User blog:Hyzenthlay of Redwall/Reincarnation

The primroses were long over, and it certainly was summer. A beautiful mousemaid—only in her early twenties—raced to the one she loved. “Martin, wait for me!” she called as she caught up with him.

He turned around. The mouse, also in his early twenties, could clearly be recognized as a warrior, for this was Martin, son of Luke the Warrior. Martin stared into the beauty of the maid’s eyes, her beautiful hazel eyes. Martin loved those eyes, for they were the windows to the soul of his beloved friend Rose. “Yes?” he answered retrospectively.

“You truly are a hero, Martin. Just think of it—you were once a slave in the curse of Marshank, and here you stand, with a full army at your feet to destroy the accused place. But you have to promise me something, Martin.” “Anything for you, my sweet Rose.”

“Stay strong for me Martin. Stay gold.”

“Of course, Rose. I will stay strong for you. I promise.” That was five seasons ago. Rose had since died in the Battle of Marshank, leaving Martin alone and lost. Alone and lost Martin may have been, but he was strong. He was strong for her. He promised. And he would never love again. No one could ever replace Sweet Rose.

Sunlight streamed through the windows and into the simple room. It was dawn—but the room’s inhabitant was already awake. Tightly stretching the sheets over his bed, Martin stared into the sun, the same way he did every morning, each day of the year. Martin’s keen ears picked up a sound—the sound of knocking at Martin’s own Abbey of Redwall. The only one awake, Martin knew he would have to answer the sound.

If there was one thing Martin knew, it was that the caller could be vermin. Picking up his father’s sword, he ran his paw over the worn leather sheath. Martin was strong. And he was prepared.

As Martin walked across the Abbey courtyard, the knocking grew more frantic. Carefully, quietly, he unsheathed his sword. Slowly, he opened the gates. Instead of a fierce weasel or rabid rat, Martin’s eyes set sight on a mousemaid. He found himself wondering is the figure standing in front of him was a ghost, an apparition. No, it couldn’t possibly be… Rose? It was the spitting image of her—was it truly Rose?

The figure spoke. “Hello, my name’s Rosemary, but call me Rose.”