So this is what results in a flash of inspiration at one o'clock in the morning. Enjoy and review! Also...Disclaimer: I don't own Shredder.
The throne room was always cast in shadows, no matter the time of day. It was the tint of the windows, channeling light into the cavernous room in its own cryptic way of service, creating sharp angles by day and a monstrous swarm of darkness blanketing every wall by night. There was comfort in this darkness, something he could relate to, something that whispered guarantees of increasing obscurity, more shadows, more shades, hide the scars of the past but never get rid of them. To be rid of them meant to let go of his hatred, and this was something he loathed even more than light. So it was in the shadows, in darkness that he dwelled, immersing himself in its cold mysteries, befriending the fear that thrived in darkness, the fear that drove his clan to submit on bended knee and obey his every command.
And yet…
They were failures, every last one of them—lousy, shirking, weaklings undeserving of his presence much less to breathe the same air. Months it had been since he'd seen that emblem on the news, the crest of the Hamato clan—months since the fire of rage lying dormant in his core had been rekindled by the aggressive embrace of hatred, of vengeance.
Hamato Yoshi, still alive, training ninjas of his own. It was sickening. It was disgraceful. It was light…He hated light. And yet, the light had yet to be snuffed out. And why? Who gave this light the right to live, to breathe, to infest his life with its existence? Who gave Hamato Yoshi the right to be a thorn in his side—a splinter? It must be removed; the light must be diminished, must be engulfed in shadows, in fear and retribution. It must die. But it wouldn't. This Splinter and its four pathetic mockeries of ninjas—of children—still persisted on living, on gleaming through his darkness like a solar flare. They would not perish, no matter what amount of darkness he forced upon them.
His men were weak, useless. Months it had been since he'd set his disciples loose to seek out this irritating light, snuff it out. And yet somehow, it managed to conceal itself. Imagine that, a glow so bright that it cut through his forces as effortlessly as the sun rose on the horizon, and yet it could hide itself beneath his immersing shadows, never to be detected until it chose to come out. How was it that this itch, this irritation, these abominations managed so often to infiltrate his darkness, when he could not, for all his loathing, catch them in his grasp and keep them there until their wriggling ceased and they became dim to the point of non-existence?
He stood in the shadows of the throne room, cloaked by elusive sheets of black, like an armored king, glaring. His eyes half-lidded, one milky and unseeing, the other a piercing brown, glowered up toward the right-hand corner of his throne room, his fortress, his place of empowerment, his place of rule.
Why was there a gaping hole in his window?