They never tell him about his brothers, but Leonardo knows they live.
He doesn't remember them very well. Flashes upon waking sometimes—a frightened reflection of his own face gazing back at him from underneath the scratchy, woolen blanket pulled over them in bed. Clumsy, young fingers clasping his own. A circle of voices, some laughing, others calling his name. For a long time, Leonardo places such dreams gently to the side as his Master instructs him. But the will of the Force is not always that of the Jedi, despite what it appears, and there is a spark of connection, of need—the deepest elemental parts of Leonardo yearning for these images—an inner rightness that speaks of truth.
Most Jedi are taken so young that they cannot remember their families. That is the way it has always been done. And Leonardo had been a child; barely aware of the events that would shape his life. But he can recall his Master Splinter's tender touch as he plucked the baby from the nest of his brothers, the way Leonardo had known only to smile, sensing, even then in the marrow of his blood, the coursing of fate. Leonardo remembers everything.
He remembers how his littlest brother had cried when Master Splinter drew him away forever.
The Jedi are kind to him. The form of a giant turtle is almost secondary compared to some of the other students, and Leonardo has known no limits to friendship here. He has grown steadily and assuredly, outgrowing his lessons, training fiercely under the guidance of his Master. He is skilled in the art of the double light saber, nearly unknown amongst the other students, and they are made less mechanical by his reverence of them. The living Force runs strong with him, like rivers built into his bones, a current so pure that even the Council murmurs about its strength and quiet endurance. Leonardo is old, like these planets and stars, in his soul. He pushes himself, but never others. He learns and teaches, often in the same lessons. He is soft-spoken and polite. Firm, compassionate. Clever and strategic. Distant and removed. Though he has made mistakes (and Master Splinter's wooden walking stick, its taps are every bit as sharp as Master Yoda's), he gains wisdom from them. This makes him an excellent pupil. It will make him an excellent Master, as well, Splinter tells him warmly.
Leonardo only smiles to all of these observations, appreciating but never accepting the compliments.
He is a Padawan tonight, but tomorrow he will be a Knight. And despite the serenity of the Temple, he cannot find sleep. Instead he walks the aisles of the place he's called home for nineteen years, padding silently through the shadows he has always found comfort in; becoming a bare trace of being. He is thinking about his brothers. He is thinking about tomorrow.
In his mind, he has given them all names. Raphael. Donatello. Michelangelo. From ancient tomes in the libraries, copied from the very source his Master used to name him. He wonders if they still live together. If they have families. What they do to survive. If they still tremble in thunderstorms.
His first memory is of waking up between them and feeling safe. It is where the center rests in his body, the defined slope of his collarbone where the fussy baby (he calls him Raphael, the Saved) had curled its fingertips. This is where the bulk of the Force settles within himself, tucked around the precious phantom imprints of those hands, a pulsing sense of life.
Tomorrow, he will be Knight Hamato. He will begin to take missions of his own and travel the galaxies.
He thinks: If… If somehow… perhaps, somewhere…
Leonardo tucks his sleeves into each other for warmth and sighs. He can sense his own unease, as well as his excitement. He forces himself to calm. It is not time yet. The Force will lead him when the moment is here; it is already given, as simply as breathing, that this meeting will eventually come. He has prepared his entire life for it. The thrum throughout his body speaks of upcoming trials and tribulations, but also of reward, of completion and harmony.
They used to say, here in the Temple… they used to say Leonardo was the perfect student, but also the coldest.
A great capacity to love lies within you, his Master had said. I sense that you yourself, Padawan, choose not to exercise it. I will not ask why. However, know that when the time comes…
Yes. The time is nearing. Leonardo lets his eyes slip shut, the Force leading him where he needs to go.
When the time comes, you must not be afraid to embrace it.
Leonardo had not told his Master the truth, that he can do no else, no matter how he tried. That this will not be a problem; rather, it is the answer to the problem. The instinct is in his blood, that is why it must stay rooted in his blood. There are three. He knows them by face and touch and sight and sound and their life signatures. He knows the joyous glimmering of the Force in his littlest, the unpracticed edge of it in his quietest, and the raw power sleeping dormant in the one he'd first opened his eyes to. They are waiting for him, just as he has waited his entire life for them. Soon. Soon, they will be together and it will be complete.
This is meant to be. Destined. It is a matter of need, not want. He cannot deny the will of the Force this, nor will he choose to try. Whatever your workings, wherever you lead me…
Leonardo is ready to go home.
This is where his Master Splinter finds him in the morning—perched on a balcony intently watching space as it awakens in threads of gold, reaching out with the Force to a single fading star in its expanse.