As he had done for seasons innumerable, he walked the halls of the old abbey. He was passing the row of dormitory doorways, and yet he was in the dormitories, and in the kitchens, in the belltower, the gatehouse, the cellars, in every room, every corner, and every nook and cranny. He was everywhere, and yet here he was, stepping reverently over ancient stones, past the Great Hall. Few passed him; none saw him.

He was everywhere and nowhere. He was one creature, lingering forever in the home he had helped to make, and yet he was within each and every creature who had ever set paw in the Abbey, and many who hadn't. He would remain there forever, until there were no more brave souls to guide, no more Redwall to watch over. For the time would come, he knew, when the Abbey would be no more. The time would come when the sandstone walls had vanished from the woodlands known as Mossflower, when only memories remained of Redwall and its Warrior spirit.

Martin sighed, casting a glance at his tapestry. It, too, was old, though not as old as he, or as old as the hall it graced. It had seen almost as much hardship, and yet it was just as bright and radiant as it had been when it was first woven. He had watched the mice at work in those old times, guiding their paws over the threads, whispering secrets in their ears as they wove his tale into the beautiful cloth. As long as they remembered him and all he had stood for, he would never leave, and the tapestry would never leave.

He was everywhere, in the Great Hall, in the tapestry, and then the belltower, staring out over the vastness of the woods. The cool wind brushed the ancient bells, and for a moment he flew with the wind, stirring the hanging ropes, the treetops, and the fur and habits of young ones playing in the carefree manner with which young ones did everything, out in the midday sun on the soft sward.

He stopped.

He returned to the top of the belltower, his ancient gaze fixed upon the main gate and the lone figure that stood before it. No wall watchers or gatekeepers hailed the newcomer, but still it remained, silent and staring up at the walls and stones of Redwall.

He was everywhere, and suddenly he was at the gate, opening it in a way that, while the living could not pass through, others could. The Warrior spirit crossed the threshold, striding out strongly, purposefully, to meet this strange traveler.

The newcomer was like no creature Martin had ever seen, yet he was familiar, in a way even the Warrior spirit had difficulty explaining. He was familiar in the way Martin's grandfather had been familiar; a stranger he had never met, yet sharing a bond with him as strong as family.

Indeed, the newcomer looked upon Martin with an almost familial fondness. It was the look of a father who had never met his son, yet had watched him grow, and was finally meeting him for the first time.

It was nothing short of love.

Mystified, Martin stepped forward. "Who are you?"

The newcomer's face creased into a smile at the Warrior's query. "I think you know the answer to that."

Confusion clouded the spirit's mind. He was fairly sure he didn't know; after all, if he did, he would not have asked.

And yet…

All of a sudden, recognition dawned on Martin the Warrior, the way a bright ray of morning sun seeps over the hilltops in the early hours of the day. The Warrior beamed, clasping the newcomer's strange, spidery paw warmly. "Yes," he said simply. "I suppose I do." He felt tears well up, and a great joy swell within him. It was as though somewhere, somewhere far, far away, many were mourning the creature that stood before him.

There is no need, the Warrior thought with a quiet smile. It is not the end. It never is.

"We have been waiting for you," Martin told the newcomer. "I don't know how long."

The newcomer's kindly smile only widened. "So have I," he replied.

Then, turning, they walked side by side through the open gate. And all at once, they were everywhere and nowhere, walking the ancient halls of the Abbey, whispering in the minds and hearts of the young souls who followed them. They were two creatures, lingering forever in the home they had created, yet they were within each and every creature who had ever set paw in the Abbey, and many who hadn't

There would come a day when Mossflower Country was no more, and Redwall, Martin the Warrior, and Brian Jacques were no more than memories locked in the minds and hearts of the souls who would follow them. But that day would not come yet, not for a long, long time.

And even then, when only memories remain, are they truly gone?

Rest in peace, Brian Jacques. I can't thank you enough for making my childhood, adolescence, and teenage years just that much brighter. Consider this my parting gift to you, and I only hope it does you justice.

We, as young writers, promise to carry on the torch.