Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles® were created by K. Eastman and P. Laird, and are registered trademarks of Mirage Studios. This story is not made for profit, but for the love of writing and the TMNT® universe and will be removed from public view if Laird, Mirage Studies or whoever else with the right to gives the say-so.
"The Heart That Triumphs" was first posted on sometime in Mai 2007, but was removed due to various reasons both personal and writing-wise. It was my first fanfic of any kind and unlike all my other TMNT pieces this one is a stand-alone based on the 2k3 cartoon and some fanon aspects such as the Turtle's ages. It was inspired by the series theme song and I'm sure any bright mind can tell what part sparked this fic once you've read it.
The Heart That Triumphs
"Creating a family in this turbulent world is an act of faith, a wager that against all odds there will be a future, that love can last, that the heart can triumph against all adversities and even against the grinding wheel of time." -- Dean Koontz
The fresh scent of my silver needle tea has filled my sleeping quarters by the time I've taken the first few sips. Its mild, sweet taste requires no additional sugar, and my lips are mindful to the yellow liquid's warmth as I continue to savour the flavour. Each of the lit candles throws a dancing light that makes every shadowy corner in the room quiver with life.
Our lair is empty and simply too vast for an elderly rat alone. This is why I've retreated to my room with my tea and thoughts. It blocks out the large space on the outside and what's missing in it. As always when my students are out dealing with the darkness that plagues this world, I find myself alone in our home trying my best to come to terms with my concern.
The walking stick that rests to my left beside my futon is a constant reminder that I'm not the youth I once was. However the loss of strength and agility doesn't sadden me as I've gained that kind of wisdom that only comes with age and not from book knowledge. I'm not lost in the latter either, I remind myself as I glance over the scrolls on the shelves.
At the moment none of these are to any comfort as they can't keep my attention for long before I find that my mind has wandered. Instead, the small table in front of me shows a completely different work of art; that of a scrapbook filled with various memories to tell the story of my students' lives. There are moments when there's just comfort in revealing the content of a random page, flipping back and forth through the years we've had together since we found each other in the sewers.
This evening is one of those as the book lies with a broken back on the table with a random content on display. Every now and again I let my eyes rest on its pages allowing the photos' crystal clear images sooth my worry. My attention shifts just to catch one of the tealights briefly flare in struggle, bathing the room with its distressed flicker before dying with a silent puff as the wick drowns in stearin. For a moment I just watch as the white smoke rises and slowly evaporates among the steel pipes and wires up under the ceiling.
With a groan of discomfort I get up, my body telling me it did not appreciate to sit still in one position for so long. I let the walking stick lie by the futon. I do not need it to take the few steps over to the antique writing desk that April gave me as thanks for teaching her in the art of Ninjutsu. The desk is long, narrow and in a dark mahogany that matches the dark interior of the rest of my room. Most importantly it lacks legs, so I can sit on the floor and write by it. It also has plenty of small drawers to store my herbs - medical and non-medical – as well as other items.
I bend down to pick up the tealight that just extinguished itself and hold it in my hand as I wonder if my students are safe. It's possible the routine mission of patrolling the streets might have gone wrong. It wouldn't have been the first time our adversaries have shown us that they are fond of the element of surprise. Thus I've accepted that any small task my students attend to might end up larger than any of us imagined.
Disregarding the thought I also let the cooling tealight fall from my hand into the wicker basket that serves as my bin close by. I've always hated the wait. I always end up with the internal struggle if there was something I hadn't taught them that they needed to know in order to survive their ordeal. Regardless if my intellect knows there is no more I could possibly teach them that they were ready to handle, I keep tormenting myself with the thought of "what if".
What if they are in danger and I can not aid them in their distress?
Calmly I kneel down in front of the writing desk and find a drawer where I collect a tealight before closing it shut. As I light the replacement and put it on the plate among the others I swallow my concern as best I can. But by now so many hours has passed that I can no longer force myself to stay calm and meditation are to no avail against these demons of thoughts. In moments like these I imagine what it would be like to see only three of my students come home, and the fourth has fallen.
Which one the fourth is... it matters not. The pain is just as great whether or not it is my oldest or youngest, my calmest or most tempered. Anyone with children will know this, and those without can remain blessed with the ignorance.
My mind conjures the sickest of all images as I walk to unsteady find a seat back on my futon. I am unable to find the strength to keep my own mind from turning against me. I've taught my students well, and even if there are those among the four who are better than the rest, they are all capable of defeating our foes. They have proven this over and over again. As individuals they all have their flaws, some big and some small, but as a group these flaws are met with one of the others' strength.
Yet my mind does not let go of the disturbing scene it plays before me behind my eyes. I have lost count in the variety of that I have imaged when sitting like this in ignorance. There are those sceneries in which one of my sons are returned to me dead, however painful those are, it's not that which bothers me the most. What really scares me in such lonely hours is a scene that hardly differs from each time it comes back to haunt me.
When I do not hear the sounds of joy and victory, but panicked cries. I find myself letting go of everything that I'm doing, even leaving my walking stick behind, to hurry as fast as my old legs carry me to greet my students. And three are always carrying the fourth. The fear that clutches around my heart so I find it hard to breath is always the same regardless whose bloodied face I see under the support of strong arms. That terror that hits me when I realize my fourth student is mortally wounded - that I can not be of any aid – is the most disturbing trick my mind plays on me.
I close my eyes tightly shut as I can feel the helplessness swallow me when I have to watch my student die. To see his eyes beg for his teacher and protector to make him better, to make the pain go away. Idly standing by to watch the life I raised fade away under my own hands is far worse than knowing they died bravely on the battlefield.
The silver needle tea on my table has long gone cold, but the aroma still fills the room. I try to focus on it to get the horrid image of the blind trust in my students' eyes turn into bitter disappointment fade away.
"Ah! 's good ta be home after kickin' butt!"
My ears perk by the sound of a familiar voice. At the same time that I establish that the voice was truly Raphael's and not just a figment of my imagination my heart starts to race in my chest. The rush of adrenalin kicks in as I try to count their voices. One, I reassure myself, I got one and it only takes a few seconds until I can hear the laughing voice of my youngest student, Michelangelo.
"Says he with the butt that Leo had to save..!"
That makes two. Two has returned home. There is a panic as I'm counting, one two one two. I feel like a senile fool, yet I can not stop this compulsive need to count their voices and know they are safe. There's a scene with blood and panic in my head that will not erase itself too quickly without the reassurance they're all there safe and sound.
"Will you two be quiet..? Master Splinter might be resting."
"Ooh! Saved for the second time today, Raph! Tell me: How does it feel?"
Three. One two three.
I should be assured that the evening went well. Yet I still need to hear the fourth voice.
"Well, you can tell him yourself Mikey considering that we all had to save your butt the last time."
That is all it takes to allow myself to relax. Donatello makes four. One two three four.
I walk slowly over to the door, picking out each of their voices as they quarrel among themselves like brothers do. It doesn't take more to make these large rooms suddenly becomes crowded, and I welcome the feeling with open arms. My shoulders fall as I let out a breath of air and smile to the fortune that all of them were allowed to return home to me once more.
"Yeah! So keep yer trap shut, ya nimrod!"
I wait by the door until I'm calm enough that I feel I can go out to meet them. I might not be able to go with them on patrol, but I know better to think it makes me of no use. I'm the one they turn to for support, to find a listener and simply as a pillar of strength whenever they need it. No matter what they are still my students and there are always things I will be here for to teach them – at least for now.
At the moment I will go out to patch up their hopefully shallow wounds as I listen to them re-enact the evening's events for the old man who had to be left behind. I'll proceed by scowling them for taking risks, praising them where they did good and offer advice for the future.
I wonder if they'll ever know how my heart aches with worry for them. For my students.
My beloved sons.