Part 5

A flurry of opening plastic bags, cellophane seals broken off of pill bottles and paper tea bags torn open-Donatello checked the dosages and increased them for Michelangelo, doubling them for Raphael. Four pain killers cured a bad headache, but body aches and a sore throat meant six, even eight pills, an overdose for a human but just right for a mutant turtle.

Beside him, the kettle thunked heavily on the stovetop as the range clicked on. Donatello glanced at Leonardo, who'd already brought out the honey and was fumbling in the cabinet for cups. The open flame of the stove flickered only inches away from Leonardo's his hands, and Donatello paused, not sure if he should press, but his brother answered before he could start.

"Don't worry," Leonardo mumbled. "I can make tea in my sleep."

"I'm just wondering how literal that is right now," Donatello said and nudged him a few inches to the side.

Leonardo gave him a look, but he didn't argue. "I know. I'll deal with it. I just need an hour or so."

Then why haven't you already done it? Donatello thought, but from the other room, his brothers were coughing and curling up closer to the fire. Taking care of them was more important than scolding his big brother. Donatello took the cough medicine in hand with a ring of plastic measuring cups. A quarter cup was a lot easier going down in one go than in four or five cap-fulls.

"Try not to scald yourself," Donatello said over his shoulder. "And make sure you add a lot of honey."

"...I know."

Since hovering would only aggravate Leonardo, Donatello went and sat down with Raphael and Michelangelo, giving them their pills and tolerating their complaints about the taste.

"Tea's on its way," Donatello said. "Just wait."

Leonardo rooted through the bags he'd stolen, feeling blindly and increasingly irritated with his brothers. He himself took his tea without anything, but Donatello required milk or cream, and Michelangelo and Raphael had to have at least half a cup of honey or sugar to keep them from whining. He'd been lucky that Raphael had been too distracted to notice before when they left to do their stealing, but now after cough syrup, he knew Raphael would insist.

While waiting on the kettle, Leonardo leaned against the counter and lay his head down, telling himself that he couldn't let himself fall asleep. If he fell asleep now, he'd end up on the floor in a ridiculous heap. That the floor sounded acceptable told him how bad off he was.

Where was this exhaustion coming from? They'd expelled the ghosts. If nothing else, the bad karma should have gone with the bodies cleaned away by the river. From the games and movies and books he'd read, karma clung to people and didn't let go, a long record of all their deeds and thoughts. But from what he'd seen in the last week, karma worked not like bureaucratic paperwork but like smoke, laying heaviest on the sinner but also settling on anyone around them, a fog that left a layer of darkness on anyone nearby that was hard to wash off again.

The kettle whistled. He poured each cup carefully, overly deliberate as he blinked away sleep, and brought it all out on a tray, relieved when he set it on the living room floor without spilling or tripping.

Michelangelo mouthed his thanks, not wanting to speak and strain his throat, and he gathered his tea up in his hands, taking some comfort from the heat. With his eyes shut, he leaned against Raphael, breathing in the steam. Raphael put his arm around him, wincing as he sipped down his own scalding hot tea to warm himself from the inside.

"You look as bad as I feel," Raphael whispered to his older brother. "Might as well get some more sleep."

Leonardo shook his head. "If sleep helped, I wouldn't need any more. I'll be in the other room. Hopefully I can kick this today."

Raising an eyeridge, Raphael didn't argue.

Settling on the couch to better see the pill bottle's directions in the lamplight, Donatello spared a quick glance at his brother.

"More mysticism?" he asked. "Should I have a pot of coffee on in case it doesn't work?"

Leonardo shrugged, rubbing his eyes as he passed them. "Technically I'm doing nothing. Just offering some light."

Donatello looked at him for a moment, then huffed and went back to reading the pill bottle.

Although the second floor would have been more ideal for meditation, Leonardo instead chose the side room and even left the door cracked so as to better hear his brothers. Upstairs he would have been aware of the snow hitting the window panes, the thin glass holding back the winter. Upstairs he would have been alone in barren room.

Here, settling on the dust-covered rug with only the thin ray of light from the door, he heard his brothers murmur, heard Donatello rustling with something in the closet, heard Michelangelo finally subside into soft, even breathing.

Leonardo closed his eyes. Clearing his thoughts did not come easily-his intent was too obvious in his own thoughts, as was the reason for being in here. The memories of the last few days were impossible to put out of mind. The hands of ghosts on his shoulders and mask, the dark lines of ichor dripping on the walls, running along the floors...

From the other room came Donatello's voice. "'Stead of sitting around...he could've 'least helped me...get these wires set up...but nooo, he has to go be Obi-Wan..."

Leonardo smiled despite himself. The memories of ghosts faded, and he replaced them with the image of a candle. In his mind's eye, he lit the wick, imagining the flame's flicker. Holding that image as clear as he could, trying to visualize the wax melting down the side and the thin line of smoke, he set it down in the darkness as an offering.

With the first candle still in his thoughts, he set about creating a second. And a third, slowly adding to the glow brightening before him.

And a fourth...

And a fifth...

His mind emptied, focused solely on each new candle. The universe spread out around him, full not of stars but of nothingness, a vast empty void that was not dark, unbroken even by the candles he slowly offered. This was not the emptiness of the attic upstairs. This was a lack of pain, a lack of fear and a lack of sadness. Weight slipped off of him, pressure slipped off of him, and for the first time in several days, he breathed deep and clear and even.

Another candle. Another. Another. Each flame became part of a larger light pushing away darkness, a fitting symbol of enlightenment itself that pushed away all evils. The offering was nothing more than thought, and yet the light grew stronger and warmer.

For a moment he paused, looking over the mass he had created. How long had he been sitting here? There were so many around him. So enamored of the feeling, he began creating yet one more.

"That is enough, my son."

Like smoke blown out, the candles vanished. Leonardo tensed, eyes widening, facing the faded gray wallpaper and peeling wood of the farmhouse. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was behind him, but after hearing that voice...if he turned, would he see-?

"Geez," Donatello exhaled in a rush. "Scare a guy, why don'cha? One minute you're out like a light, the next minute bam, wide awake."

Leonardo likewise breathed out, coming to his feet and brushing dust off his shell. "Sorry. Just got startled."

"I noticed." Donatello tilted his head. "You seem better, though. Whatever you did, I guess it worked."

"Well, I'm not one hundred percent, but..." Leonardo stood straight, tired but feeling like he'd had a few cups of coffee. "Yeah. Feel like I got rid of something bad-"

Donatello put his hand on Leonardo's shoulder, cutting him off. Their eyes met, and Leonardo broke first, glancing to the side.

"What happened?" Donatello asked. "You got that look."

At first Leonardo didn't answer. No one liked hearing him wax 'mystical' as Donatello sometimes put it, spooky as Raphael liked to say. Only Michelangelo didn't make fun of him for sometimes mentioning Buddhist tenets with a straight face, but then Michelangelo would probably accept him saying their favorite cartoon characters had come out of the television to join them on an adventure.

But all of them knew what he looked like hiding something and Donatello wasn't about to tolerate any secrets, not with a new belief in ghosts,. He squeezed Leonardo's shoulder, accepting and prompting at the same time.

"Nothing bad," Leonardo said. "Just...I thought I heard Splinter say 'enough'."

Donatello's mouth parted slightly, but he didn't reply. In the awkward silence, the radio chattered like tin in the other room.

"That's all." Leonardo looked away again, not sure what else to say.

After a moment, Donatello half-chuckled and let his hand fall. "See, you really do meditate too much if he's gotta come back to tell you to stop."

Leonardo laughed once with him, relieved. "I guess it's just good knowing..."

He couldn't finish the thought, but he didn't have to. Donatello nodded once. He may not have believed Splinter's ghost was still keeping an eye on them, but he could understand wanting to believe.

"Yeah."

When they came back into the living room, dinner had been served. The windows had turned pale gold with the sunset. While Donatello went back into the kitchen, Leonardo blinked, surprised that so much time had passed, and he sat down on the outermost futon, leaning back against the couch. A small pocket radio sat by their feet, its antenna fully extended and catching only a few snatches of words and hard consonants as it hissed static.

"Huh," Raphael said between scooping rice from a bowl. "You look kinda awake finally. What'd you do?"

"Nothing," Leonardo said, picking up his own dish.

"No, really," Raphael said. "Every time I looked in on you-man, you were totally out in space."

"Kinda?" Leonardo shrugged and ate. "I just offered a bunch of candles in the dark."

Raphael gave him a long look, not sure if he believed that or not. They didn't even have any candles with them. Mental candles? This was more of that Buddhism stuff, wasn't it? That meant those candles were offerings, and offerings meant spirits. He huffed and returned to finishing his rice. "Spooky shit."

On the other side of Raphael, Michelangelo cradled his bowl of chicken soup in his hands, taking more comfort from the warmth than from the soup itself. Their little brother grimaced as he took tiny sips, sniffling as his breathing cleared only a little.

"Did he get any sleep?" Leonardo asked.

"Some."

The radio static whined and became a brief smattering of nonsensical words-now she finds that the demographics of the states with the demand side of the equation-that faded again into nothing, the signal as snowy as the weather. Raphael leaned forward and tapped it hard. "The background noise outta this helped, but it's started to annoy the crap outta me."

"Did we bring that?" Leonardo wondered.

"Nope." Donatello turned off the light from the kitchen and joined them, plopping down sideways on the armchair. "Found it in the kitchen. I wouldn't be caught with something that primitive, but the snow's playing hell with my internet. I can't get a connection for more than a minute out here."

"It can't snow forever," Raphael said. "It'll let up eventually."

"If I could get online," Donatello said, staring at the laptop in the corner, "I could tell us when."

No one replied. What help could they offer? They hadn't brought a tv and Michelangelo's handheld had used up all its batteries hours ago. Deprived of any entertainment, they watched the flames in the fireplace, occasionally tossing in bits of wood. Sparks flew up with the smoke, hot red against dark grey, accompanied by a pleasing scent of burnt pine. Raphael spread out the blankets so they could all bundle up, a small circle of warmth against the darkness behind them and the snow piling on the windows.

Michelangelo leaned against Raphael, using him as a giant pillow. "Think we'll get snowed in?"

"If we do," Raphael said, "we got enough supplies to last it out."

-with time growing short and not everyone optimistic about the EU's chances-

"Okay, that's it," Raphael grumbled, scooting down so he could smack the radio's power button. "If I gotta listen to that thing fritzing out any more, it's going out the window."

"Please don't," Donatello said, eyes shut, refusing to move. "I can't fix any broken windows."

"There's duct tape in the van," Raphael pointed out, but he obligingly didn't toss the radio. "Whatever. It stays off until the damn blizzard stops."

"The fire's enough of a background noise anyway," Leonardo said. "It's actually pretty nice."

Michelangelo made a small noise of agreement, whimpering as his throat ached and taking another cough drop from the bag beside him. Raphael reached around him for his own handful, unwrapping each one and tossing the wrappers into the fire. The bits of paper flashed and melted and sent up a tiny plume of black smoke before vanishing altogether.

Each of them felt a pull, a need to do something beyond stare at the fire. If they were home, they would have picked up a book, a comic, started a monster movie marathon. Donatello would have shushed Michelangelo over a cup of coffee while Leonardo and Raphael sparred, sometimes with friendly banter, sometimes with cutting barbs. To sit still like this made them acutely aware of how still the room was, how quiet they were, the fireplace their small light in the emptiness.

"You realize," Michelangelo sighed, his voice more of a croak, "that we'll never be able to tell ghost stories again?"

All of them stared at the flames, then groaned in unison.

"Okay," Raphael said, "that does kinda suck."

"Not like those ever scared me anyway," Donatello said. "I didn't buy that ghosts existed before."

"Sucks being sick without a tv," Michelangelo said, and as he spoke, his hand idly nudged one of the books beside the couch. He picked it up, glanced at the cover, then tossed it to his big brother with no warning. "Storytime."

Raphael startling back an inch was his only warning, and Leonardo caught the book just before it could hit his shoulder. Throwing his brother a token glare, he took a little satisfaction in how Raphael smacked the back of Michelangelo's head.

"You sure? I don't think you wanna hear this," Leonardo said, flipping the cover open. "It's some girl's diary from ages ago."

"Cool," Michelangelo smiled, coughing once. "Chick gossip."

"It's the only game in town," Raphael muttered as he settled in. "Go ahead. I don't care about some chick's farming or whatever. Just read soft and maybe I can get to sleep."

Leonardo glanced at him sideways, trying not to be obvious about it, and he spotted the dark lines under his brother's eyes. Raphael had such a hard time sleeping if he was sick. A broken bone and no pain killers? After awhile he'd pass out from exhaustion. But the irritations of a sore throat, body aches and coughing left him too fidgety to nod off.

As Michelangelo lay down, head on his pillow, Raphael curled up behind him, listening to his little brother's breathing as yet another dose of cough medicine began to work. Leonardo watched them for a moment, noting how Raphael shifted and worked against his pillow to find a comfortable spot.

"Go ahead," Donatello said, scooting down in the chair and tucking his chin on his chest. "Taking care of these two crybabies kinda got me wired. You take first watch and I'll take second?"

"Sounds good," Leonardo nodded, pleased that he felt like he could stay up. Looking back at the book, reading more to put them to sleep than paying any attention to the words, he began.

"'September third, 1792, on Ms. Mayfield's arrival in New York for her birthday to keep account of all her doings there, this diary from her aunt Dorothy Mayfield'."

"Huh..." Donatello murmured. "Pretty sure Casey's mom's maiden name was Mayfield."

Michelangelo yawned. "So it was his grandma?"

"At that year?" Raphael said. "More like great great grandma."

Leonardo turned the page and found a printed calendar of the year, several dates in December circled boldly, and on the next page found a picture of a man looking through a telescope and several more printed text.

"'There will be four eclipses this year'," he read. "'Two lunar and two solar.' Wow, so it's like an almanac inside."

"She just wrote down the weather?" Donatello asked.

"Nah, came with the book," Leonardo said, and he flipped ahead several pages. "Lot of moon phases, some percentages, some bible quotes...here we go. 'Tuesday. Arrived this afternoon at two, both Marley and Jacob greeted me at the train station. Cousins quite grown. Spent most of the time in town visiting with them at Hochfeld soda shop, waiting for carriage, then hour to the farm. Sunshine already feels like it has done worlds of good.'

"'Met Edward Jones, the farm hand. New York boys much more forward than Ohio'."

Leonardo raised an eyeridge at that. The Jones tendency to confident flirting was apparently genetic. He wondered why his siblings hadn't said anything, then realized that Michelangelo and Raphael were breathing deeply, and Donatello, though he scratched a small itch half-asleep, was quickly on his way to resting properly. Smiling, Leonardo kept reading at a softer pitch.

"Wednesday. Found uncle's library. Dust aggravates, so often I am reading in the orchard. Apples coming into full harvest now. Wild blackberries as well. The first fall storms also arrived, but Edward says the winter snow won't come for another two months. Promised to help me spot deer.'

'Saturday. So many trees in neat rows. Trees start to blur together and look like they move. Have gone to doctor in town for overly strong daydreams. Prescribed rest cure. Horrid rest cure. At least diary allowed, but Edward snuck me a penny dreadful through my window to while the time.'

'Sunday. Have put Edward's book by for the time. Lurid story about walking skeletons and murder, daydreamed I could hear them crack and scream. Resolved to be more faithful to rest cure'."

Finally Donatello had fallen asleep. Leonardo got up to put another handful of wood on the fire, then sat back and continued reading silently. It was't the most thrilling reading, but it kept him awake and kept his mind off of the wind blowing against the window glass.

He wondered if the little horror book she mentioned was somewhere in the attic. With nothing else to read, it might be worth braving the attic again to find it.

TBC...

Author Notes: Okay, that's the windup. Next chapter finally the pitch.