Hello all, hope everyone enjoyed their weekend!:)
To make Monday a little brighter, or a little darker, depending on what side of the coin you fall on, I give you this dark little one shot requested by Amonraphoenix. (Idea by her, written by me.)
Also a giant thank you to Amonraphoenix for beta reading this fic and for giving it her seal of approval:)
And now, please enjoy:)
Kneeling upon the hard damp ground, he ignored the slight discomfort as the mud ground into his skin, tiny pebbles and rocks sending minute jabs of pain stabbing through his knees as he shifted. He welcomed the pain -insignificant as it was- because it made him remember that he was still alive, and that he had a reason for being where he was; a purpose.
The icy wind whipped through the tails of his mask, blowing them back across his shoulders, lightly tapping the rough, scarred keratin of his carapace before sliding off and catching the light of the moon, bathing them in white, like twin flags of surrender blowing in the biting breeze.
Taking in a deep breath of cool air he exhaled slowly. Light flakes of snow began to fall gently around him only to land upon his skin and the ground before melting. It was the time of year when Fall and Winter were struggling for dominance. A war that Fall would inevitably lose, but the battle would be fierce. Just as it looked as if Winter had finally managed to wrap it's frigid grip upon the land, blanketing it with ice and snow, Fall would fight back, gaining that tiny little bit of ground back that it had lost, melting the snow and giving a false sense of hope and a delay in the inevitable.
Because Winter would win; it always did.
The seasons fought and battled; drifting in and out like a never ending cyclical tide, but Winter was the cruelest season of all. Seemingly intent upon destruction and the desire to wipe everything clean, covering it all with a whitewash layer until Spring brought with it new life to the devastated wasteland caused by Winter.
And so it was somehow appropriate that on the cusp of winter -a time of endings- that he would accept his punishment for the horrendous crimes he had committed against his family.
He bowed his head reverently forward in silent prayer. He didn't deserve any forgiveness, nor could he even ask for it. He had no right and the one he needed to beg for forgiveness from, was long past the point of hearing; and perhaps even beyond caring about him or his choked out words of apology.
Twin trails of salty tears slid silently down his numb cheeks. He hadn't thought that he would be able to shed any more tears. He would have thought that his supply would have dried up months ago, and yet here he was, crying like a lost child in need of comforting. But he was no child, but an adult; an adult who knew that there were consequences for actions, even if those actions had not been planned, or even if they were accidental, it didn't matter.
The point was that he was guilty. And for that he deserved to be punished. And as the only one able to carry out the punishment to fit the crime he had committed, he had decided to carry this act out in front of the only one to whom it should matter.
He placed a hand down upon the ground, raking his fingers through the cold, damp earth and the snow that was finally winning the battle to stay.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed out miserably, falling forward and using both hands to support his body and he cried out with another wretched apology dragged out from the very depths of his tattered soul; a thousand, no, a million apologies and it didn't matter, because not one had been accepted, and he hadn't wanted them to be.
He didn't want to be forgiven.
He wanted to be hated and despised, and yet all he received was sympathy and understanding. All he was given were gentle words and assurances that it 'wasn't his fault'.
As if he would ever be able to take their words and accept them.
He had wanted recrimination; to be loathed and reviled. He had wanted to be treated as badly as he knew he ought to have been treated, instead of being wrapped within soft cotton and handled with delicate kid gloves; treated as if he was about to shatter like the finest of bone china.
But they didn't realize that he wanted to shatter. He wanted to break into so many tiny, minute, insignificant pieces that he -like Humpty Dumpty- could never be put back together again.
He had broken that day -had been destroyed- but he hadn't shattered. Instead, it was as if his heart and soul had been torn from his body, and all that existed now was an empty shell going through the motions of the day completely devoid of any meaning.
But this did not mean that this pointless monotony did not serve a purpose.
Time -fickle natured creature that it was- forever moved forward. No matter how one might wish to re-write the mistakes of the past, it was impossible.
Time bent for no one.
And it was then that he realized he could atone for the sins of his past; attempt to gain forgiveness for his actions because no one was going to hold him accountable for them but himself.
Swallowing roughly he brushed away the salty tears which had begun to freeze upon his cheeks. The dirt scraped across his cheeks, but he barely felt it. He pulled out his beloved twin weapons and lay them carefully beside his knees as he pushed himself up, straightening his spine and attempting to gain control of himself.
He took another inhalation of breath before blowing it out; the tiny crystals of his breath hanging in the air for a moment before vanishing into the darkened night as if it had never existed.
The particular phenomenon reminded him much of his own existence. No one but his family and a few close friends had ever known he had lived, and now there were only a few who would even know he was gone, vanished into oblivion, his light snuffed out forever.
And he truly believed that none would mourn his loss. He was doing himself and his family a favour by exterminating his own worthless existence. By doing this he would no longer have to deal with his own, heavy, burdening guilt, but even more importantly, he would be taking away the pathetic, hateful creature who was the cause of his family's pain, suffering and misery.
For each and every time his family looked upon him with love and understanding in their eyes, he saw the condemnation, disgust and loathing that lay beneath the false smiles. For who could ever forgive the crime he had perpetrated against his own brother?
He could still feel it -at night most of all- the sensation of hard steel meeting and easily sliding through keratin, muscle, organs and tissues as easily and neatly as a hot knife through butter.
Using his twin weapons as skillfully as he had, for so many years, he was trained to protect, to use his weapons as defensive tools to save his family, protect those he loved and the city that birthed them. His weapons had -through the many battles they had fought- inflicted wounds and lacerations, but never, not once, had they ever meted out death.
Many times the finely honed steel would be screaming for blood, for vengeance, or death as he held them clenched within a white knuckled grip, but never had he given into this primal urge; this siren song of blood lust that once accepted, would have eaten him up whole and used him until there was nothing left of him.
Yet here he knelt, his body wracked with cold, heart and soul filled with so much guilt and sorrow, that it felt as if his lungs were being squeezed within the confines of a particularly cruel vice.
He couldn't breathe and his heart had ceased to beat four months ago; the abused muscle unable to continue on after what he had done, shrivelling up and drying out like a hunk of leathery meat.
Another careful inhalation of breath, and another moment where he still lived; where he was still living this torturous existence.
He choked out sob as his heart twisted anew, memories of the night cutting like a thousand sharpened blade; slicing, hacking, causing excruciating agony, but never managing to wound enough to actually finish the job and end it.
The icy air that stung his eyes and burned his throat was so much different than the warm balmy temperatures of that night four months ago; a night that had begun like any other, but which ended in such a way that left his family numb with shock and grief.
Because there had been an accident...
Accidents, by their very definition, are 'accidental'. They are not meant to happen. Theoretically, there is no one at fault, except when there is; and this is the rub. It is always said that all accidents are 'preventable', that steps could have been taken, actions changed, and decisions corrected or re-thought to prevent them.
But hindsight is always twenty-twenty. It's always easier to look back and understand what could have been done differently, and what should have been done differently. It always seems so obvious, so clear, and yet in that one split second of time, nothing could have been more opaque. A hazy indistinct set of circumstances all forming together in a hellish domino effect of Chance and Fate all ganging up together and creating a cataclysm of horror and devastation from which there was no recovery.
It was a tiny moment in time when the world went still and the most minute sounds could be heard; steel upon steel, flesh striking and connecting with flesh, and grunts of exertion and cries of triumph.
A struggle for justice, and for the right to exist was being played out upon the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse under the cloaked darkness of the night.
His own breath had come out in quick, ragged gasps, exertion stealing the much needed air from his lungs as his muscles screamed for rest and relief from the bone jarring, taxing fray of battle.
But there would be no relief, no rest until the battle was done; no matter how tired he was, or how injured he was, because he had to protect his family, and stop Hun and the Foot, because if they didn't, no one would, and no one else could.
And so he fought against the pain that burned in his side from a quick, well placed wakizashi. He couldn't judge by pain alone how deep the blade had penetrated, or if anything had been damaged internally, but he knew that he was losing an unhealthy amount of blood. Yet still he continued to block brutal attacks by bladed weapons, deadly shuriken, and well aimed blows from tightly clenched fists backed by well honed, and supremely trained muscles.
His foot had shot out, catching a Foot soldier in the stomach, sending the black clad ninja flying back. He then swung himself around, blocking another attack from behind.
It was a deadly dance of rotating, changing partners, and lightning fast, perfectly executed attacks. A ballet of bodies in motion, continually moving and undulating as the fallen scramble to re-enter the fray, or lay as still as death; the slight exhalation of air from their rising and falling chests giving lie to the picture they posed.
Grunting sounds of exertion, cries of pain, and exhalations of triumph filled the quiet of the night air. There were so many bodies all competing for the same space, pressing in against each other, trying desperately to land a punch, or a kick, or to find soft yielding flesh with a razor edged weapon.
Spinning, his foot connected with a jaw, the snap of bone, and a scream of pain rent the air, but there was no time for congratulatory celebrations, or relief, for where he fell back another two seamlessly appeared.
His weapons blocked a double bladed katana attack and he was able to push the human back enough, pulling away and smashing his fist into the Foot ninja's nose. There was the crunch of shattering cartilage and the spurt of blood gushing through the black face mask which was hastily removed as the ninja stumbled back with a scream of pain filled rage.
Another spin, another soldier, another twist, another thump of a body hitting the rooftop; one step closer to victory, one step closer to their enemy's retreat.
A familiar yelp, a scream of agony, and his attention swung, searching, desperately trying to make his brother out in the mass of humanity that swarmed around them.
Distracted a fist struck his cheek, brass knuckles scraping across soft flesh; biting into skin and crushing muscle. His head snapped back, but he managed to regain his balance and land a retaliatory blow to the Purple dragon that loomed over him threateningly. His foot slammed into the Dragon's knee resulting in a horrible popping, grinding sound as the Dragon went down in a shriek of agony, clutching at his mangled joint.
The sounds of scuffling, a bellow of exertion and rage coupled with the presence of danger caused his body to rotate swiftly.
Time slowed.
Each movement and sound was filed and catalogued into his brain like a stop motion film that stole a tiny sliver of his soul after each and every remembrance.
And each time he had thought that it couldn't hurt anymore -that some part of him would be finally be numb to the horror- it instead tore through his brain, scraping away at his mind like nails across a chalkboard, unable to drown out the sound or the accompanying images.
Weapons held in white knuckled fists, ready to attack, he had kicked at the Foot ninja attempting to put a katana blade through his back. The black clad ninja was struck in the center of his chest and went flying backwards.
A heavy body flew past and over the falling ninja so quickly that he hadn't even had time to process what was going on, let alone react to it. And yet this did not rescind the culpability of his involvement.
In a fight of metal against flesh, metal is always the victor. It was something he had known from when he was young -had witnessed first hand more times than he could ever count- and yet it had still surprised him how easily flesh gave way under steel.
Inches of his weapons vanished as if they never existed, penetrating until striking something hard and unyielding.
That was when he numbly looked into his brother's shocked eyes; for it was his very own brother who now stood impaled upon the deadly weapons he still held in his hands.
Disbelief widened his brother's eyes and he felt the same emotion jolt through him before terrifying horror filled every single cell in his body causing a animalistic scream to catch in his throat as his mind froze, unable to process anything but the realization that his brother's life blood was flowing out and over his hands, falling to the ground like tiny drops of crimson rain.
His brother slumped forward his name crossing his brother's lips like a betrayal filled accusation. They slipped to the ground together, his brother held within the circle of his shaking arms as the sound of battle ground to a halt. Roars of triumph filled the sudden shocked silence before screams of rage shattered the night and a call of 'retreat' was echoed throughout the ranks of their enemies; their night's work having gone better than they ever could have hoped or planned.
There he sat, a black mass of humanity scrambling from the rooftop before vanishing into the night as he held his dying brother in his arms, unable to move, frozen with shock.
Words were shouted at him, and panicked pleas were offered up to whoever ruled the night and to whomever wished to take dominion over the souls of those who teetered at the brink of life and death.
His brother's body had stiffened, seizing in its final moments as his brother's heart attempted to beat; to pump much needed blood throughout his dying body, but the damaged organ could not accomplish this task. Arteries had been, pierced, torn and severed, and blood had poured forth with no regard for its purpose to remain as the essential life giving liquid within the body as opposed to spilling out and upon the gravel that surrounded them.
His brother's last breath gurgled out from between bloodstained teeth; crimson bubbles collecting at the edges of his mouth as he struggled for that one last breath, and could not manage it. This simple action -inhalation and exhalation- hampered by metal tearing through fragile lung tissue and rendering it useless.
Wrenched from his numb arms his brother was laid upon the ground, but it was no use, his brother was gone, his life having slipped away in the briefest of moments.
He took in one terrible shuddering breath after another before keening a wail of sorrow filled grief which was followed by another and another... cast into the uncaring void of the New York city night.
Scarlet blooms had been painted around and across his brother's plastron like a morbid garden of death, and all he could see were his weapons projecting out from his brother's body, like twin slashes of silver guilt glinting in the moonlight.
With a hysterical sob he scrambled over to his brother's lifeless body with the goal of removing the objects of his brother's demise from his body.
Tears falling upon his brother's plastron they wobbled slightly before rolling down the pale yellow scutes, mixing in and greedily absorbed by the dark crimson that stained his brother's chest dark.
He pulled on the weapon that had pierced his brother's lung, and he nearly gagged at the soft sucking, slurping sound as the slash of honed steel was finally pulled free.
More tears rolled down his numb cheeks, but he couldn't feel them. All he could see were his beloved weapons; the instruments of his brother's death. Falling from uncaring fingers to clatter upon the ground he desperately lunged for the second weapon, the one that had pierced his brother's heart.
He pulled back on the grip but his fingers, now damp with blood and numb with shock and disbelief, could not seem to gasp his weapon. Managing to finally get a good enough grasp to pull, he found that the metal did not slide free; as if his brother did not wish to so easily relinquish the instrument of his death.
And he couldn't handle it.
It felt as if there were something in his mind, in the deepest depths of his inner psyche, that just broke. Hairline fractures made spider web fissures through his mind threatening to shatter into a thousand, million pieces at any moment.
Giving a final wrench and twisting his weapon there was the sound of cracking bone and keratin as the metal pulled free from his brother's body. Falling back and with pain bursting through his side he gazed at the crimson that shone in the moonlight, bright scarlet upon shining silver.
Panting hard, sweat dripped from his forehead to roll down and mix with his salty tears as they fell from frozen cheeks. His vision blackened around the edges and he swayed slightly. Placing a hand to his side it came away wet with blood, his own mixed in with his dead brother's.
Falling forward he collapsed upon his brother's unmoving chest, content to die exactly as he was. He deserved death for the crime he had just committed and he went to his punishment willingly.
He could hear his name being shouted by Donatello and Michelangelo, but it came from far away. They pulled him from their brother's corpse, but he did not wish to be pried away; content to bleed out upon the rough gravel that lay beneath him, his blood gently pooling and combining with his brother's.
And yet, even though he welcomed death -embraced that dark winged angel with whom every mortal must eventually stand before- he was instead denied this meeting.
Eyes opening he found himself looking into the concerned faces of his two younger brothers. They cried not tears of grief and sorrow for his escape from death, but instead, shed the salty liquid in relief at his survival.
They were thankful that he had lived.
There was deep sorrow within their eyes, but there was not even a sliver of recrimination or blame to be found within their anxious depths.
'It was an accident.'
'It wasn't your fault.'
The words were repeated over and over, like a sick and twisted echo of a sentiment that should not have been adhered to let alone accepted as truth.
He knew the truth, and the truth was that he had murdered their brother.
And no matter how many hushed, heartfelt conversations he had with his family and his friends, the message was consistently rejected in favour of the harsh and cruel reality. It was his weapons, held within his hands that had ended his brother's life.
There hadn't even been time for him to beg forgiveness for his crime, or plead with his brother to fight to live and to not give up because he would be fine. But there had been no time for words, and no time for false hopes and promises. His brother had only time enough to look into the eyes of his killer whisper his murderer's name, and then the light of life was gone as if it had never existed. Prematurely extinguished not by a hated and reviled enemy, but by a brother.
His brother was buried and the months had passed. His body had healed but his mind never did. It had been consumed with guilt made worse by his younger siblings' acceptance of the horrific events of that night. His brother's hurt, they grieved and although they were never able to accept their brother's death, they attached to it no blame.
But he knew who was to blame and as he was the only one to accept this, he decided to make sure that his punishment was exacted in full.
Looking over at his weapons as they lay in the snow, the metal was tarnished; rust red with the taint of his brother's dried blood. He hadn't cleaned his weapons and had not used them since he had befouled them with his great sin.
At this point the snow nearly covered the forged metal. He blinked and wondered when he had fallen over. He hadn't done so purposefully, but the uncontrollable shivering that had wracked his body had long ceased and the lashing pain that had burned across his skin from the whipping wind and icy snow had faded to a numb caress.
Reaching up he fingered the soft strips of leather that were wrapped around the grip of his nearly buried weapons. The thought had crossed his mind on several occasions to end his life by plunging his weapon into his heart, and dying as his brother had died; an eye for an eye, a death for a death. But that swift death seemed too quick and too painless for the horrendous crime he had committed.
He needed to suffer.
And what better way than to slowly and painfully freeze to death upon the very spot where his brother's corpse lay frozen and cold within the earth?
A tear slid from his eye and fell into the snow beneath his head where he lay upon the grave of his brother; buried six feet under a nearly four months ago, next to their father on Casey's farm.
And it was here that he intended to stay, until Death reached out bony a hand and he grasped hold of it, this time refusing to let go.
He would spare his remaining brothers and their friends from having to look upon and live with the miserable creature who was responsible for snuffing out the life of their brother and friend who had burned with the bright light of a star.
Eyes slipping closed he felt himself drifting between this world and the next. "I'm sorry," he whispered through cracked lips that were so numb with cold that he wasn't sure if the words had actually made it out of his mouth, or if they only remained spoken within the confines of his own mind.
Not that he truly believe it mattered, his brother couldn't hear him anyway. And yet he still wished to say them, because he had never had the chance while his brother had lived. They were more than just words of apology for the obvious; they encompassed so much more.
Sorry for all of the fights and brawls that he had caused, sorry for always being so stubborn and set in his ways, and sorry for never being able to understand anything.
So many apologies given and reviewed; and this apology encompassing them all.
A soft inhalation and exhalation followed by another, this one much slower than the last.
I love you
The faltering beats of his sluggish heart thumped a soothing lullaby in his mind as it drifted further away before fragmenting and then finally ceasing to exist.
Warmth, comforting and healing, wrapped itself around him. A presence soft, understanding, and accepting, brushed gently past him. He smelled his brother's distinctive musky scent and heard the quick flutter of mask tails snapping back in the wind, while he saw a smile crossing a beloved face.
A swift intake of air and unimaginable agony burning across his skin as he thrashed in distress; held in place by strong arms.
His eyes snapped open and encountered the dark chocolate eyes of his younger genius brother and the soft hazel eyes of his baby brother, looking down at him with intense relief.
"It's okay, Leo," Donatello's soft voice soothed gently. "You're going to be okay."
And for the first time in nearly four months, he knew he would be; because Raphael forgave him.
Thoughts? Opinions?...Kleenex?