!"

Hawthorn frowned and Sharpfur seized his advantage.

"Look, the river bends downstream, we just have to travel further down river and we'll be right back to where we started. Now put me down!"

He could be lying. But that made no difference. It was him against her and Grollo and his precious dirk wasn't there. In the end Hawthorn relented. "Leave him be Grollo. And weasel-if you so much as think of betraying us, we will dump you into the river, understood?"

Right, find the others and go home. Shouldn't be too difficult.

Sharpfur nodded feverishly, and as the two turned away he scowled, his fur bristling in anger. I hate woodlanders. Still, it wasn't all bad. He just needed to get his bearings and then he could ditch them.

Right, find Grey and go home... If there is a home to go to. If not make new home. Good plan.

Connington felt anxiety dance inside his stomach like a nest of sparrows. He hated boats enough when there wasn't a strong likelihood of death. But after the wreckage they had spotted...he was worried what they would find.

The shrews had made good speed, and One Eye had been sure they'd catch up with the vermin 'before a weeks crossed'. Well they had caught up to the vermin, but it wasn't what they had been expecting to find.

The ship had been torn apart, and floating lifelessly in pools of fading blood were countless bodies. Black rats lay lifeless more than any other beast, but vermin of every shape and colour were strewn about.

"Shrews! Dive!"

With an unnecessary cry of 'Logalogalogalolalog' the shrew dived into the water, dragging out still-twitching bodies by the dozen. A ferretmaid with a huge axe-head buried into her skull begged for mercy and Connington hardly dared refuse. It was horrible.

"Check every ferret." He asked, and as the Log-a-log conveyed the order he found he couldn't stomach the thought of Fret even being here, let alone being amongst the dead.

He had found the round metal bob he had gifted his nephew. There were no marks of fur, no blood, but no Fret either. He merely hoped the ferret didn't die.

Nothing. Dead rats. Dead weasels. Dead ferrets. But no Fret.

And a mole. It took three shrews to drag her above the water, and it took one quick kiss from a bashful hare to get her coughing and shivering.

Connington knew her. Well... He knew her father, who had most venomously objected to Constance's raising of Fret. But he doubted the Foremole would be gutted by his daughter's safe return. Though mayhaps the other parents would...

"There's one still breathing." A shrew called. "Don't look too good, weasel-fellow."

"Bring him here." The hare Captain commanded, he then fixed the others with a cold look. "Leave the interrogation to me! I've prized answers from spies, assassins, thieves, rogues-"

"Here ya go! There's three more like that." It was none other than Cheesenibbles, who looked shrunken and scared. The baby weasel's fur was dripping wet and how he had stayed afloat was a serious mystery.

"Well...have you ever interrogated a baby before?" Connington asked dryly, hoping that some humour could kill the sparrows as they fluttered up and down.

"No." The shrew proceeded to dump three more, slightly older but just as scared weasel-pups.

"I can't interrogate this! Porridge oats! I forgot they were young once."

The weasels stared with wide open eyes.

"Captain, what's the orders?"

"Well... Continue forwards for now. When she's well we'll ask the mole what happened. And then we should be able to send her back to Redwall."

Tibbers had grown up believing that vermin were heartless backstabbers. But he had also been taught that Redwall was a safe haven for all goodbeasts. He was surprised at having seen the ferret in Redwall, but hadn't let assumptions get to him. Then the ferret had apparently betrayed his friends, the people he had grown up with and that belief was rising again. And he was doubting them again.

The rat was apparently inconsolable, and though by now he had run out of tears, he walked alongside them in sullen silence. Jack had made one joke about the shape of rivers in general-which hadn't been funny- and Grey had been bawling again, whimpering about how 'Sharpie always hated water'.

He felt sorry for the rat. Especially since Jack's backtracking had failed miserably. He now believed that his weasel friend was dead, and any thought that reminded him of him sprung fresh tears.

Heartless indeed!

[close]

[The Grey Coincidence]

Chapter Fifteen, In Which The Good Ole' Conflict Starter Known As Amnesia Is Used

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.

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