CHAPTER ELEVEN
Those who trust the light have no idea what the darkness can do.
"Do not ask which creature screams in the night, Do not question who waits for you in the shadow. It is my cry that wakes you in the night, And my body that crouches in the shadow. I am Tzeench and you are the puppet That dances to my tune." ~Karanzantor the Vile, The Traitor of Xian
"I'll carry him."
Leonardo doesn't look surprised when Raphael speaks. For a moment, Raph is angry that Leo can read him that well, then the situation comes crashing back down on him and he scoops Mikey up in his arms. He staggers to his feet. Mikey is a dead weight, and that expression sends a chill up Raphael's spine. It feels like someone has slipped an ice block inside his shell, but he ignores it. He ignores Mikey too, because he doesn't think he can look at him. The feeling of him in his arms is enough, and Raphael doesn't want to ever let go.
Donatello is ahead now, saying something about the van. That's right, they parked it here first, didn't they? Raphael wonders why they didn't just use it when they were looking for Mikey. He decides that they were too freaked out. Or stupid. Yeah, he nods to himself, going with that one. Stupid.
Everything about this was stupid. Bishop is stupid, he's stupid, Leo is stupid. Don may be the only one there who wasn't, and that's just because it is Donatello, and his stupidity would be too much of an oxymoron.
And Mikey. Mikey was stupid for getting caught and for the first time that night, Raphael is angry with him.
He shifts, stepping over the furniture and debris in the building. Ahead of him, he can see Donatello's figure as he pushes things aside and opens doors. He follows, feeling Leonardo's eyes on his back, melting the ice block and sending a cold rush of perspiration over his body.
Raphael gives into the urge. The urge to look down. When he doesn't, he feels regret crawl out of his throat. He swallows it back down.
All of a sudden, Mikey reminded Raph of a Cowries shell. One of the smoother, dappled ones without spots. His skin looked a bit like that. It was pale with little patches of color coming back. Somehow, it made him look worse and without his mask, it made him look dead. Raphael ignored the thought.
How often did he see his brothers without their masks anyway? Almost never. The bandanas had become part of who they were, their identity. Without even touching it, he knew that his own mask was worn and supple from years of use. It was one of many, yet still it was comfortable and settled on him.
Raphael paused for a second, looking up at nothing.
Was Mikey going to make it?
There was the brain damage that Bishop spoke of. He felt oddly detached and he didn't like it. He needed to be angry, be scared. He needed that power back from when he was fighting Bishop, but now that everything was over, he felt nothing. There was a net of nothing around his head, suffocating him, trapping him.
Nothing.
"Raph?" He turned to see Leo staring at him but he shook his head and repeated the word in his head, "Nothing." And he kept moving.
"Raphael!" As he approaches the entrance (He knows this from the icy wind nipping at his flesh and the fresh smell of the outside. Fresh as the smell of motor fumes and smog. But it was better than this, with the dust and blood. Always better than blood.) He could hear Donatello, who sounded almost frantic, from the van.
"What is it?"
Nothing.
"Raphael… hurry, please."
This gets Raph's attention, "What is it." He's outside now, and he can see a few stars across the building. He's feeling oddly serine, and the though scares him. He should be freaking out, panicking, angry… but he's not.
"Mikey…"
Of course. Leonardo opens the door and Raphael climbs into the back, slumping down onto the floor. He hold Mikey still, gentle.
He hears Leonardo get in front and the Van starts with a rumble, low and powerful.
Nothing.
He wonders if Mikey is in pain.
A hand drifts to stroke his brother's forehead. He looks so young, and so pale. He's too quiet. He may not wake up.
And then the second wave hits him. And it hits him hard.
Fear.
He's scared. Terrified. He grips Mikey tighter, scaring at the cold flesh that seems almost lifeless and his chest as it heaves in shallow, desperate gasps that Make Raphael's hear clench each time.
Fear.
Raphael had never believed in angels. He'd always regarded angels, religions and superstitions as false hope that humans clung to in order to find some sort of meaning in their lives. People wanted insurance. They wanted to know that when they died, it wasn't all over. They wanted to have a guarantee on eternal life filled with joy and peace and all those lovely, good things. Raphael, as it was, had always scoffed at the idea.
Now however, he found himself desperately hoping that he'd been wrong.
He'd never make it into heaven, but maybe Mikey could.
All the warmth seemed to have been sucked from the world, or at least, sucked from Mikey'sworld. There was the pain too. This terrible, aching pain in his chest that seemed to grow every passing moment. The cold had seeped to his fingertips, maybe from where he had last touched the body, or maybe the icy hand surrounding his heart had finally begun to thaw.
If there were angels, then there was heaven, right? There was a place that the good went and were happy forever.
He let a bitter chuckle past his lips. If there was a heaven, they were in for a surprise. Eternal happiness was something Michelangelo had been seemingly born with.
Somewhere in his head, there was a dull ringing that he couldn't quite shake. It was a soft sound, going dong every few moments. It may have been from the blood loss. That could be it.
There was a heaven, because he couldn't be gone forever. Or maybe reincarnation and everyone would meet and be happy again...
Raphael feels physically ill at the desperate thought. Maybe even heaven would be too much to ask. Anything would have to do, as long as he wasn't finished… as long as he didn't disappear from the universe completely.
He's too still. He isn't moving at all and it's not like him, and as Raphael watches, he closes his eyes, hoping, oh kami, hoping, that when he opens them again it will have all gone away. Hoping that the closing door of his sanity will remain open for just a few more seconds; that he can stay here and be with him without hearing that awful, selfish voice in his head, telling him to run away like he really, really wants to do.
Raphael had never believed in angels.
Now however, he found himself desperately hoping that he'd been wrong.
