Black and White

[The Grey Coincidence]

The cooking was going well, or at least Abbot Martin thought it was. The logistics of six beasts making an entire feast from scratch- in merely a few hours no less- had seemed daunting at first- yet progress was evident in the impressive pile of steaming dishes already laid on trays.

Constance was working furiously on no less than six preparations simultaneously. He had never seen her in battle, but there was something in the fury she used to chop up the vegetables, and the decisiveness of her stirring and the ruthlessness of her pot-pushing that brought the warrior out of her. Her parents had been right to name her after a badger after all...

The Foremole worked at a much slower pace. Being an inexperienced cook, and illiterate, he took his time listening to the instructions Roseheart read to him from behind a humongous recipe book half her height. He would then tweak his nose and follow said instructions... very... very... slowly... Nevertheless, progress was progress and the Foremole's two dishes were painstakingly crafted with love and adoration.

The same could not be said of Montague, who cranked up his cooking speeds in an attempt to remain ahead of Constance. He was a champion wordsmith and Abbot Martin knew that he could spend hundreds of hours mulling over a single phrase or line. He was a different kind of mouse in the kitchens, and had an impressive collection of partially-burned pastries, soups that smelled burnt and ingredients so black there was no telling what was what.

Bella, like the Foremole, was using a cookbook. And like Constance, was impressively multi-tasking. A pair of puddings were laid to cool as the badger stacked flower petal after flower petal onto a cake that put the once formidable dirty dish tower to shame.

Abbot Martin had, aside from breakfast, spent most of his morning at the pile. A part of him was bemused, he hadn't been on dish-duty since he was a dibbun. Another part of him was now all too aware why this was Bella's favoured form of punishment.

It did not help that his assistants (and especially Montague) kept adding to the pile. He was almost tempted to find somebeast else to do it, when the Foremole gave him the perfect excuse to leave.

"B'aint it zoon goner be time fur voittles?"

"I'm busy!" Snapped the Recorder, having neither heard nor understood what the mole had said.

"Ah yes." He wiped at his brow, for the kitchens were a sweltering jungle in all but name. "Y-yes. Did anyone prepare a salad or anything?"

"Um..." Went Constance, temporarily lifting her eyes.

"Burr aye, 'fraid not zurr."

"No matter... no matter. This should do." He then began piling fresh lettuce onto a platter. "Something light. And fresh. And- and-" Abbot Martin sighed. He was getting far too old for all of this...

Those that attended lunch that day were a mix of shocked and traumatized by the fare. Never, in all of it's history, had fresh, whole lettuce been served at the abbey. But there was a first for anything and noone dared complain to the Abbot's face (though many did behind his back).

The old mouse was fuming by the time he got back to the kitchens. The steam billowing from his ears made him greatly resemble one of Constance's steaming sauces.

"You should have seen Friar Gord's face just now! Half the abbey is convinced I can't cook to save my life and the other half thinks I've gone mad. AND I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT MAD!"

"Iffen 'ee spoiken zo zurr." The Foremole replied, staring intently at the little bubbles forming in the water.

"Yes. You are just as sane as the rest of us!" Montague declared, slamming a completely burnt pie upon the table with strength a battering ram would envy.

The old mouse sighed and found himself temple-rubbing. Honestly his paws were practically glued to his forehead at this point. "Honestly, I'm not sure how high a praise that is."

"Oi'm poirfuctly sane!" Said the Foremole, grinning widely. A stray piece of boiling water shot out of the pot and caught him square on the nose. The 'perfectly sane' mole promptly fell backwards with a yelp and hit the floor hard.

"Oi know 'ee are papa." Said Roseheart, flicking the book until she came across a recipe of interest that justified boiling the water.

"They're starvin' us." Said Fang, glaring at the door. The old mouse had a habit of coming at roughly the same time every day- but according to her current calculations Abbot Martin, self-proclaimed Allfather of Redwall, was three hundred years late already. Vulpuz was the only reason she and her siblings were still alive. They were too young to go to Hellgates. But they couldn't do much growing, could they, if they didn't have any vittles? Which meant they were immortal. But what was the point of living forever if she couldn't eat. She was hungry for food! Not power!

"I wanna be Bow t'day!"

"Ye were Bow yesterday!"

"But ye were Fang yesterday! An' I don't wanna be Jewel!"

"Me neither! Now lemme be Bow! And t'morrow ye can be Fang!"

"Ye can't trick me! I ain't Greyclaw! I'll be Jewel f'rever if I let ye be Bow now!"

"I can be Jewel!" Declared Cheese, trying the necklace on himself and very much liking the weight around his neck. He looked like a legendary corsair now! All he needed were a set of tattoos, Sharpfur's dirk and Gulash's size. Then he'd rule the seas and skies and even Vulpuz would fear him!

"Ye can't be Jewel Cheese 'coz yer Cheese!" Both weasels snapped simultaneously. Pointing tiny half-formed claws at one another they declared in unison. "She's Jewel!"

"Finally!" Exclaimed Fang as Abbot Martin came in, armed with hastily-shredded lettuce. "We were starvin' abbotmouse! Be quicker next time!"

"Abbotmouse! Abbotmouse! I'm Jewel!" Declared Cheese, pointing at his chest and the jewel that hung between his knees.

"And I wanna be Bow!" Snapped the other two, one paw still firmly clamped over each side of the accessory.

Despite the fact that he was near the point of collapse, Abbot Martin smiled, and held his paw out to the two. "Alright, you can both be Bow. As long as I can tell you apart-"

"Her nose is bigger!" Said one.

"No! Hers is look! She stretches it out!"

"I do not!"

The two devolved into more rapid bickering- the sort Abbot Martin knew to stay uninvolved with, lest they decide he was a more important problem to be solved.

"What kind of tattoos should I get?"

The old mouse put a paw to his chest- how had the little weasel gotten so close so quickly? "T-t-tattoos?"

"For when I'm a pirate! All I need is te be big an' strong an' then I'll be the greatest corsair ever!" The little weasel threw his paws into the air and Abbot Martin had to adjust his spectacles. Cheese had been the best-behaved of all the weasels, his sudden desire to be a glorified cut-throat was worrying to say the least.

"Why do you want to be a pirate?" The old mouse asked slowly, aware that this might be a touchy subject.

"Because it's fun! I can be swingin' on ropes!" Grabbing hold of the Abbot's ears he proceeded to swing on them. "An' fightin' an' plunderin'! I can have all the vittles I can eat an' even Ublaz'll be jealous." Releasing his grip on the rodent's ears the weasel scrambled onto his knees so that abbot and dibbun were nose to nose. Speaking in a deep, commanding voice Cheese stared intently into Martin's eyes, his own narrowed in concentration. "Look... Into... My eyes!"

Smiling despite himself, the abbot lifted the weasel (for the sake of his old knees who found no comfort on the ground without the weasel's added weight) and placed him next to his sisters, all of whom were now determinedly chewing lettuce.

"If you want to swing on ropes I could let you ring the abbey bells. If food is what you want you'll find that the kitchens here are nearly always full of them. Perhaps instead of fighting and plundering yourself, you could become Recorder and write of such adventures and more. It is important to dream, little Cheese, but do not tie yourself up to one. You are young and the time to dream is now. I should think you'd want to be more than just a pirate."

Cheesienibbles mulled this over as he chewed thoughtfully at the meager dinner. "Yer right abbotmouse. Bein' a pirate's borin'!" He raised both paws into the air. "I'll be a piratical recorder who rings bells all day an' is always hungry but also super-strong!"

A part of him wanted to facepalm, but the old abbot went with the other side of him and smiled fondly as he made the energetic pup sit down.

"When I was your age I wanted to be Abbey Warrior. Of course, there hadn't been any battles to fight back in my youth. But I would always read the histories." He sighed wistfully. "I dreamed that one day, perhaps, Martin the Warrior would drop a riddle my way. But alas, the day never came and I went from novice, to assistant recorder, to recorder, to abbot. But never warrior."

"Ye'd have made a great warrior." Bow sniggered.

"Aye." Agreed Fang. "Ye'd have won us the battle in seconds."

The old mouse chuckled. "Well I don't think I was ever that good-"

"That's the point. One sling te the head and we'd have beat ye. Ye'd have won us the battle!"

So much for progress...

"No he wouldn't! The abbotmouse'd obviously wear a helmet!"

"Would not!"

"Would too!"

"Cheese, there ain't no helmet that would've fit on them ears."

"Aye! He'd have to fold them over his eyes and would run into a tree!"

"More like a rapier!"

"Tree!"

"Rapier!"

The argument came to an end when Jewel burped, and shoved over the now-empty tray. "Doesn't matter does it? The abbotmouse'd be dead anyways. And then nobeast would bring us food."

"And then we'd live for ever!" Fang shuddered, hugging her tail for comfort.

Abbot Martin picked up the tray and rose to his feet, ready to go back to preparing the feast.

"Can ye read us a story?" Asked Cheese, just as he opened the door.

The story... he'd forgotten about that too... "Well... I suppose..." He sighed. There was no way he could fit in a story. Not when the feast was due any minute... "Another time."

The weasel failed to disguise his disappointment and the abbot felt compelled to offer an explanation.

"Today is a very important day. I- I- if I could I would of course read you a story, but with the feast so soon and-"

"Feast?" Cried Fang. "Ye never told us about no feast!"

"Will there be music an' dancin'?"

"How about some proper vittles?"

"Well... there ought to be music I suppose. But I'm not sure about dancing and such and-"

The weasels breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Good. Dancin's so difficult!"

"Too difficult!"

"But music's good. Especially when Pa plays."

"What about vittles?"

"Well of course there will be food!" Martin failed to surpress a chuckle. "What's a feast without food?"

"Can I come?" Cheese asked at first. He tried to add a 'please' but it was drowned out under the sound of his sister's similar questions.

"Ahem, yes, well..." Now he regretted ever mentioning a feast. On the one paw it was not fair to banish anybeast when there was a feast at play, on the other it was risky to bring the weasels along. The general sentiment towards vermin in general was not exactly positive- less so now that it was clear that Fret was to blame for all the missing children. Their presence might add salt to an already open wound. Furthermore he wasn't sure whether they could be trusted with cutlery. "I- er- I-"

"We'll be good!" Fang insisted. "Ye'd think we were squirrel pups!"

"I-"

Their eyes expanded, till they seemed to absorb their whole heads.

"Please?"

"I-I shall think about it!"

And with that Abbot Martin left.

Bella was dripping in sweat. It looked like she'd taken a dip in the abbey pond with her clothes on (in other words, ridiculous) but the Badgermum had always considered appearances trivial. They were all deadbeasts in the end after all.

Despite her strong views on appearance, Bella was determined to make this the greatest cake in Redwall's history! A work of art already, she just needed a final touch to her snowflake. Gently squeezing the icing bottle in her shaking paws a miniscule amount of the frosting began to cover the cake.

"I need your help!" Abbot Martin declared loudly, entering swiftly from the door that lead to the cellars. Bella panicked and squeezed too hard and her pristine little snowflake was ruined.

It was lucky for Martin that she did not possess the bloodwrath.

"Should I or should I not," Abbot Martin began , oblivious to how narrowly he'd avoided death. "Allow the weasels to join the festivities?"

There was an awkward silence.

Constance shrugged nonchalantly. He'd been expecting her to have a stronger opinion, having raised Fret and all she was the most experienced with vermin, yet all she did was mumble something along the lines of 'you're the abbot' and turned back to her work. The old mouse did not press for answers, no matter how much he wanted them.

"Well... any other-"

"I think it's a horrible idea." Montague snapped, oblivious to the fact that the butter he was frying was almost nonexistent by now. "Letting vermin into this abbey is what started this whole mess. You won't solve it by parading around the fact that none of us have learned from our mistakes."

"Insensitive as usual." Bella chided. "You always were a blunt child."

"Honesty is of great-"

"Foremole? Roseheart?"

Roseheart, who had never been fond of Fret, inclined her head towards the Recorder, signalling agreement. And although the Foremole had no more fondness for vermin than his daughter, he felt obliged to at least profess a counter argument.

"Frettie wozn't too bad when 'ee woz a dibbun."

"Humph. I disagree. As we all know, many of us immediately jumped to the correct conclusion in regards to Fret. Even you father abbot, know full well that there were many reservations with letting that boy in. But of course someone-"

"Someone what?" Constance whirled round, her own cooking forgotten.

"Someone ignored what everybeast told them. That Fret would only break their heart and that no good could come of him. By all means, raise the weasels. Love them. Let them into the feasts. But sooner or later we'll find ourselves in the same situation! Mormont's dibbuns gone and not a weasel in sight!"

There was an awkward silence, broken by Abbot Martin. "Forgive me Montague but I believe you are mistaken."

The Recorder opened his mouth to argue- but was immediately interrupted by the abbot.

"We had misgivings in regards to Fret, that much is true. But until this winter he never stepped particularly far out of line. I for one don't believe we have a clear picture of all that has passed since then. Roseheart did not see everything. Where, for example, and when, did Fret have the opportunity to meet these vermin he was so acquainted with? He left the abbey once in all his time here. I would not write him off as a mistake just yet. Regarding the weasels I value your opinions, but on the whole I must override you. As Constance put it, I'm the abbot. They are most likely orphans, and have not left that cellar in weeks. We at Redwall are nothing if not hospitable to any and all creatures-"

"Of good heart." Constance finished for him, a far-away look on her face.

"Yes. The likeliness of vermin having a good heart-"

"Montague, your pan is burning! Please see to it." Adjusting his spectacles the abbot marched off towards the cellars. He had a lot of work to do. It would be best if he could wash the weasels- or at least perfume the girls for he highly doubted they would agree with soap. Dibbuns rarely did after all. And then he would have to find habits for them. The clock was ticking and soon the feast would be upon them- but he wasn't abbot for nothing after all...

[The Grey Coincidence]

At last it was time for the feast. The exhausted kitchen workers were collapsed onto the nearest benches (and in Bella's case, three) and Abbot Martin too, felt his years creeping up on him. But! But it was worth it. No sane beast could possibly look this feast in the eye and fail to fall in love. Even Montague's blackened foodstuffs looked bizzarely appetising (perhaps because none of them had eaten anything all day) and that was saying nothing of Bella's cakes and puddings and all the rich creams and salads, and leek flans and pies and quiches.

The old mouse hastily wiped at the growing drool- lest it ruin one of the many dishes. The only thing the Great Hall missed now, were the hungry people. They would arrive of course, and he would make a speech, but for now he could recline on the pillowed-up chair that was the seat of all previous abbots. It was a rather large chair- designed to hold all woodlander species. Being much smaller than a badger there was plenty of space besides him, occupied- to Montague's chagrin- by the weasels.

Preventing the over-excited pups from devouring the carefully-prepared meal had been a challenge, but Bella had managed. The weasels had heard much of badgers from their older siblings, and while most of it was probably untrue they were not about to risk becoming part of the feast and cutlery for the sake of doubt.

Now the abbeydwellers began to file in, and the heroic cooks hurriedly straightened themselves. Fur was patted down, sweat was wiped away, Montague's spectacles were wiped clean, habits were adjusted. All save for Bella, who by now was snoozing gently.

At the sight of the surprise feast, many grins began to spread and rumbling bellies were patted. Yet here and there stood the aghast face of one who had spotted the weasels.

"What're ye pointin' at!" Snapped Fang, brandishing a spoon.

This drew everybeast's attention to the abbot. Eyebrows were raised, and awkward coughing became a fashion.

Abbot Martin rose, and they eyes went from the weasels to him. "As you can see some of us have decided to surprise you."

There was some chuckling amidst the crowd and the abbot took this as a good thing.

"Spring and Winter have yet to be named, and I think it is in our best interests to name them before summer is upon us."

There was more laughter, and now smiling, the abbot raised a toast. "We have not had a feast in far too long. So without further ado-"

"What are they doing here!?" Barked the Log-a-log, marching to the front, a paw pointed determinedly at the weasels. His fur was more disheveled than ever before, and anybeast with a half-decent nose could say that he'd spent an unhealthy amount of time in the cellars that day.

"They." Abbot Martin said sternly, before the 'they' in question could react. "Are our guests this evening. I trust you all know by now what has taken place. Our children are still missing, but that is no reason to neglect those thrust into our care."

"So they're replacements, eh? We're just supposed to pretend our own kids don't exist anymore? Because we've got vermin dressed in habits-"

"We ain't replacements!"

"They are not replacements. I would never dream of-"

"An' what's this feast for, eh? Our kids are starving somewhere and we're supposed to forget about them because the table's got food on it? I don't want food! I want my son!"

"As do I!" The abbot declared, raising his voice to quell the growing hubub. "I miss those children as much as the next beast! But that does not mean that we have to suffer! What good is our suffering if it does not aid them? Do you think they would be proud of us? Moping and crying and dismissing our duties? Look at the orchard, look at the grounds, look at the hallways! I see dust and dirt and rotten fruit! Supposing they returned right now! Would they prefer to find us laughing and feasting or half-starved and bickering!" The old mouse felt something akin to relief as he said those words... all his frustrations finally released for all to see.

"Eat." Said the fat shrew, hollowly. "Laugh. Smile." He shook his head. "I can't do neither of those anymore." Stomping slowly away the shrew left the hall.

Abbot Martin coughed awkwardly, his appetite quite forgotten. "Well, the feast... I... I suppose..." He sighed heavily and hanging his head in defeat, left the Great Hall.

Any and all worries he had about how Threeclaw would behave and the reaction of his fellow abbeydwellers were drowned out under the sea of excitement that flooded Matiya from toe-tip to the end of his ears. Heart hammering, and with a goofy smile he could not surpress even if he wanted to, the squirrel knocked at the gates. He waited patiently- bouncing up and down in all but practice- but there was no reply. That was odd. Somebeast was always at the gatehouse...

"Is anybeast at home?" The old hedgepig scratched awkwardly at her nose. "Perhaps we ought to come another time?"

"Yes." Threeclaw's voice conveyed nothing but sarcasm. "Yes we should definitely be turning back around after we just got here. Knock harder."

Matiya did as he was bid, his footpaw tapping impatiently against the snow. If making them wait was Fret's idea of a joke...

"Why aren't they answering?" Threeclaw demanded, stomping over to peek in through the miniscule gap between the walls.

"Maybe they're having dinner?" Matiya suggested. It would explain why nobeast was at the gatehouse. Though normally the gates weren't locked...

"Typical. And I was convinced they would be running to look at you. But no. Apparently food is la priority."

"We should just be patient." Matiya said, anxiously flattening his fur in an attempt at hiding his bruises.

Abbot Martin did not regret letting the weasels come- the Log-a-log would have come up with something to complain about regardless of them. And although the old mouse understood grief and sadness, the shrew had taken it too far.

"If he had just kept himself to himself..." He resisted the urge to rub his forehead. If perhaps he'd brought the four half-way through... "Too late now, isn't it?" He sighed. The feast had been his last hope, and it had failed spectacularly.

He was not sure what brought him to the gatehouse, only that he was there now. For most of it's history the little cottage had been the home of the Redwall Recorders. Indeed, he had spent much time within it. Yet, ever since that fateful day when Constance had come along with Fret in her paws, the Recorder had been given a room directly within the abbey. Montague had argued, but so had everybeast else. A ferret could not live within the abbey! It was not safe for the other children. Veil Sixclaw had been mentioned half-a-hundred times and in the end the mouse had relented. The gatehouse had been freed of dust and the countless volumes within it, moved. It had then been the home of Constance and Fret.

Furniture was not it's strong suite. A trio of stools, a makeshift oven on the fireplace, a sole table. A pair of beds. There were not many pictures either. A portrait of Constance's parents, a pair of large mice he'd been rather well-acquainted with, two of Constance herself, one alongside her parents with the nervous-looking young Connington, another with the bored-looking Fret. There was one more portrait of Connington, looking rather fine in his new armour and a final one of Rowland.

The Abbot had known the big mouse only in passing. A young troublemaker and not too bright, but with a big heart. There were none of Constance's other children. The ones before Fret. Well... they had probably been too little. Dibbuns rarely stood still long enough for portraits. And unfortunately, none of them had made it past dibbunhood.

Pushing those depressing thoughts aside, the old mouse picked up the one with Fret and Constance. It was gloriously crafted, the spring colours clearer in the picture itself than in the snow-peppered grounds of the abbey outside. Intricate and frustratingly small brushstrokes brought both Constance's well-kept and brown, as well as Fret's messy black and white, fur to life. The mouse looked happier than the abbot remembered seeing her lately, one paw around the ferret's shoulders, the other raised in a half-wave. Fret did not know where to put his arms and they stood loose at his side. Boredom was beautifully captured on the young ferret's face.

That had been on the Spring Feast a few seasons before- the Recorder had done portraits of everybeast, having received a set of vibrant inks as a gift from a Southwards hamster that had been their guest that day. The hamster had also brought several barrels of olive extract. Unfortunately Fret had somehow mixed up the barrels and instead of strawberry cordial everybeast had drank the olive oil. It was a rather unpleasant memory come to think of it...

Abbot Martin had never understood Constance's mothering of Fret. In truth he had always thought the ferret a replacement. That he'd only been picked up because her own children had been killed. Many had shared the sentiment, but he was beginning to have doubts. Constance was a kind beast by nature, strength she had, but strength was not what was needed to kill a babe. And what was required, Constance lacked. Raising him had perhaps helped her cope, but she would have done the same irrespective of the fate of her own young.

Fret had always been quiet, especially in his younger seasons, and Abbot Martin had never known him too well. That was his fault. He, as Montague had pointed out, had expected nothing good to come of him and as a result had kept him at paw's length.

Perhaps if he hadn't he'd have realised why it was Constance had loved him so much. Well, he understood now. More than ever before. Parental love knew not the boundaries of vermin and woodlander.

And that was why she'd loved Fret. And why he'd let the weasels join the feast.

Delicately, he placed the portrait down.

But perhaps their love was misplaced. Perhaps it could only end in heartbreak...

The peace and quiet (and moroseness) of the gatehouse was interrupted all of a sudden, by a knocking at the gate.

"Patience is a virtue Mr Threeclaw."

"Well I am not being virtuous, am I?" The stoat snapped, looking semi-deranged as he hammered at the gates with a stick (having already 'broken' every bone in both paws). "And it is not being polite to keep beasts waiting." The stick shattered and the stoat deflated. Hurling the remaining stump at an unfortunate dandelion, he stomped away from the gates and sat down heavily. Every movement seemed to convey nothing but pure frustration.

"Perhaps I could climb in?" Matiya wondered aloud, searching the walls for any nook and crannies to aid him in this quest.

"Supposing you fell off and your skull ends up casé- yes that means broken!- what would we be saying to the abbeybeasts?"

"It was just an idea..." Matiya mumbled.

Just then a familiar face poked out from the wall above. Abbot Martin looked both surprised and delighted.

"M-matiya?"

"In the fur father abbot sir." The squirrel replied, once again made aware of his unkempt appearance. There were snowflakes in his fur.

The abbot looked even more surprised at having been replied to, and hastily scurried away- presumably to open the gates.

"You never told me your padre was a mouse."

Matiya blinked, before rolling his eyes.

"It's just a title. My actual dad is most likely in Southwards... not like I ever see him anyways..."

The stoat got to his feet, and Matiya was surprised to see that his paws were shaking. To disguise this Threeclaw rubbed them together, as if he were merely cold.

It was strange to see the swords master so frightened. Throughout all their travelling he'd almost always oozed confidence and charisma. To see him scared, of a place Matiya called home no less, was equal parts unnerving and hilarious.

Matiya too, was shaking, but for entirely different reasons. He would not find judgement in Redwall, but delight and happiness- and as his stomach reminded him now- food!

After what felt like forever, the gates were opened, and old Abbot Martin sprung forwards with the speed of one many seasons younger. Before Matiya knew it, he was being hugged. The abbot had never been this sentimental towards him... The squirrel found himself strangely comforted and embarrassed. Both because Threeclaw was snickering and because he was unable to return the gesture for the old abbot had pinned his arms to his side.

"I don't think I've ever been happier to see anybeast!" The abbot declared, finally releasing him to wipe at his spectacles. "Look at you! You're real an-and- tall! I thought I'd gone mad bu-but you're actually here!"

Matiya did not know how to reply to that beyond grinning. He was then made aware that he hadn't brushed his teeth in ages...

"And look at you Grollo!" Martin said, replacing the spectacles. Like a star from the heavens, the Abbot's face fell. "You- you- you're not Grollo?"

Threeclaw tapped at Matiya's shoulder and indicated the wide open gates. Abbot Martin had not yet noticed him.

"I suppose I should say welcome home." He said quietly. There was something in his eyes the squirrel had never seen before, but a moment later the stoat had turned away and began walking cautiously into the abbey grounds. Matiya at first, followed at the same pace. But the closer they came, the faster he moved until he was quite sure he was running.

"Well. That was a waste of food." Montague said. Nobeast had wanted to stay in the awkwardness of the Great Hall, and taking tokenistic pieces of the feast with them, left. Bella was still snoring on the benches and the rest of the brave kitchen workers were either nibbling at their hard work or slumping in defeat.

"All our hard work for nothing!" The Recorder snapped, apparently determined to make a scene. He stabbed a fork into the table. "Let's make a feast they said! It would work they said! At this rate we'll starve ourselves to death!"

"Will you just shut up?" Constance half-asked, half-demanded. "So the feast was a bad idea, like I've never had any of those."

"No. You've just had one too many." He muttered.

Matiya was definitely running by the time he reached the front doors. Threeclaw was far behind, following at a more natural pace and he was quite sure Abbot Martin and the old hedgehog were still at the gates.

He burst through the front doors, a blur of red fur that only narrowly managed to not fall over in an attempt at slowing down. Unable to contain his excitement any longer it burst from him in an erruption of joy.

"Didyoumissmebecausenowyoudon'thavetobecauseI'mback!" This was greeted with nothing but silence. He really did not have a way with words... "Um, hello?" He flattened his chest-fur, not that that helped his pattering heart relax.

More for something to do than because he thought anybeast might be there, the squirrel pushed open the doors to the Great Hall and peaked in.

For half a second the feast stole his eyes, but then they turned to a small sound.

"Matiya?"

"Rose!" Now it was the squirrel's turn to play the hugger. "I've missed you." Swiftly, he released her, a thousand questions he wanted to ask rushing deep into the back of his mind.

He was saved from any potential embarrassment by the Foremole, who ruffled the fur between his ears and declared for all to hear.

"Oi bet this'll smoile up the oold Lug-a-lug."

"Great seasons! We're all hallucinating!" The Recorder declared, hastily wiping his glasses to get a better look at the scene.

Even Bella's snoring sounded joyful.

"Where's everybeast else?" Matiya asked, turning to Roseheart. Before the molemaid could answer she went very pale. A moment later Matiya knew exactly why.

Standing behind him, fake-smirk at the ready, was Threeclaw. The stoat waved his three-clawed paw in greeting, but before any introductions could be made there came a delighted cry.

"THREECLAW!" Four tiny weasels, covered from tail to nose in all kinds of food, shot towards the stoat faster than was possible, and latched onto whatever they could reach, be it his tail or his feetpaws. The albino looked stunned at the sight of them- clad in both foodstains and habits.

"Woi'z 'ee 'ere?" Roseheart asked, shaking like a leaf. The young mole had had countless nightmares of the incident. Threeclaw was always in them, smiling deceptively or gutting them at the tip of his rapier.

"'Oo'z 'ee?" The Foremole asked, holding his daughter tight in an attempt at chasing away her terror.

"Well he kidnapped us-" Matiya started, but the stoat shoved him aside.

"Threeclaw." The stoat said, bowing low. He reached out and swiftly caught hold of one of Roseheart's paws. Before anybeast could react he had kissed it. "Je suis enchante de vous encore meeting." He stood back up and patted the befuddled Foremole's shoulder. "You have a very brave daughter on your paws mi copain."

Then Threeclaw slunk away, having caught sight of a beautifully made pastry he was determined to sink his teeth into.

Before any further questions could be asked, another voice spoke out from the hallways.

"M-m-matiya?"

"Mother!"

Blind Agatha very nearly fainted away at the sound of his voice, before throwing him in a hasty hug. Evidently the old beasts had become better at it since his departure. "D-dear what's happened to you? Bruises all over, and your fur-" Much to the young squirrel's chagrin his mother began grooming him.

"Muuuuuuuum! I'm fine! Really!"

The other abbeybeasts did not seem to take note of his displeasure- but Threeclaw did and gave a silent and exaggerated fake-laugh behind their backs. Matiya replied the only way he knew how, by sticking his tongue out.

"-Snow in your fur and goodness! You must be starving!" The next thing he knew, he was seated and a tremendous pile of food was placed before him. Some of it was burned, and in their rush to bring him food everybeast forgot that he loathed leeks and mushrooms, but quite frankly Matiya did not care. A return home had never tasted so good.

Somebeast must have spread the news, for soon the whole abbey was there, wishing him a welcome home and asking him the same three hundred questions. Which he really could not answer what with his mouth being always full and all.

"We have been looking for you," said a shrew he had never spoken too before. "All bloody winter! Wait 'till the Log-a-log hears!"

Their was a genuine attitude of merriment about the place, and Matiya did not remember a more perfect day.

"I'm glad you're back dear." Said Rosebrush, though there were tears in her eyes. That was when he realized Momchillo had not yet said his greetings. Nor had Hawthorn. Or Tibbers or Jack. Or Fret or-

"Where are the others?" He whispered towards Roseheart, who was seated besides him. "Momchillo and Fret? Jack and Tibbers?"

"Not back yet." Said Friar Gord, who had heard him. The hedgehog forced a smile. "But at least you're with us."

Matiya's jaw dropped. The news hit him like a sledgehammer. "W-wh-what do you mean they're not back yet- it's been all winter!"

He must have spoken too loudly, for almost instantly the hall was silent again.

"We mean that thankfully you're still alive, but unfortunately the same cannot be said about your peers who, as you can see, are not among us." Replied the Recorder with characteristic bluntness.

Just as sullen silence began to spread it's slimy paws all over the Great Hall, the Log-a-log (still drunk as ever, but bizzarelly cheerful now) hurled a pair of burnt pies at him. Laughter filled the hall again but Matiya was left feeling sorry for the frustrated writer, who stomped away without another word.

Matiya felt guilt begin to bubble in the pit of his stomach and the squirrel could not eat another bite.

It had seemed like the obvious choice. The one any decent beast would make if given the chance. Guilt had nagged at him then. Liar liar liar liar... He slumped in his seat and the squirrel's dejection did not go unnoticed by those around him.

The Friar put a comforting paw on his back. "Now now, you know the Recorder, always making everything more miserable than it is. I'm sure your friends are fine. Who knows, maybe they're knocking at the gates as we speak?"

That was unlikely, but Matiya was cheered up upon remembering that Grollo and Hawthorn were on their way here... with Sharpfur...

A sudden yelp drove his attention back to Threeclaw, who now hung in the air, Bella's paws clamped around his middle like a pair of pincers.

Many others turned to stare at the sight.

"Put him down ye dumb badger!" Snapped Fang from around a half-eaten turnover. Her siblings brandished their own barely eaten foodstuffs.

"Anybeast care to explain what this vermin's doing eating at our feast?"

"Maybe he's hungry!" Wheezed the stoat, thrashing in the mighty grip of his captor.

"Er- he's with me." Matiya raised a paw. Several beasts gave the young squirrel startled looks, as if he'd said a bad word. "Threeclaw's been... taking care of me..." He did not like the way everybeast suddenly seemed to notice his bruises.

"He didn't hit you, did he?" The Friar gave voice to the question on everyone's mind.

"No." Was the squirrel's immediate reply. "I got them er- wrestling a frog."

"Big frog." Threeclaw wheezed in agreement, his face going cherry red from lack of air. "Troi big frogs."

Although some looked at him skeptically, noone refuted the squirrel's claim. Just when it seemed Bella was about to relinquish her grip, another voice called from the din.

"Hey! I think I recognize this vermin!" Declared a hare, prodding the stoat with a salad fork. "He was one of the kidnappers!" The hare turned to another. "You remember, the one that climbed the anchor to get away?"

The addressed hare's eyes widened in recognition, just as Threeclaw started going purple. "You're bally right you know!"

"No!" Matiya shouted, drawing all eyes to himself. "I mean, yes, he was a kidnapper at first- b-but h-he he saved my life!" It was not strictly true, but the squirrel needed something radical. "There was a-a bird! A giant sparrow and it v-very nearly carried me off! Goodness knows where I'd be if it weren't for Threeclaw! J-j-just let him go. Please ju-just- he needs to breathe!"

Maybe they believed him, or maybe it was the frantic way he'd said it that had convinced them to spare the stoat.

Gently, Bella placed the albino on the table, where Threeclaw hastily began swallowing air.

"Sorry about that." She said slowly, her eyes narrowed in mistrust.

"No... worries." The stoat said, rubbing at sore ribs. To say he was disgruntled would have been an understatement.

"It appears we are indebted to you." The badgermum sat back down. Despite said gesture she still towered over the stoat. "Threeclaw. Saving our child from that sparrow. And those frogs..." Her eyes were narrowed enough for the albino to shrink in on himself.

"M-Matiya's a-a bon copain." He replied, crawling off the table and onto his feetpaws while keeping eye contact with the large badger lest she try a surprise attack.

"Indeed."

A kind of tension began to set in. Incredibly aware that he was outnumbered, outgunned and unarmed while surrounded by perhaps a hundred less-than-friendly woodlanders, Threeclaw picked up a muffin and began to nibble at it.

It was a relief to all when Abbot Martin walked in. Threeclaw slunk to a corner- incidentally Fret's preferred spot at one point- and all eyes were upon the mouse and the old hedgehog besides him.

Abbot Martin had just spent a rather enjoyable afternoon hearing of the exploits of his students. Relief and joy filled him to the brim and not even the foulest of thunderstorms could put a damper on his smile.

"Friends, this is Lily Prickla. She has been looking after our children all winter long. Giving Grollo and Hawthorn and ahem, Sharpfur, her food and hospitality all winter long and I would be greatly ashamed if we fail to outdo her!"

There came a hearty cheer, and the Log-a-log unwisely slapped the back of the nearest abbeybeast- this was unwise because the nearest abbeybeast was Grollo's mother.

"I take it you have all met a Threeclaw?" The abbot asked over the fat shrew's cries of pain.

"Oh they have." The stoat in question supplied rather grumpily, the soreness of his ribs not quite gone yet.

"Well, I would like to extend the paw of friendship towards you. Irrespective of any and all ill deeds you may have done, you have brought us good news and Matiya home. Our thanks go with you as does an offer of hospitality."

The stoat cocked his head to the side, the ghost of a smile beginning to dance along his lips and clashing viciously with the startled face he pulled.

"Of course, we can leave anything of import for the morning. For now my friends, we have got a lot to celebrate and anybeast I catch not enjoying themselves," He sent a mock-stern glare along the rows of seated beasts. "Can spend the rest of tomorow on dish duty."

With a final hearty laugh the feast began properly, and it was just as Abbot Martin had promised the weasels. There was no dancing, and there was some music. And lots, and lots, of vittles.

[The Grey Coincidence]

In times of crisis, Greyclaw had found no greater comfort than food. Oh actual comforting was good too, but where was he supposed to get it from? Jack was busy, Tibbers didn't understand, Victoria and Angus and Andrew and the Skipper were... well... dangerous. He'd seen the way they spoke of vermin- the way the twins bragged about killing 'no good scum', the way Victoria stabbed the rat-faced dummies...

He was a mouse, apparently, he ought to have no cause for fear. He was amongst other woodlanders... but hadn't he always been a rat?

"Yer a mouse." Heartrip teased, a pointed grin plastered to her muzzle.

Greyclaw shook his head timidly.

"He ain't a mouse stupid!" Sharpfur snapped. This had been a long time ago, when Greyclaw had been little and Sharpfur littler and Heartrip, Blizzard and Redtail your typical older siblings.

"Ma said ye had to let us play with you." The littlest weasel continued, his wrists on his hips. "So ye have to let us play or ma'll have yer ears." Greyclaw was still not sure why Sharpfur always wanted to play with his siblings. He would much prefer staying with Sickletail and Silvertongue, they usually kept him occupied one way or another and there was less danger involved.

"I ain't playing with a mouse and a runt."

"I ain't a runt!" Sharpfur snapped, the furs along his back rising up in rage. "Just wait! One day I'll be bigger than ye!" As an afterthought the weasel added. "And Grey ain't a mouse or ma wouldn't have picked him up, would she?"

Heartrip opened her mouth to continue teasing- but was interrupted.

"We already told ye." Blizzard snapped, growing impatient. "We ain't babysittin' ye. Go and bother Threeclaw."

Greyclaw liked Threeclaw, even though the stoat scared him. He was usually quite nice and if he was in a good mood would even take them swimming. Mostly to torment Sharpfur, who was scared of water, but Greyclaw loved swimming. Perhaps it was better if they went to see Threeclaw.

"It ain't babysittin' coz we ain't babies. Now let us play or I'll tell Ma you lot bit an otter."

"H-how do ye know that?" Redtail asked. Refusing to look after their naggy little brothers was one thing- not an act of defiance so much as a declaration of independence. But a fight with otters? That would land them in a whole load of trouble...

"I heard ye bragging about nickin' his rump. And I know that Gulash didn't give ye that black eye coz I was with Gulash." Sharpfur smirked, having outsmarted his siblings through the power of hearing. "So. What are we playing?"

Blizzard grumbled and frowned, but at last relented. "We were gonna go snake-huntin' at the quarry. But now we have to play hide and seek or something because we have to look after the widdle babies. Want me te hold yer widdle paws or something?"

"Why're ye looking at me when ye say widdle, eh?" Growled Sharpfur, his tiny paws clenched into fists. "Coz I ain't little and ye know it!"

"We can still go snake-huntin'." Heartrip declared. Scuttling behind her little brothers she placed a pair of paws on Greyclaw's shoulders. "We just found ourselves the perfect bait."

"B-bait?" Greyclaw gulped.

Redtail smirked, realising what his sister was up to. "Oh yes bait. One whiff of you Grey and every snake in Mossflower'll come slithering for a bite. Maybe even two or three."

"It won't hurt much." Blizzard explained, pinching the rat's stomach. "Just a little pinch here and there." To underline his point he pinched the rat's tail-tip. It stung and Greyclaw had to bite back a whimper.

"And then when they swallow ye we catch 'em!"

"S-swallow?"

"Whole an' kickin'!"

"Don't worry though, we'll let ye out."

"Maybe in a few hours."

"Days more like."

"Maybe never." Said Blizzard with a carefree shrug. "One less mouth to feed ye know. Maybe Sharpfur'd be bigger if ye didn't scoff all his food."

"The snake'd be happy too. All that extra paddin'."

"It's decided." Declared Heartrip. "We're goin' snake-huntin'!"

Greyclaw turned and fled as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him. The older weasels roared with laughter behind him but he did not stop.

Sharpfur growled. He never played without Greyclaw and now stomped away determinedly, throwing a half-hearted kick at Redtail as he passed.

"Ye think we took it too far?" Blizzard asked when they were out of earshot of the two.

"Nah." Said Heartrip. "But we'd better get goin' before they call ma."

Greyclaw sniffled from the safety of his hiding place- a small willow tree next to the river. It's thick, leafy folds hid him from view and stiffled the sounds of his crying. It was a joke of course- his siblings would never feed him to a snake. But it had still hurt and he was soft. So sniffle he did.

Sharpfur found him a few seconds later- more than used to following Greyclaw to his 'hide-out' by now. "It was a joke Grey." The weasel complained. He had never been comfortable with his rat brother's sensitivity. "Anyhow ye know I wouldn't let the snakes bite ye."

Greyclaw sniffled again and Sharpfur awkwardly rubbed at his nose.

"Ye want us te go swimmin' or?"

A simple question, but a monumental gesture from Sharpfur.

But Greyclaw shook his head and wiped his eyes and nose. He would not force Sharpfur into doing something he would not like. The weasel hated water.

Now that he was no longer in the presence of a crying beast, Sharpfur grinned. "Those idjits think they've outsmarted us. But wait till Ma hears about the otter incident! Oh boy! She'll have their ears in a twist afore ye an' I can start laughing!"

But Greyclaw hadn't laughed- although Sharpfur did more than enough laughing for the both of them, when Sickletail had confronted their siblings with the forbidden knowledge. Needless to say, their ears had been twisted.

He wasn't laughing now either, his mouth stuffed with cake, his eyes with tears. He was so confused! And scared! Was he a rat or a mouse? Did it matter? Were his family dead? Where were they if not? Would they care if he was a mouse? And if he was a mouse would he still be Greyclaw or would he become Berty for real? But Berty sounded wrong! Perhaps he could change his name-

"Comfort eatin' again?" Tibbers shook his head. "At the rate you're going you'll end up wider than a badger." That was when the shrew noticed the red around his eyes. "Nightmare?" He asked, helping Grey Berty Banana Bartholomew Claw to his feet (Hellgates that name was too long! It couldn't be real...)

Greyclaw nodded meekly. "I- they- the tonic doesn't help!"

Tibbers now began to lead him away from the desicrated kitchen- desperate to leave before the cook caught them. "Have you been taking it?"

"Well... no..." Greyclaw rubbed the back of his neck. He had wanted to, of course. But every time he'd picked up the phial (in itself a great labour for it was badger-sized) he could hear Sick-Eyes rattling on about how she'd seen badgers tear beasts in two. Perhaps it was because he'd been easy to scare- but the old pine marten had especially loved to terify him. Deathglare too, though he hadn't done it on purpose. It was just the way he always spoke quietly that made Grey nervous. And his eyes. His eyes were scary too.

Yet, frightening though they were, he'd loved them. They'd been part of the same crew at least...

"I think you should give it a try." The little shrew encouraged. "I mean, what's the worst that can happen."

"Supposing I choke on it. Or I don't like the taste."

"And is that better or worse than bad dreams? Personally I'd put on my brave face and swallow a cup. I mean... it can't be the worst-tasting medicine in the world, eh?"

"B-b-but I don't have a brave face." He had never been 'brave'. Everybeast had always said that bravery was stupid. Cunning, cunning was important. But he'd never been cunning! You had to be clever to be cunning and he wasn't clever either. Sharpfur had been the clever one.

"Well, you don't need one. Look. You'll take the tonic tonight and- and I'll take it with you. If it's bad it's bad. But it's worth a try, isn't it?"

Tibbers was also clever. Small, still careful to be nowhere near him on the dinner table, and a shrew. Yet if not for him and Jack, Grey would be dead and Berty would never exist.

That had been a long while ago now. Grey had taken the tonic and the nightmares had faded away. Now, in the ridiculously hot heat of early spring (they were in a desert after all), Berty was in a dessert. Again. Well, he was supposed to be eating it- but manners had never been an important part of life in the Honest Bunch- nor was it particularly important amongst the Long Patrol. Sure a few beasts stared, but by now everybeast was used to him.

"Berty! Berty! Berty!" Angus and Andrew cheered, their paws banging on the table, their tails slapping the floor. The twins had developed a kind of obsession with watching the mouserat (he was still undecided) eat. Perhaps it was the unorthodox method of diving in, or the speed with which he could demolish (or rather, devour) a badger-sized serving of strawberry pie that fascinated them. That or they just wanted to know how fat he could get.

Perhaps it was because of Victoria's 'training regime' (a form of torture he'd never encountered before), or the hot sun that melted flab in the form of near-constant sweat, but he had gained next to no weight. He had gained no muscles either, but Victoria- or as he liked to call her, Vicky, didn't like hearing that so he never said that.

At last he finished the pie, and sat down with a tremendous belch that would have made any mild-mannered creature faint clean away.

"And at long last,"

"The heroic mouse,"

"Swallowed the crumb,"

"His belly was already numb?"

The two shook their head. Music was not their strong suite either- and apart from swimming, Greyclaw did not think they had a strong suite.

"Yes well, swallowing crumbs isn't going to make anybeast any more heroic." To Victoria there was always a battle going on. Sometimes two even. Rigid determination. Strict morals and mannerisms. "Songs are written to remember important figures and battles. Not the swallowing of pies."

Jack opened his mouth to try and list all the songs he knew that had nothing to do with either figures or battles, but Victoria shut him down.

"Close your mouth Jack before the lettuce falls out. You've already dropped your brain as is."

Indigantly the hare swallowed. "I'll have you know tha-"

"So, Berty, I was thinking we could start training you for naval combat." The mouse continued speaking, leaving Jack-is-Lucky to fume over his meal. He'd just been about to unleash the Ballad of Salad on her...

"Navel combat?" The rat repeated, staring at his belly. "I don't think they're built for fighting really. I suppose I could belly flop somebeast. Or sit on them."

"I'm not talking about your stomach."

Greyclaw cocked his head to the side, his mouth slightly agape. "Then what were you talking about?"

"Naval means water mate." Andrew provided.

"No it doesn't!" Scolded his twin. "It means to do with water."

"Well there won't be any of that belly-flopping tosh anyways, wot." Said the Junior Corporal, leaping into the conversation with the big long words of any hare- he also leapt onto the table to get their attention, using his big, long legs. "I've arranged an expedition!" There were several layers of excitement in his voice. It was rather like being confronted with a dibbun on a sugar-rush. From the depths of his perfectly crease-less uniform, he withdrew a map.

A chubby finger traced a line along a blue line that Grey knew was a river. A little squiggle gave them it's name but Berty couldn't read- the Honest Bunch had never taught him and the others didn't know of this inability of his. "We are going to be patrolling this here riverbank. It's unlikely we bump into any troubles or that sort of thing- but isn't it exciting? A really spliffing opportunity to work on our marching if I say so myself, wot wot. Not to mention that if something does arise it'll be our duty to deal with it!"

"Something?" Victoria raised an eyebrow.

"Oh you know, vermin bands and cannibals- pirates, that sort of thing. I mean, we probably won't run into anything serious, wot. But still! The Badgerlord himself gave me permission! He trusts me!"

"Calm down before you wet yourself- that's a nice pie you're standing over." Angus advised.

The rotund corporal sat down on the bench (accidentally squashing Tibbers) only slightly flustered by the comment.

"Of course, if you don't want to come you don't have to. But I thought it would be a great experience. Upholding law and order and all the rest!"

"It's just a patrol." Jack-is-Lucky rolled his eyes. "You'd think we were going to save Mossflower or something."

"We might be! You never know what might happen! Lord Umber even said so himself!"

"Eh we'll go." Angus and Andrew spoke in unison, their nonchalant shrugs identical to the very last whisker.

"Well I probably have to go anyways since this is part of training and all, wot." Jack nodded. "But it's been a while since I've left this place."

"It's settled then! I'll go let the other squadrons know!" This really meant 'I'll go brag to everybeast in sight' but that was beside the point. Tibbers was glad to see him leave to say the least.

"I fancy having a swim in water that isn't salty for a change." Angus announced, stretching his paws wide.

"No more stinging eyes for us mate!"

"I don't think I'll go." Greyclaw said quietly, hoping that nobeast would hear. Unfortunately he had underestimated their hearing.

"Why not Gr- Berty? Patrol duty's a lot of fun. Think of it like a game of 'eye-spy' and you'll never be bored again."

Sharpfur had always hated that game. He'd only played it in times of extreme boredom and even then only to annoy anybeast in earshot.

"Well - er, I dunno. I just feel a little tired." He hastily gave what was obviously a fake-yawn. "Didn't get much sleep."

"You clever rat!" Angus exclaimed, slamming his paw upon the table. Greyclaw momentarily seized up- terrified that the truth he was now uncertain of had been revealed- but it was a false alarm. "You just want a clean shot at the kitchens!"

Gales of laughter followed his words (not to mention a glare from the cook that could have melted right through thick rock) and Greyclaw went pink around the ears, but could think of no reply. There was a tugging at his tail, and Greyclaw found Victoria motioning for him to sit besides her. He did as he was bid- ignoring the wolf-whistles Angus and Andrew sent his way. The twins were good at teasing- almost as good as his older brothers- and he made the perfect target.

The mousemaid ignored them, knowing full well that they only did that to bug her. Berty was sweet in his silliness, and so naive it wouldn't have surprised her if he walked out a window. Did she care about him? Yes, but only because he couldn't take care of himself.

Greyclaw did his best to tune them out- the pair always made him uncomfortable somehow. Anyhow it wasn't like there was any merit to it. Vicky was nice, but she frightened him- and had he still lived with the Honest Bunch, probably would have slain him. But she was nice to Berty and he was probably a mouse anyway, so he liked her.

"I know everything seems scary when you've been away from it awhile." She said, as the otters moved on to annoying Tibbers; 'The good Corporal didn't sit on you, did he?' "But you can't stay hidden in here forever Berty. When I first got here I didn't want to leave either. I thought that if I set a footpaw outside something horrible would happen. But nothing bad ever happened. Look, I'm sure what the vermin did to you was horrible- but the world is beautiful and you can't let beasts like that dictate how you live your life. Just because there are monsters outside these walls doesn't mean you shouldn't face them. When life spits in your face, spit back and say 'do your worst' and you'll never be scared again."

"Erm, I'm not really scared." He wasn't scared of having to deal with pirates or the like. He'd been a sort of pirate after all, which said a lot about how broad the single word was. In truth he didn't want to go because, even if he was a mouse, it would somehow plague him with guilt to be part of a Long Patrol patrol- he'd been raised to run from them and hide from them and stay clear of them. Not be them!

Victoria patted his shoulder. "Berty, a bat could tell you were terrified and they're half-blind. But you have nothing to be scared of. It's unlikely we bump into anything- still too early for any wrongdoers to come out of their hideouts- but even if we do what's the worst that can happen? You won't find a horde a day's march from Salamandastron, the other patrols would already have spotted them. And I think I can handle one or two vermin."

Well... that depended on the vermin. If he was a rat, than yes, she could very easily 'handle' him. But Sharpfur was debatable and there was no way she could beat Threeclaw or Gulash or Deathglare or Sharpfur's Ma. Nevertheless he did not want to hurt her feelings, for Vicky took great pride in being an excellent combatant, and nodded.

"So you'll come?" She asked, turning back to her salad.

"Go on Berty."

"She's inviting you."

"Can't refuse a sweet lass like her, can you?"

Greyclaw shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the sight of Angus winking at the pair.

"Well, I suppose so. I guess I'll go."

"Hooray! Alright! I'll go get ready now. I expect the Corporal will want us to leave any minute." With that Jack-is-Lucky took his leave, only pausing once to snatch a pair of toasts on his way out.

"Well I can't go." Said Tibbers flatly. "Last time I went on any kind of expedition I got stabbed in the shoulder. I'll just be on the walltops or something. You never know when somebeast'll come knocking." He sighed and before another word could be said, turned to leave, his tiny tail dragging across the ground behind him.

"What's up with him?" Asked Andrew.

"Probably the shoulder wound."

"Aye, that'll be it."

"Or the Corporal sitting on him."

"Yeah that happens quite often."

"It's not always the Corporal though, is it?"

"Maybe I should stay with Tibbers." Greyclaw suggested. His family were probably dead- but they'd be watching him from Hellgates and... The shame! Joining the Long Patrol. He'd never be able to live that down in the afterlife... "He might get lonely."

"We'll kidnap a shrew for him." Angus suggested.

"A nice pretty shrewmaid to keep him company."

"Then we'll have two pair of lovebirds standing around."

Victoria glared at the two- but Greyclaw had never been a master of comprehension. "Who're the other two?"

[The Grey Coincidence]

The journey down the river (none knew which one it was anymore) had been a pleasant one for Hawthorn, Sharpfur and Grollo. The three had been content for the first few days to let the current carry them aimlessly along. They had had plenty of food Sharpfur had 'borrowed' from the old hedgehog and the warm spring days had been spent without a care in the world.

Needless to say, they regretted that now. Every last stolen crumb had been eaten, the pleasant warmth became overbearing heat and the cramped spaces of a small boat was not large enough for the three of them. Then the bickering had started and never stopped. Grollo grew progressively grumpier with each passing day- their plan to 'bump into' somebeast friendly was failing rather dramatically and Hawthorn now regretted leaving the cottage in the dead of night.

Funnily enough that was the one point they all agreed on.

"We'd be havin' lunch now." Said Sharpfur, miserably.

"Will you stop talking about food?" Grollo snapped. At the same time his stomach grumbled in discontent. They were all hungy- and their was nothing to chew on except each other's egos.

"What do ye want us te talk about then, eh? How we're lost? How the sun is Hellgates itself? Why ye're covered in pin needles?"

"Or we could talk about how you didn't steal a map. Or how you convinced us to leave. Or how you ate most of the food-"

"Which I stole!" The weasel snapped. "Be grateful I shared it with ye, greedy-rump! And about convinced ye! Ye both wanted te leave- same as me. Don't ye go pinnin' this on me."

"Well when you said 'we're leaving' I thought we might actually go somewhere! You know. That's not the middle of nowhere!" As if to underline the hedgehog's point, the desert around them echoed the last word with avengeance.

"Go on blame the vermin. Typical woodlanders."

"I'm not blaming you coz you're vermin! I'm blaming you because this is your fault!"

"Go boil in puddin' or something! I can't argue with an appetite."

"I wish we had pudding."

"Water that don't taste like salt would be good too." Sharpfur agreed.

Hawthorn, who had been tuning out the conversation so as to maintain a kind of inner peace, was jolted back into reality by the weasel's words.

"The water's salty?"

"Can't ye tell?" He asked dryly.

"We haven't been drinking from the river." Grollo pointed at a pair of water bags that were by now half-empty.

"And ye call me a thief! Ye went and stole that old witch's bags!"

"They were in the boat we didn't steal them." The hedgehog protested.

"Well ye didn't share either." Sharpfur muttered.

Hawthorn, once more ignoring the snapping duo, leaned over the edge of their small raft and dipped her paw in the water. It was refreshingly cool- especially after the beating the sun had given them- and as she found out upon licking her wet paw clean- salty.

"Do you know what this means?" She gasped, already staring off into the horizon.

"That I'm a nicer beast than the both of ye? Thaks for noticin'."

"That we're near the sea!"

"What sea?" Asked Grollo. "And how is that good news? I want to go home, not the beach."

"Think Grollo, think! We're going West, and we're near the sea shore- what lies on the Western Shore?"

The hedgehog furrowed his brow, deep in thought. His specialty was cooking, although he was very good at brooding, and it took what felt like a century for him to find an answer. "Not Redwall."

That much was true, but it wasn't what Hawthorn had been looking for.

"Salamandastron!" The ancient fortress home of the Long Patrol and the Badgerlords. Hawthorn had always wanted to visit the place (although staying was out of the question -it was a volcano after all), and now ironically, she would get her chance. And more importantly, the road from Redwall to Salamandastron was well-known and traversed, and going home would not be difficult if they could just find the place.

All Sharpfur knew, however, was that the fortress was the bane of any vermin band and that a badger lay inside, drinking tea from out of skulls. "We can't go there!"

"Why not?" Asked Grollo. "We might even get an escort home. Ha! I bet Jack's there."

"Yeah, the hare I kidnapped. Ye really think anybeast there's gonna be happy te see me?"

There was an awkward silence and then Sharpfur continued, more frantically and with a note of genuine fear. "Besides! There's badgers there an-and- that large patrol thingy. They- they'd eat me alive. Or throw me down their vol- vol- vol-" He'd learned the cursed word, but panic made him forget it.

"Volcano. And I don't think they will." Said Hawthorn. Sharpfur had to tear his paw out of her grip to avoid physical comforting but their was no escaping her words. Not unless he jumped overboard and he didn't know how to swim. "They won't do anything horrible to you because we'll tell them what a lovely creature you are-"

"Yer not funny mouse! I'm bein' serious! This is serious!"

"So am I! You're our friend Sharpfur, and you've got nowhere else to go. They can't just turn you away at the gates-"

"No, but they can roast me over a fire or boil me in soup or whatever! I don't care how 'edjucated' I am it don't change the fact that I ain't a woodlander."

"We're not monsters." Grollo said, aghast. "We're not going to roast you for nothing- and the only thing you'll boil in is a bathtub. Look. You don't have to stay in Salamandastron, we won't either. Just as long as it takes to get to Redwall-"

"But I don't wanna go to Redwall either!" The weasel snapped. "I wanna go-" He barely managed to stop himself from saying 'home'. His home was long burnt to ashes and Sharpfur belonged nowhere. Not in the mountain, not in the abbey and certainly not in present company!

"So..." Grollo breathed, as awkwardness became palpable around them.

"I mean I will go there, even if I don't want to." The weasel continued. His family was dead. There was no home left. No Honest Bunch. No Greyclaw. He had to make do with what he had and Vulpuz had only given him woodlanders. And when life gave you woodlanders you made... woodland trifle? That didn't sound right... "But don't be surprised if yer ghost murders me."

"Nobeast'll murder you." Hawthorn said, surprised slightly at the relief rushing through her. After the past few weeks she honestly could not imagine a life without Sharpfur's bitterness.

"Ghosts ain't beasts but that's a problem for later. Doesn't change the fact that I ain't goin' to the fire mountain. We ought to turn around."

"But then we might get lost again." Grollo pointed out.

"Does it matter? So long as I don't end up feedin' a badger, I'm happy!"

Grollo opened his mouth to argue- but Hawthorn stopped him. "We can't paddle upriver." She explained gently, watching the rapidly spinning wheels turn inside the weasel's head. All faults aside, Sharpfur was smart. But he was prideful too, and pride always came before the fall. "But if you're scared of a doddery old badger I suppose we could start going upriver on foot."

"But that'll take us back to the cannibals!" Grollo protested, unaware of her scheme.

"Well Sharpfur can fight them off! He's scared of badgers not beast-eaters."

"Badgers are beast eaters!" The weasel snapped. "And I ain't scared of them-"

"But doesn't their height terify you? Why I heard some badgers can grow as tall as mountains, as wide as hills! It makes sense for a little creature like you to be scared of them."

"I'm not that little." The weasel growled, his claws digging into the sides of the boat. But Hawthorn could tell by the twitching eyelid- magnified by the over-sized spectacles he still wore- that her plan to goad him into obedience was working.

"I know that." She said soothingly, as Grollo watched dumbfounded. He was easily the slowest of the three- but it was easier to spot manipulation when it wasn't being used on you. "You're a perfectly normal-sized creature."

Sharpfur looked slightly surprised, but didn't seem to mind the unexpected compliment. "Why! You're even bigger than me!" Now the weasel was smirking. "But next to a badger you and I are like- like flies." The vole shook her head vigorously. "No Grollo, I don't think we can go to Salamandastron. I think Sharpfur's right and we should head back upriver."

"Now hang on a minute." The weasel raised a paw. "A badger can't be that big."

Grollo raised a skeptical eyebrow to go with his question. "Have you ever seen a badger before? They've got fangs the size of swords, claws like spears! We're not even flies! More like... like...like crumbs!"

Sharpfur swallowed and all of their hard work was blown into the wind. "Yer right, Salamandsasstron ain't safe. So directly to Redwall it is."

Perhaps they had taken the 'badgers are big' thing a little too far... Or perhaps Grollo had emphasized the wrong things...

"We were joking!" Hawthorn admitted. "Badgers aren't big at all!"

"Yer just sayin' that now! A badger'd squish me. Now help me turn the boat around!"

"We can't paddle upriver." Grollo reminded him.

"Watch me! Between paddlin' up a waterfall an' meetin' a badger, I'll take the waterfall!" The weasel was panicking now, his fur on end, his eyes wide and darting- as if teriffied a badger might suddenly pop out of the river.

"Sharpfur stop!"

"No!"

"Listen!"

"Yer not the boss of me!"

"Guys? I don't think we're on a river anymore." The hedgehog drew their attention to the shore, and the waves now bobbing them away from the sun- that meant west at this hour.

"Oh no no no no! This is horrible." Sharpfur turned around to try and find the river- but could not spot it with the sun glaring down at him... like a hungry badger. The weasel shrunk. "What're we goin' to do?"

"Well that's a pretty simple question to answer." Grollo stood up- shaking the whole boat but not capsizing it, and hopped off. Plump as he was, water was splashed everywhere, and Sharpfur was left wiping his glasses. The hedgehog was the tallest of the three, but still the water reached up to his chest.

"If ye think I'm gonna do that then yer dumber than ye look! I can't swim remember?"

"I never said you had to jump off of anything." Placing a paw on the side of the boat, the hedgehog guided it closer to the shore. Very little pulling was required and the tide was low so he did not have to walk much.

"So we're on the beach." Sharpfur squeaked, narrowly avoiding the water as he jumped off the boat- which now began to drift away. "Now what?"

Hawthorn chewed her lip. The weasel was not going to like this, but she couldn't see any alternative. "We find Salamandastron."

"No! No! No! No! I already told ye, no!"

"But Sharpfu-"

The weasel pointed in a random direction- he wasn't sure where Salamandastron was exactly. "That mountain exists purely to kill beasts like me! No way in Hellgates am I setting footpaw inside!"

"Alright." Grollo raised a paw to stop Hawthorn from replying. "Here's what we do. We go to Salamandastron-"

"What part of my sen-tense did ye not understand!?"

"We go to Salamandastron and we ask for directions, maybe some supplies too and then we go straight to Redwall. No pit stops. We're not staying anywhere and if we're lucky we won't even have to deal with the Badgerlord." This was in all likelihood a very unlikely outcome. Grownups rarely let children off on their own- let alone in the company of a weasel- and the Long Patrol was definitely going to insist on an escort of some sort. But Sharpfur didn't need to know that yet. Besides, if the walk was long- which in all likelihood it was- then there was every possibility into coaxing the weasel into a small break- a bit of a lie-in, a bite to eat and the like.

"And supposin' the hares were to- whatsit- arst me?"

"Arst?" Asked Hawthorn.

"It means te hold ye for crimes."

"Arrest." The vole corrected. "And what crimes? We didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm a weasel." Sharpfur pointed out. The furs along his back rising and falling at every moment.

"That's not a crime."

"I know it ain't! Bu-but I- I kidnapped you-"

"And saved us from cannibals." Grollo reminded him. The hedgehog set off at a slow pace. "If you hadn't picked the lock I'd have been made into soup."

"And you didn't hurt us either." Hawthorn too, began to walk down the beach. "Besides, weren't you planning to ransom us here anyways?"

Sharpfur scowled, loathing the pair for their cleverness. He glanced half-heartedly in the opposite direction, but knew that alone he stood no chance. He was in a desert, there was no food or fresh water for miles out. He couldn't swim and had never been good at fishing. With a sigh of resignation that was closer to a growl of annoyance, the weasel followed after his companions. The mouse had called him their friend. And he supposed that was true. But Vulpuz... what had he done to deserve friends like these?

[The Grey Coincidence]

There was no time left for regrets, but if there had been even a minute or two, Greyclaw would have regretted ever agreeing to patrol duty. The young hares training under the Junior Corporal's division were already several places ahead of him- not even breaking a sweat as they marched at a constant pace, singing some marching song Grey did not know the name of. The rat was huffing and puffing and practically running, yet still far behind.

"Keep up Berty!" Victoria insisted from far ahead of him.

"Come on Gr-Berty!" Jack doubled back from the back of the hares and hoisted the fat rat above the ground. "We don't leave anybeast behind, wot. But by golly, I wish you were lighter!"

Now patrolling was easy- well of course it was easy, he didn't have to walk. Only stir guiltily as Jack began to fall behind the others, huffing and puffing from the added weight. Not to mention the heat of the sun.

Another patrol passed by, and all hares saluted smartly- except Jack, but rats were not made for saluting with.

"Afraid you won't find anything, wot." Said the hare apparently in charge of this other patrol. "Not a vermin in sight, I'm afraid. Great seasons I can't remember the last time I saw a rat! You might not see much of lunch either at that pace. You've still got a lot of ground to cover, wot, and you know we don't leave any leftovers!"

As soon as they were out of earshot, the Junior Corporal (ignoring both common sense and the protests of all present) doubled their speed.

Jack collapsed onto the sand, and Greyclaw with him. "Bally hot isn't it? I'm starting to think Tibbers was right."

"Berty!" Came Victoria's insistent voice. "Jack! Keep up!"

"I'd like to see her try and carry you, wot." The hare grumbled, pushing himself to his feet and helping the rat to his.

"I think I'd squash her." Greyclaw pointed out, as the two now walked at a normal pace.

"Or she'd throw you into the sea."

"For the last time!" The mouse snapped.

"Not right in the jolly ole cranium, that one." Jack-is-Lucky shook his head.

"Keep up!"

"What does cranium mean?" Asked Greyclaw, as the two did their best at catching up.

Tibbers' too was walking. In the opposite direction. There was a rocky outcrop slightly south of the legendary mountain, which the shrew often visited. He'd been to the fire mountain before of course, the Guosim liked to winter in the warmth of the desert and his father knew the Skipper and the Badgerlord. He had liked to go exploring, and the set of jagged rocks piled to make a kind of pyramid had been his greatest discovery.

Frequently he would leave the fort, for he knew many ways in and out the mountain and travel to this place.

It was where he liked to think. And where he went to in times of boredom. Or when he was lonely.

Now he was both. Being a shrew was not normally a challenge, especially when you lived with other shrews. But when you were the sole shrew in a volcano full of hares even walking became a challenge.

If he had a muffin for every time he'd almost been stepped on he'd be too wide for the gates. And that was not counting all the times he'd been sat on, or had something thrown on him (usually a cloak of some sort, several times larger than himself). Once the cook had nearly baked him into the pie-purely because he hadn't noticed him in the kitchens (and Tibbers still thought it lucky the hare had heard him). Another time the old washer-hare had gotten to work on his blankets... with him still snoozing inside of them. That had been the most uncomfortable wake-up call he'd ever had...

It wouldn't have been so bad, if only he wasn't always by himself. But Greyclaw, or rather Berty, had Victoria and Jack had the other hares. Victoria frightened him- when he'd been younger she had tried to make him go through her 'training regime' and he'd only agreed because it seemed likely she might stab him if he said otherwise. It had been a nightmare to begin with and had ended with a crab chasing after him.

He wasn't too fond of the other hares- sure they were friendly enough, but they were also frivolous and energetic and forgetful and well... his size did him no favours.

That left the otter twins and that was out of the question. They didn't just pick on him, and indeed picked on everybeast when the opportunity for teasing came. But 'the opportunity' came often when you reached no higher than the knees of most beasts.

Still there were some advantages to being small, and his hideout was one of them. The shrew sniffed at the passageway to make sure it was empty, before sliding into the gap between three jagged rocks. A short slide down a tunnel slick with seawater later, and the shrew lay in a cool chamber- a perfectly square room. Gaps between rocks gave him a window to the sea bellow, where the waves beat the rocks. In time the sea would take his hideout to a watery grave. Hopefully without him inside it.

But not for several seasons anyways- besides, it was only a matter of time before he could no longer squeeze inside to begin with.

He closed his eyes and let the sound of crashing waves lull him to sleep- it was one of the few things he could do really.

Greyclaw was now several feet behind Jack, who was about a hundred metres behind everybeast else.

"Well I say!" Panted the hare, bending over to pant all the better. "I don't remember ever marching at this rather hurrisome pace. How're you doing over there Gre-Berty, wot?"

The rat gave a 'thumbclaw up' from where he lay upon the ground- having collapsed when the hare did.

Jack-is-Lucky's sensitive ears told him that the Junior Corporal had ordered a halt. Victoria turned, and even from this distance he could tell she was shaking her head in disapproval.

"Come on Berty. Not much further left to go. J-just catch up to the others, wot."

It took them another ten minutes to catch up with the others, yet nobeast seemed to notice them when they collapsed in a heap upon the sand.

"We... should have stayed with Tibbers... maybe had a shot at the kitchens... wot..."

"Really?" Asked Angus.

"And miss out on this discovery?"

Greyclaw looked up to see what everybeast was staring at- a small boat with no sail and no oars. A pair of water bags lay within, but there were no signs of life otherwise.

"This- this could be important, wot!" The Junior Corporal was saying. "Somebeast's lost their boat! Or worse, somebeast had their boat taken from them!"

"Or somebeast got taken from their boat." Victoria placed a paw upon her chin, deep in thought.

"It's just a boat." Said Greyclaw. Everybeast looked at him as if he was stupid. He realized why a moment later.

"We might have to take it back to lunch- er I mean Salamandastron, yes."

"The Badgerlord will want to see this, wot!"

"Weren't there somebeasts from Redwall still missing?"

The muttering grew, and it sounded almost rehearsed. Every voice present (save for Victoria who was still thinking up implications behind an empty boat) was desperate to call it a day and bring the boat back in time for lunch.

The Junior Corporal raised a paw for silence. "I've made my mind up. We'll take the boat with us!"

There was a great cheer and everybeast turned back towards the fire mountain.

"We'll take the boat with us while we finish the patrol!" The fat hare said sternly. "Come on, wot, only half a mile left to go!"

The collective groan was silenced by the look on his face, and everybeast went back to marching at... varied paces.

"Supposing we arrive in time for lunch." Grollo said, his voice brimming with hope, his paws patting his loudly-complaining belly.

Sharpfur growled, as did his stomach, but he ignored the latter and growled again. "It doesn't matter if it's lunch or not! Ye said we weren't stayin'!"

"We never said anything about staying." Hawthorn agreed. "But it wouldn't hurt to have a bite to eat, would it? And perhaps some... something sweet for the road, eh?"

Sharpfur was sorely tempted by the prospect, but was smart enough to know what was going on. And of course he was not going to just let it happen. "First it's a bite te eat, the next thing ye know ye'll want a nap! Then ye'll want a bath! Then ye'll want a towel! Then ye'll want a map! On an' on an' on until we're old and grey! No! We ain't stayin' and that's final!"

"But Sharpfuuuuur!" Grollo whined, leaning slightly on the weasel to emphasize how hard it was to walk on an empty stomach. "There'll be lots of good things to eat! This is a mountain of hares we're talking about. You know how much hares eat?"

"Ye keep forgettin'." The weasel grunted, pushing Grollo off of him. "That I'm a weasel! Hares kill weasels and weasels kill hares and badgers eat weasels and I don't care what's for lunch so long as it's not me!"

Grollo could not stop himself laughing- now genuinely in need of Sharpfur's support to remain upright. "Wait, wait, wait. Y-you think a badger's going to eat you?"

"It's what badgers do!" Sharpfur gave a valiant effort at pushing off the hedgehog- but failed this time.

"No they don't!" Hawthorn sounded aghast. She'd been raised by a badger and knew firstpaw that they were wise and gentle beasts.

"W-why would they want to eat you anyways?" Grollo pulled himself together. "You're all scrawny and-"

"I ain't small!" Sharpfur snapped.

"Even if you were big." Hawthorn said, her arms crossed across her chest. "Nobeast would eat you. We don't eat other beasts."

"Well ye ain't a badger." Sharpfur pointed out.

"I've lived with one all my life!" The vole protested hotly. "And she never ate Fret, now did she?"

"So I won't get eaten!" Sharpfur threw his paws in the air in mock-celebration. He hastily lowered them again. "There's still a hundred other ways a badger could kill me!"

"But why would they want to kill you?"

"Because I'm vermin!" The weasel shouted- and his voice echoed down the beach.

"So?" Said Grollo.

"And?" Came Hawthorn.

Facepalm, went Sharpfur. "I don't think ye understand how much my kind and yer kind have done te each other." He said, slowly dragging his paw down his face.

"I'm an orphan." Hawthorn pointed out. "All my life all I've ever known was Redwall Abbey. What do you think happened to my parents?"

Sharpfur did not reply. The albino continued regardless.

"I'm pretty sure I understand what you mean. Our kinds have fought for as long as anybeast can remember. That doesn't change the fact that you are a child-"

The little weasel scoffed.

"-With nowhere else to go and if they turn you away then they'll be turning us away too! Where you go, we go too."

The weasel froze, as stiff as a board- as if someone had struck him.

"Oh come on! You act like sentiment is a weakness." Grollo shook his head. "Can't we just be honest with each other?"

"Shut it hedgepig! I'm trying te concentrate." The weasel was sniffing the air, his nose twitching as it caught the familiar scents of salt and Hawthorn and Grollo- but there was something else in the breeze- something vaguely familiar.

"What is it?" Asked Hawthorn, her ears beginning to dart about in search of danger.

"I-it's- it's..." Sharpfur went on all fours, allowing his nose to guide him forwards through the rocks. "It's shrew!" He declared, scrambling into a tunnel. Hawthorn followed suite, but Grollo was left at the mouth- he was too big to squeeze inside.

He did not have to wait long, for soon Hawthorn came out- looking just as confused as he was, followed by Sharpfur, who was dragging a very small, sleeping shrew by the tail.

The weasel clambered back to his feet and spat out the tail. "Is it just me or does he look familiar?" He asked, wrists on hips.

"It's Tibbers!" Grollo said suddenly, recognising a loose green bandage around the young beast's shoulder. "You remember, the one from the feast! He was with us when you, well, when you-"

"Ah that's right! We kidnapped him." Sharpfur sounded rather delighted, eerily so. "And Threeclaw stabbed his shoulder. Now I remember!"

Hawthorn tried to shake the shrew awake.

"Five more seasons..." He grumbled, curling back into a ball.

He didn't get five more seasons as a second later Sharpfur had deposited a large amount of water onto him.

"Ack! Ah! Do you mind?" Tibbers shot to his feet- expecting anything from the washerhare, to Angus and Andrew... Trust the twins to ruin his nap... His glare of annoyance turned to confusion when he noticed that the beasts that had actually woken him up were a vole and a hedgehog. "D-do I- I'm sorry why did you just do that?"

"To wake ye up ." Sharpfur replied, placing a paw on the shrew's head and feeling rather delighted that there was somebeast considerably smaller than him now.

Tibbers widened his eyes in wonder- a weasel in abnormally large glasses with abnormally large eyes... yet he'd heard the voice before. Perhaps he was dreaming?

Grollo did an awkward little wave. "I'm Grollo, remember? And this is Hawthorn. From Redwall, remember?" The hedgehog smiled as recognition became apparent in the shrew's eyes.

"I remember! By the seaso- you're alive? An-and what're you doing here? And- wait- what are you doing with him?" He pointed at Sharpfur, who batted the paw away. "And- are you wearing spectacles?"

"I am." The weasel replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Got a problem with that?"

"It's a long story." Hawthorn shook her head. "But the gist of it is we trust Sharpfur now and we were on our way to Salamandastron."

"And then Redwall." Grollo added, sounding very excited. "We fought cannibals and- and, well... mostly each other."

"We had to deal with cannibals too!" There was a dangerous level of excitement in his voice. "Well, we got caught by them but then the Skipper freed us. Only we thought he was a cannibal so... Yeah I don't think he was too happy about that." The shrew motioned for them to follow and then began scampering through the rocky beach. "I'm staying at Salamandastron too and Jack's here as well and Gr-"

"We ain't stayin'." Sharpfur was quick to point out. "We're just goin' to ask for directions and go on our way." He shot his companions a glare. "Or at least, that's what ye said."

Both were quick to reassure him (very vaguely) that that was what they intended to do.

"Er... right..." Tibbers began feeling a little out of place again, as if he were intruding on something personal. Awkwardly be scratched at his chest fur. "Well it's soon time for lunch. And the others should be back from patrol duty soon. So I guess you had better follow me."

"Remember, we're just askin' for directions." Sharpfur reminded them for the eighth time as Tibbers tried valiantly to get somebeast's attention with numerous knocks and 'um hello's. Unfortunately, the gatekeeper must have been dismissed for lunch.

"Just directions." Sharpfur repeated, hiding his inner-panic rather impressively.

"Hello." Tibbers pawed at the gate. "Anybeast there?"

"One second." Came a great booming voice, and Tibbers only just managed to get out of the way of the vast doors. A humongous shadow fell upon the unlikely quartet- the shadow of a badger.

It was a good thing he hadn't had anything to drink in a while- Sharpfur probably would have pissed himself. It was just as Hawthorn and Grollo had warned him, vast gnashing teeth as big as swords, claws as long as spears, fur as white as milk and as black as night. The vermin bogeyman. The monster under every weasel's bed, cot or hammock.

For his part Umber was surprised. He'd been expecting the patrol to return, hadn't known Tibbers was outdoors and had most certainly not expected the missing abbey children... and a... bespectacled weasel? "Well hello."

Sharpfur, ever the expert on self-preservation, shrieked, spun on his heel and darted away as fast as his feetpaw could carry him. He probably would have gotten a fair distance away too, had there not been a rock hidden amongst the sand. The weasel tripped, rolled forwards a short distance and ended up on his front.

Before another attempt at escape could be made he was picked up in surprisingly gentle paws.

"I admit, that was my first instinct." The badger's voice shook with strength- yet there was a softness to it. "I am glad though. My shriek is rather unbecoming of a Badgerlord- it would have done nobeast a favour to hear it."

He placed the softly-shaking Sharpfur back on his feet, now inside the great fort. Hawthorn, Grollo and Tibbers followed them inside and the young weasel watched in horror as the badger shut the gates behind them.

"Sorry about the timing sir." Tibbers' paw instinctively went to his chest fur. "I know I wasn't meant to be out and all-"

The badger waved away the apology with a paw-swipe that sent a small gust of wind at the shrew. Addressing the newcomers he folded his paws behind his back. "I take it you're from Redwall?"

"Yes." Hawthorn managed to reply- Grollo was too busy staring at the vast figure before him.

Umber nodded. "Yes, I heard about what happened. Dreadful thing. Still, I have never had any doubt that you would all find your way home." He placed a paw several times larger than Tibbers on his chest. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Umber, at present Badgerlord of Salamandastron, although I prefer to think of my job as 'smile, but look intimidating from a distance'".

"Ye look in-timitating from up close too." Sharpfur piped up. He regretted it a moment later when the badger turned to him expectantly. He seemed to stare for an uncomfortably long time and Sharpfur soon broke into a cold sweat- the shaking returning with avengeance. "I-I- I didn't do nothin'!" The weasel said, slowly backing away- his eyes desperately searching for escape routes.

"Well, I was waiting for a name. But I suppose a proclamation of innocence is good too."

"It's Sharpfur." The weasel squeaked, before clearing his throat and repeating in a more dignified tone. "Sharpfur."

"I'm Hawthorn and this is Grollo." The vole introduced, while the hedgehog gave a tiny wave.

Umber nodded in satisfaction. "Now that we're all acquainted I think it would be best if I sent word to the abbey of your arrival. They will want to know. Transport can be arranged and you can expect to be home before Summer at the latest. Until then you have my full hospitality."

Sharpfur once again piped up. "We're f-flattered mister Badgerlord sir, b-but we were kind of hoping- um planning te not stay. Er- leave immediately." The weasel was scooped effortlessly off the ground, along with Hawthorn and Tibbers. Grollo stood on tip-paw to reach the tip of the badger's outstretched paw and was promptly hoisted onto his shoulders.

"I understand that you must be eager to leave, but I simply cannot in good conscience, allow you to go on your own. Roads are perilous places. Besides, I am sure you will have changed your mind after lunch.

Sharpfur remained silent, but Grollo and Hawthorn both knew that the second Umber left this would become the badger in the room.

A short while later the four found themselves seated upon an immense desk. With a quill that must have been plucked from an eagle, and a pot of ink that dwarfed Tibbers (like most things), the badger got to work.

"What is the name of your abbot?" He inquired politely, his quill scratching against thick parchment.

"Martin." Hawthorn replied, for Sharpfur was too busy containing consecutive panic attacks, Grollo was admiring a suit of armour and Tibbers was admiring... well... the fact that everything was bigger than him!

"And what does he look like?"

"He's small. And old. Gray-furred. Bespectacled." Hawthorn frowned- in search of something that really stood out about the old abbot.

"Used to be Recorder?"

"Yes."

The badger smiled. "I know the one. Now, Sharpfur. I understand that you were part of the band of kidnappers behind this?"

The weasel's eyes widened in horror. How had he known that?

"It may have started out like that sir." Grollo interjected. "But Sharpfur's a good fellow. He- well we would likely not be alive if not for him."

The badger leaned back in his chair, and smirked slightly. "Now this is a story I very much would like to hear." Umber glanced out the window. "Ah, Tibbers, the Junior Corporal has returned. I'm afraid I'm going to have to deprive you of storytime. Please inform the Corporal that I have need of him. And I think it would be best if you set the stage for our new arrivals here."

Tibbers glanced quickly at Sharpfur, and remembered Greyclaw... and how he and Jack had convinced the rat that the weasel was dead... unintentionally of course... and it would be best if he warned Victoria too... "Yeah. Right. I'll... I'll go do that then." The shrew walked to the edge of the desk and clambered off. He then stared up at the immense door and the knob on it that most hares struggled to reach. "Er- could you open the door?"

[The Grey Coincidence]

It was strange, to now have to recount their tale of woe. But Hawthorn and Grollo did it well. If with a little too much honesty- had Sharpfur been telling the story he'd have wasted less time with the hedgepig and more fighting the cannibals- but it was probably for the best that his story came from the mouths of honest beasts.

At first it had been a lot of ers and ums- particularly where Fret was concerned, but by the time they got to escaping the old lady they were stumbling over one another in their hurry to tell it all.

"And then we found Tibbers." Grollo concluded.

"Sharpfur did." Hawthorn added. "And then yes, the rest is history."

Umber was gently twirling the quill between two massive claws. From what he could tell every word of what he'd heard was true- not that he'd expected otherwise. The weasel had not spoken though, and the badger had watched as his eyes- magnified so much that they were rather hard to miss- darted around the room. The poor boy was terrified. That much was obvious. Yet there was much that was not so. A strange kind of curiousity filled the badger, one he had not felt since he'd been a child. Yet now was not the time to come prying for answers.

"Are you hungry?" He asked abruptly.

Grollo nodded vigorously. "Oh yes. Very much so, sir."

"It's a good thing it's lunchtime then. I will have a hare prepare some chambers for you. Please don't be offended but I'm glad that you do not need as much space as me." He offered them his paws. "Being large can be tedious work." Hawthorn clambered on and Grollo was once more swung onto the badger's shoulders. "I will have a runner deliver news of your arrival to Redwall. And when he leaves for Mossflower I have no doubt the Skipper will be happy to take you with him."

Sharpfur said something under his breath.

"I didn't quite catch that." The badger offered his paw, but Sharpfur did not budge.

"We only came here for directions." The weasel grumbled. "That's what they said anyways." He pointed his muzzle at the pair of companions that had lead him here. Tricked him into coming...

"And I have no doubt that that was their intention." Even for a weasel Sharpfur was light, and the badger had no difficulty lifting him off the desk. "I on the other paw promised no such thing. I do promise however, that as my guests you shall want for nothing." Umber got to his feet now- as if not weighed down by anybeast. "You also have nothing to fear." He added but Sharpfur kept his muzzle firmly shut.

Greyclaw was glad of one thing and that was that lunch was not over yet. The mystery of the mysterious boat was all anybeast could talk about, but the rat was too tired to talk. Had the patrol been any longer he'd probably be too tired to eat too. Luckily, or unluckily if you were a pie, he still had an appetite. As did Jack- who's cheeks now bulged with lettuce leaves.

"I reckon it was pirates." Angus was saying. Andrew, of course, agreed with him.

"Aye pirates. Nasty one-eyed vermin what like to chew on fat mice."

"Don't worry Berty."

"We won't let the rat's get to you!"

Greyclaw was at first confused by the wink in his direction, until he remembered he was supposed to be a mouse. Well... He was a mouse.

Victoria did not take kindly to Berty being made fun of, mostly because- having been similarly traumatized by vermin- she knew how painful it must have been. "My mum and dad weren't fat and pirates chewed on them all the same. Start making jokes that are funny or don't make them at all."

Neither twin could bring themselves to look at anything other than their identical feetpaw.

A few spaces down the Junior Corporal was trying his hardest to act like his patrol had been a) important and b) entertaining.

"Wasn't it just rivetting? And quite an important discovery too, with that boat wot. Very important. I'm sure the Badgerlord will want to hear about it! But I'd have to report to the Senior Corporal first, and then to the more senior one after that- but it was such a spliffing good patrol, wot! With any luck we'll be doing this all week!"

Jack and Greyclaw shared a look of absolute horror, which was interrupted by the arrival of Tibbers. The shrew was panting, as if he'd been running- and he had. The importance of his task, setting the stage for Sharpfur's arrival and no doubt the reveal that Berty was a made up name and that he and Jack had been lying to everybeast since they were found- even if Greyclaw was, ironically, a mouse, had only truly begun to weigh on him recently. The Skipper had to know, and everybeast else- but first he wanted to break the news to his fellow conspirators.

Unfortunately, the ever-oblivious Junior Corporal, chose that moment to sit between Greyclaw and Jack-is-Lucky, and more specifically, on him.

"I know it seems like a waste of time and energy, but patrol duty is very, very important, wot! If we leave a tad bit earlier we won't risk missing lunch and can use our normal marching pace-"

Jack swallowed the lettuce. "All brilliant ideas mate, but you're squashing Tibbers."

The Corporal abruptly stood up, and helped the flattened shrew back up. "Sincerest apologies ole chap. Never meant to do it, wot. But you are small and whatnot. Try to stand out a bit more-"

The shrew shook life back into his form and waved away the apology- he heard it twice a day anyways. "I-I-, Jack there's something I need to tell you-"

"Out with it, wot!" The hare insisted loudly, so that all eyes were on the shrew.

It never did manage to arrive, as at that moment the doors opened and in walked the Badgerlord himself.

Every hare in the hall hastily straightened up, swallowed their half-chewed food and fixed their full attention on the badger.

Jack's eyes went impossibly wide at the sight of the other beasts, whom he recognised instantly. He elbowed Tibbers (rather harder than necessary).

"I know." The shrew whined, tugging at his ears. Their great lie was going to come crashing down any minute now.

"I'm sorry for interrupting." Umber said smoothly, and raised a paw to silence the flurry of 'no problems sah' that bombarded him. "I just thought it polite to inform you of the arrival of our young friends here."

The crowd of hares and the otter crew brought their gaze upon the trio. Sharpfur would have ran but Grollo had him by the shoulder. For his part the hedgehog was waving, and although both woodlanders were slightly flustered by the sheer number of beasts present, they were beaming.

Sharpfur's eyes darted from one grizzled hare to another, until they fell upon a grizzled otter. Some hares were tall, some short, some thin, some fat, the same for the otters although there were far fewer fat otters. Then his eyes landed upon a fat mouse- no rat... a fat rat that looked remarkably like Grey Claw. The weasel screwed his eyes shut and opened them again, sure enough the rat was still there. He removed his spectacles, sure enough the rat was still there. He put them back on. And the rat's mouth hung open. There was no mistaking the uneven buckteeth.

Ignoring the instincts screaming at him to run for his life, the fact that the Badgerlord was still talking and any sense of dignity Sharpfur shouted in joy.

"GREEYCLAAAAW!" With speed not even the most senior of hares could have matched, the weasel darted through the mess hall. Greyclaw did not move. He was frozen in shock and pale with fright. If he was seeing a ghost then it was a very strange ghost, for Sharpfur had always said that all ghosts looked like they were covered in flour. Yet Sharpfur would have to be a ghost because Sharpfur was dead...

Yet Sharpfur was here, and slammed into him hard enough to knock him off his feetpaws. The little weasel's arms were firmly glued round the befuddled rat's throat.

"Ye great dumb rat I missed ye! I missed ye! Yer alive! Hellgates! Greyclaw yer alive!"

The rat's eyes widened. Perhaps he was dreaming, something as happy as this could only happen in a dream. Sharpfur was, he was here! In the hare mountain! With spectacles and hugging him and-

"I missed you too!" Greyclaw was not a strong beast by any account, but sheer joy threatened to squish the weasel, and probably would have, had Sharpfur not been used to extricating himself from his brother.

He backed away slightly, so that he could breathe, and so that they could admire each other better. The rat looked no different- perhaps slightly wider, maybe a quarter-of-an-inch taller, but the fur was the same grey, his buckteeth mishappen as they always had been and his tail the same little worm Sharpfur had once used as bait.

The rat could recognise him of course- after all he'd followed Sharpfur everywhere for the better part of his life- but there was something different about the weasel. Perhaps it was the spectacles? Or the fact that he looked cleaner? Did he look cleaner? Well perhaps he smelled better... but no. Had he grown taller? Unlikely...

"Berty?" Victoria's teeth were gritted so tightly it looked like she might snap them off. Her perfectly clipped voice brought the rat back into reality. "Do you know this beast?"

"Berty?" Sharpfur sniffed curiously. "What kind of a stupid name is that? An' course he knows me." Sharpfur straightened himself to his full (unimpressive) height and put his wrists on his hips. "We're brothers!"

A slice of potatoe slipped right off Angus's fork and hit the table. Nobeast seemed to notice.

"What!?" Victoria's eyes were somehow both wide with shock and narrowed in rage- she looked more terrifying than the rat had ever seen her.

Greyclaw raised his paws defensively. "W-wait let me explain-"

"Explain what?" Sharpfur demanded, disliking this mouse's attitude. Nobeast frightened Greyclaw. Well, everybeast liked to do it, and he did it too- but it was inappropriate now!

The angry mouse pointed a spoon at the rat. "You said you were kidnapped! You said these beasts tortured you! You said you were a mouse!"

"A what?" Sharpfur was torn between confusion and laughing at them all; for you had to be a very special type of idiot to think Greyclaw a mouse.

Ignoring the weasel Victoria stomped towards the rat, who now hastily tried to scramble backwards.

"I-I- I-"

"I CAN EXPLAIN!" Jack-is-Lucky could not stand the tension any longer (nor did he want to know where Victoria had meant to put the spoon)- every eye in the hall was upon them, and now on him. "I -er- well you see when we got kidnapped er- well, wot wot. Er- Tibbers can explain!" He hoisted the shrew onto the table and now all eyes were on him.

"Um..." He squeaked, shrinking slightly.

"Berty's a rat?" The Skipper sounded stunned.

"He's been a rat this whole time!?" Angus and Andrew shouted in unison- shocked was an understatement.

"I-it's really all the Skipper's fault!" Jack said, pulling both Greyclaw and Tibbers closer to himself- if they were going down, he was going down with them. Though hopefully nobeast would go down...

The otter in question rose to his feet, cold fury evident on his face. "My fault?" He repeated quietly.

"And the Badgerlord knew!" Shouted Tibbers, and with a gasp worthy of a soap-opera, all eyes turned to Umber.

The badger was rather better at handling the attention and raised his paws. "Bartholomew may have been raised by vermin- and thus under the impression that he was one of them, but I personally am convinced that he is a mouse."

Sharpfur could not stop himself from laughing at the top of his voice. Soon the weasel was banging a paw on the table and kicking his legs in the air. Greyclaw- fat, slow, stupid Greyclaw had fooled the hares of the fire-mountain into thinking him a mouse. Perhaps he was far more cunning than Sharpfur gave him credit for. Or perhaps woodlanders were just stupid like that. It was hilarious all the same.

"I happen to have known his supposed parents." The Badgerlord went on- ignoring the weasel. "And the resemblance is uncanny. Grollo, Hawthorn, I am sure you remember a mouse at Redwall that went by Constance? Now look at our friend, the supposed rat, and tell me is this familiarity just my old age talking?"

Sharpfur had stopped laughing and was now scowling. "It must be, coz Greyclaw's a rat."

But nobeast payed him any mind- their eyes alternating between the mouserat and the Redwallers.

"Well..." Said Grollo after a long while. Sharpfur glared at him. How stupid could they get? Greyclaw was a rat! "I mean there is some resemblance."

"We didn't spend much time with Constance." Hawthorn added. "She always had to deal with Fret. B-but yes. There- there's something similar."

"Now this is just turnin' into a bad joke!" Snapped Sharpfur, growing tired of woodlander stupidity. He pointed at nobeast in particular and continued. "Let's set somethin' straight, coz all yer brains are wonky. Grey Claw is a rat. My ma found him by the river an' he's been my brother ever since. End. Of. Story."

"But you wouldn't know who threw him in the river." The Skipper pointed out.

"Some dumb rat who didn't want him!" The weasel snapped again. Why did it matter who had thrown him in?

"Many seasons ago Constance was a proud mother of three, and Rowland, a father." The Skipper began, for the benefit of all present.

"Facts-inatin'." The weasel drawled, his scowl deepening.

"Until one night a warlord by the name of Mad-Eye Marik came to Mossflower." The otter's paw clenched tightly around a spoon- bending it hopelessly out of shape. "We had fought him before and beat him before. But this time we didn't see him coming. Rowland was killed and the babes slaughtered- we had everybeast accounted for- dead or wounded- except one." The Skipper pointed a claw at Greyclaw. "That one."

"Yer just bein' riddick- riddick- riddick-"

"Ridiculous." Hawthorn provided.

"Riddick- you-less! Greyclaw probably wasn't even born yet!"

"Skip was two seasons and a half." Grunted the otter, a frown of dislike clear on his muzzle. "How old was he when you found him?"

Sharpfur hissed, as if he'd been struck. Greyclaw was no mouse! "About that-"

"And did you or did you not find him the morning after an empty moon?"

"So ye lost a mouse on the same day!" Sharpfur snapped. "That mouse ain't here now an' the only mouse I see here's an angry female! Tell 'em Grey. They're idjits an' actin' stupid an' an'- gah! Ye ain't a mouse!"

"Well... I wouldn't really know..." The rat swallowed. "I mean- I don't remember anybeast before your ma found me. But... but Blizzard and Red and Heart- they always said-"

"They were bein' stupid! Yer a rat Grey an' this ain't funny anymore."

"Does it really make a difference?" Grollo piped up, coming behind Sharpfur and placing a paw on the weasel's shoulder. "I mean, what's the real difference?"

"There are quite a few." Victoria snapped, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. "Mice don't lie! Mice don't slaughter the innocent! They don't pillage! They don't kidnap! And they most certainly do not pretend to be somebeast they're not!"

Greyclaw swallowed audibly. "I- I was scared! You're scary! All of you! An-and you said you hated rats and-"

"Oh you hear that Andrew, we're scary!"

"Yes, properly terrifying!"

"Well when you go around bragging about every vermin you've ever slain-" Jack started hotly, but was interrupted by the Badgerlord.

"I understand that there have been some, ah, miscommunications. But irrespective of what he was called, Berty here has always been himself. For better or for worse. Now, as I was saying- our friends from Redwall owe their lives to Sharpfur here, as such he is my personal guest. If I come to hear of any... incidents... I will not be pleased." His eyes slowly passed from Victoria, to the Skipper and his holt, to a few of the hares. "Is that understood?" There was a murmur of agreement and the the badger smiled slightly. He had found in his many years of service that smiling even a little helped relieve tension, and the room was very tense indeed. "Now, can we please go back to the very important task at hand- and by that I mean eating. I am sure our guests are very hungry."

But nobeast seemed interested in eating anymore- not even the excellent lunch could keep them away from wanting more. This was gossip at it's best! A weasel saving woodlanders? A rat that was really a mouse? Soon the hall was filled with conversation- all either on the subject of Redwall's missing children or Greyclaw's parentage.

"I was there, wot!" One gnarled old hare was saying. "That boy's the very spitting image of Rowland! Only misses the bent tail- ah poor Rowland, dreadful fate, dreadful, don'tcha know?"

Indeed all tables were filled with conversation, save and except the one reserved for the youngsters.

Sharpfur sat besides Greyclaw and Grollo, the latter of whom was trying his hardest, it seemed, to get a stomach ache.

Hawthorn was more delicate, and more aware of the tension still present. Sharpfur was a brooding cesspit of concealed emotion and didn't so much as sniff at the food.

Jack-is-Lucky coughed awkwardly. "So erm- Hawthorn is it m'gal? How did you get here, wot? Must have been quite an adventure!"

"Well, I- I suppose it was! We were still on the boat you see- the raft we were getting away with, remember? Well we got a little lost at first, tried to follow the river home. But it started getting really cold so we headed off into the woods-"

"And then we found this camp." Grollo added after an immense swallow. "Everything seemed alright at first but their was the soup cooking over a fire and their were bones inside."

"Vermin was it?" Victoria asked, stabbing an innocent potato with unnecessary force.

"Cannibals." Grollo said delicately, eyeing Sharpfur nervously.

"We had cannibals too!" Jack cried excitedly. "Didn't we Tibbers? They wanted to cook us, wot but-" He stopped abruptly at the sight of Victoria's face. "But they- well, a bally awful lot-"

"But er- we escaped." Grollo continued awkwardly. "Sharpfur picked the lock and then we-" It was his turn to stop abruptly, the memory of what they had done... the cries of pain, the muffled shouting... all the blood...

"We killed 'em." Sharpfur said with severe finality. The weasel picked up a fork and stabbed an unfortunate leek, but made no effort to consume it.

"Yes." Hawthorn cleared her throat. "That's... What happened..."

"I assume you did the killing." Victoria was addressing Sharpfur now.

The weasel did not like the mouse. Her tone of voice, her scowling face. "It was a cola-bor-ative effort."

"Still, it makes sense for you to do the killing. Did you ever kill anybeast 'Berty'?"

The rat looked horrified. "N-no."

She did not seem to believe him. "I haven't had to kill anybeast." She frowned and Sharpfur saw her nose twitch in his direction. "Not yet anyways."

"Keep yer death threats te yerself, mouse. Ye ain't scaring nobeast." Greyclaw was terrified, but that was besides the point. He next turned to Grollo. "This is why I didn't want te come here."

"You're welcome to leave. And take your rat with you." The mouse snapped, glaring at both.

"He's not a rat." Jack corrected sternly.

"Well he lied like one." The twins said in unison.

"Leave him be." Tibbers squeaked rather unimpressively. "Me and Jack lied too!"

The hare in question nodded vigorously. "And it doesn't matter if he's a rat or a mouse-"

"It does!" Snapped Sharpfur, digging his claws into the table. "It very much does!" He turned to Grollo. "Ye can tell me when we're leavin'." Pushing himself off the bench the little weasel stomped towards the exit. Every eye in the hall followed him to the door, until he could bear it no more. "WHAT'RE YE ALL LOOKING AT!?"

The eyes were averted and the door slammed shut behind him. If it wasn't built for a badger it would have fallen off it's hinges.

Grollo swallowed uncomfortably. He and Hawthorn shared a look, and the hedgehog made to follow.

[The Grey Coincidence]

It was painfully obvious to anybeast present that Snakeskin did not know how to cook. Fret had no idea what was even inside the so-called soup, but he was willing to bet his life that snake was involved in some way. The stoat was stirring viciously, humming something Fret had never heard before- Momchillo hadn't either and Snakeskin most likely didn't know what the words were to begin with.

The ferret wasn't sure how much he liked the stoat. On one paw, Snakeskin was providing food (seasons-old bread, half-frozen and peppered with ice), shelter (walls of ice that were either slick from melting, or cold enough to set your teeth chattering) and bedding (uncomfortable, itchy rugs made out of some kind of fur). On the other, he was, well, himself.

"'Ere ye go! Mouse gut an' ferret brains stew! It'll put some 'air on yer ches', eh? Pass me them bowls, will ye?"

Momchillo, who was nearest to the bowls, handed them to him. By now the pair knew not to take any of what he said seriously. The fact that they knew that the soup didn't contain either ingredients, however, did not make it any more appealing. It only raised the question- what was actually inside?

The 'soup' was spooned into three wooden bowls, and Fret felt himself growing slightly green. It was the colour of pale, white snow, with the sloppy, slimy texture of badly-made mash potatoe- with tiny little black things inside. It was unappetizing to say the least- and Fret could only imagine what Friar Gord would have had to say about it. The only good thing he could say about it was that it made his own, abysmal cooking look 'delectable'.

"Mos' delec'able meal in the 'ole wide world!" Snakeskin insisted, passing them a bowl each. The stoat threw back his own bowl and emptied it in what looked like one swallow. Licking his chops, the stoat helped himself to another bowl-ful, and emptied it just as quickly. It was only after he'd finished his fourth serving, that he noticed them.

Fret was raising a small bit of 'soup' with his claw, and watching the way it dribbled off. Momchillo was gently sniffing at it, as if to search for poison.

"I 'ope I don' have te tell ye te open wide." The stoat said, mildly offended.

"I-er it's just h-hot." Fret replied.

"Ye got a speech impedimen' or somethin'? I ain' angry- jus' though' after all the work an' effor' I put inter cookin' lunch fur ye both-"

Momchillo stirred guiltily, unaware that pulling on the guilt strings was exactly what Snakeskin had been going for. Without another sniff he raised the bowl and swallowed a mouthful."I-It's not so bad."

"Course it ain'! It's perfec'ly good! Sure beats ole bread an' barley, eh? 'Ere Fret, le' me show ye 'ow it's done." The serving spoon- too large for the bowls, but not Fret's mouth, plunged forwards and made Fret's cheeks puff with Snakeskin's idea of cooking.

The ferret had to disagree with the bread and barley statement. The 'soup' was an odd combination of too sweet and too bitter. How that was even possible was beyond him. But he was hungry, and squashing down any thoughts of what might be inside, and because Snakeskin was likely to forcefeed him some more, swallowed all but the spoon.

"I call it 'Ellgates soup." Snakeskin said proudly, re-filling their bowls to the brim (they hadn't asked him to, of course, but he did it nonetheless). "Ye see there's this myth what says these caverns are 'Ellgates. Ice never melts coz it's jus' frozen souls, see. Now eat that up- plen'y more fur when yer done. Then we can continue our lil' trip."

After three bowls of the nauseating substance, both mouse and ferret refused to hand him their bowls. Snakeskin finished up the rest of the soup and then stood up.

The trip so far had been rather uneventful. Snakeskin did pretty much all of the talking- half of it to himself. His companions only spoke when spoken to and rarely initiated conversation. Fret rather liked it this way. The less they talked, the less he had to listen to Momchillo and the less likely it was that the secret of his book- pressed stiffly under his fur- was revealed. The only downside was that it left him alone to all his glum thoughts. Like the way everybeast would look at him when he returned... If he returned...

"What's abbeyfood like then?" Snakeskin asked abruptly. In truth, the stoat had gotten weary of his companion's silence.

"Er-" Started Fret, itching at the fur on his chest.

"Well." Momchillo began, just as awkwardly.

"Better?"

"Yes." Fret admitted. Abbot Martin would be happy. He'd finally have somebeast to scold and scowl at and bully and give all the hard questions to.

"A little bit." Momchillo agreed, the grin on his face rather sheepish. Momchillo would be happy too. Nothing would delight the mouse more than going on and on about how he'd seen Martin the Warrior. Nobeast would care about the snake, beyond, perhaps, regretting that it couldn't finish it's meal. And of course Momchillo would never leave out the part where Fret had scratched him and drawn blood.

Both found themselves reeled in closer to the stoat. An arm around Fret's shoulder, a paw on Momchillo's head- threatening to flick his ear as he often did. "'Ow so?"

"I-it's- just- it just is! I mean, not everything." Momchillo winced as Snakeskin flicked his ear. "I mean, everybeast has their preferences. I'm sure- er- others love your er- Hellgates soup. We're just not used to it."

"Yeah." Fret agreed half-heartedly, not really paying attention. Bella wouldn't even pretend to be happy to see him. She probably wouldn't let him past the gates, and if she did it would only be to throw him out again. Or do it publicly. Or worse...

"So what's yet favourite food?" Snakeskin insisted through gritted teeth. This was a conversation starter, not an interrogation. Yet both children seemed determined to stear clear of it.

"Well... I don't really have a favourite. I'd settle for anything from home at this point."

"Same." Agreed Fret, sounding even more spaced out and glum than before. Constance wouldn't look at him. All his life he'd heard her and seen her go on about how he was a goodbeast, even if he was a ferret. He'd parroted her beliefs for as long as he could but... With his Nuncle dead at his paws, not even Constance could turn a blind eye to what he'd become.

Snakeskin felt his eye twitching. "I 'appen te be partial te my soup. Don' like the bread much but 'ey, it's better than nothin'!"

"Mmmhmmm." Came the ferret's distant agreement. Or perhaps what he'd always been. Or what he'd been made into. None of this would have happened if the stupid hare hadn't started juggling. And he had never asked anybeast to follow him. And his Nuncle. Well... Connington was a tough mouse. He could swim. He'd only really done it to save Clogg. Murder had never been a motive. Somehow he doubted anybeast would believe that.

A sharp pain on his ear reeled Fret back into reality. Snakeskin, who had caused the pain with a flick of his claws, was smirking.

"What was that for?" Fret snapped hotly.

"Ye were daydreamin'. I fel' obliged te wake ye up. Now that yer 'ere, tell us. If ye could 'ave one thin' te eat- anythin'- what would it be?"

"Anything that's not yours." Was Fret's bitter reply. His ear was still sore from the flick. His smart mouth earned him another. "Stop it!" The ferret growled.

"He liked nutfarl a lot." Momchillo butted in.

"What's tha'?"

"It's like a roll but filled with crushed nuts instead of fruit." The mouse explained, wishing he had had nutfarl for breakfast.

"And everybeast liked it." Fret snapped defensively. "Not just me."

"And there's nothing wrong with liking it." Momchillo raised his paws in a gesture of innocence. Fret only growled.

"I know that!" The ferret snapped again.

Momchillo felt burning indignation roaring from his chest like dragon's breath. He'd only spoken up to help Fret out, but the ferret was stupid and silly and- nearly died a few days ago. Containing the inner anger was not easy, but Momchillo managed to do it. If only because an angry Fret was easier to deal with than a sad Fret.

"What about ye? Anythin' te eat."

"You're making me hungry." Said Momchillo, shaking his head. "I'd say strawberry."

"What's that?"

Momchillo opened and closed his mouth, and barely suppressed a laugh. "You? You-" Then again, the lands of ice and snow did not seem like the best place for strawberries to grow. "It's a fruit. A big, red, heart-shaped-"

"It's not heart-shaped." Fret added scathingly. "It's normally like a-a-" His paws flailed about trying to make the outline of a strawberry.

Momchillo nodded. "And it's covered in little seeds."

"Sweet too."

Snakeskin shook his head. "The only frui' I remember likin' is pineapple."

"Pineapple?" The two woodlanders asked in unison. Fret narrowed his eyes in doubt and suspicion. "Is that even a real thing?"

"Course it's a real thin'!" Snakeskin sounded thunderstruck. "It's all scale-y an' sharp on the outside, an' hard on the inside. Brigh' yeller an' acid an'- an'- 'Ellgates, I wanna pineapple now!" Now that he'd started, there was no stopping the stoat.

"I used te travel a lo', see. Been all over the 'ole wide worl'." He sighed wistfully. "Ye migh' not think much of pirates- I imagine abbeyfolk ain't too acquain'ed with vermin- but I used te sail an' I used te plunder." He shrugged- now fully enthralled in his own story and unaware that both his companions were only half paying attention. "Good ole days those were. Now ye probably don' know wha' pineapple is coz ye 'aven't ever been te the tropics. An' I wager ye 'aven't 'eard of mangoes neither. Kiwis and coconu'. Leeche an' banana-"

"We know bananas!" Momchillo said suddenly. "There was this one hamster from Southwards that came to the abbey and he brought loads! You remember, right Fret?"

All Fret remembered was slipping over a peel somebeast else had carelessly discarded, knocking Blind Agatha off her feetpaws (and nearly out the window) and then being told not to be so 'careless'. He also remembered not liking the golden-furred hamster. Not because he'd ever spoken to him, but because of that one time he'd brought casks of olive oil...

"I remember." He said bitterly.

Snakeskin chuckled. "Ye don' sound pleased by that." He shrugged grandly. "Bu' I suppose bananas are an acquired taste. Some like 'em, some don'. Personally I think the peels make fer a great trap. Ye eat the fruit, leave the skin on the floor an' watch somebeast else fall on their horsie! Hahahaha! This one time- hehehe- this one- Whimper." Laughter exploded from out the stoat. A great hurricane of 'hahas' that echoed down the icy cave and never seemed to end. By the time he was done, he was seated on the floor and clutching at shaking ribs. A few deep breaths later and- still snickering between every sentence- he managed to tell the story. Which was somehow, not as funny as he'd made it out to be.

"So we was on a boat. An' there wasn' anythin' te eat 'cept fur these bananas we got off some islan'. So, peels all over the deck- slip goes Whimper an' splash goes the sea. So 'e's treadin' water, rats are good a' that, an' out comes Marik. 'E tosses another beast overboard an' then starts shoutin' at everybeas' te stop the boat an' turn i' around. 'E slips an' falls in the water an' I'm just laughin'. Marik starts shoutin' an' nearly drownin' the other two, didn' like water much see. An' then out comes Slit an' she starts bossin' everybeast presen'. Guess what 'appens?"

Fret did not want to guess, and was barely holding back a panic attack. Marik, Whimper, Slit- Momchillo did not need to know all those names. Or who and what they were. A paw made sure that the book was still safely hidden. Luckily, it was... For now...

Much to Fret's horror, the mouse was enjoying the story. "Slip goes Slit and splash goes the sea?"

"Bingo!" Cried Snakeskin, who then went back to laughing. "An' then, then I said 'shark! Shark! Sha-ahahahahaha! Ye should've seen their faces! Poor Marik, nearly drowned 'imself on the spot! Hahahaha!" The laughter went on for a while longer, but soon Snakeskin was on his feetpaws and guiding them out another tunnel. "Ah! Those were the days." He said, sighing wistfully.

"Yeah." Fret agreed dumbly, hoping the subject would be dropped. As the silence stretched on his heart rate began to slow back down again. But it was not to last, and furious, frightened, beating shot through him like a bolt of lightning upon hearing Momchillo's question.

"If you don't mind me asking." The mouse started slowly. "Who exactly are all these beasts? Marik and Whimper and-"

"Th-they're not important." Fret said suddenly. Momchillo raised an eyebrow and the ferret hastily averted his gaze. A paw scratched determinedly at the back of his neck. "I-I- mean- i-if they were he- he'd have said so, wouldn't he?" The mouse was staring at him skeptically. Perhaps it was his obvious nervousness, or maybe he knew more than he was letting on.

"Yer righ', they ain' importan'." Snakeskin grinned at him, and Fret felt his ears pin themselves to the back of his head. "They just used te be mates of mine. Marik and Slit were ferret's like 'im." The stoat unhelpfully jabbed a thumbclaw in Fret's direction. "An' Whimper was a rat. Don' ask me 'o the other rat was I've forgo'en 'is name see."

"Right." Momchillo was still staring at Fret.

The ferret in question wasn't sure if he could breathe anymore. The pressure on his chest was mounting by the second. It was like when the snake had swallowed him- his heart was beating fast but he could do nothing and every inch of his form was being crushed by walls of muscle.

"Are you okay?" Came the mouse's voice, filled with genuine concern. "You look pale."

Fret nearly sighed with relief. Momchillo suspected nothing. He was saved! At least for the time being... "I'm fine." He replied, and meant it. The danger had passed.

"Wan' te 'ear about 'ow my eye got all 'ypnotized?"

Momchillo nodded. "Yes please!"

Snakeskin smirked. "I wan' a story firs' then. Only fair see. Tail fer a tail, tale fer a tale."

Fret was more than happy to remain in silence- tails and tales be damned. But Momchillo, like Snakeskin, loved talking. So of course he shrugged, ignorant and oblivious to Fret's inner-facepaw. "What do you want to hear about?"

"Hmmm... Let me 'ear about- 'ow abou'- I dunno anythin' really. So long as the path south ain' silent I'm 'appy."

[The Grey Coincidence]

"Ow."

"Ow."

"Ow!"

"Will ye cut it out!?" Sick-Eyes demanded. "Yer eye's fine- it's just the flesh around it's all swollen an' gettin' in yer way."

"That's nice to know." Deathglare spoke through gritted teeth. His jaw was fixed so tightly it was a miracle words were even coming out. "My eye's fine but it still hurts and I can't see. Praise Vulpuz!"

The older pine marten growled, and promptly poked his bad eye. Deathglare hissed and immediately stood up, his paws clasping at his face.

"That's what ye get for yer attitude. Now sit back down an' let me fix it for ye."

"I'm good thanks." He growled. "Go poke Silver's paw or something."

"She already has Death." The weasel reminded him.

"Nobeast asked you anything." The pine marten spat, taking a seat besides the singer.

Sick-Eyes shook her head in despair. "No wonder the hare got the better of ye. No hypnotism with an eye like that, eh?"

"No." Deathglare admitted after a pause.

Silvertongue shrieked with laughter, and punched the marten lightly on the shoulder. "Fails ye when ye need it the most! Typical limbs am I right?"

"Eyes aren't limbs." Was Deathglare's cold reply, his eyes fixing the weasel with a glare. Silvertongue's grin faltered, and fell. "Now if you'll excuse me I think I'll go check on said hare. We wouldn't want him pulling a fast one on us."

"Miss yer barrel do ye?" Sick-Eyes teased, her grin wide and childlike and full of mocking laughter.

Deathglare did not reply.

"I'll go an' make sure the woodlanders are still breathin'." Silvertongue offered. "I ain't much use here anyways." He waved his thickly-bandaged paw for emphasis and without waiting for any kind of reply stood up and crossed the kitchen. As he walked a few of the slaves waved. He recognized the missing-finger otter and the droopy old mouse, and he waved back by way of greeting. Nearly all the slaves they'd recruited had been hesitant at first to join any kind of rebellion- but now it was different and anybeast who wound up knowing about it, flocked to the kitchens.

They had full control of the kitchens, which meant, ironically, that as per usual, his wife was in charge of feeding everybeast. It also meant that slipping poison into somebeast's soup was easier, and although the king had somebeast to test for him- most of the officers did not. Quite a few captains and chiefs had died in their sleep over the last few days- and as punishment more slaves were 'killed' and 'turned to soup'. And with the 'dead' slaves free they could now work on sabotaging the boats.

It was a simple plan- one that he would one day claim as his. Of course it would have all failed dramatically if the wolverine decided he wanted his men to have proper burials. But that was not the case. No, the king trusted Flayface the fox with the corpses and didn't question what he was eating.

"Such dutiful guardsbeasts." The weasel had said, cradling the skull of a rat that had once been master-at-arms, but was now a pasty-filling. "Protectin' his majesty's stummick from all kinds of aches an' pains."

"Stops his royal highness from goin' hungry. What a hard-working beast he is." Sickletail added and they had both laughed.

The slaves were only too happy to be free, and as such did not bring up the how's and the why's. Some, mostly the vermin, were delighted to hear about the grim fate of their former oppressors. But most would go as green as the one-eyed hare and run into a guilty corner, so Silvertongue did not bother to let them in on the secret. All they knew was that they were leaving as soon as they were ready.

The castle had never been a noisy place. All winter the halls had been silent, and that was at full capacity. Now it was both empty and quiet.

Perhaps it was instinct, or maybe just the grinning skulls glaring down at him, but Silvertongue always got the impression that somebeast was watching him. A ghost or a spirit, Vulpuz himself perhaps.

The weasel shivered, both for the cold and for his nerves, and proceeded at greater speed. Next time, he'd let Deathglare go on his own... luckily for him, the path to the cellars was not a long one. Down a few hallways, down a few hidden staircases and, as Threeclaw would say, voila!

"Battle's one thing old chap." The hare was saying. "You fight the enemy face to face, whisker to whisker, wot. Nothing but a pair of angry bodies beating at each other like a hammer on an anvil. It's bloody horrible but it's a damn sight better than cooking somebeast." He was talking to Connington of course, the drunk mouse had been denied drink ever since the rebellion had started and was well on his way to recovery. Unfortunately, he was also having the most painful hangover of his life.

Serves him right, the drunk fool...

"Well they're dead by the time we cook 'em." Silvertongue reminded, mostly to announce his arrival. "It's up to ye whether ye prefer poison te the battlefield."

"I don't really have a preference." One-eye retorted. "But there's dignity to one-"

"An' success te the other. Take yer dignity an' shove it in yer tail it's not like we got many options here." It amazed Silvertongue to no end that a grizzled old hare of the long patrol was so squeamish.

"I know that! But it still doesn't make any of this feel any better, morally-speaking of course, wot."

"That's just yer tummy talkin'. Rat ain't good for yer stummick I heard." The weasel snickered, and watched in satisfaction as One-eye went a small shade greener. "Anyway, I came te check on ye. Seems yer still alive so that's good."

"Your concern for my wellbeing is bally heartwarming."

It was Silvertongue's turn to be disgusted. Him? Heartwarming? Only to Sickle! "We don't really have anybeast what can wear the mask so yer important. That's all."

"That's a shame ole chap. I was beginning to think you were growing attached to me." The hare's voice dripped with sarcasm, but the weasel didn't seem to pick up on that.

"I've got a wife ye know." The singer snarled, waving a fist. "And she's the only beast I'm attached te. Well her an' the kids, but they're all dead now so take yer attachment somewhere else."

"Well I had a wife- but plague and all that, you know how it is, and I had a son but you kidnapped him, wot. So my attachment has been feeling rather lonely as of late." The Long Patrol Captain pointed at a piece of floor opposite him, offering it as a seat.

"That hare was yer whelp, eh?" Silvertongue sat down, mostly to delay his inevitable forray through the no-doubt haunted halls of the castle, and scratched his chin. "No wonder the lad couldn't sing. Horribly out of tune, just like his dear one-eyed papa it seems." The weasel shook his head. "He ain't here, but that ain't my fault now is it? Sorry about yer missus, but plague ain't too bad a way te go."

Fleetfoot One-eye harrumphed skeptically, but was a polite beast when it suited him. "And I'm sorry for your loss. The death of a child is always a tragedy." And because he knew exactly what the weasel would have asked next, he added. "Even vermin children."

Silvertongue, who had been about to ask 'even vermin children?' closed his mouth and frowned. "That's nice of ye te say."

For a short while they sat in silence, until Connington gave a great wretch, rose to his feetpaws and emptied his stomach into a nearby barrel. Wiping his mouth on wrist-fur filthy enough to make anybeast else sick, the mouse slid back to the ground with a groan.

One-eye reached over to carefully pat the mouse's shoulder. "You know what they say ole chap. Better out than in, wot."

"I've been meanin' te ask." Silvertongue butted in. "Why'd ye bring a drunk on a rescue mission? Ye can't be that daft can ye?"

"Connington's not a drunk." The hare grumbled pointedly, only for the weasel to laugh.

"Ye really are half-blind aren't ye? If he ain't drunk, I'm a bloody lizard."

The hare shook his head. "That's not what I meant. He isn't normally like this. Most likely coping with grief. You kidnapped his nephew, wot."

"Grief? He's grievin'?" The weasel snickered and shook his head. "I lost far more than that an' ye don't see me streamin' tears."

One-eye did not reply but after a short pause ventured to ask. "You have no idea where the children are do you?"

"Nope."

"They weren't with you here?"

"Only the mouse and ferret." Silvertongue replied. "But Frettie's not even a slave." Thinking about the ferret always made him mad. The cowardly kit had watched his paw get flayed away... It was not a coincidence that all their bad luck had started the day Sharpfur and Greyclaw had brought the ferret to their camp.

The hare was staring at him dumbly. "C-could you say that again?"

"The damned ferret ain't a slave. There was this big feast not too long ago an' he was there, sittin' on a mound of pillows while I toiled away in the kitchens. Then I start talkin' te him an' he doesn't remember me so I get mad, snap a bit and then this mad rat comes along and-" Silvertongue shivered and growled all at once. "Flayed me paw."

Fleetfoot glanced worriedly in Connington's direction. He'd had his misgivings about the ferret from the start of the quest, and such feelings had only been strengthened by Roseheart's version of events. Now he didn't know what to feel. This was horrible news no matter which angle he looked at it from.

"He is coming home. I will drag him back if I have to!"

The mouse had said, all those many weeks ago when they had first found the molemaid and the weasel pups. Perhaps it was a good thing Jon Connington was hung over...

Silvertongue stood up. "Well if ye need us we'll be in the kitchen cookin' up some stoat stew."

"I think I'll pass."

The singer turned to leave.

"Out of curiosity." Came One-eye's voice, just as he'd reached the doorway . "How old were your children?"

Silver paused for thought, did a quick mental headcount and spun on his heel. "Well Heartrip was gonna be a full twenty, Blizz an' Red should've been nineteen. Sharpfur an' Greyclaw were about ten an' a half, eleven-ish. The girls were about four an' Cheese would've been-"

"Three daughters and a baby boy?" For some reason the hare sounded... Happy? Excited? Cheerful?

"Aye. That's it." The weasel replied carefully. Why was the one-eyed captain smiling?

"Seems you're still a father ole chap. We sent the last four to Redwall Abbey."

Silvertongue frowned in disbelief. "Yer pullin' me tail here."

"Give me one bally reason to lie about something like that."

Silvertongue burst through the kitchen doors faster than a bolt of lightning. "Sickle! I've got the best news ye'll ever hear!"

The female weasel raised an eyebrow as her mate clasped her paws in his own. "The boats are ready?" She would be glad to leave the place of course, but was that really the best news she'd ever hear?

"Our babies are alive!"

"Yet jokin'?" He did not seem to be, and was bouncing on the spot, his tail a small red blur behind him. There was nothing in his eyes but pure delight.

"Course not! The hare said so. Found them in a barrel an' took 'em te the abbey. Isn't this wonderful?"

Indeed it was and soon the two were spinning round the kitchen, chanting 'they're alive' at the top of their lungs.

"How can this possibly be good news," Deathglare rubbed at his forehead. "If they're in the bloody abbey?"

Sickletail kicked him. "It ain't bad news if that's what yet tryin' the imply. An' so what? They raised young Fret didn't they?"

"And would you say 'young Fret' was the pinnacle of successful parenting?"

Silvertongue kicked him too. "My kids ain't nothin' like the no-good little sneak anyways. An' it's fine, we give 'em the hare and his drunk mouse an' we get our babies back. Simple!"

[The Grey Coincidence]

One-eye came to this same conclusion down in the cellars. Frankly it came as a relief. The alliance he had with the vermin would only have lasted as long as it took for them to escape. But now he and Connington could at least hope to keep their lives a little longer and the uneasy working relationship would continue.

Their lives were secure, but happiness was another thing. His son was probably still missing. Somewhere in Mossflower woods... And if what Silvertongue had said was true, well, he'd have some comforting to do...

"Better out than in ole chap. You'll be right as rain soon enough, wot!" And he'd have some explaining to do. But how did one beast tell another that their nephew had gone bad?

[The Grey Coincidence]

Matiya did not know what time it was, only that the moon was high in the sky and shining through the abbey windows. He did not remember ever feeling so full. The squirrel had eaten so much he was reduced to a slow, exhausted waddle.

It had been a long day, a very, very long day and his head was spinning. There were too many thoughts to keep track of.

He was back, home again. Even now he dared not believe it. This was a dream, it had to be a dream. And when he woke up he would be tied to a mast and the Honest Bunch would be all around him, laughing and joking and taunting and teasing... But at least then he'd be with his friends. Chubby Grollo and witty Momchillo. And Jack-is-Lucky who was funny and Tibbers who was small. And Hawthorn and Roseheart and even Fret who was complicated.

He could not remember a day he hadn't spent with his friends. They had been inseparable even as dibbuns, the only thing that had really changed were the games they'd played. Tag, hide-and-seek, blind beast's buff. Yet now it would just be him and Roseheart and they had not been that close to begin with. Friends of course, but very different. Roseheart liked to sniff at flowers and pick fruit. He liked to run around waving a stick.

The dormitories were perhaps the most extensive part of the abbey building. Cavern Hole and the Great Hall were of course, huge, but the dormitories were bigger because there were more of them. There was Bella Badgermum's, the largest of all chambers, then a long row for all the remaining rooms. None were particularly big and most were practically empty. A few prized possessions, a spare habit, tunic or two, a bed, a few portraits, pictures or tapestries and a candle-holder.

Matiya's room- his room- he remembered painfully, was somewhere at the end of the long hall.

This is why I hate mushrooms. Always make me heavy...

But he had dreamed of being a warrior, and it took more than mushrooms to fell a warrior. Determinedly he advanced, he would sleep on a bed tonight if it was the last thing he did!

His eyelids drooped and yawns came more and more often and were harder and harder to put down. His stomach, busy with digestion, gave a guilty twist every time he passed a room he was familiar with. He knew the chambers of his friends as well as his own. Grollo's had nothing more than a prized ladle his father had made for him and a cookie jar his mother made sure to always keep full. No doubt the biscuits were stale by now... Roseheart had a row of potted plants along her windowsill and Hawthorn hung her self-made tapestries all over. Momchillo had a stuffed otter Fret had given him, a few twigs he liked the look of, a pebble or two of interesting shape and colour, and a few books he borrowed from the Recorder to read on a rainy day. In all likelihood the Recorder had taken them back, but the rest of his stuff remained untouched.

Matiya's was the fullest of them all. A massive tapestry of Martin the Warrior, made by Hawthorn and Roseheart for his birthday, hung over his bed. A work of art if ever there was one, and he'd often joked about having to defend it from vermin. He regretted that now. He should have never called anybeast vermin...

A collection of wooden swords, each one broken in some way and the last one missing. Threeclaw had sliced it clean in two, back when they had first been kidnapped.

A paw passed along the handles of the toy blades. Most he'd broken himself- wooden swords and indeed real swords were not meant for hitting walls- but a few had other stories. Fret and Grollo had each broken one and both times he hadn't spoken to them for a week. Grollo had apologized profusely in protest to his silence, but Fret had fought fire with fire and only grew more sullen.

He regretted that now. If Fret had not been sullen they would all still be together, laughing and playing or arguing. Either was better than being alone.

Of all his worldly possessions the most important to him now was his bed. The blankets were cold, and dust flew into the air when he hit the mattress. But what did it matter? He was filthy anyways, and tired. Soon he was also snoring.

In his dreams he was always a warrior. Big and strong and brave. Perhaps not handsome (depending on the dream) but always just and honorable. With the Sword of Martin in paw he tore through the cold and empty castle. All around him skulls were laughing from where they hung upon the walls. The skulls of mice and voles and shrews- innocent slaves captured and put to work in some pit. He was here for justice. Down in the grounds he'd left Momchillo and Grollo to guide the slaves to freedom. He had business to attend to.

The warlord would only rear his ugly head again if he let him have the chance, and then every innocent creature in Mossflower country would suffer. No, he was a hero. Abbey Warrior. He protected the innocent and it was his job to make sure this cruel slavemaster kept his iron paws to himself.

A huge rat roared down at him. The savage wore a necklace of bones and a squirrel-skin pelt. Was this the warlord? He scarcely had time left to think before the beast was upon him. Spit flew and dripped from it's open jaws as it swung an axe down at him. Such a weapon and with such force, would have to be dodged.

But in his dreams Matiya was stronger than anything. Almost casually he raised his blade, and caught the axe by the handle. The force of the blow sent the weapon shaking. A moment later he had bypassed his opponent, a swift, bloodless jab to the stomach sent the savage to the floor. Never would he rise again.

Matiya continued towards the throne room, where he knew he'd find the warlord. Another large rat perhaps, or a small, cunning weasel. It made no difference. All it took was one swing of his sword and the beast would fall and Mossflower would be safe. Hopefully in time for tea, the biscuits smelled like cinnamon.

The hall opened up like the mouth of a serpent, stretching impossibly wide around him, and he knew at last that he had arrived. A massive seat stood before him, a tremendous pile of skulls and bones. A great green serpent, it's eyes the colour of jade, coiled around the throne. But it was not a rat he found seated amidst the soft pillows. It was not a weasel of any shape or form who shrunk at the sight of him.

"You couldn't stay away, could you?" Fret squeaked. He was not much of a warlord in truth. Life in the castle had made him plump, but he was small and shaking. In his paws there was a crown of copper, with thirteen golden spines jutting out. Despite his newfound weight, he was smaller than Matiya had ever seen him. The throne, the pillows and the serpent at his feetpaws all seemed likely to swallow him up. The squirrel felt his breath caught in his throat.

"Y-you had to come and be the hero. Y-you had to. Couldn't- couldn't just leave me alone." The crown slipped from his paws and the ferret curled in on himself, cradling his knees and rocking to and fro. "I wouldn't have done anything."

Matiya could not remember why he was here. Slaves, he was rescuing slaves. Yet that notion seemed silly now. The snake was rising up, on it's great, scaly head lay the crown. "I came for you." He said at once and knew it to be true. The kidnapping, the attempted stabbing... all of it... none of it mattered! "To bring you home! The others are back already-"

"Liar!" The ferret whined, rocking ever-harder. "Liar, liar, liar, liar."

Matiya felt the breath leave his lungs. No, he wanted to say. It was the truth. The squirrel took a step backwards.

"What's the matter?" Snapped the ferret, wiping his eyes dry. "Was it something I said?"

"N-no-"

"Was it something I did?" The desperation in his eyes was painful to watch. It was as if the ferret's very life depended on the answer. "I didn't want to do this." He said, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to do this. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't do anything."

"It's not your fault." Matiya found his voice and sheathed the blade of Martin the Warrior. He would not be needing it now. There was no warlord to kill. Only another beast to help. He stretched a paw out towards Fret. "Nothing's your fault."

The ferret's claws dug into his own tail. "You're right." His voice was nothing more than a squeak, the kind of noise only a frightened child could make. "It's yours!"

The snake lunged and Matiya went for his blade. He never got the chance to unsheathe it though, an arrow hit his paw and his fingers exploded with pain.

The squirrel's eyes shot open and he instantly became aware of blood on his paw. In the panicked fumble of sleep he'd gone for the sword of Martin the Warrior- only to find Threeclaw's stolen rapier. It's sharp blade had tore a long gash along the inside of his fingers and now he was bleeding. Last spring he'd have ran straight to his mother, but he'd seen and dealt with far worse wounds by now. Anyhow his bruises hurt more. Wiping his paw on the blanket, he made sure to, very carefully, place the blade in a corner of his room.

"What a dream." He mused, rubbing at his head and getting small droplets of blood in-between his fur. As was the case with sleeping dreams, he remembered little of it. Only that Fret had been there, fat and frightened and in the coils of a large snake.

He shook his head determinedly. His friends were fine, and definitely not anywhere near a snake.

Marching forwards the squirrel pushed open the curtains, and was met with far more light than he had expected. The sun was high in the sky and Matiya had to step backwards. What was the time? How long had he been asleep?

"Matee'a? Are ee oop yet?" Came Roseheart's voice.

"Yes." There had been a lot of blood apparently, and spots of red surrounded a long, crimson streak on the center of his blanket. "Yes I just woke up." He replied, ripping his bloodstained blanket off the bed just as the door opened. Swiftly, he turned his back on her, so that she did not get a glimpse of red. It would not do for anybeast to see all the blood. Not now when they'd no doubt fuss over him. "So, what's for breakfast?" He asked nonchalantly, kicking the offending blanket under his bed to be dealt with later.

"Brekfust be over. Abbot Martin said not to waken ee oop. Said ee'd need to catch up on yurr zleepin'." She sported a raised eyebrow as she watched him wrestle the blanket, but, thankfully, did not question him.

"Oh, right. I'm not hungry anyways." And how could he be? He'd eaten enough food to fill a badger only a few hours ago.

There was a hint of worry in Roseheart's eyes that Matiya did not know how to deal with. He gave her a sheepish grin.

"I look a right mess, don't I?"

She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. "Not a roight mess zurr, moibe in need of a bay-thin'. Abbot Martin tolden oi to call 'ee to th'ole. It be abowt... 'ee stoat."

Threeclaw! How had he forgotten about Threeclaw? A familiar and unpleasant nervousness creeped up on him now. "Well, w-we mustn't keep him waiting then. You know how he gets." Not even he was sure whether he was talking about Abbot Martin or Threeclaw.

Ignoring the nervousness, and Roseheart's worried stare, Matiya dashed down the hall as fast as his feetpaw could carry him. He arrived, breathless, a few moments later. He found Abbot Martin seated besides the Recorder, who was talking ceaselessly, the older mouse had his head against the table, a gesture Matiya knew to indicate irritation. A few other beasts were crowded around, but Matiya payed them no mind and made his way to where Threeclaw lay draped over a chair.

The albino looked bored, his three-clawed paw spinning a fork around, yet when he caught sight of the squirrel he grinned slightly, and twisted around so that he was upside down. "Bon to be back, si?"

"Yeah." The squirrel replied distractedly.

"You look funny from upside down. I know squirrels can climb and all, but walking upside down is not the same thing."

"What's all this about?" Matiya asked, waving a paw around the Hole.

The stoat's smile went upside-down as he twisted and slunk back into a normal seating position. "Your abbeybeasts wanted to ask me some things."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

Matiya shook his head and felt the nervousness return. "I-it's- fine. They just, want to... Clarify... Some things. Few questions. Nothing much."

The stoat rolled his eyes and pointed at a nearby, unoccupied stool. "I know."

"How are you feeling?" Matiya was forced to ask as he sat down.

"As cool as a concombre, as calm as a coracle and as bored as a badger."

Bella must have heard him, for she glared in his direction. Threeclaw did not seem to notice and shrugged.

"But I am supposing you woodlanders have your ways."

Abbot Martin had intended it to be a short, informative discussion between himself and the stoat. The Recorder would write down notes on all that was said and Matiya would then confirm the truth of it all. But then Bella had caught wind of the plan and tagged along to act as bodyguard, in case the vermin tried anything. And then he had asked Constance to come, to make sure Bella did not accidentally kill their guest. The Recorder had next invited Lily Prickla over to add all the details she knew. Then Blind Agatha had insisted that she would stay with her son and Rosebrush had wanted to ask and hear about hers. And then the Friar and his wife had joined them, Roseheart and the Foremole, the Log-a-log (currently suffering from a mild hangover) three other shrews and a pair of hares.

The old mouse had then drawn a line, and just in case, assigned every other abbeybeast a long and frustrating job to do. Mostly picking fruit and cleaning up the grounds, but poor Mormont had ended up on dish duty. He was quite sure that such precautions were not well-recieved, but at least nobeast would be listening in from behind the doors.

"Like I was saying- oh look Matiya's here. Poor boy's been dragged through the mud by the look of it."

Abbot Martin sat up and rubbed at his eyelids. Indeed Matiya was there, looking slightly confused, and as Montague had pointed out, rather filthy. The abbot cleared his throat and drew the attention towards himself. "Now, I'm sure we are all aware as to why we are here. But just to reiterate, this is not an interrogation, this is not a trial, we just want answers. That's all. I ask nothing from anybeast present, only that when they speak that they speak the truth."

There was a murmur of agreement and Abbot Martin went on. "Now Matiya, please explain what happened? How did- how- perhaps start from the beginning. To the best of your memory, what happened at the last feast?"

Matiya had not expected to be asked anything, not this early in the er-late afternoon anyways. "Well." He said, though what he meant was 'um'. "Well, we were eating." He resisted the urge to facepaw. But Abbot Martin gave a nod of encouragement and Matiya cleared his throat. "It all started I suppose when Jack started juggling. An eggplant or something fell in a bowl of soup and Fret and Tibbers got drenched."

"You're quite sure it was an eggplant?" Asked Montague, his paw clenched tightly around an ever-moving quill.

"Er- it could have been a turnip. Maybe a radish." Matiya scratched the side of his head. Had it in fact been an onion?

"Please continue." Abbot Martin requested, waving away the pointless detail.

The squirrel nodded and did as the abbot requested. "So, Fret left the hall all unhappy and stuff. Then I went to make sure he was alright and found him on the walltops." Liar liar liar liar liar. The squirrel's insides twisted cruelly. "He er- seemed er-upset." He had been upset and Matiya had been confused. "Nearly slipped off the walls but I caught him and then he er- well I went back to the feast." He shouldn't have done that. He should have stayed on the walltops with the soup-covered ferret.

"Alright. Now, Threeclaw. As I understand it you were-" Abbot Martin never got the chance to finish his question. Finding all the right words was difficult, especially in a situation as complicated as this.

"You were working with Fret." The Recorder interrupted.

"That's not-" Matiya started, but Threeclaw interrupted him.

"Shhhh, it's me they're asking amigo."

Matiya scowled at him but remained silent.

Montague went on. "But this confused us. Fret never left the abbey before, yet somehow he ended up in cahoots-" Here Threeclaw began snickering. "With you." The Recorder finished rather crossly.

"And who told you that?" The stoat asked but did not wait for a reply. "Premierenent, I didn't find Frettie, my copains did. Deuxiement I was never being in cocoons-"

"Cahoots." Lily Prickla corrected softly.

"That. With anybeast." Threeclaw smirked. "Frettie was found at the bottom of your big rouge walls. He seemed likely to die in the cold so he was brought to our camp." The stoat shrugged. "We patched him up a little and then he was free to do what he pleased."

The Recorder seemed likely to start interrogating again so Abbot Martin swiftly changed the subject.

"Now Matiya. Please explain what happened next."

"Right. The next morning as you know nobeast could find Fret. So er- we thought we'd give it a try. Me and Jack and Tibbers, Momchillo, Grollo, Hawthorn and Roseheart." He swallowed slightly to keep down the guilt rising inside of him. All of his friends, and he'd lead them into danger... "We went to look for him and-" Here he stopped abruptly.

"And?" Demanded the Recorder.

"And we-" He stopped again and glanced at Threeclaw.

"And they ran into moi." The stoat finished, jabbing a thumbclaw into his chest for emphasis.

Roseheart nodded dumbly. "Th-that's the truth." Matiya finished. For a moment Cavern Hole was silent as the grave.

"So this." Bella waved a paw around in indication of the missing children. "Is your fault."

The temperature dropped palpably and Matiya felt an icy chill run down his spine. He opened his mouth to offer some kind of defense, but the stoat beat him to it.

Threeclaw leaned back in his seat. "I kidnapped them. I tied them to a mast and sailed away with them." He smirked. "But the fault lies with the irresponsible parents who let their children walk out the gates."

Their was an uproar, and Abbot Martin wished he had some sort of hammer with which to restore peace and quiet. As it was all he could do was repeatedly ask for everybeast to calm down. Not that anybeast seemed to listen.

"You're bonkers! Blaming us for your crimes, wot!" Shouted a hare.

The Log-a-log stomped forwards, determined to wipe the smirk off his face. "My fault, eh? Oh-ho! We'll see who's fault it is after I've bashed your skull in!"

Matiya shot to his feet and stepped swiftly and firmly between the fat shrew and the stoat. "Wait! Wait, let me explain-"

"Explain what laddie!? He just said he done it! Now out of the way!" He made to barge past but Matiya shoved him backwards. Threeclaw laughed as the hung-over Log-a-log fell on his rump.

"No! I know what he did was bad but but- but he's changed!"

"Matiya? What are you saying?" His mother looked stricken.

"I haven't changed actually." Threeclaw added.

"And it's not his fault or Fret's fault we got kidnapped. It's mine!"

Abbot Martin did not remember Cavern Hole ever being so quiet. He opened and closed his mouth in surprise.

Matiya went on less fiercely. "It was my idea to go looking for Fret. I thought... I thought... Fret was hurt and it was because of me and I thought I'd help him out and I dragged everybeast down with me and-" Matiya swallowed. "This is my fault." Guilt and shame forced his gaze downwards. He could not bring himself to look at anybeast.

The sombre mood was ruined when Threeclaw, nodding continuously, pointed a claw at the squirrel. "This is his fault."

"'Ow can 'ee be zaying that Matee'a." Came Roseheart's voice. "When Frettie troied to stab Momchillo and ''ee-" she pointed a shaking digging claw at Threeclaw- "Stabbed Tibbers."

"WHAT!?" The Log-a-log was up on his feetpaws now and barged past Matiya before the squirrel could react. "He did what!?" Before he could get to the stoat, however, he was held back by Constance

"I stabbed the shrew, kicked the hare's rump and broke the squirrel's wooden sword." Threeclaw replied. "Pourquoi? Well fun fact, your kids attacked moi! No provocation, no warning- the hare charged first and the shrew second. I had to stab the shrew or else he might have stabbed me and I like my fur bloodless. The better question is pourquoi vous gave children real weapons."

Bella stood up suddenly and threw Threeclaw into her shadow. "And you expect us to believe that rubbish?"

"Ask your squirrel."

Bella growled. "Matiya tell the truth and tell it loudly. I want this beast to hear some honesty before I-"

"BELLA!" Abbot Martin cried, slamming his tiny fist into the table. "Sit back down this instant! Everybeast please calm down. Please. Shouting will not solve anything. Now Matiya, please continue. What happened next?"

"Well, they took us to their camp and Fret was there. And when I saw him I was angry. So I-er I punched his tooth loose." The squirrel sat back down on the stool. Somehow his legs did not seem able to take his weight any longer. "Then I don't know. Some time passed, we were in a tent. Tibbers was getting his shoulder patched up and then Fret told them that somebeast was hurt. Then he... He had a knife..."

"''Ee troied to stab Momchillo." Roseheart finished.

Threeclaw broke into loud laughter and leaned so far back in the chair that it came crashing to the floor. All that was visible from around the furniture were his legs kicking the air as he continued to cackle.

"What's so funny?" The Recorder demanded.

Threeclaw raised a paw and laughed for a good minute. When he had recovered, he sat up on the capsized chair. He was pink in the face and breathing heavily.

"You are funny! All of you! You're drole. Frettie never tried to stab anybeast. Frettie couldn't stab anybeast even if he wanted to. Why do you think I was stopping him?" Threeclaw shook his head. "Strange beast, I still have no idea why he wanted to come back here."

"What do you mean stop him?" Constance asked, still holding onto the Log-a-log.

"He was going to cut the rope." Said Matiya dumbly. They had screamed and shouted and said hurtful things and the ferret had wasted precious time stuttering.

"Exactement!" Threeclaw declared.

"So it is your fault!" Bella rose to her feet again. "You stopped them from-"

"Running amok in the wilds of Mossflower?" Threeclaw rolled his eyes. "Had Frettie succeeded they'd have been perdue. And there are far worse things than me that could find them."

"Like what?" Demanded the Badgermum.

"Cannibals. Owls. Les sauvage that killed my company." The stoat's smirk was back at maximum smugness. "It's lucky I ran into them vraiment."

The Log-a-log snarled and rose to his feetpaws. "You'll be lucky to get out alive."

"Really?" Threeclaw stopped spinning the fork and pointed it at the fat shrew's stomach. "You going to sit on me or something?" The stoat raised his paws in mock panic. "I am being afraid now! Save me somebeast, from this obese little thing!"

"Now er- Matiya." Said Abbot Martin very very loudly in an attempt to keep the situation under control. "Please continue. How did your ahem, partnership with Threeclaw start?"

"Well. We were sailing away on their boat." Matiya replied, trying his hardest to drown out the sound of Threeclaw snickering and loudly righting his chair. "When we got attacked. I-er don't know why. I'm not sure by whom. But it was a lot of black rats. We thought we'd use the diversion to escape maybe. So we got onto a lifeboat." Matiya looked down at his feetpaws again. "But I- I didn't want to leave Fret behind. So I went back to get him and..." He trailed off, his ears drooping. If they had managed to escape then they'd have spent the winter in Redwall... Together... But then Fret might have died... Fret might have died anyways.

His paws were shaking, and only now did he seem to register the pain in his bleeding wound. Hastily he hid them behind his back, but not before his silence had been noted.

"And?" The Recorder asked impatiently.

"Then he fell off the boat, got washed down the river and found moi." Threeclaw explained, gently patting the squirrel's head before retaking his seat. "I am supposing you want to know who attacked us?"

"I was just going to ask that." Montague said briskly, dipping his quill in ink.

"I have aucune idea. No clue!"

"Really?" Bella growled skeptically. "There's nobeast that wants you dead?"

"There are too many beasts that want me to be a cadaver." Threeclaw retorted. "It could have been another band of pirates. It could have been some Northern King. It could have been you for all I know." He shrugged. "They fought like you but there were many of them and we were beaten. Some rat sliced my throat open and I fell into la riviere. Your squirrel found me, saved mon vie." He pointed at his throat with the fork in one paw, and with the other brushed aside his fur for maximum visibility. Faintly a scar could be seen, stitched shut by a torn piece of habit. "La rest is history."

"So you haven't got a clue as to where the children are at?" Asked a hare.

"Aucune idea."

Silence followed his words, for nobeast knew what to say. The Recorder's quill raced along the parchment, scratching furiously and was responsible for all the noise in Cavern Hole until Abbot Martin spoke.

"Miss Prickla if you are willing to shed some light on this subject it would be most beneficial. We understand that Grollo, Hawthorn and ahem, a weasel that goes by Sharpfur have been in your care until recently. Could you explain how this came to pass?"

"Oh that's quite simple really. I was by the river one afternoon collecting some fresh water when they burst from the treeline. Dreadful state the poor things. Clothes torn, bleeding profusely- the weasel had a nasty burn." She hugged herself and shivered. "They were in a ghastly state. But I patched them up as best I could. Sweet children, all three of them. Very kind, very helpful, very clever-"

"If you don't mind me asking." The Recorder's voice came from behind a pile of drying parchment. "Why is it that you are here and they are not?"

It surprised Matiya little when the old hedgehog burst into tears and collapsed. Being swift, even for a squirrel, he managed to catch her before she fell, but it was all he could do to stop himself toppling under her weight. Ignorant of his plight Lily Prickla sobbed freely into his chest-fur.

"Shush, shhhhhh, calm now." Threeclaw, who had expected such an outburst, gently patted the hedgehog's shoulder until she released the squirrel and threw herself into him. Having not expected such a turn of events he slipped and fell back into the chair. "There, there." He wheezed, having been winded on impact.

"Was it something I said?" The Recorder asked, standing on tip-paw to see past his papers.

"She's very sensitive." Matiya explained for the benefit of everybeast present, most of whom were staring at their feetpaws in the kind of awkward guilt one often felt around a sobbing creature.

"They wanted to come back." The old hedgehog was shaking her head so thoroughly she had knocked her glasses askew. "But I didn't want to l-leave. I thought it'd b-be d-dangerous. B-but then they left anyways." She could speak no further and once more turned to Threeclaw for comfort. The stoat grimaced from around her spiky head, but made no motion to throw her off.

"Constance, if you would be so kind as to escort Miss Prickla to her room. We have heard enough."

"Oi be thinken that some tea moight not be amizz." The Foremole added.

The big mouse nodded and very carefully helped the old hedgehog out, offering ceaseless reassurances that everything would be fine.

Abbot Martin rubbed at his forehead. Matiya's story did not contradict Roseheart's version of events, but did offer a different perspective. He did not doubt his pupil's honesty. Matiya was an honest boy by nature and didn't have enough of a way with words to spin an elegant lie.

Bella suddenly pointed a claw at the stoat. "What about the bird?"

"Bird?"

"Bird!"

"What bird?" Asked Matiya, before remembering what he'd said about sparrows. Oops...

To make matters worse, Threeclaw opened his big fat mouth. "We never dealt with any birds!" Then the lie came back to him too and he visibly stiffened.

Bella frowned. "Matiya, I am very disappointed in you. Lying is not the abbey-"

"You were strangling him!" The squirrel protested.

"What bird?" Asked Abbot Martin, confused by this detail. He did not think he could handle another plot twist...

"I was not strangli-"

"Tell that to my guts!" Threeclaw snapped. He pointed the fork at Bella.

"So he didn't save me from a bird." Matiya threw his paws into the air. "He still looked after me. He didn't have to, but he did."

"To ransom you." Threeclaw added, just when it had looked like they were about to believe him. Matiya facepawed and turned to face him.

"Who's side are you on?"

"Mine." The stoat replied, not really helping his case.

Matiya spun back to face the assembled Redwallers. "He's not a bad beast just give him a chance to-" He was going to say 'prove it' but was interrupted by Threeclaw laughing.

"Une chance? Where was all this joking while we were traveling?" Threeclaw stood up. "I do not need a chance. And I am not thinking that she would want to give it. Not am I wanting it. A bag of vittles will do and I'll be on my way. Oh, and I want le rapier back." He paused expectantly, one paw outstretched, the other on his hip, a footpaw tapping impatiently.

"You're leaving?" Matiya felt his ears droop and his tail go flat. In hindsight he should have seen this coming... But he did not want Threeclaw to leave. The stoat was funny and fun to be with and-and nobeast else would teach him how to use a sword. Yet Threeclaw was also vermin and lived life like one. A parting of ways was inevitable... But surely now was too soon? They had only arrived the other night!

"Of course I'm leaving." The stoat snapped. "I am not wanting to be here, nor am I much wanted here. You're back with your famille now which means I have done all that is needed to do." He softened slightly upon noting how sad the squirrel looked. "Still... I have grown fond of you. I'll be in Mossflower somewhere my copain. Perhaps one day we shall cross paths again." He threw his arms open, apparently offering a hug and awkwardly Matiya returned it. "Perhaps some day we might cross swords again." He whispered, so only the squirrel could hear. Before Matiya could think of any kind of reply Threeclaw had shoved him off none-too-lightly. "Well? Where is my sword?"

"I'm afraid we can't let you leave." Abbot Martin replied.

"What?" The stoat was startled.

"You mean it?" Matiya, delighted.

"Excuse moi, but why?" Threeclaw demanded through gritted teeth.

"Well you see... Some of our children are not accounted for and all thing considered, it is plausible that some members of your crew are still in possession of them."

"So I'm a bargaining chip!?" The stoat jabbed his fork in the old mouse's direction. "You're going to sell me-"

"Don't think of it like that." The abbot protested, his paws flailing. "And we shan't keep you very long. I am sure that you have, ahem, very important duties to attend to and are eager to return to your erm- people. But as a measure of self-assurance-"

Threeclaw's paws tightened viciously around the fork. With a light, infuriated hiss the stoat threw it upon the ground and sat fuming, his arms crossed over his chest. Steam seemed to billow from his redder-than-usual face and Matiya did not recall ever seeing him so angry. It was frightening but the squirrel was not frightened. They were friends... Threeclaw would never hurt him.

"Held against your will! Ha! Now there's some justice!" The Log-a-log declared, slapping his belly.

Threeclaw opened and closed his mouth, biting back all the foreign foul words in his arsenal. The albino shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

"So I am being your guest?"

"Precisely." Abbot Martin replied.

Matiya punched the stoat lightly on the shoulder. "An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, eh?"

Threeclaw shook his head but could not suppress a smirk. "You have spent far too much time around vermin. Now you even play as dirty as we do. I am not supposing I have much of a choice?"

"You don't." Bella replied, cracking a knuckle.

Threeclaw deflated. "Then we are... Where we are..."

[The Grey Coincidence]

It did not take him long to find Sharpfur, all he had to do was follow the trail of startled hares and slammed doors. He came out into a small garden on the mountain, where Sharpfur sat, glaring at the ocean. All around the little weasel there seemed to be an air of rage and anger, barely hidden below a turmoil of emotion.

"Sharpfur?" The hedgehog began carefully. True to his name, the weasel was a prickly fellow. And of course, under the circumstances... more likely to lash out.

"Humph?"

This Grollo took to mean 'what do ye want?' and so, permission for conversation having been granted, sat down besides the weasel. "I'm sorry we came here." He started, rubbing at his wrists.

"Sure ye are."

"You were right, it was a bad idea."

"Course I was, course it was. I said so, didn't I?"

"We might have even reached Redwall by now if we'd listened to you." That was unlikely; they had arrived barely an hour ago.

"Yer gonna say 'but' aren't ye?"

"Bu- er- although... under the circumstances..."

"Save yer breath hedgepig. Ye got no reason not te be happy here." Sharpfur turned to him. "And even if ye do, ye've got home te look forwards to. I don't have that opp-opp- operation? No! Uni- uni- unity-"

"Opportunity?" Grollo offered.

Sharpfur growled. "I was about te say that." The weasel stood up and began pacing. "Anyhow nothin' ye say now changes the fact that ye manipulated me into comin' here. Don't deny it! I may wear spectacles but I ain't blind." He kicked an innocent pebble with enough ferocity to kill a badger. "Stop for directions ye said. Only a minute ye said. An' now... now... but it's not yer fault. No, not yer fault at all. I can't even blame ye thinkin' about yerself. I do it all the time, don't I? No. No. This, this is Greyclaw's fault."

"Right..." Grollo coughed awkwardly. It was nice to know he was in the clear, but shifting Sharpfur's rage onto the rat hardly seemed fair. He hadn't wanted to say it in front of everybeast but said so-called rat did look like Constance. "How?"

"It just is!" Sharpfur snapped, then he took a deep seathing breath. "Everythin' I ever knew about him is a lie! He's a mouse! A damned mouse! That would have been nice te know growin' up! I did everything with him! We shared a room, an arm chair- I even let him use my dirk! Hellgates we shared a cot!"

Grollo did not get the opportunity to speak, both because Sharpfur was not intent on sharing the dialogue and because he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"But apparently, the rat I used te go swimmin' with- even though I hate water!- isn't a rat!"

"But what difference does it make?"

"STOP ASKING STUPID QUESTIONS, IT MAKES A HUGE DIFFERENCE!" Sharpfur was red in the face from shouting, and then, just when it looked like his inner rage would boil over, he shrunk. "He was my brother and he's not the same anymore. Nothing's the same anymore! Ma and Pa are dead and I'm yer prisoner and Greyclaw isn't Greyclaw! The rest are skeletons and I'm wearing spectacles and... and... and- gah!" The fury returned and he paced around faster than before, almost feverishly. "Not a mouse. Not a mouse. Not a mouse. He. Is. Not. A. Mouse!" Then again he stopped and shrunk. "He can't be."

"He's not." Grollo said, seizing his moment. Manipulation had gotten him this far, perhaps a bit more wouldn't hurt. Besides, it was what Sharpfur wanted to hear. "I didn't want to say it in front of the Badgerlord, but he looks nothing like Constance. Very different. Different teeth, different face, different eyes even." He shook his head dramatically. "He doesn't look a thing like her."

Sharpfur was frowning at him. "I can't tell if yer serious or not?"

"Why would I joke about something like this? Constance is Fret's mother." He looked around and leaned in conspiratorially, so that the weasel's ear inclined towards him. "But this is between me and you. Don't tell anybeast, okay?"

Sharpfur remained skeptical. "Won't everybeast find out when we get te yer abbey and they see two very different lookin' mice next te each other?"

Grollo waved away the worry. "We'll deal with the fallout at Redwall." That wasn't even a lie. He'd have quite a lot on his paws when Sharpfur saw two very similar looking mice next to each other. Even moreso if Constance treated the supposed rat the way she treated Fret... somehow he doubted Sharpfur would take a squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hug with a plethora of kisses lightly... but that was a problem for another time.

"So... Greyclaw is a rat?"

"Absolutely. No doubt about it."

"But I can't tell him. So... I should act like he's a mouse..."

"Yeah. Just pretend."

Sharpfur grinned. "Easy peasy lemon squeezy! Ha! The look on everybeast's face when they realise he's a rat! Ha! The look on his face when common sense gets handed te him. An' then I'll say 'I told ye so!' Hehehe! Perfect! This is perfect! And best of all I get Greyclaw back!" With a newfound spring in his step, Sharpfur turned away, leaving Grollo to worry about the look on his face when they got to Redwall.

Barely a moment later, the weasel poked his head round the door, scowling. "Nice try hedgepig but I ain't buyin' it. Pity I'm not as stupid as ye think I am, eh?" Then without another word the weasel slunk away.

Or not...

"Sharpfur wait! Sharpfur!"

The weasel had not gone far and was wrestling with a door. Try as he might he could not push it open.

"Save yer breath! I've had it with ye an' the mousemaid! Actin' like we're all friends but ye don't respect me an' all ye do is trick me anyways and-"

"For the last time." Hawthorn said, pushing open the door from the other side and thus, joining the two. "I. Am. A. Vole. We are not the same as mice."

"Well ye look like a mouse, sorry te break it te ye princess. Now if ye'll excuse me I'll go pace in rage somewhere alone!"

Hawthorn did not let him and the two glared at each other, nose to nose.

"I'm sorry you have to stay here." The vole began calmly. "But that can't be the only reason you're angry. You were fine with us, even if we're not rats, but for some reason you're angry at Greyclaw for being a mouse."

Sharpfur smiled patronisingly. "Yer such a clever little snowflake. Now let me go."

He made to dart past her, but once more she stepped between him and the door. "You are clearly avoiding the problem. It's not Salamandastron and it can't be Greyclaw. So tell us, what's wrong?"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"This!"

"Yes- wait, pardon?"

The weasel waved his paws in the air. "This! All of this is wrong! Me! I am wrong! I am-" His paws went from flailing frantically to pulling at his ears. To their surprise, he whimpered. "I don't know what I am anymore."

Sharpfur paced around the small patch of space between Grollo and Hawthorn. "Greyclaw's me brother. Mouse or not. But what is me? My parents are dead. My crew are dead. An-and- I'm not the same! I'm wearing spectacles! I'm polite! I-I-I- Greyclaw hasn't changed one bit. He looks exactly the same but- I-I can't even recognize myself!" He growled and shook his head. "Ye won't understand."

Grollo didn't. That much was obvious from his o-shaped mouth. And made clearer by his answer. "Well my dad talked to me about this thing called puberty once and-" One look at Hawthorn's 'you are such an idiot sometimes' and Sharpfur's 'ye're the dumbest hedgepig in existence' faces made him shut up.

"I get it." Said Hawthorn turning to Sharpfur.

The weasel gave a skeptical smirk despite himself and crossed his paws over his chest. Nobeast could possibly guess the complexities of his mind. "Sure ye do. Go on, oh wise and perfect princess."

"Your concept of identity has been shaken."

"Me what of what?"

"I didn't understand that either." Grollo said, scratching at his chin. Hawthorn gave him a look and the hedgehog was silent. The vole went on.

"Creatures are built out of the things around them. Before we... crossed paths... you had an excellent idea of who you were. You were Sharpfur. You had a family and home to call yours and you were a wannabe thug."

"Actually I still am a thug."

Hawthorn ignored him and continued. "But then you had nothing. It's like... like... like a kite! As long as somebeast is holding the rope the kite can drift and flutter all it likes but it stays in place. When there's no rope the kite is lost and blows away in the wind until it snags onto a-"

"Yer point?" Sharpfur asked, giving a wide fake yawn.

"You are so frustrating! The reason you're angry is because you don't want to change! You want to go back to the way things ware but you know you can't because it doesn't exist anymore. You were fine before because you could live with that, but then you met Greyclaw and now you're reminded of why is it you wanted to go home, thus causing emotional turmoil within yourself!"

Sharpfur frowned. "Not the words I'd have used to be honest."

Hawthorn smacked her paw against her face and took a deep breath. "Alright. I'm done trying to explain your own issues to you."

Sharpfur 'harrumphed' loudly. "Good. Now if ye'll excuse me I've got stuff te do."

Victoria gave the dummies no mercy. Her sword was a blur of wood that beat at the bags of sand so viciously, that everybeast in sight had given her at least three feet of space.

Angus and Andrew sat upon the rocks, hard-faced and angry, a mockery of the Skipper's cold rage.

Jack and the other hares were doing drills a few feet away, lead by the fat Junior Corporal who seemed determined to avoid any and all conflict... by ignoring it.

Unfortunately, conflict was hard to avoid...

Greyclaw, despite the insurmountable fear holding him, waddled over to Victoria, awkward smile and wooden sword at the ready. She had offered to train him after all, and for once he was eager for the distraction.

He stopped dead in his tracks after she beheaded one of the sandbags.

But it was too late to back away, she had spotted and was glaring at him.

"H-hey." He began, swallowing heavily.

"Hello." Came her calm, clipped, terrifying voice.

"So er- what am I supposed to do today?" He swung the sword around to give him something to do and alleviate some of the awkwardness... only for the wooden weapon to go flying out of his paw. He made to catch it, tripped and fell on his face.

Victoria caught it with her tail and turned back to the rat, who tried his best to grin up at her from around a mouthful of sand.

"You can start by putting this useful training equipment back in the armoury. We wouldn't want you breaking somebeast's hard work and effort."

"Right." He agreed, pushing himself to his feetpaws and accepting the wooden blade rammed into his stomach. "And then do we try slings?"

"I'm not giving you a weapon rat."

"Jogging?" He asked hopefully.

"No!" His face fell. "No! No! No! You got that Berty? Or should I say Grey Claw?"

The rat found nothing better to stare at then his footpaws. "You can call me whatever you like... I don't mind..." Of course he didn't mind. How could he mind? He didn't know.

"How about liar? Or would you prefer vermin? Rat? Seascum? Cannibal?"

"I'm not a cannibal." The rat muttered, hurt and aghast, twisting the wooden sword in his grip.

"I don't care!" She snapped, jabbing him hard in the stomach. It still hurt, despite his layers of flabby padding. "You're not my friend either."

"B-b-but-" He was crying, of course he was crying, he was oversensitive and her words hurt.

"But what? You came here saying you were somebeast else-"

"Actually." Jack-is-Lucky said, scowling. "I said he was somebeast else."

"Oh I'm angry with you too." She said fiercely. "And Tibbers the little runt. But at least you two don't expect everything to go back to normal after lying to everybeast here for several weeks."

"And if I had told you the bally truth it wouldn't have made a difference." Jack snapped, paws crossed resolutely over his chest. "Because what I said was the truth. You heard the Badgerlord. He's a mouse. End of story. Wot."

"So what?" Angus came over too now, and joined the argument. "He still lied through his buckteeth. And even if-"

"Big if." Added his twin.

"He is a mouse. He was raised by vermin- and therefore is vermin."

Jack opened and closed his mouth, unable to counter this point. "The Junior Corporal agrees with me." He said suddenly, then turned and shouted at the Corporal. "You agree with me right, wot?

The fat young hare turned and shrunk under the combined strength of their glares. "Errrmm... I don't have an opinion."

"Yes you do!" The four angry beasts said in unison.

The Junior Corporal went red, opened and closed his mouth, then let his gaze harden. "When I say I don't have a bally opinion it means I don't have a bally opinion!"

"So you're not mad at me?" Greyclaw asked with a hopeful smile- one that was almost painfully forced.

"W-well I'm not very mad."

The rat's face fell and turned back to his feetpaws.

"I'm not not mad. And I'm not especially, particularly, obstinately o-or I mean, I'm not that mad, wot. I mean, really. A corporal of the Long Patrol does not under any and all circumstances, ever j-judge beasts. That's the sergeant's job wot. F-furthermore, Berty has-"

"Save your breath." Tibbers interrupted, then he went on, calmer. "We get it, we lied. Sorry, but if we'd told the truth... well... how were we supposed to know the Badgerlord was going to be merciful?"

"Mercy? This is about mercy now, is it?" The fact that Tibbers was not cowed as she marched up to him was a great show of bravery indeed. Victoria was not exactly big, but even she overtopped him. And she was holding a sword. "And when have vermin ever been merciful?"

"B-but I never did anything bad!" Greyclaw garbled, sounding rather like a dying frog. "I lied, I stole, b-but I never killed anybeast. I didn't kill your parents!"

The wooden sword spun round and caught the fat rat hard on the stomach. Greyclaw, winded, fell over and the sword came down again, this time over an eye.

"Leave him be!" Shouted Tibbers, barging the mouse and getting his own black eye in turn. Jack growled and kicked the mouse full in the face. He, in turn, was restrained by the Junior Corporal.

"Order Jack! Order! Peace! Tranquility!"

"I AM BEING TRANQUIL!" The hare replied, thrashing wildly around to get at Victoria. The mouse was getting up now, her face filled with rage, and in her eyes Jack could see a faint hint of red.

Angus and Andrew must have noticed too, for they stepped between the mouse and Greyclaw's softly sobbing form. "Easy Vicky."

"We're angry too."

"But punching isn't gonna h-oof!"

The twin who had been speaking bent over after Victoria punched him.

Tibbers was on his feetpaws and picking up the wooden sword, some of the other hares were sprinting over now, but Victoria did not seem to care and-

"OI!" The Skipper's voice boomed as the large otter came striding in amidst the chaos. That seemed to bring Victoria back to her senses. The mouse spat upon the sand and stomped away, ignoring the Skipper entirely. "What was that?" Asked the otter chief, and all at once everybeast tried to explain.

"She punched me chief! Right in my windbag!" Andrew was saying.

"Nothing short of bally chaos sah." Added the Junior Corporal.

"Got my eye as well." Tibbers provided, dabbing at it.

"The rat started it really. Well. The mouserat-" Angus chimed in.

"Here we go again." Jack pulled up his sleeves, but before he could unleash justice upon the otter's face, the Skipper spoke.

"Somebeast take the shrew up to the infirmary. Make sure the eye's fine. Skip-Gre- Berty- gah, him as well. And if I catch you fighting again I just might thrash the lot of you. Any problems you have, bring to your elders, is that understood?"

There was a rather quiet chorus of 'yes sirs' followed by Jack lifting Tibbers and dragging Greyclaw away in the direction of the infirmary.

"Not right in the brainbox, that one, wot. Positively filled with violence. Why I bet there's a whole tree up her tail! Don't worry mates, she'll get what she deserves. I'll tattle my tail off to the Badgerlord himself if I have to!"

"Don't." Greyclaw said, shaking his head, and beginning to walk besides the hare. "Just don't. She's right. I lied." The rat sneezed violently into his wrist fur. "I should have just told the whole truth from the start."

"We didn't know the whole truth from the start." Tibbers reminded, him as Jack put him down. The shrew reached up on tip-paw to put a comforting paw on Greyclaw's shoulder.. "And if you had she'd have just been like this all along. She doesn't hate you. She hates vermin."

"Imagine if she had gone to Redwall and gotten kidnapped instead of me." All three shuddered at Jack's words.

"Angus and Andrew are angry too." Greyclaw pointed out. "And Sharpfur wasn't pleased either."

"The twins are a pair of dunderheads." Jack-is-Lucky said with a roll of his eyes. He too placed a paw on Greyclaw's shoulder. "And I'm sure you and your weasel will sort things out."

"Yeah." Tibbers nodded his head in agreement. "If he's half as attached to you as you are to him than you'll be best mates by morning!"

"Isn't best mate kind of a step down from brother?"

Neither hare nor shrew knew how to respond to that.

To say that dinner that evening was an awkward affair was the understatement of the Spring. No questions were raised about the black eyes in Tibbers' and Greyclaw's possession, mostly because nobeast did any talking. Hawthorn kept searching for Sharpfur amongst the crowd but could find no trace of the little weasel. Victoria sat brooding coldly over her tea and biscuits. The Badgerlord had given her a stern talking to but even Angus and Andrew gave her a wide berth of space. Grollo was the only beast who seemed to be eating, and had no less than four biscuits crammed into his mouth. Either to stop himself from saying something stupid or because he was, as always, hungry.

It was made even more awkward by the fact that all the other hares and otters were enjoying their usual eccentricities.

This all came to an end when from the crowd of hares, many of whom were drawn to the strange sight, came Sharpfur.

Sharpfur looked... well... Grollo nearly choked. And probably would have had Jack not thumped him hard on the back.

Bespectacled and wearing the uniform of a hare, complete with several cadet badges he looked rather like a bug-eyed beast in a blanket. The comparative largeness of the jacket and glasses only seemed to emphasize how small he really was.

"Greetings and salutations woodlanders of Salamanderastron!" He declared, over the sounds of Jack yelling in pain, hopping onto the bench between a wide-eyed Greyclaw and an equally wide-eyed Tibbers.

The weasel nearly fell over from the weight of the jacket dragging him down, but managed to maintain balance. The ends of his borrowed uniform hung over the bench like a pair of folded wings. "We got off on the wrong footpaw. In part that was my fault. I wish to make amends and therefore offer my sincerest apologies. So, clean slate and all that. Who wants to be friends?" Sharpfur had spent the majority of the afternoon rehearsing his grand entrance, by which he would integrate himself into the Salamandastron community. Frankly he did not want to be friends with anybeast present, save and except for Greyclaw. In truth he was only doing this for the rat that was his brother and in part for Grollo and Hawthorn... not that he would ever admit to it.

"What are you wearing?" Greyclaw asked, staring up and down at the much-too-large uniform.

"This is called a jacket, I heard, my fine rodent friend. Standard Long Patrol stuff ye know. Some cadet lent it te me."

"You mean you stole it." Victoria muttered, loud enough to be heard.

Momentarily Sharpfur glared, but once more he regained his composure and patted down his chest fur. He had to do this for Greyclaw. Grey Claw the mouse. He'd been living with a woodlander his whole life apparently, surely he could tolerate a few more. And unless by some miracle everybeast present was struck by lightning his whole future was destined to be filled with woodlanders. So the weasel cleared his throat and pretended not to have heard.

"Ye might have also noticed that upon my entrance I was followed swiftly by the soft fragrance of cherry blossoms. This is because I washed." He forced himself to grin, the better to show off his gleaming white fangs. "I also brush me teeth and own me own fangbrush." From one jacket pocket Sharpfur extracted a toothbrush which he waved around the table for emphasis.

"That's..." Started Tibbers. "Good to know..."

"It is, isn't it?" Sharpfur sat down and pulled the shrew in closer. "Say little guy, I never did catch yer name."

Of course it was hypocritical of Sharpfur to call anybeast 'little' but he didn't have many beasts to pick on in matters of height. Naturally he took the opportunities given to him. "I-er go by Tibbers."

"Pleased te make yer acquaintance!"

They shook paws, or rather, Sharpfur snatched the shrew's and shook it vigorously. He let go abruptly and went back to facing the rest of them. "I may still be Sharpfur to ye, but in light of my new identity as a woodlander I would prefer to go by Softfur. Sounds less sharp."

"Right." Said Hawthorn, blinking.

"Confounded quills!" Jack-is-Lucky winced as Grollo pulled out one of said quills.

"So... You're a woodlander too?" Greyclaw was all sorts of confused. And momentarily worried. It must have taken a great deal of damage to the head to turn Sharpfur into... Softfur. "Did the Junior Corporal sit on you?"

"Who's she?" Sharpfur asked in reply. Then he shrugged. "Yer my only family left Grey. An' if yer a woodlander then I have to be too. Besides, ye really think Redwall Abbey'll let us stay if we go around actin' like thugs?" The weasel wrinkled his nose in disgust, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to be a thug again.

"B-b-but Redwall's haunted!" Greyclaw stammered. He had not considered leaving for the abbey. The rat had gotten used to life at Salamandastron. The Badgerlord was very nice, the Skipper too and Victoria as well... although that had been before the truth 'set him free'.

"So? What's a ghost gonna do? Don't act like vermin and it can't kill ye." Which was a shame because he had loved being a vermin. But vermin were not welcome anywhere. He had to become a woodlander...

"And how are you going to manage that? Aren't you all addicted to stealing?" Victoria asked, her voice filled with sarcastic interest.

Once more Sharpfur glared but flattened his chest fur. "I haven't stolen anything in seasons." This was not strictly true and he had loved the rush of getting away with somebeast else's property... but that had been a different time, the memory of which made his heart ache.

"You kidnapped Jack." Victoria yawned. "You stabbed Tibbers-"

"Here we go again." Tibbers growled. He slammed his little paws onto the table in a show of aggression that scared nobeast.

"Oh we've never stopped going." Victoria snapped. "But of course you'd side with them."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Tibbers demanded.

"Just that shrews have a history of acting like vermin." She frowned in Hawthorn's direction. "Voles too."

Grollo tore a quill free of Jack's paw with unnecessary brutality and pointed it at the fierce mouse. "You leave her out of this."

"Wasn't there a hedgehog that went around enslaving children?"

Before Grollo could reply, Sharpfur had slammed a cookie into his open mouth.

"Now, now. Let's keep things... civilized. Violence ain't gonna help anybeast."

"Nobeast ask your opinion, weasel." Angus muttered.

This time Sharpfur did not feign deafness. "Well I gave it anyways so there. Now shut yet pie hole an' let me eat."

The weasel sat down heavily, the hare clothing flapping around him like a magician's cloak. Greyclaw was worth it. Greyclaw's friendship was worth all the misery and pain trying to fit in would bring.

The biscuits were too hard for his painfully-polished teeth, the tea too hot and too bitter and everything else not to his liking.

"Can ye pass the sweet-stuff?" Sharpfur said suddenly, pointing at a small platter of sugar cubes. He was addressing the otter twins, who sat directly behind it. The pair shared a look and the glimmer of mischief was evident in their eyes. Sharpfur noticed of course, he'd had three older siblings after all...

"You don't want that in your tea!" Angus said, shaking his head.

"This!" Andrew passed him a wooden bottle of pepper. "Now this'll sweeten up anything."

The weasel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Thank ye." Sharpfur said politely- yet the first thing he did upon recieving the bottle, was turn it over to find the carved letters. For a long while he stared at the carvings, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally he slammed it onto the table with a growl. "Pepper! Pepper for my tea, eh? Yer a funny otter! Very funny!"

"I-it's not pepper." Angus tried to say.

"I can read ye nitwit!" Sharpfur growled again and hurled the bottle of pepper at the offending otter. "Betcha didn't see that coming!"

Andrew hadn't seen the pepper coming either.

"Yes well... most vermin are uncivilised creatures of evil."

Sharpfur glared at her, and this time did not bother flattening his raised and enraged fur. "Well at least I'm tryin' te get along!"

"You may dress like us." Victoria spat. "But you know it's only an act."

The truth of her words angered Sharpfur more than the words themselves.

The mouse went on, not at all scared of his gnashing fangs. "The last weasel in Salamandastron poisoned the food supply and tried to open the gates for his warlord father."

"And how long ago was that?" Jack-is-Lucky demanded. "None of us were born then. My grandparents weren't even born then! Wot!"

"Vermin don't change." The mouse replied coolly, her hard gaze fixed on Sharpfur. "Even if they wear magnifying glasses."

"They're for readin' addlebrain!" Sharpfur snapped.

"I didn't know you could read." Greyclaw said, intending it as a sort of compliment. A way to get Sharpfur to calm down.

"And I didn't know ye were a mouse." Sharpfur snapped again, then stabbed his tea with a fork and began stirring vigorously.

"I didn't know either!" Grey Claw protested, wincing from the force of Victoria's 'humph'.

If he hadn't just humiliated himself by trying to fit in with the woodlanders, Sharpfur could have contained his anger. But he'd had bad day afrer bad day and all his anger was free now and Grey Claw just happened to be directly in line of fire.

"And neither did I! Neither did Ma! Neither did Pa! Or Threeclaw! Neither did anybeast, but that's what ye are! Apparently!"

There was a long pause, in which Greyclaw bit his lip and the fur along Sharpfur's back rose and fell in time to the weasel's infuriated breathing.

"D-does it matter? I-I'm still the same beast, aren't I?"

"No." Said Sharpfur coldly, pushing himself off the bench. "Ye ain't. And neither am I! So stop expectin' everythin' te go back the way it was! Coz Ma and Pa are dead, our crew is dead and ye and I ain't brothers anymore because everything's different!"

It was impossible to say whether or not the rat's heart shattered or not, but it certainly looked like it had.

Sharpfur regretted his words of course, almost instantly, he bit his tongue and flattened his ears but it was too late. Greyclaw waddled away rather swiftly and left the weasel guilty.

"Grey! Come back I... I..." 'Need you' was what he wanted to say, but too many beasts were looking for him to say it. His guilt turned to anger and hissing like a snake, he hurled an innocent tea cup at Andrew. "Now look what ye made me do! Ye son of a-"

"Sharpfur stop." Hawthorn swallowed. "You're not helping."

And to her surprise the weasel did stop. She had expected anger. Arguments. Rage.

But he did not throw another thing, and in silence, turned and went the other way.

Tibbers was momentarily torn between going to comfort the rat and berating Victoria for her harshness. Jack stood up and carried the shrew out before he could make his mind up.

Wordlessly, Hawthorn grabbed Grollo by the arm and dragged him in the wake of Sharpfur.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"Ye ge' one shot. That's it. I ain't cleanin' up after ye an' if ye loose a spear I'll spank ye. Makes sense?" Fret did not doubt that Snakeskin would indeed hit them. The stoat had, after all, been lovingly caressing his 'old beau'ies' only moments before.

The treck south had taken them from hard to differentiate tunnels to... more hard to differentiate tunnels. Ones that were further south... according to Snakeskin anyways. Fret had no doubt whatsoever that they were lost. No matter how much Snakeskin assured him that he 'knew these tunnels like the back of me paw' Fret would never forget that Snakeskin was the same stoat that had once engaged him in a very long and boring debate about 'which side of the paw actually is the back of i'?'

Presently the trio were in what resembled a nursery. A cot of bones lay abandoned in the corner. All around lay a few portraits- facing the ice. He had tried to peer at one and had received a smack for it. His ear was still sore.

Now the white-furred stoat sat in a corner, cutting at a long green line of snake scales. Momchillo was holding a pair of old, surprisingly wooden, toy javelins and facing a makeshift target (a pile of blankets on a stool) with a confident smirk. They had been sitting (or in Fret's case, lying) in comfortable silence after the day's long voyage. The tunnels had shifted upwards as if they were climbing a hill and more than once he'd slipped on the ice and ended up sliding down a path he'd traversed moments before, only to have to climb all the way up again. He had been enjoying the newfound silence of his very talkative companions when Momchillo had to open his big fat mouse mouth and ask about the targets.

"I only need one shot." Fret had seen the mouse throw things his whole life and remembered vividly every snowball that had ever struck him. Redwall Abbey had had no fancy targets, save for his nose. The ferret was rather less-than-pleased when Momchillo's projectile struck the target.

Snakeskin, on the other paw, was delighted. "Nice shot mouse!" He cheered, flourishing a newly-made cloak of glimmering green scales. "Ye'd make an excellen' snake 'unter if ye put yer min' te it."

Momchillo, ever the sickeningly polite, handed both javelins back to Snakeskin. "It wasn't that hard a shot." He said with a shrug. "And a real javelin would probably be heavier anyways."

"Not if it's made of bones me boy!" The stoat stood up and as quick as lightning was behind the young rodent, draping the newly-made cloak over his shoulders and pinning it securely around the mouse's neck. "Surpriiiiise! Said I'd make ye cloaks, didn' I? Like it?"

"Y-you mean, this is mine?" Momchillo balked and passed a paw through the smooth, cold scales. "I-I- I can keep it?" It was excellently made. Scales on the outside, fur on the inside, with a hood to throw over his ears if it ever got too cold. Best of all it fitted him like a glove.

Snakeskin grinned. "Every snake 'unter 'as one of 'em. An' ye killed a snake-"

"He ran from one." Fret snapped. Snakeskin was annoying. Momchillo was annoying. It shouldn't have surprised the ferret that the two took to one another like tea and tea pot. But it did and that annoyed him more.

"Beats gettin' eaten by one." The stoat replied with a smirk and a wink.

Fret could not think of any reply beyond sticking his tongue out. Quick as a flash however, Snakeskin had it between two claws.

"An' fur the recor' I made ye a cloak as well. What's the matter? Somethin' got yer tongue?" The stoat chuckled, let go and lifted the ferret onto his feetpaws. "Black seems te be yer colour."

Fret would never have admitted it, but he liked the cloak almost instantly. It was soft and warm, akin to the blankets Constance had never ceased tucking him into. No matter how tall he had grown she would always tuck him into bed, and no matter how disastrous his misadventures had been that day he would always sleep soundly. Knowing that she loved him no matter what...

Fret stared at his reflection in the ice, equal parts missing his mother and being ashamed of doing so. He'd probably never see her again... he had to get used to living without her. And tucking himself in. And ranting to himself.

His self-pity ended abruptly when Snakeskin slammed a skull over his head.

"Ta-da! It's an 'elmet!" Batting away the ferret's paws, Snakeskin adjusted it himself so that Fret's ears stuck out from the top of the helm and he could look at his own reflection from a pair of carved eye-holes.

"I look ridiculous." Fret half-complained, half-moaned as he deflated. It had been a small snake, with a head no larger than his. A pair of fangs sandwiched his muzzle and swivelling his ears was made difficult by the relative smallness of the holes.

"Ye look like bait. An' that's what ye are. The mos' fillin' meal in the 'ole North." Snakeskin chuckled and flicked the ferret's nose.

"It looks good on you." Momchillo said with a wry smile.

Fret only harrumphed in reply as his head came free of the helmet with a small pop. The last thing he needed right now was Momchillo's brand of sarcastic wit. The mouse hadn't sounded sarcastic, but Fret knew that he was. They hadn't complimented each other in seasons and they certainly weren't going to start now.

"It was me sons. Really ye should be 'onored I gave it te ye." Snakeskin patted his head before strolling casually away. The stoat sat down heavily on a folded fur blanket and yawned. "Now 'o's up fur some shut-eye?"

Fret did not reply to that question. He was busy burying himself under as many of the fur-rugs as he could. Never mind that they stunk and made him itch all over. It was cold at night and he wanted to sleep. Plus it was, along with the paws determinedly pressing his ears against the top of his head, very good at blocking out the sound of his companions.

"Or shall we sing our song, mouse?"

Growing up with Momchillo, Fret knew just how horrible the mouse's singing voice was. Snakeskin, too used to dull silence, had ceaselessly encouraged the mouse's musical 'talents' and unfortunately the white furred stoat only knew one song. And even more unfortunately he'd taught it to Momchillo. And worst of all was that they sung it. Every. Single. Day. Together they started, like a pair of lonely, dying, toads.

"Waaaaaake uuuuup Maggiiiiiie IIIIIIII think I goooooot something to saaaaaaay to yoooouuu,"

Underneath the heaps of fur, Fret growled. Now he wouldn't get any sleep until all eighty seven verses were done... three times each... with all the extended vowels... Some things were worse than bathing.

Momchillo did not remember how the argument had started, only that he and Fret were arguing. There was nothing unusual about this. Snakeskin had left to skin some snakes and had left Fret and Momchillo to their own devices. One thing lead to another and now they did what they did best.

"You're a greasy-furred, crow-tailed, polecat! And that was a joke!" The mouse said with righteous indignation, but all of a sudden he did not know what Fret had said to make him say that. Something rude most likely.

"I am not a polecat!" The ferret hissed, but could not come up with any insults of his own.

"I should have guessed by the smell." Momchillo taunted, a wide grin on his face. "When was the last time you washed again? Last season was it? Before?"

"You just threw soup on me!"

"Seems you need a bath more than ever then, doesn't it?" As a child he'd loved reading and wit was his forte. Fret's comparative slow-mindedness could not compete with him.

The ferret, now covered in soup that had apparently always been there, growled. "You stink too!"

"Oh, do I? And how would you know, with soup up your nose?"

Fret garbled and garbled and spat out the first half of a dozen words before resigning himself to growling. But only now did Momchillo notice a wetness in his eyes that the mouse was becoming now all-too-familiar with.

The grin faltered and vanished as the image returned to him. The horrible sight of Fret halfway down a serpent, manifested itself before him clear as day and as tangible as clay. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

But Fret did not hear his apology. The ferret stomped ever closer, his fangs bared and his claws outstretched.

"I'm sorry Fret." I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

"Well I'm not!" The ferret growled, slashing open his cheek. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that for!"

It did not hurt nearly as much as it should have, considering how much blood was spilling. Life as a slave must have toughened him up. There had been a time where Fret lightly pushing him to the ground had set him to tears. Now though he accepted the blow with a bowed head.

"I'm sorry."

But Fret did not stop and kicked him to the ground. The ferret coiled back on all fours, like an exceptionally dangerous spring. Without warning the ferret sprung and Momchillo only just managed to roll out of the way in time.

Fret bit deep into the furry blankets, his cheeks filling with the black flesh. Inexplicably he began sobbing and spat out mouthfuls of fur. "Why do you always win? Just once, I just want to succeed one time! One bloody time."

Suddenly there was a shifting in the blankets, like a creature rolling over in it's sleep. To the mouse and ferret it was like a miniature earthquake. The sudden, soft, rising and falling of the, suddenly warm and flabby ground, told him that they were sitting atop somebeast. A few seconds later a pair of black eyes opened wide and cast their dim light over the terrified two.

Much like with the snake, their arguments were forgotten and the two clung to each other tightly. Momchillo was no longer even bleeding and his cheek had healed completely. The two shivered and shook and Fret whimpered as the furry mountain of a bear came to motion. The two were shaken off it's stomach and landed on the ice, still bound to each other in mutual terror of the massive creature before them.

"Never too early fur Breakfis'". The bear said in Snakeskin's accent but with a much deeper voice that shook the whole mountain with it's echoes. A paw bigger than the duo enveloped Fret and lifted him into the air.

"N-no." Momchillo stammered. Was he pleading?

"Sweet dreams." As easily as tossing a grape, the bear tossed Fret, who had since curled up in terror, high into the air. The ferret vanished down the tremendous creature's open jaws with a tiny gulp, making barely a bulge in it's already massive throat.

Momchillo was frozen in horror. It all felt surreal, far too surreal for him to be sad. It was almost akin to dreaming...

The bear licked it's massive chops with a tongue bigger than some carpets. "Your turn mousie." It leaned down in front of the young, frightened rodent and belched up a few piece of black and white fur in what was a small hurricane of released air. The whole place reeked of acid and somewhere in the distance Snakeskin was laughing.

Momchillo whimpered.

And woke up, covered in cold sweat but thankfully nowhere near a mammal bigger than a mountain. Sitting up, he made sure that Fret's tail and feetpaws still stuck out from the blankets he'd buried himself in and that those blankets were indeed not the belly of a bear.

A quick glance at Snakeskin confirmed the source of the belch, laughter and the bear's words.

"Did I wake ye?" The stoat asked from around a mouthful of dried snakeflesh. "'Ungry?" He pointed the snakeflesh at another piece of carved meat but Momchillo's attention had since drifted to the book in his other paw.

"That's Fret's!" Momchillo rubbed his eyelids to confirm that his vision was true. Indeed, the tome they had fought over upon first escaping the Northlands was there. And this time Fret was not going to stop him! The mouse squashed a small bubble of guilt as it came. It was Fret's book that much was true but the ferret himself had stolen it. How private could the contents really be?

"It is, isn' it?" Snakeskin smirked and held out the closed book.

Momchillo glanced back at the blanket pile to confirm that Fret was still buried under it, and when it became clear that the ferret was not going to wake up anytime soon the mouse stretched an eager paw towards the book.

Only for Snakeskin to smack it and tuck the tome into his cloak. "Nothin' personal mouse. I wouldn' give 'im yer secrets either."

Momchillo sucked his wounded paw. Then continued. "He told you about it? B-but he barely knows you! We grew up together-"

"An' ye nearly fed 'im te a snake." The white stoat shook his head. "I forced it outta 'im but if ye do the same I'll eat ye meself. Trust." He said, raising a claw towards the heavens. "'As got te be earned. Ye 'aven' earned 'is yet so I ain't tellin' no tales."

Momchillo scowled. "What's so important anyways? Fret can keep his secrets all he wants but if this is important then he's just being selfish!"

Snakeskin chuckled. "Ye really wan' te know don' ye?"

Momchillo nodded vigorously.

The stoat tore another piece of meat from the bone, chewed for an eternity, swallowed and belched. Momchillo was reminded horribly of the bear... Standing up Snakeskin tossed aside his breakfast and motioned for Momchillo to follow.

"I'll talk on the way. Jus' keep up."

Another glance in Fret's direction later and the mouse was besides him. "Okay tell me."

Snakeskin smirked and flicked his ear. "Ye ever stop an' think about yer pal? More than ye 'ave te?"

"Well... No... Actually yes." Momchillo admitted. "I mean I do sometimes. A lot recently. I- he, look." The mouse took a deep breath. "Fret and I weren't always this bitter. I mean, he was always a little bitter and I only started being bitter because we got kidnapped but we used to play together all the time. Every game you can think of too, everyday for most of our lives but all of a sudden-"

"I mean' about 'im not yer relationship drama." Snakeskin rolled his eyes dramatically. "Not everythin's about ye mousie."

"I know that." Momchillo said, a little crossly.

"So ye do think of 'im?"

"Not really. I wonder why he did a few things, sure but-"

"Ye ever wonder where 'e came from?" Snakeskin asked more bluntly.

This only confused the brown-ish yellow mouse further. "What do you mean 'came from'? He's been at Redwall his whole life!"

Snakeskin flicked his ear again. "Fur somebeast so clever ye got an awfully thick skull. 'E's vermin. I take it the only vermin in yer abbey?"

Momchillo nodded, simultaneously rubbing his wounded ear.

"Ye ever wonder 'ow 'e got there?"

This gave the mouse pause. Then Momchillo shrugged. "Constance must have found him somewhere. She was his mother after all."

The stoat harrumphed skeptically. "That'd be a sigh' wouldn' it? The mouse that whelped ferrets! 'O'd ye think 'is real parents are?"

And then it dawned on Momchillo. "Is that what this is about?"

Snakeskin flicked his ear again. "Yep."

Then the mouse's face became one of confusion. "But why's it such a big deal then? Everybeast knows Fret was adopted."

Snakeskin shook his head. "Ah, if only ye knew. Trust me mouse- nothin's ever that simple."

They walked on in silence for a while. Momchillo's brain was hard at work processing all the information. There wasn't much of it but his brain was doing a lot of processing. Fret's parents... But Constance had always been Fret's mother! In hindsight it was silly of him not to realize that Fret's parents were likely ferrets but... why was that important? And why had Fret, who had fought tooth and claw for the book back when their tails had been tied together, told Snakeskin!?

When posed this question by the now-indigant rodent (hadn't Fret been the one mistrustful of the stoat in the first place?) the stoat in question smirked. "I didn' give 'im much of a choice really. It was either tell the truth or I'd feed 'im te a snake so ye can see why 'e blabbed. What? Don' look a' me like tha'! I wasn' really gonna feed 'im te anythin'. Maybe roast 'is tail a little bit, hehehe... I was jokin'!"

"Fair enough." Momchillo grunted, a familiar annoyance creeping up on him and could not bite back a growl. "When we get back-"

"Yer not gonna say anythin' coz I told 'im I wasn' gonna tell ye." Snakeskin interrupted at once. "I mean ye could tell 'im but then I'd be forced te add mouse te my soup bowl now wouldn' I?"

The mouse blinked and forced himself to squash down his anger lest it put him in (literal) hot water. Through gritted teeth he spoke. "Fine. I don't know anything. Let's keep it that way. But the fact that he told you-"

Snakeskin flicked his ear. "Ye gotta earn 'is trust mouse. As fun as it is te 'it 'im where it 'urts, 'e's under a lot of pressure- an' I'm not talkin' about the itchy blankets."

There was always a plot twist with Fret. Always something he hadn't seen or hadn't considered and frankly it was beginning to worry him. Every time he thought he had Fret figured out the rug was pulled out from under him and a new image presented itself. One of a bad-tempered ferret slowly cracking away to reveal nothing more than a broken being barely held together by the thinnest of bandages. "Pressure from what?"

Snakeskin shrugged. "Loads of things. I bet 'e spends most of 'is day worryin' about what'll 'appen when ye get back te yer abbey. Ye both talk in yer sleep see. 'E keeps whimperin'. If it didn' break me heart te look at 'im I'd wake 'im up an' tell 'im te grow a spine an' deal with it."

Momchillo felt any remaining anger melt away as swiftly as it had come and resolved to do something nice for the ferret. Perhaps bite down on the witty retorts... and definitely not tell him about the nightmare he'd had... Perhaps a good meal might turn his frown upside down for a change...

"We're 'ere." The stoat announced, before Momchillo could decide what would make the ferret happy.

The 'here' the stoat was referring to was a tunnel indistinguishable from all the rest. At present, Snakeskin was smiling infuriatingly, as if waiting for the inevitable question to come up. When it did, his smile widened.

"'Ere is the entrance te the Upper Tunnels."

"Upper tunnels?" Momchillo repeated skeptically. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Snakeskin lifted Momchillo off the ground the way one would lift a baby. He even rocked him slightly. "Well I deba'ed leadin' ye 'ere te kill ye off nice an' quiet-like but that's no fun. I do lurve the soun' of screamin'!"

"Right." Momchillo said, swallowing slightly despite himself.

"'Ere, I'll show ye." Momchillo scowled and tried to regain some form of control over the situation. He briefly attempted to pull himself out of the stoat's arm-cradle, only for Snakeskin's infuriating rocking to undo any and all progress.

"I can walk fine thaaaaaAAAAAAAA!" He was not sure how the stoat had done it but soon the two were hurtling through the air. Snakeskin laughing at the top of his lungs and Momchillo screaming at the same pitch. Despite his earlier protests on the stoat's chosen method of transportation, Momchillo was glad to have the stoat's chestfur so near at paw to cling to. He was also glad for the babying- it would have been cruelly painful to fall to his death now.

Then, as suddenly as the flying had started, it stopped, and he was flung out of the stoat's arms, bounced off a wall and hit the floor with a groan. Snakeskin was still laughing.

"'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A! Ye should've seen yer face!"

"Not... funny..." Momchillo groaned, pushing himself off the ground. Snakeskin, still chuckling, lifted him by the armpits and placed him gently back on his feetpaws.

"'Ilarious." Snakeskin corrected. "Wish Frettie were 'ere too, the look on 'is face would've been worth all the whinin'."

"He probably wouldn't have liked the landing."

"An' woul' that 'ave stopped me?" Snakeskin grinned and tickled Momchillo's sides. The mouse cringed away only to find himself lifted into the air and dropped slightly. "Besides, what yer abou' te see is worth the ride." Effortlessly he caught the young rodent, and once more cradled him.

It had better be. The mouse scowled, but turned away and felt his jaw go slack.

The path they strolled along was a bridge of carved ice. Narrow but thankfully firm. Once more he was surprised to find himself grateful for the old stoat's babying. Momchillo could not see the end of the darkness around them , only that the bridge was very high up and a fall from this height was certain death. Momchillo doubted he would dare walk at this height- he'd have clung to the ice as tightly as possible until whatever business had to be done up here was finished. Then he'd drag himself down. Fret would have done the same... Or worse...

Snakeskin was whistling a tune Momchillo knew not the words too, and the sound sent strange vibrations through the air. It was eerily quiet, with nothing to hear but the strange contortions of Snakeskin's whistling, the stoat's footsteps and his own heartbeat.

There was even less he wanted to smell when in such close proximity to the stoat. And unfortunately stoat and mouse were the only scents he was familiar with. There was a third but it was distant and he didn't know it anyways. Yet Momchillo could not shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

At long last they came upon a drum and Snakeskin set him down on shaking feetpaws. All it would take was a small gust of wind to go teetering to his death. The stoat stopped whistling and picked up a large oaken drumstick. In utter silence, as if in prayer, the stoat approached it.

What followed was a horrendous cacophony of drumbeats punctuated by Snakeskin's singing voice.

"WAAAAAAKE UP MAAAAAGIE!" Momchillo winced. It was like having a fly down your ear- a very uncomfortable experience a hare of the Long Patrol had once described to him in vivid detail.

"IIIII'VE GOOOT SOMETHIN' TE SAAAY TE YEEEEEE!"

There was a high-pitched shriek and Momchillo's ear twitched at the definite sound of swooping. The mouse himself gave a high-pitched shriek when a flat-nosed, long-eared face burst out from the darkness and knocked him to the ground. The mouse continued screaming until he heard the familiar sound of Snakeskin's laughter, joined in by that of the newcomer and a thousand eyes glowing in the dark of the underground.

"Oh Snakie you old fraud, fraud, fraud! You should have said you were coming, coming, coming."

It was a bat, Momchillo realized, now that he was no longer panicking. Half of Snakeskin's height but with thrice the mass. His dark brown fur was a shaggy mane of first, dust and flecks of snow. His long, skeletal, wings, currently wrapped around the white-furred stoat, were as black as night. Exceptionally ugly by mouse standards, with a face that had either been born that way or had become as flat as it was from crashing into things. Yet, by bat standards he must have been rather handsome. He looked as strong as an ox, and wore a pair of glittering earrings on one ear.

The bat released Snakeskin, who looked glad to be alive after the lung-crushing bat's grip, and hopped over to where Momchillo was sitting up. "Who's the mouse, mouse, mouse?" With almost scary ease the bat lifted him to his feetpaws.

At least a dozen other bats had made their presence known. No longer cloaked in the shadows of the cavern they stood perched along the sides of the bridge, watching the newcomers with glee. Guests had been a rare sight in the last few... seasons...

"I'm M-momchillo sir." Said Momchillo, offering a paw. He too was subjected to a bone-crushing body grapple. In hindsight he should have realised that, lacking paws, bats were not too partial to pawshakes.

"Any pal of Snakeskin's a friend of mine, mine, mine."

The mouse would have replied, but was currently trying his hardest to keep his eyes from popping out.

"Careful! 'E's a frien' an' I don' wan' 'im squished." Snakeskin said, tapping the chief bat's shoulder.

"Sorry. Don't know my own strength, strength, strength. Besides I haven't had guests in ages, ages, ages. Not friendly ones anyway, anyway, anyway. How are the kids Snakie, Snakie, Snakie?"

The stoat stiffened slightly and glanced worriedly at Momchillo. ''They're fine."

"Good, good, good." The bat grinned and turned back to Momchillo, who had still not recovered from being crushed alive. "Apologies, I forgot my manners, manners, manners. I go by Snap, Snap, Snap."

The young mouse nodded, but was too busy staring at the suddenly-morose Snakeskin. "You okay?"

The stoat grinned, but Momchillo was becoming painfully familiar with false smiles and barely-surpressed tears. "Righ' as rain."

"You hungry, hungry, hungry? Of course you're hungry, hungry, hungry! How silly of me, me, me! Sap, Tree Fang, get over here, here, here."

"Yes father, father?"

"What is it dad, dad?"

"Oh looks it's Snakie, Snakie!"

"Hello uncle, uncle."

What their father lacked in height his daughters more than made up for. A pair of large, flying beasts as such Momchillo did not know. The otter twins had been tall, as were hares, but otters and hares were always tall. These two were freakish large by bat standards and a little terrifying for both had a single, long fang sticking out of the sides of their mouths.

"Take our guests to breakfast now, now, now! And be careful with the mouse, he's never flown before, before, before!"

"What?" Was all Momchillo could ask as a pair of talons clamped down on his arms, pinning them to the sides.

"Please tighten your belts, belts, belts." Tree Fang giggled.

Momchillo was not wearing a belt. "W-wai-WAIT!"

The bat did not listen (but must have heard with ears like that) and with a great flap of her wings was in the air and taking Momchillo with her.

The mouse was deathly silent as the bat flew him away from the bridge. In time perhaps, he'd appreciate the memory, but now it was nothing short of terrifying. She flew fast and the wind rushed past the young mouse, entirely unfamiliar with the feeling but not at all comfortable with nothing under his feetpaws.

It was not a long flight, but upon touching down Momchillo hugged the ice harder than he'd ever hugged anything before.

"Hehehehe, was the little mouse scared, scared, scared?"

"Yes. Very, very much." Momchillo said, swallowing and forcing himself to not look how far up he was.

"Don't worry, the way down is easier, easier, easier."

The mouse was beginning to sweat. What did Snakeskin want with these strange creatures?

Tree Fang must have noticed. "Don't worry, worry, worry. If you fall we'll catch you, you, you."

It's the falling part I'm scared of...

Snakeskin arrived a moment later, chatting animatedly with the Bat Chief while Sap carried him with effortless ease.

"Come on inside, inside, inside." The smallest bat said, half-helping, half-lifting Momchillo to his feetpaws and giving him a gentle, albiet rough, push through a door.

Inside he found a roaring fire surrounded by a swarm of moths, a platter of worms on a table and not a single seat in sight. But then again bats perched, chairs would have been redundant.

"Snakie, Snakie, Snakie!" The Chief Bat shook his head, his grin wide and showing a pair of flashing fangs. "What brings you here friend, friend, friend? After so many seasons, seasons, seasons. And with a mouse as well, well, well! How old are you boy, boy, boy?"

Before Momchillo could reply the bat smacked his forehead hard.

"Forgive me, me, me! I forgot all about you landbeasts perching, perching, perching! Sap, Tree Fang! Help me get the chairs, chairs, chairs!"

As soon as the three were out of ear-shot Snakeskin chuckled. "Likin' yer mornin'?"

"I wish I had stayed in bed." Momchillo admitted, eyeing the bowl of squirming worms with utter disgust. "The way they talk bugs me."

"Bugs me too, but they like bugs bats do." Snakeskin shrugged. "They can' 'elp it. Some beasts are jus' the way they are. Ye can either accep' tha' or 'ate 'em fur somethin' they can' control. Nobeast likes an 'edgepig's spikes, but everybeas' likes a good 'edgepig."

Momchillo was silent while he contemplated this. As was the usual with his thoughts these days, they diverted to Fret. Some beasts are just the way they are...

The bats returned a moment later with chairs. Momchillo was unceremoniously dumped into one and pushed close to the table, so that his nose was uncomfortably close to the bowl of worms.

"So, what's good, good, good?" The Bat Chief began.

"Lotsa thin's. Snakes-a-plen'y an' all the mea' I could eat! The mouse an' 'is frien' showed up about a week ago, 'scaped from that idio' Kin'. Foun' em jus' in the nick of time too. The other was about te get eaten. Ye know me Snap, always the gen'lebeas'. Can' have a pair of dibbuns los' in me tunnels. 'Ad te 'elp 'em back 'ome."

"You can have some if you like, like!" Tree Fang, who had noticed Momchillo's cross-eyed stare (but evidently not the green coloration of his face) snatched up a bunch of worms in her talons and held them above the mouse's face.

"I- I-d-d r-rather not." He managed, then composed himself. "Nothing wrong with them, j-just p-personal taste."

Sap, the other bat, scooped up a talon-ful and stuffed her jaws with worms. They had been bad enough before, but oozing green slime from the sides of the large bat's mouth? Momchillo felt like he was about to be sick.

"They taste fine to me, me, me."

"Hush girls! I'm about to explain the bear problem, problem, problem."

Both went silent instantly and the Bat Chief, who went by Snap, spoke somberly. "It started a few weeks ago, ago, ago. A bear showed up at the bottom of the waterfall, fall, fall. Demanded food, food, food. We gave it some, but it kept asking for more, more, more. And when we refused to give it, it, it... I don't know how they got there, but it has some of my people, people, people... And it wants more food, food, food. Most of my bats are foraging through the tunnels, but you know there's barely anything to feed us all already..."

"That's... horrible." Momchillo started. He wanted nothing more than to help these bats in some way. The heroes of Redwall Abbey would have chased away the bear and restored peace to the tunnels... But Momchillo knew well that he was no hero. Just a child very far from home. And his dream was not the greatest of motivators...

"I'll pull up a carcass or two." Snakeskin promised. "Go' loads already anyways. 'Ey girls! 'Ow about ye show Momchillo over 'ere the river? 'E's new around 'ere so play nice." Turning back to their father the stoat said loudly. "They sure 'ave grown since I last seen 'em!" And quieter, with Momchillo now distracted by the pair of over-excited bats lifting him off, whispered to the Bat Chief. "I also 'ave far too many poun's of poison."

A meaningful look was shared between them for half a heartbeat, and then Snap smiled gratefully. "You truly are the best of friends, friends, friends."

"Come on mousie, to the river, river, river!"

Momchillo did not have much of a choice. Both bats were bigger and stronger and had him by the paws until they were outside. He shut his eyes tightly and curled his legs up until he was once again met with land.

"You can use the easy way down, down, down."

"Yes, yes! We meet you there!

"W-wait. J-just wait."

"See you at the river mousie, mousie, mousie!'' Clamping her talons over his shoulders and ignoring his loud cry of ''please just wait!' Tree Fang stuffed the mouse headfirst into a wide tunnel.

Sap gave his backside a kick and Momchillo was off, screaming down a tunnel of ice, much like the one he and Fret had found on the Honeycomb Hill. This one was far less painful however, perhaps because he didn't have anybeast tied to his tail. Yet he found it impossible to enjoy himself! He was moving at unnatural speeds into an uncertain future. For all he knew there was a pile of spikes at the bottom...

"Surprise!" Instead he found both bats who, despite his impressive momentum, caught him with ease.

"Did you like the slide, slide, slide?"

"Was it fun, fun, fun?'"

There was no trace of rudeness in their voices, which to him at least, suggested they were ignorant of his discomfort.

"It was... An experience." He said, upon being put down on the ice. Dizzy as he was, he clutched the sides of his head and stumbled about until he fell on his rump.

The sisters both laughed and helped him up. Taking him down a path at a, thankfully, normal place they soon found the river. Three mouse's wide and strangely light green in colour.

"Downriver is very big, big, big. Huge waterfall, fall, fall."

"Not big now, now, now. Ice hasn't melted yet, yet, yet."

"But in summer it's big, big, big. Too big for mousie to swim, swim, swim."

Momchillo shrugged. "I'm not much of a swimmer anyways." He tested the water with a footpaw and hastily withdrew it. As cold as ice and strangely sticky. He doubted otters would find the water- if that was what it was- good for swimming, let alone a land-loving beast like himself.

"Is not water, water, water. Melted ice and something else, else, else. Good for drinking though, o, o."

"Right." Momchillo wiped at his footpaw and was silent.

The bat sisters grew nervous as the silence stretched on, unsure of their guest's condition... father would be furious if the mouse was bored.

"Want to play a game little mouse, mouse?"

Momchillo, who had been trying to guess the identity of the something else, shrugged. "Sure. Er- I'm pretty good at catch." He said, scratching the back of his head.

"Catch, catch, catch! We play bat catch!"

"Yes, yes, yes."

"What's bat catch?"

The sisters shared a look and grinned.

Momchillo realized a short while after that what the game should have been called was mouse catch, for it involved catching him. At the talons of less-competent flyers he'd have hit the river by now. But Fang and Sap were excellent and dove and swerved and snatched him up. It was dizzying of course and there was no fun to be had being flung and caught again. There was no real malice, he knew that, but being more or less... used... did not rub him in the best of ways. The rush of the air was not so strong, and he never had to worry about falling but that was one of the few good things about the game. Strangely enough, his thoughts wandered to Fret.

"He thinks we hate him." Matiya had told them on the boat of the Honest Bunch. But, if that was true, why? None of them had ever acted maliciously towards him. They had had their fair share of fights, that much was true, but that couldn't have been all of it.

No. Thought the mouse as Sap caught him by the scruff. This is why he hated us. We were careless.

Careless, carefree, they had pulled jokes on everybeast. Fret had been the butt of many, sometimes deliberately, sometimes due to circumstances. Jokes, pranks, traps, tricks and their sole purpose was to get a laugh or two. But Fret had not seen it that way and Momchillo was beginning to understand why.

It was easy to forget, when being tossed through the air in a game, or being hung off a wall, that the beasts doing such things weren't doing it out of spite. What was to one beast a joke, was to another painful torment.

His deep thinking did not have the best of effects on the already-glum mouse. His ears drooped and his form seemed to sag. It did not go unnoticed by the bats, who hastily caught him and put him down, worried that their game was the cause of his sudden misery.

"Is the little mouse, okay?"

Momchillo snapped back into reality. "Oh-oh yes, yes I'm okay. A little dizzy but that was fun." He forced himself to smile but it soon faltered. Fret would have hated Bat Catch...

"Don't be sad, sad, sad."

"Here! We make you smile now, now, now!"

When Snakeskin came down he found the mouse shrieking in laughter as the sisters attacked from every angle. Nothing was spared, not between his toes, not under his armpits and not the side of his belly.

"Stopit! Stopit! Wait! Wait! Hahahahaha!"

"Min' if I join in?" The stoat asked, his smirk wide.

"N-no! Snakeskin p-pleas- hahahahahs! N-not the p-p-pads!"

Snakeskin did not join in, he did not help either but turned to Snap. "Kids are always the bes' ain' they?" There was a note of longing in his voice that did not go unnoticed but the bat chief knew better than to stick his nose in. "May'aps I should just leave 'im with ye?"

"N-no plea-hahahaha! P-please!"

"'Ey, careful. The mouse's 'ad enough."

Instantly the two leapt off of him, allowing Momchillo to recover. Dizzily he got to his feet, a wide, goofy grin spread across his face. But it was a sham that did not quite hide the tears in his eyes. Helpless laughter was a painful thing after a while... "Well... That... Was ... Fun."

"No needs te say yer goodbyes. We'll be back soon with the other one, won't we? An' wha' we discussed." Snakeskin winked at the Bat Chief before taking Momchillo by the paw.

"See you later little mouse, mouse, mouse." Sap and Tree Fang waved.

Momchillo waved back as he walked, eager to leave the careless bats and their strange habits behind.

It had certainly been an experience. And as his thoughts began drifting back to Fret, he realized that it might just have been an educational one.

[The Grey Coincidence]

Bartok felt sweat drip down his face, off his ears and really from everywhere. He was sweating and he was sweating profusely. A constant 'drip, drip, drip' followed his frantic flapping, as if a leaking bucket were attached to his legs.

Chief Snap was a good chief every way one looked at it. He had an heir and a spare (or rather two heirs) in his possession, which meant the bat clans would face no succession crisis. Under his rule they had flourished, coming up with new ways to attract bugs and insects of every kind for his tribe to feast on. By not killing some beetles, and even nurturing a few choice specimens (and giving them plenty of guano to do with as bugs did) he had ensured a lasting food supply that could last from early autumn to late summer if need be. Their supply of flies, worms, beetles, and larvae of various types, had not run out in several seasons.

Everything had changed with the bear's arrival. As big as a horde of rats, with the strength of twenty beasts. Great gaping jaws and sharp fangs that would make a wolverine whimper. Claws as sharp and cold as spear tips it had roared and roared, demanding food- lest it smash a way through the tunnels and make a meal of bat. It had even somehow gotten it's overly large paws on some unfortunate bats. They had probably been eaten by now...

Snap had provided as much food as could be spared, and that had solved the problem for perhaps half a day. The bear had returned, demanding even more. And more, and more, and more, until the bats were rationed to a bowl of worms each and nothing more. That was when the Chief made his next move to ensure the survival of their clan. If they gave away all the grubs there would be nothing to eat, but surely a bear could eat more than measly insects? So, each day when the bear did it's roaring, Snap would send his bats to find it some flesh, and another, chosen at random, to give themselves up if nothing else could satisfy the beast.

None of the chosen bats had returned so far, and much to the grey bat's horror, today he'd been unfortunate enough to draw the shortest straw.

Bartok had no choice. He had to find something. He'd spent much of the morning searching for anything remotely edible, but any tunnel that wasn't empty only had snake skulls, and fur blankets. He had considered running away, but then the bear would murder his tribe. He had considering giving the bear his rations- but Snap had put a stop to that.

"The bear will eat you anyways, ways, ways." The chief had said to the eighth bat chosen. "If you're going to die, die, die, don't waste food, food, food."

He had considered sneaking into the grubbery- but Snap had that under lock and key after the third desperate bat had tried the same trick. He'd been a clever bat, the third one, cleverer than Bartok. And he was gone now.

In other words Bartok was doomed. One more tunnel, tunnel, tunnel. He kept repeating to himself. If there was nothing there he'd go and give himself up. It was better that he die than the clan. Eventually, with less bats to feed, Chief Snap could give the bear all the bugs it wanted, and still have enough to keep his tribe alive.

It was such a shame Bartok would not be alive to see that day...

Sighing despairingly, and barely stifling a sob, Bartok turned into his final 'last tunnel'. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of half-eaten flesh, then he flapped towards it. Not a big piece of meat by any standard, and certainly not good enough for a bear. The grey bat felt his ears, his heart, his stomach- really everything- sag in defeat. He was doomed. There was nothing left but to accept his fate... as a bear's lunch.

It was as he turned to leave that he heard a tiny, muffled whimper coming from under a pile of blankets.

"Hello, hello, hello?" He whispered, and his echos bounced off the walls and back until he saw it. A pair of feetpaws sticking out of the pile.

Hopping as silently as he could towards it, he proceeded to carefully pull out the sleeping beast. Bartok expected claws and fangs and a fight. Instead the snoozing vermin gave him a sleepy 'But I don't want a baff...".

The ferret was not much smaller than him, but much younger. A large bubble of guilt swelled within him, but Bartok popped it determinedly. It was him or this unknown vermin and Bartok would not go to his grave. Not today.

One talon grabbed the ferret by the tail, the other by the scruff of it's neck. Flapping as silently and as carefully as he could (the last thing he wanted was for the ferret to wake up now and start clawing everything) Bartok felt hope begin to glow within him.

Perhaps he would see another sunrise...

Fret had raked the ground all the way from the orchard to the bathhouse.

He hadn't been rolling in the mud, it was just a little bit of dirt. His fur was always scruffy! No his paws were not sticky with sugar, that was definitely not how he'd torn up his copy of the History of Mossflower. He didn't smell so bad! Grollo was worse! And Matiya and Momchillo had been rolling in the mud!

But she never listened to his excuses, just waited patiently as the soapy bubbles formed over the boiling water. Then, when fully satisfied she would drop him inside like a dirty rag and wait for him to inevitably resurface.

He did so, spluttering and complaining about the heat of the water and trying to climb out, but Bella was ready and would dunk him unceremoniously down once more.

He'd rise begging for mercy, with bubbles growing from his nose. But the Badgermum never listened. "You still smell like vermin. Here, I'll wash it off, off, off." A brush the size of a club descended with unnecessary force, and drove him to the bottom of the bucket, where he lay holding his breath for as long as he could. The brush's hairs raked across his back for what seemed like an eternity and soon he was struggling to breathe. But Bella did not stop until the very last moment, when all hope seemed lost. He was lifted out of the bath, gasping for breath, and placed before a mirror.

He was pudgier than he ever remembered being, and the furs along his back stuck out like the quills of a hedgehog. But Bella was not satisfied. His fur was still black and white, his claws still sharp and his mask still present.

Snatching a sponge, she was even more thorough this time. She washed behind the ears, between his toes and even stretched his tail with soap until all the black and white fur had fallen off to reveal raw, red flesh. It hurt. His whole form seemed to be burning as if on fire.

Once more he was placed before the mirror. Bright red and with a tail puffy from being dried he looked ever-so-slightly like a squirrel. But that would not do! He still smelled like a ferret and his teeth were sharp.

A toothbrush was the Badgermum's next weapon of choice. It was one so large he threatened to gag on it. The skin over his cheeks strained from the pressure of the moving bulge, until finally it was withdrawn. But she was not done with him and once more flung him into the boiling water. It stung like a hive of bees and made him want to cry out in agony. But the Badgermum never listened and lifting him up, proceeded to bend and fold, twist and turn, stretch and shrink him until she slammed him down a final time before the mirror.

A mouse, a bright-red, bushy-tailed, spiky-furred and long-whiskered mouse stared back at him. His fangs replaced by a pair of dull incisors. His claws rendered dull, his black and white fur peeled clean off. All that remained of him was the black mask over his eyes aside from that there was no trace left of ferret.

But Bella was still not satisfied! "I can still smell the vermin, vermin, vermin!" She cried, and slammed him into the mirror. Fret, stared at his reflection and was relieved to find himself again. But the relief did not last long. Bella had him by the scruff once more, over a bucket. Yet the water was hotter here. Red hot, like melted iron and Fret squirmed in her grasp.

"Please! P-please no! No! I'll be good I-"

"Bath time vermin, vermin, vermin." Was all she said, plunging him into the water with avengeance.

The water was icy cold and the sudden jolt woke Fret up faster than a bolt of lightning could have. Instinctively he beat at the water in frenzied panic, trying and failing to overcome the mighty current.

"Momch-" His cry for help was abruptly cut short by his lack of swimming ability. He had never been fond of the abbey pond (with his stink any excursions there would result in a bath), but even if he had been the calm, still waters there was nothing at all like the roaring current carrying him away. His tail was numb from cold and his crazed paddling was all he could do to keep his head above the surface.

What was going on? He'd been asleep only moments before! Had Snakeskin sold them out? Or was this some kind of joke? Where was Momchillo?Perhaps all the ice had melted?

He panicked once more as a dark shadow swept over him. Yet raising his eyes for a fraction of a second his hopes soared. A curious, long-eared, flat-nosed beast flew ahead not far above him. If he could just get it's attention...

"Hey! h-e-ack! HELP!"

His hopes dropped faster than his ears did when the bat began to snicker.

"Sorry vermin, vermin, vermin!" The creature shrieked over the sound of rushing water. "Bear wants meat, meat, meat! Has to eat, eat, eat. Better vermin than bat, bat, bat! BYE, BYE, BYE!" The creature's relieved cackle was drowned out by sudden roaring, and Fret felt his heart drop through Hellgates, for he was now headed directly towards a waterfall.

He was stiff for a full five seconds before trying his hardest to paddle against the current. His claws raked and and tore at the river, but it was no good. He was nearing the edge now, far too quickly.

"Ferret smashed to bits, bits bit!" The bat cheered as Fret screamed.

"So Fret's parents are in that book? Or is that their diary?" The mouse had resolved to be nicer to Fret. Even if the ferret was at him most intolerable, Momchillo vowed he would tolerate him. That did not mean he was not curious.

"Stop talkin' about the book. 'E might be awake an' 'e might 'ear this an' then 'e'll be all grumpy."

"He's always grumpy." Momchillo pointed out before he could stop himself. Old habits died hard but he really would have to start thinking before he said something.

"I know that. But ye'd be two if ye were in 'is position."

"How does he even know who his parents are? Wait- did he meet them?" His brain got to work building up this new theory. Fret had been separated from him and the Honest Bunch despite being in the same castle, had his parents arranged that? But if his real parents were at the castle, why had Fret gone with him? Surely the ferret would have turned him away if the the Lands of Ice and Snow was where he belonged. He had had ample opportunity to turn him in even, but had gone for a book instead of guards... "His parents aren't nice are they?" It was the simplest solution.

"Not one bit." Snakeskin admitted. "If they are 'is real parents that is. Not even 'e knows."

Well... that theory seems unlikely now... Yet the mere mention of parents stirred another memory inside the mouse, one from earlier today. "So... how are your kids?"

Snakeskin hastily stiffened, as if struck by a whip. And the agonized expression that came and went from him, made Momchillo regret his curiosity.

"They're good." The stoat said, in a tone that suggested the opposite.

Momchillo did not pursue the topic and was silenced.

His head spinning with Fret and the ferret's parents, Snakeskin and the stoat's children and the bats, the mouse was glad to arrive back in the comfort of the nursery tunnel.

The ferret was likely still asleep, and Momchillo made no move to wake him. Snakeskin on the other paw, did. Pouncing upon the pile of blankets with an unnecessary cackle, the white furred stoat rubbed at the blankets where Fret's head should have been.

"Wake up Frettie! It's time fur breakfis'! Ye thought snakes were bad? Wait till ye get a taste of bee'le!" Nothing in the blankets seemed to stir. Snakeskin grumbled and began throwing them off one by one. "I know ye need yer beau'y sleep but Vulpuz an' 'ellgates Fret ye need te-" The stoat threw the last blanket off and found nothing but cold ice beneath it.

Momchillo felt his stomach sink. This was most definitely not good...

"Idiots, idiots, idiots!" Somebeast was saying, but Fret could not see who or what they were. It was an entirely new voice, thick and gravelly, almost like croaking. The ferret was relieved to find himself alive- perhaps the waterfall had just been a nightmare?

"The whole point of this operation is to get grubs! Worms! Nice, sweet, tasty beetles! Something I can eat! Does it look like I can eat ferret?" The ferret, still dazed, felt something warm and sticky wrap around his head. It was uncomfortable to say the least, and if he wasn't as disorientated as he was he'd have been squirming like a fly in a web... although that was perhaps not the best of similes. "Web? Duh-bit?"

"Actually I'm pretty sure you could. He's not a big creature and you've already got his head in your mou-"

"IDIOT!" There came the loud sound of clanging, as if some expensive goblet had been thrown. "Look at my tongue! Lookatit! See that? Fur! Fur, fur, fur, fur everywhere!"

"Well if you don't want to eat it, I cou-"

A smack as loud as a thunderclap echoed through the air. "He's mine for eating! But I don't want him! I didn't want the other things too! What am I supposed to do with a beaver? And I can't eat bats either! Stupid beasts! Okay, listen up! Here's the plan. We leave the cave, stomp up the waterfall, roar a bit and wait for that idiot bat to show his ugly face- then we demand bugs not beasts."

There was vast cheering that told Fret there were more than two beasts in the room.

"What do we do with the vermin then?"

Fret felt himself stiffen in fear. Feeling was returning to his form but he was still too weak to open his eyes. Another of his senses, however, made itself of use to him.

The scent was unfamiliar, ruling out anybeast from Redwall or Clogg's crew. It was strong and pungent and set his nose to uncomfortable twitching. An earthy kind of acid clung to the air, like mud to a habit. Fret had never been to a swamp before but this, he imagined, was what a swamp smelt like.

"We could try and eat him." A third voice, even deeper than the first two, suggested. "Put this in his mouth and roast it slowly over a fire. My ma used to do that to vermin."

This suggestion brought much excitement and Fret, too weak to resist, felt what was no doubt an apple get shoved into his mouth. Something wet and sticky was dumped over his head and faintly he caught a whiff of salt and pepper. A dozen slimy arms slid over his form, like the tentacles of a kraken. A singularly unpleasant experience, and one he very much wanted to get away from.

This was followed almost immediately by spitting, coughing and spluttering. Which told Fret that it most likely hadn't been arms liking him...

"Gah! Fur! It's stuck to my tongue! It's stuck!"

"It tastes disgusting!"

"Like dung!"

"Smells like dung too!"

"Very yucky!"

"Put it with the others?"

"And waste more food on it?"

"Let's just kill it!"

This too, was met with roars of approval, but all Fret could bring himself to do was screw his eyes shut tighter and shrivel up in fear.

"NOOOOOOO! You will not slit his throat!" Fret breathed in relief. "The blood would ruin that pretty cloak. Take it off, and then kill him."

The ferret felt as the beautiful, black-scaled cloak Snakeskin had made for him was pulled off. Something, or somebeast incredibly strong lifted him off the ground by the throat. It was not going to choke him of course, but the positioning made neck-snapping much easier.

Fret opened his eyes blearily. Despite the dangerous predicament he was in and all the instincts he had ever obeyed telling him to panic, Fret was too tired to do anything beyond be exhausted.

"It's awake!" Said the beast holding him, who looked very much like a blob of brown. Almost as if a two-season old mole had drawn it.

"Is it? Hmm, maybe he's important. Don't kill him yet!"

Fret was shoved rather forcefully into a chair. His eyes came into focus and he felt the panicked heartbeats he was all too familiar with, return in force. He was surrounded by toads.

The one that had been holding him was the ugliest being Fret had ever seen. Tall and thin and brown, with too many warts to count. It wore nothing but a loincloth and was shivering from this rather unintelligent decision. The creature Fret assumed to be the chief was the second ugliest. Covered in warts and with breath like poison, he was short and fat, yet seemed big enough to swallow him. Thankfully he hadn't tried that. Presently the chief was struggling to squeeze into a cloak made for somebeast of much smaller size.

It took him nearly eight minutes.

The cloak successfully tied, the toad posed for his followers to admire him and Fret hated the creature, perhaps more than he'd hated anybeast. The cheering subsided and the chief toad sat back upon a throne of bones.

"So vermin." He said casually, as if he were talking to a friend and not a captive. Let alone one he'd covered in honey and tried to swallow. "Do you think it suits me?" He indicated the cloak. "Pretty thing like this shouldn't be wasted on a furbody anyways."

Despite his strong inclination to do so, Fret knew better than to tell him that he looked stupid, and that no matter what he wore his face was the problem. Thankfully the ferret still had his survival instincts. And an apple stuck to his teeth.

"So who are you? What are you doing in my tunnels? And most importantly for you, why shouldn't I just k-"

"If we peeled the fur off and roasted it I bet he'd taste like sparrow." Another toad mused.

"Don't be ridiculous. He'd taste like fish."

"CAN'T YOU SEE I'M INTERROGATING HIM!? QUIET ALL OF YOU!" The toad turned back to Fret expectantly. After a full five minutes of growing impatient he finally snapped. "Well?"

Fret would have answered, his life was on the line after all, but there was the small issue of having an apple in his mouth. The toad must have noticed, for he gave his webbed fingers a wet snap and the apple was removed.

"Name vermin." He growled once more. As if the delay in information-receiving was somehow his fault.

Here the ferret paused. Fret had been his name for longer but there was always the chance the amphibians had heard of Mad-Eye Marik, in which case Whimper might serve him better...

"Your name!" The fat toad demanded, his multiple chins wriggling as he banged a fist into the side of his throne.

Frightened as he was, Fret did not waste the time he still had left and replied. "F-fret."

The frog (Fret did not know the difference between frogs and toads, having never met either beforepaw) came uncomfortably close, determined to make this experience as unpleasant as possible. Weak as he was, it was a miracle Fret did not pass out from the smell of his breath. "So... Fufret. Know why you're here?"

The ferret's mind scrambled for an explanation. But he had not a clue as to the desired answer and thinking about it gave him a headache. Staying awake was all he could manage.

"Answer me!" The toad snapped, spittle flying out it's wide, toothless mouth and all around the young ferret.

"I-I don't." The ferret admitted, trying to tear his nose away from the stench. It was thick enough to knock him out if he wasn't careful. A few more whiffs of the creature and he'd be down for the count. And then his life was forfeit. The toad grew closer and Fret whimpered and shut his eyes. His head burned, as if ready to split open.

Thankfully the toad pulled back, threw it's head high into the air and cackled with mad laughter. "This one's scared! Hahahahah! We have a scared little vermin now boys!"

The toads guffawed, and Fret felt a tingling sensation begin to crawl up his arms and legs. Soon he would be able to move again...

When they were done laughing the chief toad began flourishing his cape. Or rather Fret's stolen cloak. "This is fine clothing." He twisted a scale between two fat fingers. "Where'd you steal it?"

"I didn't." Fret snapped, before he could stop himself. The toad's face contorted in rage. "I-I- it was a gift!"

The amphibian continued to glower at him. "A gift from who? And where'd they steal it? No vermin could have possibly made a cloak this comfortable!" Snakeskin would have something interesting to say about that... "Tis fit for a king!"

"My father's a warlord." Fret replied, knowing that Snakeskin would have something to say about that as well. "He gave it to me."

"Warlord, eh?" The toad's eyes were narrowed in consideration. "This... warlord... he doesn't happen to want you dead by any chance?"

Fret's heartbeat shot up again. "H-he's my father. O-of course not."

"He's lying." Decided one toad, the same one that had lifted him off the ground. "He's a runt. A scrawny orphan who got his paws on something valuable."

"I'm not lying! M-my father would p-pay for my freedom in- in anything!" This was a lie. Fret had never known his father, and even if it was Marik he was probably still lying. What kind of warlord's son winded up in his positions anyways? Besides, Longclaw was a King and wouldn't have raised a strand of fur to save his own son were Bork in his position. Of course if Bork was in this position he'd likely be tearing through everybeast present.

"Prove it!" Demanded the chief toad.

"I-I-er-" Fret had been distracted by his thoughts. Constance would have payed for his freedom in anything back when he was a dibbun. Now though, after all he'd done...

"He's lying." The tall toad said, drawing a knife.

"Mad-Eye Marik!" Fret shouted before the blade came anywhere near him. "My father is Mad-Eye Marik and if you er- g-get word to him he-he- he'll send a ransom." His ears rose and fell repeatedly, praying that they fell for this ploy.

"He made that name up." The tall toad accused. "He made it all up!"

"No he didn't!" The fat toad glared at him. "This is why I'm in charge! You've got no brains Longtongue! Mad-Eye Marik is a real and mighty warlord and you wouldn't want to cross him." The fat amphibian turned back to the ferret. "My only question is this, how much are you worth to him?"

"I-I-I'm his-er heir." Despite the strength of his panic, Fret felt some semblance of confidence slowly return to him. The chief was buying it, never mind that Marik was dead. If word got to Clogg, he was safe, if he somehow managed to escape, he was safe... and if they found out he'd lied to them he was doomed. Unless Momchillo and Snakeskin came to his rescue... which was unlikely even if they were still alive.

"Mad-Eye Marik will get his son back." The fat toad promised, a cruel smile on his face. "But how will he know we're not lying? We need proof that we have you. A finger? An eye? Your tail?"

Fret's hopes came crashing down like a bird with a broken wing, and his horror, visible and apparent, made the toads cackle in glee. The chief withdrew a small knife and grabbed Fret by the wrist.

"So which finger would you like to loose?"

This could not be happening. It wasn't real. This was a nightmare. A joke. A cruel prank. He wanted to cry, to curl up his toes and his form and just get away from it all. Life could not even let him sleep without loosing a finger.

"Maybe the pinky, eh? Not too big, nobeast'll even kno-"

"Wait! Wait, wait- I-if you harm a f-fur on my f-form." The ferret said, his voice and his form quivering in fright. "My f-father will f-flay the lot of you." He swallowed heavily. "Y-you could s-send a-a-a, I could sign your letter for you!"

"A letter?" The Chief sounded intrigued. He turned to his fellow toads. "I told you he was a warlord's son. How else would he know to write?"

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the swamp dwellers and Fret allowed himself a tiny breath of relief. His fingers were safe for now.

"Warthog!" The fat toad shouted, and a toad as ugly as the rest of them, but covered in vile, swollen spots of green, appeared from the crowd. "You will take a few strands of fur as proof of his capture." Fret winced as a few strands of fur were plucked none-too-gently from his tail. It was better than loosing a finger, he supposed. "Tell this warlord that we will will return his son in good health if he gives us eight times his weight in bugs and beetles!"

Warthog bowed. "Where will I find this warlord?"

"Longclaw's castle." Fret replied, having expected the question.

"Castle?" The chief toad's wide lips spread into a toothless grin. "Make it twenty times his weight!"

The amphibious fiends cheered wildly and Warthog bowed one more and left to do as he was bid.

"Longtongue, take Fufret, Son of Mad-Eye Marik and put him with the others. Swampbreath, guard the door!" The toad turned around and grabbed Fret by the muzzle. "No harm will come to you ferret. You have the word of Chief Slimegut of the Yellowbellies!" Snickering, the toad pressed himself even closer. "But you're not going home anytime soon!"

Fret could not take it any more. His heartbeat was too uneven, his nose was too sensitive, his body too weak and the stench too powerful. The world was going black.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"We should never have left him." Momchillo grumbled as they walked. It seemed impossible for him to be bound by a single emotion. Guilt, for both mistreating and now abandoning Fret. Desperation, for they needed to find Fret before the bear did. Anger, for why had Fret wandered off in the first place? Regret, for not expecting him to...

"Oh quit yer worryin'! 'E couldn' 'ave got far. Probably thinks we abandoned 'im or somethin'."

Now guilt and regret were at the forefront. "We should have left a note!" It was a scarily plausible scenario, the one where Fret woke up alone and ended up thinking he'd been left behind. Somehow it fitted in perfectly with the concept of an inner, more sensitive Fret hidden behind the always grumpy one.

"Ye know, ye sound a lot like 'im now." The white furred stoat said with a lazy roll of his eyes.

"I do not!" Momchillo protested hotly.

"Well ye went from whinin' te snappin' in the space of 'alf a second." Snakeskin muttered.

Momchillo grimaced. "Well maybe I'm under a lot of- what did you say it was again?- pressure! Fret is lost, in a cave system populated by snakes and bears-"

"There's just one bear actually. At leas' that's what Snap tol' me."

"It's still a bear! Do you really think Fret stands a chance against something like that?"

"In a figh'? Absolu'ley no'. But bears are s'possed te be big, righ'? If Fret's got 'is wits about 'im, 'e'll dive down the smalles' tunnel 'e can find an' sit tight."

"Because Fret always has his wits about him when faced with giant beasts that can tear mountain downs, doesn't he?"

"'E may not be as witty as ye mouse. But we vermin ain' stupid... Mos' of the time... Besides... Bears an' be that big."

"How would you know? Have you ever see one?"

"'Ave ye?"

Momchillo paused. "No." He admitted. "Frankly, I don't even know what a bear looks like."

Snakeskin giggled. "Me neither. I'm thinkin' it's a gian' snake with bird wings what breathes fire."

Momchillo paused again, trying to conjure this image before his mind's eye. It took nearly as much imagining as picturing Sick-Eyes as a 'young and beautiful' corsair. Worst of all was that there always seemed to be a charred, black and white tail sticking out of the bear's mouth. The young mouse shivered. "I always thought it was just a big wolverine."

Snakeskin pulled a face. Then his features spread into a grin, his eyebrows waggling like a pair of rather frightening worms... "Wha' if a bear is what 'appens when a beaver an' an 'are mate?"

"I don't know what a beaver looks like either." The mouse explained- banishing the mental image of anything mating with anything. It was not a difficult task. He was too worried about Fret to think about mating (and didn't devote much time to the thought of mating anyways).

"Ye didn' 'ave any in yer Abbey?" The stoat asked, regarding beavers.

"None." Momchillo replied, only half paying attention. A dreadful thought had entered his mind and was spreading panic and chaos across his body. Supposing Fret had died, what was he supposed to do? If he went back to Redwall he would be faced with the ferret's mother- and adopted or not he had seen her molly-coddle him since dibbunhood. She would be devastated. And it would be his fault. Nobeast would condemn him of course (how had he been meant to know about the bear and the snake?), but he'd still live with the constant reminder that if he hadn't been an insensitive wretch none of this would have happened.

"Yes, well. 'Opefully we won' ever 'ave te see a livin' one."

Momchillo nodded in agreement. "And hopefully it will never see us either. Or Fret." Yet he could not shake away the horrible vision he'd had. Dream! Dream! It was not a vision, could not be a vision, would not be a vision! He was going to start being nice to Fret and the ferret wouldn't become bear breakfast! Or any breakfast! Not on his watch... although Fret was currently out of sight...

Snakeskin placed a paw on the mouse's shoulder. For half a second Momchillo was sure the stoat was going to give him reassurance of some kind. And he did. Just... the Snakeskin way.

"Ye know, I'm sure 'e'll be pretty touched by 'ow much yer worryin' about 'im."

"I-I- he- he... he wouldn't believe you..." Momchillo's whiskers drooped miserably. "He thinks I hate him."

The stoat raised an awkward eyebrow. "Do ye?"

"No! Of course not! It's just... complicated..."

Snakeskin rolled his eyes melodramatically, the mouse could not help but feel like it was supposed to cheer him up. "Fre'ie reaches new levels of stupidity all the time. But if ye 'ated 'im 'e'd suffer a lot more."

"Please don't call him stupid." Momchillo scanned the tunnels for any sign of black or white. "He might hear. And then he'll get hurt. An-and then..." He trailed off miserably.

Snakeskin chewed his lip awkwardly, watching as the rodent bravely bit back the wetness in his eyes. "Complica'ed relationships, eh?" He pulled the mouse into a one-armed hug for it looked very much like he needed it. "Well don' worry. We'll find yer ferret."

The frogs had been needlessly cruel, but what had he expected? His unconscious face had been thrust into an overly-warm tunnel, where the ice was melting around him like the slobber of a beast. It stunk, although so did he, and after the stench of amphibians anything was a welcome relief. His form was still weak, but not as much as it had been. Miraculously he hadn't broken anything falling down a waterfall. He could feel some of his former strength (or lack thereof... perhaps energy was a better word) returning to him.

He blinked his eyes open and gave his tail an experimental flick. He wriggled his toes and bent them back and forth as he yawned back to reality. Upon returning fully to consciousness, Fret realized three things. The first, was that the tunnel was sucking at him like a dibbun on a finger. The second, was that the tunnel was not a tunnel. The third, was that it was really somebeast's mouth.

Fret screamed, for what else could he do? Bizarrely the sucking stopped immediately, and the creature made a sound rather like a cough and a 'slurp'. Fret kicked and thrashed, and found himself flat on his back, his head covered in drool and all of a sudden dizzy.

"I'm sawy!" Squeaked the creature, sounding frightened.

Fret sat up and growled. It was too dark to tell exactly who or what he was talking to, but it was not a toad, bat, mouse or stoat. "I'll make you sorry!" He was not sure why he was so angry, but Fret scrambled to his feetpaws and bared his fangs. Although, now that he thought about it, threatening somebeast large enough to eat him was probably not a good idea...

Just as the first wave of panic set in, and much to Fret's surprise, the creature burst into loud sobbing.

"I'm sawy, I'm sawy, I'm sawy!"

"Well you had better be!" Fret snapped angrily. "What kind of sane beast does something like that!?"

"Sa-aw-"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry! That's all anybeast says! But does it make a difference? No! It doesn't! Because no matter how s-sorry you are nothing changes what you've done! Nothing changes and nobeast cares an-and-" He briefly wondered whether he was talking to the crying beast or to himself.

The sobbing dramatically increased in pace and volume. "I-it's j-I was hungry! And you had honey on your f-fur an-and-" None of the words after that were coherent, and Fret looked around sheepishly, hoping nobeast could or would ever see this.

Guilt flooded through the ferret faster than an overflowing river, and he felt his ears pin themselves against the top of his head. "Shhh, i-it's okay." The ferret soothed, reaching out into the darkness in search of something to pat in a comforting way- never mind that he lacked much experience when it came to comforting. "I-er- well it's just a bit of spit." And it was sticky and he hated it, but guilt did not let him say those words. "Besides, I've been eaten before. Just er- panicked. No harm done." He tried to force a smile, but the beast probably couldn't see him anyways, making any kind of facial expressions redundant. The large creature, and Fret was thinking baby badger at this point, did not seem able to hear him, and continued crying. The ferret had to fight down the resurging temptation to tell this beast to shut his trap and quiet down- Constance had never done that to him... well she had stuffed his face with muffins once or twice just to keep him quiet...

"Come on. Er-wipe away those... allergies..." He had not cried often in his younger years (at least, not where anybeast could see him), but if by chance he ever did Constance would never call them tears- she knew he hated that- they were allergies even if Fret wasn't allergic to anything. "You'll get snot all over your fur, that's hard to wash off you know. An-and really-" The beast was still crying! He had never cried for this long! What would Constance do? Well... Of course he knew exactly what the big mouse would do in his position, it was the doing of it that was hard...

Yet, after five whole minutes filled with nothing but the sound of crying (which reminded him of his own pathetic teariness), Fret had had enough and, knowing he would regret this, advanced towards the darkness, his arms spread wide,. "Who wants a h-hug?" He nearly gagged at the last word, and dropped his arms immediately, feeling more awkward in that one moment than ever before in his lifetime. Fret most certainly did not want a hug.

The crying creature did, and wrapped a pair of large arms around him, burying it's face (or rather, the tip of it's muzzle) into his chest. Awkwardly the ferret patted with one paw, the other pinned in the hug. "There, there. Now don't worry. Er- all is forgiven."

The creature sneezed and Fret clenched his teeth shut as the fur on his chest became covered in snot. This beast, he decided, was worse than Bork! Whatever it was, wiped away at it's tears with the ferret's rump, before gently setting him down. "Thank you." It sniffed. "I needed that."

Fret gritted his teeth all the harder. A paw made it's way to his chest. His Nuncle's gift, the yo-yo, was still there wrapped around his neck, but where Clogg's book had been there lay only slime. I didn't! He growled to himself, trying and failing to extract his paw from the substance.

There was an awkward silence for the entirety of two minutes, wherein Fret managed, with difficulty, to pull his paw free.

"I'm Butch by dee way."

Definitely a baby badger... perhaps it was a good thing neither of them could see the other. Knowing him to be a ferret might have been all the excuse 'Butch' needed to eat him...

"Does dee ferretch have a name?"

"It's Fret." He replied. "How'd you know anyways?" Perhaps badger vision was sharper... the Badgermum had always caught him at mischief- even if he hadn't really been involved with said mischief. Come to think of it though... This beast did not smell like Bella... In fact, he was pretty sure the creature stunk of... flowers? No, that was his nose being funny...

The dibbun, whatever it was, giggled, and Fret imagined a faint blush. "You... well... ferretches are stinky."

"Badgers smell bad too." Fret snapped. "And so does everybeast if they don't wash." Of course it always came back to how pungent he was...

It gave another tiny giggle. "Do you dink I'm a badger?" When his question was met with nothing but the sound of Fret's indignant breathing, the creature stopped giggling, stood up, waddled past Fret and pulled at a rope.

The ferret had to shield his eyes from the sudden light of a hundred fireflies contained in a glass jar (in hindsight it was more likely to be made of ice) larger than himself. His vision adjusted, he stared up at the baby beaver.

It was a large beast, but definitely younger than he was. Fret reached up to it's belly, though Butch still had much growing left to do. Perhaps thrice as wide, although it looked skinnier than it should have been. It's tail was what really caught the ferret's attention. A large, flat, scaly thing, not at all like what he'd imagined from a creature of the water.

"I'm Butch by dee way." The beaver repeated, sitting down next to him, and throwing Fret into the shadow of his form.

"You already said that." He grumbled in reply, prying his eyes away from the brown-furred beast. "And I already said I was Fret."

Awkwardly the bigger beast tweedled his thumbclaws as they went back into silence.

"So dee fwaggies got you too?"

"What do you think?" Fet spat, his footpaw kicking at the ice as he stretched it forwards. "Why else would I be here?"

Butch's face fell, and the young beaver turned away, miserable again. "I- I dought my parentches might.." It's lips quivered, but the ferret was quick to notice and quicker to prevent an eruption. If Momchillo could see him now...

"Shhh, shh, it's okay." A paw traveled as high up the beaver's arm as possible. He'd been aiming for the shoulder but that was not exactly feasible unless he stood up on tip-paw. And Fret was not about to do that for the sole sake of comforting. "I'm sure your parents are looking for you. And they'll find you, an-and..." You won't push them off a boat when they do... "Don't worry Butch. You'll get rescued." It was a good thing he was a talented liar, or else the beaver babe might not have believed him.

Butch sniffed loudly, and Fret's patting resumed at a quicker pace. The last thing he wanted was to be used as a pawkerchief... again. "You pwamise?"

The smallest smidgens of guilt made their presence known within the ferret. But he was vermin anyways, and all vermin lied. "I promise!" He did his best job at a cheerful grin and the beaver believed him. Of course, Fret knew that any reassurances he made would only lead to more tears- for Fret knew all too well that rescue never came on time. Clogg had left the Lands of Ice and Snow to go raiding 'South'. No location had been named in Fret's presence, and if it had been he likely hadn't been paying attention. Longclaw was the only beast of import left that Fret, or rather Whimper, had spoken to. And their interactions had been few and far between. If word got to the wolverine that Fufret, the son of Mad-Eye Marik had been captured by some toads... well... he did not doubt that the messenger would end up suffering a fate worse than death merely for something as petty as wasted time...

And then his life was forfeit. The toads would know it all to be a sham, and he'd be torn to pieces, or flayed alive or whatever- he did not doubt that they would find some cruel method of death for him. Fate never struggled to make him suffer...

"I need to escape." The ferret said aloud, beginning to pace. "We need to escape." He corrected, before Butch could start overthinking. "If I stay here I'll die..." Momchillo and Snakeskin were somewhere in the tunnels if they were alive. Would they bother looking for him? Most likely not, but Momchillo had been oddly clingy since the snake incident... He turned to face Butch. "You didn't see a stoat by any chance, did you? White fur, tall, weird eye, funny accent?"

Butch shook his head sadly.

"What about a mouse?" Fret went on. There was always the possibility the others had been captured too. "Brown-ish yellow fur? Shorter than me? Big ears?"

Butch shook his head again, his lips quivering- whether it was from fright or sadness Fret knew not- but the ferret truly did not want to know.

"Don't worry." He patted the beaver's webbed footpaw- because it was close to paw. "We'll be fine." Who was he kidding? They were doomed! "I just need to find a way to sneak out..." And then get caught again. Maybe it'd be bats again, or another tribe of toads... Or a snake...

Butch nodded his head vigorously, and wiped his eyes (thankfully he disn't use Fret for this this time). "You're wight. We'll be fine. We just need to escape."

There was a long pause wherein Fret continued pacing and Butch tweedled his claws.

"So... how do we do dat?"

Fret sighed, despair already nagging at him to give up. "I have no idea." But he was never the most obedient of beasts anyways.

"Maybe dee bats will know." Offered the baby beaver.

"Bats." Fret spat, his fur bristling in rage. "I'm here because of bats." And if he ever saw that bat again he'd claw it's stupid face off... Ferret smashed to bits, bits, bits... He's give it bits...

"Dee bats are nice. But dey don't talk a lot." Butch explained, as he waddled over to a wall of ice. Gently, he slid it open to reveal a dozen or so glum-faced and grumpy bats. They were of all shapes and sizes, but not one of them seemed to have slept well- and about half looked like they hadn't eaten well either.

"Hello Butch, Butch, Butch." One that had-been-fat murmured. "Hello vermin, vermin."

One look at this group of unhappy-looking beasts was all Fret needed to know that they would not be helpful at all...

Bartok had been relieved, overjoyed and nothing short of ecstatic as he told the chief and his clan of his lucky find. "I'm alive, alive, alive!" He had repeated, in joy and disbelief. He'd gotten his daily rations, he'd been about to tuck into them and then maybe have a nap to make up for the morning's stress...

And then the bear had roared and his heart had filled with dread.

It stood there at the foot of the waterfall, in all it's mighty glory, like a monster from a dream. Thick black fur covered it's hide- strands as long and as tough as rope. Thrice as big as a badger. Twice as wide. With claws like spears and teeth like swords. It walked in the most strangest and terrifying of fashions- stiffly as if on stilts. Yet despite the awkward way it moved, it moved swiftly and it's every footstep (as loud as a gong to Bartok's flattened ears) sent terror through the heart of every bat.

"Have you not received," Chief Snap began, standing tall and brave as all around him cowered. His two large daughters stood behind him, shaking from ear-tip to talon. "Your daily tribute, tribute, tribute?"

"We- I- have!" Boomed the bear, it's voice as loud as a crack of thunder. "But we- I- grow sick of bats and vermin! The beast you brought before me today was worth less than a rag doll! Nothing more than a morsel! I demanded NOURISHMENT!" Said the bear, stiffly marching closer to the waterfall. "You brought me barely a snack!"

Some bats whimpered, some began to plead for mercy, some hid themselves even further in the crowd.

"We- I- will tear your mountain down if I have to bat! We will take your young and kill them! We will slaughter anybeast that flies! You will find no mercy- not even that of a swift death! You will give us- me- the grubs I demand! Or you will all suffer! Is that understood?" The roaring, already loud and terrifying, seemed to rise in volume- until all the bats were nodding.

"Good! You have until sun down!"

"W-we need more time, time, time!" Snap pleaded. "I- I need, need, need..."

"Sun down!" The bear repeated. "And I will take a bat now. As payment for today's failure."

Bartok felt the eyes upon him, and tried his hardest to vanish. No, no, no... This could not... No, he had... the ferret... He panicked, he tried to flap away- but there was no escaping the desperation of his fellow bats. None could look him in the eye as they beat him to the ground and pinned his wings. "No! I found the, the, the- I can't no, no, no, no, no!"

The last thing he remembered was the bear's cold paw squeezing shut around him.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"No." Fret hissed under his breath, rubbing away a half-formed plan of escape. Then, because all his other plans had been similarly infuriating, he kicked at the ice he'd been drawing on. "No! No! No! No! No!" Such was his anger that soon he was hopping up and down in panic-fueled rage.

"Save your breath vermin, vermin." An old bat advised. "And your energy too, too."

"No!" Fret snapped, beginning to pace. There was a lump in his insides, as if his organs had tied themselves together. A dozen or so boulders filled the pit of his stomach, and try as he might he could not get the feeling to go away. He was not cold, but always on the verge of shivering. He was not crying but could feel a storm of tears rising to his eyes.

What did I ever do to deserve this?

"Fretch?" Came the baby beaver's voice as the ferret continued pacing.

So I pushed my uncle overboard- he can swim! And I wouldn't even have been there if Martin the Warrior didn't chase me to him.

"Fretch?"

I never wanted to polish his stupid sword, and I never asked to live in his abbey. I should have run away when I had the chance.

"Fretch?"

And the Skipper tried to kill me too! And he nearly did. Momchillo came close with the snake-

"Fretch. What's wong?" Butch's voice finally penetrated the ferret's mental barrier.

"N-nothing's wrong." The ferret lied. "Just trying to figure out how to escape."

The timing was inconvenient for at that moment Chief Slimegut entered, although he did not seem angry in the slightest.

"Har-har! What did I tell you boys? A true warlord! Trying to escape. That's the spirit vermin! Try and wiggle out of this one." The Toad Chief smiled widely, and Fret shivered. "You won't find a ways out, but it'll give me and the boys some fun."

Fret barely held it all together. If he broke down now he was doomed. They'd know it was an act and nothing would stop them from having their sadistic way with him. His lip quivered and his stomach squirmed but no other motion was made on his part.

"He's scared." Longtongue taunted, drawing close. Fret's heart thumped frantically, not that it made any difference doing so. "Look at the little wretch, sweat all over him." The amphibious fool poked the ferret's chest, realizing too late that it was in fact snot.

This prompted Fret to snicker. He got a glare for it but that was better than he'd expected.

"He ought to be scared." The Chief walked over to where Butch was sitting down. Cruelly, he twisted a toe, a mocking leer glued to his face. "This ones mummy's yet to show up. Where's your ransom Butch? Where's your ransom?" He twisted sharply, until Butch began to cry softly.

Fret felt an inner rage swell up within him, and for a moment he was sure he'd conjure fire.

"His daddy's a warlord." The fat toad continued. "Warlords are busy beasts. Mayhaps he won't find the time to respond. Like I said vermin, you're not going home any time soon."

"We're done chief." Another toad said, indicating a freshly-chained bat.

"Good!" Said Slimegut, releasing the toe. One more he addressed Fret. "I hope your quarters are befitting your mighty heritage."

Fret did not dare glare at him, despite his urge to do so.

"If you prefer we could keep you in a little cage instead." The toad winked, his chins shaking from the effort of keeping in a hearty laugh. "Might be easier to escape from, don't you think?"

"How about a sack at the bottom of the river?" Longtongue added.

"How about a bear belly?"

"How about my belly?"

Shrieking with laughter, the Yellowbellies left the chamber and pushed the boulder back over the exit.

The ferret felt his ears rise and fall in time to his breathing. The toads were threatening him, trying to cow him into submission with horrible fates. Yet he knew that if his lie fell apart his fate would be much worse. He had to escape. He had to escape. He had to- Panic took over and before he could stop himself he let out a whimper.

Before he was quite sure what was going on, he was sitting next to Butch. Evidently it was the beaver's turn to comfort, and as much as he hated comforting he needed it right now. It helped that this comfort did not come in the form of a bear hug. The beaver gently stroked his back, like one would a pet. It was demeaning of course, but it stopped him shivering and the lump in his stomach seemed to weigh less.

"It's okay Fretch. Dey won't huwt you if you are nice." Sniffed the bigger beast.

"They hurt you." The ferret snapped, seething again. The Chief would pay for that. If Clogg showed up to save him (unlikely but not exactly impossible) Fret would make sure he knew exactly who had mistreated him. And Butch. As gruesome a sight as a flayed frog was, they deserved it.

"Dey didn't huwt me much." Butch replied, his eyes wobbling with tears.

"They'll pay for it." Fret hissed. If Snakeskin was alive and by any chance managed to rescue him, he'd make sure to crush Slimegut under the biggest boulder in the Lands of Ice and Snow... "When I escape-"

"But dey will huwt you." Now the beaver was clinging tightly to him. Fret could feel his whole form quivering. It was a bit like an earthquake really, only softer. But also more uncomfortable.

"Butch. I've been hurt my whole life." Fret felt the beaver's arms tighten. "I've been bullied and beaten my whole life." He wheezed, unable to stop. "Slimegut and his amphibian fools are just the latest in a long line of meanbeasts trying to make me miserable." Butch shivered ever harder. "Besides. If I stay here." His ears drooped. "I'm doomed."

"The toads want us alive boy, boy." One of the bats said, trying to shake the new arrival awake. "If Chief Snap, Snap, realizes the bear's just a trick he'll come down with fury and vengeance- but he can't do that if the toadies threaten to kill us, us, us."

"What bear?" Fret demanded, twisting round in Butch's grip so that he was facing said bat.

The bats shared looks of simmering rage. "The toads are the bear, bear." A fat one said, contemptuously. "They stand on sticks and then one atop the other and pretend to be a bear, bear."

"And who's Snap?"

"Our Chief, Chief."

Fret went on, slowly- his anger boiling beneath the surface of his skin. "And why would he give a tail about what happens to me? In case you didn't know, I'm only here because of a bat!"

None of the bats dared to look at him but a door, once opened, was hard to close again.

"They think I'm a warlord's son! What do you think happens when they realize I lied to them? You think they'll keep me around for long?" Fret (with difficulty) prized himself free of the frightened Butch and resumed pacing with interest. He had not ranted in a long time, usually it was Constance he put all his troubles to, but he didn't get to choose that now and there was no stopping. "They'll hurt me anyways, and I'd rather they do it when they think I'm important enough to keep alive!" Fret growled and tugged at his ears. "There has got to be a way out of this place!"

The bats watched him pace frantically. Anybeast could see desperation written all over him, but none of them had any escape routes to offer. A particularly scrawny one thought that perhaps reassurance was a fair alternative.

"You may not be a warlord's son, but you're important to somebeast yes, yes?"

Fret paused momentarily. He felt his face twist into anger, yet felt a wave of sadness wash over him, but held back the tears. "No." He squeaked, his voice suddenly weak. "And even if I d-do, they're too far to help." He quivered on the spot, before resuming his pacing, this time less frantically and dragging his tail along the ice. "B-but y-yeah." He swallowed. "I'm on my own..."

Butch had him in a hug before he knew it. The beaver held him like a stuffed animal and tight against his chest. "You're impowdant to me Mister Fretch!" The oversized dibbun reassured him.

Fret couldn't say anything, both because he was squished against said dibbun (who did indeed, smell like flowers) and because he was at a loss for words.

When Butch eventually did release him all Fret could say was a weak (because most of the air had been squeezed out of him). "Thank you."

There came a groan, and all turned to see the latest captive sitting up. Bartok blinked back into reality. At the sight of his fellow sacrificed bats, he blinked. "I-is this the Great Sky?"

"This is a cave, cave." A particularly old bat corrected.

"B-but the bear, bear!" Bartok said, flapping to his feet in sudden panic. "I- I saw him take you! And you, you! And eat y-"

"There is no bear, bear." The fat bat said, scowling. "It's a bunch of toads, toads."

"Toads, toads?" Bartok repeated, confused.

"Toads, toads." The old bat affirmed.

"B-but-" Before he could finish his sentence Fret, who had been creeping up on him, pounced.

"Sorry bat, bat, bat!" The ferret cried, as he brought his fists down upon the larger beast. His claws dug viciously into the back of Bartok's head. "Bat smashed to bits -bi-ack!"

The ferret was pulled off by the fat bat, who pinned him to the ground with little force or effort. But then again, sitting did not require much effort.

"Get off!" Fret snapped, trying to claw himself free of the aerial mammal's girth and back to his vengeance.

"No, no, no! Sorry, sorry, but you can't hurt our clan, clan, clan."

Bartok flapped to his talons, spun round and went pale at the sight of Fret.

"He pushed me off a waterfall!" Fret wheezed, raking the ice in his bid for freedom.

"I-I had to, to. The bear, bear- I mean toad, toad, wanted to eat-"

"So you gave him me!"

"Well it was me or you, you, you. So yes, yes. Sorry, so-"

"And you laughed!" Fret's growl cut him off. Whether the ferret was red in the face from anger or lack of air, nobeast knew, but it was most likely air, even if Fret said otherwise. He managed to pull himself out from under the bat- but found Butch had taken over the job of holding him back. Thankfully the beaver decided not to sit on him, but that was hardly much of an improvement- especially since Butch's alternative had been to step on him.

"So..." A little bat with a very nasally voice started. "You were talking about how nobeast loves you, you, you?"

It took Fret a moment to realize he was the creature being addressed. "I never said that." Was his immediate snap. Even if it's true, his first thought. "What I said was that the only beasts that might care are leagues away." He had no idea where Clogg was, but the rat was definetly farther south than he was. Constance was at Redwall most likely, or searching for him. As happy as the latter thought was, he thought the former more likely. Momchillo might've been his best bet for rescue, but he had no idea where the mouse was either. Or their guide, the stoat.

"Where are you from?" Butch once more drew him back into reality, and free of his footpaw.

Seeing no reason to lie, and because there were no toads in earshot, Fret spat out the truth. "Redwall."

Butch, oblivious to his tone, banged his tail against the ice in excitement. "Redwall Abbey? I've heard so many stories aboutch itch! My nana always reads to me aboutch Martin de Warrior and Deyna the Daggerung! Are you really from Redwall? Whatches itch like dere?"

"I've heard of Redwall too, too." Bartok added as the dibbun went on about about all he'd ever heard.

Fret glowered at him. "Everybeast has heard of it. Redwall, where any and all of good heart are welcome..." He trailed off grumpily. This was a subject too sensitive to discuss amongst strangers.

The others were silent, save and except for Butch who continued to chatter about everything he'd ever heard of Redwall.

"I heard Martin De Warrior dropped a lamp on dis big bad rat! An-and dere was dis cat and owl! And dey wentch off on a boatch! And den dere was dis place wid all de tunnels. Slamerandashtronch! And den it crashed! And den-"

"I've got it!" A light went off inside Fret's head, as if a firefly had buzzed in. Slipping out of Butch's grip, the ferret scampered over to the jar of ice, which seemed to grow from the floor. He placed his claws upon the cold surface and stared at it in wonder. The glow of a hundred fly posteriors was beautiful, and sent shimmering shadows across the walls of ice. But beauty was not what he was interested in. "Butch, I need you to chew this open for me."

The beaver cocked his head to the side. "Why?"

"Because this is my- our way out!" He hastily corrected. Butch still look confused, so he explained further. "Look." He tapped at the ice. "There are fireflies inside of this. Where do you think they came from?"

"Maybe de fwaggies put dem dere." Butch offered, suddenly shaking.

"They'd have eaten them." Fret countered, remembering the discussion of grubs and bugs he'd heard earlier. "So the flies got in here, which means this has got to be a tunnel."

"It could be a dead end, end, end." The small bat said. "I noticed it too but I didn't want to risk getting stuck, stuck, stuck."

"Most of us wouldn't fit anyways, ways." Bartok pointed out.

"Most of us don't have to." Fret countered. "Open the tunnel and I'll go. If I get stuck the toads'll pull me out because I'm valuable." Or they'll leave me to die. "But if I am right this should take me through more tunnels. If I were to get out and tell your Chief-"

"If, if, if." The old bat shook his head. "You're risking your life, life, life."

"I know that!" Fret snapped, squashing desperately at his mounting fear. "B-but I might b-be dead anyways. B-better to d-die free, right?" Of course not dying was by far the best option...

"You don't even want to do it, it." Bartok pointed out.

"I do!" The ferret snapped.

"Don't lie, lie, lie."

Fret growled. "I'm going with or without your help. So I don't need you anyways. Any of you. And especially you!" He pointed a claw at the grey bat.

"I'll help." Butch said slowly. "B-but please d-don't die."

"I won't. I promise." Fret lied, and found himself in a hug again. This was just getting ridiculous...

"And you pwamise you'll come back?" The beaver asked, sniffling.

"I..." Fret returned the hug, not entirely sure why he was doing that, but in any case it seemed to stop Butch's shivering. "I promise."

As soon as they broke apart (which was not soon, Butch hugged for humiliatingly long periods of time) the beaver got to work. The assorted bats and singular ferret watched in wonder as the young beast started from the top of the jar, his incisors biting into the ice. Chip by chip, the ice fell around it like a miniature snowstorm, until in the end the top came off.

The fireflies, no longer held back by a wall of ice, flew into the air. Hundreds upon hundred of them erupted from it, like fire from a volcano. It was a light show of spectacular proportions. Their orange glow bounced from wall to wall, and against the pale blue of the ice they looked like miniature suns, or stars plucked from heaven.

"Wooow!" Squealed Butch, his great scaly tail bouncing upon the ground in excitement, his eyes wide with wonder.

The only beast who had not been paying attention to the spectacle, was Fret, who scrambled up the ice to peer down the tunnel. Ice was all he saw, a slick wall of ice, rendered dark blue by the light above.

He swallowed audibly, and his gulp seemed to echo down the abyss. Was it too late to call off the plan? What would the toads do about the newly-opened tunnel? Would they punish Butch?

Fret growled, and pulled himself further up, so that he could enter the tunnel feetpaw-first. His fear should never have mentioned Butch. The toads would hurt Butch no matter what. They needed no other reason than their own entertainment. And he would not sit idly by and watch the beaver suffer. Even if he had sneezed on him... and was a huggy person... and had an annoying accent...

Butch gently placed a paw around his scruff, and gently lowered him into the tunnel.

"You d-d-don't have to do this, this, this." Bartok stammered.

Fret would have snapped at him, but Butch was quicker to reply.

"It's f-fine if you don't wantch t-t-to do itch." The beaver's eyes were wide and worried, but Fret had made his mind up and stretched his paws to either side of the ice.

"See you later then." He tried to smile, but the only emotion on his face was fear. "On the count of three Butch."

The beaver babe nodded.

"One."

Find Momchillo, Snakeskin or the bats.

"Two."

Come back to save Butch.

"Threeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

The ferret slid out of sight, his counting becoming more and more distant until all the others could hear was a distant SPLASH!