It is a horrid feeling.

Waking up with your lungs full of frigid and fowl tasting water. Yet, that was where he found himself. He choked and took a ragged breath which only succeeded in refilling his lungs. His body burned from having done so little motion over the weeks in hell.

Yet he struggled to remember how to do something he had known from birth.

Swim.

He brought one arm over his head and then the other in a direction he could only hope was up.

He was too disoriented to be sure.

His legs finally bowed to his oxygen stricken brain and kicked.

Arm…arm…leg…leg…

Oh his body burned, but not nearly as much as his lungs. It was that thought that kept him swimming. His eyes were closed tight after all he had seen, or rather not seen, he was scared to venture and see what new hell he was in.

Even behind closed lids the grey light fed in from the gloom.

Arm…arm…leg…leg…

He could feel his head swimming and felt the encroaching darkness.

His hand broke the water surface just as the darkness engulfed him and he felt himself sink back into it's murky depths.

So…close.

Something firm and untiring took a solid hold on the wafting hand and jerked him forcefully upward. The light was blinding and he would have screamed if he were not coughing up roves of fluid from the stench filled river.

River?

He could feel a hand on his shoulder as he lay on his hands and knees trying to breathe and block the light at the same time. He hurt. Each and every muscle cursed him, his lungs and eyes contemned him but he could not help himself…

Slowly, and very carefully he opened his eyes. Keeping one hand to shield them from the light he looked around.

He blinked.

For the longest time he wanted to close his eyes and go back into the water. This had to be the worst scheme Bishop had ever pulled. Around him he saw the river, and the building of the city.

False hope.

He looked upward to curse the offending light only to find there were no cold florescent beams. It was the sun. Constant and pure.

Bishop couldn't fake that.

….

Bishop couldn't fake that!

Raph's eyes moved from the beautiful body of hope above him to survey his rescuer.

Donnie's hand moved from his shoulder when he was certain Raphael had finished hacking. He smiled very warily as his brother rode the same rollercoaster of emotions as he had. A glint to his eyes and Donnie could tell he had reached the same conclusion.

Raph and Donnie turned to look at Mikey who was gripping his shoulder leaning against the support pillar of the dock. He was unconscious but the steady raise and fall of his chest told both the elders he was breathing.

Donnie jumped when Raphael's hand fell on his arm.

Neither voiced their thought, but the look said it all.

They were free.

For all the jubilation that should have come from this occasion it was hallow.

Even with the apparent freedom of the three youngest sons of Splinter…the obvious lack of their leader made it … painful.

Donnie slowly forced himself to his feet and helped to haul Raphael along with him.

In silence they moved and despite their own exhaustion and starvation they gingerly managed to hoist Mikey and head for home…

If only to plan to retrieve their brother.

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