Fading Rose Petals (Redwall Fanfic)

What Wasn't

Brome awoke to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight streaming through the window of his room. The young mouse stretched his limbs, blinking back the sleep in his eyes before shifting in his bed and placing his paws onto the ground. Taking a deep breath, the smell of flowers drifted in from just outside the window as a smile spread across his muzzle. "It's a nice day to be alive."

He reminded himself of this every morning when he woke, remembering all too well the sights and smells of Marshank, the clang of battle, and the smell of death. A quick tug on the front of his nightclothes from his own paws brought a breath as he reminded himself not to overthink the past, lest it gets the better of him.

"Get the better of me," Brome thought to himself, his head turning to look out the window. "Wonder what Martin's up to now. Hopefully, that warrior spirit of his has found some kind of peace." The young mouse swallowed. "Without Rose, though? And not knowing..." Brome shook his head, rousting himself from bed and changing his clothes before heading out to the fountain, taking his time to brush back his fur to make himself look presentable.

"Gudd morning," came the deep rumbling baritones of a mole.

Brome looked up, smiling at the mole in question. "Good morning Grumm. It's a rather nice day today, isn't it?"

"That it be. It be a gudd day for Miz Rose to vensure outside," the mole hummed, patting Brome on the back. "Let us'ns get her."

"Yes. Let's," Brome smiled at the mole. "You're a good friend, Grumm."

"Miz Rose be the gudd friend, zurr. Same be Marthen 'ee Wurrier, bless es soul. Wunder what 'e be up to."

"Me too. Let's not bring him in front of Rose, though. Or father for that matter," Brome muttered, looking at the various gardens spread across the Noonvale, the bright summer flowers and cociding floral sent belying just how much of a haven Noonvale was for good beasts—unless, of course, you were a warrior like Martin. The young mouse brushed aside the thought, another thing which went unsaid.

Martin, despite not being dead, was dead to them.

There were some days Brome wanted to yell at Rose for being fine with her lot in life and his father for making Martin feel as if he couldn't return, though the fact—Brome shook his head, trying not to think of how Martin was left grieving for someone who'd not died. At the same time, they were also left grieving for someone who wasn't dead, simply because there felt like no chance of the mouse returning to Noonvale, that mouse who was almost his brother-in-law.

Brome never yelled at Urran Voh. There was his mother and sister to think about, and he'd left behind his rebellious nature in the ruins of Marshank. There was also the look of guilt on Urran Voh's face whenever Martin's name accidentally slipped from another beasts tongue always made Brome feel guilty for even thinking of yelling at the graying mouse, constantly reminding him of the conversation he'd had with his father right after they learned Martin had left before they could relay to him the good news.

"It's what you wanted, wasn't it? You didn't feel like he belonged."

That was the first time Urran Voh gave him the look of guilt, the guilt of a father who simply wanted his children to be happy and live fulfilled lives. Everybeast in Noonvale knew that while Laterose was alive and a part of their lives, they no longer heard her voice breaking into song as she had prior to the war, her longing for lost love all too evident and not something even her father could fix.

Brome closed his eyes, remembering how they'd carried her broken body home, gently despite thinking she was indeed lost to them, his mind constantly worrying how Martin would handle waking up from his healing slumber to learn she was gone, actually gone, when someone jostled the stretcher his sister was on and in that moment a breath of air came from his sister's still body which in turn startled him from his thought, beginning the aide his sister would need.

The long journey back was after that was long enough for Martin to have left Polleekin, who sent a message along with news of Martin leaving that, "It be meanen to happen. You'm wait and see."

"Still not seeing it, Polleekin," Brome thought to himself as he headed with Brome to his sister's room. By the time he arrived, he had found her sitting on the edge of the bed, already changed into the dress laid out for her the night before, a sparkle in her eye despite that definite longing there for a particular young mouse.

"He wouldn't want me to be wasting the life granted to me, you know," she'd once told Brome, back when he'd still every so often brought up Martin. Now, the only one who spoke of Martin with any level of frequency was Laterose. Kind of like she did today, her mood light and airy.

"I wonder what kind of mousemaiden Martin's found for himself," Rose said, making Brome flinch, her muzzle twisted into a smile.

"Zurr Marthen wuud not, burr no!" Grumm laughed.

Brome sighed, pushing over the contraption Barkjon made for Rose, the old squirrel noting as he made the "chair with wheels" that Martin paid more attention to such things than his Felldoh ever did. It still felt too soon, way too soon after Martin had left. "Don't speak like that. Please."

"Oh. Come on. I just want him to be happy," Rose laughed, her arms wrapping around Grumm and Brome as they helped her into the chair. "A lot of little ones as well, eventually. You know he deserves it, a bunch of little dibbuns, sweet little ones."

Brome looked over at Grumm as they settled Rose into the wheelchair. The mole shook his head, indicating Brome shouldn't push the matter, not to ask questions such as, "How can you not be jealous," or "I don't want that. Not Martin." For, even though he'd given up his days of rebellion, he still looked up to Martin despite having seen how the older mouse could get in the heat of battle. And some days, he worried because of that, just that, that perhaps Martin's bones were lying somewhere, with nobody to mourn him.

"Cheer up, Brome," Rose said, patting his head as he bent over, a smile still crossing her muzzle. "Martin wouldn't die that easily. That's not who he is."

Brome let out a gurgling sound, his eyes darting up to meet his sister's, his jaw going slack. "I—um, I..."

"We be all thinken it mizzy," Grumm noted. "We be all mizzen our Marthen, gudd mouse 'e be."

"Polleekin promised Martin a happy ending," Rose said.

Brome let out a deep breath. "Yes. Polleekin did, though we don't know what that means, do we?"

At that moment, he saw Rose shift, straightening out her fur slightly, her eyes drifting towards the doorway of her room, making Brome look up to see their father and mother, the latter coming in to help Rose in straightening out her fur a bit more before leaving the house. She smiled at them, "Good morning."

"Father." Brome kept his tone cold, though this probably wasn't lost on anyone in the room. The look on his father's face—the look of guilt on his face, made Brome look down at the bare floor of Rose's room. Gone was the rose-colored rug, having become a hindrance for the wheelchair, but at least she was alive. "At least she's alive, though—"

"I want to believe Martin's found the happiness we couldn't give him," his father said before turning to leave.