#Redwall Secret Santa

[eleanorose123]

1. Go Tonight - Yaz/Sammy [Camp Cretaceous] 2. Someone Gets Hurt - Sasha/Anne [Amphibia] 3. Hungry Like the Wolf - Goth and Shade [Silverwing] 4. Secret Santa - Belos [Owl House] 5. It's Alright - Norma [Dead End Paranormal Park] 6. Lose You To Love Me - Kim/Eric [Kim Possible] 7. Good For You - Fifi/Tilly [Punk'd Pooch] 8. Heart to Heart - Vox/Alastor [Hazbin Hotel] 9. Heart to Heart - Roxy/Ramona [Scott Pilgrim Takes Off] 10. The Greatest Show - Redwall 11. The Greatest Show - Kim Possible 12. Unstoppable - Anne [Amphibia] 13. Partners in Crime - Drakken/Shego [Kim Possible]

[a-still-small-vox]

So I never got around to actually publishing this in 2022 (oops) so I’m going to publish it now for the record, then release the current one for 2023 immediately after.

Fics written in 2022, and their word counts:

A Royal Holiday | Homestuck | DaveJade | 4,901 words (Homestuck Secret Santa)

None But The Brave | Redwall | Mattimeo-centric | 9,146 words

Honey | FFXV x Dragon Age | Promptis | 4,802 words (FTH)

Poison Paradise | The Witcher | Geraskier | 2,524

The Immortor | FFXV | Promptis | 9,078 words

Tomber La Chemise | FFXV | Promptis | 1,088 words

Falling Water | FFXV | Promptis | 15,116 words

The Adventures of Prompto Argentum, Cyborg Mechanic | FFXV | Promptis | 9,615 words (Book Club Discord exchange)

Mountain Guardian | FFXV | Promptis | 5,838 words (Promptis discord holiday wishes event)

Irons In The Honey | Homestuck | Katnep | 5,603 words (Homestuck Secret Santa)

Because You Are My Friend | FFXV | Promptis | 7,906 (Promptis discord holiday wishes event)

The Painting Of Mao | No. 6 | Nezushi | 2,613 words (No. 6 Secret Santa)

Unreleased fics

Excerpt From The Chronicles of Bleaklow Monastery | 7,005 words - this was written for the No. 6 discord’s OC exchange

Four Slices | Avatar: the Last Airbender | Zuko & Iroh | 11,982 words - for the upcoming Forged In Flame zine

The Council Of Six | No. 6 | Nezushi | 2,753 words - for the No. 6 Zine by Kerminty, which is still available to buy digitally!

Other:

Blossoming Souls | FFXV | Promptis | 56,061 - this was a fic written for the FFXV Book Club Discord’s round robin fic writing event. I wrote roughly 1/3 of the word count. (~18,687 words)

High School And Forever | Avatar: the Last Airbender | Ty Lee-centric | 2,266 words - for the Crossroads Zine

Chapters 20 and 21 of Leviathan by SayNevermore - translation from French to English (1,990 + 1,288 words)

Total fics: 16 Total word count: 118,657 

Wow! Absolutely blew 2021′s word count out of the water! In fact, my most productive year to date since I’ve been doing these wrap-up memes. The next highest is 98,382 words from 2020.

Specifics:

Best/worst title?

Best: Falling Water

Worst: Irons In The Honey - what a dreadful mental image, lol

Best/worst first line?

Best: Sunlight trickled through the branches of the forest, beamed down from the clear blue sky to kiss the leaves and ground. (Falling Water) Why?: This image is very romantic and vivid. It isn’t the best constructed sentence I’ve ever constructed, but most of my other first lines were more serviceable than punchy or evocative. The runner up would be the first line from None But The Brave, which sets up a mood and conflict instantly --  “No one who had not been to the Kingdom of Malkariss could understand how utterly devoid of hope it was for the slaves who toiled there.”

Worst: Jaskier was well aware that Geralt had too much potion toxicity in his blood. (Poison Paradise) Why?: BOY is this clunky. RIP.

Best/worst last line?

Best: When they eventually left the valley, stocked with flower seeds, seedlings, secret potions, and triumph, they flew back to Ferelden in style. (Honey) Why?: LOOK! A ZEUGMA!!

(The one for Because You Are My Friend is pretty good too: “Noctis laughed and Prompto did too, heart so light he didn’t need his wings to fly.”)

Worst: Against Prompto’s new lips, Noctis felt perfect. (The Adventures of Prompto Argentum) Why?: It’s not horrible or anything, I’m just kinda Eh on it. Maybe because perfect is such a vague word. It just isn’t as strong as the rest of the fic, I feel. I’m also not super fond of the last lines of High School And Forever and The Painting Of Mao.

General questions:

Looking back, did you write more fics than you thought you would this year, less than you thought, or about what you predicted? Definitely more. I never in a million years expected Blossoming Souls to reach 56,000 words all on its own, let alone to outstrip the preceding years I’ve been doing this meme.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted last year? The Witcher - I haven’t seen the show, and I’ve only read one book. But I was inspired by a piece of fanart I saw on my dash.

What’s your favorite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest. This is a hard one. Probably Blossoming Souls, although I also really like Falling Water and The Adventures of Prompto Argentum.

Okay, NOW your most popular story. By kudos it’s Poison Paradise. By hits it’s Blossoming Souls.

Story most underappreciated by the universe? Irons In The Honey doesn’t have any comments on it :( At least I know the gift recipient liked it. Story that could have been better? I’m really not thrilled with A Royal Holiday. It’s okay, but I feel like it just doesn’t work in the way that some of my other AUs do. Can’t figure out what it’s missing or what’s wrong with it. I did my best but I wish it had had a beta. Sexiest story? Poison Paradise

Saddest story? The Immortor Most fun? Blossoming Souls. Just writing in the fast-paced, group environment was so fun, especially given how much I vibed with the rest of my team. Story with single sweetest moment? Probably Four Slices. It’s about Iroh realising how much his darling nephew loves him, so hard to beat that in terms of fluff.

Hardest story to write? Also Four Slices. I’ve never written something from Iroh’s POV before, even though he is the best. It took me a while to complete, even though it’s fairly simple in concept.

Easiest/most fun story to write? In a way, Blossoming Souls was super easy. Words came out and they had to stay there. But of the more conventional fics, I’d say The Painting of Mao. I came up with a concept and put it to paper with no real stress.

Did any stories shift your perceptions of the characters? Four Slices forced me to do a little more research into the lore around Zuko and Iroh’s relationship from the comics. Reading Mattimeo and writing None But The Brave did shift my perception of some of the characters a bit. I had to find the sympathy in both Cynthia and Vitch in order to redeem them.

Most overdue story? The Immortor was from an older concept, but I can’t say that any of these fics were necessarily overdue as such.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? It was definitely a risk to participate in a group writing project. If everyone else had flaked, that would’ve been the end of that. I don’t know what I learnt from it exactly, but I sure had a good time. It probably helped my ‘planning on the fly’ skills. I also got to flex my angst muscles a bit with The Immortor, which is good, because I don’t use them too often.

What are your fic writing goals for next year?

My writing goals for 2023 are:

1. Once again, write more original fiction. 3 short stories by 2024 is definitely doable. 2. Writing a story or fic in French. 3. Making progress on one of my unfinished works on AO3 (Perchance to Wake, OFF-Script, or Fateswap Beyond).

And if I had to pick one fic from my list of unwritten dream fics to complete, it would be Day by Day.

*

That’s all, folks! If anyone else wants to do this wrap up like it’s a meme and tag me, go right ahead. Happy New Year!

[redwall-midwinter-gift-exchange]

What’s up, Redwall Tumblr, it’s me again. I’ve fallen into the pit of other fandoms lately buuuuuuuut I wanted to host another Redwall gift exchange this year. Before I do, though, I have two questions:

1. Some people expressed discomfort with it being labeled a secret santa, as they don’t celebrate Christmas, and Christmas isn’t really an in-universe holiday anyway. Thoughts/comments/suggestions?

2. Last year it seemed like a lot of people had trouble due to how busy December is. Would it be better to have the works posted in late January instead, giving people time to work on it during an ideally less hectic month?

Anyway, hope y’all are doing all right!

[theaggresivepacifist]

As I Go Wandering

Mossflower’s four chieftains have a summer reunion.  Some Songbreeze/Dannflor fluff for @myrose-of-oldredwall! Happy holidays, friend!!!😊

(And many thanks to @redwall-secret-santa for setting this up!)

         It had been many a season since Redwall Abbey was ruled by such young creatures. Abbess Songbreeze Swifteye and Abbey Champion Dannflor Reguba were wise leaders, stout warriors, and kind and cherished friends to all at Redwall, from the tiniest molebabe to the prickliest old hedgehog; they were also energetic creatures, and occasionally somewhat restless. Song in particular, used to wandering since infancy, sometimes felt a longing pull towards the woodlands, towards campfires and swift waters and sleeping beneath leafy bowers at night.

             “I can’t believe that a year ago we were fighting Marlfoxes and finding secret islands,” she observed to Dann, during one of these wistful moods. They were in the orchards, beakers of ice-cold raspberry cordial in paw, as they supervised a herd of adventurous Dibbuns reenacting the great battles of the previous summer.  “I feel like it was a lifetime ago.”

             “Or like it happened to different creatures.”

             “Younger, sillier creatures.”

             “Speak for yourself,” said Dann, feigning indignance, though the impression was undermined by the daisy crown a trio of giggling mousebabes had placed on his head.

             “And it’s been a while since we’ve seen Dipp and Burble,” Song continued thoughtfully, brushing pear blossoms from her shoulders. “I wonder what they’re up to.”

             “Probably off havin’ all kinds of adventures. It’s a wild life out there in Mossflower.”

             “I wonder if we’d still be good at adventures.”

             “Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” said a new voice, full of gentle mirth.

             Song and Dann turned to see Cregga Rose Eyes, the ancient Abbey badgermother, lounging in the sun. She had been following their conversation with a smile on her scarred face.

             “You should go and visit your young friends. It’s a perfect summer for travelling,” she said, almost suspiciously casual. “And a few weeks to yourselves might give you a chance to rest up before the autumn harvest.”

             “We have plenty of time to relax here,” Dann protested. As if on cue, a stout young molemaid tugged on his habit hem, while a slightly older squirrel called to Songbreeze from across the Abbey lawn.

             “Hurr, zurr, Daisy be’s making mudpies an’ trying to eat em all oop. It’s an orful mess, hurr hurr.”

             “Abbess? The cook needs you straight away – something about a disaster in the larder and a whole season’s hazelnuts spilled all over the floor?”

             “Think it over, anyway,” Cregga said, still smiling, while the two conscientious squirrels rushed to their duties.

*****

             After much deliberation, and cleaning up spilled hazelnuts and mud-covered Dibbuns, Abbess and Abbey Warrior decided that perhaps a little summer reunion might be just the thing they needed.

             “Are you sure you won’t need us?” Dann and Song both asked Cregga, multiple times. Cregga generously let them realize on their own what a silly question this was to ask a former Badger Lady, former interim-Abbey-leader, veteran of multiple wars, who might not be able to see but could hear a pin drop and snap steel or iron like a forest twig. Meanwhile, Rusvul, Janglur, Rimrose, Gawjo, and Ellayo, all creatures of solid experience and good sense themselves, cracked frequent jokes about having more than enough squirrel perspective on the running of the Abbey anyway.

             “You’re only young ‘uns once,” Ellayo added sagely, in a tone that brooked no argument. “It’s high time you had a little fun, without us old ‘uns hanging around!”

             And so it was that a few days later they set out on a glorious midsummer morning—only for a few weeks, of course, but farewelled as if they might be gone for a full season.  Dann carried the sword of Martin belted across his back, and Song a light walking staff. Dibbuns, elders, Abbey brothers, Abbey sisters—all of Redwall Abbey and some from the country around—stood at the gates or on the walltops to see them off. The Abbess left them with a song, sweet and true as always, which left many a creature sniffing slightly behind cover of paw or habit sleeve.  

                           “Though this journey borrows me,

                             I promise I won’t be far away,

                            For I carry you in my heart with me,

                           In ev’ry place my pawsteps stray.

                            When you see the summer sky,

                            Or river in its royal blue,

                            Think of me as I go wandering,

                            And know that I’ll come home to you.”

             “Good ‘un, Song,” said Dann appreciatively, when they had passed beyond sight of the red sandstone walls.

             “Now you sing us one.”

             “Ah, you know me. I don’t sing.”

             “I’ll teach you. We have all the time in the world.”

               The two spent several days wandering on their own: lazily, enjoying the journey, occasionally stopping to chat with creatures who made their home in Mossflower Wood. They followed the river in a vague sort of way, and one morning reached a tranquil stretch of water that they recognized from last year’s quest.

             “Dippler and the Guosim should be somewhere close,” said Dann, searching for pawprints in the soft sand. Song had another idea.

             “Logalogalogalog!” she called, in an echoing, birdlike trill. Dann followed suit, paws cupped around his mouth.

             “Logalogalogalog!” he shouted, slightly less melodically, pacing a little farther up the riverbank. “LogalogalogaOOF!”

             Song whirled around in time to see Dannflor flattened by a blur of grey fur. She charged, wielding her walking staff, raising her voice in a thunderous cry of “Redwallllll!”, before skidding to a halt as she recognized a stout spiky shrew kitted out in rapier and colored headband.  

             “Mornin’, Dann. Mornin’ Song. What’s with all the shoutin’?” Dippler grinned, paws still locked around Dann in a bear hug, as he heaved them up from the ground. “We’ve already been tracking you for half a mile.”

             “You never,” Song protested, giving Dippler a hug herself. “Where are the Guosim, anyway? Did they kick you out already, you great rogue?”

             Giggling shrews emerged from a screen of rushes just up the riverbank, almost all of them already known to Dann and Song from the Guosim’s time at Redwall last summer. The two squirrels shook so many paws that their own paws soon felt weary.

             “Come see the new fleet of boats we’ve built,” Dippler said finally, extracting them from a shrew tussle over who would get their honored guests some cold mint tea. “I told ye we were going to make lighter craft, like the Riverhead vole tribe had, faster and easier to manage.”

             Dippler nodded to a shrew standing guard over a willow grove, and he parted a curtain of leaves to let them pass. A fleet of sleek, beautiful boats, masterfully carved from rich honey-colored wood, were docked in a shallow section of the stream, bobbing gently with the motion of the water.

             “They’re wonderful, Dipp,” said Dann, admiring the shine of the varnish and the tiny carvings of waves and flowers ornamenting the prow of each boat. “Are they sea- er, riverworthy yet?”

             “Better than any craft on water!” Dippler replied, puffing out his chest proudly.

             “Well, in that case, how about a little river journey?” Song grinned. “We were thinking of traveling upstream to visit Burble, too, and the Riverhead vole tribe.”

             “Haha, I miss ol’ Burble too. Why not? We’ve been in one place far too long. But first, you’ve got to enjoy our famous Guosim hospitality,” Dippler said firmly. “We had a feeling you’d be comin’ our way! And I want to hear everythin’ that’s happening at Redwall, too, mates!”

             They camped for the night in a lovely watermeadow, ­­­­where dragonflies flitted through the evening sky and paper-white and purple lilies floated on the water. Song and Dann and Dippler caught up together and then spent many hours retelling old tales for the amusement of the Guosim, who especially loved the ones about Megraw Eagle, the Marlfox islands, and Song’s unexpected aunt the hedgehog. Shrewcooks filled their bowls with piping hot tater’n’watershrimp stew and heaped wooden plates with hearty shrewbread and soft white cheese, generously studded with leeks and hazelnuts. When everyone was beginning to yawn, they bedded down on soft sleeping rolls beneath the stars, with the piping of frogs and crickets and waterbirds for a lullaby.

             “It’s like being in the forest when I was a little one,” Song murmured drowsily to Dann, before they fell asleep. “I’m ever so glad you came with me.”

               They spent several days on the river with Dippler and the Guosim, who were taking advantage of the warm weather and calm water to tend to their logboats and teach the younger shrews how to paddle and swim. Dippler, like the old Log-a-Log before him, was patient and kind with the youngsters. When the group agreed (after much time-honored shrew debate, of course) to embark on a visit to Burble’s tribe, he captained a boat of nervous young shrews just learning to row, encouraging them the whole way and tirelessly helping to back their boat out of sandbars and tangles of tree branch whenever the young ones accidentally crashed into the bank. By the time they had reached the end of their expedition the young shrews were keeping up with the best of them, grinning proudly, and Dippler was able to ship oars and sit at ease.

             “Comin’ up on Riverhead vole territory now,” said Dippler, arms crossed, looking every bit the sage Log-a-Log. Sure enough, in the distance they could see the ruddy glow of orange lanternlight muddling the evening lilac, and then a fleet of illuminated watervole coracles gliding a path through the reeds and rushes.

             “Is that old Burble Bigboots, Horror of the Leafwood?” Dann called teasingly from the prow of his shrewboat.

             “That’s Burble Bigthrone, Holder of the Leafwood to you,” a familiar voice called back. “An’ Commander of the good ol’ boat Swallow, yiss yiss!”

             Burble and his tribe of watervoles had soon surrounded the Guosim boats in a flotilla of their own. Shrews and voles exchanged greetings and traded favorite watersongs as they paddled ashore to the Riverhead tribe’s cavern home, where a welcome party was scraping up reels and jigs on an orchestra of well-loved instruments. Burble, once on dry land, kept shaking Dann and Song’s paws vigorously.

             “We’ve been meanin’ to come to Redwall, y’know, but there’s been so much to do here. It was a powerful cold winter, so we’ve been improvin’ our little hideout here, getting everything shipshape, y’see!”

             They recognized the Riverhead voles’ cavern, but sure enough, the place had been spruced up and made even more cheerful and comfortable than a year ago, thanks in great part to Burble’s exuberance. Cozy moss-covered arms and footstools were drawn up around the hearth; lanterns glowed in wallsconces; woven rush mats with a sweet, grassy perfume covered the floors and decorated the walls. Little trinkets from their various travels—beautiful carvings, pressed and dried flowers, pieces of smooth seaglass—were scattered throughout as decoration, giving the place a very homey feel.

             “You kept it, you rogue,” said Dann, horrified and amused, as he spotted a familiar carved chair against the wall of the cave near the dining table. “The Marlfox throne you plundered.”

             “Och, yiss, I kept it, but we mostly use it as the babbies’ high chair,” Burble burbled. “Now sit ye down! I want to hear all about what goes on at your Abbey, hoho!”

             After long hours feasting and catching up with their two friends, Song and Dann stayed up late into the night talking and toasting last autumn’s russet apples over the fire, while watervole lullabies keened softly around them on fiddle and reed flute. Burble and Dippler, propped up by the hearth, were both snoring uproariously, with Burble clutching the greenstone-topped Leafwood even in his sleep.

             “Just like old times, eh?” said Song.

             “Should we wake up early and steal a boat in the morning?” Dann said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.  

             “Oh, yes, I was hoping we’d get chased back to that horrible swampy creekbed again.”

             “Get bit by all manner o’ bugs.”

             “Fight a few ferrets and weasels while we’re at it.”

             “No, thank you, I’m happy right here.”

             Their conversation dissolved, as usual, into laughter. Burble shifted a little, pawing at his nose.          “Madbeasts, both of ye, yiss yiss,” he snuffled aloud, though still sound asleep. “You’re perfect for each other.”

                                                                                      *****

             After several whirlwind days of feasting and dancing, boating and hiking, Dippler and the Guosim set off for farther reaches of Mossflower, and Song and Dann found themselves missing the orchards and sandstone walls of Redwall Abbey, the faces of friends and loved ones, the sound of the evening bells. They bid farewell to Burble and the Riverhead voles (“visit us again!” one and all clamored) and broke camp on an early morning, haversacks filled with homecooked food for their travels, sword and staff in scabbard and paw.

             The path home stretched out before them, twining through lush groves of oak and elm and nodding willow. They stopped a moment to stare in awe of it, smell the sweet grasses and blackberry blossom in the air, listen to the sweet warbling birdsong and the soft winging of the sun-yellow butterflies through the trees of Mossflower Wood.

             “After you, mighty warrior,” Song said finally, inclining her head with grave solemnity.

             “After you, Abbess Songbreeze,” answered Dann, matching her nod with a fantastically elegant bow.

             Song gave him a playful shove. Her touch lingered a little on Dann’s shoulder, and Dann turned to her with a soft contented smile. This time it was Dann who picked up the melody of an old wandering song, surprisingly practiced for one who claimed he never sang.

                              “The road ahead is long and weary,

                            But walking it with you, my dear,

                            Though the miles go slow and dreary,

                            I feel aglow with summer cheer.

                              See the trees bedecked in flowers,

                            All alight with green and gold,

                            Oh, how I love to share these hours -

                            Let’s wander on ‘till we grow old.”

             Paw in paw, side by side, Abbess and Warrior began the journey back to Redwall Abbey.

[mongoosefangs]

Long time no art post! A @redwall-secret-santa gift for @melly1, featuring Matthias and Cornflower celebrating their first Christmas together with little Mattimeo! Thank you for the super cute prompt, I hope you like it- have a wonderful Christmas c:

[pitviperofdoom]

I participated in @redwall-secret-santa. This one’s for @readwall-abbey. Merry Christmas!

---

The sun shone high above the beach as Mem Divinia paused at the highest point of a dune, planting her paws firmly in the shifting sand. She breathed deeply, shoulders rising and falling as she settled her pulse.

Just a few seasons ago, running a distance like that would have left her staggering and gasping for breath, heart pounding wildly and painfully in her chest, in no fit state to see her paw in front of her face, much less any signs of marauders. Sand was difficult terrain to march on, much less run long distances, with the way her paws sank with each step. But Mem was no novice Runner. It had been a while since Sarge sent her out on short little scouting trips to train her eyes and stamina. By now she was miles from Salamandastron, with more to run before she would have to turn back.

With her breath back, she sipped from her canteen and inspected her meager supplies. She was hardly hungry yet but popped a chestnut into her mouth anyway, if only to lessen her load by a little. Long Patrol Runners packed lightly in both food and supplies, but running long enough could make even the lightest pouch feel like carrying another creature.

Her sharp eyes scanned the horizon on all sides, the sea on one and the rolling dunes on the other. The dunes were empty and still, broken only by the occasional cloud of sand, probably kicked up by some lizard or crab. As for the sea…

There was only one point of interest on the sea. Far in the distance, just barely closer than it had been the last time Mem checked, was a single ship.

She squinted at it, scowling in the glare of the sun. It was difficult to judge the threat, if indeed it was one. There were no distinguishing flags or features that she could see; the sails were simple undyed canvas, and if the ship had a figurehead, it was too far away for her to make out. In all likelihood it was a mere traveling ship. Woodland sailors, or sea otters perhaps. One unidentified ship didn’t have to mean pirates.

But, seeing as Salamandastron and the Long Patrol were Mossflower’s first line of defense against dangers from the sea, it was up to them to make sure.

She checked her weapons again: a sling, a pouch of stones, and her trusty dirk. Hopefully that would be enough, should trouble arise. Without another moment of hesitation, Mem took off again across the sands.

She stopped several more times to check the ship’s progress. On the fourth or fifth stop, the ship stopped moving closer. There were no colors flying, no notable marks; it was simply a plain, unmarked ship, too far off for her to see the nature of the beasts sailing it.

On the sixth, she was sure that she could see a longboat approaching the shore.

Mem slowed her pace and continued on with care. She stopped cresting the dunes for a better view, and instead kept down between them so that nobeast would see her approach.

Gradually, the longboat made its way closer and closer to shore. Mem was no longer running, but creeping low on all fours as she made her way toward the point where the boat would most likely land.

She finally risked climbing a low dune, at the very edge of where the sand smoothed out from the crashing waves, when the longboat made landfall on the beach. Mem dug herself down into the sand to stay as hidden as possible. She was close now, just barely within shouting distance, when she saw the first creature leap out onto the sand.

Tall, long-bodied with brown fur. Too slender and willowy to be an otter. It was a stoat or a weasel, decked out in corsair gear. Behind them was the unmistakable figure of a searat.

Mem watched them for a while, not daring to creep any closer and press her luck. Eight vermin in total disembarked, far too many for her to challenge by herself. That was all right, though; she was meant to be a scout, not a defender just yet. At this point, she had plenty to report back to the mountain. The ship was indeed loaded with corsairs, and they had already sent out a small landing party, most likely to scout out the beach. There was no more that she could do here.

Besides, night was falling, and the vermin were moving inland into the dunes themselves. They would most likely make camp here, and the darkness would cover her retreat.

Mem was beginning to back away when the sounds of a shouting reached her ears.

She risked poking her head back up over the dune, but the growing darkness made it difficult to make anything out. There was shouting, cursing, and a great deal of sand kicked up. Were the vermin squabbling amongst themselves?

Or, Mem thought with a jolt, had they found a traveler to attack already?

Sarge would probably give her a knock between the ears for taking the risk, but once that thought was in her head, she could hardly ignore it. Keeping to whatever cover the dunes provided, Mem crept toward the scuffle.

She was almost too cautious, in the end; by the time she was close enough to see what was happening, much less do anything about it, the fight was over. Her heart sank; was their victim already dead?

Muffled, high-pitched cursing proved otherwise, followed by the vermin’s jeers. They had captured somebeast.

Mem took a deep breath and let it out again, before settling down into the sand. If she left now and reported this, nobeast would fault her for keeping safe. There was one of her, and eight vermin. Very poor odds indeed.

She settled in to wait.

***

Night had fully fallen. At this rate, Mem would be hours late making it back to the mountain. At last, she approached the corsairs’ camp.

The fire was still burning, just bright enough for her to make out seven sleeping figures, one sat up keeping watch, and a ninth, much smaller, sitting trussed up at the edge. Silently, she made her way around.

The rat on sentry duty was nodding. She had waited for third watch before approaching; it was better to risk sneaking past a creature that had just woken up and desperately wanted to go back to sleep. The rat took no notice of her as she skirted the camp on all fours and crept over  the prisoner.

Firelight glinted off a pair of open eyes, and Mem froze when she realized that the bound squirrelmaid was looking right at her. Mem put a paw to her lips, only to realize belatedly that the squirrel was muzzled.

Mem shot a glance at the searat, just in time to see his head bob down and up again as he fought to stay awake. She looked to the squirrelmaid, who followed her gaze, then inched carefully over the sand toward where Mem lay hidden. The sand scraped beneath her, and both of them froze.

Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of fire and the vermin’s snores.

The squirrelmaid stretched out, as if seeking a comfortable position to lie down. Her bound footpaws lay within a stone’s throw of Meme’s position.

Her heart was beating in her ears, so loudly that she half-believed the vermin might hear it. This was easily the most foolish thing she had done, and Sarge was going to shout herself hoarse over this when she got back.

But there was a woodlander in danger before her, and she had come too far to turn back and abandon her now.

Mem had never drawn her dirk as slowly as she did then. Bit by bit, so slowly that the steel did not even rasp against the inside of the sheath, she slid her blade free. Then, with one more glance at the sleepy sentry, she crept over the sand until she could push it within reach of the squirrel.

The squirrel grasped it between her footpaws, then curled up so that she could reach her bound paws with the blade.

Mem kept the blade keen enough to cut a strand of fur lengthwise. It took two slices to free the squirrel’s paws, leaving her free to hold the dirk properly and make short work of the cords binding her footpaws. Without wasting a moment more, she got all four paws underneath her and began to creep toward Mem.

Next to her, a sleeping weasel stirred and murmured, with the telltale sounds of a beast about to awaken.

The squirrel struck like an adder. One paw went over the vermin’s mouth, and the other drew the dirk across the weasel’s mouth. It was over just as quickly as it had begun, and the weasel died without a sound.

Mem looked to the rat. He hadn’t even turned his head. Maybe he was already asleep.

The squirrelmaid left the weasel where he lay, blood soaking into the sand beneath him. She joined Mem without a word, and together they stole off into the dunes. They took the long way around, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the camp. The squirrelmaid’s bushy tail swept behind them like a broom, wiping away their tracks.

Only when they were well away, the campfire a distant orange glow, did the squirrel cut the muzzle from her head and throw it viciously to the ground, before kicking it away with a quiet snarl. The dirk was thrust hilt-first into Mem’s paws. She took it with a nod of thanks, wiped the blade, and sheathed it again.

“Th’nks,” the squirrelmaid grumbled. “Could’ve handled it, but thanks.”

For the first time, Mem took a proper look at the creature she had rescued. She was small and young-looking, probably even younger than Mem by a pawful of seasons, but she had the rough, raw look of a creature used to hard living. And now that stealth was no longer the priority, Mem could see the way she put all her weight on one footpaw, as if favoring the other.

“Think nothing of it,” Mem said, smiling a bit shakily. “Good show with that weasel. Quickest paw-work I’ve seen outside of the jolly old training room back at the mountain.”

The squirrelmaid grinned, showing sharp white teeth in the dark. “Yore one of them fancy mountain rabbits, ain’t yer,” she said.

“Hares, but close enough,” Mem replied. “Is your footpaw all right?”

The squirrelmaid grimaced. “I’ve had worse,” she said, though she made no attempt to put any more weight on it. “Don’t worry yore pretty little ears over it, fancy rabbit.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when a shout rose from the vermin camp. Both of them whipped around to stare, wide-eyed, as the pirates they had left behind came awake.

“On my back,” Mem gritted out. “Quickly now, no time to for belly-aching.”

Grumbling, the squirrelmaid obliged. She was every bit as lightweight as she looked. “By the fur and fang,” Mem muttered. “You could do with a jolly good tuck-in, sooner rather than later. Hold on tight, now!”

She took off with the squirrelmaid clinging to her back, claws digging into her shoulders.

Even with the extra weight, she left the vermin camp in her dust. With the wind off the sea blowing across the sand, her tracks would be wiped away by morning. Still, it was only when the vermin’s fire was so far behind them that she could no longer see it, that Mem felt save enough to slow to a trot rather than a flat-out run. The squirrelmaid still clung to her, laughing breathlessly.

“Hellsteeth, that’s what’s I call a gallop!” the squirrel cackled near her ear. “Wot’s yer name, fancy rabbit?”

“Lance Corporal Mem Divinia of the Long Patrol, at your service,” Mem replied, breathing steadily. “What may I call you, my good maid?”

“Name’s Russa,” the squirrel replied. “Got any food on yer?”

“A pawful of nuts and a bit of water,” Mem replied, passing up her food pouch. “Here, try to leave some for me. I’ve got to get back to the bally mountain by dawn, or Sarge’ll send out a search party, and they’ll be right miffed at me for causing a spot of bother.” She paused. “Er, d’you happen to have a family who might be looking for you?”

“If’n I do, they ain’t lookin’ hard enough,” Russa replied airily. “Been on my own, long as I can remember.”

“Righto. Would you like to visit Salamandastron, then?” Mem asked. “Get your footpaw looked at, have a proper scoff in the mess hall?”

“If scoff means food in Fancy Rabbit, then lead the way,” Russa laughed again.

“Jolly good.” Mem took off again, at a steady lope that would get her home in good time. “Tell you what, Russa my gel, after I make my report and have a quick kip in my bunk, I’ll stop by the kitchens and make you some pancakes.”

The squirrelmaid was quiet for a moment. “Wot’s pancakes?” she asked.

“Can’t wait to show you, m’dear!”

The moon rose high over the seashore and the rolling sand dunes. Mem was going to be late. But, the way she saw it, one little dressing-down from Sarge was a fair trade for saving a life, and making a new friend along the way.

[fuzzhugs]

Redwall Gift Exchange: Old Wounds

Gift for @eulaliaaaaaa

Prompt:  Rose's ghost haunting the Abbey in some capacity like Martin's does.

*

Mattimeo ran. He was already out of breath and his legs felt like they were made of lead, but still he ran onward through the dark pine forest. Gasping and panting he forced himself onward from the terror which followed him. He couldn’t remember how long he had been running, but it felt like hours, and still the forest showed no sign of ending, and there was no hint of light to be seen. As he ran, Mattimeo heard things moving through the trees around him, accompanied by primal shrikes.

Something flew out of the darkness and wrapped around Mattimeo’s legs, sending him sprawling. The three heavy steel balls connected by rope had tangled around his ankles, and Mattimeo fought frantically to free himself from the bolas. When he had kicked free of them, he took off running again, but stumbled once more. He looked, and his heart sank when he saw his arms and legs were now bound with chains. Mattimeo pulled at his bonds, but the iron manacles showed no sign of breaking.

The fox stepped from out of the darkness, cackling cruelly. He didn’t have his mask on and was staring at Mattimeo with that horrible dead eye. Then from the side, another fox, the same fox, stepped out from behind a tree. Then another dropped down from the dark pines. More and more foxes, each cackling, each grinning, the muscles of their faces showing through their necrotic skin.

Mattimeo was surrounded. He couldn’t run; he couldn’t even move. One of the foxes took out another set of bolas and began twirling them until the air whistled. Faster and faster they spun until the fox threw them. The deadly projectile flew directly at Mattimeo…

…and he sat bolt upright in his bed, breathing heavily and shaking. He nearly called out for his mother before remembering he no longer lived in the gatehouse with his parents. Taking a few deep breaths, he tried to calm himself down, remembering that he was safe at Redwall and that those awful events had happened seasons ago. He was almost an adult now, and did not want to be scared by simple nightmares. Across the room, Sam Squirrel lay asleep in his own bed, curled up with his own tail as a blanket.

With his heart pounding, Mattimeo knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep any time soon. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it felt like early morning. It made the most sense to get up and try to forget the nightmare.

As he pushed himself up, Mattimeo realized his sheets were soaked with sweat. With a sigh, he pulled the linens from the bed and bundled them up, tossing them aside to take to the laundress later. He dressed himself in an old habit, a paw-me-down from his father. It fit well enough, though the sandals he had received from him were still a bit too big.

With his sandals slapping with every step, Mattimeo made his way down from the dormitories and into the Great Hall. He sat down at a table and rested on his paw. At the very least, he could doze for a bit before breakfast.

Having fallen into a light slumber, Mattimeo did not hear the other creature approaching, and only awoke when a paw was gently placed on his shoulder.

“Matti?”

“Hmm?” Mattimeo grunted as he awoke again. “Oh, good morning,Tess,” he said to the female mouse. “What are you doing up do early?”

“I’m ringing the bells at sunrise with Cynthia and Rollo,” she explained. “And I could ask you the same question.”

“I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought I’d come down here and wait for breakfast.”

Tess sat down next to him and started at him, the corner of her mouth twisted. She always had that expression when she knew Mattimeo wasn’t telling her everything.

“It was that nightmare again, wasn’t it?” she asked, already certain of the answer.

“It was just a stupid dream,” Mattimeo said, trying to brush away her concerns. “It all happened so many seasons ago, Slagar and his gang. We’re all safe now and I shouldn’t be worried about it anymore.”

Tess began rubbing Mattimeo’s shoulder. “It wasn’t that long ago, Matti, and even if it was long ago, you’re still allowed to be upset about it. What happened to all of us was terrible. I know I still get scared when I think about what could have happened.”

“I’m supposed to be the next Abbey Warrior,” Mattimeo said. “I shouldn’t let the shadows of the past haunt me…make me as scared as a dibbun.”

“You may be the next Abbey Warrior, but you’re still as mortal as the rest of us. You’re allowed to be afraid of the things that hurt you. You’re not invulnerable.”

“Well,” Mattimeo said, looking at Tess with twinkling eyes, “I certainly know I’m vulnerable to the charms of pretty mousemaids.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Mattimeo smiled as he watched her go, but once she was out of sight, the smile left his face and sadness returned to his eyes. Tess just couldn’t understand.

“A warrior is supposed to overcome his fear, not be crippled by it.” He said aloud.

Mattimeo sighed and rested his head on his arms, dozing again.

“Why are all you warriors such emotional wrecks?” a nearby voice said.

Mattimeo lifted his head and looked at the creature sitting across the table from him. It was another female mouse. He didn’t recognize her as an Abbey resident, but she was very pretty; her fur looked soft and smooth, her whiskers spread elegantly, and her voice could have brought birds from out of their trees.

“Who…who are you?”

“I’m Laterose,” the mouse said. She turned to look at the tapestry of Martin the Warrior behind her. “He had that problem as well. He fled from the north rather than face his fear and pain, but I don’t blame him, what happened to him would be difficult for anybeast to move past.”

“You’re Rose!” Recognition filled Mattimeo’s eyes. He knew from his father that the spirit of Martin sometimes visited Redwallers in times of need, so he was not entirely surprised to see a figure from the distant past in front of him. “I remember learning about you in Abbey-school, about Marshank and Martin’s early life.” He paused, thinking. “Why are you here?”

“My beloved Martin knows much about the necessity of courage, but he sometimes lacks understanding about the purpose of fear. I decided that I would be more helpful in this situation. His warriors are precious to him, so I like to see them living well.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you need a little help dealing with your emotional injuries. You seem to think that being afraid and being a warrior a mutually exclusive.”

“I’ve never seen my father afraid of anything.”

“He may not have shown it on his face, but I have seen him afraid. I was there when he set out to find you and the other young ones taken by the fox. He was terrified of the thought that he wouldn’t be able to find you, that you would be lost forever.”

“But he didn’t let that stop him.”

“Nonetheless, he was afraid, but he did not let that fear stop him from acting. Even more so, it pushed him to act. Overcoming your fear does not mean fear ceases to be. A creature that fears nothing soon becomes reckless, a danger to themselves and everybeast around them.” She leaned in close. “What happened to you was no small thing. Being kept in shackles is a terrible thing for any beast to experience. That you fear such treatment does not make you any less of a warrior. You are already a brave young mouse, Mattimeo, and Martin is very proud of the warrior you are becoming. Your fear does not need to be blotted out, but understood. Do not worry if this takes time.” Rose looked over at the tapestry again. “Sometime old wounds can take a lifetime to heal. There are many creatures here who care about you, young one. Talk with them. Your father is a wise warrior. He will not think poorly of you because you are afraid. Talk with that pretty mousemaid too. She was there with you and understands what happened and how you feel. She loves you deeply.”

Through a mental haze, Mattimeo thought her heard the bells ringing.

“It’s almost time for breakfast,” Rose said. “Be sure to eat well. You’re still growing and need your strength.”

Mattimeo chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”

“I never had children of my own, but I like to think of all Redwallers as my children. Each one of you is precious to both Martin and me. It is why I keep such a close watch.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Now wake up.”

Mattimeo lifted his head from his paws and blinked the sleep away. He could still hear the echoing of the bells. Soon, the Great Hall would be filled with creatures ready to eat.

The sun was shining through the stained-glass windows, bathing the Hall in hues of red and blue. He could hear the Sparra chirping outside as they hunted for their own breakfast on the Abbey lawn. It seemed like it was going to be a beautiful day.

[goonlalagoon]

[Image description: A digital fanart for the ‘Redwall’ book series, showing a stained glass window with scenes of a tree through the seasons. in the foreground, a red squirrel and a porcupine look through the window at the snow falling outside]

My @redwall-secret-santa piece for @housamo!

The three requests were:

First Request A different type of rodent in redwall, hamster, guinea pig, maybe even a porcupine Second Request Timballisto x Martin would be fun Third Request The stained glass windows of the great hall

I didn’t quite manage to fit in #2, but 1 & 3 worked as a single piece - Rakkety Tam and a Redwall porcupine pausing to look out of the window at the snow outside (while they’re supposed to be helping set up for a feast)

This was really fun to work on. Happy holidays!

[housamo]

My (late) secret santa for @chelonianmobile for the redwall secret santa!! Blaggut with a barrel boat for some dibbuns. (I’ll probably draw something better for you later)

[subtleshenanigans]

Present exchange gift for @goonlalagoon !!!!

It’s Deyna (Tagg) and Nimballo playing in the snow!!! I decided to do it post-Taggerung, hence why they’re in Redwall habits, and Deyna’s tattoos are gone.

Anyways, hope you like it ^u^!!!!!

[captainnightbird]

My gift for lougosis for the Redwall Secret Santa 2019!

Request: “Martin and Rose chilling out in a meadow, laying side by side and looking at the clouds.”

First time drawing Redwall characters, I tried my best.

[eulaliaaa]

happy holidays to @tinybookgirl from your @redwall-secret-santa!! i took the prompt of martin angst and went a little wild with it . hope you had a wonderful holiday and i’m sorry for the lateness !! fic below the cut :)

“Why can’t I come with you?” 

“Martin, we’ve talked about this.” Luke was standing at the shoreline, preparing to leave with his selected crew in pursuit of the Goreleech. “It isn’t safe.”

Martin was a few paces behind his father, still lingering by the entrance to their cave. “But I can help,” he pleaded. “I can fight, I can-”

“Martin,” Luke snapped, and then he sighed, rubbing his eyes with a paw. “Please don’t fight me on this.”

“But I don’t…” Martin stopped, and considered listening to his father. Perhaps it would be better if he accepted it, if he let his father go and went back inside to sit with his grandmother and pretended it was a normal day and that he wasn’t being left behind. But then, he seldom did what he was told. “You’re bringing mice from the tribe, how am I different?”

Luke turned away from the sea, looking at him. “Do you want a list?”

Martin gritted his teeth, and didn’t reply. 

“You’re young, you’re too young to help crew a ship or weild a weapon,” Luke began. “I can’t leave Windred alone, I owe it to your mother to make sure she’s taken care of, and that’ll be your job. I’m not just leaving you to leave you, I-”

After a moment’s silence, Martin, voice low, asked, “What?” He hated hating his father, but it seemed that he didn’t have any other choice. He was furious, so furious he could feel tears pricking at his eyes. Why was he being left behind again? His mother had already been taken from him, and now his father was leaving as well. 

“I have to do this,” Luke finished. “You don’t understand yet, but you will, when you’re older. I have to.” He sounded exhausted. “We’re pushing off tomorrow, and, Martin, I don’t need you to make this harder than it is.” 

Martin looked down, and tried to figure out how it was on him. How it was his fault, how it would be him making it harder. He’d spent his entire life looking up to his father. He couldn’t see how this was fair. “Mother wouldn’t want you to leave me.” He said it quietly, eyes still trained on the pebbly shore beneath his paws. It was a gamble and he knew it; he hadn’t even known his mother. He regretted it the moment it was out. 

“Get inside,” Luke snapped. 

“But-”

“Get inside right now. I’m doing this for her, how dare you say that-”

Martin sniffed, and tried again. “But if you’d just-”

“Get inside!”

To Martin, the words were louder than a thunderclap. He turned and ran, not stopping until he was pressed against his grandmother by the fire in the cave. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if this wasn’t somehow his fault, his father would bring him along. Luke wasn’t just leaving; he was leaving Martin. 

He fell asleep, head on Windred’s lap, before his father came back inside.

The following morning, Luke left, in better spirits than the previous night. There was no resolution though, for Martin. The argument wasn’t really apologized for, and neither was the leaving. Martin wasn’t given a clue as to why he couldn’t come along, he was just given a sword too large for him to properly wield, and then he sat on the rocks and watched his father sail away. 

He sat there for the better part of the day, unable to shake the hope that he’d see the ship returning, that his father would realize he needed him and come back. The horizon stayed perfectly undisturbed and empty. He never saw his father again. 

-

Martin turned over, unable to sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about growing up on the North Shore. He couldn’t stop thinking about his father. 

“Bad dream?” Gonff’s voice came from over near their little campfire. 

Martin sighed, summoning a tired laugh. “Can’t even get to sleep.”

“May I offer you a lullaby?” Gonff’s tone was half joking, but Martin knew the offer was genuine. 

He sat up, and moved closer to the fire, sitting opposite Gonff. “I’ll just keep watch tonight, you can sleep.” 

Gonff shrugged, fiddling with the flute he’d already pulled out of its travel sheath. “Twice the eyes means we’ll be twice as safe, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t need to-”

“It’s alright.” Gonff smiled, and he really did have the warmest smile Martin had seen since- 

He was still hesitant to even think about her, to even think her name. Luke had told him a long time ago that one day he’d understand, that one day he’d know why you’d do anything to get revenge on the creature who’d taken your love from you. He did understand now, and he wished he didn’t. “Do you ever see yourself as a father, Gonff?” he asked.

Gonff blinked. “And this question comes from where, exactly? Seems rather from the far off forest of out-of-the-blue to me, Martin, is there any reason why-”

“No, no reason,” Martin said, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at Gonff’s antics. 

After a moment, Gonff said, “Maybe. Well- yes, maybe. What about you?”

“You’d be wonderful at it,” Martin replied. “Me, not so much.”

“Oh, that’s poppycock if I’ve ever heard it.” Gonff reached around the fire to give Martin a gentle smack with the flute. 

Martin brushed him away. He looked into the fire, getting lost in the twisting and jumping flames. He understood his father perfectly now. He wished he didn’t, often, but everything Luke did made all too much sense. He couldn’t risk repeating it, couldn’t risk playing Luke to his poor son’s Martin. He sighed. “It’s just not in my blood.”

[redwall-midwinter-gift-exchange]

I’m Christian as well, but I don’t celebrate Christmas, or any holidays.

Personally I’m fine with it in December if others are as well. If you decide to move it to January, that’s cool too!

I look forward to participating!

Hmm, my reasoning for thinking of moving it to January was because a lot of gift exchanges are in December, so if people are doing others it might be easier. Plus there’s the regular hustle and bustle of December -- even people who don’t celebrate are bound to be affected by the culture at large. (No knowing how this year will alter that, though, and it might not be the same for everyone.)

I’ve actually been considering moving it back to January since very early this year, as a lot of people seemed to struggle with busy December stuff last year. People I had to call in pinch-hitters for usually cited unexpected IRL obligations, if they offered a reason. (I didn’t ask, specifically.)

[sharksandothernonsense]

Traditions (Redwall Secret Santa 2019)

Written for @divebombmod, for the @redwall-secret-santa exchange! This was based on the prompt “Matthias and Cornflower enjoy a summer day together”; I went a touch angstier than I meant to at the beginning, but I hope you still enjoy reading it!

(Posting to this blog for easier sorting--this is a sideblog to @autobotscoutriella, but I was afraid this would get lost in the Transformers stuff today.)

AO3 Link for anyone who prefers to read it there)

The first morning of summer dawned warm, bright, and cloudless, the sun burning away the last few traces of spring dew on its journey into the sky. Golden traces of sunlight danced across the Abbey pond, rippling reflections turning the still water into a kaleidoscope of colors that danced under a brilliant blue sky.

Matthias the Warrior made his way across the Abbey grounds at a leisurely pace, taking the time  to admire his beloved home along the way. The seasons never changed Redwall, no matter what effect they had on the creatures that lived there; the weathered red sandstone had stood tall and strong and safe through countless winters and summers, and Matthias had no doubt that the Abbey would outlive him and many generations after him.

“Morning, Matthias!” Jess Squirrel bounded out of an apple tree with an armload of dead branches strapped to her back, straightening up and adjusting her bundle. “Have you seen Cornflower this morning?”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.” Matthias paused mid-stride, momentarily distracted from the beauty around him. “Is everything all right, Jess?”

“As far as I know, it is,” the squirrel told him. “She mentioned looking for you when I passed her a few minutes ago, that’s all. Shall I help you look for her?”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll find her.” Matthias smiled and changed course, starting toward the outer wall and the nearest stairs. His wife had her predictable patterns, especially when the seasons changed, and he knew exactly where to start looking.

Sure enough, Cornflower stood on the walltop over the gateway, gazing out over the Abbey grounds, the pond, and the orchard. Matthias called her name as he approached, and was rewarded with a smile, one that still took his breath away just as much as it had the first time he had met her all those seasons ago.

“What’s going on?” The Warrior wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, the two of them leaning against each other as they watched the Abbey coming to life below them. Everywhere they looked, creatures bustled back and forth, beginning to prepare the lawns for the new season’s celebration planned that afternoon.  

Cornflower rested her head on his shoulder, humming softly before speaking. “Nothing, really. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

Matthias smiled at her. “Not as beautiful as you.” He kissed the top of her head and held her a little closer. “But I know there’s something on your mind. Is anything wrong?”

“No, not exactly.” Cornflower sighed and leaned contentedly into Matthias’s side. “Season changes always remind me of waiting for you and Matti to return. He was so young last summer—they all were.”

Matthias nodded, sobering as he remembered their long quest, the terrible fear of not knowing if he would rescue his son in time, or if either of them would ever see Cornflower again. It must have been even worse for Cornflower, waiting at Redwall and facing down the raven general without knowing where they were or if they were even alive. And if he thought further back, to the Summer of the Late Rose, the memories of the terrible war and all the friends they had lost still lingered. “Summers haven’t always been easy for us, have they?”

Cornflower laughed softly. “No, they haven’t. It’s a shame. Summer has always been my favorite season. It’s so beautiful. The birds, the flowers, soft night breezes, watching the little ones chase fireflies…but the memories are still hard.”

Matthias rubbed her shoulder, watching Ambrose Spike and the young otter Cheek working together, with much grumbling and mock-complaining, to set up the first long trestle in the orchard. “You know what? We need some summer traditions that don’t involve kidnapping, mayhem, or the Abbey under siege.”

“Do you think so?” Cornflower tilted her chin up slightly so she could meet his gaze, a hint of mischief in her smile. “Well, I suppose that sounds like a good idea, as long as it doesn’t involve fishing.”

“Oh no.” Matthias laughed at the thought. “Matti and Sister May have taken over that tradition. Perhaps we could convince them to share the pond and enjoy a quiet midnight sail?”

“You may not need your sleep, o Warrior of Redwall, but I do,” Cornflower teased. “Perhaps we could find a tradition that doesn’t take place in the middle of the night.”

Matthias watched the Abbot, Sister Agnes, and John Churchmouse setting out a breakfast table beside the main Abbey door, arranging it so that creatures could either put together trays and find somewhere to relax and eat, or simply pause for something on their way to complete the morning’s tasks. “I might have an idea. How would you feel about taking our breakfast outside the Abbey today?”

“Outside?” Cornflower blinked in surprise. “Well, we can’t go on too much of an excursion. The Summer Feast is tonight, and they’ll need our help with the preparations soon.”

“I’m sure they can spare us for a little while. Besides, I know you’ve been working harder than any of them in the kitchens, and Mattimeo and I spent all of yesterday helping Foremole and his crew prepare the baking pit for tonight,” Matthias reasoned. “There are plenty of willing paws already helping, and we’ll be back in plenty of time for the final preparations. What do you say? A breakfast picnic in Mossflower Wood? It’s a beautiful day. We should at least stop for a little while to enjoy it. I’m sure our friends will understand.”

“You make a very convincing argument.” Cornflower squeezed Matthias’s paw and straightened up briskly. “Right, then, I’ll tell the Abbot you and I will be back before noon, if you’ll pack us a picnic basket.”

***

Mossflower Woods was peaceful and beautiful, with birds twittering in the distance, bees buzzing around newly blooming flowers, and the faint ripple of the River Moss audible on the breeze rustling the towering trees above them. There was no need to hurry, not under these circumstances; Cornflower and Matthias strolled leisurely through the forest, paw in paw, pausing here and there for Cornflower to collect a few pawfuls of herbs for Sister May, and for Matthias to examine a tiny grove of new saplings that had sprung up in a small clearing.

“It’s good to see the forest has recovered so well,” Cornflower remarked, brushing a paw gently along a new clump of brilliant green ferns. “I remember when this part of the woods was still burned and crushed after Cluny’s army passed through. Now you’d never know they were damaged, except for the old tree stumps.”

“And even those have been covered over by moss now. There’s no sign an army was ever here,” Matthias agreed, sitting down beside one of the stumps in question and gazing up at the leaves forming a soft green canopy overhead. Glimpses of a brilliant clear-blue sky were visible through small gaps, and rays of sunlight filtered down to create shimmering golden patterns on the forest floor. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Cornflower settled down close to him, tucking her herbs into a corner of the picnic basket. “It is,” she agreed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been out in Mossflower in summer.” She leaned over the basket and kissed Matthias on the cheek. “Thank you for this. It’s lovely.”

Matthias felt himself blush right to the tips of his ears, the same way he had when she had first kissed him all those seasons ago, and smiled at her. “So you like the tradition?”

“I think we should keep it.” Cornflower smiled, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“I do too.” Matthias took her paw, and thought how very lucky he was that Cornflower Fieldmouse had agreed to give him the time of day all those seasons ago. “I don’t know where I would be today without you, you know.”

“I know.” Cornflower winked at him, squeezed his paw, and added, “You would still be the Warrior of Redwall, I am sure. And I would still be proud of you. But without you and I, we wouldn’t be here in Mossflower Wood today, making our own traditions—and there is nowhere I’d rather be than at your side.”

There was nothing Matthias could say that could adequately convey what he felt at that moment. Instead, he simply drew Cornflower close, and the two of them sat together in the warm sunshine, listening to the birds sing and the bees buzz overhead as Mossflower Wood came alive with the sounds of summer.

[readwall-abbey]

My @redwall-secret-santa gift for @roguishredaxion! The prompt was “An abbot or abbess (artists' choice) holds a small feast to remember the warriors that have come forward to defend the Abbey in the past.” I decided to write a song that might be sung at a feast like that, honoring the creatures that risked everything to defend the Abbey.

To warriors who have gone before, Who risked both life and limb; We raise a glass to seasons past And those who dwell therein.

We feast between these sandstone walls Whose safety you secured. Our way of life, peace free from strife, Bought by what you endured.

The summons of our Warrior calls All those who know what's right, And if they fell or yet tales tell, Their spirits we invite!

*To you who bear our warrior's sword, May seasons treat you well, And may no blight, or need to fight Cause you to leave Redwall.

And may no war disturb our peace, But if some evil comes, Let them beware, for in the air The beat of freedom drums!

For many creatures guard this place From all who'd do us wrong, And to them all we at Redwall Raise our feasting song!

The verse with the asterisk is an interchangeable verse, that might be switched out depending on the time of year or exact situation. The one I recorded was for welcoming a new Abbey Warrior to the position, but I imagine there would be others for all sorts of situations; if a war had recently ended, if there had been a very long peace, or if there hadn’t been an Abbey Warrior for a very long time. Here’s one alternate verse I wrote for if a warrior recently died in battle:

War has taken you from us, But know you're in our hearts. You'll live on in mirth and song As we live life's finer parts.

The recording is a little scratchy; I think I’m coming down with something and my throat does not want to cooperate. I’ll probably rerecord it at a higher quality later.

[roguishredaxion]

A Place of Refuge

This is written for @autobot-scout-riella for the @redwall-secret-santa gift exchange. It’s probably not as sweet or as happy as you probably wanted, but I hope you like it anyway.

The full story is below the cut.

Grath Longfletch knew there were days when she forgot half her life, when she woke up to the smell of shrimp and hotroot soup and expected to see her mother and sisters tending the fire and stirring a large pot, or some of the gossipy ottermums chattering away at one another while they wove their mats and baskets. She always woke disappointed, the less familiar voices of Holt Rudderwake jarring her awake from the dreams of living with her family in Holt Lutra.

Of course, there were also days when she was catapulted from sleep with the memory of pain and death and the taste of blood on her tongue and the burn in her muscles as she dragged herself out of the tomb that had once been her home. These dreams were harder to wake up from, harder to realize they were just dreams and she hadn't been found again and had another home stolen from her.

That had been this morning, and she wasn't sure what to do. The other otters in Holt Rudderwake knew where she came from, they had learned her story in the season she had been with them, but it wasn't as real for them as it was for her. To them, the destruction of Holt Lutra was just another ghost story, one that they had little connection to. She was suffering from the memory of it on her own. She hadn't been sure she would ever feel safe somewhere again. She still wasn't.

The dreams had woken her early, before even the ottermums roused to set about preparing food for the day. There had been much talk recently of the winter festival, and a feast was planned for the early evening. Grath wasn't sure if she would be good company for a feast.

It was easy enough to slip out of the cave, making for the highest point she could reach on the island without too much climbing. She always went for higher ground when she needed to think, desperate for the air and the loneliness where she was normally surrounded by otters who had never encountered true pain in their lives.

She didn't begrudge them for their happy lives, but she was jealous. If ill fortune hadn't been brought down on her own holt, she might have been celebrating the winter feast with them.

Her mind conjured up the smells and sounds of her lost home, taunting her with the things she had missed and would never have again. She recalled playing games with her brothers and sisters, how her father taught her how to fire a bow, how her mother taught her how to weave cords into string, how to cure it against the weather and make it into something beautiful.

She was forgetting their faces. Every time she thought of her parents or her siblings, their faces were more out of focus than the last time she thought of them. She had tried to draw them, but sketching was not one of her skills. Slowly, they were becoming the one feature she remembered best about them. Sunya had the prettiest singing voice, the twins Keenan and Rhys had a patch of white fur under one of their eyes but she could never remember which was which, Felis was the eldest and told the best stories, Marine was obsessed with collecting pretty shells for her collection. Her father's paws were hard and callused for as long as she could remember, but her mother's were only callused in places where her weaving crossed her paws. She wondered if, on her path for revenge, she had left behind some of her memories to lie with the rest of her family.

They were like ghost stories to her too now, half-remembered and distorted in ways she had no idea how to fix. 

"Grath?"

She looked up, having heard Inbar coming, his sleep-heavy paws scraping against the stone. Inbar Trueflight was perhaps the best thing that had happened to her since her family was killed. She hated that she had been the one to teach him what true cruelty looked like when they stormed the island of Sampetra. The darker part of her, the part that had fueled her need for revenge on the searats who killed her holt, wasn't sorry about it, though. She had spoken no less than the truth when she told him what searats would do if they ever gained access to Ruddaring. Not that she thought they would. She hoped they wouldn't. She liked that they were safe here. Even if she wasn't sure she could trust its safety any more than she had been able to trust the safety of Holt Lutra when the searats attacked it.

"Are you okay?" Inbar asked. He moved slowly, tiredly, nearer and sat down on the low rock beside her. "You left the sleeping den."

"It's almost a year now," she whispered, knowing he of all beasts would know what she was talking about. "Just after the winter feast."

"So, no, then. You're not okay." He didn't touch her yet, and she was grateful for that. The way her fur felt like it was too tight, she was sure his touch would only make it feel like she was burning.

He didn't say anything else for a long time and they just sat there, watching light slowly bleed into the sky above them over the top of the ring that protected the island. They had wasted so much time sitting there when they could have been doing something else, but she couldn't bring herself to get up and move. She fingered the long, green-fletched shaft she had left jutting out of a crack in the rock up here. She always came here when she was upset, so that was how he always knew to look for her.

"What would you be doing?" he asked suddenly, his tone hushed. "If you were with your holt?"

Grath frowned. "Why do you want t' know that?"

He shrugged, the fidgeting in his paws evidence enough of his nervousness. "Your traditions are part of you. I know what we do here. What would you do?"

She didn't think that was a good enough reason to ask, but she wasn't going to say so aloud. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine what it was like last winter, when none of what had happened had happened yet. Somehow, remembering her family's traditions was easier than trying to recall their faces. "My sisters and I gathered twigs to weave together into wreaths. Mum would pick the best for the feast table. The rest would be given to anybeast we knew nearby. Mum picked Sunya's last year."

As Grath thought about it, she could see Sunya's radiant smile as the wreath, decorated with pine fronds and dark red holly berries, was placed at the feast table around a bowl with a large candle in it. It was clearer than any other memory she had tried to grasp, and Grath could feel her eyes burning.

"What else?" Inbar prompted gently. He still hadn't touched her, and briefly, she opened her eyes and took his paw in hers, desperate for something to ground her.

The memories ached as much as they were sweet to remember. "My father took my brothers with him to catch a large trout. One year, he brought back a fish that was almost as big as I was, but I was little then and everything looks bigger than it is." Still, she could remember that fish, and looking up at her father with awe that he had caught such a thing. He had promised to catch a bigger one the next year, but it never seemed quite as large to her as the one when she was only two seasons old.

Inbar was smoothing down the fur on her paw, the gentle steady motion doing more for her sense of safety and security than the ring of stone that protected the island. She was safe with him. Her paws that had learned to kill were safe in his paws, which had learned to protect.

"We would share the trout at the feast, and other members of the holt brought other dishes. Mum Rosella brought the best hotroot soup I'd ever tasted, and she only ever brought it to feast days. Mum Olvine baked sweetbreads that melted like butter in your mouth." Now that she was talking, she found she couldn't stop, the words spilling out of her faster and faster as she tried to share an entire experience of life with him, everything that had built her, everything she had lost. She opened her eyes to stare into his and know whether or not he understood. She was almost shocked to see that he did.

There were tears spilling down her cheeks in earnest now, wetting her fur and starting to soak into the collar of her tunic, but she refused to raise a paw to wipe them away herself because she remembered. She could see the names and faces of everyone she had lost so clearly in her mind, and Inbar had given her that. He had made her ghost stories real again. Grath hadn't even known she was still carrying around the guilt and the anger and the soul-deep desire for revenge until she had let it all go to remember what a winter feast was supposed to look like.

"I can't give back your family," Inbar said, still stroking the fur on her paw gently. "But I can give you mine. I can give you our traditions, and you can bring yours with you and we can do this together."

Together. There was some part of her that was slowly uncurling at the sound of that word, some quiet, hidden, young part of her that had been waiting for someone to hold out that paw and actually mean it. 'Together' was a safety more complete than the whole of Ruddaring. It was a peace that could settle in her soul and finally put to sleep the desire for revenge. It was something that would make her whole again in a way she never thought she could be.

She had been angry and alone for seasons, blind to the help being offered to her. When she thought about the future, the only thing she had been able to see was blood. She couldn't see past her revenge and, since coming to Holt Rudderwake to stay, she hadn't been sure what to do with herself. Still, she had been resolved to do it alone.

But she wasn't alone. Inbar had been there with her for as long as she had been there. He had held out his paw again and again even when she slapped it away, not seeing what he was really offering.

"I want that," she whispered, squeezing the paw that was holding her, grounding her. She wanted it more than she had words to say. She wanted to share her history, her family, her life with him because she knew he could understand.

Slowly, she could feel herself coming back together. There were scars on her heart that would never fully heal, absences that could never be completely filled, but she wasn't dwelling in those empty spaces anymore. She was on her way to becoming whole again.

For perhaps the first time in a year, Grath tried a true smile, one that was neither forced nor fake nor full of menace, and she let Inbar lead her back inside. Her family would have wanted her to be happy above all else, and perhaps now she was willing to allow herself to be happy too. Because her past wasn't a ghost story she had to suffer through, nor was it meant to destroy her. Her past was a path leading always to a future, and she had finally come out of the forest and into the light.

And with Inbar beside her, she could trust that her future would be safe between them.