Black and White

[The Grey Coincidence]

Sharpfur waited until he was quite sure his companions were asleep. Grollo was snoring softly to his side and Hawthorn was as dead to the world as... Well... A deadbeast. Armed with a candle, the mysterious book and a dick-sigh-on-airy he was determined to discover what lay within the pages of his discovery.

''Dear Diarry,'

The writing was big and messier than his. Each word took half a page and had to be carefully taken apart and deciphered. For a moment he wondered what poor vermin had been forced to write it down. Then he remembered that he was probably the first poor vermin who'd been forced to learn the squiggles.

The weasel's face was the very image of concentration. His brow furrowed, forehead creased, eyes fixed rigidly at the scribble in front of him. Sharpfur paused to flick through the en-sick-o-ped-ya of words to find out the meaning of 'diarry'. No 'diarry' to be found... There was another word with two 'r's though...

'Diarrhea are loose, watery stools-'

The weasel slammed the book shut viciously. "Ew, ew, ew, ew! That is dis-gusting! Even for me!" He regretted the outburst when he heard Grollo roll in his sleep and Hawthorn muttering at him to 'go to sleep'. He paused to make sure both his companions were fast asleep once more. He would proceed more cautiously from now on. Cracking the book open with the tips of his claws, Sharpfur went to the next line.

''Today I saw a taddy-pole in the lake. It was big and black and slimy."

The weasel sniffed at the parchment, before turning to the next page. He was no longer entirely sure a child had written this...

"I can't wait forit to grow into a beautiful froggy. He will have very long legs and be very kind. We will hold hands and play and dance and sing and daddy says he can join my tea-party."

Sharpfur yawned widely. Sixteen pages in and he had yet to discover anything of interest. And it was making him sleepy too, that was not good.

"Spike says that froggies are meanies. He says they're worse than vermin. But I don't think vermin are so bad."

Sharpfur snickered. Silly woodlanders everywhere he looked. Frogs and vermin were equally despicable. Though the weasel had never met a frog... And had no inclination to do so either. He'd probably have to kill it.

"I've never met vermin. But daddy says that they're not so bad to us poor folk. He says if we were rich, however, that they'd murder us. I hope froggy never tried to murder me."

There was an unfamiliar squirming in his stomach. He could not quite place it, it being a never-before-felt sensation. Was this what the weak called pity? It was uncomfortable to say the least.

"Anyways Diarry I have to be back afore Nightfall. Goodnight."

"That's it!?" Snapped Sharpfur, surprised by his own reaction. There was the sound of a door opening and the weasel shot into action. He blew out the candle and kicked it under his bed. Then hopped around clutching his footpaw in pain. The footsteps were coming closer. He slammed the dick-sigh-on-airy shut and slipped it under his pillow. He then shot into bed, the blanket disgarded, and lay still in the most uncomfortable sleeping position ever, the 'Diarry' flat against his stomach.

The door creaked open and Sharpfur hastened to snore. His heart was pattering wildly but he tried to make his breathing sound as normal as possible.

"Poor thing. Must have fell asleep with the dictionary." The hedgepig retrieved the fat book from where it jutted out under his pillow. Gently she arranged his limbs into a comfortable position, before placing a blanket over him. His snores were momentarily interrupted by the disgust he felt when she kissed his forehead.

It was only through his powers of extreme patience that he waited until the door to her own room had closed before he started desperately wiping the spot clean off the face of the world. Disgusting soft woodlanders! His mother hadn't kissed him in seasons! Why couldn't everybeast else be normal like her? The book had been a waste of time it seemed... No matter, there were others... Hopefully one had a way off this infernal island.

Of course... he needed to get the rest of the books first.

Hawthorn was surprised the next morning when she found Sharpfur enthusiastically assisting the old hedgehog in the kitchens, chattering endlessly about his mother.

"Oh my mammy was a good cook. Very good. Could make almost anything edible! If there weren't any fruits or borrowed veg she'd grind bark in a bowl and mix it with mushrooms an' some herbs. Boil it in water and ye've got the best soup fer miles an' miles. Ye'd be surprised, I swear on me tail everybeast in our crew would ask fer more an' more an' more until me mam started hurlin' back the bowls at 'em. Hehehehehehehehehe!" His paws scrubbed viciously at the dirty dishes.

"Good...morning." Said Hawthorn slowly.

Sharpfur turned to her, a wide grin plastered on his face. "Good morning!"

She blinked and pinched herself.

"Oh, good morning dear. Sharpfur was just telling me about his home."

"And helped with the dishes." Said Grollo, entering dumbstruck.

"Ye bet I did woodlanders!" Said Sharpfur, placing the last squeaky clean plate on a pile of others. He marched forwards between them, spun on his heel and threw his paws about their shoulders. "C'mon now, breakfast's packed and there are strawberries te collect!" He said, throwing his paws into the air in celebration.

"I just woke up." Grollo complained.

"Can't we go after breakfast?" Agreed Hawthorn. For a split second Sharpfur looked murderous, but then he smirked.

"Why ever not?" He turned to the old hedgepig. "You don't mind of course?"

"Don't be silly dear, of course you can have breakfast. Go and sit yourselves down, I'll be with you in a minute."

Sharpfur looked murderous for half a second, but switched into a smile before anybeast noticed. He could not blow this opportunity.

Breakfast was boring, simply put. It was most likely only ten minutes of noisy chewing, but to the impatient weasel it felt like a full season. Then after Grollo the Greedy had finished his third bowl of porridge the kindly old hedgepig had offered him even more- confirming the weasel's suspicions that she was trying to fatten them up!

"Well... I am a growing beast, mam. I need lots of vittles to grow big and strong." The hedgehog replied cheekily, holding his bowl out for more.

"More like short and fat." Muttered Sharpfur contemptuously.

"Look who's talking about short."

"Now, now boys, there's plenty for everybeast." The old hedgepig chided, dipping her ladle into the bowl of porridge.

Grollo licked his lips in anticipation, when Sharpfur got in the way. "NOOOOOOO!" He gave a great cry and rose to his feet adding an impressively small amount of height to himself. He raised a single claw and closed his eyes as he released a powerful statistic he'd made up on the spot. "One bowl of porridge is good for a snack. Two bowls of porridge are good for breakfast. Eat three and you'll end up fat. Four and you'll walk no more!"

The old hedgepig hesitated. "Perhaps... it shan't be too long before lunch anyways."

Grollo was too well-trained to argue and withdrew his bowl with an air of not caring. "I suppose Sharpfur's right."

The weasel clapped his paws together in triumph. "Alrighty, time fer pickin', coz those strawberries won't eat themselves!"

"Since when did you like collecting strawberries?" Grollo cocked his head to the side, his jaw slightly agape.

"Since I read about the health be-nee-fits of the fruit." The lie came easily and confused the hedgepig even more. The weasel was now putting on a coat several sizes too big for him.

"Sharpfur is good at reading now." Said the old hedgehog with fierce pride.

"Abbot Martin would be delighted to meet you." Said Hawthorn. The familiarity of an annoyed Sharpfur would have helped make sense of the scene.

As always, Sharpfur disappointed. "It would be me pleasure! First person I greet when we get back te yer abbey will be the Father Abbot!"

Hawthorn and Grollo shared a stunned look, but it was the old hedgehog who Sharpfur kept track of. Sure enough she had stiffened at the mention of Redwall.

"Well then... I suppose, we'll be back afore lunchtime."Started Hawthorn slowly.

"Yes my dears! Of course yes, as soon as your baskets are full." She smiled, but Sharpfur could tell that the mention of leaving had shook her.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the cottage he turned to his companions, his face dark. His pretense forgotten.

"She'll never let us leave."

"Relax man, you're going from all vermin-ey to cheerful to serious too quickly for me to keep track of." Grollo joked, clutching the sides of his head.

Hawthorn frowned. "What is up with you?"

"Nothing! But look, Spring is here and we're not going anywhere! All we get is 'back afore this-time' and 'back afore that-time'. And that's when we're even allowed outside her vis-i-on."

"Snow is still piled up everywhere in case you haven't noticed." The hedgehog pointed out grumpily.

"Yer an idjit and I am going to prove it to ye. Just wait." He stomped off grumpily, rounded a large pile of trees, then broke into a run.

It had been so easy! Almost too easy! First he pretended to be kind so that the dumb old hedgepig didn't know what he was up to. Then he did it just to tick off the abbeybeasts. It had been difficult at first, but he needed to get the rest of the books. For... reasons...

He slowed down when he thought he reached a familiar looking place. First he had to find them.

"He's up to something." Grollo murmured, staring at the direction the weasel had taken. It was like the time Fret had come on the otter trip. His stomach twisted painfully. That had been a disaster. From what he'd seen the Skipper had nearly run the ferret through. That would have been horrible... Suddenly he had a very bad feeling about whatever it was Sharpfur wanted to do.

Hawthorn frowned. "I agree that the dish-washing and 'good morning's were a bit suspicious but he can't really do anything." She shrugged. "Should we follow him?"

Grollo shook his head. "It's like you said, he can't really do anything."

They fell into silence as they picked at the sweet, red berries. Hawthorn let her mind wonder. She and Grollo would probably be the last to reach Redwall Abbey. The others were probably worried sick. Poor Bella, she had always been the Badgermum's favourite. And the kindly Friar who was Grollo's father. The food was probably not very good these days.

But when they returned all would be well. There would be a feast to celebrate. Momchillo and Matiya would hug Grollo tight despite his quills, and Roseheart would probably cry. And Sharpfur would... Replace Fret as resident vermin? There was a small jolt in her insides. Fret... She had forgotten about Fret. Well... She supposed Fret was back too. Sharpfur would like that. He wouldn't be the sole vermin in the abbey. Though perhaps it was best if Fret did not come back...

As far as vermin were concerned however, the weasel was not bad. Yes, he stunk. Yes, it would be foolish to trust him. Yet... The three of them had had fun together. The snowball fights, the food fights, the endless bickering... A lot of it had been strangely... Endearing.

"Do you think we'll ever get back?" Grollo's question snapped her back into reality.

"Of course we will!" She said, far too quickly. "Sharpfur's just being worried. Don't worry Grollo, we'll be back soon."

The hedgehog did not seem convinced. "I don't know Hawthorn. It's... been a long time. And it's not like anybeast's looking for us."

"Don't say that! Of course somebeast's looking for us! Your parents are worried sick! And Bella and Abbot Martin!"

"Well... they haven't found us yet, have they?"

The vole looked stricken. "We... well... the others are back!" She said fiercely. "And just because they haven't found us yet doesn't mean they're not looking!"

He blinked, then went a delicate shade of pink. "I know they're looking... I know. It's just..."

"I know what you mean." She said, cutting him off. "But if we loose hope now Grollo, we'll never get back."

"I suppose." He drifted off into sullen silence.

Hawthorn hated looking at anybeast- let alone Grollo, who was ever so kind- sad. "Come on, cheer up. Imagine er- what Abbot Martin's teaching now?"

Abbot Martin sat cross-legged in front of the young weasels. The four had proven... Difficult. So far, he had been met with silence, snarls and death-threats, usually in reverse order. He had of course faced difficult students before but... Matiya and Grollo were distracted by swordsbeastship and food respectively. Fret was lazy and disinterested. Roseheart was half-blind like most moles. But at the end of the day a single scolding, a stern glance, and the occasional candied chestnut was enough to push them into the right track.

The weasels? Not really. They clung to each other like a pack, and the old mouse had never seen them separated from one another. Scold one and the others would start biting. Throw a stern glance at one, the rest would glare. Give one a candied chestnut... and (as the Abbot had learned the hard way) they would try and choke you with it. He had yet to learn their names. He doubted that would help. Three were indistinguishable and one was a babe.

They slept in an empty cellar, the door was not locked but was too heavy for them to push open from within. They had been given blankets and pillows and clean habits, but refused everything given to them. Feeding them had been difficult at first, purely because nobeast had particularly wanted to do it. And because they had tried to stab the Recorder with a fork when he had eventually started doing it. Abbot Martin had since taken over (and stopped bringing forks). Of course they had mellowed slightly- or at least they stopped trying to chew his tail off whenever he showed up.

This time he was equipped, not only with lunch, but with a book. It was a History book, as was to be expected, and yet aside from Fret nobeast had failed to be enthralled by it. The ferret had fallen asleep over it at least... twice a day. Though the Abbot would not mind a pack of sleeping weasels at this point. They were sweeter when asleep.

"What do ye want?" Snapped one.

"Well I brought you your supper." He pushed the tray forwards slowly. The quartet crept closer and sniffed suspiciously at the food. Finding no issue they cautiously began nibbling a bun each. "And er- I was hoping you would allow me to read to you."

"We don't need a bedtime story." Snapped another.

"Yeah! Go boil in puddin' abbotmouse!"

The Abbot flinched. Still boiling in pudding seemed superior to 'go flay yourself'. This, he took, to be another hallmark of progress. Even if... Only very slightly. "Now, now. Be reasonable. You may have food and er-comfort, but surely you miss some form of, shall we say entertainment?"

"We don't need your help having fun!"

"Aye! We have lotsa fun!"

"Widout the stupid mice!"

"Please. Surely your parents read- er, told you stories."

"Yer not our papa!"

"Or mammy!"

"I never said-" He protested.

"Let's hit him."

"Aye, t'would be mighty en-tur-tainting."

The old mouse knew better than to take such threats lightly and rose to his shaky old feetpaws. "Very well then. Enjoy your supper." And with that he turned and left.

As the cellar door creaked shut the four were left in semi-darkness, having refused candles of every sort before-paw.

"I wouldn't have minded a story." Mumbled Cheesienibbles.

"Shut it Cheese! Only the weak, ugly, stupid and pathetic wear spectacles."

The Abbot was unsurprised to find Roseheart- or was it Rosebrush? He had always gotten the names mixed up. Still he found the young molemaid waiting for him.

It was to be expected, with all her peers gone and the present, dull mood of the abbey, that she would cling to her elders for hope. Yet most turned her away, too busy with their own problems. A steady decline in the richness of the food showed, clearer than anything to the old Abbot, that most beasts had lost hope of reuniting with their young. After all, nearly a dozen weeks alone and out in the snow could kill grown beasts, what to speak of those still growing? Constance was guilty, that her son had caused so much misery. The Foremole was guilty, for having a daughter safe and at home. The others missed their children. Those that did not have children had gradually stopped trying to cheer the others up. The Recorder wrote sad poetry on the few days he could muster the desire to write anything. The words 'I am sure they are all right' were just an empty promise now.

He himself had given up hope a long time ago... Yet the Abbey needed to continue, as it always had. And he would be damned if Redwall crumbled under his bespectacled gaze.

So he smiled. It was only half-faked, for despite his inner misery he was glad that at least sweet young Rose had come home. The search party were still looking of course, but every time they returned it was empty-pawed. "Rose, cheer up now. What's troubling you?" He already knew what troubled her. Every time she closed her eyes she remembered it all, being tied to a mast, the pack of vermin, being on the dinghy... They had been so close to coming home. Then Matiya had turned back and the ship had lurched...

"Oi bin tryin' ter sleep Father Abbot zurr. But oi... can't."

The old mouse shook his head. "Rose, you know I can't help with that."

"Oi knows it zurr, it's just everybeast else's busy."

The Abbot harrumphed. "Busy moping, as per usual. If only there was a way to smack everybeast out of this sorrow!" The molemaid flinched, and the Abbot lowered his ears guiltily, he hadn't meant to sound so harsh. "I mean, naturally, this is a great tragedy but we must rise above it. Throughout this Abbey's history there have been countless such tragedies, and yet do you think we would be here now if those that came before us failed to pick themselves up and rise to the challenges life hurled at them?"

Once more the mole seemed to stir guiltily. "I am not talking about you." The old mouse explained, holding out his paw. "You have been through a lot Young Rose, you have every right to peace and rest. It is our responsibility to look after you, and so far most of us have failed miserably."

"Oi don't think you failed zurr." She said, very quietly. Yet she gripped his paw as tightly as possible.

"Well, that remains to be seen. Come child, let us find a book to read and drown our sorrows in hope."

"You'm ought ter do speeches."

The Abbot's ears perked up considerably and now his small smile was entirely genuine. "That is nice of you to say."

The books had been easy to find- almost too easy. And indeed it had only been too easy because Vulpuz, the cruel lord of fate, had decided to mess with him even further. So when he found them most of the pages were soaked through. The crayon was still read-able, but only the first page of each book. The second he tried to turn it he was greeted with torn paper and a glimpse of jumbled paw-writing.

"Useless, useless, useless!" He hissed, hurling another old book as far as he could. It hit a tree and seemed to explode into a thousand pieces of old parchment. At this rate he'd never get home. He'd never see Grey Claw, Blizzard, Heartrip and Redtail or his little sisters... and little Cheese, and his mother and father. Threeclaw would never spar with him. Gulash would not chase him to Hellgates over a thrown snowball. Sick-Eyes would never-

Then he remembered that they were all dead and his hopes fell even further. Still... there was the possibility he could make a living for himself. He was good with a blade and robbing unwary woodlanders was not difficult. He could hide out somewhere in Mossflower and lay in a bed with stolen jewels and eat food pilfered from half-blind picnickers. He could build a collection of hideouts even! So that when somebeast went looking for him he could just hide out and pig out!

Only... He'd do it all alone... Without the Honest Bunch. He'd be singing to himself and laughing at his own jokes and lulling himself to sleep. He'd steal all his own food. He'd steal all his own treasures. He'd...

He realized that he was crying and slammed his head against the trunk of books. It was not fair, not fair, not fair! He'd be alone and- and... "I hope you can hear me Grey- you great, dumb, stupid ugly rat! Because I hate you! I hate you!" Tears were rolling down his cheeks but he did not care. His miserly weakness hurt him... but his heart hurt more. "I hate you for leavin' me! We had... so much more! Te do! Te talk about te- I hope yer burnin' in Hellgates coz ye know how ye was always scared we'd go an' ditch ye like whatever idiot whelped ye- well now I know what it feels like! Coz ye done it to me ye dumb, dumb bloody rat!"

The weasel's foot lashed out in a vicious kick. He hit something very hard, and felt spasms of pain shoot through his whole form. Yet this time he did not hop around in rage. He lashed out again, and again and again... hoping against hope that somehow Greyclaw could feel his pain. By the time he was done the trunk of books and every dumb diary inside it was torn to pieces. Save for one. He lifted it, ignoring the painful throbbing of his footpaw, and found something inside that briefly made his heart soar. It was a map! Of a small island right bam splat in the center of the River Moss. And drawn roughly into a part of it, was what was unmistakably a boat!

The weasel raced along the ground in what was the wrong way. He paused briefly to get his bearings, checked that he was heading in the right direction, and then doubled his speed, the remains of the old books, and his grief forgotten.

"He'd say that the vermin ate his homework." Both vole and hedgehog collapsed in a heap of laughter, and laughed still more for a long amount of time.

"We should probably be getting back soon." Grollo huffed at last. The two had spent a rather long amount of time laughing and joking, and were both nearly breathless. Their baskets were full and the berry bushes empty, save for those little green ones that would not turn red until summer.

Hawthorn smiled. "You're right. We wouldn't want to be late for lunch, now would we Grollo?"

The hedgehog frowned a little. "I don't eat so much. Sharpfur eats just as much as me. Only he's little so nobeast notices."

"He's little but wishes he was big. Where is he anyways?"

The little weasel came to a halt in front of a small, dilapidated old shed. He grinned and pushed open the old door. He was unsurprised to find that it was not locked. What he saw next was not surprising either. It was so much better! A boat! An actual boat with an oar and- he raced back outside and around the shed and grinned at the sight of running water. A small stream yes, but it would lead to larger water. The River Moss.

"I am outta here!" He whooped in joy. The weasel barged past the door and lay eager claws on the wood of the little boat. He pulled and pushed and... it failed to budge. "Oh come on! Just! Move!" After tugging and shoving from every possible angle, the weasel collapsed into a panting heap on the ground. "Can nothing just go right! Is freedom too much to ask for? Is it!?" He fell back into panting when his ear gave an involuntary twitch. Far in the distance he could hear his name being called.

Was it lunchtime already? He shot to his feetpaws. He couldn't show the woodlanders this! Not now! Not when- his eyes widened in awe at the sight of the chains tying it to the ground. He darted forwards, searching for a lock. He found it swiftly, and shot his claw inside it. A few moments of frantic wriggling and the lock came free. He threw himself into pushing the boat now and to his immense relief it moved forwards ever-so-slightly.

"Shaaaaaaaarpfur!" The sound was closer now and made him jump, as if what he was doing was wrong and he was about to be caught in his mischief. He paused briefly. He did not have much time before they found his trail, which would surely lead them right to him. Would he manage to get the boat out to the stream before then? And if he did... would he ever see the woodlanders again? His stomach growled slightly. He hadn't had anything for breakfast and... his feetpaw suddenly refused to budge. "Move stupid feet we got to go! We have to... go..." Go where? He did not have anybeast waiting for him. He did not have anywhere to be. Sickletail was not there to welcome him home.

He sighed heavily, growled, kicked the boat as hard as he could, hopped on one foot, pulled himself together and stomped out the door. The map and the book he tucked into his sleeves and slowly he trudged up the ground he'd come from.

Sharpfur told himself it was because he needed to get supplies first. Because he needed help pushing the boat into the stream. Because he couldn't just go traveling alone. There was safety in numbers! Yet ultimately he had to admit, no matter how much he resented it, that he was not the type of beast who could live alone. Dumb and stupid they might be but... the woodlanders were his only friends left.

"Shaaaaaarpfur!"

"Right behind ye." The weasel snapped, bursting through a small bush that had just begun flowering.

"What happened to you?" Asked Grollo. The weasel's glasses were askew, his large coat disheveled, his left footpaw red and swollen.

"Nothin'. Now quite yer shoutin' and let's go eat! I ain't sure about you numpties, but I'm starvin'!" Adjusting his spectacles he proceeded to lead the way back towards the cottage. He disappeared behind a tree as Grollo leaned down towards Hawthorn.

"He's up to something." The hedgehog whispered to the vole from out the side of his mouth.

"I know. But what can he do?" She whispered back.

"Ye'd be surprised. I've got pretty good hearing." He said, reappearing between them. He threw his paws round their shoulders and now guided them all forwards. "I'm goin' ter be honest with ye, I've grown..." He seemed to be struggling to say the last word, till at last it burst out from him. "Attached."

"Attached?" Hawthorn turned to him, perplexed.

"Te ye lot." The weasel explained.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Grollo with a frown.

Sharpfur shook his head. "Eh forget it. Let's go grab some lunch."

[The Grey Coincidence]

Momchillo did not realize he was dreaming until he felt a warm paw on his shoulder. The mouse shot to his feetpaws, his jaw dropping as his eyes found the figure before him.

For a very long time he was unable to do anything beyond stand and gawp at Martin the Warrior.

He was dreaming, he realized suddenly. But that did not make this experience any less real. He had heard of course that the fabled warrior would come and guide the creatures of Redwall in times of trouble. But he was leagues away from Redwall and had been in trouble for weeks! Still any misgivings he could have had vanished as excitement set in.

It was almost tradition that every generation of dibbuns dreamed of doing what their ancestors did. Fight for justice and freedom. Solve the nefarious riddles left behind by some old, wise beast seasons prior. Find a great treasure. Feast (of course, for bodies needed nourishment) and meet Martin the Warrior.

Of those activities, the latter had always appealed to Momchillo the most. Matiya wanted to fight. Grollo wanted to feast. But he had always wanted to meet his idol. And here he was! His tail wagged rapidly behind him and he opened his mouth to say something, anything. The warrior smiled and he was unable to say anything. Remembering that the legendary Martin must have come for some purpose he found the larger mouse's paw pointed forwards diagonally across the icy lake.

"I should go that way?" He asked suddenly, his vision swallowed by the vast frozen lake lying before him. The warrior did the smallest of nods and Momchillo gave an undignified squeal of delight.

Martin's smile seemed to widen slightly, and gently he patted the top of Momchillo's head. "You have been very brave so far, but you must be braver still. The path to Redwall Abbey is long and perilous and I can promise you now that it won't be easy. Just remember to be brave, and stay brave. And every turn from this point forwards must be to the left."

"Thank you! Left, right? I mean, just left."

"Exactly."

Overwhelmed with excitement and joy, the young mouse shot forwards, his tail continuously wagging behind him. He was going for a hug, but was met instead with a face-full of snow.

"Fret!" He snarled, pulling himself back to his feetpaws. Wait? He had jumped? So Fret hadn't hurled a bucket of snow at him?

"What?" Squeaked the ferret, shrinking in on himself.

A small bubble of guilt swelled up inside him. "Er-nothing, I was sleeping."

Now Fret looked annoyed. "So what were you pulling my tail for?"

Momchillo grimaced. "I- look it doesn't matter! The point is I know the way back!"

"Yeah. So do I."

Both pointed forwards... only in opposite directions. "That way!"

Fret was scowling darkly. "No, it's right across Blue Lake, which is this way!"

"Yes, but it's Spring and ice melts in springtime. If we go that way the ice will break beneath us." He had no way of knowing of course, the snow seemed to be doing no melting. But still he had to convince Fret to come with him. Splitting up was not an option! Even if they could split up." I had a dream Fret. And you'll never guess who I saw! Martin the Warrior!" This would have delighted Matiya, made Grollo squeal and Hawthorn faint.

Fret merely donned his most sardonic smile and crossed his paws across his chest. "Really? Martin the Warrior? Sure! Sure! Let's go where he says we should go- oh but wait! He told you to go that way, but he didn't say anything to me! Maybe... perhaps... it's because... oh yeah! He's dead. He's dead and he's not here. And if he is here now, where was he when we got kidnapped? Where was he when I-" He stopped suddenly, as if he'd almost said something indecent.

"Fret. You know just as well as I do that in times of trouble Abbeybeasts everywhere have seen him and received guidance from-"

"I know, I know." The ferret snapped crossly. "Martin the bloody Warrior! Slayer of vermin and bringer of justice. Oh wait, I am vermin. Maybe I shouldn't listen to somebeast who goes around-"

"Fret! You're being ridiculous! Why would Martin want to kill you?" The mouse did not give him time to think of anything. "Look, if we don't find anything, we can turn back around. We're far enough from Redwall for it not to make a difference. We have all the time in the world."

"You mean all the time in the world until we starve or freeze to death." The ferret muttered under his breath.

The mouse cradled his head in his paws just to stop himself from loosing his temper. "Please! Just for a bit and then we can turn back and go your way. Okay?"

Fret froze on the verge of speech. Then the ferret deflated. "Fine."

Internally the mouse breathed a sigh of relief. There was only so much arguing he could do... He spun on his heel to begin the trek, when a familiar tug on his tail reminded him of the ferret.

"And how are we supposed to walk with our tails tied together? 'Martin' didn't give a solution to that, did he?" Momchillo was thoroughly tempted to smack him. With difficulty he restrained himself, though his reply was still tempered with anger.

"You could walk backwards then."

"Not gonna happen." The ferret's paws crossed over his chest once more, as the mustelid straightened up obstinately.

"You could try and carry me then!" Momchillo snapped.

"Never in a hundred seasons." Fret snapped back.

"I could carry you!"

"Nah-ah."

"Fret you are difficult! If only we had a sled! Then I could drag- hey that's it! I'll drag you!"

"No thank you!"

"Then you can drag me!"

"Nope!"

"Do you want to go back to Redwall or not!?"

"No! I mean yes!" The ferret growled slightly. "This is ridiculous!"

A tense silence entered the scene. Both held the other's gaze for as long as they could. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Fret gave in.

"Fine! I'll walk." He spat the last word out as viciously as he could, but Momchillo tolerated him. He could not, and would not loose this opportunity! He couldn't wait to see Matiya and Grollo's reactions when he told them of what had transpired in his dream. The hedgehog's jaw would drop to the floor, and Matiya would ask for every little detail. The exact colour of his fur. Length of the tail. Size of the sword hanging from his belt.

He was wrenched free from his thoughts when he found himself slipping backwards on the ice. He and Fret came crashing down onto the frozen water. The pair got up without a word and continued. A few feet after and both came crashing down again. They rose to their feetpaws, Fret grumbling in anger. The third time the pair fell their head's bashed against each other's, making both mouse and mustelid dizzy.

"This isn't going to work." Said Fret, clutching the sides of his head, his vision spinning around him.

"You're right. Plan B."

The ferret was dizzy enough to ask. "What's Plan B?"

'Plan B' was getting dragged. To say that Fret did not like it would be an understatement. He hated it! But what did it matter to the mouse? Momchillo had never really taken Fret's preferences into account. If not for him the ferret would be curled up in an armchair, reading a book or snoring, with Clogg pacing the cabin they shared. He would not be shivering and worrying about his next meal- No!

He was being stupid. Clogg was a pirate. A cruel, sadistic vermin if ever there was one! His crew was the same and Bork was worse. Fret did not belong in such company. Just like he had not belonged with the Honest Bunch and how he had never belonged at Redwall. Perhaps he belonged nowhere...

Still it was a little late for misgivings. He and Momchillo were stuck together. Fate was cruel like that. There was almost nothing he could do now. The mouse would drag him back to Redwall and his doom. Momchillo knew about the stupid book, knew not to trust him and knew what he had done. If they ever got back to Redwall he would be faced with his Nuncle's murder, the other disappearances and a list of further crimes so long that not even Constance could wriggle him out of trouble... Not that she'd want to...

But what could he do? Momchillo was stronger than him, cleverer than him, braver than him... There was no way he could trick the mouse and combat was out of the question. So he let himself get dragged without much complaint.

Even if he could escape, where would he go? Bork would gut him at best and Clogg was not beyond flaying a paw.

The ferret gave a particularly violent shiver at the memory. The blood dripping down Silvertongue's gory hand was as present in his mind as thoughts of terrible things to come. If Sharpfur ever found out about that... The ferret gulped audibly. The little weasel would give him no quarter...

In short his chances of survival were slim to none. He desperately tried to stop his mind from wandering, but that was hard when even the dirty ice reminded him of Clogg's one working eye. And Blue Lake... he'd heard a lot of Blue Lake from the rat.

"I've been under it." He remembered being told. It had been a dark and stormy night and Clogg had found Fret curled up on an armchair, staring at a map of the Northlands, and leaning over the young ferret's head had proceeded to point out all the myths and legends that surrounded the vast lake. "Some say a whale got stuck when it froze over, and the blue's just it's skin shinin' through the ice. Others say that it's where Vulpuz keeps the souls of Hellgates." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "I never saw any souls down there. I've heard lots of beasts say it's precious gems what make it so blue. Heh, those ones all end up dead. Ye want ter know what's really under there?" He leaned further forwards, so that he was staring into Fret's eyes upside down.

The ferret gave the tiniest of nods and Clogg's face split into a grin. "Snakes! Snakes an' tunnels. It's a labyrinth lil' Whimper, carved inter the ice centuries ago by beasts tryin' ter escape winter. Those beasts were very clever and brave, an' good diggers too. They wintered in their caverns of ice, and left when the Spring returned. Seasons went by, an' whole generations of young an' oldbeasts had lived and perished under the ice. Then came the snakes. Slowly at first. One by one. But then they all came, and the caves were full of the slitherin' things. There was no escape. Those clever diggin' beasts were trapped in their own beautiful creation. Some say they're still trapped down there, unable to leave for fear of gettin' eaten. And those that try and escape never see the light of day again. Some get lost in their pretty caverns. But most find the snakes."

Fret swallowed. The tale was scaring him, but curiosity forced him to inquire further. "What kind of snakes?"

"Huge ones Whimper. So large they could swaller ye whole an' kickin'. They say they look ye right in the eye, and they hold yer gaze. They watch yer fear and their eyes change colour till ye see the eyes of yer loved ones. Only when ye think yer safe and happy, do they strike!" He lurched suddenly, so that Fret jumped slightly, then the rat straightened up, laughing uproariously. He ruffled the fur between his ears with familiar fondness. "But don't ye worry lil' Whimper. Just stay away from Blue Lake like a good lil' varmint and if ye do have any problems with snakes ye know ye can tell them ter Captain Clogg! He'll sort 'em out for ye. Sure as Hellgates he will!" Then the rat had patted the top of his head and went back to pacing.

Fret sighed. If Clogg ever went down in history it would be as another cursed pirate, dead at the paws of some hero. No mention would be made of his kindness... After all Fret was sure he was the only beast to ever see it.

And yet if he caught the ferret in present company he'd flay Momchillo alive and kicking. And then Fret would have no choice but to stay and be a pirate. A villainous, verminous... Vermin. But wasn't he vermin? His denial had always been 'I am a ferret. Not vermin.' But although not all vermin were ferrets, all ferrets were vermin. There could be no separating the two. And it would be easier, wouldn't it? To drag himself back to Clogg's cabin and let destiny blow him as far away from Redwall as possible...

Nobeast would know for sure what became of him. Nobeast but Momchillo. Who would tell everyone. A small growl errupted from him. He would be damned if he gave anybeast the satisfaction of telling his momma they were right all along. That no good would come of him. That he'd only break her heart.

Were they really wrong though? He had done very little good in his short life. Most of what he'd done didn't count as bad either but ranting about how unfair everybeast was -a favourite pastime- didn't qualify as 'noble', 'heroic', 'kind' or 'good', no no, it was 'selfish' and 'mean' and 'petty'... What did it matter that it was 'honest'?

As for breaking her heart... Well he hadn't really done that. Whoever had told her he'd done a bunk had broken her heart. Whoever had told her that they had been right all along, had broken her heart. His Nuncle... If he was alive, would have broken her heart a hundred times over. He could picture it all so vividly it had to be real. Connington's tail swishing behind him as he approached Constance. The tiny squeaks and excuses his Nuncle would emit... Constance's face shifting slowly from a stunned glare to a look of disbelief... And finally... "Fret did it."

That would break her heart, if nothing else did.

Momchillo was satisfied by what he had achieved this morning. Despite all the misgivings he had about Fret, being tied to Fret, Fret lying to him, Fret hiding something from him, all the ferret had done before, being in the Northlands to begin with! Yet Martin the Warrior had visited him, that was enough to make his day! And as a bonus the legendary warrior had shown him the path home.

The journey was not exactly smooth. Fret was undoubtedly unhappy (though for once he actually had a reason to be so), and the longing sighs and small growls the ferret gave out every once in a while were certainly ominous signs. But Momchillo was not naturally a worrier, and distracted himself with the familiar delight of exploration.

The ice beneath his feetpaws was dirty, like frozen mud glazed in snow, but further out on the lake it was a wonderful shade of blue. Dark, yet luminescent, nothing at all like the dull sky above them both. If Grollo or Matiya were here they would no doubt follow him in his joy of exploration. They would slide along, laughing and singing, without a care in the world. They would have dared each other to approach the eerie skull of a snake that stared right through the mouse with eyes long-frozen. Matiya would do it. And without a second thought too. The mouse doubted he'd run from a living snake either. The squirrel was brave like that... brave but stupid. Bitterly he was reminded that this was really all his fault. 'Let's go rescue Fret', he had said. 'It'll be fun.' He had said.

Dragging a short-tempered little gutter-rat home was anything but fun!

The mouse could not resist the small kick he gave. A minute shard of ice bounced away and came to a halt at the foot of a small hill. Instantly, and inexplicably, he knew he'd found what he was looking for.

"Ta-da!" He shouted, spreading his arms wide to show off his find. Their was a pause, in which Fret blinked away from his thoughts and into reality. "Er-You can get up now."

The ferret climbed to his feet and turned round. His jaw dropped slightly and Momchillo's face split into a grin.

The hill was not too big, yet still towered over them both. Yet it looked minute compared to the mountains they had left behind. Peppered-in were caves small and large, so that it resembled a large, snow-crusted honeycomb.

"This Fret is why we went my way."

[The Grey Coincidence]

"A hill? We came all the way here for a hill?"

Momchillo scowled. Why was the ferret so damn hard to please? "It's not just a hill! We're obviously meant to go through the tunnels." He wasn't entirely sure about that either, but why else would the Warrior send them there? Fret didn't seem to agree...

"That's a horrible idea! You have no idea what's down there! W-what could be down there! And h-how, we'll get lost! No! This is a bad idea. A bad idea!"

"But Martin-"

"You were dreaming!" The ferret seemed to be having a small panic attack. His paws were flailing madly around him. "And you never said anything about a tunnel! Or that we had to go inside one! Or that-"

Momchillo grabbed him by the front and shook sense into him, physically as well as verbally. "You need to relax!" Momentarily the ferret stopped his gibbering, and Momchillo siezed his moment. Throwing his paw round the ferret's shoulder he held Fret close to. "Trust me, okay? I know we have to go this way, I just know it!"

"N-no you don't!" The ferret spluttered, trying to pull himself free of the mouse's grip. Momchillo held firm.

"And we won't get lost, it's simple really. We just have to go left. Every turn from this point onwards has to be to the left!"

Fret merely gawped at him, as if he was nothing short of barking mad. "It was a dream!" He whined, pulling himself free from the mouse and backing as far away from the hill as he could.

Momchillo dragged his paw across his face. Fret was being ridiculous, as always.

"It was a dream." He was repeating uselessly. "And you'd risk my li- our lives- for a dream?"

"And you'd do it for a book." Momchillo snapped before he could help it. The ferret winced, but refused to back down. His spluttering continued but it was entirely ineligible now. Merely the first part of a hundred different words he could not bring himself to finish. Momchillo silenced him with a glare and the ferret shrunk on impact. "Look, if we're going to make it back to Redwall we're going to have to settle a few things. First of all, I'm in charge."

Fret, predictably, did not take things well. "Yeah. Of course you would be. Momchillo the Magnificent. Momchillo the Majestic." He stretched his arms wide in mock glorification. "Momchillo, the Moron!"

"Better than Fret the Foolish, Fret the Frustration and Fret the Fuc-" Momchillo growled. He could not drag himself down to Fret's level. The pair needed one steady head of they would make it back. And for obvious reasons, it would have to be his. "Can we please just go this way?"

"No! Not today! Not tomorrow! Not ever!"

Momchillo felt his tail thrashing behind him in rage. The temptation to smack Fret silly had never been more pronounced. A cunning plan made itself visible to him, and the mouse acted upon it. His chest deflated and he sat down on the ice, arms crossed in stubborn resignation. "Fine then. We'll just sit here."

"Are you mad!?" Fret half-snapped half-whined, the panic visibly returning to him. "We can't stay here! It's cold and and we don't have anything to eat and I'm hungry and and- we knocked out the Prince! W-what if they come after us? B-Bork, I mean the Prince he-he'll-"

"Well Fret, you'll just have to think of something won't you?"

The ferret's lip quivered but Momchillo was unsure if it was out of sadness or rage. "B-but-"

"Don't you want to be in charge? To lead the way? Seemed like that a minute ago, Oh Great and Mighty Fret the Fearsome!"

"This isn't funny!" The mustelid snapped.

"I never said you were Fret the Funny-"

"Momchillo!"

"What is it?" The mouse put on his most infuriatingly sweet smile.

The ferret opened and closed his mouth, before his whole form quivered and clutched the sides of his downcast head. "Why do you always do that?" The question seemed genuine, as if it was the last of Fret's many shields, and came from the very depth of his soul.

"Do what?" Momchillo asked, temporarily dropping the act.

"Win! One-up me! Prove your superiority! I don't know." The ferret shook his head. "I know I'm not good enough you don't need to-" Once more it seemed like the ferret was physically forcing the words out rather than just saying them. "T-to -to all- to always- You're always right! And you're always better and you're always, you're always so, so so-"

"So so-so?" It was almost as if Fret were speaking a different language. Momchillo heard him all right, and the words glued themselves to the front of his mind. But nothing he did seemed to make sense of them. Until at last it clicked. "Are you jealous?" It was not a taunt, not a sneer, merely a question, and one Momchillo thought he already knew the answer to.

The ferret paused, and for one glorious moment it seemed like he was about to say yes, and that finally they would get somewhere. Then the moment was over.

"Of course not! It's just- Everybeast always said- Abbot Martin always picked- Fine! We'll go your way."

This was Fret's way out of the conversation, yet Momchillo did not care and snatched at his opportunity before the ferret could back out of it. "Excellent! Alright, I think it's only fair you get to choose the tunnel."

The mustelid's eyes widened. For a while all he could do was splutter, as per usual, and then he spoke. "W-wh-what do you mean pick one?"

"I mean I'm being nice and letting you choose where to stick your head in."

"B-but- Martin didn't mention-"

Momchillo's lie was swift and to the point. As bad as it was to not speak the truth, the rules of Redwall could not always be applied, especially not out here. "He said that my companion would know the way."

"B-bu-but I don't. And you just said you were being n-nice-"

"And you just said you'd go! Well we haven't got all day and the longer we stay out here, the more likely we are to freeze to death. So grow a backbone and get going!" He hadn't intended to snap, the last thing he needed was for Fret to start crying, but he was getting really fed up of all this!

Fret cowered, and his lip quivered, but sure enough (and to Momchillo's immense relief) he crawled towards a large tunnel near the bottom of the hill. He peered into it cautiously, and sniffed at it worriedly. He swallowed. "I-I still think this is a bad idea."

Momchillo gave no response beyond an inpatient cough and Fret, at last, gave in and began to crawl forwards. The mouse turned away so that his tail did not impede his companion, and walked slowly backwards.

Getting his lower half into the tunnel was not so difficult, and he was up to his elbows inside the tunnel when Fret stopped moving suddenly. He could tell from the gentle, albeit frantic, tugging at his tail, that the ferret was shaking like a leaf.

"W-what if we get stuck?" The ferret gulped. "An-and if this is a dead end and we can't get back out again and-" Fret's voice was quaking and muffled, and right now the last thing Momchillo wanted to hear. The mouse gritted his teeth, and through them spoke.

"We can't get stuck because you're going in first. If you can't fit than I can't. We won't get stuck. Come on Fret, don't be scared." The mouse continued pushing himself inside. "This is all." The ferret was now trying to back out, but Momchillo was not going toet that happen. Not after his dream, not after getting so close to following through with Martin's advice. It was like walking all the way to Redwall and then being too scared to enter the abbey. "One. Big. Adventure."

"This is torture!" Came Fret's indigant reply. The ferret stopped resisting and slumped against the floor of the tunnel. "I don't care, I'm not going!"

Momchillo lost his temper, and tried his hardest to kick him, but alas the ferret was out of reach. Till at last he gave up, and growling, slumped against the floor of the small tunnel.

There was a pause.

"...So can you let me out now?"

Momchillo gritted his teeth with enough force to crack a walnut. "No! You're not coming out, and I'm not coming out. We're just going to lie here and wait for who-knows-what to happen! Go to sleep Fret, and maybe Martin the Warrior can smack some sense into you. Maybe you'll start being more like him, eh? Imagine that Fret, being brave!"

"I can't be brave! And Martin the Warrior was a mouuuuuuuuuuuuse!"

Suddenly they were sliding forwards at tremendous speeds- Fret must have slipped on something- and try as he might to slow them down, it was out of Momchillo's paws. After the first shock it was not entirely unpleasant, it was like sliding down a tree-branch. He used to do that all the time... With Matiya...

Just as his thoughts drifted to the squirrel there came a sudden, painful, lurch and he and Fret were sent rolling over one another in a tangle of screaming, writhing fur. They hurtled head-over-heels, until they came to a halt with a sound like corking a bottle.

There were a few moments of dizziness, followed by the horrible realization that Fret had been right to be scared. His arms were pinned to his side, and legs sandwhiched between his stomach, and some indiscernible part of Fret's back.

The ferret's face was squished between Momchillo's lower half and the icy floor that held them in place. His speech was barely audible, and more muffled than ever. But one did not need to be a genius to guess what he was saying.

"GEROOOFF! I'm notta bear!"

"I know you're not a chair!" Momchillo for his part, was struggling to get his paws free. If he could just move them out a little bit...

"Den ssstopsssitting on me!"

"I'm stuck Fret!" The mouse snapped.

"Brilliant! You're brilliant Momshillo! Areal geniuth! I thaid this would happen! But of course, I was jusssst being thtupid! And here I am getting crushed by-"

"Ferret's can bend their ribs right?" Abbot Martin had told them that once... long ago.

"Well ssnot like I gan do much bending under your fat-"

Momchillo pressed down on the ferret's back with his feetpaws, doing his best to build some distance between himself and Fret. It also had the added bonus of shutting up his companion. With the new-found space the mouse just managed to get his arms under him. Momchillo pulled himself forwards, releasing Fret's head from the tremendous pressure of the mouse's weight. And also letting him whine to his heart's content.

"I told you it was a bad idea! I told you! But I'm the one who had to grow a backbone! I'm the one being ridiculous and unreasonable. I'm the one who has to get kicked in the back for-"

"Just! Shut! Up!" Snapped Momchillo, popping free of the tunnel like a cork from a bottle. The mouse slid to the ground, panting softly.

Fret did not give him the chance to relax. "You'd be just as 'ridiculous' and 'cowardly', if you were in my paws! Imagine somebeast getting angry at you for being right and not wanting to follow a stupid dream!" Fret pushed himself to his feetpaws and bent backwards slightly. His spine gave a delightful 'click' and the ferret winced. "I think I broke something."

"I'm sorry okay! Is that what you want to hear? Now will you quit whining already?"

"No! I won't! And you wouldn't either if you were squished under my butt! Or if you had to listen to a stubborn little mouse, who's always right about everything, even though he's always wrong and who's so sure we won't get stuck! And we won't get lost! Well guess what, now we're both!"

Momchillo climbed to his feet and tuned out his complaining companion. The mouse now proceeded to analyze his surroundings with keen interest.

The first thing he realized was that it was a lot warmer down here than above ground. Odd considering they were surrounded by ice. The whole place gave off an otherworldly glow of dark but shiny blue. He stared at his reflection, and tensed the muscles along his arm. His reflection looked enormous and strong. He deeply wished that he looked more like it. Then he'd have never been enslaved...

Fret shuffled over to him. The ferret's own reflection looked taller and thinner than in reality. It was disturbing and strangely pitiful. Momchillo noticed one paw was nursing the other and turned to his companion.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing." The ferret replied distractedly, eyeing the surrounding walls with worry.

"What's with your paw?"

"It's fine." Fret snapped and tried to pull away. Momchillo was quicker and grabbed the ferret by the wrist. There was nothing wrong with the ferret's paw, save for his thumbclaw, bent in a painful, unnatural, angle.

"Don't worry. I think I can fix this."

"N-no! It's fine. I can fix it mysel-owowowowowow!"

Momchillo twisted, and with a 'pop' the thumbclaw slid back into it's rightful place.

Fret pulled away sharply, and waved his paw haphazardly through the air, in what the mouse knew to be exaggerated pain.

"You're welcome." The mouse said curtly, turning away from Fret.

The whimpering ended instantly and was replaced with the usual; stuttering and snapping."W-welcome? Welcome! What do you mean welcome!? I AM A HUNDRED FEET UNDER A FROZEN LAKE!"

"And so am I!"

"B-but this was your stupid idea. Y-you wanted to come here, not me! I said I wanted out, but you didn't let me, I said this was a bad idea, but you're smarter and because I'm scared my opinion doesn't matter. And you have a dream about Martin the Warrior and I'm supposed to do whatever you say because of that. And now we're lost and we have no way out of here."

Momchillo had long since decided it was easier to ignore him, and let Fret rant away to his heart's content.

"And now you're ignoring me and-"

"Alright, we should go left here." The mouse said, paws on his hips, oblivious to all that had been said.

Fret growled. "My left or your left?"

"We're facing the same way. So our lefts are all the same."

The ferret's mouth hung open slightly, and then he went back to complaining. Thankfully this time it was under his breath.

Damn woodlanders. You took my freedom... My dignity... And my clothing... The last one really hurt...

Deathglare was still alive and, thankfully, un-eaten. He'd escaped slavery, only to be captured by a drunk mouse and a mad hare. The pine marten was unpleasantly crammed into a barrel far too small for him to sit comfortably. They had also shoved him in head-first. Or rather, the hare had. His rags had been unceremoniously ripped off and used to tie his muzzle shut, leaving him an even more tattered tunic than before. His legs were pressed hard against the wood and his own form, as were his paws. His face was pressed against his chest and his shoulders sore.

The pine marten was becoming painfully familiar with his own stench. Most vermin, particularly the weasel family he'd lived with back in the Honest Bunch, had prided themselves on bathing once a season... at most. Deathglare was not the same. He could not stand breathing in the foul smell of his own fur. Occasionally he could even drag Threeclaw with him and have a companion that did not remind him of a latrine pit... for a few days at least.

"Keep washing yourself Death and maybe you can have fur as white as mine!" The albino would say if he ever caught the marten scrubbing at his form. Deathglare would usually glare at him at this point.

Alas, he had had much difficulty introducing a 'Bath Day'. None of his ilk wanted any involvement with the nasty things he got from woodlanders called soap. In truth he hadn't liked it either, but there was no denying the scent of roses was far more appealing than musk and sweat. Of course the only other beast that had agreed to 'Bath Day' was Grey Claw, and at times the rat behaved more like a mouse.

The lid was wrenched free and the barrel kicked forwards, so that it's sole occupant came spilling out.

One-Eye frowned. "So vermin, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to ungag you nice and easy now, an' you can answer some questions honest-like. Think you can manage that?"

Deathglare nodded slightly. The hare tugged the muzzle off and dragged the pine marten to where he could prop him against a wall.

"Alright. Name first me laddo. And quick-like, wot. I haven't got all day."

Deathglare licked his teeth. "Deathglare." The hare was familiar, and he was almost entirely sure he'd seen him before.

"Profession?"

"I was a member of the Honest Bunch before we were attacked by the beasts currently in possession of this castle. Most of us died. I was taken captive and made to work in the mines." He failed to mention that the Honest Bunch had lived a very dishonest life, and that his latest 'profession' had been the abduction of several children.

"Hmm, come to think of it I think I've seen you a couple of times before. Where's your little rat?"

It took Deathglare a moment to realize who he was talking about. "I know very few rats." If he gave the woodlanders too much too quickly then there was nothing stopping them from killing him. His life, as usual, hung in the balance. He had to play his cards right. Unfortunately he had not much room to play.

The hare nodded at the information and paused. The Captain seemed on the verge of asking him another question, but decided against it. "Well alright then. Thank you for the help." The hare promptly threw him into a headlock and squeezed. For a second Deathglare was worried he'd lose consciousness again, but then he was freed and his muzzle once again bound by ripped cloth. "It's nothin' personal ole chap. Just can't tell if you're telling the truth or not, wot, wot. Don't worry, I'll figure it out. But for now, it's the barrel for you mate!"

The pine marten began writhing in the hare's grip, but it was too late. A moment later his head hit the floor of his prison. The lid was slammed shut over him, and Deathglare was left in darkness. His nose was pressed against his stomach, and there was no escaping his own horrible smell. It was a smaller barrel... wider, but shorter. And more crammed, he could not move a muscle and his position was anything but comfortable.

"No hard feelings, eh? Wot, wot." He heard the hare patting his cage before walking off. "Connington! Stay off the ale! No! Stop drinking, wot!"

Stupid dumb woodlanders... Still, he was alive, wasn't he?

[The Grey Coincidence]

If Fret had not grown accustomed to staring at the grinning skulls that lined the walls he'd have probably fainted. Here and there within the icy caverns there lay the definite signs of death. The abandoned quills of a hedgehog. The missing teeth of a squirrel, abandoned by the skull that lay a few feet away. Spines and ribs. Skulls and arms. Even a small sword that lay just out of reach of what could have been either a rat or a mouse.

All of which Momchillo pointedly ignored.

Despite all of his protests, all his suggestions, the mouse stubbornly refused to believe in anything he said. He was just a coward after all. A vermin and a coward and... he shook his head despondently. Thinking like that had never been useful, no matter how honest it was.

A fox glared down at them from the ice above. It's old, gnarled figure forever frozen into a snarl. "Momchillo."

"Left, Fret. Left." The mouse replied, ignoring the old, dead fox and turning left.

The ferret let out a snarl of his own, before a tug at his tail reminded him to follow. There was a strange smell within the icy caverns... one he had never encountered before, yet sent chills down his spine. He shivered uncomfortably, ignoring the now-painful growls of his stomach as best he could.

Momchillo's ears were better than his nose, and as such he had no such worries. Yes the skeletons were worrisome, but if he lost his head now then he and Fret were both doomed. And it would be his fault. The poor creatures had gotten lost, he would not. Every left turn, he took. Although his heart hammered against his chest and panic lurked beneath his skin, there was too much at stake to give in. It would be almost as bad, however, if Fret suddenly panicked. So the mouse decided it was in his best interests to make sure that did not happen.

Yet he knew so little about his companion that he had no idea how to reach his goal.

"So Fret... What do you like?" Mentally, he facepalmed.

"What do I like?" The ferret repeated bitterly. "Hmm, let me think. Not starving to death under a frozen lake. Not getting lost under a frozen lake. Not being under a frozen lake. Not being under a frozen lake with you-"

"Fret! For the last time, we are not getting lost! Now please, stop complaining. Anyways the only way out now is left."

"Or we can turn around and go right." The ferret snapped.

"Too late for that. Now, stop changing the subject. What is it you like to do?"

"To do? Well I don't like talking to you. I don't like walking. I don't like-"

"Let's sing something. Should keep our spirits up."

"Really? Really? No thank you. No thank you. We're doomed. We're lost. We're trapped. And sooner or later we'll..." The ferret shivered suddenly and searched the walls, as if worried they would burst out at him. "I'm not singing!" He spat.

Momchillo gritted his teeth. "Fret, I will go mad if I cannot do anything until we get to Redwall."

"If we get to Redwall."

"We will get back!"

"I have my doubts."

Silence overtook them, an uneasy silence that did nothing to help Momchillo's beating heart. "Fret. We're so far away from Redwall that... that we have to work together to get home."

"Humph. Work together? You mean I have to listen to every single one of your stupid dreams until something kills me?"

"Nothing is going to kill you Fret. Look. Okay." The mouse stopped, and turned, his paw stretched out ahead of him. "I promise, I promise that from now on I'll listen to you."

Hesitantly the ferret made to shake his paw. Momchillo, barely concealing his grin, snatched Fret's paw and shook it.

"But, you have to be fair."

"Fair?" Fret tried to pull away, but the mouse held him firm.

"You can't just say no to everything I suggest."

There was an extended pause until finally the ferret spoke. "Fine."

"Good." The mouse turned back, now grinning completely. That had worked out nicely. Perhaps, for now at least, Fret would not be so bothersome.

There was silence now, that seemed to stretch out forever. Left, they kept going left. Through cramped tunnels barely taller than Fret, to narrow passages Momchillo had to be pushed through, to wide passages that would not look out of place in a Palace- least of all one lined with the skulls of deadbeasts.

Contrary to Momchillo's expectations, Fret grew jumpier and jumpier the further on they went. The scuttling of a small pebble made the ferret leap into the air, his black and white fur standing on end. If he himself had not been on the verge of a panic attack, Momchillo would have laughed.

"You okay?" His voice was filled with genuine concern.

Fret gave the smallest of squeaks and a tiny nod.

"Let's- Let's get out of here." The mouse said with a swallow.

They continued with more caution. The cavern walls seemed to be closing in on them, and getting smaller and smaller. Panic was bubbling within both and Momchillo's movements were almost frantic now. Had he taken a wrong turn? Perhaps he'd taken a second left instead of a first? His heart was racing.

Now they turned left again, and squeezed through the smallest cavern yet. The walls of ice wrapped around him and squeezed him tight, like the coils of a serpent. He'd done something wrong, hadn't he? He had... he had... they were doomed. And it was his fault. It was all his fault.

Just as his ears began to droop in despair, the cavern came to an end. Momentarily, his worries vanished and the breath was taken from him.

It was a huge cavern. One that was reminiscent of Redwall's Great Hall, yet at the same time vastly different. The walls of ice around them shone with a brilliance to rival a thousand candles. At the center there lay a small pond, the water tinged green.

"Woah." The mouse's ears picked up the distant echo of his own voice as it bounced from corner to corner of the vast cavern.

"There's nothing to the left." Fret said quietly. "THERE'S NOTHING TO THE LEFT!" The ferret's paws were shaking madly, not from fear now, but from anger. "We're lost! We're doomed!" His voice, already loud, was magnified a hundredfold inside the walls of ice. "ALL BECAUSE YOU HAD A STUPID DREAM!" He was breathing deeply now, a whole cesspool of emotions boiling and tossing under him. Panic, rage, fear, anger, self-pity, regret... it was a mixture to make a murderer. "You had a stupid dream and you didn't listen to me when I told you it was stupid. 'Let's go left', 'Just keep going left', THERE IS NO LEFT!" He dragged his paws along his muzzle in despair. "We're doomed." His voice was strangely hollow. Shouting would give him no benefit, and he was too tired to cry. Not that he wanted to cry anyways, Momchillo would just make fun of him for it. And his last days alive would be spent listening to the stupid mouse mocking him.

"Relax Fret." The mouse was now holding a small rock in his paws. "I think I know exactly why we were supposed to come here."

"Other than to starve to death?" The ferret spat.

"You'll get it in a bit." The mouse sat upon the ground and tugged his tail closer, so that the knot that tied mouse to ferret was within reach.

Fret's eyes widened in horror and instinctively, he pulled away. "No! Nonononono! You're not smashing my tail in!"

"Fret!" The mouse sounded exasperated. "I can't drag you all the way back to Mossflower." His voice morphed into one of calm explanation- Abbot Martin's on a good day. "Look, I'll just bring this rock down quickly, the ice'll break and we'll be free. I bet it doesn't even hurt!"

"It will hurt! It will hurt very much, and I've had enough pain to last a lifetime!" The ferret made to turn around, tripped over his own tail and landed on the ground.

Momchillo, no longer as worried as before, laughed. It was not a cruel laugh, and not something he would have done if he could help it. It was just... there hadn't been much to laugh at in the past few weeks.

Fret whimpered, and brought his paws to his face. Pathetic, why was he always so pathetic and clumsy and... always at the worst times. "You just said you'd listen to me! Y-you promised."

That made Momchillo pause. The mouse sighed. "Fret... You're right. You're right and we're lost and it's all my fault. Now, you can pick an exit."

A tiny sigh of relief escaped the ferret, who swiveled around to find something they could both fit through. "That tunnel doesn't look half-ba-AWAWAWAW!" Instinctively, the ferret went for his tail. It was, thankfully, whole. Yet at the same time it hurt worse than Hellgates. It was the kind of throbbing pain found only on the most uncomfortable of bruises.

Momchillo was on his feetpaw now. His own tail hurt very much, but he did not complain. It was a necessary evil and besides, the feeling of his tail whipping freely back and forth behind him again was worth it. Or at least it was, until Fret started complaining.

"You promised!" He snapped.

"Sorry Fret." The mouse turned around to find the ferret glaring at him skeptically. "I am sorry. But we have to be realistic. I am a pragma-"

"You're a bully." The ferret snapped. "But no matter how much you pick on me, I'm the bully, I'm the wrong one, I'm the vermin."

"The difference Fret, is that what I just did is for the good of both of us. Stabbing me wouldn't have helped much-"

"No! Stop! Stop blaming me!"

"Then don't blame me!"

The pair growled at each other, paws clenched. Then the noise came, a low hiss that made them stop and shiver suddenly.

"Did you hear that?" Fret was quivering, his paws no longer clenched, but desperately trembling. His voice was barely a squeak, and yet nevertheless Momchillo's sensitive ears picked up the sound.

He did the smallest of nods, and both remained shaking in silence. There was no noise and the quiet stretched out into eternity. Then the hiss returned, louder this time, and closer.

The mouse was not sure when they had started hugging, but was suddenly aware that they were each holding the other as firmly as possible. Not that that helped. Fear crept through every inch of their forms and filled them up, all the way from their flattened ears to their tails, intertwined for comfort both needed yet neither could give.

And then there was the loudest hiss yet, and the great, ugly head of a snake, it's scales a beautiful, shimmering white, slithered free of an icy cavern above the terrified two.

Momchillo did not remember everything clearly. He knew that with speed neither could hope to match, the snake's ugly head shot forwards. Perhaps Fret had pulled him out of the way. Perhaps he had pulled Fret out of the way. Perhaps they had both done it. Yet somehow, the reptile missed and hit the ice. Neither really cared, or noticed. All they knew was that a second later they were hurtling away. The mouse was unsure whether they were screaming or not. His mouth was open, but the only sound he could hear was the mad beating of his own heart.

All instructions were forgotten. Going left or right no longer mattered, so long as it put some distance between them and their certain death. Their paws pounded like pistons as they shot through the ice. Adrenaline rushed through him, like overflowing milk, making him race at speeds he had either never achieved or had ever needed to reach.

Then Fret slipped, and his rodent heart missed a beat. The snake lunged, but the ferret's momentum and the cold ice slid him just out of reach. To Momchillo's immense relief the ferret was back to running in mere moments.

Surely this was not their end. It couldn't be, for why else would he have dreamt of coming here. Unless Fret was right and it had just been a stupid dream. One that had doomed them both.

Then he slipped and was sliding along the ice. In a sudden, mad panic, he managed to scramble forwards, not even sure where he was going. He did not stop his desperate racing for anything. Not to notice the sudden darkness of the particular tunnel he'd entered. Not to notice that he was heading up something. Not even to notice that the snake was no longer chasing after him.

What he did notice, after his panic had subsided, was that he was tired. His limbs were aching in pain, and now that he was no longer running on adrenaline, literally and figuratively, he was all out of fight. The mere thought of getting up from where he lay was torment. His heart pattered like a vicious drum that would not cease it's beating. He was hungry. He was cold. He was thirsty. And he was so, so tired...

It was with a jolt that he remembered Fret, and suddenly the adrenaline returned. His heartbeat shot up, faster and more violently than ever. "FRET!" His voice was shrill with panic, and echoed around him- as if underlining his loneliness. He shot to his feetpaws and searched around him. The ferret was nowhere to be seen. He heard something, the definite hiss of a serpent, and something else. A whimper that was all too familiar, and shook him to the very core.

His heart racing he shot forwards through the tunnel, and came to a halt at the mouth of a tunnel, one suspended several feet off the ground. His heart stopped and his eyes widened in horror.

Fret was frozen in place, unable to move beyond the heart-rending quivering of his black and white form. His eyes were wide and wet, yet fixed in the gaze of the serpent, which advanced ever-so-slowly towards him. The ferret's back was against a wall, and the tunnel was too narrow for him to somehow get around the snake.

He was not surprised to find tears were trailing down his cheeks. As much as they bickered, all the anger and resentment... they had grown up together. They had been classmates, neighbors... The mouse remembered vividly that they had once played together every day. Him and Fret and Matiya and Grollo. That had been a long time ago, yet the memories came flooding in. Every time they'd try and fail to pillage the kitchens. All the clever plans they would spend most of the day disagreeing over, only for whatever they did try to fail. All the times they had played Hide and Seek, only for Fret to be scolded for getting himself filthy by vanishing up a chimney. All the times they had come crashing into some poor beast while they chased one another around.

Yet Grollo was gone. Matiya was dead. And Fret... was about to be lunch. And it was his fault. It was all his fault.

His ears fell and his face contorted horribly. He could barely see anything from all the wetness in his eyes. Not like this... it couldn't end like this. He wanted to shout something, anything. But what? Fret could not run and shouting at him to do so would only make him feel worse. He wanted to apologize. He should have listened. It was a stupid dream, and a stupid idea and... Fret was going to die.

"What'sssss wrong? Why sssssssssssso sssssssssssssscared?" The great, white serpent came to a halt in front of the poor, frightened mustelid, it's face curled into a cruel smile. "I can ssssssssssssee it, you're sssssssssssshivering. I can sssssssssmell it, you're ssssssssweating. I can hear it. Your heartssssssss beating. Don't be ssssssssssssscared. Everything will be fine."

The snake's eyes bore into the ferret's, and the eyes seemed to be changing colour. Once icy blue, then a darker shade and darker still, till the eyes were black as night.

Momchillo watched on. Not that he wanted to see Fret's demise, yet there was no taking his eyes away from it.

Fret stopped shivering suddenly. His body seemed to relax, ever-so-slightly. His eyelids drooped. And then the snake struck, and with a sob Momchillo managed to pull away.

His paws were clamped over his face and his legs gave out from under him. Fret, Fret was dead. Just like every other beast he had ever been friends with. And yet there was something more horrible about this. This was his fault. He had gone and convinced, or rather, forced, his companion into this. This horrible fate. He doubted anyone deserved to be eaten alive- least of all someone he had spent so many seasons laughing alongside.

"You're a bully!" The ferret's words echoed throughout the young mouse's head. Every argument, every snap, every conversation- all at once.

"It's alright for you, because you're a mouse! When we- If we ever get back to Redwall you'll be welcomed home! I'm not welcome anywhere! And for what? Because of my temper? My 'bad-temper'? Or because I'm not an abbeybeast? Because I-I-I chose to be bad? Because I l-lie and s-snap and-"

"You promised!"

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

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He rocked back and forth desperately. Tears were running down the side of his face, like raindrops on a window.

"I'm sorry too Fret." His voice was barely audible. A squeak that could not begin to think about spreading it's echo.

And now... Now Momchillo was alone.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous crash. A horrible crunch. And the whole underworld of ice seemed to shake and shiver, like some great beast that had been dealt a sound.

Momchillo peaked out from around his tunnel, and felt his hopes lift. The snake lay motionless, save for it's writhing tail. A humongous bolder lay on top of it's lower neck. And just one swallow shy of vanishing were a pair of weakly-kicking feetpaws.

"Fret!" It was foolish of him to rise so quickly. Balance was lost in favour of exhaustion and the mouse teetered over the edge. He landed on the smooth scales of the dying serpent and scrambled to his feet. Racing along it's long form and climbing over the boulder Momchillo found the snake. It's eyes stared into space, a familiar brown colour. But it's eyes were the least of Momchillo's concerns. And first amongst them was Fret the ferret.

Grabbing the mustelid by his feetpaws Momchillo pulled with all his might, until Fret came free of the jaws of death with a gasp. The ferret's attempts at refilling his lungs were abruptly cut short by the mouse that hugged him.

"Oh Fret! I'm so, so sorry! I-I-I'msogladyou'realive!"

With another gasp Fret managed to pull free. He slid to the ground, panting. He looked alright, save for the mess that was his slime-covered fur. His eyes were filled with worry, but as soon as he had recovered some breath they shrunk back into his signature scowl.

"Martin the Warrior, eh? Every left turn, eh? Nothing's going to kill me, eh? We won't get lost, eh?"

The mouse raised his paws in defense. "I'm sorry Fret. I- you have no idea how sorry I am- I d-didn't want. I didn't want any of- I-I-I'm-"

"Save your breath! You're just going to keep saying that until you need me to do something- then when I say I don't want to do it, you're going to make me do it anyways! I-I and when I'm sorry-" His voice cracked slightly. "When I-"

"Fret! I'm sorry! Okay? I mean it! I'm not lying, I-"

Fret smacked him. His claws did not dig deep, but blood still dripped from the cuts. "You have no idea, how long I've wanted to do that for!"

Momchillo did not mind the pain, he'd had worse bee stings. "I get you're mad-"

"Mad? Mad! I WAS ALMOST A BLOODY LUNCH!"

Bloody lunch. Bloody lunch. Bloody lunch. The words bounced from cavern to cavern, like a ball being passed from paw to paw.

There was a silence, wherein all that was heard was Fret's panting. Then, all of a sudden, Momchillo laughed. He had no idea why he did it. There was nothing funny about what had just happened. Was it relief? Was it meanness? It did not last very long, and left as abruptly as it had come. But by the time it was over Fret looked more hurt than Momchillo had ever seen him and guilt made his ears droop.

The mouse slid down on the ice so that he sat next to the ferret.

"If it's any consolation. I think you'd have given it indigestion."

Fret glared at him, and for a second it looked like he was about to lash out again.

"But as fun as that would be. I'm glad you're alive. You don't have to believe me, but I am sorry."

Fret's glare seemed to melt away, but the ferret still turned away from him with a skeptical 'humph'.

"Hahahahaha! Best bait in seasons!" A new voice made both children stare at the bolder that had saved them both. And from behind it popped the white old face of a grinning stoat. "Been 'untin' this beauty fer ever!" At the looks on their faces he cocked his head slightly. "Ye looked older from up above."

[The Grey Coincidence]

Being a mouse was hard. Or rather being a rat pretending to be a mouse was hard. Grey Claw honestly had no idea how he was doing it, but so far he- or rather the Skipper- had managed to convince an entire holt of otters that he was a mouse.

Jack and Tibbers had liked the idea very much, probably because it meant they wouldn't have to explain what they were doing with a rat to begin with. And as Jack assured him, it would make fitting in at Salamandastron much easier.

"Well it's bally hard to trust your kind, don't cha know? Rats and hares have fought tooth and claw for longer than we've both been alive and I don't think a lot of the older hares would fancy having the companionship of one. And ahem, some of the younger... recruits. Just act like a mouse and call yourself something mousey!"

"But I don't know any mouse names! And I don't want to go to Salamandastron, Sharpfur said vermin all die there. And Sharpfur said that there's a badger there, and everybeast knows badgers are vicious an' bloodthirsty and like using our tiny skulls to spoon sugar into their tea. Sharpfur said so anyways."

"Try Bartholomew." Offered Tibbers. The shrew was looking a lot less pale now that he had both decent food and rest and well... a healer.

"Or Berty! Don't worry Grey, everything'll be swell when we get there. As it happens my old pops was rather high in the chain of command- wouldn't surprise me if I could just admit you're a rat and no questions asked."

"No! Nonononono! The Long Patrol hate rats." Otters, the Guosim and the mad hares of the Long patrol- all three he and Sharpfur had been forbidden from approaching.

"Well they don't hate you good fellow, they've never met you. I have and say that you're not half-bad, honestly speaking. Besides, it's not like we don't have our reasons to ahem, dislike your form of living."

"And badgers can't be so bad." Tibbers was nodding in agreement. "Oh yes, there was one at Redwall and she didn't seem likely to eat our skulls."

"But you're not a rat!" Whined Greyclaw, clutching at his ears and rocking to and fro.

"And neither are you." Jack reminded him with a wink. "You're Bartholomew Berty Bally Bandana, the mouse."

"I'm Barsolomew Barty Bully Banana?"

"See! You're already getting the hang of it, wot."

"Alright... Banana... my name is Banana."

"That's the ticket! Now, let's think of what we're going to say." He gave both companions a conspiratorial waggle of his eyebrows. "The two of us were just the Dishonest Bunch's latest victims-"

"Guests-"

"You on the other hand." The hare poked Greyclaw in the chest. "Have been their captive for as long as you can remember. You don't know where you're from, nor do you know anything that is not somehow related to verminkind- but still you have managed to maintain the good teachings of your sweet mother-"

"Mother said to avoid the Long patrol at all costs!"

"Of your mouse mother."

"But she was a weasel-"

"But they don't know that and cannot know that no matter what, wot. Remember, you're not adopted."

"What?"

"Wot."

"Alright." Greyclaw nodded in understanding. "So I'm supposed to pretend that I'm a mouse that was raised like a rat that's not a rat pretending to be a mouse?"

"Bingo." Jack patted him jovially on the head. "Now, let's practice. So Banana, where're you from?"

There was a long pause.

"Banana." Jack's voice was slightly more stern this time around.

"Oh right, I'm a banana, yes. Um, I don't know."

"Why do you not know?"

"Er- is it because I only remember the Honest Bunch?"

"Is it?"

"It is?"

"See Grey, you're really getting the hang of this mouse-business, wot."

"Okay. I'm Banana. I am Banana."

"Exactly! Now remember Grey, if ye ever feel like yer going to get caught- don't panic. Me and Tibbers are here to help you fool the wool, wot. But if yer ever caught unawares, change the subject."

"To what?"

"Anything! Anything except vermin and yourself. Talk about the weather. The weather always works."

Greyclaw nodded. "Okay."

Several days went by and Grey's cover had yet to slip. It was probably because the Skipper doted on him so much that nobeast dared point out anything discrepant about 'Banana'. And there were many. Now that his body was not in mortal peril the monsters were all in his mind, and when he went to sleep they crawled out the corners of his head and filled his mind with darkness and blood and Sharpfur screaming. It was lucky Tibbers and Jack had warmed up to him, or else he would have been caught by now. The hare in particular was good at covering for him. Once Angus and Andrew, a pair of identical twins, had been probing into his name.

"So, Banana,"

"What exactly is a banana?"

"I heard it's a yellow fruit-"

"Yer thinkin' of the orange one mate."

"Oh, right, so banana's red?"

Grey opened his mouth to say something, but found his throat filled with air. No words could find their path to freedom and his heart pattered into a panic.

"No. Banana's purple. Oranges are orange."

"But he's not yellow, orange, red or purple."

"It's why we're asking him numpty."

"Don't call me numpty, numpty!"

"Numpty!" Shouted Jack, throwing a bucket of water (bucket and all) at the two. Grey breathed a sigh of relief as the hare was promptly chased by the inseparable pair.

For now he was safe...

But nothing kept the nightmares at bay. He woke up earlier than the rest, covered in cold sweat and breathing deeply.

There was a storm that night, outside and inside. The wind howled and and cried like a swarm of deadbeasts. Grey could do nothing but shiver beneath his blanket, whimpering as in his mind's eyes Sharpfur was hitting him. But it was not the usual smack of annoyance, or the little weasel testing his punches. No, Sharpfur was furious with him. The little weasel was so much bigger now, and spared no inch of him. Long red claws drew gashes of crimson along his soft flesh. They dug deep, deeper than Sharpfur had ever poked. And in the background the noises of his family shouted encouragement. Silvertongue was singing ominously. Blizzard, Heratrip and Redtail were giving cruel, painful suggestions and Cheese was chewing through his tail. His little sisters were at his feet, peeling the skin off with their little claws. And Sickletail was cooking chunks of his side in a soup and forcing him to drink. The liquid burned his throat. Silvertongue's voice rose in pitch and there was a grave crescendo as Sharpfur went for his dirk.

A flash of lightning made the rat squeak into life. He was dripping in sweat and was shaking uncontrollably. Try as he might he could not push the thoughts of his nightmare out of his mind. His throat was uncomfortably dry and Greyclaw decided he needed a drink- anything to keep him from thinking about Sharpfur's claws digging deep.

He shivered and padded over to a barrel, only to find a small, wooden cup waiting for him. He looked up and found the Skipper smirking slightly.

Greyclaw accepted the drink gratefully and took huge gulps. Unfortunately, he drank too quickly and had to cough.

The otter gave a hearty laugh and pulled the little rat next to him. "Trouble sleeping."

Grey nodded timidly. As frightening as the huge otter was, with all the battle scars and his booming voice and all his stories filled to the brim with dead vermin... he was nice.

"Ah, I get them all the time." For a second his mind seemed to drift. "Say Berty... how was it like livin' with vermin?"

"Well... not bad."

The otter raised an eyebrow and Greyclaw's heart went into a frenzy.

"I mean they didn't kill me, or torture me or anything like that. I'm still alive, eh?"

His smile returned slightly. "Ye got lucky." Then his face fell into a frown. "Lost a couple of mates of mine to vermin." There was a long drawn out pause, wherein Grey had no idea what he was supposed to say. "One of 'em looked like ye, you know." He said suddenly, turning to the rat besides him and staring with interest.

"Small wood, eh? Hahaha." Grey was growing more and more nervous by the second. He did not want to be caught in the act of lying by this vicious killer of vermin.

"I... don't suppose... your mother found you in a river?"

For half a second he couldn't breathe. He had been found in a river. How did he know about Sickletail? "Nope! My mother was a mouse and er- she was my mother." He remembered what Jack had told him and repeated with interest. "I'm not adopted."

The Skipper chuckled, but failed to hide a hint of disappointment that lingered in his eyes. He patted Grey softly on the back. "Ah well. The woods aren't so small after all. But still..."

"Mr Skipper?" Change the subject. Jack-is-lucky had told him to change the subject. "The er- the weather's not nice today, is it?"

The Skipper raised an eyebrow, before he began to shake with laughter. "The weather- Ha! Course it's not nice."

"W-what I meant to say was er- what's the difference between a rat and a mouse?" He blurted out the first question that popped into his head, and continued with his speech. "B-because you said that- that any idiot can tell the difference but... I don't know many- any mice and, and I want to um, not mistake them for a rat."

It took a short amount of time for the Skipper's face to split into a grin, but when it did it was wide and his teeth were white. "To be honest, there's not much to tell 'em apart physically. Rats are generally bigger, got longer snouts see-" He said, tapping Greyclaw's snout. "An' they're dirtier, like when we first found ye. The untrained eye would have said ye were a rat- but like I said, ye look like me old messmates- and none of them were rats I can say for certain. Never had a rat on this ship before- and I never will."

Greyclaw swallowed.

"I s'ppose the real difference is the way they act. Rats are vermin. Mice are not. It's not hard to tell 'em apart when ye meet 'em."

"W-why? W-what do vermin act like?"

Skipper patted him on the head. "Ye'll have nightmares again. Go to sleep Berty. It's late. It's dark. Yer..." The otter unexpectedly hugged him, and squeezed tight. "Yer too young to know."

I think I already do...

[The Grey Coincidence]

The closer they came to Salamandastron, the warmer the climate became, till all snow was left behind and they were sailing through coastlines with sandy beaches and the swath of the ocean.

The closer they came to Salamandastron the more worried Greyclaw became- and the more worried he became the more he slipped up.

"We did it!" Angus cried, lifting a bowl of steaming hotroot high into the air- where the sun could bask it in bright light.

"Took us all morning-"

"But we've mastered hotroot!"

The pair slapped tails and, beaming, approached the nearest member of their holt- who just so happened to be Grey Claw.

"Here Berty-"

"Banana-"

"Bartholomew-"

"Have some soup!"

Grey, who had been absorbed in thoughts of his old life, was reeled back into a reality where a pair of grinning otters- fangs gleaming- were threatening him with what looked like steaming blood.

"I'm not a rat!" He shrieked, scrambling backwards as quickly as he could.

The twins gave each other the most confused look ever.

Worse still was that the closer they came to Jack's home the more relaxed the hare became. And the more relaxed he was, the slower he reacted to Grey's failings. He spoke often of Salamandastron, yet this only filled the young rat with dread. From all he'd gathered it was a militaristic woodlander stronghold built into a volcano... rats did not seem welcome.

"Supposing I don't belong." He had said to the Skipper one night they had shared in sleeplessness. "Supposing Salamaderastron... isn't... Supposing I don't fit in with the... martial... hares... or the badgers and their... well their-"

Skipper snorted and patted him on the head. "Berty. Badgerlord Umber is a personal friend of mine and has been for many a season. Anywhere I'm welcome, you're welcome. As for being martial-" He poked the rat's round stomach. "Lots of beasts aren't. Besides, it's just for the winter, after that you could stay with us. Or if you prefer... maybe Redwall will take you in."

"B-but Redwall's haunted." Greyclaw blurted out. His heart shot into a panicked frenzy, but to his luck the Skipper laughed it off.

"Then stay here! I don't see what the problem is, really. You're mates with Jack and Tibbers. They'll look after you, and if they don't I will. Besides Salamandastron isn't really all that 'hard training' and the like. You're a guest, not a recruit."

The Skipper's assurances did little to dampen his doubts, but he clung to them like a lifeline. After all, he didn't really have a choice in the matter.

The day-or rather dusk- came sooner than he'd have liked, and it came with Jack's loud whoop of joy. For a beast with his ear-length it was surprising how inconsiderate he was when it came to the power of his voice. The otters landed their rafts and all set off for the fortress. Grey would have stayed behind as long as possible, but Jack had other plans. Taking rat and shrew by the paw he promptly raced all the way there, half-leading, half-dragging his hapless companions.

Worse still was what awaited the rat behind the gates. As if he'd been waiting for them, and he probably had, Badgerlord Umber was waiting for them.

Grey felt his whole form go limp and his ears droop. He had heard much of the fabled badgers- they were the stuff of nightmares and the bogeyman of all vermin tales. Yet there was something in the creature standing before him that Sick-Eyes' stories had never been able to describe. A kind of majesty. A kind of control. Power seemed to ooze from the large beast, it was evident in his wide arms and broad shoulders. His eyes did not glow red, as Sick-Eyes had always claimed. They were blue and filled with an old kind of wisdom, yet the smile upon his face was that of a younger beast. His clothes were plain, a simple robe of green- yet the beast would not look out of place in plated armour. His black and white fur was like that of a ferret's, yet at once so unlike a ferret's that it was entirely new to the young rat. The badger towered over them, like a second mountain, yet his shadow was a welcome relief from the hot sun.

All in all he was both terrified, and impressed. Dazed as he was, he barely heard the conversation.

"I was expecting you." The great beast was saying.

Jack, despite being from Salamandastron- and having seen the baderlord for most of his life, was as giddy as a school girl. "It must have been in a dream." He turned to Grey and Tibbers nodding madly. "Badgers are prophetic beasts, wot."

Grey felt himself going faint. If this badger was prophetic then he was doomed.

The badger rolled his eyes and with one paw fixed Jack's bobbing head in place. "No, I did not have any dreams. You were due back several weeks ago- along with the other hares that went to celebrate." The young hare opened his mouth- but the badger held it shut. "I know what happened because it was reported to me. From what I've heard you three were the only ones found."

The rest of the holt caught up by then, the Skipper ahead of the rest by a considerable margin- sporting a very wide grin.

Jack was quick enough to drag himself and his companions out of the way, for when otter and badger collided the very ground seemed to tremble. Angus and Andrew slunk next to hare, rat and shrew, looking eager. And the source of their eagerness became apparent within seconds.

"Say, old matey old pal-"

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to show us to the mess hall-"

"We're a bit hungry see-"

"It's dinnertime-"

"And these two-" One twin pointed a thumbclaw at the Badgerlord and Skipper- who were gripping each other hard enough to crush a lesser beast.

"Will be like that for seasons-"

"So you could save us all a lot of time and trouble-"

"If you just lead the way."

Jack nodded in understanding. "Alright, wot. The mess hall it is!"

"M-maybe that's not such a good idea." Greyclaw pointed out, raising one meek paw. "I mean, we're not all that hungry and besides..." He trailed off, unable to voice his deep-seated worries without giving himself away.

"Don't be daft Berty!"

"How could getting grub be a bad idea?"

The twins lifted the rat from one armpit each.

"B-b-b-but I'm not a rat." He squeaked in protest. But there was nothing he could do. He did not want to fall, and fall he would if he tried to run. Leaving the Skipper and the badger and the rest of the holt behind the four followed the proud hare through long, lantern-filled halls that were a deep, mesmerizing red. The likes of which Greyclaw had only seen on the Cursed Abbey's walls. The shadows bounced up and down, growing and shrinking as they walked forwards. The blackness cast cruel shapes and danced among the flames. Jack was skipping ahead, humming to a tune Grey did not know the words to. Tibbers was pulling up the rear, if only because he had to run to keep up with the larger mammal's strides.

The five came to a halt in front of a pair of great, gleaming wooden doors. Jack stopped humming, his paws shaking in anticipation as they reached towards a small knob. The hare's eyes were wide and a grin grew along his face. "It's been so long- I- I-"

"We're starving."

"Just open the door."

"D-don't open the door!"

But Grey's last plea was caught on deaf ears and the doors were opened wide. The rat was dropped softly to his feet and felt himself stiffen as all eyes turned towards the new arrivals. He raised a shaking paw and did the smallest of waves.

He was promptly lifted off his feetpaws, along with his companions, by a sea of shouting, clamoring over-excited hares. Terrified, and fearing that he would be sacrificed to the volcano there was nothing Grey could do but whimper. Not that it was heard even by the long ears of this new armada. Their were shouts of joy, elation, surprise- and in the case of the otter twins, hunger. There was a mad pounding that the rat was sure was his heart.

The group were deposited onto a bench, and were promptly assaulted with a volley of questions. The pounding grew ever stronger until it was all Grey could hear. The rat curled in on himself. Why couldn't it all just stop?

Then there was silence and the rat's eyes peaked open.

"Order! Order!" Shouted an overweight, red-in-the-face hare clad in more medals than Grey could count. He was holding a fat stump, which turned out to be the source of the pounding. "All of you back to your stations!"

"But sah!"

"We want to know what-"

"I said ORDER! You will all know what happened in due course of time, wot."

Many opened their mouths to protest, but the fat hare's stern gaze silenced them prematurely. Muttering mutinously the sea of long-eared rabbits scattered.

Then the fat hare sat down next to Jack, a wide grin on his face, and threw a chubby paw round the thinner hare's shoulder. "It's good to see you ole chap! Now tell us what happened! We heard you got captured by vermin- gave them a good one-two didn't you ole boy? All that training payed off, didn't it?"

The hares lucky enough to have been sitting around before the group's arrival, now leaned closer, desperate to hear every detail.

Angus and Andrew were oblivious to it all, and seemed to be having a pie-eating contest between them. Grey shook his head mournfully- they were both hopelessly slow.

"Well, perhaps captured is too much. We were ambushed, wot!" Jack cried, dramatically slamming the table for good measure. "As for training. Oh yes, very helpful. If it weren't for Tibbers and Grey here-" He pointed at the shrew and rat respectively. "I'd have drowned. And, with all due respect sah, I'd like to say that the handbook never properly explained how to handle an over-depressed rat, wot."

Grey, who had managed the courage to sip at a nearby glass of water, swallowed too quickly and began to cough. This had the unfortunate side-effect of attracting everybeast's attention. Which made him panic and cough harder. And soon his eyes were wet from all the force of his coughing.

"Of course, the rat died two seconds later so it wasn't too much trouble and er- this is Berty by the way. He's a mouse, don'tcha know. And well, he was already the vermin's captive for as long as anybeast could remember. Don't mind him he's a gentle soul, wot. Real nice mouse he is."

"What were they like?" This new question was posed by a mouse. Her gaze was fierce with intent, and seemed fierce in general. There was a kind of fire in her eyes that Grey was worried would burn him to ashes.

"Not that bad." Tibbers chimed in, passing Greyclaw a piece of lettuce in an attempt to ward off any dangerous conversations.

"Well, they stunk, were rude and rather-" He noticed the mournful look in the rat's eyes and gave a little cough. "They stabbed Tibbers in the shoulder but patched it up quite well and well, Gr- Berty- didn't suffer from lack of food, as you can all see." He smacked the rat hard on the back, producing another ill-advised coughing fit.

"You could use a bath Berty." The mouse said with a small frown that made Grey shudder. "And what's wrong with your teeth?"

Grey did not know how to reply and shrunk a little bit more.

"Yes Berty stinks." Tibbers snapped. "Get used to it, coz it takes more than soap to wash it off of him. We know, we've tried."

And with that the conversation strayed away from the rat. After a while, Grey grew comfortable enough to eat- and found that he was quite hungry.

And it was simply marvelous.

Hare's Pawspring Vegetable Soup, bubbling and spreading the vapors of sweet and sour vegetables in a mist that set the young rat to drooling. Crispy Cheese'n'Onion Hogbake, one bite was enough to make him shiver in spasms of ecstasy. Gourmet Garrison Grilled Leeks that he avoided like the plague. Stuffed Springtide Mushrooms,a recipe he would have to find ans show Sickletail. She loved mushrooms...

Yet nothing was better than the Strawberry pie. Thick and creamy jam, with a soft, slightly crunchy exterior. It was heaven, pure heaven. And again and again he wanted to dive in and lick at the jam, and break the crust and chew it- and he just realized that he was being watched.

Tibbers was staring at him from behind eyes crusted in fresh jam.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to-" It was an innocent gesture- one common among vermin. His tongue passed across the shrew's face, wiping the jam away. Grey swallowed, and found even more creatures were staring at him. "Er- sorry?"

"It's... fine." Tibbers murmured, wiping away at the left-over saliva.

"Well that was weird." The Junior Corporal said, to general agreement.

Grey opened his mouth- but found no words could come out. He was panicking- and Jack noticed too.

"What a bally brilliant idea Berty!" Seizing the nearest strawberry pie the hare proceeded to launch it at the nearest hare.

The Junior Corporal was quick enough to duck- the approaching Skipper- who had just arrived- was not.

[The Grey Coincidence]

A week had passed since Greyclaw's arrival in the pit of hares. So far he was still Berty, but tension was mounting around him and threatened to squash him flat. And he had enough difficulty avoiding the Badgerlord's feetpaws already!

Sleep had not yet embraced him and it was starting to show in large bags around his eyes. Angus and Andrew had advised a tonic- but he had decided against following their advice. From what he'd heard them talking they had once slain a stupid ferret (they had even claimed that if one looked closely enough you could find the last claw marks of their dreadful opponent on one of their cheeks), he did not doubt their willingness to use poison on a rat. And even if they did think he was a mouse (unlikely) wasn't poison-in-the-soup a classic prank?

To compensate for the extreme pressure building up around him he ate twice as much as usual- and usually he ate more than Sharpfur. Of course this only further ostracized him, hares loved their food and with a whole holt to feed there was less to go around- it did not help that the wonderful fare- their breakfast's alone would be called a feast by sane vermin everywhere- mesmerized him. Tibbers had taken to sitting a considerable distance away from him ever since their arrival for fear of the rat's tongue.

Of course, the shrew only abandoned him at mealtimes- Jack had done so altogether. Not out of spite or because (like Sharpfur) he was dead, but because he was still a hare of the Long Patrol determined to earn his badges. And for that he had to do extensive training.

Grey had watched him at it, and while the young hares did not have the experience and discipline of their seniors (creatures Greyclaw was determined to avoid as much as possible) they were just as determined and almost as talented, if not moreso.

This was not the casual afternoon dueling Threeclaw had done with all of his older brothers, this was training. The stoat had never instilled in them different battle stances though he knew many himself. He had never taught them teamwork, or formation-fighting and probably didn't know half the weapons the hares used. He had never explained the importance of trust, and what could be achieved by standing united. He had taught them how to survive, and now the only beast he hadn't taught was the only one not dead.

Life was ironic like that. Of all the Honest Bunch he had stuck out the most. He was not a rat like Gulash, big and brawny and bad-tempered. He was not good at insults, nor was he good at fighting. He had always been soft and sensitive, and remembered painfully all the times he had broken into tears over something that was not meant the way he'd heard it.

Perhaps that was why he'd been dumped into the river. Somebeast had gotten tired of his crying.

He had never given them much thought. After all he'd had Sharpfur to cling to ever since. But Sharpfur was gone, and his mind raced back to them.

Had they known he could swim? Had they just abandoned him or tried to drown him too? Both were horrible, but one was unforgivable. Or had it been an accident? Had they just dropped their baby and watched it get swept into the paws of a loving mother?

They couldn't have been watching if it was an accident. They'd have asked for him back... Unless they hadn't wanted him...

"Hey Berty."

Greyclaw was brought back to reality by Victoria. She was the sole mouse of the volcano, having been adopted many seasons prior. No older than him, and reaching no higher than his neck, yet she was a force to be reckoned with. He'd seen her on the practice yard obliterating waves of potatoe sack dummies painted to have snarling fangs and bloodshot eyes. Vermin. He'd watched her stab and slice and rip eyeballs (little pins) off her opponents with speed and swiftness that would have promoted the three W's had he still been Greyclaw.

But he was Berty. And Berty was a mouse and although he did not share her passion for dead vermin, and smelled awful and was plain weird... he was her friend.

"Hullo." He replied, swallowing. Tibbers was nowhere in sight and Jack was probably training. He would have no back-up for this conversation.

"Another nightmare?" She asked knowingly, noting the bags on his eyes.

He nodded, rubbing at them awkwardly untill they began to wetten.

"Happens a lot after trauma." The mouse said knowingly. "I used to have them all the time after... when I got here."

"Is this place haunted?" He asked cautiously. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not mice believed in ghosts, Fret hadn't and he was raised by mice. But didn't everybeast know it was ghosts that haunted and stole sweet sleep away?

Victoria shook her head. "Honestly Berty do you hear yourself? You say the silliest things sometimes. Course it's not haunted or else we wouldn't live here. Anyhow ghosts aren't real."

Ah, so mice didn't believe in ghosts. But hadn't there been-

"Martin the Warrior's just a fairy tale before you bring that up." She said sharply. "Wars weren't won by ghosts. It was real, hard-working soldiers what won our battles with vermin."

The way she said that last word, a mix between a hiss and a snap and full to the brim with loathing, made Grey flinch.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up." She added. Tibbers had spread the rumour that vermin had tortured Grey (or rather Berty) in unspeakable ways, this was to avoid lengthy conversations on the topic and also to cover-up on his mishaps.

"It's fine. I don't really mind. I mean..." He trailed off. Victoria would have killed him had he still been Greyclaw. Three W's be damned. "Not all vermin are bad though, are they? I mean, it wouldn't be so bad to have a vermin as a friend, would it?"

Her face hardened- it was like watching water turn to ice. "They are and it would. And you should know better than anybeast else."

"But... have you ever met a vermin?"

She frowned at him for a second then broke into a smile. For all her harshness and dummy disemboweling she did have a very nice smile. And her teeth were very white. And were exactly the same size. It made him feel distinctly unmouse-like. He looked stupid when he smiled- Sharpfur had always said that.

"You're too good Berty. Or maybe you're just mad. After all those monsters did to you you still try and find some good in them." She put a paw around his neck and the proximity as well as the compliment made him blush. Despite the fact that he was a monster. "I know these things are complicated sometimes. But for me trusting vermin is stupid and risky. They... well they're the reason I'm an orphan and you're an orphan. And from one orphan to another, stay away from vermin. They'll act nice and sweet to get close to you, but one day they'll rise up all big and ugly like the monsters they are, and you had best have your wits about you then, lest you want a knife in your back."

Grey Claw swallowed.

"Don't worry though. I'll be there for you. When the monsters come for your chubby belly just run to Vicky and she'll send them running."

Or to Hellgates. "Did that happen to you then? Did the vermin that killed your parents come in all sweet-like?" It was probably what they would think of him, if he was ousted. That it had all been an act. Every kind favour. Every compliment. Discomfort grew inside him and he found himself scanning the beaches for Tibbers.

"Well... no." She was frowning now. "I just know that one day my mother told me to hide and I did. And I heard lots of screaming but she told me not to come out for anything. And when I did come out... there was blood on the floor and lots of it. And pawprints leading to the beach. And I followed them and I found a ship and there were vermin on board. And they... well they were eating my mum and dad."

Greyclaw felt dizzy, disgusted, sick and guilty all at once. Victoria was gazing into the sea, watching the waves as if under a spell.

"I'm sorry." He said in a very small voice. He should never have opened his fat mouth.

"You didn't do it, did you?" She asked with a small, sad smile.

Grey shook his head in earnestness. The Honest Bunch had never stooped so low. "Of course not! I would never- it's not-"

Victoria was laughing now, and pinched his cheek. "I know it wasn't you silly. You're not a rat. Anyhow those monsters are all dead. Not long after I found them the Long Patrol did, and they didn't just cry in the sand."

Greyclaw shivered as he imagined the hares coming down upon the pack of pirates with bloody retribution.

"Say Berty, I've got the day off, but if you want we could do some training together. Just me and you. I could teach you how to fight."

Grey swallowed. "Fight?"

"Yeah! Here come on, it'll be fun." Without waiting for his garbled reply she seized his paw and half-lead, half-dragged him towards the training dummies. Angus and Andrew were failing marvelously at hitting a particularly fat one. The face painted on it slightly resembled Gulash that one time Silvertongue had made him drink hotroot.

"Berty, come to test your worth, eh?" Andrew started, mostly to cover up a particularly bad shot on Angus' part.

"I guess." He said, tracing little circles in the ground with his feetpaw.

"Don't worry, we'll make a soldier of you yet." Angus said with an encouraging whack of his tail.

"Humph. Learn it yourselves before you teach." Victoria snapped, hitting the great big target square on the nose with a gentle flick of her sling.

Both otters went red, but made no further comment.

Victoria frowned. "A strong throw but a bit off the mark. I'd need another to put it down for good. Alright you try." She passed the sling to Grey, who took it in a shaking paw. "Just swing it round and release when you're ready. We're aiming for the big one."

The rat nodded and spun it round half-heartedly. The projectile fell out and hit the sand half a foot away.

Angus snorted and even Victoria looked bemused.

"Come on, you can do better than that. Spin it a bit quicker next time."

Grey obeyed and spun the sling round as fast as he could. The rush of the wind next to his ear was strangely thrilling and for half a second he was sure that he'd hit the target, and it would come crashing down in a heap and then Victoria would give him another smile and-

"Yowch!" He had caught his own tail. Holding the writhing, throbbing appendage in his paws he bit down on a whimper. He did not want to start crying in front of everybeast.

Victoria patted his back soothingly. "There, there. I'm sure you're a lot more um... ferocious... in melee."

After he had recovered from his own devastating attack, Grey stood in front of the dummy, armed with a short wooden sword.

"Alright Berty, just hit him."

"Right." Grey repeated. He had hit things before, he could do this. Then he hesitated. What had the dummy ever done to him?

"Hit it." Andrew whispered.

Grey poked it lightly on the chest. "But it's a dummy."

Victoria facepawed. Andrew laughed.

"Okay. Imagine the ugliest, most frightening, mean little vermin you can think of- then hit him."

Grey focused hard. Gulash was probably the ugliest vermin he knew, but that was only by default. He was probably really good-looking to those interested in big, muscled and bad-tempered rats. Deathglare was the most frightening, but Grey was too scared to hit him. No two words described Sharpfur better than mean and little. He could just imagine the little weasel smirking up at him. 'Go on Grey, hit me. But I'll hit ye back twice as hard. Nah, make that eight times.'

"But-"

"Just hit it."

Grey, very gently, put the flat of the sword against the dummy's cheek. He turned to the others, wearing a nervous grin. One look at their faces was enough to make him hit it properly. And twice for good measure.

"Berty," began Victoria. But he never learned what she had meant to say. For at that moment a shadow fell upon them.

"Morning sir." Chorused the twins. Victoria had straightened into a full, very stiff, salute.

"Morning." Squeaked Grey.

"Good morning children." Said the massive badger, beaming down at them. "I'm sorry to interrupt your, ahem, very important training. But I just had to borrow Berty for a second."

Before the rat could even open his mouth he was lifted off his feet and into the badger's paws.

"I won't be long. Don't worry, you'll soon have your friend back."

Greyclaw went uncomfortably stiff within the grasp of the creature. Majestic or not, the rat would be dead if Umber squeezed even a little bit tighter. He was so lost in crippling fear that he didn't notice where he was being taken until he had arrived at the badger's office.

He had never been there before, but knew it based on the size of the chair alone. He was deposited gently on the table and Umber sat down so that they were almost eye to eye. Of course, that did not change the fact that the badger's head alone was probably bigger than him.

"So, you're probably wondering why I kidnapped you. Well to be honest Berty- or should I call you Greyclaw?"

Horror washed over every inch of Grey like a hot bath. He was momentarily torn between wetting himself, cowering for his life and making a run for it. The badgerlord must have seen the panic in his face and proceeded more gently.

"Whichever you prefer-"

"I never killed anybeast. I didn't cook any mice or eat 'em. I stole things sometimes but I didn't mean any harm I just wanted the things they had and-" his brain had come to a decision. The rat squeezed his eyes shut and raised his paws as if in prayer. "PLEASEDON'TKILLMEANDUSEMYSKULLASADRINKINGCUP!"

The badger paused for a moment, then exploded into a hearty chuckle. He clapped his paws together in applause. "When you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?" He chuckled again, but stopped upon noticing the rat's continued terror.

"I'm not going to hurt you. For all accounts and purposes you are still Berty."

Grey relaxed ever-so-slightly.

"And beyond these walls I'm guessing you still want to be called Berty?"

"Well... Greyclaws not a mouse name."

"And why are you pretending to be a mouse?" The tone was gentle, but made the rat shiver in panic. "B-b-because y-you kill rats. A-an-and it's the Skipper who said I'm a mouse. And then I got scared 'coz all the other otters were looking at me and I said I was a mouse b-b-bec-"

The badger held up his paw for silence. "Would you like a drink?"

The question took the rat by surprise. Either way he nodded.

A cup was pulled out of a drawer and something that smelled of strawberries was poured in.

The cup was slightly smaller than he was, and the bubbling, bright pink juice reminded him horribly of flesh. Poison perhaps?

"I don't want to frighten you. But I won't lie to you either. I have killed rats before. Many times, many ways, I'm an old beast. But, I do not kill children."

He noticed Grey's hesitancy and chuckled. "Do you really think I'd use poison if I wanted to kill you?"

The rat went as pink as the strawberry, his ears drooping in shame. More for something to do than actual thirst, Greyclaw drank.

"Besides, I like to fatten things up first."

Grey choked on the strawberry cordial and exploded into fits of violent coughing.

"That was a joke." The badger said, gently patting Greyclaw's back. "Ill-timed, ill-advised. The fault is mine. Now, aside from letting you know that I know your little secret I did want to ask you something. You see, our mutual friend the Skipper thinks you are a mouse. He also thinks you are the son of two very specific mice. A pair of old friends." He raised a large paw to keep Grey silent. "Please don't interrupt. Let me finish first. He believes that you are the son of one Rowland and Constance, of Redwall Abbey."

Greyclaw frowned. The Cursed Abbey... but that would mean that he really was a mouse and he was pretty sure he was a rat.

"Now, there is some resemblance, I'll give him that. The nose, the eyes, a bit of the ears. But nothing that quite leaps out at you. It doesn't help, I suppose, that Rowland lives on only in our memories. Moreover, their children are dead. Quite horrible, I know. Stabbed. Butchered. Cast into a river and washed away by the current."

Greyclaw blinked. "I-I-I-"

"Judging by your reaction you're familiar with this?"

"I-"

"Were you found on a riverbank?"

Here Greyclaw could only splutter out words and shallow excuses. "Dates and time and and and I-I-I- it's not- Sickletail-" It was too much for his feet, Greyclaw fell on his rump, his head spinning.

"Of course you're right, we won't get anywhere unless someone more involved comes forward. Perhaps Constance would recognize you? Or your mother could tell us. This... Sickletail."

"So I'm a mouse?" The apparently-not-a-rat asked abruptly. He felt like he was falling, but he wasn't falling. But his world was. If he wasn't a rat then he wasn't vermin. And if he wasn't vermin then... Grey forced himself to laugh. "You're pulling my tail, aren't you? I- you know- I- I can't be a mouse."

"Well, we cannot say for certain but it is a possibility. I am unfamiliar with rat biology so I cannot, unfortunately, tell the difference. I suppose I could say you are mouse-like based on your behaviour so far but you smell more like a rat." The badger chuckled at his own joke but stopped abruptly. "Are you alright?"

Greyclaw felt numb. He was lost, deep, deep in thought. Still he replied with 'I'm fine'.

The badger frowned. Perhaps he hadn't been prudent in pulling the trigger so fast. "I heard you were having nightmares. There is a tonic I generally brew for the Skipper but I am sure will work on you, for nightmares. I think you will find it most satisfactory."

Greyclaw accepted a large (for him anyways) phial of light green liquid, his mind still adrift in memories.

"A few drops before bed should do the trick." Said Umber with a wink, but the rat-mouse was still lost.

"Berty." Grey snapped back into reality, his eyes wide. "I think it's best you take the day off. Jack and Tibbers are listening in as we speak, they'll help you to your room. I advise you take the tonic." He adressed the door. "You can come in now!"

The hare opened the door, looking sheepish. "Sorry sah, just had to make sure you didn't skewer this one, wot. Now, we'll just be going now. Sorry for ratting you out Grey, wot. I held it in as long as I could but..." He deflated at the lost look on the alleged rat's face.

"Are you okay?" This was Tibbers, staring at the rat with nothing but worry.

"I'm... I'm... a mouse?"

It was too much for him. To have the last pillar of his old life torn from the ground and shattered into a thousand pieces... he was not a rat. The Honest Bunch and Sharpfur had all left him. And he was a mouse. Every day of his life so far had been built upon... nothing.

Of course he fainted.

[The Grey Coincidence]

Browneye was sick. Being first-mate was really not all it was cracked up to be. Of course his sudden promotion hadn't helped in the slightest. Many of the crew probably missed the old one, or had hoped to replace them. One startingly pretty she-rat had been rather polite, though. No doubt she had wanted to enter into his good graces. She'd shown him the ropes rather well- told him all about how she was at his service if he needed anything and explained that the first mate's very important job was to stay up in the crow's nest and make sure to keep an eye out.

Clogg had chosen him for the job- he'd even been considering it for a while even.

Of course the job description hadn't said anything about dry biscuits for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Or about sea-waves as tall as mountains. Or about curling up in the crow's nest, shivering your fur off while you could hear laughter from down below. His new shipmates at least, were enjoying themselves...

"Daft little land-lubber isn't 'e?" Giggled Scringewhiskers. Darkhide had just told her mates all about how she'd tricked the poor, naive 'first-mate' into climbing up to the crow's nest.

"That's putting it lightly mate. I told 'im he has to stay up there all day and snore with one eye open. Very important job ye know. Especially when all there's to look at's the sea."

They laughed again.

"He ain't the only land-lubber though, is he?" Fleaback pointed with his muzzle, at the large, green-faced form of Bork. The wolverine was not born for the sea either, it seemed, and had spent most of the journey so far taking up perilous amounts of deck. He had even taken to skipping meals- a living nightmare for the glutton.

"Humph, still not sure why we're taking the fat little princess in the first place- he's just a bigger Whimper. Only he expects ye to lick his horsie."

"At least he ain't no unwanted bad-luck bringing baby."

"Not too sure about that Flea." Darkhide cocked her head slightly in the Prince's direction. "His daddy insisted he come. And ye know how it is when he insists his sons leave." She traced a line along her neck to cement the picture.

"Ah, so he's just a corpse then?" Scringe giggled. "Hope he keeps skippin' meals then- no point waistin' good vittles on a deadbeast."

"He might be useful fer raidin' though. Bet no door could keep him out." The she-rat shrugged. "But who am I to speak? Bork, Whimper. We're better off without the brats with great fathers."

"Speaking of Whimper, how's the new one doin'?"

Darkhide shook her head. "Testin' the Captain's patience. Proof he's gone soft really... couple of seasons ago he'd have flayed that ferret. All things considered... We might need a change in leadership."

The air seemed to drop three temperatures, so that all around them lay an icy mist.

"Yer talkin' mutiny." Scringe whispered, making sure nobeast else was within earshot.

"Aye. And nobeast'll care. All of last voyage Clogg was up in 'is cabin, playin' with his pet. He'll do the same this time. The rest of the crew don't love 'im more than I do. Anyhow we won't need 'im after we're finished. Captain might just slip on the way back North."

There was a long pause as all three mulled this over. At last Fleaback spoke. "We'll do it... I'll help ye gut 'im. But ye do the first stab. Then we're with ye."

"Speak fer yerself addlebrain. If he's gone soft, why're we whisperin', eh? I'm with ye if ye do it- but ye only do it if'n ye can prove he's not our Captain anymore. Challenge him, go on. See who's real soft inside. Now drop this. We're not doin' it now anyways."

"No! No! No! No! No! No! Ye do not say anythin' at any point in the conversation."

"But shouldn't I try an' win the Captain's over? Go on about my father- Mad-Eye Marik, the greatest warlord whatever lived. Shouldn't I inspire them by example?"

Clogg gritted his teeth and rubbed his only good eyelid. "Ye don't win creatures over by braggin' about how many times ye've been in bed with somebeast pretty. We're dealin' with pirates. Real pirates that don't dress in silk like princesses an' feel the need te show-off." Clogg paced over to his books, his foot tapping impatiently on the ground as he chose his documents.

"We're dealin' with things like this." He slammed a small collection of parchment in front of the fake Whimper. "The Manywhispers." He pointed at a wildcat, his face covered in jagged lines of battle, and sharp, white whiskers that spread out like a slider's web. "Got eyes an' ears everywhere."

He presented another page, and pointed at what looked like an insane, multi-coloured rat... Which described the Dreaded pretty well. "Covered in beads, the largest rat ye ever saw. Been te more places then ye can count. And fer every place he's raided he adds a bead."

"Very impressive." The burly ferret shoved the papers aside.

Clogg growled. "Don't ye get it? There ain't no point bragging if one already knows more about ye than ye do. An' if the others already done it."

"But I happen to be the son of Mad-Eye Marik. And was he not, a greater beast than they?" He stood up and stretched his paws wide. "Southwards, the Northlands, Mossflower Country- even the badgers in Salamandastron shook at the sight of his sails. Ye were with 'im. Ye know it to be true."

Clogg leaned forwards so that his eye could better ensnare the young ferret's pair. "Keep sayin' yer Marik's son an' it'll start to smell real fishy."

"Fishy? Yer acting like I'm lying. But for all you know, I could be. I'm an orphan. I was with his horde when he died. Perhaps I just got lost in all the chaos."

"Yer too old." Clogg snapped impatiently.

"How would ye know? Didn't he bed any women?"

Clogg's foot beat the ground like a drum. "Yer not Marik's son and as soon as ye stop foolin' yerself an' start foolin' others the better."

"Humph... can I at least change my name then? Give myself a name worthy of a warlord."

"No." Here he left no room for argument.

"But Whimper's a runts name!"

"It's supposed to be yer name until ye earn a new one! So we ain't changin' it."

The ferret opened his mouth to argue- but Clogg waved him away. "Go ask Darkhide fer somethin' to do, I ain't got time fer this."

'Whimper' left with a furrowed brow and a snarl, and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Marik's son." Clogg spat. "I find that unlikely." And he would... He knew Marik's son better than anybeast else alive.

"He's small." The burly ferret complained. "And scrawny." He kept the stupid, grinning baby ferret at arm's length. "I don't want it."

"Humph." His wife, known to most as Slit-Eye the Slit-Throat, snatched the thing back. "I go through all the trouble of givin' ye an heir an' ye don't want 'im. Pah, some warlord ye are."

"I want an heir." Snapped Marik. "But not... whatever that is. He'll probably be dead by mornin'. No muscle. No-"

"Give the babe a break Marik. He's two weeks old, not even yew had muscles then." Clogg threw his paws out. "Here, let me hold him."

Slit-Eye, who was not the best kind of mother, thrust the silent babe into the rat's waiting paws.

Clogg promptly tossed it into the air, amidst shouts of alarm and dismay. He caught the giggling babe without difficulty, laughing himself as both parents sighed in relief. He brought it in close and wriggled his nose until the young ferret bit it. The rat laughed harder. "He'll be a pirate one day, mark my words."

"Yes, well... I hope he's more than just a pirate." Marik snapped impatiently. "Now what shall we call him? I haven't got all day- the Dreaded grows impatient.

"Marik Junior, the Scrawny Wonder." Clogg cackled, as he wrestled with the infant desperate to nibble his nose off.

"How about Whimper?" Suggested Split-Eye, as she pried her baby off of the rat's snout.

"Huh?" His eyes could not help but widen slightly. Marik scoffed.

"Well, he goes by Clogg now, might as well call something Whimper. What'd ye say, eh 'Clogg'?"

"Geez Split... I-I dunno what ter say. I'd be hono-"

"It's not meant t' onor ye, stupid. It's a baby name. When he's older he can give himself a proper name. Something that ain't so stupid." The ferret snapped making Clogg go pink. "But for now he can be our Whimper."

"A fitting name." Said Marik coldly, his bad eye rolling out of sight. "For a runt."

Clogg recovered quickly and resumed his game with the baby- who now bore his former name. Whimper.

How long had he been there? How many days had passed since he'd sent Momchillo scurrying to freedom? Had it even been days? And not weeks? Or months? Perhaps it had been seasons... It was not like he would ever find out. He was stuck in a barrel. In a cellar. Farther North than he had ever been.

It was a torturous state to be in. Complete discomfort that went paw in paw with the perpetual desire to vomit. He wasn't even sure what he hated more. The stench or the confined space. The barrel had but one hole it it, out of which dangled one of his feetpaw. He could hear the crackling of a bright fire nearby, but the warmth only brought further discomfort. Sweat poured out from him like rain from a rain cloud, and filled his tiny cage with a thick cloud of foul-smelling steam.

He had resisted all torture so far, but the hare had played especially low today. He had asked all the usual questions.

'What did the Honest Bunch do?'

'Describe Gulash.'

'Describe Threeclaw.'

'Did you steal a mouse?'

'Did you steal a squirrel?'

'A young hare?'

'Tiny shrew?'

'Ferret?'

'Vole?'

'Mole.'

And Deathglare gave him the same reply- devoid of any of the smugness he'd managed to retain the first time. "You can't steal mice. They're persons, not valuables."

He'd been stuffed into the barrel for that. And worse still was what came after.

"Better out than in, eh Jon?"

He had known, of course he'd known, that this was Deathglare's barrel. And he'd still ignored his muffled screaming and kicking feetpaw, and let the dumb, drunk mouse puke all over him. Damned hare. One day he'd lose more than an eye.

The Long Patrol General or whatever he was, showed no mercy after that either. He'd pulled one of his flailing legs through the stopper in the barrel lid- and with brutal force had proceeded to tickle him.

Deathglare had seen dibbuns do it to each other all the time. But a full-grown hare that had no doubt a hundred badges to brag of... it was almost silly. But it wasn't silly. It was painful and humiliating. Any and all laughter was stuck in his gagged-snout, forcing him to snigger- his whole body convulsing and hitting odd angles of his filthy prison. His empty stomach shaking like a rag in a gale, reminding him that he could not remember the last time he'd eaten. And then he'd pissed himself. And then he'd found himself crying. Not because it stunk- though that did upset his nose. But because any semblance of control he could convince himself he had, vanished on the spot. He couldn't even control his bladder- let alone his destiny.

And so the convulsing and kicking had stopped, replaced now by whimpering and tears that he would have wiped away in shame had anyone been looking.

Suddenly his barrel shifted and the lid came off. The dismal light of a small fire forced him to squint, or else go blind. He was lifted by the tail this time, and dumped into another barrel.

This one was filled with ice-cold water and made Deathglare scream and thrash. He did not want to drown- there were so many better ways of dying... he didn't want to die at all to be honest.

But to his surprise he was then wrenched from the icy depths and dumped unceremoniously before the fire. His bonds were cut and his gag removed and the remains of an old sail were thrown over him to act as a makeshift towel.

A bowl was then shoved into his shaking paws. An extremely thin slice of bread, small lumps of what could have been anything from chunks of potatoe to sausages of a very oily fish, and a ladleful of soup that stunk of rotten mushroom.

"Alright vermin, wot. We can do this two ways. I can keep starving you and messing with your feetpaws and whatnot until you tell me the whole truth. Or you can answer honestly now and spare me the trouble."

"So either way I die?" He asked after a moment 's pause.

The hare seemed to mull this over for a while before he gave his very stiff reply. "You put too much value on your own flesh and blood vermin. But, answer me honestly and you shan't die by my paw. On my honor as a hare of the Long Patrol."

"And if I don't?"

"Well it's back in the barrel with you and once I've broken you... well some would say death would be a mercy, wot."

Deathglare knew intimidation. He was a master at it- and you had to be if you didn't have real skill behind you. But still chills went up his spine and turned his blood to ice. Because it was not a threat- the hare had spoken only the truth, his only eye never once leaving Deathglare's own good one.

More for something to do, the marten munched at his dismal supper. Hungry though he was the food did little to satisfy his gurgling belly.

"What do you want to know?" Came his voice at last.

"Where's the dibbuns? And don't lie. I know the 'Honest Bunch' is what got 'em, wot."

There was a long pause wherein One-Eye glared at the black-furred vermin, who for the first time since he'd been a scrawny child, radiated nothing but fear.

"There was one molemaid- she's back at the abbey safe and sound now." The hare said slowly.

"G-good." Gulped his target.

"We're only missing a shrew, a vole, a hare- my own son don'tcha know- a squirrel, a hedgehog and a mouse." At that moment Connington stumbled over and nearly fell into the flames. Fleetfoot set him down against the cellar floor. "Oh and a ferret I suppose."

Deathglare was shaking so much now that the bowl of vittles fell from his paws and cracked against the ground. Neither seemed to notice.

"You are going to tell me exactly what happened. How you got the young 'uns and how you lost them and most importantly-" the hare leaned in as close as the fire allowed him to. The glaring inferno made him seem like nothing less than a beast right out of Hellgates. "How I can find them."

Deathglare started from the beginning. Despite his fear he managed to distance himself from the words so that it all came in dull monotone. "Well, one day Sharpfur and Greyclaw came back from fishing. They said they had met a ferret who lived at Red- your abbey. Well, we didn't believe them until a few weeks later they dragged him over to our camp. Weird little thing, he acted... well like a rude little woodlander. Then me and Threeclaw found the other young ones, they seemed to be looking for him. And we thought-"

Here he hesitated, unwilling to incriminate himself lest the hare go back on his word. "We thought we could ransom them for rations if supplies got short. Far easier to trade then to raid. But we got a message from a mute rat, and he said we had to go North, so we headed South-kids in tow. A week or so passed, we kept our... ah... guests, fed and watered. They were all healthy and in high spirits- thought it was only a matter of time before you came to rescue 'em."

Except the shrew had had a nasty wound on his shoulder, one that had gone bad. Threeclaw's doing, dumb stoat.

"Then we were attacked and..." he paused again- not daring to even glance at the hare. "We lost track of the children. It was a hard battle but I'm no fighter and... when I woke up most of me shipmates were dead or gone. Your kids too, unfortunately. The mouse was with us too and... well we looked after him for a while. Made sure he was alright and stuff. We got here and were separated, so it was just me and the mouse. Tough lad, I'll give him that. Never backed down. Got half a hundred lashings for it, but it never stopped him. And his spirits were high. Kept going on about Martin the Warrior or somewhat like that. Said he was a slave once."

This was the same mouse he'd captured, tied to a mast and had sent to his death. What fool thought that a child, not even on the cusp of adulthood, could somehow go through the ice and snow and everything else between here and Redwall... alone. He'd been desperate sure, but that was just an excuse for his stupidity.

"And then he vanished. Escaped. Left us all in the dead of night. Baffled the slavemaster it did, n-not even I know how he got out. He escaped and they blamed me for it. Sentenced me to freeze to death or get eaten alive. I escaped and... got shoved into a barrel."

There was an extremely long pause, wherein the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"And you too, were flabbergasted by his great escape, wot?"

Deathglare stared intent at the burning wood- the remnants of an old barrel. "Yes."

Silence slunk in and stretched itself out for eternity.

It was a lot to take in for Fleetfoot. On one paw it contradicted the molemaid's story- apparently it hadn't all been the fault of Connington's nephew. But the marten didn't gain anything from lying.

"So none of the children are here?"

"None."

"And your crew? How many of them are here?" He could not trust vermin- but he could trust that they hated their captors more than him. A plan was forming in the cunning hare's mind.

"Three others. Two weasels in the kitchen and one in... threading... I think." Deathglare's eyes were narrowing now. How did that question serve the hare?

"Well... you hear that Connington ole chap? We're leaving!"

Deathglare blinked, and for the first time since he'd begun talking, he locked eyes with the hare.

"And I'm going to need your help, wot."

Deathglare widened his eyes. "I-"

"You don't really have a choice you know, old chap. You either help me out or I barrel you. But riddle me this, how many beasts does it take to man a boat?"

[The Grey Coincidence]

His palace was often quiet. It was built that way, built around silence and secrets. Most floors didn't have any staircases, just long corridors that slanted ever so slightly. One could walk all day thinking they were safely on the ground- but were in reality, perilously high up. Dozens of secret passageways were known to the wolverine king and to him alone. Staircases that lead from the slave-dungeons to cellars. Tunnels that lead to a far deeper system all across the Frozen North. Unfortunately, he had always been a bit too big to explore those himself.

But his palace was quieter now than it had been in seasons, not since Marik had it been so empty.

Sure, the slaves were still there, but he never sullied himself by associating with them. Most of his Silent Guard he'd sent away with Clogg and the other pirates- to make sure his interests were always guarded against anybeast that outgrew reasonable ambition. He doubted he'd see most of the tongueless wonders again, still, so long as he was not forgotten.

Bork was gone too, thank Vulpuz, the boy was annoying and fat and asked far too many questions. Not even the first two had been that bad. Whether his son returned mattered little. Either Bork would be dead and he'd have to produce another heir, hopefully one that clung to him less but was also not overly ambitious, or his youngest son would return with a name worthy of a prince. Perhaps he'd even start acting like one and would even be worthy of the King's precious time... highly unlikely, but weren't all dreams like that? If it could even be called a dream.

He watched from a hidden window- one that looked exactly like an outer wall might to the outside world- as his new Slavemaster bullied his bunch down in Construction, where bricks of red sandstone were being made and added to his walls. There was magic in those stones, Longclaw was certain. What exactly it was or how it worked he did not know, but how else had Mossflower's Abbey not yet fallen? The badgers were wise creatures, and knew these reasons better than he, but he did not need to know to copy.

Brown-eye's replacement was a fierce old fox. He was of an age with his king, but lacked Longclaw's longevity and as such was already gnarled and rusted by age, yet fit enough to command the submissive creatures all around him. He had had the misfortune of being in the path of a badger with bloodwrath. It was rumoured that half his face was missing and that was why he wore a multi-coloured mask- but Longclaw knew better. His whole face was missing. Flayface the Foul they called him, though Longclaw knew him as Flayface the Fool. He almost trusted the fox, but alas, knew that his current slavemaster had tried to murder him half a dozen times over the course of their lifetime, half of those before the age of seven.

It would be foolish to trust him. Still, he did his job well. Construction, Mining, Threading and of course, the Kitchens were all running smoothly. And Longclaw had barely anything to worry about. It was a relief after all the haggling he'd been forced to do between pirates that quite frankly hated each other.

But that didn't mean he could rest easy... No king should or else they were no king.

Silvertongue eyed his pile of carrots dismally. He was a deadbeast. A very, very dead deadbeast, marked out by the missing skin on his right paw.

"Damn that ferret." He hissed as the root he was currently cutting shot away from him. He would have been stirring soup or doing something easy if his paw was decent. Frankly it was all he'd done over the winter. Now though his flayed paw marked him out as an easy target. His height didn't help and neither did the new slavemaster, who seemed determined to prove that he was just as cruel- if not moreso- than the old one.

Ever since the feast he'd been moved to cutting, which was agonizing. His paw felt numb and ached at the best of times, let alone when he was using it to hold something still. He wasn't handy with knives and had cut himself a dozen times. It was like pouring oil onto a burning beast and weak and pathetic as he was he couldn't help the hisses of pain or the yelps or the tears that inevitably followed such an action.

Sickletail was out of sight, being occupied with innumerable tasks to prevent her from helping out. Still the fox had underestimated his wife. The first few times she had against all odds managed to finish her duties and his own. But then exhaustion had begun to set in, she could not keep this up forever and as he watched her now, furiously struggling with a ball of dough, he knew his life was forfeit. This time at least Sickletail could not save him.

He only wished that he would be allowed to say goodbye. He hadn't managed to do so for his children, and even if he had to shout it mid-execution he wanted to give her a goodbye... and a thank you. She deserved that much at least.

His life had been eventful to say the least. Born a runt he'd outlived his litter, which had been wiped out by a particularly harsh winter. Silver-tongued and smarter than most he'd won the heart of the most beautiful weasel to grace Mossflower Country. Eight children of their own and one happily adopted. Life with the Honest Bunch had been simple. Occasionally raid, forage supplies, avoid woodlanders and live in peace. Not every beast needed a great castle or to lead a horde. He had been happy watching his children come into the world and grow up. He'd been happy carrying around their fat little rat and calling him part of the family.

Hellgates he was crying again. With a viciousness the carrot didn't deserve, Silvertongue stabbed forwards.

"Alright, I'm done. Hand over the knife." This was Sickletail, who panted as she wrenched the knife free of his paws. "Carrots, eh? Not too difficult." With speed that Silvertongue could not hope to match, the weasel proceeded to slice the carrots into neat little pieces. She was done in a few, short minutes and slid to the floor of the kitchens with a deep breath.

"Ye can't keep this up." Said Silvertongue, sliding to the floor next to her. He took her paw in his good one and squeezed it tight. "Forget lil' old me. I'm a deadbeast sooner or later, no point gettin' yerself killed too."

"Everybeast's a deadbeast sooner or later. I don't care, we've bin over this. I ain't gonna let ye die. And stop moping so much. Yer not leavin' me and that's final."

"Ye'll wear yerself out. Look at yerself, ye don't even get any sleep."

"Shut it! Yer not dyin'!" She snapped, pulling her paw away from his.

"I am." He snapped adamantly. "Ye deserve better though."

"I don't! I deserve just as much as ye do an' anyhow what have I got ter live fee? Our kids are dead!"

"But ye don't have te be! Ye can have more kids... Live fer my sake at least."

"Don't make much sense if yer goin' to die yerself." Sickletail pushed herself to her feetpaws. "Anyhow ye know ye can't argue with me." Taking his good paw, she lifted him back to his own feet.

"That I do." He said with what would have been a grin in any other place.

"I warned you hare." Came Deathglare's voice.

"Yes. I see what you mean. How on earth do you put up with them? Wot. No wonder you were such a tough nut to crack."

The pair of weasels found themselves staring at Deathglare, who for some reason was wearing a sail and was standing besides a one-eyed hare. The pine marten also had a leash (that looked suspiciously like his old clothes) which the hare held tight in one paw. He raised the other in greeting.

"Top of the ... late afternoon to you, wot. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Fleetfoot One-eye of the Long Patrol. You already know Death here I assume."

"Death?" Repeated Silvertongue, dumbstruck by the pair's sudden appearance. "Since when were ye pals with the Long Patrol?"

"We're not exactly pals." The marten replied, indicating the makeshift collar round his neck.

"But we share a mutual interest in escape." The hare butted in. "And I am sure that you do too."

Every eye in the kitchen was on them. A long pause followed his words.

"B-b-but if you try to escape they hurt you." Stuttered a small otter that looked twice his actual age and sported less fingers than Threeclaw.

"Ah ole chap, thing is we're not trying. We're doing."

"Ye've got a plan?" Asked Sickletail skeptically, but the excitement in her eyes gave vent to her true feelings.

"Cover of dark. Steal a boat." Deathglare explained.

"That won't work." Said an old mouse, shaking his head so that his ears flopped at his sides. "Best to just do as they says. They won't hurt you then."

"Well we haven't perfected it yet." Fleetfoot grumbled impatiently. "But where there's a will there's a way, wot. It is of utmost importance-"

"Flayface is coming." Whispered a hedgehog, just loud enough to be heard. There was a mad scramble to get back to work. Sickletail vaulted over a table to get to her station, Silvertongue picked up a pawful of carrot slices to put into the bowl as soon as the fox showed himself. The otter went back to stirring. The mouse to rolling. Despite the fact that neither knew who Flayface was, Deathglare and Fleetfoot too, scrambled for cover. The hare snatched the marten, and ignoring his sudden protest, stuffed him into an empty barrel. The hare himself promptly dived into an unused oven.

And all in the nick of time, for Flayface announced his arrival with a crack of his whip.

"How's lunch coming along then?" He asked, eyeing the assorted slaves, searching for somebeast to make an example of. "Weasel..." Unsurprisingly he chose the smallest one. "How are those carrots?"

"Done sir." Silvertongue replied, driving as much contempt into the last word as possible.

"Impressive skill. Yer wife is quite talented." The fox chewed thoughtfully. "Now, show me what yew can do." The fox picked up a fat, stray carrot off the floor.

Silvertongue searched for the knife, and picked it up with a shaking paw. His flayed one held the root in place and carefully the weasel dug the blade into the carrot.

The fox shoved him to the side and the knife blade gently skimmed his bad paw. It did not cut deep, but enough to draw blood. It hurt and his eyes could not help but begin to tear.

"Just as I thought." He turned to Sickletail. "Yer with me tomorrow. We'll see how well yer precious pup does without his mama." The fox brought the whip down twice on the whimpering weasel, and kicked him for yelping. Flayface spun on his heel and strolled over to the otter.

"Yer a good lad riverdog. It'd be sad te chew off any more of those fingers, wouldn't it? Tell me, why do I smell hare?" He drew in close. The otter shrunk.

"I-I-I don't know sir."

"Really?" He drew close to the otter's face. To the slave's credit he didn't mean to give Fleetfoot away. But instinctively his eyes darted to the unnocupied oven. "Yer a good lad. Soup smells good today. Very good. Almost... Like hare."

Flayface strolled towards the oven. "Some slaves from Threading have gone missing. Mostly vermin but I think there could have been a hare or two." He made his way to the oven. "I wonder what's cooking in here..."

The otter was shaking. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean- I just did and- it's nothing sir!"

Flayface was a skilled bully. He was expecting a frightened slave he could beat into submission. He most certainly did not expect an oven door coming towards him.

Fleetfoot shot out of his hidhng place with speed worthy of his name, but by then the fox had recovered and shot the whip forwards. It's cutting barbs tightened round the Captain's foot and brought the hare crashing down.

"Nothing, eh?" Flayface wiped at his nose. "Ye'll be sorry otter. As for yerself hare-" A mad dash to escape he should have seen coming, but the hare's sudden twist and swing of his paw was another thing. The whip was knocked out of Flayface's grip and the hare scrambled to his feet. Both grabbed the nearest thing to them.

In the vulpine's case it was a cleaver. In the Captain's a rolling pin. Flayface darted forwards with a snarl and swung the blade at his opponent's ears. Fleetfoot hastily flattened them, and tried to parry with a rolling pin that was promptly cut in half.

Not missing a beat the hare slammed the other half into the fox's face. The slavemaster didn't miss a beat either and brought the cleaver down, aiming for the hare's long feet. But he wasn't 'Captain' for nothing and had earned all his medals through blood sweat and tears. He kept his toes by a fraction of an inch, having managed to scoot backwards in the nick of time.

Sickletail pounced from a tabletop and dug her claws into the fox's mask. She'd been aiming for his eye but missed. To her surprise the mask neatly slid off and her with it.

Flayface's grizzly features were now free for all to see. Gnarled, pink flesh the colour of spring roses. A single eye that bulged out far too much to be natural. And his teeth- shining white for all to see despite the fact that his jaws were technically shut. He lacked a muzzle and cheeks and his nose was a pair of small holes at the edge of a wobbly bit of flesh.

"You are certainly uglier than I expected, wot." The hare had gone pale at the sight of his opponent. It was... Rather horrifying.

Fleetfoot threw the remaining half of his rolling pin at his opponent, and caught the fox in the stomach. The hare used the side of a cooking top to ricochet towards his opponent. He barreled into the fox and knocked him flat on his back, the cleaver sliding out of reach.

Flayface opened his mouth to shout, but using both arms, One-eye snapped the jaws closed. The fox's claws shot forwards and forced their way into the hare's sides. Fleetfoot ignored the pain as best he could and released one paw long enough to bring it crashing down on the Slavemaster's face.

The pair continued to scuffle, until with a tremendous effort Flayface lifted the hare into the air. Fleetfoot sent a flurry of kicks into his opponent's midriff, but was nonetheless thrown off. The hare crashed against a barrel which was promptly sent spinning about the kitchens until it crashed against the side of an oven. Deathglare came spilling out of it with a groan.

"Yer a tough one." The fox growled, rising to his feet and reaching for a nearby knife. "But I've fought badgers an' lived. No hare's gonna stop me."

Silvertongue reached the knife first, and slammed it through the slaver's paw and into the table. Flayface howled in pain, and was promptly slashed across his face by the vengeful weasel's claws. Before he could retaliate Sickletail slammed a cleaver down and neatly sliced off his left toes.

But the fox was screaming and as the other, terrified, kitchen workers knew- someone would soon hear the commotion. Deathglare also knew this, which was why he rushed (dizilly) in from behind and pounced upwards. He brought his leash around the fox's neck and squeezed, so that no sound could come spilling from it's jaws.

But the fox was fighting back. One blood-soaked feetpaw knocked Sickletail onto her back- his unpinned paw swatted Silvertongue away before it went for Deathglare. He had forgotten completely, about the hare.

Like a river bursting from a dam, Fleetfoot charged and ripped Flayface's paw free from the knife and table. With a grunt of exertion, he forced the flailing fox into a flaming fireplace.

There was hissing from the burning coals, and a smell foul enough to knock out somebeast with a better nose. If Deathglare hadn't spent an unhealthy amount of time crammed into a stinking barrel he'd have been sick. There would have been screaming (and lots of it) but the pine marten held firm despite the proximity to the flames, until the vulpine's thrashing form went limp.

One-eye pulled the dead fox free of the fire and helped a disgruntled (for some of his fur had singed) Deathglare to his feetpaws.

"Y-y-you killed him." This was the old mouse, sounding thunderstruck. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack. To be fair so did every other slave.

"Chap didn't give us much of a choice mate." One-Eye rubbed at his sides. Ten long gashes, but none very deep. They were sore and blood still gently trickled free from them. On the whole though he was unharmed.

"He had it coming." Silvertongue was looking very pleased with himself. Far too pleased than anyone who had just participated in murder should have been.

"Now they hurt us." Whimpered the otter, curling in on himself as tightly as he could.

"Don't worry boys. Nobeast'll know. I always get away with my murders." Sick-Eyes made her grand entrance.

"What're ye doing here?"

"I escaped threadin' while they were movin' us back to our cells. It was difficult and required a lot of skill. I'm fine, thanks fer askin'. As to yer other question, same as Death an' his pet hare."

"I'd say he's more like my pet. The leash really does the trick, don'tcha know?"

Sick-Eyes ignored him, there was childlike excitement in the old pine marten's eyes. "Let's start a rebellion!"

The other slaves looked rather like one would when faced with the prospect of dying. In other words, terrified.

"They'll have ears for this!"

"And fingers!"

"Nevermind ears and fingers- they'll have heads for this!"

"No they won't." Explained the old beast patiently. "The hare's a tall beast an' there are fox skulls all over this damn place. Give 'im the mask an' nobeast'll know the difference."

"B-but the b-b-body."

Here Sick-Eyes looked demented enough to make even those who knew her, not to mention a hare of the Long Patrol, take a few steps backwards.

"Don't ye lot know how to make soup?"

"Soup?"

"Aye! With carrots and that. Details don't matter, just get the biggest pot ye have boiling. I'll tell ye what ter do as ye do it. But first Death is gonna tell us why he's wearing a sail."

"I'm not-"

"I was gonna ask that too." Added Sickletail.

The pine marten shrunk slightly. Fleetfoot patted his back jovially. "Go on chap, tell 'em what happened."

[The Grey Coincidence]

It was not the best disguise, but it was serviceable. He lacked about an inch or two of the fox's height, but that wasn't too noticeable from a distance. An old, yellow fox skull was jammed to the top of his head, before the former Slavemaster's mask was placed on top. The woodlander kitchen staff were dressing him in the vulpine's clothing. Awkward though it was to have his uniform unceremoniously taken off and to be dressed in corsair clothing by complete strangers it was preferable to cleaning up Connington's vommit. He'd left the drunk mouse tightly bound and barreled for his own good. In hindsight he should have done that the moment he'd started drinking.

The slaves worked quickly, but with shaking paws. His long ears were pressed flat against his back and tied round his neck so that instinctive stiffening did not give him away. A cloak was thrown round him, though he had to fasten it himself for all other paws were shaking too hard.

Poor souls, all of them. They kept staring at the door, as if expecting it to unleash bloody retribution for the punishable offence of killing a slavemaster.

The weasels were similarly hard at work, though their job was considerably less pleasant. Guided by the elderly pine marten they peeled fur from flesh and flesh from bone. What had been a fighting fox a few moments before was reduced to chopped up pieces of meat.

"Chop 'is liver with the kidneys. Finely, mind. Too big an' it's hard to chew, see."

"How do ye even know all this?" Silvertongue ventured to ask, as he dumped a few fingers into a large, boiling cauldron from which spewed the most foul-smelling concoction to ever greet the hare captain's nose.

"Comes with age." She replied evasively, the smile on her wrinkled face sending shivers through all present. "Ah hare, yer ready! Lookin' very verminous indeed."

"As do you, wot."

Sick-Eyes shook her head despairingly. "Deathglare, teach 'im how to talk right." She sniffed. "An' stink 'im up a little, I can smell the flowers all over 'im." Addressing the remaining slaves she smiled widely. "Why don't ye lot go an' have a little lie down in the corner over there? Relax a little. Give each other massages an' the like. Don't worry, S'long as yer with me ye don't have to worry 'bout any other slavers."

Still shivering in fright they nodded and huddled in a corner. Some used paws and ears to cover their faces, others watched in morbid fascination as Flayface was reduced to soup.

Deathglare, who had been unsuccessful in removing his bindings, and publicly humiliated by the tale of his torture made his way over to the foxhare. At his approach, the hare stirred guiltily.

"No hard feelings ole chap, eh? Fresh start, clean slate and all that. What do you say, wot?"

"It's 'ye' here. Yerself. Ye lot. Yer face. Not you. If you want to pass for vermin you had better start sounding like one."

"Ye don't use 'ye', do ye Death? Wot? How about that?"

"Better." The pine marten muttered begrudgingly.

"Why not old cha- mate? Why don't ye use 'ye's matey? Ye had better talk right or we'll boot ye te Hellgates, wot."

"Impressive. But ditch the wots."

"Answer the bloody question ye dummy! Wo- wot's wrong with yer?"

"Does it matter?" Deathglare hissed, growing annoyed slightly. "Take the accent down a notch but be ruder. 'Dummy' is for children. You're a slavemaster. Think like one. You want to reduce me to tears. What is the most effective technique?"

"Kickin' that sorry horsie of yours all the way te yer bloody mother so ye can cry yer eyes into 'er. Sorry I tortured ye, but a beast what wants to live 'ad better not trust every idiot what 'e stumbles by. Sorry I ain't sorry. Now pull that stick out yer bumhole before I shove it in even deeper!" The hare cleared his throat. "What have you got to say about that?"

Deathglare was torn between being impressed and hating the Captain for all the barreling. In the end he conceded. "You sound like a fox. But it's 'ass' not 'horsie', lose the 'r'."

"Sound advice ole chap. Now shake paws and let bygones be bygones."

Deathglare frowned at the hare's outstretched paw. "I'd rather not."

"Come on me matey. Sacrifices be a necessity of livin'. Everybeast makes one or two."

Deathglare turned and walked away resolutely. "And what, pray tell, did you sacrifice, when you robbed me of all dignity?"

One-eye lifted him by the back of the collar. Nobeast turned his back on him. "I wasn't jokin' ye know? That stick can go a hellofalot deeper!"

"Our fox is ready." Deathglare declared with clear resentment. One-eye dropped him.

"Good coz the soup's nearly done too. Just need to add the stummick!"

Both hare and marten grew dizzy and uncomfortably green.

"An' another thing. He ain't ready till this is hangin' out his tush!" Sick-Eyes held up a neatly cut-off fox tail.

Deathglare recovered enough to pat the hare jovially on the back. "Let's see how deep that can go. Otter." He waved over a slave. "Help our good hare here with his tail."

Lunch was five minutes late. That was not the only anomaly Longclaw noted. Flayface was the one delivering it to him. Normally it was some unrecognisable slave he could torment merely by his presence. Fear was the most intoxicating sensation and his slaves were full to the brim with it. If he so much as stretched his claws or yawned they would shiver, most likely due to the size of his natural weaponry. There were other times however, when he got more creative. An otter had pissed himself once, after the king had commented in a low voice that the soup was cold. He'd then chopped off a finger as punishment for sullying his halls.

The fox strolled forwards with a spring in his step- as if excited by something, yet his tail was dragged along the ground behind him as if sad. A large bowl of steaming hot soup was precariously balanced in his paws. That same fox had the audacity to come within five feet of him. The King's bodyguard, a pale white fox with a scarred eye who went by Spitteeth caught him by the tunic.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Te deliver lunch you uncultered- ye ugly white-faced son of a cow!"

"What'd you call me?"

"Spitteeth. Be still. Let him go. Flayface has been loyal to me for a long time now."

Grudgingly, the bodyguard let go of the masked fox.

"Now Flayface. I am honoured that you brought me lunch personally."

"No honor yer majesty, just doin' my civic duty wo- wot my mother told me te."

He must be planning something. Poison in the soup no doubt. Flayface had tried it before. It had killed a mutual friend Longclaw no longer remembered the name of.

"Such a hard worker. You must be famished. Please, help yourself." He pointed at the soup and ignoring the impatient grumble of his belly, silenced the fox's protests. "You are my oldest friend. Of course it is good enough for you. Spitteeth, ensure that he eats his fill."

The soup had been poisoned. Flayface tried to squirm away but was unable to- the pale fox was stronger. A spoonful of soup was shoved into his mouth and the fox's jaw clamped shut.

"Now chew." Commanded Longclaw.

Flayface did as he was bid, his one good eye bulging.

I'll need a new slavemaster. Clogg took the best one south...

"And swallow."

This last order took forever to be carried out, but in the end Flayface did as he was bid and with a gulp that echoed throughout the hall, swallowed.

Spitteeth dropped the fox to the ground, where he coughed heavily. But to Longclaw's surprise he stood up straight, apparently no worse for wear.

"Hot, that soup is your highness. Too rich for my stomach I'm afraid wo- wot did you think I put in?"

The wolverine nodded at his bodyguard, who took a spoonful of soup for himself. This was to make sure Flayface had not taken an antidote before coming. Spitteeth was a good fighter and loyal, but he was expendable.

"Anything wrong with it?"

"No your grace. It is good soup, with an unusual meat." The white-furred one turned to the masked one. "Pike?"

"Nope. Haha. I'd need a good strong beast like ye to catch one of those."

Longclaw slurped up the soup greedily. Being King was hard and required patience- something he had yet to master. The soup was exquisite. Whole and salty, yet not overly so. Hot enough to make his blood shiver, but not enough to burn. Lightly spiced and topped with tiny herbs. And the meat. A flavour he had never encountered before yet could not get enough off.

"The slaves have outdone themselves." He decided. "Spitteeth shall bring me plenty more. And my compliments to the chef. Pray, what meat is this? Not a foul or fish it's- well what is it?"

Flayface paused for a while but spoke before Longclaw got the chance to guess. "The chef's already here te hear ye sah- yer high an' mightiness. Nasty weasel kept tryin' te stir trouble in the ranks. Figured 'e was fat enough to be put te good use. Plenty more where 'e came from too! Lots of troublemakers need to be dealt with." Flayface devolved into nervous chuckling.

Another pause followed his words, wherein Spitteeth stared at his King, unsure if feeding him another beast was considered poison or not. But then Longclaw smacked his paws together and gave a great booming laugh that echoed throughout the halls and made the skulls shake in their place.

"Flayface, forgive me. I should have known you to be the wise beast you are. You have the right of it. Clean up the trouble-makers, a few less slaves won't hurt anybeast." The wolverine belched rather loudly and then burst into more laughter, looking very much like a more-sadistic, grown up version of his resented fifth son. "I daresay they'll be put to better use here." He slapped his stomach, showing off many long, sharp claws.

"Of course you-yer majesty."

Fleetfoot was glad to be out of the King's company, both so that he could empty his stomach out the nearest window, and because Longclaw was a frightening beast. Brave though the hare was he'd seen badgers reduce creatures to mincemeat. And badgers were creatures of peace. The wolverine was larger than him, and larger even, Fleetfoot was certain, than Lord Umber. His teeth were large enough to make daggers- perhaps not for a hare, but certainly for mice or shrews, and his claws, the few unsheathed inches he'd seen of them anyways, were sharper than the quills on a hedgehog. Any one of them would have found slitting a throat easy, trivial even! Standing against a creature like that was not brave so much as it was foolish.

He'd been so wracked with nerves that his accent had slipped several times, but luckily the savage hadn't noticed. He'd been a bit distracted by the potential for poisoning as well as the apparently delicious flavour of his slavemaster- the one who's clothes One-Eye now wore. A shiver passed through the hare's spine. No doubt the King would find hare to be just as delicious if it ever came to that. Hopefully it didn't.

He reached the kitchens now, and although bound, his long, sensitive ears picked up the distinct sound of scurrying and desperate scrambling. Fleetfoot entered and a huge sigh of relief spread through the slaves, who dropped back to the ground.

"So..." Silvertongue began, his face splitting into a pointed grin. "Did his highness like the soup?"

"Very much." Replied the Captain, shutting the door behind him.

"Weasel?"

"He asked about the meat. I said it was a troublesome slave. He thought it was a great idea. Says weasel's exquisite, wot. I can't say I share his sentiments." He pulled at the fake tail and breathed a sigh of relief as it came loose from where the young otter had tied it to his own. Removing the skull and mask was just as euphoric, but nothing compared to the relief that came with stretching his cramped ears.

"Ye weren't meant te eat it hare."

"Y-yes w-well cir-c-cumstances-"

Sickletail chuckled, until she noticed the pality of his face. Then she exploded into laughter. "Oh my seasons!"

Others laughed as well, though Deathglare did not. The pine marten picked up the skull and tail where Fleetfoot had dropped them. He patted the hare almost consolingly. "Sometimes sacrifices are necessary, wouldn't you agree... old chap?"

"Most certainly." Was the hare's stiff reply.

"Well good job hare!" Sick-Eyes declared. "Well done ye lot! Ye've gotten away with murder. Have a cookie! Go on have a cookie." She pointed at a large jar of freshly baked delights. Hesitantly the kitchen slaves made their way over to it. "An' Silver hand me yer paw. I'll have it right as thunder 'fore next season."

"So... How're we escaping?" Asked the missing-fingers otter as he nibbled at a sweet biscuit.

"Simple. We die." Sick-Eyes stuffed her mouth with dried leaves and chewed to build up excitement. The old creature spat the paste directly onto Silvertongue's paw hard enough to make the weasel wince. "Flayface 'ere is slavemaster. What's stoppin' him from puttin' all the slaves in one ship an' sailin' away? Well Longclaw'd come after 'im, wouldn't he? Unless all them other boats don't work. So how do we break all the boats?"

"Cut the sails?"

"Break the rudders?"

"Burn 'em?"

Sick-Eyes shook her head ruefully. "Kids these days." She muttered, ignoring Silvertongue's pathetic squirming as she tightened a piece of cloth round his paw. "We can't break 'em if we're stuck here, all accounted for. So we preten' ter die, hide out in the ships and break all but the biggest 'un. Then somebeast causes a diversion an' we all sail away. King Stupid keeps 'is castle and we get all his slaves."

"We liberate all his slaves." Fleetfoot corrected icily. "It's an ambitious plan."

"But ye like it?" The old marten patted Silvertongue's bandaged paw, ignoring the weasel's whines.

"Well... better then leaving so many poor souls behind but..."

"Details come later hare! Now yer with us, ain't ye?" She spat on her paw and stretched it towards him. Hesitantly he took it in his own. They shook paws once.

She spun on her heels, satisfied with the day's work. "Now who wants a story?"

One-Eye found Deathglare nudging him gently.

"We should check on your mouse."

"Huh, didn't think you'd get so attached to us, wot. Weren't you all serious-faced and angry a short while ago?"

The pine marten scowled. "Do not fool yourself hare. I still loathe you just as much as ever." He glanced at Sick-Eyes, who now began to weave a tale of woe and treachery and waves as high as mountains for her enraptured audience, most of whom hadn't heard a good story in years. "But I hate her stories more."

[The Grey Coincidence]

Sharpfur had changed, Hawthorn realized one morning with a jolt. The weasel's consistent meanness had hidden this for a while, but it was hard to miss now.

The spectacles he had resented so much were now his constant companions. He did not wear them per se, but they always seemed close to paw. Dangling from his claws or being twirled around. He could read now, fluently, and in fact seemed to enjoy doing so. He never volunteered for it, but no longer complained when he was inevitably chosen. He helped in the kitchens, without protest. He brushed his teeth every morning and evening. He occasionally said 'please' and 'thank ye'.

Sharpfur was still rough around the edges, but on the whole he was a brand new weasel. Had she not seen him before and heard that once upon a time he'd been an underaged thug she wouldn't have believed it.

The vole herself was in an excellent mood. The snow had at last melted and Spring had come in full. Birds tweeted from invisible treetops. Flowers bloomed and blossomed and shook their rainbow-coloured petals in light, gentle breezes. Everything was perfect and wonderful. And best of all, now that the snow was gone, the journey home loomed on the horizon. Redwall and all within it would soon hear of her and Grollo's exploits.

Her mood dropped slightly upon entering the dining room, where her companions were looking particularly sullen.

Grollo had been so for a while now. Ever since the trip to the strawberries the young hedgehog had somehow convinced himself that they wouldn't get home. That some great calamity stood in their paths.

"You're being ridiculous." She had said, sounding exactly like the Badgermum did. "Of course we'll get home."

"Not if that witch has a say in it." Said Sharpfur darkly, returning to his vermin roots. "I've heard stories ye know. Seers and hags that fattened up children so they could eat them alive. Hantel and Gretsel or somethin' like that."

"She's not a witch." Hawthorn said coldly. "That's not a very nice thing to say. You slept under her roof. Ate the food from her table-"

"'Coz she wants te eat me!" The weasel snapped.

"That's a little much." Grollo conceded. "But he's right about some things, and that old lady isn't going to let us leave."

"That old lady is a sensible creature who knows that travelling through snow is hazardous! What if we got caught in a storm, eh? You two are both being ridiculous. And when we get back to Redwall you can both fess up and apologize!"

"Te who?"

"To her stupid!" Hawthorn got up from the soft chair, no longer satisfied with her company. "I expected better from you Grollo." And with that she stormed off to bed.

"Humph, expectin' better from the woodlander. Typical." Grollo was unsure as to whether Sharpfur was angry, hurt or unaffected. Nicer though he was the weasel was still an enigma.

"If only we could prove it to her." The hedgehog sighed longingly. "Then we could get home sooner."

"Proof..." Sharpfur seemed to be mulling something over. "If only we could get some of that." He had said at last.

"Good morning." Said Hawthorn, taking her seat opposite them. Neither responded.

Sharpfur was tearing apart a loaf of bread he had no intention of eating, and Grollo was aimlessly stirring his porridge. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes." The weasel said flatly, shoving aside the neat slices of bread. "We're stuck here for good."

"Not this again..." The vole rolled her eyes. These two were probably doing this on purpose.

"Oh it's this again alright." Grollo sat up. "No more snow. No more excuses- but what do we get but another excuse? 'It's still chilly'. So what if it's chilly? I want to go home."

"So do I Grollo but-"

"But nothing. Every time it's the same thing. She's not taking us anywhere because of the weather or the pies or because she's feeling ill. This can't be a coincidence."

"Prove it! Okay? I am sick and tired of your theories. She has been nothing but nice to you, for no good reason I might add. How many creatures let strangers into their homes for as long as she has?"

"Any decent folk-"

"Well if she's decent she's not-"

"A liar?" Interjected Sharpfur.

"And what, pray tell, did she lie about?" Hawthorn frowned at him.

The weasel tapped his glasses. "One of my good friends has just the thing ye need', it's what she said, right? Well fun fact, we're the only four beasts on this here island."

"Island?"

"Piece of land in the middle of wat-"

"I know what it is!" The vole snapped. "But who says we're on an island?"

"I do."

"Proof?" She asked cooly. Sharpfur gave no reply. "I thought not."

"Hawthorn-" Grollo protested, but Hawthorn gave him no leeway. She was tired of this rubbish.

"Save it! I've heard it all. But the truth is you're both jumping to conclusions. Now pass the jam."

"What if I gave ye proof?" Sharpfur had a strange smile on his face. Hawthorn did not like it.

"I'd like to see you try." She snapped, siezing the jam herself.

To her and Grollo's surprise the weasel stood up and scuttled over to the halfway, where he began to sniff at the coat rack. "Nope. Not this one. Not that one. No. Nah. Aha!" He practically dove into an overly large one Hawthorn remembered he had worn once. To her surprise he came out, holding two books and a piece of paper against his chest. His eyes darted around, as if to make sure nobeast else was looking. And then he slammed his evidence onto the table.

A claw was jabbed at the parchment- which landed facing upwards- and revealed itself to be a map.

"We're on an island." Sharpfur announced, unable to contain a smug grin. "Go on, say I'm bein' ree-dick-you-less."

"So we're on an island." The vole conceded.

"Told ye so!"

"That doesn't prove anything though! Just because we're on an island doesn't mean we're not going to leave eventually."

"What about the books?" Demanded Grollo- surely Sharpfur's evidence was worth something.

The weasel himself put down that theory. "They're both diarrheas. Nothin' te help our case hedgepig."

"You mean diarrys." Hawthorn corrected, spreading jam over a slice of a nutbread.

"It's what I said, wasn't it?"

"But..." Grollo was at a loss for words. He'd been hoping that Sharpfur had something substantial, but the old parchments seemed worthless now.

"But nothing." And Hawthorn chewed away at her breakfast, happy in the knowledge that both her companions were witless buffoons who would one day most certainly apologize for all their back-chatting. Well... Grollo would for sure. She wasn't sure whether or not Sharpfur had progressed to that level yet.

Grollo however, was not satisfied and snatched up the diaries. He flicked through the first one and was disappointed when he found nothing of interest.

The second one he went through more slowly. Sharpfur had found the map within this particular piece of literature... however he hadn't actually been bothered to look through it himself.

Slower now, but still rapidly, the hedgehog flicked through it, going ever slower the further on he went, until he finished it, his face pale.

Sharpfur was watching with keen interest and trying to read over his shoulder (the quills and the fact that Grollo read quicker than he did made this especially challenging). Hawthorn though, was gradually making her way through slice after slice of jammed bread. She was on her fifth when the diary fell from Grollo's paws.

"Hey! I was tryin' te read that!"

Ignoring Sharpfur's protests the hedgehog handed the diary to Hawthorn.

"Read this!"

"But I wanted te read it!"

Harrumphing, the vole stuffed the sandwich into her mouth and began to flick through the pages.

Hissing in frustration Sharpfur tried to read over her shoulder- to less success as she was faster than even Grollo.

'Dear Diarry,

Something terrible happened today. I was playing by the river with Spike when I fell into the water. I nearly drowned but a froggy saved me. He seemed very nice at first but he scared Spike. And then he did something that hurt a lot and Spike told me to run. So I went to get dad and he went and he took an axe with him. Mum says he'll be back but if he isn't we're going to go looking for him. And Spike. I need your help diarry. I want Spike and dad to come home.'

The story shook Hawthorn to the very core, it did not take somebeast as bright as her to fill in all the gaps.

"This still doesn't prove anything!" She snapped, shoving the book away. Sharpfur growled and promptly snatched it up- his spectacles at the ready.

"It proves she's hiding something!" Grollo snapped.

"Creatures see what they want to see." Hawthorn shot back. "You don't even know if it's hers!"

"Dear Die-Ari." Began Sharpfur out loud- mostly because he could read quicker if he said the words. "Something terrible happened two-day. I was playin'- playing by the river with Spike-"

Something shattered behind them and all turned to see the kindly hedgepig, her paws shaking. A shattered jug of greensap milk lay forgotten at her feet.

Sharpfur stirred guiltily. "I- er- it's just somethin' I- er found-"

"I know you're frustrated." She said, struggling to put words together. Her eyes seemed to be staring at something far away- something that was not really there. "B-but-"

"We're sorry." Said Hawthorn nervously. She snatched up both books and the map. "It was wrong to go snooping around. I tried to tell them-"

"No, don't be silly. It's only natural. You want to go home." Here she hesitated and silence held the room still for what felt like forever. "B-but- it's not safe!"

"It's not." Hawthorn agreed. "But we have to go back."

The older creature shook her head mournfully. "N-no. Nobeast ever comes back. D-dad never came back. Neither did Spike. And mum didn't either. An-and-" She burst into tears. "The frogs took them." After a good few minutes of sobbing she managed to pull herself together. "I-i-it's safe here. Nobeast'll hurt you. And you'll always have a roof and f-food and- and you'll be safe."

"Will you or will you not take us to Redwall?" Grollo demanded, so viciously that even Sharpfur scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

There was another long pause.

"It's not safe." Was her stiff reply.

Grollo- all manners and good behaviour forgotten, slammed his paw against the table in frustration. "Then you're no better than the frogs!"

"Grollo!" Hawthorn snapped- aghast. "How can you say something like that?"

"I've got a father! I've got friends! I've already got a home! And is going home too much to ask? Is it?"

"Grollo!" Hissed the young vole, just as the old hedgepig dissolved into tears.

"What!?" He roared. "Can't you see?" He too had tears in his eyes, but he still sounded more angry than sad. "We'd have been back by now if she wasn't such a-"

"Grollo!"

Ignoring all present, the young hedgehog stormed away from the breakfast table.

Hawthorn followed him, her mind set upon beating some sense into him.

That left Sharpfur with the crying hedgehog. Still, he had some experience with crying beasts. Greyclaw had always been soft- if he had half a hair for every time Blizzard or Heartrip had reduced their little brother to tears he'd have been a pillow. 'He don't really mean it.' He had always said. And that was what he said now.

"He doesn't really mean it." Stepping over the spilled greensap, the weasel carefully put his paw round her shoulder. "Yer a lot better than frogs. I've never met a frog. But Gulash said they tried to eat him once. So he crushed their skulls in."

The hedgehog shivered and Sharpfur was made aware that this method of comforting was not effective on the soft-hearted woodlanders.

"But would a frog teach vermin like me the elf-a-bet? Thought not." He eased her gently into a chair. "Just rest easy. An' don't worry. Nobeast'll make ye leave if ye don't want to."

"It's not safe." She sniffled and Sharpfur handed her a tissue.

"I know it ain't." But we can look after ourselves.

"You will go in there and you will apologize!" Hawthorn demanded.

"No I will not! She's been holding us captive all winter! And don't deny it. You know I'm right."

"We're not her captives." Hawthorn hissed, her paws clenching into fists.

"We're her guests?" He paused to let the words sink in properly. "Isn't that what the vermin said?"

"Did she tie us to a mast?"

"She might as well have!"

"Easy woodlanders." Sharpfur entered, looking smug. "We'll get te yer Abbey. No need te panic now an' lose yer heads."

"We're not panicking." Hawthorn snapped.

"When are we leaving?" Grollo demanded, ignoring the glare the vole shot at him.

"Leave the last part te me. But first, we gotta let this die down a little. She wants the bests fer us. But we ain't ever gonna leave this place with her."

"So we just abandon her?" Hawthorn raised her paws in frustration. "Didn't you hear what happened? You want to just vanish on her? She's already lost her whole family!"

"So have I!" He snapped and the air seemed to chill. "An' we don't vanish, ghosts vanish an' we ain't ghosts yet. We leave a note. We explain. We say thank ye, and yeah, we go. An' we say that if she ever grows a backbone she's always welcome at Redhall-"

"Redwall."

"Same thing. But we say we liked her cookin' an' that she was nice an' that I'll always keep her spectacles."

Grollo stared at him with a kind of wonder Sharpfur did not like.

"Or somethin', ahem, soppy like that. So when she reads it she's both happy an' sad. But not now. We leave when I'm ready. Deal?"

"Deal." Said Grollo instantly.

"No." The vole hissed. "If we're on an island then we need a boat. And seeing as we don't have that we can't disappear into thin air. So we'll stay and convince her to take us to Redwall. And she can stay too. Living alone all these seasons, it's unhealthy."

"Alright." Grollo agreed before Sharpfur could cut her off. "You can try and convince her. And when you fail we'll be here."

Hawthorn growled and stormed off. She would prove them wrong if it was the last thing she did.

Yet this was soon proven to be easier said than done. The vole waited until the awkwardness of the next few days subsided. But it seemed her target was avoiding her. She was always there, yet at the same time conveniently never there. A week passed, and each day Sharpfur grew more and more smug whilst Grollo grew grumpier and grumpier. Then, borrowing an idea from Sharpfur, she woke up early one morning and made her way to the kitchen.

The old hedgepig smiled at her as she entered. "It's a little early for breakfast darling."

"Oh no." Hawthorn barely managed to stiffle a yawn. "I'm here to help. Can't sleep so I might as well put my paws to good use." The vole picked up a ladle and watched with drooping eyelids as it slipped through her fingers.

"It's alright dear. You don't have to." A gentle paw lead her to a chair. "Here, just sit still."

"Can we go to Redwall?" Hawthorn asked suddenly. Perhaps it was because she was tired. Or because she had grown frustrated by her lack of progress.

"D-dear. I- you know it's not safe."

Hawthorn nodded. "But if you were with us... well, Redwall can't be too far. We're still in Mossflower aren't we?"

"Well, I've never been to Redwall. So it may be a little longer than usual. An- and it's not safe."

"But we're being looked for. The Log-a-log and the Skipper and the Long Patrol and Bella-"

"And when they come they can take you to Redwall." The hedgehog explained gently. "But I'm an old creature and it's not safe outside. You saw Sharpfur's back when I first found you. And cannibals too. It's simply not safe."

And it was at that moment that Hawthorn realized that her companions were right.

Grollo took her surrender well. He smiled and patted her back. "I knew you'd come around."

Sharpfur was more annoying. "Took ye long enough. But it's good ye admit yer mistakes. Oh an' before I forget. I told ye so!"

Hawthorn frowned, but the weasel did not stop and pointed at Grollo.

"An' I told ye too! I was right from the very beginnin'. Told ye so! Told ye so! Told ye so!"

"Fine. You were right." The vole conceded. "Now when are we leaving?"

"Why don't ye shout that a little louder, eh? We go when I say we do."

Grollo opened his mouth to say something but the weasel cut him off.

"An' ye don't need te trust me te know that I want out more than the both of ye."

Everything seemed normal. As it had been all winter. They had a sumptuous lunch. Sharpfur had a few quick lessons and then the weasel read a story. It was about 'Klunky the Scrooge' and his ill-fated attempt at taking 'Redvall' from 'Massias the Warrior' and culminated with a violent death by bell. There was dinner and then Sharpfur asked for some paper and a crayon. The weasel spent much of the afternoon working on it, whatever it was he claimed it was a 'surprise' and took it with him to bed. The old hedgehog tucked them in and wished them goodnight.

Yet none slept. Sharpfur was working furiously on whatever he was writing and the other two stared into space, dreaming of escape and home and everything they missed about Redwall.

Then, a few minutes short of midnight, Sharpfur shoved a paper and the crayon at Grollo. "Yer turn hedgepig. Write somethin' nice."

"Huh?"

"The note. Remember, so she don't get a heart attack?"

"Oh." The hedgehog took the items handed to him. "What did you write?"

"None of yer business innit."

Hawthorn had already taken Sharpfur's note and, in a near perfect imitation of the weasel's voice, read it in a loud whisper.

"Dear hedgepig, Ye may have never taught me yer name, but ye taught me a lot of things. I didn't like learnin' the squiggles or brushin' me teeth or bathin'- but ye were kind te me so I thank ye. The spek-takles I'll keep till I'm a ghost in Hellgates. Yer weasel, Sharpfur. Aaaaaaw!" Hawthorn put the note down. The same weasel had gone a shade of red that would have put cherries to shame. "That's so sweet."

"It ain't sweet!" Sharpfur snapped, determined to hold onto what little verminicity he had left. "I said I didn't like half the hell she put me through!"

"But in a nice way." Hawthorn put the note gently down on Sharpfur's bed. The weasel was glaring at her- and seemed determined to tear it to shreds now, but the vole would not let him. "And that's a good thing. Now pass the crayon, I'll write mine on the back of yours."

Hawthorn's note was not much longer, though her paw-writing was neater. She thanked the old lady for everything she'd done and assured her that the three would be safe and always remember her.

"Ye woodlanders are all so soppy."

"You must be part woodlander then."

Sharpfur looked stricken. Then he glared. "I ain't soppy!"

"Shush before you wake her up." Grollo chided, passing them his own note. It was by far the longest but more of the same. Both sheets of paper were neatly placed upon the folded blankets.

"I hope she doesn't get sad." Hawthorn murmured.

"I hope she don't get angry."

"Let's go."

The door opened with a creak, but from then on there was only silence. The trio tip-pawed past the empty table and the bookshelves. Past all the coats and into the cold hallway.

Sharpfur's claw unlocked the front door with ease and a soft 'click'.

Here they hesitated. The hut was safe and warm. Nobeast knew what lay in the darkness outside, except for the promise of home. Home that was somewhere not far, yet also so far away.

Silently, the vole, hedgehog and weasel vanished into the darkness.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"En garde mon copain!"

This was Threeclaw for 'I am about to lunge so quickly that my warning will be completely useless and I'll hit you anyways'. Of course, Matiya put up his token resistance, raised his stick, which Threeclaw's darted past before neatly landing between two of his ribs.

The squirrel lost balance, completely winded by the sudden attack, and landed squarely in a puddle of mud.

"You are becoming better." Threeclaw declared, stabbing his own stick into the soft ground so that he could use both paws to pull the dazed squirrel to his feetpaws.

This was either a genuine compliment or sarcasm. It was hard to tell with the stoat's accent.

"Yeah, nearly got your ear once." Matiya's paw traveled to where the wood had struck and winced at the twinges of pain.

"Another bruise?" Asked the albino. He spoke with a small frown but there was a mocking kind of laughter in his eyes.

"Like I'm not used to them." The squirrel retorted. And indeed he was used to them, sporting quite the collection himself. A small one on his left cheek, three divided along his sides, and, he suspected but didn't want to ask, a rather large one at the base of his tail.

"Perhaps we should be spending more time walking?" Threeclaw suggested, now beginning to twirl his rapier. "What would the abbeybeasts be thinking if they saw-" He jabbed quickly forwards, and halted the blade a milimetre away from his cheek. "That. And that one. And that one. And that other one." Now he began to spin around and point at all the bruises along the squirrel until, with a final poke of the squirrel's tail he finished. "And that one. Why! They'd be thinking I was beating you!"

"Well you were. But I hit you back."

The stoat gave a particularly smug grin. "And where, exactly, a vous tappe moi?"

"Here!" Matiya spun suddenly, and caught the unprepared stoat firmly in the stomach.

Threeclaw fell over, the blow having successfully knocked the wind out of him. By the time he had recovered, however, he was laughing.

"Tres bien mi amigo. Very unexpected." He rubbed at where the stick had struck. "But I am not remembering hitting you so hard."

Matiya helped the stoat to his feetpaws. "Well, desperate times, desperate needs. Should we restart?"

The stoat shook his head. "We've been hitting and kicking all morning. And we still have a river to find."

How they had not yet found the river was anyone's guess. Yet it had remained ever ellusive. The fact that they changed direction every day or two probably wasn't doing the pair any favours.

"And while we are walking." The stoat declared, sheathing the rapier. "You can tell me what is it you learned at the abbey." Here Threeclaw failed to surpress a snigger. "C'est obviously pas the art of war, but mayhaps it'll be funny."

"Well..." Matiya begun. He started a lot of sentences with 'well' these days. For one, it sounded a lot smarter than 'uhhhhh', which is what he wanted to say every time Threeclaw expressed curiosity in abbey life. From the cooking, to the history, to his friends... if the stoat was paying him any mind he probably knew a lot about Matiya. Far more than the squirrel knew about his own companion. But still, he saw no harm in telling the stoat. After all, he wasn't paying attention. "Well, sometimes we help out in the kitchen. We learn how to make pies and cakes and stuff. Sometimes somebeast takes us swimming. But mostly it's history. Abbot Martin likes to read the old books. The stuff our predecessors used to do."

"And what is it they did?" He did not sound particularly interested and was tossing and catching the rapier as if it were a simple stone, and not a pointed piece of flesh-piercing metal.

"Well." Matiya said again. "They ate. And there was usually some kind of riddle left behind by Martin the Warrior to solve. And fighting. Lots of that." The fighting was what Matiya remembered best, the only times he'd ever paid attention in class. He knew every warrior, every weapon, every duel and every grisly death. He had even tried to recreate them with his peers. Fret had never been particularly fond of it, and Grollo did not like the bruising, but Momchillo- despite considerably less skill- had been keen on it. The two had ran up and down the stairs and walls and kitchens, around the pond, along the grounds, across the orchard. Sticks clacking, faces laughing. If he had a nut for every time they had crashed into somebeast, the abbey could eat nutfarl for the next three seasons. A part of him now wondered if he'd see Momchillo again- but he surpressed that thought. Of course he would! Momchillo was back at the abbey now, playing with Grollo and teasing Hawthorn and... and missing him no doubt.

"Fighting." Threeclaw repeated, uncomfortable with the squirrel's sudden silence. "I heard that you abbeybeasts have a magic sword. Every vermin what touches it turns to ashes. Is it, as they say south of here, a fab-elle?"

"It never turned Fret to ashes." Matiya pointed out. "And he had to polish that thing once a week." The squirrel had never understood how that could possibly be a punishment, but Fret had hated it. Of course, polishing a sword that never got dirty was in and of itself a conundrum.

"Frettie wasn't exactly big on being vermin though."

"Well... I don't know." Matiya scratched the back of his neck.

Threeclaw shook his head in disappointment. "I would be thinking that you beasts call vermin vermin because they are being bad."

"Well we do. Vermin keep trying to conquer the abbey."

"Vermin or warlords?"

"Are they mutually exclusive?" This whole conversation was treading towards previously unknown paths, much like the creatures having it.

"Vous comprenez pas. You misunderstand. Is every creature what is trying to break your red walls, a vermin?"

"Well..." Now he was moving into dangerous territory. He did not want to offend Threeclaw, but at the same time felt the need to be honest. "Redwall was never besieged by mice." The young squirrel hoped and intended that to be the end of the discussion, but once more Threeclaw pressed on.

"But mice have besieged castles of their own."

"Yeah, but not for glory."

The stoat spun round and began to walk backwards. "And I was thinking freeing slaves was glorious."

"It is, but we never freed slaves for glory. We did it because it's the right thing to do."

"Exactement. But I am pointing at something else. Not every verminous creature that broke your abbey walls did it because it was doing la right thing to do."

It took Matiya several seconds to fully comprehend the statement. "Cluny the Scourge forced some vermin to join his horde." That was the only one he remembered, but he was sure there were more. "Is that what happened to you?" He asked abruptly, so suddenly had his question arisen, that the stoat- taken completely by surprise, fell over. "Were you forced to join the Honest Bunch?"

Threeclaw shook his head. "Squirrels are always jumping. Malheuresement you have landed on the wrong conclusion." Threeclaw got to his feet and spun around and that was the end of the conversation.

In silence now, the two tramped through the fresh greens of Spring, which was now in full bloom. This made foraging for food much easier, as an abundance of berry bushes provided enough nourishment for both, however, rainclouds were a rare sight and without any melting snow or icicles to suck on, hydration was proving far more difficult than it had been over winter. The only time it was in abundance, was when morning dew-drops dripped from the overhanging leaves.

Yet Spring had also come with more dangers. Winter meant that the world was asleep, blanketed in snow, they had been the only living things for miles around. Now, however, life was their constant companions. With blooming flowers came swarms of bees and hives filled and dripping with honey. Birds darted from branch to branch, singing their strange avian songs. For the most part, feathered creatures stayed away from those with fur, but on occasion an overly curious magpie would have to be chased off by a few well-placed prods of a rapier.

Spring had always been his favourite season. In Redwall it would mean finally being allowed out to play after a winter of biting cold winds, warm fires and stuffy classrooms. It meant longer days, fresh fruit and enough strawberry fizz to fill a lake. It meant that Abbot Martin would let them play in the sun more often than not and that their chores were minimised to the point of non-existence.

It also meant that it would soon be his nameday. How many seasons was he now? He raised a paw to count with, and promptly bumped into Threeclaw's back. The stoat's ears were swivelling left and right.

"What's wrong?"

"Shhhhh! Listen mi amigo."

Matiya grew still, his ears stiff. Then he heard it. The sound of rushing water.

A grin spread itself wide across Threeclaw's face, and Matiya soon found himself competing with him.

Wide-eyed, the pair advanced, until they reached the edge of the trees and a thin bank revealed itself to them.

"YES!" Matiya shouted, so loud that the nearby birds flew off suddenly with many an indigant squawk. The squirrel raced forwards into the river, the water was bitterly cold, but real! He raced back to the bank with another whoop of joy. Then he fell over, and rolling onto his back, laughed as hard as his lungs would allow.

Home, they were so close to home.

Remembering how thirsty he was, he made his way to the river and drank mouthfuls of the clear, fresh water.

There was a splashing to his side and Matiya turned round to see Threeclaw dragging what looked like a hairy ball of spikes, but what anyone who knew Grollo would know was a hedgehog.

Upon reaching dry land the ball began to uncurl, revealing a very pale old hedgehog. Her spectacles were askew and her apron in tatters, but otherwise she was only shaken.

"Woodlander!" Said Threeclaw, waving him over. "C'est ta grandmere!"

The squirrel wasn't sure what that meant, but came over.

Instinctively, the old hedgehog began to curl in on herself and emitted a whimper.

"Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. We're not going to hurt you." Matiya put on his most friendly smile. Threeclaw on the other paw, had grown disinterested and was cleaning around his claws with the point of his rapier.

"I- my name is Matiya." He stretched out a paw. "And I come from Redwall Abbey." He was made aware, rather brutally now in the presence of this stranger, that he needed a wash. Mud, dust, dirt, sweat- he was covered in so many layers of filth that it was a wonder his fur was still red.

She stopped whimpering abruptly, and hastily adjusted her spectacles.

"Redwall you say?"

"Yes. And er- this is Threeclaw." The stoat neatly waved his three-clawed paw. "He's from er- he's my sword... fighting... tutor."

"Threeclaw." The hedgehog repeated, as if she'd heard it before.

The stoat, with all the air and grace of one raised a gentlebeast, bowed, his paw flourishing in front of him before he neatly folded it behind his back. "Enchante madmoiselle."

"You, but of course." The hedgehog sat up abruptly. "I have heard much of both of you."

"You have?" Asked Matiya, then it occurred to him that he was still being looked for. No doubt somebeast had asked for him.

"Both of us?"

"Yes! Threeclaw! Sharpfur mentioned you."

"Sharpfur?" The pair asked incredulously. What had the little weasel been doing with this old creature?

"He's alive?" The stoat had a look of surprise that clashed viciously with the pride on his face. On the one paw Sharpfur was an undersized runt, though Threeclaw had taught him how to use a knife effectively, his survival had been unexpected. Especially considering he had been above deck at the time of the attack.

"Yes. And Grollo and Hawthorn."

A part of Matiya was relieved. His friends were alive. Another part of him, however was shocked. It was this side that spoke. "They're not back yet?" But it had been weeks! The poor friar! And the Badgermum, Hawthorn had always been her favourite.

Here the hedgehog stirred guiltily. "W-well. I-it's- I was scared!" She cried, her eyes beginning to tear up. "It wasn't safe! And Sharpfur had a burned back and, and Redwall's so far and I've never been- I've never left the island before and I thought it was best if- if they were safe and-" She was clutching her knees now and rocking to and fro along the ground.

Threeclaw neatly wiped away her tears with the point of his rapier.

"Shhhhh, relax. Breathe. Taking deep breaths now." Now he began to inhale and exhale and the hedgehog followed his lead until she was reduced to sniffles.

"Where are they now?" Matiya felt compelled to ask after a few minutes of awkward sniffling. He regretted his curiosity when the old hedgepig exploded into more loud sobbing.

Threeclaw gave him a mock-disgusted look which the squirrel responded to with a disgruntled one, before both attempted to calm down their new companion.

When she had recovered, she managed to answer. "They left. Took the boat and left. They said they were going to Redwall but... but it's not safe and-and-"

"Shhhhhh. It's alright. I connait Sharpfur. He can be looking after himself."

"Yeah." Matiya agreed. "Who knows? Mayhaps they're already at Redwall by now."

The old hedgehog sniffled. "B-but all alone an-and- they left in the dead of n-night and I didn't see any boats. Supposing they hit a r-rock-"

"Hawthorn can swim." Matiya said fiercely, refusing to believe for a second that any ill-fate could have befallen his friends... and their weasel companion he supposed. And he had thought he and Threeclaw were an unlikely pair!

"B-b-bu-"

"By the time we get to Redwall." Matiya declared, helping her to her feet. "They'll be stuffing themselves silly on more vittles than you can count." He dusted off her apron and took her shaking paw in his own, far more confident one.

"Speaking of the grand, red abbey. You don't happen to be knowing the way there, do you?" Threeclaw asked casually, as if he himself had a general idea but was otherwise uncertain.

"Oh, um, I think I do. There should be a path a little further upriver and that should take us up to their front gates. B-but I- I've never been there."

Threeclaw took her other paw in his whole one, his three remaining fingers twirling the rapier.

"I'm sure finding it will not be being too difficult."

"And so, Lutra's famous pearls were lost amongst the waves. Never again would the desire to possess them ensnare another creature's mind and soul. And the good beasts of Redwall returned to the abbey. The end." With an aching back and a pair of very sore buttocks after what felt like hours of sitting on the hard floor, Abbot Martin closed the book.

"It's over." Cheese sounded stricken. After many days of pleading with his sisters they had finally relented and allowed the old mouse to read to them.

"Thank Vulpuz." His sisters declared in unison. One removed the paws from around her ears.

"B-b-but what about Tansy?"

"What a stupid name." Snapped the oldest one. A clever trick had allowed Abbot Martin to tell the sisters apart now. He had conveniently 'dropped' a bow and a necklace one breakfast, and now he knew the weasels as Bow, Jewel and Fang. For the most part they hadn't complained about the names, although there had been a great deal of swapping and arguing at first.

"Tansy." Abbot Martin explained slowly. "Was in due course of time given the post of Abbess. Of course, some recordings say it was immediately upon Abbot Durral's return but such writings rarely have a credible source."

"Stupid abbotmouse, course ye can't eat a book."

"Credible. Not edible my child."

"I'm not yer child mouse!"

"I never said- oh no you misunderstood. Ahem, as Abbot of Redwall I am, technically speaking, the father of all creatures within this abbey."

The young weasels looked disgusted suddenly, and tried to get away from him.

"So how did ye give birth to a mole?"

The old mouse had to adjust his spectacles. "I-I- I beg your pardon?"

"If yer everybeast's daddy that means that mole what we stole's yer daughter. But yer a mouse."

"Oh, no! No, no, no. It's just a title. A formality. It's just a, er- a slip of the tongue. I'm not truly everybeast's father. Just- er, referred to as such."

"So ye didn't mate with a mole?"

"Of-of course not." The mouse replied, rather flustered.

Collectively, the weasels breathed a sigh of relief.

Remembering his other duties, the old mouse took his leave of them. And although they still threatened to rip him to pieces, and sometimes attempted to, he did not doubt that they were growing fond of him. Even if that fondness lay... very deep down.

He had called a meeting, the first since the children had been taken. Life in Redwall had to go on. And so, the seasons had to be duly named. Winter had gone unnamed due to circumstances beyond their control, but he could no longer ignore his duties. Spring was here and that too, had to be named.

He came into the Great Hall, expecting the whole abbey to be present, but instead found only a few faces. His successor to the post of Recorder, a bespectacled mouse now pacing furiously. Constance who looked as glum as ever. The Foremole and his daughter. And Bella.

"I-I- said tell everyone." The old mouse was shocked. For one of his summons to be so blatantly ignored...

"I did." The badger replied. "Rosebrush's busy. Mormont's looking after his wife. Apparently she's with child. That might brighten up the place." She did not sound particularly hopeful of this prediction. "Blind Agatha is ill. The Friar's cooking porridge. Again."

Abbot Martin clutched at his ears. "Onion porridge... what on earth has gotten into him?"

"He is convinced his son is dead." The Recorder answered impatiently. "Besides, nobeast has to do any actual work for that filth. The state of the abbey is quite frankly disastrous. Orchard's filled with fruit but not a soul's willing to pick them. Dust everywhere. Itchy bedclothes. I already proposed to you-"

"That I force everybeast to just move on. I am aware of that." The mouse rubbed at his forehead. "But as I said before grief is a wound that requires time to heal."

The Recorder harrumphed. "Everybeast's had quite a lot of time."

"Moibe iff'en 'ee 'ad a mizzin' dowter zurr, 'ee'd be a gruit bit more understandin'."

"Or maybe I'd be as lucky as you." The mouse replied, continuing to pace frustratedly.

"Shut up." Constance snapped at him. The subject of missing children was especially unforgiving on her, and the Recorder wisely paced in silence, lest he find himself on the recieving end of all her pent-up rage.

Abbot Martin cleared his throat before beginning. "Well if nobeast else will come we can start with the winter. What shall we name it?"

The Recorder was the first to give any suggestions. "The Winter of Snowy Sorrows. Or perhaps, the Winter of the Tear-Filled Snows."

"Burr aye, doin't be goin' tur dramatik."

"I'm not being dramatic!" The Recorder snapped. "Merely conveying the truth. We've had lots of snows and even more sorrows. Snowy sorrows."

"Perhaps it is a bit much. Any other ideas anyone?"

"Winter of the..." Bella frowned in thought, her face going a shade of purple underneath her black and white fur. "Disappearing Snowflakes." She replied with a sudden sniffle.

The abbot brought his paw to it's familiar spot on his temples.

"I have one." Said Constance very quietly.

"Alright." The old abbot braced himself for the inevitable impact of whatever she had to say.

"Well... it's not a name but... I- I thought we should make a feast."

"A what?" The Recorder sounded stricken. "You can't be serious. What could we possibly have to celebrate?"

"Mormont's baby for one. Spring for another." Constance answered, rather coldly. "I just thought it might help everybeast move on. This all started at a feast after all."

There was a long pause, broken by Roseheart.

"B'ain't a bad idea zurr. Oi'm thunking it could wurk."

The Foremole patted his daughter's head. "Clever goirl. Courzz it'll wurk. Everybeast been missing a gud feaist."

Abbot Martin thought this through for a second, and suddenly inspiration rushed through him. "That is a brilliant idea! Closure, yes, that is exactly what everybeast needs. And a feast. Yes, that has always been the solution, hasn't it?" Well... clearly nobeast had ever thought of a better idea, but if all the previous recorders were to be believed then it near-always worked. "It should be a surprise that- that way we can properly address the issue. And- and... we're going to need the kitchens."

[The Grey Coincidence]

Tall and sinewy, with the grizzled white fur of an old creature, the stoat stood before them. Clad in glimmering cloaks of shining scales, green, black, yellow and white. He stared at them through a piercing red eye, the other seemed to be in a perpetual loop- as if hypnotized. Strapped to his back was an enormous fang. Taller than Momchillo and wider than Fret, with all sorts of markings carved into it and a short handle of blackened wood. The stoat did a mocking sort of bow at the sight of their petrified faces.

"Greetin's. Snakeskin's the name, 'untin's the game."

Fret swallowed, his eyes glued to the newcomer's weapon. "H-hi." Too tired to run, let alone fight back, the two were entirely at his mercy.

"So, bait, what brin's the pair of ye to my 'umble lair?"

"We're traveling." Momchillo replied cordially, also eyeing the giant fang.

"No supplies, sixty feet un'erneath a frozen lake, an' yer travellin'. If I didn' know any better I'd say ye were lost."

"We are." Fret agreed.

"We are not!" The mouse snapped. "We just got a little sidetracked-"

The stoat jabbed a finger at the slime-covered ferret. "'E got swallowed. More than a lil' don' ye think? But ye clearly know where it is yer goin'. So I'll just drag off this 'ere carcass and ye can be on yer ways." He turned and removing a smaller tool- apparently carved out of a snake skull, began peeling at the pure white scales of the dead serpent. Wordlessly, the two got to their sore feet and began to walk (or rather, stumble) away from the scene. Just as they were clambering over the boulder, Snakeskin spoke. "Unless yer 'ungry. I've got some nice thin's te eat if that's the case. More than 'appy te share."

Momchillo frowned in thought, ignoring Fret's frantically shaking paws. Well... if Martin had a plan for them it was most likely with this stoat. Besides, he was too tired to travel very far anyways. "Well... I'm a bit peckish." The mouse declared, walking back towards the stoat, but also remaining a fair distance away from him.

Fret, despite his growling stomach, had to wrestle down the urge to shout 'no'. Every instinct told him that this was a bad idea. Another stupid idea that would put them in danger.

But of course Momchillo didn't listen. And being exhausted himself, the ferret shuffled closer.

Smiling, but not saying a word, Snakeskin turned and strolled over to a wall of ice. A light shove pushed aside a thinner part of the wall to reveal a tunnel. "Guests firs'. Only polite, see."

"Yeah." Momchillo agreed, already regretting his decision. But, unable to think of an excuse he made his way into the tunnel. Fret expected something horrible and bloody to happen right there and then. Another boulder to drop and squash the dumb mouse. For the stoat to morph into a snake all of a sudden. But neither happened and Snakeskin tapped his footpaw impatiently along the ground.

"I 'aven't got all day ye know."

And with that reminder, (and a gulp he was sure echoed throughout the cavern) the ferret proceeded forwards.

It was even warmer in this tunnel and the ice seemed to be melting even- at the very least it was a good deal harder to keep balance. Halfway in and he slipped, and flopped pathetically onto his front. He debated for a short while whether there was any point in getting up again. He could barely move his feetpaws, they were lost and heading directly into certain danger. Wouldn't it be easier to just fall asleep now?

But before he had made up his mind, the stoat had placed him back upright.

"Watch yer step." He advised, unhelpfully.

They walked for a short while longer, until the tunnel opened up into a cavern carved into rock. For this Fret was glad, as he was sick of slipping on the ice. Alas, that was the only thing he was glad for. Lining the floors was an enormous rug, soft and warm and yet eerily made of fur. Here and there lay a collection of bone tools- snake skulls and ribs and teeth, and copious amounts of snakeskin cloaks.

Yet Momchillo, as usual ignoring all signs of danger, casually strolled over to a roaring fire and sat himself down besides it with a relieved sigh. Stretching his feetpaws precariously close to the flames in an attempt at thawing his toes, the mouse barely managed to surpress a yawn.

"Make yerselves at 'ome." The stoat commanded, shuffling over to a haphazardly made cupboard.

Fret did not exactly obey, at least not beyond sitting besides the fire- as far away from Momchillo as physically possible.

"'Ungry, are we travellers? Well don' worry, I've got pleny of vitl's. Ferret guts and rat brains, anybeas'?" He laughed at the sight of their suddenly-pale faces. "Is a joke. All I've got are snakes."

Palour did not immediately return to them upon this announcement. The appetites of both mouse and ferret seemed to vanish on the spot.

"C'mon, is not so bad." The stoat took a large bite out of a small slab of meat, and tore at the flesh. Snakeskin chewed for what seemed like a generation before finally swallowing. "Bit chewy, but I've bin eatin' it my 'ole entire life and I'm as righ' as rain."

"Well, er-um, yeah it's no- not really-" Came Momchillo's garbled response. He almost laughed when he realized how much he sounded like Fret. But a quick glance at the slimy-furred ferret told him that laughing was the last thing he ought to do.

Rolling his eyes, the white stoat muttered something about bread in a larder and stomped off in search of it. When he was out of earshot, Fret turned to Momchillo, his face a vicious scowl.

"Are you trying to get us killed?"

"Excuse me?"

"You don't who he is, what he is, why he's being nice- all you do know is that there are bones everywhere-"

"And what was I supposed to do?" The mouse replied, trying to remain calm. Of course, frustration was beginning to nag at him. "If we hadn't gone with him we'd have gotten lost. Or met another snake and this time you'd get swallowed whole! This way we can ask for directions and maybe even get a free meal- so you're welcome!"

Fret, growing livid, was sorely tempted to hit him again. Unfortunately, Snakeskin chose this golden opportunity to return, two stale old loaves of barley in paw.

"Ought to be more to yer likin'." He said, passing them one each before sitting down between the pair. For a while there was no sound beyond the cracking of the flames and that of chewing. The bread was probably older than they were, yet both had not eaten in hours and the relief of finally having something in their bellies, was enough to convince them that it was safe to eat.

"So... gonna tell me yer names or do I 'ave to make 'em up for ye?"

Fret swallowed, and without waiting, answered with the first two names he could think of. "I'm Bork and he's Whimper."

Unfortunately Momchillo did the exact same thing at the exact same time. "We're Greyclaw and Sharpfur."

Snakeskin cackled wildly, clapping his paws together as he did so. "Talentlen'd lil' liars, are we? If it's so personal I won' bother askin'. But 'ere's somethin' I do wan' te know. What are two young vermin doin' in the middle of nowhere, gettin' chased aroun' by snakes?"

Now neither answered immediately, until Fret conceded... About half the truth. "We were going south, when this idiot decided that instead of crossing over a frozen lake we should go under it!"

"Because Mar- Martha Mad-Eye-" Momchillo corrected, eager to avoid the warrior mouse's name in present company, invented something that sounded somewhat vermin-ey. "Said that all we had to do was go left!"

"Martha." Fret spat. "Didn't think it through, did she? Especially considering I said this was a bad idea. But of course Martha doesn't care-"

"Martha does care! And Martha's sorry!" Momchillo exploded. "But Martha also wishes you'd stop whining about everything-"

"Okay. So ye two are 'eaded south. Where to?"

"Redwall." Fret snarled, his anger at Momchillo clouding his judgement.

"That Cursed Abbey!?" Snakeskin gasped.

The young ferret realized his mistake too late, but Momchillo had always been the clever one and came up with a rather convincing lie on the spot.

"We're gonna raid it." The mouse said, false excitement spreading to his face. He forced his tail to wag behind him.

"Raid it?" The stoat frowned, eyeing the small rodent.

"Y-yeah." Fret agreed, trying his hardest to seem happy at the prospect. "T-tear the walls down and b-burn the tapestry! M-melt the stupid sword and b-break all their dishes an-and-" Bella and Abbot Martin would banish him for life if they could hear him now.

"Rip the habits and smash the gates and whatnot you know. Just... vermin things..."

The particular wording made Fret glare, but Momchillo silenced him with a look.

The stoat continued to frown at them, until an amused smirk began to spread across his face. "Two undersized, underfed, scrawny lil' pups are goin' to destroy the woodlander's pride an' joy, eh? An' live on forever in the son's of our people, eh? Unarmed, unarmoured an' without vil's te boot."

"It's the truth." Fret managed to squeak from around the tremendous weight squashing at his chest.

"'Ow stupid are ye!?" Snakeskin exclaimed, his voice echoing throughout the cavern. He raised his paws high into the air. "'Undreds of grown rats an' ferrets 'ave bashed their skulls against them walls. Older, bigger, tougher, stronger, smarter vermin all armed te the teeth. That Abbey's magic, I swear. Vulpuz 'imself uses it to bring souls te 'ellgates. Even if- gigan'ic if- ye take it, then the damn 'ares'll get ye. Or them badgers- ye think snakes are bad son? Badgers'll chew afore 'ey swallow! Or ye'll get 'it by lightnin'."

Momchillo blinked, this particular course of action having backfired spectacularly. "Well, we could sneak in-" He muttered softly, only to be cuffed across the ear none-too-lightly.

Fret almost laughed at that, but found his own ears were no safer. "Ow! What was that for!?"

"I'm knockin' some sense inte ye. Mark my words neither of ye are goin' anywhere near that place."

"B-bu-"

"Firs' light tomorrow I'm takin' the pair of ye back te whoever the 'ell Martha is."

"No!" Momchillo now, was desperately trying to backtrack. "We're lying! We-we're lying! Course we don't want to conquer Redwall-"

His ear was once more the victim of his own tongue.

"Don' try it! I saw yer tail rat an' I know excitement when I see it! Don' try an' fool me now. I'll take ye 'ome if it's the last thin' I do."

"But-"

"What kin' of beas' would I be if I let two infents stomp off te their deaths?"

"But we're not infants-"

"No buts!"

"But we live there!" Fret snapped. The stoat gave him a queer look but the ferret went on to explain. "He's a mouse, not a rat an-and- I was raised by m-mice- and- yeah."

"Yer from that-that place?" Asked Snakeskin, his voice barely a whisper.

Already regretting ever opening his mouth, Fret nodded.

"We are." Momchillo admitted, awkwardly shuffling away from the stoat- who proceeded to grab him by the shoulder.

"Never met a mouse before." He admitted, pulling him in uncomfortably close. "But if ye are a mouse, what are ye doin' 'ere?"

Fret, who had also been trying to back off, was similarly dragged back next to him.

"It sounds like ye've got an interestin' story te tell. An' I very much wan' te 'ear it." Squeezing them tightly against his larger form, so that any attempts at escape were doomed to fail, he proceeded in a lower tone. "But I wan' the truth too. And if ye lie well... mayhaps I'll catch a few more 'ungry snakes tonigh'".

Momchillo swallowed, and unable to fight the stoat's monstrous grip, began. "Well, it all started, I suppose at th-the winter feast. So um, there was this hare and he was juggling onions I think. O-or radishes-"

"And then he dumped soup on me." Fret finished with a growl, remembering that embarrassment. That last embarrassment, that had started this entire mess. The final nail in his coffin...

"And then Fret went off to the walls. And he-" Here Momchillo paused, waiting for the ferret to fill in the gaps.

"Fell off."

"And he fell off and-"

"And then I got dragged off by Sharpfur and Greyclaw." The ferret snapped. "Who only knew I existed because the Skipper tried to murder me."

"Why'd 'e do that?" The stoat interrupted.

"'Coz I'm vermin."

The stoat raised an eyebrow, but Fret did not give further reply.

"Anyways..." The mouse stirred the conversation as far away as possible from the apparently-touchy subject of verminhood. "Fret was missing. And his mother was ill and then his uncle went to look for him but didn't find anything. So me and the other kids decided we'd go looking for him. Instead we got kidnapped by his rescuers. A few days later and-"

"Don't forget the part where Matiya knocked my tooth loose." Fret snapped. "Or the way you all hated me-"

"How about the time you tried to stab me?" Momchillo shot back, ignoring the ferret's muttering, the mouse continued. "A few days later our kidnappers got kidnapped. Me and Fret were separated from the others and shipped up to this place along with a few other members of the Honest Bunch."

"Yer original kidnappers?"

"Yeah. I was mining sandstone all winter while Fret... he..." Come to think of it, what had he been doing? "He..."

"Served the Prince." The ferret finished hastily, his tail swishing behind him.

"There was a big feast yesterday night I think. And I escaped my cell through a hole another slave found. The-then I found Fret, we knocked out the Prince, escaped the castle, crossed the mountain, fell asleep, found the tunnels and then found the snake. You know the rest."

"An' all them ridges on yer back mouse, whip made 'em?"

Wordlessly, Momchillo nodded.

Snakeskin did not say anything for a while, but when he did, it was on a completely different subject, as if he hadn't even heard a word they'd said.

"Ye must be tired." The stoat summarized, releasing them and rising to his feet. "Ye'll find this fur is quite comfurtable, bit itchy but I daresay ye've 'ad worse beds."

"Haven't had a bed since we left Redwall." Momchillo said quietly, his eyes far away and gazing into distant memories somehow made evident by the fire.

"I can make ye a few cloaks too if ye like." He added, flourishing his own. "Keeps the col' out rather well. Got too many of these 'ere pelts anyways. As for yer journey..." He paused. "We'll talk in the mornin'." And on that note, he left, leaving both by the cackling flames.

The fire was dwindling by the time Fret slunk off to sleep in a corner- as far from the mouse as possible. Curling up into as tight a ball as possible, exhaustion soon claimed his form.

Momchillo was not as lucky, and although his eyelids threatened to collapse at any moment, some inexplicable force was keeping them from doing so.

The mouse had gone through the majority of his life without much thought. Yet now he was staring at scenes long past. Stranger still, he was thinking about Fret. Perhaps it was just because he was the only one left of his abbey friends, or because he had very nearly died earlier that day. Whatever the reason, Fret was now all he could think about.

Before they had been separated, Matiya had been trying to convince them of the ferret's... innocence? The squirrel had been convinced of... something... to the point that, twice, he'd delayed their escape for the ferret's sake. Yet he could not begin to comprehend what he'd been getting at.

That Fret had fallen off the walls instead of running off?

Well alright, but how the ferret had ended up with the Honest Bunch wasn't exactly important. It was what he'd done with them that mattered. He'd saved Hawthorn from the big rat once. That much was undeniable... yet only a short while later he'd picked up a knife, intent on using it... to cut the rope perhaps? The Honest Bunch hadn't seemed particularly impressed by the stunt, and knowing first-paw how valueless slaves were, that didn't seem to make much sense if Fret had tried to murder them. However, if the ferret had been intent on releasing them it would explain their relative coldness towards him. It also explained why Matiya had vouched so hard for the ferret. And it also meant that the sole reason they hadn't gotten back yet, was because he hadn't trusted Fret.

He had next to no proof of this beyond mere theorising, but it explained away a large portion of the ferret's behaviour. Of course, that did not mean much either.

The simplest solution would be to ask him, but for the life of him, Momchillo could not do so. He would be met, no doubt, with hostility, and if he pressed too hard for answers, the ferret would cry. And then he'd be in the wrong.

The mouse sorely regretted not asking Deathglare, or Sick-Eyes and the weasels. He also regretted that Matiya could not have made himself clearer, instead of spouting garbled garbage.

Watching the ferret toss and turn and mumble in his sleep the mouse felt a stirring akin to guilt begin to bubble in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm a pragmatist." He'd meant to say. But Fret hadn't let him finish.

"You're a bully!" The ferret had snapped.

And if all his theorising were true... then indeed he was.

Sleep came uneasily to the mouse, but eventually it did come. And when it did it came dreamless and calm. Almost peaceful.

[The Grey Coincidence]

The wall of ice was cold and cruel, and refused to budge in the slightest. Aside from pathetic shaking Fret could not move either. And even if he could there was nowhere left to run. The snake was edging closer now, with deliberate slowness, as if underlining the hopelessness of his situation. Momchillo had abandoned him. If not for his present predicament Fret would have been cursing a storm. The mouse! The dumb mouse who's fault it was that he was being faced, not with tauntable Bork, but with an unkillable monster.

Where was Clogg now? Or Constance? Or even his Nuncle... the same Nuncle he'd condemned to a watery grave.

"It's not funny!" He wanted to snap, but his muzzle was sealed in a perpetual whimper. It wasn't funny! It was just another stupid joke. Surely Grollo was under the snakeskin, with Matiya balanced overhead. It wouldn't have been the first stupid joke the trio had pulled on him. Once Momchillo had lead him up to the attic, only for Matiya to jump out- covered head to tail to toe in flour. Fret had almost fallen out a window in fright, but the two had laughed all the same. The only bright side was that Matiya had been forced to wash before supper. Another time Momchillo had insisted that there was treasure underneath the abbey pond, Matiya had gone wild with excitement and had dragged both him and Grollo for a 'quick swim' that lasted most of the afternoon. The ferret had stunk so hard at supper that he'd been dragged off for a bath- not that that had helped much.

Why was it he always stunk? An odour all described as foul, but he knew not the identity of, had clung to him since infancy. He'd had more baths than the rest of the abbey youth put together, not that that had ever helped. In fact he was almost certain he'd come out stinking worse.

Constance had of course, never complained. Connington too, although he had always made a point to cover his nose in some 'discreet' way. It had gotten better over time, to the point where he was no longer dumped directly into boiling water every morning. Or perhaps they abbeybeasts had gotten used to it. Or given up on him... at the very least Connington had stopped covering his nose...

Perhaps children were immune to foul smells, but the rest of his generation had never really brought it up... not until he was older anyways. Then there had been no mercy, to the point that the pretty vole and her mole friend remained forever nameless, too high and mighty were they for the stinking fiend. The mean runt of their class.

He did not know how to explain his infatuation with the white-furred vole. It certainly wasn't love. It certainly wasn't just because she was pretty. After all, Fret and pretty things were not made for one another. No, he'd never cared about her dumb mole companion with her frustrating accent and she was arguably just as pretty.

But he remembered vividly that he'd stared at her for perhaps unhealthy amounts of time. He had never told Constance. He had never told Connington. Bella however, knew, and had always sternly reminded him that staring was rude. Grollo had called it love, and had always encouraged him to 'talk to her'. Thankfully the hedgehog had never done it within earshot of Matiya and Momchillo, but it had still irked the young ferret.

"I don't even know her name stupid!" Fret had snapped. And it wasn't love! Love was silly. Anyhow only Constance could love him.

It was longing. A longing to be accepted. To not be seen as the dirt on the back of one's sandal- something to be gotten rid of as soon as possible. By somebeast that was not Constance anyways. And where better to start than with a classmate he didn't even know the name of?

Once, when he'd been much more naive and considerably shorter, Abbot Martin had set them to picking flowers. Fret had picked up the largest dandelion his paws could find, intent on delivering it to the pretty vole, perhaps with a 'what's your name'. Of course, that had failed magnificently. The pollen had gotten into his nose, and he'd sneezed on her. Then Matiya and Momchillo had come crashing into him. From that moment onwards he'd kept his distance.

His life was full of such moments. Bitter disappointment and unfairness had gone paw in paw to make him miserable.

Once he had tried to make a cake for Constance. Matiya, Grollo and Momchillo had offered to help, but several disagreements later he'd been left on his own. Not that he had minded. Making a cake was easy. Mix flour, water and every sweet thing he could get his paws on in a bowl and bake it in an oven. Of course he'd fallen asleep while cooking and the result was a cake blacker than his fur. He'd wanted to throw it away, but the stupid Friar had refused to let him do so. Instead the fat hedgehog had peeled off the vast majority of Fret's doing and decorated the meager portion left with enough sweetened meadowcream and candied chestnuts to undo his mistake. Of course he'd also undid most of the ferret's cake. Sure it had looked better than anything he was capable of making, but that did not change the fact that it was no longer his doing.

Constance had loved it all the same, and even though he was sure that she knew that he hadn't done it, she'd still praised him for it. Unfortunately she'd also hugged him and he hated hugs...

A loud chuckle from somewhere nearby brought the ferret back to his senses, and no sooner had his eyes snapped open than the dreams had begun to fade away into the pit of memory from whence they had come.

Snakeskin was the source of the offending noise, at present flicking through a familiar-looking tome. If Fret had not just woken up he'd have recognised it as Clogg's. But as it was, with sleep needing to be rubbed thoroughly from his eyes, he only saw what could have been any other book.

"Mornin'." The stoat greeted, not lifting his eyes from the pages.

Fret stiffled a yawn but made no reply.

"This is an interestin' book." The stoat said, waving it for the ferret to see.

That was when Fret recognised it. His heart beat shot up faster than a thunderbolt and his mouth was open. But all that came out was a series of increasingly desperate 'er's and 'um's.

Snakeskin raised an eyebrow, a smirk traveling across his white-furred face. "I'm assumin' it's yers?"

"I- well- er, i-in a- y-n-no. N-never seen that b-before."

"That explains yer reaction." The stoat was now more interested than ever. "Where'd ye get it?"

"I-I stole it." This was only half a lie. Clogg hadn't exactly given it to him to keep, nor had the rat expected him to run away.

"Why?"

"I-er, i-it looked pretty." The ferret's eyes darted to where Momchillo lay snoozing blissfully.

"I don' think yer bein' 'onsest." Snakeskin sung, his grin wider than ever. "Go on ferret. What's this book to ye?"

"N-nothing! Absolutely nothing." Fret was sure he was being convincing. "I-I thought we could trade it for food. I-if we g-got hungry."

"Nothin', eh?"

Fret nodded.

The stoat closed it and hung the book perilously close to the fire. "So ye don' min' if I just dump this 'ere?"

"O-of course I d-don't."

Snakeskin feinted and Fret flinched.

"Yer lyin'." The stoat decided, lifting the tome safely away from the flames. "Now. I'm tryin' te be nice te my guests. But I don' like liars. Ye tell me the truth now or I fin' a snake ter feed ye to."

Fret swallowed. How had the stoat even gotten his paws over that book? It had never left his side... "I-I-"

"I'm sure somebeas'll fin' ye scrumptious."

Now the ferret whimpered, unable to tell whether or not the stoat's threat was to be taken lightly or not. Deciding that this was not something he ought to risk his life for, Fret relented. "It was a gift."

"From 'o? Don' forget the de'ails."

"Details." He swallowed again.

"The mouse doesn't know, does 'e?" The firelight cast strange shadows over Snakeskin, making him seem almost demonic.

"You won't tell Momchillo?"

"On my 'onour as an 'unter."

"Well, er- it's- a long story."

"Son, I don' got anythin' better te do. Now start talkin', I ain't as patien' as I used te be."

"Okay. Well. You know how me and Momchillo escaped slavery?"

"Mhmmm."

"I- I wasn't exactly a slave." A quick glance at Momchillo confirmed that the mouse was still asleep. Fret dared not think what might happen if he learned the truth. Luckily he did not have to worry about that... Yet anyways. "I was their... guest."

"Why?"

"B-b-because I-I- Because they thought I was somebeast important."

"And 'o did they think ye were?"

"I-I-I-"

"That's a pretty silly name."

"Some warlord's son."

"Which one?"

"I-I- don't know the name. I forgot."

"Mayhaps this'll jog yer memory." Snakeskin flicked through the book till he came upon the page with Fret's supposed parents.

"Mad-Eye Martha, eh?" A claw was jabbed at Marik's face.

"Momchillo doesn't know about this." Fret pointed out. "He was just making stuff up."

"So... are ye his son?"

"I-I- don't know. The only parent I remember is C-constance." He swallowed. There was a cold glint in Snakeskin's eyes now. A kind of hatred that made Fret shiver.

"Hmm... I knew Marik. Was 'is mate."

"Okay." The ferret rubbed at his chest and provided a nervous chuckle and changed the subject. "So- you're not going to say anything t-to-"

"Momchillo? Nah. I'll just ask 'im 'o gave 'im such a dumb name. An', son of Marik. What's yer name?"

"F-fret."

"Fufret? Who gave ye that name? Is it even a name?"

"It is." Fret snapped indigantly. "And it's Fret. Just Fret."

"Still a stupid name."

"Better than Snakeskin." The ferret muttered.

"An' 'oo exactly gave ye this book?"

"Clogg." Fret replied. Despite his initial discomfort, he found that talking about it all wasn't so bad.

"'Oo?"

"Trammun Clogg."

"Never 'eard of 'im." The stoat declared.

"There's a picture of him." He pointed at the book, which Snakeskin handed to him. A short amount of flicking lead to Clogg. He had not spent much time staring at the rat's picture, after all, he'd had the real thing for most of his time in the Northlands. But, just like all the others, it was incredibly realistic and resembled every inch of the rat from the tip of his tail to the edge of his whiskers.

He handed the tome of portraits back to Snakeskin with a nervous glance in Momchillo's direction. The mouse could awaken at any moment. There was also the possibility that the rodent was faking sleep. Fret broke into a sweat, and his fears of the mouse returning to consciousness were increased a hundredfold when laughter exploded from the stoat's chest.

"Clogg? Is that what 'e's callin' 'imself? Hahahahahahahahaha! What a- what a plonker! Hahahaha! This is too good! Too good!"

"Er- what is?"

"I knew this 'ere rat as Whimper. He was a runt see, family kicked 'im out after 'e murdered 'is brother. Min' ye, that horsie deserved it. Anywho, 'e was freezin' te death one day when Marik an' 'is girl decided ter pity 'im. Next thin' ye know 'e was followin' them everywhere. Me, Marik, Slit an' Whimper. So 'ow is Marik these days? Did 'Cloggy' mention it?"

"Oh, er, y-yeah M-Marik's dead." Fret scratched awkwardly at his neck, unsure how Snakeskin would react to this turn of events.

The stoat seemed delighted by this news, and with another hearty laugh, slapped his knee. "Guess I outlived the big bully! What about Slit? Whimpy's obviously still kickin' bu-"

"She's dead too." Fret tried to word it as best he could, but there was no way to say those words without being blunt.

"Shame." Snakeskin shook his head, his grin clashing viciously with his words. " Liked 'er a lot I did. Course she 'ad it comin'."

For the first time in a very long time, Fret was overwhelmed with curiosity. This was not Whimper's constant questioning, which had only been the result of utter confusion. This was a thirst for knowledge he'd never quite felt before. He had often asked how Constance had found him, why she's taken him in- but the mouse was cunning and had given him vague answer after vague answer. Of course that had only made him ask more. But she was cleverer and eventually had always answered with 'because I love you'. The soppiness of the words- irrespective of how heartwarming they had been at times- had put an end to such questioning.

But sitting before him was a well of information. If he could just tap into Snakeskin's mind a little bit he would know more about Marik and Slit-throat and a side to Clogg he had never considered before. Whimper, but wasn't he Whimper?

"So... am I their son?" Of course this was the first question. It was the one he wanted to know most of all. In his mind it was inextricably anbd inexplicably linked to where he belonged.

"Yer not mine, that's fer certain." The stoat chuckled but noted the desperate longing in the ferret's eyes and handed Fret the book. "I'm afraid I can' answer that. We 'ad a fallin' out of sorts. Didn' know they 'ad any sons. Well Marik 'ad one or two, but they'd be older. Anyhow ye don' look a thin' like 'im. There's a bit of Slit in ye but..." He shook his head and shrugged. "She never stammered. If I 'ad te tell ye 'o yer parent's were I'd name the mouse what raised ye. Blood ain't nowhere near as thick as walls."

Fret's face fell. Apparently he would not be receiving answers anytime soon. Perhaps the next time he saw Constance she would tell him. If he ever did get to see her again... anyhow she probably wouldn't want to see him...

At that moment Momchillo yawned to life and sitting up groggily, blinked existence back into his eyes. "Morning."

"Pshaw! Late afternoon more like! Get up mouse! There's a thousan' leagues from 'ere te Redwall. An' ye ain't gonna get there sittin' on yer horsie. 'Urry up we 'aven't got all day!"

Snakeskin's words brought Momchillo swiftly to his feet. The mouse's face was bright with excitement and for the first time in a long time he looked as young as he was. "You're taking us South?"

"As far south as I know lad. Ye'll still 'ave a lon' journey a'ead of ye, but at leas' ye won' be dead on my doorstep."

[The Grey Coincidence]

"With all due respect." Friar Gord said, sounding... not particularly respectful. "My family have been in charge of these here kitchens for dozens of seasons, more than anybeast can even remember! Y-you can't just 'relieve' me."

Abbot Martin had expected opposition, and he was ready for it. Frowning severely and mustering all the strength a small, old, partially-blind mouse could muster, the abbot steeled himself. "Oh I think I can. I'm sorry Gord, I truly am. But I feel like your duties to the abbey are not so important at the moment."

"If this is about the porridge than I'm sorry." The hedgehog rubbed at a wrist. "It's just I always used to cook with Grollo and well...and this missus hasn't... well..."

"And that is exactly why it is simply inconsiderate of me to let you remain here." The abbot cleared his throat. "I do not know any more of Grollo's situation than you do. But I do know that your wife misses him- as no doubt, do you. I insist that you take some time off for your own sakes. What good is a miserable father to a lost son?"

Hanging his head in shame, the former friar removed his apron and waddled away. Half-heartedly, he forced himself to ask. "And who's going to make breakfast then?"

"Don't worry about breakfast." Was the Abbot's vague reply. As soon as the cook's footsteps faded away, Constance, Bella, the Recorder, the Foremole and Roseheart came bustling in from another door, equipped with aprons and every manner of cooking utensils, right down to the chef hat far too small for a badger that decorated Bella's head.

"Alright then." Abbot Martin wiped at his spectacles. "We have got a lot of work to do. Pick any recipe you like and as many as you can make before this afternoon. Start with anything that needs to cool and cram the warm foods into the last hour. I'll handle breakfast- simple porridge- no onions- as for lunch... I suppose a simple salad would do. Nobeast eats that much anyways." Donning the Friar's abandoned apron, the abbot adjusted his spectacles one final time. "I suppose we had better get started."

"Ee be s'posin' gurt Abbot zurr. But moibe 'ee should've foired oop the ole Friar when 'ee was done with 'em dishes?"

"And where was this logic before-paw?" Martin sighed and turned. He was faced with a truly massive pile- or rather tower- of filthy dishes of every shape and form that threw his comparatively tiny form into a shadow. The old mouse nearly gave up then and there. It would be so much easier to call the Friar back... But life had to go on. "Don't worry, I'll handle the dishes." Rolling up his sleeves, the abbot got to work. Like all things in life, it was easier said than done.

The Log-a-log was in a foul mood. Honestly it looked rather like he'd chosen to wear a thunderstorm over his head. He stomped into the Great Hall at breakfast time, followed at a distance by the rest of the weary 'rescue party'. A few cast hopeful glances in their direction- perhaps by some miracle some news of the children would come- but the shrew's foul mood turned all away.

Despite being a shrew, the smallest of all woodlander and vermin species in Mossflower, the Log-a-log was a fearsome sight. Half-an-inch taller than the rest of his kind and with a belly that, in it's prime, could crush a lesser beast (for it was much smaller nowadays when nourishment was not to be found), the shrew did not need scars to convey the message that he had fought in a dozen battles and won them all.

Now he seemed to be looking for another battle, anything he could tear to pieces... if only he could find some no-good rat to vent on.

A few spaces down Mormont giggled. He could not help it. A young, fit mouse of the abbey, and soon a father to a litter of no less than six little mouselings. Despite the doom and gloom he could not help but be cheerful. Especially not when discussing the names of their babies.

"Not Mortimer, please. My great uncle would never let the poor boy go."

"But what if he has that nose!"

"What nose?"

"Your family's nose! The one your cousin has! You know, all square-like."

Now he snorted with laughter and banged a paw on the table. "I'd much rather name him after my cousin, thanks."

"What kind of a name is Tumbledee?"

Both chortled merrily- until the Log-a-log snapped in their direction.

"Very funny isn't it? That your kids'll be the only one in this here abbey this spring, isn't it? It's very funny that the giggling dibbuns are going to be the only parents left inside these dumb great walls."

Mormont murmured an apology, but none heard it over the shrew, who now spoke loud enough to be heard all through Mossflower.

"Oh don't be sorry mouse! You've got no reason to be! Smile, go on! Smile and laugh and giggle and chortle while I go mad!"

Nobeast dared look at the Log-a-log, but he went on, talking more to himself than anybeast present. "I mean, we've all got plenty of reasons to be happy, don't we? Don't we!? It's not like our kids are missing! It's not like we don't know if they're dead or alive! Oh no! They're just getting tucked into bed by some nice old badger! Hedgehogs are making them tea and stoats are giving them dance lessons aren't they? It's the only explanation! No tracks, no scent, not even a piece of their skeletons! All bleeding winter!"

He rose, and everybeast cleared a wide path for him to stomp through. The shrew came to a halt at the foot of the great tapestry of Martin the Warrior.

"All I ask, is for a sign. If they're dead, tell me and let me have peace! If they're alive, tell me, so that I know I'm not just wasting my time!" He waited patiently for the whole of five minutes, the hall so silent a pin would have echoed like a bell, until finally he exploded.

"TEEEELL ME!" Frantic paws tugged shamelessly at the foot of the tapestry, and threatened to rip the thread apart.

"What on earth is going on?" Came Abbot Martin's voice.

The Log-a-log shot towards him, and before the old mouse could blink he was nose-to-nose with the chief shrew, a mad gleam evident in the creature's eye as the warrior's much stronger paws clung tightly to the abbot's front. "Haven't you noticed!? My son is gone. Whoosh! Vanished! Maybe he's dead, maybe he's on an island thousands of leagues away! Perhaps a bird swooped down and swallowed him whole! You have no idea, how much this hu-u-u-urts!" And then the shrew released a deluge of tears and buried his face into the abbot's front.

This was no laughing matter as, although shorter, the Log-a-log weighed at least twice as much as the old mouse, who very nearly fell over. Friar Gord came to the abbot's rescue, and being a rather bulky beast himself, had no trouble helping the shrew sob away the pain- even if the hedgehog wished he still had an apron on.

This was the final reminder the old abbot needed, to realise just how important this feast was for the sake of the abbey at large.

It had begun to snow over Mossflower and the lush green of the world, accentuated here and there by flowers of every shape and colour, clashed viciously with the white, now trying once more to carpet it all one final time.

Matiya was grateful for the snow. The arrival of Lily Prickla, as the old hedgehog was called, had reminded him that he looked like something a wildcat might cough up, and the cool, melting snows helped scrub off the dirt behind his ears. If he was going to be back at the abbey by nightfall, as the old hedgehog predicted, he did not want to look like he'd spent the past few weeks in a mudbath. The good old, bright red gleam of his fur however, only served to highlight the dark bruises that covered him like patches of fur, which would no doubt lead to some awkward questions.

There would be a lot of awkward questions of course, and Threeclaw was uncomfortably talkative all of a sudden. Yet despite all misgivings, he was excited by the prospect of finally being back with Momchillo and Roseheart and Grollo and Hawthorn (who had no doubt reached Redwall by now). Perhaps he and Sharpfur could have a rematch... he could show the weasel a thing or two Threeclaw had taught him. Maybe even give a bruise or two...

Funnily enough Fret was probably the first beast he'd encounter. That promised to be awkward, but Matiya was looking forwards to it. What better way to cement the lack of hatred than to land a surprise 'good to see you'. That was if the ferret was in the gatehouse anyways, he was probably in class... or dish duty.

"So what exactly happens when we are dedans the abbey?" Threeclaw asked, as if only slightly curious, but Matiya thought there was a hint of nervousness there.

"Dud- on?" Asked the old hedgepig hobbling between them. Being a fanatic of grammar (much to Threeclaw's chagrin) she was simply fascinated by the stoat's knowledge of 'foreign tongues'. The fact that he had no idea how to write any of the words he said, proved more than anything, that Matiya had been right and 'French' was made up.

"It means inside en Francais. So when we are being inside the rouge-"

"That's red isn't it!" Lily exclaimed, rather like a dibbun in school.

"Oui." The stoat said through gritted teeth. Matiya had to stop himself from laughing.

"And that's yes?" For an old beast she was wide-eyed with wonder.

"Yes." There was so much exhaustion and annoyance in that one syllable, that Matiya felt compelled to rescue Threeclaw.

"Well, knowing our history as well as I do, they'll probably throw a feast." This too, was another cause if excitement. And even if they didn't pull out all the stops, any meal from Redwall would be a welcome relief from the diet of nature. Not that berries were bad, but nuts were better and Matiya could not remember the last nut he'd had. As a squirrel he was practically obligated to eat at least five a day!

"And?" The stoat persisted, apparently determined to know more- and speak in as few words as possible.

"Well they're all going to be happy to see us aren't they?" It was only after he said those words that Matiya realized the true meaning behind the question. And by then, Threeclaw had spelled it out even more clearly.

"I meant what's going to happen to me! Or are you forgetting that I'm the one that kidnapped you?" The accent was lighter now- as if it had come as an afterthought.

"Oh." The squirrel rubbed at his chest, avoiding eye contact. "Well..."

"Well?" The stoat asked, a strange mix of fear, desperation, his usual cockiness and an underlying tone of a threat, all painted into the twitches of his face.

"I don't know." Matiya said flatly. Threeclaw recoiled, as if struck. "But!" He said loudly, as if to override parts of the stoat's brain. "But we are peaceful creatures. And Abbot Martin'll listen. Y-you may have kidnapped us but you're not a bad creature. I mean, if you were I probably wouldn't be alive."

"I'm such a sweet little flower, aren't I?" The stoat spat. "The one that doesn't murder babies. I've poked eyes out of hares, I poked a hole in the shrew's shoulder. You think the abbeybeasts will forget that?"

"They won't." Matiya swallowed, now backing away from the stoat. "I haven't. B-but I also remember you teaching me to swordfight, and cutting down the berries I couldn't reach so I could catch them."

Threeclaw grabbed him by the front, and for the first time in a long time, Matiya was scared. As was Lily, who was now curled up behind the pair.

"Supposing they try and prick my shoulder, and I prick them back-"

"You w-won't have to prick anybeast. Look. I don't care what you did to anybeast else. If it weren't for you I probably wouldn't have survived a whole winter out here. And what do you think m-matters more. Saving a life or t-taking an eye?"

"Are you scared of me?" Threeclaw asked, letting go of the squirrel's chest and using the same paw to ruffle the fur between his ears. "Well you do not have to be. Parce que c'etait une blague. I was joking."

Matiya did not reply. He doubted the stoat had really been joking, but like everything to do with Threeclaw, that too was an enigma.

"I suppose the abbeybeasts will ask a few questions." Said the stoat with a nonchalant shrug. "Mi pienso que you should hold the rapier." The blade landed squarely between Matiya's feetpaws.

"A-alright."

The old hedgehog was beginning to uncurl now. Evidently the danger had passed. The young squirrel breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

Shaking his head, Threeclaw marched forwards. "I am walking into the heart of all woodlanders, unarmed and hordeless." He laughed loudly, but Matiya was pretty sure it was forced. Sheathing the rapier, the squirrel swiftly caught up to him.

"Don't worry. I'll vouch for you. And this time next season..." Matiya trailed off. Threeclaw was ignoring him and quite frankly he had no idea what would go down later that day- let alone next season!