'I always loved you, held you high above, too.

I studied your face, and the fear goes away,

The fear goes away.' – Sirens, Pearl Jam

CHAPTER 13

Her warmth lingered along the back of his head and neck. The unique scent of her skin was a balm to his momentary fright of not knowing where he was. When he fully opened his eyes, however, she was laying on her cot, back facing the room and he was alone. The dispersing warmth from his skin made him ache to have her close again. She had come to him in the middle of the night, he remembered. She had rescued him while he was in the throes of a half-remembered experience posing as a nightmare between his waking mind and his subconscious. The terror of the recollection as well as the awful images he'd relived loomed at the corners of his sleepy mind.

Heart slowing its pounding race now that he fully understood he was not in the Shredder's chambers, but home, in Donatello's lab, he rose up on one elbow and felt the barbs of pain shoot through his left arm and shoulder, up through his bottom and down his legs. The swelling on his face had receded some but the bruises and cuts felt tender and raw all over his body. Every move took effort and gritted-teeth concentration. Each movement brought tugging against the sliced and stitched flesh along his arms and legs.

The throbbing of his missing hand and wrist was something he could not understand. Why would it hurt so much when it wasn't even there? Vaguely, he wondered with a sick stomach whether the Kraang were possibly experimenting on it now, and that phantom pain he was feeling, that all too real ache and throb, was in response to the torture his separated limb was enduring as he sat there. He did not want to remember that lab. The bright lights. The monstrous Kraang speaking to one another in that strange repeating fashion. The thought of his severed appendage trapped there left him feeling strangely sad. It was an odd feeling of turning his back on a captured friend. But there was nothing he could do about it now. His hand and part of his arm was lost. Forever. He fidgeted where he sat, cradling his severed appendage, looking out into the dim room with a distant, lost expression.

Slowly, his eyes roved to where Karai lay. He wanted to thank her, but embarrassment over his nightmare stole his tongue. What sort of warrior suffered bad dreams? What sort of leader cried out in his sleep like a child? Leonardo huffed in self-loathing. But the feeling was short lived as he traced the curve of her shoulder and hip with his gaze. He was glad she remained and hadn't tried to run away. He knew that she just needed time. That she was confused and scared. Her betrayal by her father was much worse than his own, he thought and quickly amended his own train of thought. No.

Splinter did not betray me.

But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on this point, it seemed to slip out of his mind's grasp. He couldn't hold onto it long enough to really believe in it. He wanted to. He needed to. But the harder he tried to convince himself, the less confident he was.

He stole another glance in her direction. Perhaps some good might have come from all this. He swallowed; one foot moved to cover the other where they hung over the side of the cot. If Master Splinter was able to gain his daughter back from his mortal enemy; if he wasn't abandoned as he had feared, but brought home where he belonged, which he had been; then maybe, his torment and degradation didn't matter. What he went through could be considered a small sacrifice in the larger scheme of things, he tried to tell himself. Leonardo wanted to believe that, at least, what he'd gone through was not for nothing. He had served his purpose. An item to be used for a simple exchange. A freak for a daughter.

What difference did it make that he was beaten . . . he began to tremble . . . raped and disfigured for trying to defend himself . . . he blanched and felt nauseous . . . then played the role of plaything to the Shredder's violent sexual appetites all night. He stood up on wobbling legs, panting and desperate to escape. But escape from what he didn't know. His heart was beating too fast, sweat poured down the sides of his face and neck, his knees knocked into one another. He took a step forward.

"Karai?" he asked tentatively in a tremulous voice.

He suddenly wished she was awake. That she'd come over and hold him again as she had done last night. It was hard to breathe and hard to stand upright on his own. He needed something to support himself. His shaking was making it difficult to think straight. He cleared his throat softly, hoping to waken her. She didn't move and he wondered if she was faking being asleep so she didn't have to admit to holding him last night and up to the last few minutes before he'd fully awakened. The thought sent an unexpected wave of disappointment through him on top of his irrational bout of fright. Suddenly, he doubted his understanding of her feelings for him. His chest tightened. He couldn't think. He was too emotionally fragile; too scared right now; he had to calm himself.

"Get ahold of yourself," he whispered, head low. He rocked a little where he stood, still cradling his left arm. He shuffled his feet back until he was leaning on the side of the mattress. A soft groan escaped from his lips. His legs quaked and his tail felt funny, as though it was stuck at an odd angle to his bottom and inside of his thigh. He took in a long steady breath and blew it out. Then another. And one more. His racing heart slowed. The shaking reduced to tremors that swept over him and fled. He felt cold and weakened. Meek and small.

He glanced back to where he'd lain. Sure enough, the bloodstain stood out against the white of the sheet in stark accusatory contrast. He needed to ball up the blanket and hide this before any of his brothers saw it. He didn't know what they knew of his torment, but if they found out that he'd been . . . repeatedly . . . They would never look at him the same way. They would not respect him, he was sure. What leader allows himself to be taken like that? A brave leader fights and something like that never happens to them. Never. Face blazing, he moved to pull the blanket from the cot, but his body trembled and froze. His eyes widened and he could not move from where he stood even if he wanted to. Blinking rapidly, his over-stressed mind withdrew from reality.

He was back at the Foot headquarters again, being beaten without mercy by the Shredder in front of the crowd of silent men; he was laying on the slick floor of the bathroom, dripping and cold while their fists pummeled him; his legs forced apart; his tail grabbed and pulled cruelly; the men's hungry panting and low, eager urging; their voices like the predatory growling of wild beasts, as first one drove into him and then the others took his place despite his efforts to get himself free; the sharp pain, the sharper humiliation; their hands pressing his head back against the floor, holding his legs and arms, kneeling on them so he couldn't move, only able to gasp and groan in impotent rage through his furious tears.

There was no honor left in the world; nothing good or whole; he existed alone in his terror; there was no one to help him; there was only this pain and this shame, so full and bright in his mouth, tasting like rancid meat at the back of his throat. He did not want to cry out, but it hurt so much and he could not help the cries from breaking from his throat; bubbling out in whimpering and whining, and then when he fought back he was punished. Severely. And then later, as though to reinforce his servitude, his humility, he was shown clearly what his future would be: the Shredder's personal pet.

He raped me and I called him father. What leader is so weak to do that? I called him father. I'm weak. Pathetic. So weak. I called him father as he raped me, his mind repeated over and over, tears now streaming down his flushed face, until a hand on his shoulder had him crying out and falling back, scrambling under the cot, cringing and shaking his head, bringing his arms up over his face to shield himself. His voice cracking in terror, "No! Don't! Please! Don't!"

Splinter stood over him. His amber eyes deep and round. He crouched down as he said, "My son, it is only I."

Shivering and doing his best to compose himself he awkwardly crawled out from under the cot, wet face burning in embarrassment. He climbed to stand before Splinter. Head low between his shoulders.

He choked out, "I-I'm sorry, Master Splinter. I-I just . . . I just . . . I'm sorry."

Splinter shook his head. "No need to apologize, I did not mean to startle you," he said and glanced at the bed. Remembering what was displayed on that sheet, Leonardo moved to stand in front of the stain but it was too late. His father had seen the evidence of his assault. Oh, no. His stomach flipped and sank to his knees. Leo ducked his head as Splinter straightened up.

"Perhaps you will want to clean yourself before speaking to me."

The suggestion was merely to give his son a moment to collect himself, but the sudden blanching of Leonardo's face along with the deeply shamed expression had Splinter reevaluating his choice of words. "I mean to say, if you would like to refresh your, uh . . ." he indicated the sheets but was growing more wary of his choice of words by each passing second of his son's continually graying face and widening eyes. Somehow he knew he was making this all the more difficult on his son but was clueless as to how he could rectify the situation. In all his years as teacher and father, he never dreamed that he would be faced with such a precarious predicament. And he could not help but feel the impotent fury rise within him at the Shredder's treachery, at his own foolhardiness, his pride, and eventually, shamefully, at his son for not somehow avoiding this entire situation. It was cowardice at the most basic level, he knew and he was doing his best to fight back the denial and the blame, but it would surface, like a tarnished smear upon a lovely heirloom; it continued to reappear, despite his efforts to banish it.

"I'll take care of the laundry," Karai offered, emerging from nowhere to stand just behind Splinter, her own bedding in her arms.

Before he could protest, Karai marched over past Leonardo and pulled the sheets from the cot, folding them over and over until the stain disappeared. The bundle tucked firmly in her arms, she gave him a sidelong glance and murmured, "I've got this, Leo."

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He didn't want Karai to know, either, but it felt safe for some reason with her. It was alright with her. He trusted her. She would protect his shameful secrets. She would understand what happened to him was not by choice. She would know that something intangible but no less precious was ripped from him and she would not blame him. Karai would know who to place the blame upon. His eyes traveled up to Master Splinter who was watching Karai with a pleased expression. He swallowed dryly.

It doesn't matter what happened to me. Master Splinter has his daughter. He is happy, now. I have been torn to pieces but he is whole. He closed his eyes as a tremor swept through him. It was worth it. For my Master's happiness, it was worth it.

Splinter nodded to Karai, clearly relieved that she was not fighting with either of them, if anything she was being helpful. That fact alone gave him great hope for the future. He would win her over, yet. In time, she would know her true worth. Her true place in his heart and in this clan.

"The washing machines are found in our laundry room directly down the hall to your right, Karai. Thank you."

She turned stiffly, making sure not to acknowledge Splinter's presence or his gratitude and left the room with chilled indifference.

Splinter looked at Leonardo who stood clutching his arm awkwardly, face still appearing pale and forlorn. "Are you ready to speak to me about what happened, my son?"

A visible tremor went through him. For a few long seconds he did not speak and then he asked, "Will I, uh, m-may I speak to you about it . . . in-in private, Master Splinter?" He raised fearful eyes to his Sensei and held his breath as he waited for the response. He was not sure if he'd be able to relate what was done to him in front of his brothers. If anything, he'd rather forget that it ever had happened. But he knew that Splinter wanted answers. Explanations.

"Yes. Of course. Let us convene in my chambers, then."

Splinter held out his arm and Leonardo crept past him. His son's usual confident stride was replaced with a mouse-like scurry. Splinter felt at once full of pity and concern, but beneath that slithered the smallest amount of irritation at him. Leonardo was, after all, his eldest son, the one that would lead this clan when he was no longer able. He would need to deal with what happened and move past it. The sooner the better. For all of them, he decided. Splinter was more than happy to assist him in any way possible. But he would not sit idly by and allow his son, any of his sons, to wallow in weakness. It would destroy his spirit. Splinter gripped the end of his cane and brought the bottom to rest upon Leonardo's shoulder, freezing him in place.

"Leonardo," he said firmly. "No matter what a ninja endures, he does so with grace. He does not show his pain. For to do so is to reveal weakness to our enemies, do you understand?"

Leonardo blinked. "I-I think so." He wondered what enemies Splinter was referring to when it was only he and his sensei in the room presently. Still he clung to his arm and his posture was one of being chastised.

A fresh wave of irritation swept through Splinter. He wanted his son, his sure, assertive son to resurface. It could begin with his tone losing the tremulous waver of a whining child. Splinter thought perhaps the first step would be to have Leonardo clean himself up. Maybe then he would feel more like himself. It would be easier to converse with his student if he were not behaving so sheepish.

"If you need to . . . freshen yourself before we speak, than please do so."

He gave an awkward shake of his head and one hand rested at the base of his throat, shoulders pulled in tight. "Do-Do you wish for me to?" came the tentative question.

"If it will make you feel better, if it will allow yourself to compose your spirit and body, then yes. I will wait in my chambers for you. See me when you are refreshed."

Feeling the filth of his dishonor covering him like a stain, he swallowed and made his way to the bathroom as quickly as he could. His chest heaved and he did his best not to think that Splinter thought of him as dirty. He closed the door behind himself and leaned on it. Then, with shaking limbs he filled a basin under the skin with warm water and dipped a hand towel into it. Everything was made awkward and took twice as long as it normally would as he adjusted to having only one hand to work with. His missing hand and wrist all the while aching and throbbing. A constant reminder that they were missing and most likely being experimented on.

He stared at the rag and suddenly didn't quite know where to start. Did his sensei, with his sensitive sense of smell, detect the scent of the Shredder on him? For the man's acrid scent still seemed to permeate the nooks and crannies of his battered body. He crouched and began wiping at his sore tail and tender flesh surrounding it. He peeled his tail away from his body with a soft hiss. Dried blood flaked and smeared and it took several rounds of rinsing out the basin and wringing his rag to finally clean his bottom completely. He winced and shook, catching his breath. He could not see how bad he was torn up, but feeling with his fingertips, he could sense the swollen and partially distended flesh. At least he felt somewhat cleaner. Somewhat better.

He glanced at the bathtub and wished he could submerge himself; sink below the water line and block out all his thoughts, all his memories of the last few days. Even to shower would have been nice; to wash away his pain; the scent that lingered on his skin like a permanent brand. His distinct scent. Suddenly the urge to rid himself of the Shredder's musky odor was nearly overpowering. He bit back his panic. By the thin strands of will power he had left, he pulled himself into the closest thing to calm he could conjure. The bandages on his legs and arms couldn't get wet. His cuts needed time to heal. He had to content himself with the sponge bath he'd just given himself. It was the cleanest he'd be for a while. He'd just have to ignore the scent of his attacker; taunting him at certain turns of his head. He absentmindedly scratched at the wrappings around his severed arm. He backed away from the tub and shower. It was time to speak to Splinter.

As he left the bathroom, he ran into Raphael.

"Leo!" Raph gasped. "What the heck are you doing up?"

Raphael braced his hands awkwardly near, but not quite touching, Leo's bandaged arms. His reluctance to make contact with him both hurt and relieved Leonardo. His head swam.

"I had to, uh, I needed to just," he licked his bottom lip, lost for an explanation. "I'm going to speak to Splinter now."

Raphael's mouth hung open. Then he closed his eyes and huffed. His arms fell. Leo looked down and frowned.

"What happened? To your hands?"

Raph picked them up and dropped them to his sides. "It ain't important." He gave Leo a furtive glance then swept his eyes to the floor. "Leo, I swear to god. I swear. I'm gonna make him pay for what he did to ya. All of them. They won't get away with this."

"Raphael, please, don't do anything . . ."

"What? Stupid?" He chuckled and it was cold and hollow. Empty of mirth. The hunger for violent retribution tinging the edges.

"No. Just. Don't do anything."

Raphael's face dropped into a deep frown. Understanding bloomed. "What?" he asked sharply.

"It . . . isn't worth it."

Before Leo could say anything else, Raph had him. He cringed as his younger brother's strong, large hands gripped his shoulders, squeezing painfully. He tried to shrink back, heels bracing against the floor, but Raphael held him still. A bolt of fright went through him, despite knowing that Raphael would never hurt him. It was irrational, this panic, but it was real. His brother was much stronger than him at the moment. Bigger. He could throw him down . . . onto the floor . . . he could hold him. He clenched his jaw to keep himself from whimpering; pupils pinpricks of acute fright.

Raphael was oblivious to the terror he was causing Leonardo. Had he even guessed, he would not have held him like that. But he was caught up in his outrage. His hurt. "Don't you ever say that again." Raphael's eyes narrowed to slits and he spoke through gritted teeth. "You got that? Don't you ever try 'n tell me that you ain't worth me fightin' or . . . or bleedin' over . . . Never again. Leo. You. You are better than any of 'em. And what they . . ." he grew breathless and his hold, thankfully, eased up. He dropped his head, shook it, and released Leonardo, but not before patting his brother roughly against his chest.

It took all his strength not to collapse. The aching intensified and he took his shaking right hand and cradled his left arm close to his middle. The rising panic constricted in his heaving chest. He panted through grinding teeth, staring at the floor between them. I'm okay. I'm okay. He wouldn't hurt me.

Raphael stepped aside and crossed his arms. "Go 'n talk to Sensei. Then I want you back in bed restin', got it?"

Speechless and still recovering, Leo gave him a slight nod and then headed towards Master Splinter's room on shaking legs. He glanced over one shoulder.

"Promise me, Raph. You won't do anything without talking to me first, at least. Okay?"

Raphael looked away and to Leonardo's surprise and hurt, he turned his shell to him and walked out of the room. No promises given. None to break. An uneasy feeling filled him and he turned once more to his master's bedroom; knees rippling like water; fear settling on his shoulders like snow, just as icy, sinking past his flesh into his quaking soul.

A/N: Next the talk. How will Splinter handle this delicate moment. hmmm