fanfic: Redwall: untitled (Briar intro)
Dec. 15th, 2024 04:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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pineislandTitle: untitled
Fandom: Redwall
Characters: OC - Briar; Canon - Martin the Warrior (mentioned); Canon - Matthias the Warrior (mentioned); Canon - Methuselah (mentioned)
Rating: G - General Audiences
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 476
Prompt:fandomocweekly "Memory" (Amnesty) + fffc Little Special 208: Dialog only/ No dialog
Notes: I have not posted fanfiction in public since 2014, literally over a decade.
The group shuffled dutifully forward, voices quiet. The tapestry was behind a sheet of plexiglass bolted into the sandstone.
Ahead of the class, an Abbey Museum docent hare was explaining how the plexiglass protects the tapestry from grubby, grabby paws and from sun exposure, but Briar was only half-listening. Students across Mossflower Country came to visit the Abbey Museum at least every other year on a field trip to see the Redwall Abbey tapestry and the scabbard of Martin’s lost sword. She had seen it all before.
But as she passed under the watchful gaze of Martin the Warrior, Briar stopped. It seemed for a moment that Martin looked directly at her. As if from far away, she heard a voice saying, My sword, my sword! Bring me my sword! But no one had seen the Sword of Martin for hundreds of seasons, not since it was stolen by the fox mercenaries who marauded down from the north.
Miss Brockhall’s voice rang through the otherwise hushed Great Hall, calling Briar to attention.
Briar shook herself and hurried to catch up with her class, her messenger bag bumping against her as she half-ran after them. The docent flicked her ears in irritation as Briar hustled by.
They climbed the stairs out of the great hall while a mouse in a polyester reproduction habit explained the vegetarian Redwall Abbey diet and the history of the order. The soft stone was worn down by an untold number of paws over innumerable seasons. An ugly modern railing was affixed the wall for safety.
Briar tried to imagine what life would have been like in the order when Redwall Abbey was a real place, full of mice in green robes that weren’t made out of crinkly polyester but carefully pawspun cotton, scurrying up and down the old stairs without a railing or velvet ropes keeping them away from the propped-open trick stone covered in glass.
She peered down into the darkened Tomb of Martin as the volunteer mouse in the green robe told them a story they all knew, how Matthias the Warrior and Brother Methuselah found the long lost tomb hundreds of seasons ago. Briar wondered if he was still down there and if he was annoyed by the visitors always poking their noses and paws against the glass that kept them out of his final resting place.
Still, even as they stepped blinking back out into the sunlight of the orchards, Briar couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d heard Martin the Warrior calling for his long lost sword. But Miss Brockhall was calling the class to line up for her to count off and the tapestry was safely behind glass.
The age of heroes was over.
Or so Briar believed until, many seasons later, she held the sword in her own paws.
… but that is another story for another time.
Fandom: Redwall
Characters: OC - Briar; Canon - Martin the Warrior (mentioned); Canon - Matthias the Warrior (mentioned); Canon - Methuselah (mentioned)
Rating: G - General Audiences
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 476
Prompt:
fandomocweekly "Memory" (Amnesty) + fffc Little Special 208: Dialog only/ No dialogNotes: I have not posted fanfiction in public since 2014, literally over a decade.
The group shuffled dutifully forward, voices quiet. The tapestry was behind a sheet of plexiglass bolted into the sandstone.
Ahead of the class, an Abbey Museum docent hare was explaining how the plexiglass protects the tapestry from grubby, grabby paws and from sun exposure, but Briar was only half-listening. Students across Mossflower Country came to visit the Abbey Museum at least every other year on a field trip to see the Redwall Abbey tapestry and the scabbard of Martin’s lost sword. She had seen it all before.
But as she passed under the watchful gaze of Martin the Warrior, Briar stopped. It seemed for a moment that Martin looked directly at her. As if from far away, she heard a voice saying, My sword, my sword! Bring me my sword! But no one had seen the Sword of Martin for hundreds of seasons, not since it was stolen by the fox mercenaries who marauded down from the north.
Miss Brockhall’s voice rang through the otherwise hushed Great Hall, calling Briar to attention.
Briar shook herself and hurried to catch up with her class, her messenger bag bumping against her as she half-ran after them. The docent flicked her ears in irritation as Briar hustled by.
They climbed the stairs out of the great hall while a mouse in a polyester reproduction habit explained the vegetarian Redwall Abbey diet and the history of the order. The soft stone was worn down by an untold number of paws over innumerable seasons. An ugly modern railing was affixed the wall for safety.
Briar tried to imagine what life would have been like in the order when Redwall Abbey was a real place, full of mice in green robes that weren’t made out of crinkly polyester but carefully pawspun cotton, scurrying up and down the old stairs without a railing or velvet ropes keeping them away from the propped-open trick stone covered in glass.
She peered down into the darkened Tomb of Martin as the volunteer mouse in the green robe told them a story they all knew, how Matthias the Warrior and Brother Methuselah found the long lost tomb hundreds of seasons ago. Briar wondered if he was still down there and if he was annoyed by the visitors always poking their noses and paws against the glass that kept them out of his final resting place.
Still, even as they stepped blinking back out into the sunlight of the orchards, Briar couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d heard Martin the Warrior calling for his long lost sword. But Miss Brockhall was calling the class to line up for her to count off and the tapestry was safely behind glass.
The age of heroes was over.
Or so Briar believed until, many seasons later, she held the sword in her own paws.
… but that is another story for another time.