The room his master once occupied was relatively unchanged. The furniture remained overturned in shambles. The bed sheets stained and thrashed into wild rumples. The body, however, had been removed. The turtle himself was in similar condition. A heavy splint and wraps adorned his injured shoulder, where the joint was shredded right out of the socket. Various wounds, several stitched, decorated his clammy skin. A bandage also replaced his bandana aiding a minor concussion. He felt no pain though. At least not physical.
Deep in Leonardo's blood, a strange fire burned. The flames of mourning consuming his heart to useless and fluttering ashes blown away in the winds of despair. He understood now that he had never truly hated another. Those he was forced to wound and kill, he felt a constant guild bleed with remorse. He hadn't even hated Oraku Saki. Until now.
In the past, Leo had struggled with Splinter's often clashing ambitions. He taught his sons to thrive on the ideal of peace, but it seemed they were rarely capable of that while honor-bound to avenge Splinter's former master Hamato Yoshi. They were not allowed to rest while his murderer remained alive to cloud the world with his cruel intent.
Leo secretly found Splinter's obsession of revenge upon Oraku Saki as his undoing. Although it was an ancient Japanese custom to regain honor through such violent means, throughout his experience with various religions in America, he found forgiveness to be the correct path. Now he understood. It all made sense. Why Splinter risked the lives of his own sons for mere revenge. The crime of killing Yoshi and now Splinter was simply unforgivable.
It was a cowardly what the Shredder had done. Upon regaining consciousness, Donatello explained everything to Raphael and Leonardo. Don had stolen a plane at Foot Headquarters, and was able to follow a helicopter toward New Hampshire. The aircraft contained the Shredder and Michaelangelo in some sort of concrete cargo box. Raphael interrupted there and told his story of leaping from a window onto the helicopter as it passed. He had no idea it was Shredder's escape and worked himself into a rage knowing he could have helped Mike all along. He couldn't have done anything though. They were knocked out almost the entire trip sustaining serious wounds.
From there, Don continued to fill in the blanks. The helicopter stopped at the farm house where Leo and Raph were deposited in the house. Why Shredder had spared their lives, none of them knew. April and Casey were still missing, but when they found out the truck was gone, they suspected the two humans had abandoned the house...probably in a hurry.
The conversation continued on to the most dreaded subject of all. Their master.
Donatello found Splinter's murder to be a separate incident. The blood that flowed from a fatal knife wound to the chest had dried over at least few days. Shredder wouldn't have had time manage the murder before Don's arrival. Chances were, Shredder was fully aware of their location the whole time and did the crime during their capture in New York. He knew of Splinter's vulnerable position and took full advantage of it.
Leo was sickened that Saki wouldn't even allow Splinter peace in death the natural way. And now he loathed this man. Or rather, not a man. A demon. A true kapa haunting Earth from the depths of hell. It was still out there some where, corrupting others including his enslaved brother.
Yes, whatever doubts he placed on Splinter were no more. Leo would hunt him down the rest of his life if he had to, just as he had from the beginning. Now it was more personal then ever before.
Donatello sharply thrust a shovel's edge into the dirt. The earth crumbled as he jerked the handle, depositing the load in a nearby pile. Rivulets of sweat rained down.
The morning sun filtered through tall trees creating a puzzle of alighted dots below. A stream gurgled close by giving Don something to focus on other then his work. This was Splinter's favorite meditation spot. It was actually closer to the bank of the stream, but the turtle had chosen the driest area for the body. This spot was just as nice. The hole was half finished being two meters deep and four wide against a thick elm tree at the head.
He didn't necessarily mind the job. Someone had to do it. Although he wasn't in the best of condition, he had few wounds that limited movement. His shell had a large missing block from the edge, revealing his right shoulder blade. An infection had developed in his elbow where the needle had torn tissue to the bone. He favored the arm slightly, but the tight bandage underneath an elbow pad provided good protection. Like his brother's injuries, he had also stitched up his own wound on the back of his calve (which proved to be very difficult without Michaelangelo's help), but it was healing nicely despite the haphazard arrangement of the thread from having to sew in such an awkward position. That covered most of his problems.
Comparatively, Leonardo had his dislocated shoulder, of course, and Raphael weak from blood loss. When Don had finished with him, he couldn't help but think of those zombies on television with stitch tracks running every which way.
They didn't even know he was doing this now. He mentioned something to them about salvaging that plane he landed in the field, in which he really had planned doing sooner or later, but this job was more urgent and he knew his brothers would immediately object.
The rhythmic impact of his shovel continued to lull his mind deeper into the collage of thoughts.
He hadn't even said good-bye. It constantly bothered Don, though he wasn't sure why. There was no way he could have known that he'd never see his master alive again the day of his and Raphael's capture.
He felt strangely numb about it all now. Calloused even. He didn't cry. He didn't brood. Didn't hide, thrash, or scream. Just continued doing what need to be done. Keeping busy.
It was simply how things worked in life. Souls are born, live, and die. As the least spiritual of his brothers, Donatello was okay with that. Another reason he felt he should do this. He considered himself less emotional then the rest, and it was the least he could do. He needed an output to feel useful.
But if he'd just stayed home with Splinter, maybe he could have…no. Don't start thinking like that.
Suddenly the shovel clanked as he hit a rock with a cringing scrape. He jumped into the hole and swiped the dirt away, sizing the rock up. It was large. It'd take some effort to remove. He sighed and leaned the shovel against the edge before climbing out. He was due for a break anyway.
Donatello followed a small footpath shortly to the noisy stream. There, he kneeled and splashed the cool water on his face. Dipping his hands back in, the mud below stirred into galaxy-like swirls. The sparkles in the water framed it like stars. He looked passed the display and met his reflection. The mutant stared. Mud was clouding him over. A fog even, and he felt strangely unattached.
Don had no reason to blame himself.
Then…why did he?