Fan-Fiction by Northwind of Otters
Slowly her senses began to reel and she fell into the world of the supernatural. She felt she was falling, but she was falling towards the sky. It became a fiery red and it mocked her, mocking her failure. Or was it?
Suddenly she was laying on the battlefield, twisted and limp. Consciousness took hold of her and the noise of the battle swept over her. She could feel it, taste it, it had become a part of her and she could never leave it behind. Her past had been set and even in her dream she was forced to see it. She gasped in shocking pain, and tried to close her eyes—
—To no avail. She had to see it, see all of it. Trida lay on the ground next to her, her paws locked around her sword. She knew what lay over the small hill: destruction, death and wounds. She wished she were dead; she would wish anything to end the terrifying dream.
She knew what would happen next, and yet she was helpless to prevent it. Denerr came rushing over to her side. She could only cry as she heard her past self say ‘Denerr, I can’t move!’. Inside herself her stomach twisted as she heard the *THUNK* of the enemies’ arrows pierce Denner through the heart. Sobbing, she stroked his ear with the one paw that she could lift. She had not done this in the past, but it didn’t matter, the past would not be changed by her stroking her mate’s bloody ear. Only the important things could not be changed in the past, things like Denerr, Trida, and—YAR!
She screamed his name over and over until she was hoarse. Her dream was over, and she found herself in her bed near the fire of the cave.
Fellia set the tray of morning gruel on Tesha’s bed. She tried to comfort Tesha, who was still shaking from her dream. Fellia understood Tesha’s pain; Tesha had been ruler of the holt and they had loved her. When the hordes had attacked she had fearlessly gone to meet them. So certain had Tesha been of their plan; she led her warriors forward, only to lose everything to the filthy band of rats. When she recovered from losing Denerr she faced the tribe, who pitied her for her battered and useless legs. Most tried to help, but she only sent venomous and hate filled glances at them telling them without words her open scorn. Fillia only knew half the truth: it had been her mate, the jealous and ambitious Yar who had marred Tesha, ruining her life.
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That night she slipped out of her bed. Sneaking along the floor she crept out of the cave and into the moonlight. She was alone, and her resolve slipped. Her gasps of breath rent the quiet night as she wept silently.
“Tesha?” Fillia gasped in wonder as she saw Tesha standing there. “But your legs!”
Tesha held up her paw and whispered.
“Shhh. I have been practicing standing but I am still not very strong.” She hobbled over and placed her paw on Fillia’s. She noted the trembling. “It’s alright.” With a sigh she sat down hard upon a log.
“Tesha, were you always able to stand?” Fillia asked, a hint of betrayal permeating her question. Tesha winced and shook her head.
“Just recently I began to try, Fillia. I’m sorry I never told you, but I didn’t want everyone to know.” Inwardly she added ‘Especially Yar.’ Fillia nodded and pointed towards the river, indicating a swim.“You won’t have to use your legs.”
Tesha loved how easily she forgave. She wished she too was that way. With a grunt she started out for the water, wasting no time with chatter.
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Three
months later:
The entire Holt was sitting on logs in a counsel. Vermin would soon be making their way along the river, thus posing a terrible threat that refused to be ignored.
“We should move to the ponds farther back in Mossflower. Not even the Redwallers know of our secret place. No vermin in his right mind would risk going deeper into Mossflower without a guide,” Tesha spoke. She knew the ways of the vermin well, hadn’t she been the one captured and made a slave for most of her young seasons?
“But what of those who cannot walk?” Yar posed this question while staring at Tesha with belittling eyes. Yar continued without noticing the withering glare Tesha was sending in his direction. “We should remain here and stock up, and when the vermin do come we shall just wait it out.” The council hurriedly agreed with Yar.
“Fools,” Tesha muttered under her breath. “We cannot hide forever!”
She was ignored, and soon they forgot all about her as they hurried to gather in the shrimp and fish traps.
One day she was swimming in the river when everyone was supposedly in the cave watching for vermin. Suddenly she heard cries for help. Rushing from the water, she hobbled rapidly over a small hill where she heard the cries coming from. As she slipped over the hill the scene unfolded before her. A group of five vermin were holding an otter at bay with small javelins and a few cutlasses. She jumped up, yelled with all her might to surprise them, and came rolling down the hill. She knocked two over and dispersed them with their own javelins. She had her back to the otter and yelled gustily, “Run for the river, mate!” The otter ran, and Tesha began to slay the group of rats. She was surprised when a dagger pierced her from behind. She looked down at the fifth rat whose eyes were glazing over. As she fell she finally caught site of the otter she had saved. His malicious grin was enough: it was Yar. In his paw a dagger rested.
“You have been a thorn in my side long enough!” he hissed.
Tesha could feel the blood begin to run from her mouth. With a leap she landed beside Yar and twisted the dagger so it was against his throat.
Make a move and I’ll kill you,” she whispered. “I cannot believe you are an otter.” Her breath came in long gasps. She heard a voice and looked up, coming over the top of the hill was Fillia. Her paw went limp and she pushed Yar away from her. “I am doing this for Fillia. Not you, scum.” Tesha lay down and remembered the day she and Yar had met under the same conditions. By now Fillia was at her side.
“Tesha!” she cried, trying to roll her over.
“Don’t touch it,” Tesha mumbled, barely audible. “I am going on Fil…” She was done. Yar came over and held Fillia close. She sobbed in his arms, never to know the awful truth.