This started as an exercise in free-thought, brought on by Father's Day. It's very short, but I truly love the character of Splinter. Sort of a cop-out title. Happy Father's Day to all you daddies out there.
Of the four, it takes him the longest to learn to read. For every minute of he has held the upper hand during sparring, every second of the most seamless katas, he spends hours glaring at their scavenged library book, lying open on the table. It's a book of history, or so he's told. He hates this book.
His brothers have already graduated to scribbling shaky letters, leaving the teaching table hours before him. He stubbornly remains, his lips trembling with the effort, willing his tiny seven-year-old brain to comprehend.
"Now," he tells the paper, "I will understand you. Now." As if all at once, a secret will be revealed to him. Like magic.
But no magic happens. The white page does not answer. The words sit as dull and heavy as before. He hears the happy giggling and horseplay of his brothers in the room beyond, and begins to cry.
His father appears while he is wiping his nose rather pitifully on the tails of his blue bandana. He immediately feels foolish and drops his hands, one fat tear rolling down his snout.
"My son," Splinter says. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing, Sensei." But his eyes drift to the open book with its ugly white page and stupid black words, and fresh tears well in his eyes.
"Leonardo." Splinter kneels next to him, saying nothing for a few extended moments. His Sensei's eyes take in the book and his son's dirty, tear-stained face. He feels shame weigh heavy on his tiny shoulders.
"Shall we read together, my son?" his Sensei asks after a time.
"Sensei?" He does not understand. He and his brothers are always taught together, never apart; the same material, in the same place, at the same time. It is their way.
"Come, Leonardo." Splinter takes the book in his gnarled claws, placing it on his lap. "We shall have a lesson, you and I. Let us start here."
They work for extra hour that day, his struggles embarrassing him beneath the patient eyes of his master. Splinter does not chide, or harangue; only corrects when he errs, and supports when he is weak. They spend an hour alone after each group lesson to follow and slowly, he begins to improve. The words begin to change, not seeming so foreign, so ugly. The feel of the book's crumbling cover becomes comforting, familiar, as familiar as the rustle of his father's robes, or the warmth of his eyes. He begins to be excited, looking forward to what will happen next in their big book of history. Until one day, Splinter takes the book and places it in his lap.
"Will you read to me, my son?" his Sensei asks.
He reads out loud until the candle burns low. When they finally finish with the book, Splinter retires it to their as-yet empty bookshelf, watching his eldest with quiet eyes.
"You will have to find more for us to read," his master says, his voice filled with something his child brain cannot name.
The book is still his favorite to this day.