The dark congregation of familiar faces gathered around the quiet earth.* Rain pitter-pattered into the ground, turning it to a sticky muck, and the shovel leaning against the decaying tree slid down, down, down at an acute angle before finally hitting the mire with a muted thump. He could hear the sniffs of the others trying to swallow their tears.
"Bye, Sensei," he murmured.
The gaping hole filled by the corpse seemed to say Don't worry; I'll look after him in a kindly voice reminiscent of fairy tale villains. Mud was already seeping through the robe and dirtying the carefully washed body. Slowly, surreally, shovelful after shovelful of dirt plopped on the grave until finally their beloved master, father, and friend was naught but an unmarked grave.
And here it ends, he thought.
Casting a surreptitious eye around the small procession, he saw Raphael glaring at Leonardo through his good eye and clinching his fist in his coat pocket. Michelangelo wondered briefly if Raph was making obscene gestures at their brother or tightening his grip on a smuggled carton of cigarettes.
April and Casey were the first to leave, no doubt to retake command of the rebellion and fight even harder through the pain of their greatest loss yet.
And then there were three.
He sniffed to hide the feeling of cynicism that washed over him as he remembered the day they "buried" Donatello. He had thought then And then there was one.
One family.
One clan.
One pillar of strength and support.
One crock of bull.
They became that day what they were now: separated, mindless entities trying to make it through Hell.
Raphael glanced at him, then quickly turned his head. Raph had always been able to read his little brother like an open book. He was playing with whatever was in his pocket again and soon bowed one last time to his master and father and disappeared into the night. Leonardo gazed at him until long after the shadows devoured him. He squeezed Michelangelo's shoulder, held a long bow to Splinter, then slowly and deliberately walked in the direction opposite the path Raph had taken.
And then it was just him.
He felt his shoulders heave in a deep sigh, his body unfamiliar with the absence of companions. The freshly toiled dirt was blurring with the untouched, and the world was already forgetting what it had taken. Suddenly gripped by the panic that he might one day be unable to find Splinter, he scoured the clearing for a piece of bark or scrap metal or anything that he could carve with relative ease. The previous day's storms had thrown limbs everywhere, and he soon found one that seemed to be made for his purpose.
Whipping out a knife, he knelt and swiftly cut the letters S P L I N T E R into the soft wood. He heaved it into the ground between the old and new dirt, just above where Splinter's head lay. The mist polished the wooden marker, giving it an almost regal appearance. Michelangelo looked up at the stars looking down at him through the thick cloud cover.
Look after him, guys. Make a good spot for him so he can watch over us. We're gonna need it.