In the reflection of the great bell of Redwall Abbey, jewel of Mossflower, home to all good, a wet eye shed a tear. Quickly, eyelids flashed, yet the tears still came, and it only served to wet the brown furred cheeks further. The fur contorted as the shiny black nose sniffed once, twice. A heavy paw, callused from years of wielding one thing or another, came up to blot the eyes further.

Still weeping, the stoat turned his eyes away and towards the sunset, red, gold, blue, and purple. There was no mottled brown in the sunset. He didn't belong up there in the splendid display of beauty. Streaks of clouds frittered away into the darkening haze. With the ruffle of fur, the stoat, who was once called Redfang, yet preferred, now, to be known as Modius, looked over his shoulder at his reflection in the delicately polished great bell. His finest green habit, smooth and light and yet also so warm, still hung loosely about his shoulders. Somehow, the cord of thick, spiraling rope fit in the picture, right around his neck.

He kicked his feet against the edges of the immense bell tower, as he'd done so many times now, wondering if he'd ever get the courage to jump off, or if anyone would notice him. Even just notice his absence?

Not one glimmer of action showed from the main building of Redwall, where most beasts were asleep. He was alone, forgotten again. But anymore, he affirmed. Finally, what seemed like a second him jerked his muscles and finally brought him to do the deed he had so long feared.

Air surrounded him, held him up. For one passing moment, he hung motionless in the air, outside all laws and hopes and rules.

There had been a time, when he was but a little stoat, when his father would toss him up into the air. His parents, at that time, had seemed to care so much. His mother was always there, looking out for him, his father always ready to give advice. He was, or so he thought, their pride and joy. Years had gone by, happy years. Then he had reached the age when he would finally become a soldier, like his dad had been. Maybe better.

Or maybe worse. After he was part of the army, his parents seemed to stop caring completely. They had another son, whom they raised lovingly, with but scant words about his older brother. When he had, one day of vacation time, returned home, they had told him to leave, to get out and not disgrace them any more. At the time, it was the lowest point in his life. Depression, exhaustion, and lethargy had taken over. It was somewhat like now, although much easier to bear. There was small hope.

Gravity finally exerted its force, and he began to plummet down. His heart and stomach soared out behind him, taking his rational mind with them.

It reminded him vividly of his first battle. The anticipation, the anxiousness, everything had made him so nervous. He checked his standard-issue sword at least a hundred times during the march out to meet the squirrel tribe, which had been causing problems in a lower province.

The battle had gone well, supposedly. He couldn't remember the actual events too well. He did remember the congratulations and jubilation at their regiment’s first win - and what an outstanding defeat it was! He himself had gotten one or two beasts, a more than fair accomplishment. But then he saw the dead bodies of his comrades, friends, and even his enemies. They would never speak to their parents again, for sure. There wasn't even a hope. And he had realized, unhappily, that his entire point in life as a soldier was to bring this kind of despair to other creatures.

Air grabbed at his fur and pushed it every which way. His ears waggled, and his tunic pressed tight against his stomach.

So much like the ship. The faithful Bloodfin had unwittingly carried him away from the life he was disgusted by. Freedom was in the air, and he was free to roam around the deck - as long as he wasn't recognized as a stowaway. He managed to take a spare uniform - a bit loose on him, but good enough. Hours had been spent on the deck, marveling. He had left ship somewhere along the mouth of the River Moss, and had followed it up to where it supposedly connected with a large path that could take him to the ever-serene home of the good, Redwall Abbey.

He had reached Redwall's soil quickly. Though not quite as quickly as he was reaching it now, he thought with a sardonic inner smile. His eyes burned and his ears seemed ripped apart by the wind. His fine tunic was a hundred lashes against his back, and everything grew bigger.

Bigger, he had surmised once, was the secret motto in Redwall. The walls were bigger, the buildings were bigger, and nobody, certainly, had ever seen a pie that size outside of Redwall. At first, everything was so new; he could ignore the worse parts of it. The hours spent just enjoying, relaxing, being peaceful.

The hours of relaxation, soon, turned to hours of torture, as he sought out places where the wicked-minded dibbuns and their all-too-trustworthy parents did not afflict him. Certainly he had never been so distasteful, so rude. He had never called someone biting and hurtful names despite all their actions. Yet the dibbuns did, and soon after it was their parents. It came to pass that there were few in the abbey who would stand the sight of him. "Vermin like him killed my uncle..." some would say. Or "You can't trust 'em. Always up to devious things..."

If he couldn't feel safe in Redwall, where could he? Nowhere, it seemed. Reports came of stoats, rats, weasels, and foxes, seeking peaceful refuge in the woodlands, being driven out by suspicious neighbors. Redwall would be the place, if there were any, where a kind stoat would be accepted.

It was so very not true. He wasn't accepted, and nobody cared. No life would be better, surely, than a life where every day is a horror, when you have seen all your hope crumpled before your snout.

The rope, tight and gripping around his neck, went suddenly taut. There were so many things in life he was never going to experience again: Eating, going to sleep, watching the sun rise or set, fishing, smiling...

His father's specter rose in his mind, a stern, yet friendly face. "Never regret, son. It'll get you everywhere you don't want to be, while wasting your time."

As the knot slid tight around his neck, and his body jerked in its final spasms, he had one last thought:

He would give anything to live again.