A/N: This chapter includes graphic depictions of violence and minor character death.
Elsewhen.
A god lives as a needle pulled through fabric, forever. The dart of the needle and the slow rasp of the thread, the whisper of universes pressed close: the Boar knows all these things, tastes these things as clearly as the blood drying on its teeth, savors them as deeply the dying flesh in its hands.
The worlds are very close now. The Boar has spread itself between them, thin as a leaf, but oh, how many mouths it has to eat, how many eyes to see. This world, this grey and dying world, tastes far too much of ash, of bone, to make the few mouthfuls left any kind of pleasure. They are bare sustenance, nothing more, but the Boar knows how long its sleep will be, and no morsels can be disdained. Even the small pulses of grief from the ragged brothers are better than nothing at all.
But there are brighter, fuller worlds than this, and the Boar grows ever more eager to reach them. Even as it stands at the head of the courtyard, the Shredder and Karai waiting for its word and an army massed around them, the Boar can see a younger set of brothers standing before it, eyes wide as it pulps their city. Pulps it, and swallows the screams before they can rise over the rumble of collapsing stones. How sweet that world's agony tastes, how bright.
No crumbs will be left behind. The Boar will devour each world, though it takes centuries, till all is ruin in its footsteps and it curls around itself, to sleep off its great feasting.
Look now; he approaches, the beautiful monster, the most precious boy, all grieving power and restraint. The Boar smells him on the wind, tastes the air as it leaves his lungs. Oh, how his footsteps shake the ash from the walls — this world will remember him, long after even the crows are dead.
The Boar will remember him, too, long after it cracks his shell like an egg. What sound will he make when he discovers that all he holds is nothing more than smoke and glamour? What sweeter fruit than the breaking of a Champion?
The eye of the needle pauses; three worlds touch, and the Boar feels its hunger expand to meet them. One the feast, one the famine — and one that is something else entirely, a morsel of time broken away from all the rest: a prison, for death itself.
There, the girl's mind, light on the wing of a dragonfly, and just as fragile. She fights, but not for long. The Boar will savor her at the end, when Donatello's bloody, implacable heart is finally ready to break.
Now, it unspools its tongue to taste the last wisps escaping the cooling body at its feet. The brothers' grief foams against its face, but it ignores them. Their time comes, moments from now, but they have been thorns enough in the Boar's feet that it will relish every taste, and not be hurried.
But the wisps vanish, gone between one rough scream and the next, and the one-armed brother's soul escapes before its bitter taste falls fully on the Boar's tongue. Muddy ash is yet all it tastes — but no matter, no matter this, there are two more brothers and their frail humans to devour, and it will make a great and filthy show of them. Yes, yes it will — a show worthy of the eyes only the Boar knows are watching.
Do you see? it thinks, and hears the reedy voice of its prisoner rise, frantic nattering like a swarm of midges over its skin. How strange and resilient that little beast is, that grief can still so move him to frenzy after so long alone in his prison.
His pain has sustained it for decades, and could for decades more, if the Boar so wished — but this world shrivels under its feet, and its feast must begin.
It turns its attention from the prisoner and his feeble cries, and looks down at Donatello. He alone has been silent these brief seconds since the one-armed brother's neck snapped so sweetly in its fingers. He alone stares at the Boar, rust-colored eyes reflecting no light.
The Boar thinks briefly of the fox, who would sooner gnaw off a trapped leg than surrender to starvation, when Donatello bares his teeth.
You were almost worthy of me, it says, too low for anyone to hear. You could have stood at my side, instead of these puppets. Oh, my sweet boy, I almost pity you.
Karai twitches at the Boar's side, and whines. So small, the thoughts left in her head, all that remain are want and the thirst the Boar planted in her along with its tiny green teeth. The warhounds pain her as they pain the Shredder, but he broke so much earlier than Karai. He is no more than a hollow hive, ruled by the Boar's intent alone.
The battle surges; the family's army believes too in this false spear, and their faith carried them along to break like waves upon the sand. They could fight forever, so long as they know a Champion carries the spear.
Soon, the warhounds.
The one-eyed brother's scream spirals into nothing. His grief is sharpest, the most difficult to tame; the Boar knows it will be the sweetest morsel, and the briefest. The blind brother will be the true meal out of this ragged family, his agony ripened by years of fading hope.
Donatello hefts the spear. Seconds from now, he will throw, and he will not miss. Oh, his defiance! It burns like fire coming down a mountain. The Boar has walked on glaciers more easily destroyed than this little beast's will. No will has ever seen his like, nor will again.
For all his singularity, Donatello — Champion and Betrayer of two worlds now, how fresh, how luscious! — has not grasped the one constant through all the needle-pierced worlds: only pain and hunger are certainties. Pleasure is a lie, satisfaction is ever-elusive, and the Boar is going to break Donatello open with its bare hands.
But first.
"Do you hear the wind blow?" it whispers, for the Champion's ears alone.
It lets one thought flower, and the Shredder's chest bursts open in a green, howling cloud; Karai strains her leash, body pointed like an arrow — and Donatello, the sweet boy, his faith so fresh, so brittle, calls out as he throws.
It takes Donnie three point seven five seconds to swallow his own scream, brace his feet, and aim. His body takes care of most of the work without any input from his brain.
Mike's body slides halfway down the stairs. His face is pressed to the stone; only a faint bruise is visible, high on his cheek, along with a sliver of clear, faded blue.
One second.
It's not Mikey. It's not Mike. This is a body. It is a stopped moment, an end of possibility, and a reason for vengeance.
He sees Mike's freckles, dimmed by age, and he thinks, as the first second flows into the next, of the dusty hot sauce bottle and the shoulder bumps, the clinging, desperate hug, and how none of it matters any longer.
Two seconds.
"Now!" Leonardo sounds like he has a rock on his chest. "Now, Donnie, do it — do it now —"
The Boar's mad smile beams down on them, and deep in its open mouth Donnie sees lights flickering, cold and rotted.
"Do you hear the wind blow?" asks the Boar. Its voice slices through the swell of the battle — the battle they might be winning, if Donnie cared to look. He doesn't. His world's narrowed to the fractured smile in front of him, and to the white, white skin where he's going to bury the spear. The spear hums a note he can almost hear as he plants his feet.
Three seconds.
Karai jerks, then takes the first step down the stairs, smooth as oil, and the Shredder begins to twitch.
He feels his brothers' hands on his shell, pushing him forward. One throw, that's all, and he can go home. But he can still see Mike's eye, Mike's limp body and his twisted neck, and he almost falters.
Remember that, when it comes time to end it.
"The warhounds!" Casey screams, as the Shredder's body splits apart.
Only one thing left to do. Donnie throws the spear. He doesn't miss.
Each dead world behind the Bull has led to this moment.
Change does not come easily to the near-immortal, and is impossible for the true gods, the ones who sleep in the black places between worlds, and so the Bull has had to move in increments: a slow subtle shift of fortune, while all around it worlds rise, and fall, and Champions are burned away.
There have been so many of them, and now they are all dust on the Bull's tongue. It remembers each cry for help it did not answer, each curse upon its name as the final dark arrived, and then the gentle fall of ash, forever.
And now: it comes to the arc of a spear, and a held breath.
The Bull makes itself watch as the spear parts the air, gone cold as a grave the moment it leaves Donatello's hand. Now he is the one who blazes, hope and fury and grief gilding his bones through the heavy skin.
Beautiful, thinks the Bull, as it watches the futile gesture, the almost-final increment.
Here is what no Champion will ever know: they were chosen, but their worlds were chosen first, and not by the Boar. That god is led by hunger alone, which is merely desire with its prettier skins shed, and so long as the lure is tempting enough, it will not question whether or not its choice was its own.
The Bull has laid each lure, and waited, with the patience of still water, for the Boar to come and feast.
Each dead world behind the Bull has died because the Bull willed it.
Every life that ended in a brief flare of panic and horror has been nothing more than a step on a road as long as galaxies; every bright and brimming world has been bait for a hunger that will never know satisfaction. This vast unwinding thread is bloody from end to end, and it has led here, to these mingled worlds.
The Boar has fed, and is feeding, its mouth is red and slick and its throat is full of laughter — but it will not feed, it will not, if the Bull has judged its Champions right.
Champions: slow the realization, and slower still the efforts made. There has always been one, a soul undimmed, unyielding — but why not two?
Why not, indeed.
While the false spear flies toward the Boar, the Bull turns its eye to the girl — sharp, glittering girl, a mind like shattered glass and a heart like winter — and to the figment of the Boar bearing down upon her. She has reached the end of her hope, and nearly the end of her strength: she bleeds under the skin from a pricked lung that leaves each breath a bubbling rasp. But she too burns, though her eyes blur, and her hand weakens.
The Boar's glamour drops to all fours and scrabbles toward her, slavering down its chin, while on the steps the Boar opens its arms and welcomes the spear's arrival.
Donatello holds his breath, ready to cheer, though tears burn his eyes and the brothers beside him howl their grief. April drops to both knees, and aims the true spear at the glamour's throat.
The Bull feels the spear as if it is its own heart that is pierced, but pain ceased to matter before this world's sun first spat out light and it is too preoccupied to pay attention.
Everything comes down to timing; the false spear must be broken, and the true spear will fill the space it leaves behind. These next two seconds are an end, or they are a total slaughter.
No blood stains the Boar's robes when the false spear buries itself in its chest. Donatello's aim was true, but there is no blood, and the Bull feels his hope turn to bewilderment, and then to betrayal.
"My sweet boy," says the Boar. Its voice is a stone in the Bull's hoof. "Oh, my Donatello, faithful at last. How misplaced, how wrong, this little faith was." As easily as a child chasing away a fly, the Boar pulls the spear from its chest, and snaps the wooden shaft in half. The pieces tumble through the air, striking the dead brother, and clattering down the stairs.
"No," says Donatello, too betrayed to yet feel pain. That will come. It has always been coming. Since the light first ignited in the dark reaches of the many universes, there has been pain, and there has been hunger. Beyond these two things, there are no constants.
Two seconds. Long enough for mortal lungs to draw breath to cry out. Long enough for that cry to be buried under a tide-turn in the battle, as the Boar unleashes its puppets and the ragged little family is torn apart.
Donatello sees it all happen. Again. The Boar's command keeps him apart from the slaughter: no hand nor weapon may touch him, for he must be a witness. This is how the Boar answers defiance, and it will keep Donatello's eyes open the whole time. He tries to fight the control — of course he does, he knows nothing else — but the Boar has had these many eons to perfect its tricks, and Donatello's muscles betray him.
The Bull could close his eyes, but there is no time for mercy. It waits, feels the welling-up of agony through the Champion's body, and watches with him.
Leonardo dies first. He's a fraction of a second too slow to parry Karai's first blow, and she opens his leg from knee to hip. It might be suicide, it might simply be exhaustion; the result's the same. He's dead, he's been dead since Mike's body hit the stairs, and all he can do with the time he has left is to throw himself between the Boar's warriors and the Champion. She uses her blade, and when Leonardo says her name, she uses her nails.
Casey dies in pieces. The only human who could match the turtles hit for hit goes down swinging, just like he promised himself he would, and he doesn't stop until he's gnawed to bare bones. The warhounds remember the taste of his flesh from another world, and fight for more. He doesn't scream. He doesn't surrender. And he still dies.
Alice dies when Karai's blade meets the stones, her heart threaded like a jewel on the shining steel. A long time ago, she promised herself she'd save her parents' faces for this moment, but when Karai twists the blade, there's only a slight, stinging pain, and nothing. There's nothing. There's
Raphael dies last, and if voices could break stone, his would flatten the city. He screams till his throat is raw, and doesn't stop until what's left of the Shredder crushes his shell. But Donnie still needs him, Donnie's still alive, even if everyone else is gone, so Raphael tries to stand - and when that fails, he tries to crawl. He's almost touched Alice's hand when that booted foot grinds down harder, and his heart gives one last beat and stops.
A few lives, nothing more. To the Bull, they weigh no more than a snowflake. They melt away into the unknowable silence, and to its faint surprise, the Bull almost envies them. Their wish has been granted: they no longer fear. They may even be together.
That is no comfort to the few who yet live, and to the one who watches.
Donatello sees it all, as it was in his dreaming vision, and he can stop nothing. They die, the world dies, and then the Boar turns to him, smiling, victorious once more.
No, says the Bull. Not yet. It turns its eye to the prisoner at the base of the spire. His time has come.
It's hard to decide what hurts most, but April's sure a punctured lung will be what kills her, if the blood leaking out of her mouth is any sign. Something necessary broke when she hit the wall, and every minute she stays upright and moving is just guaranteeing she won't be walking out of here.
O'Neil — April knows it's the Boar, or a piece of it, but it's easier this way — scuttles toward her like a crab, mad black eyes gleaming. It could take her in a heartbeat, and they both know it, but they also both know that's not the Boar's style. Even if this is just a piece of the Boar, the tiniest filament of its power jammed into a skin that looks like her, April knows it's still going to play with her before it kills her.
And it's going to play for a long, long time.
Maybe it's a good thing I'm so messed up.
If she's lucky, O'Neil will wait just a few seconds too long, and she'll bleed out before it can get its teeth in her. Doesn't even have to be that much luck, just two seconds' worth.
April tries to track O'Neil's movement so she can keep the spear trained in the right direction, but just keeping herself from flopping over like a boned fish takes all the energy she has left. She used up the last of her power blasting O'Neil across the room — probably did more harm than good, but really, what's a little more harm at this point? — and pain's rushed in to fill the gaps. Everything that's not burning aches, right down to the spaces between her fingers, and the leak of blood has turned into a thick gush.
O'Neil barks a laugh, and scratches its nails into the ground. "He failed, he failed, he failed," it chants at her. "Sweet Donatello, he failed, the false spear failed him, he watched them die, he watched —"
"Who?" April coughs. A dank taste rattles up her throat and she sounds like she's talking through a mouthful of slush, but she's way past being embarrassed about it now. All that's left is pain.
Another laugh. O'Neil's face twists in a smile, and April surprises herself by finding a little room left for hate — and anger. That's her face, not the Boar's.
"All of them," it replies. "It watched them all die."
Donnie. April grips the spear again, a last dying ember of fury racing through her. She can live a little longer, just out of spite. Just a little longer.
Time to talk.
"What did you do with the real April?" she manages, right before something shifts inside her chest and something hot and cruel as acid starts to spread through her belly. "You're not —" She stops before she finishes the question, because she can handle almost anything, but knowing if the Boar is wearing her double's dead body might just be what breaks her.
She can't break yet. Not while she can still hold the spear, not while there's a chance Donnie could —
O'Neil cocks its head, malice replaced by faint bemusement. "My sweet girl," it says, "I cannot remember." It laughs, delighted with itself, then gives its body a shake. "But she is dead," it adds, the pink tip of its tongue dancing over its lips. "I remember that, how it felt, how hungry she was, how shriveled and cold and —"
"Fuck off!" April yells. She barely notices the blood spattering her hands. She remembers, too: the dull eyes, the paper-thin skin over hollow cheeks, the calm acceptance. And she rejects it, all of it, in her own name and in the name of the woman who died wearing her face, the one who chose to go quietly, curled on her side in a metal cage. "Just go to hell."
A shaft of dim confusion passes over O'Neil's face. "You asked, pretty girl," it replies, one finger tapping slowly against the ground. "And now you die."
"You keep saying that," April spits. Just keep it talking a little longer. "I'm not dead yet." She props the base of the spear against the ground, and tucks it against her side. At least now it won't roll away if she collapses, which isn't really an if anymore, but a when. An imminent one.
O'Neil glances at the spear, and snorts. The sound burrows into April's head, makes her think of earth churning beneath razor-sharp hooves. "You cannot kill me." Its voice expands to fill the room, till the pressure makes April's ears pop. "You are no Champion."
I know, April thinks, before the voice shreds the last pain-free parts of her brain. She feels O'Neil's footsteps as it approaches — from the side, where she can't reach it with the spear — and she can't force her body to move. Dead, she's dead, eaten alive and dead forever.
Hope I'm not out of spite yet, she thinks, so light-headed she nearly laughs. Of course she's not; being pissed and wanting to take it out on someone else is the one thing she'll always have in abundance.
She just has to wait till O'Neil comes in close.
O'Neil launches itself at April, a blur of red and grey moving too fast to track. She's going to miss, she's not going to make a killing blow. For fuck's sake, she can't even throw the spear —
Do I have to?
April's never been the one to land that final blow, has she? All she has to do is what she's always done: make her enemies bleed, so the turtles can finish them off.
Be the knife in the dark. With the last ounce of strength left in her body, April pivots to follow O'Neil's path, and drives the spear into O'Neil's gut.
It's no graceful killing blow. O'Neil grunts and exhales a lungful of hot, swampy air in April's face, languidly digging its fingernails into her bad shoulder, but April lets herself collapse, pushing the spear forward.
O'Neil snaps its teeth and spits in her face, but April shoves the spear another inch deeper, relishing how easily the skin gives under just a little pressure.
The wasp stings in her left hand vanish, and the spear shudders once. For a few seconds, they're connected, the god and the mortal, by a few feet of ancient wood and metal.
"You?" says O'Neil, a thin drool of black water dribbling over its lips. "You?"
What happens next is intolerable: a torrent of sensation and memory, a hunger too vast for her mind to comprehend, and a life too long to experience without going mad. April shuts her eyes, and opens them again in a courtyard, her body wrapped in white silk and her feet bare on cold stone, and two feet away is Donnie, grey-skinned but breathing, and nothing but hate radiating out of his eyes.
"Impossible," says the Boar, and April feels the word rise from her own throat as the pain splinters through her side.
Then she's back in her own dying body, the hunger gone, watching O'Neil stagger backwards with a hand clamped over its belly.
The Boar is close enough to touch him. Before it hooks its finger under his chin, Donnie tries to pull away, but the Boar just twitches its hands and every muscle locks down again.
Every damn muscle except his heart, and the Boar wants that one to keep moving.
"I want you to see what you did to them," says the Boar. It strokes his mouth, so near its breath warms his throat. "It was all for you, my treasure. They all died for you. Now look at them."
The last three words twist the space between them. Donnie tries to breathe, but the air's too heavy, too slow, and only the light dancing inside the Boar's mouth can escape.
Look.
It doesn't matter that he's seen this before. The blood pooling under Alice's body, the inches between her hand and Raphael's, these things fill his world, and when he tries to look away, he can't. The Boar holds him still with a spectral hand wrapped around his spine, and it keeps his eyes open till they burn and water.
Leonardo's mask flutters from Karai's hand. She doesn't move, and neither does the Shredder's body. They wait, watching him stare at their work without emotion, or even interest. They're just inert, waiting for the Boar's next command.
The only mercy in this moment is that he's too cold to feel anything at all. Rage, grief, despair, they're all out of his reach. He feels the wind, he feels the Boar pressing its body against his, and that's it. There is no more.
Alice was right, in the end: he wasn't anything more than a trick, a sliver of hope and light that filled their world and then helped to crush it. And he believed, truly believed, he could save them.
The wind sings in his ears.
A false spear for a false Champion. He could choke on it — but the Boar won't let him. No, Donnie knows he's alive until the Boar wants him to die, and until then, it's going to enjoy every drop of his pain.
"All for you," the Boar whispers. It digs its fingers into the soft skin under his chin, not quite hard enough to cut. "They all die for you, my brave beautiful boy, they all die." Its other hand fastens on his shoulder, squeezing, kneading. "Do you feel it, do you, do you smell how they die, a whole world dead and all for you, for you and your little spear —"
It smothers its laughter against his throat. Donnie's body jerks, instinctual revulsion breaking his paralysis for an instant, but the hand on his spine tightens till he gasps, and he's frozen again.
"You are mine now," the Boar whispers. "My little Champion. I told you, I promised you, come with me and I would let them live, even the girl, even her, that ripe tender girl, but now, now now no, you watched them once and you will watch them again, watch them with me —" Its claws pierce his skin, and now he smells his own blood, mingling with all the others. Leonardo's flat black gaze stares back at him, pitiless, while the Boar keeps talking, its voice a mad rising spiral.
"Do you know how she tasted in the end, do you know, my Donatello?" The Boar laughs again. "So young, skin like a peach, blood like honey in my mouth, and she cried when I bit her — look at me, look at me, I want to see your face when I tell you this —"
The Boar tries to drag his head down so their eyes meet, but some scrap of defiance rises out of the vast flat numbness filling his body, and Donnie holds his ground. As hard as the Boar tugs, as deep as its claw bury themselves in his flesh, he does not move, and he does not look.
"Donatello." The Boar's voice is a swarm of wasps in his ears. "Look at me."
Opening his mouth takes all his strength; that same massive will that rose to block him back home, laughing whenever he tried to find his way, is pressing down on him from all angles, thick enough to smother him, but he can do this much for the family he failed. Every muscle creaking, his tongue as heavy as lead, he inhales once.
"No," he manages, and keeps his eyes on Leonardo.
The Boar shrieks. Its mouth splits wide open, and its skin peels away like old paint, baring the web of light inside its head to the edge of his vision. The sound stops his heart for a beat, and another, and Donnie waits, ready for the bolt that strikes him down.
It never comes. The Boar shrieks again, and throws back its head — and then it stumbles back, hands pressed to its side. Donnie tears his eyes away from Leonardo long enough to see a black stain spreading under the Boar's hands.
"You?" it hisses. "You? Impossible."
He's still enough himself to think I didn't do anything, but the Boar's eyes are fixed past him. For an instant, he no longer exists for the Boar — but its gaze comes back to his, hard and cold above the white web of light in its mouth.
"There has never been two," it whines. "Never, never, there cannot be —"
The Boar vanishes before Donnie can take a full breath. The ghostly hand around Donnie's spine lets go so abruptly he drops to his knees. It leaves him in the courtyard, alone with the high crazy song of the wind, and the silent bodies tumbled all around him.
"Impossible," says O'Neil. More black water drips through its fingers. "There has never been two, never, never, there cannot be, you are just — just food —"
April lets herself collapse onto her side. Fine, she's just food, but she held on long enough to make the Boar bleed. That's something she can be proud of. And she got to see Donnie, for just a moment. He's still alive.
She keeps her eyes open long enough to watch O'Neil's body split apart. There's nothing inside the skin but the black water, as thick as pond scum. April inches away from the flood, but the black water rolls toward her, moving like liquid mercury, and seeps through her shirt and hair in seconds.
It smells like rotted wood and jasmine, strong enough to make her stomach churn, but any real power is gone. A bad smell won't kill her, though it'll make her last few seconds miserable.
But it worked, she tells herself. She still has the spear clenched in her good hand. It should hurt to hold the spear so tightly, but if it does, she doesn't feel it any longer. Probably a bad sign. The only thing she can feel is the creeping cold on her scalp and chest as the black water freezes against her skin. Cold is fine. She can deal with cold. It's not any worse than patrolling during the winter.
Yes, it is worse — because patrolling means home, and it means family. April swallows a mouthful of blood, too weak to spit it out, and stares up at the ceiling. Patrolling meant Donnie, just a few feet away. It meant keeping the city safe for when her dad could finally come home.
It doesn't mean anything anymore.
The light is fading, little by little, and the air around her has begun to cool. April tries to worry about it — maybe panic will get her off the ground, one last burst of energy to get the spear closer to Donnie — and discovers she's empty. Not scared, not tired, not worried about what comes next. Just quiet, inside and out.
She's got to wake up. Got to do more than lie down in her blood and the black water and wait for death to come get her. Donnie's alive, and that means there's still a chance for the spear to find its way to him — but for that to happen, she's got to get up.
April digs her heels into the ground and tries to push, but her legs flop over, the muscles loose as unskeined yarn, and she stays right where she is.
"Get up," she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the golden light has dimmed to barely a candle flame. She can barely see her left hand when she holds it in front of her face. The white mark might still be there, but she can't be sure.
Get up, dammit. He needs the spear.
Why does she believe, so strongly, that if she just holds on long enough, everything will be okay? This isn't a fairy tale, and there won't be a last-minute rescue. The lights will go out, she'll go to sleep, and sometime after that she'll stop breathing. End of story.
She still believes. She can get up.
Her eyes close.
Without any way to mark the passage of time past her own uneven pulse, April lets the darkness carry her into a light doze. She doesn't expect to wake up; her part in the story is done, except as a prop to get the next act going.
Figures, she thinks, a dying scrap of sarcasm floating up through the cold.
Which is why it's a complete surprise when new light bursts over her, and rough hands cradle her head as gently as an egg.
"April, it's time to let go," says a familiar voice. Before she can place it, the floor beneath her disappears, and she's falling again, forever, into the silent spaces between worlds.
It has waited so long for this moment, the Bull muses, and moved so many pieces that each individual has ceased to weigh on its consciousness. It has forgotten multitudes, and will forget multitudes more — but it will not forget this: the prisoner's face as he sees the girl.
How strange, the things that transcend universes. Half a lifetime has passed since the prisoner felt anything like kindness, but he is unspeakably gentle as he kneels beside the girl.
She is not the one the prisoner lost. That one is gone forever. The prisoner knows this — and yet, the Bull knows it does not matter. For this moment, she is the last bright thing in the universe.
For a long, silent moment, the prisoner does not speak. He merely watches the faint play of light over her features, his fingers not quite touching her throat.
"She will be safe," says the Bull, into the gulf of silence between itself and the prisoner. "I gave my word that the young ones would be safe, if you did your part."
"If they lived," says the prisoner. "Always the conditional." His voice breaks, and he lowers his head over the girl's. He may be whispering to her, but the Bull does not let itself listen.
"You knew the price," it says, when the prisoner at last lifts his head. His eyes glitter in the near-dark, but the Bull does not mistake that shine for tears alone. It is anger, and hate, both well-deserved and long-expected. "This world was doomed, but through you, I might save all those to come. The Champions —"
"I didn't know I would have to watch," the prisoner spits. "Did you? Did you know I would see everything? Even when A —" He stops himself, head thrown back and throat vibrating with a keen not allowed to be voiced. "My brothers," he says, his body trembling with the finest of shivers. "My brothers. I'm so sorry. I should have stayed —" His voice shatters, he gasps once, and falls silent.
He is so young, this prisoner, though all the sights the Boar has shown him have aged him beyond repair.
Not just the Boar; the Bull must claim its part in this. It allowed the Boar to play its fevered games. It let this world die, in increments, and there is no merciful reply to the prisoner's question. The Bull does not even make the attempt.
After a long, stony silence, the prisoner turns back to the girl. He would stay here with her until this world disintegrates, and they both know it, just as they both know he cannot. There is one duty left to the prisoner, before he can rest.
"It is time," the Bull says, when it seems the prisoner will not speak at all. Time may not move in this dead, safe-keeping place, but it moves elsewhere, and the final blow must be struck. While they linger here, the Champion cries out in a dead world, separated by a thin veil of molecules and intent. He needs the spear.
"I know," says the prisoner. His hands shake, but he stills them almost at once. He has learned control over these many years of watching, till not even grief can break him. "Just — one more look."
Distantly, for it thinks of such things rarely, it occurs to the Bull that love may be the strangest of all. It can be twisted so easily into contempt, or hunger — one needs only look to Karai for proof, or the Shredder — or it may endure, till fire and terror forge it into a shield against all weapons.
If only the Boar had learned such a lesson — but then it would not be itself, and the Bull would not be standing here, the weight of all its manipulations settling over its shoulders.
"Now," it says. There are other worlds to consider, and to show mercy now would betray them all.
The prisoner makes no sound, merely closes his eyes. He inhales, holds the breath, and releases it slowly. Then:
"April, it's time to let go," he says.
The girl makes no noise or protest when the prisoner pulls the spear from her hand. She is half-dead already, broken and covered with the filth of the Boar's wight, but enough strength remains. The journey will not kill her.
"I promised you," says the Bull. "She will be safe. As much as I can make her. Now, move. The Champion comes."
It regrets using a command on one who has obeyed it so completely, but the prisoner still has not moved. When the Bull's voice cracks through the room, he groans, body twisting involuntarily to follow the Bull's order, and rises with the spear gripped clumsily in one hand. By the time he has gotten to his feet, the girl's body is translucent, little more than a suggestion of form in the cold, near-lightless air. And then, she is gone.
The prisoner sighs. "You couldn't even let him see her?" he asks, head low.
The Bull does not respond. Instead, it points to the ceiling, where a thin line of light bisects the ancient stone.
"He comes," it tells the prisoner. "When you have finished, you are free. Your reward waits for you outside the spire."
The prisoner laughs, bitter, dry as a sand. "I hope you're not expecting me to thank you," he says, and lifts his head to the growing light.
"I never have," says the Bull, and folds into itself.
One increment yet remains.
Casey's a ride or die city boy, which means he still jumps ten feet whenever he hears a coyote up at the farmhouse. It's about fifty times worse at the temple where Usagi dropped them. At least at the farmhouse you could hear Donnie blowing things up in the Science Barn or Mikey communing with his chickens along with all the local wildlife — here, it's just the wind through the grass and babbling brooks and all that crap. Nobody talks above a whisper here, nobody really even talks, and that, along with being stuck in bed being scourged of evil, means Casey Jones is about to lose his freaking mind.
"I hate this," he says for the fifteenth time in the last day. He's pretty sure no one's listening to him anymore, and he can't really blame them, but god, does he hate this. He's in a comfy bed, eating good food — the temple doesn't half-ass the menu, that's one check in the plus column — with all his cuts and bruises bandaged and the last of the Boar's warhounds getting cleaned out of his system, and Raph and his bros are…
He grinds his fists into his eyes. Going down that road's a bad idea, but he can't help it. There's not enough to distract him here from thinking about what happened to Red or how he ditched Raph — because that's what it was, even if Leo gave the order. Casey still walked away.
"Shit," he says. "Shit, shit, shit."
Splinter shifts, opens his mouth like he's about to say something comforting like he did the first hundred times, but Casey turns on his side, face to the wall. He doesn't want to be comforted, especially not by the rat-dad, who's probably feeling just as crappy as he is. Their world's ending, or maybe it's already over, and they'll never know.
When the worst of the burning in his chest is gone, he rolls over on his back. His bad side aches, but it's a good clean ache. The priest finally smiled when he took a look at the wound today, so maybe Casey will finally get a chance to get the hell out of the infirmary tomorrow. Go poison himself with fresh air and sunshine.
"Where's Angel?" he asks.
"She is in the garden," Splinter replies, clearly grateful Casey's not spoiling for a fight. "She is helping with the new irrigation system."
"Awesome for her," Casey says, stamping down on his jealousy. They've been here almost five days, and he hasn't gone outside once since they hauled him into the infirmary. But there's a reason for that, and no reason for Angel to suffer along with them. "Poor kid," he adds, with feeling, because however bad this sucks for him, he signed up for this weirdness a long time ago. Angel didn't.
Splinter hums in agreement, then goes back to his meditating or whatever. Casey listens to the wind whistle through the chinks in the wall, pulls threads out of his blanket, and tries to decide if he's bored enough to go back to sleep. Outside, the little wild lizards peep at each other, and something heavy hits the gravel path. Probably someone's pack — maybe Usagi's back from wherever he buzzed off to when they got home, which at least means a damn change —
Someone shouts in surprise and alarm, and two doors slam outside the infirmary. Splinter looks up sleepily, ears pricked forward. Casey pushes up on his elbows, just in time to watch two of the novices sprint past, carrying a stretcher between them.
"What the hell," Casey murmurs, as new voices join in with the shouting, and more doors slam. He can only catch every third word or so — gate, sky, bandages — but the high tense voices don't need any translation. With a glance back at Splinter, he heaves himself out of bed, pulls on his shirt, and heads for the door.
A few torches along the wall light his way as he follows the voices. He gets turned around a few times and ends up back at the infirmary before he finally gets to the front door — right when Angel does, her hands and faced dirt-smudged.
"I heard yelling," she says, shoving her hair out of her eyes. "Is everyone okay? Are we —"
"I dunno," Casey says as he pushes open the door. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
Outside, it's almost dusk, the sky covered by dark scudding clouds and lit at the horizon by distant lightning. The novices and the priest have their backs to Casey and Angel, hiding whatever they're looking at, but Casey sees a pair of black boots and long skinny legs splayed on the gravel.
"Oh my god." He stumbles down the stairs, heart thudding so hard he's dizzy, and pulls the novices away. They fall back, shouting with surprise, and the priest whirls on him with a scolding finger in his face. Casey shoves past them and crouches down as the first roll of thunder echoes overhead.
Black water soaks her hair and clothes. There's blood soaking through her armor, too, so much goddamn blood Casey's nose is full of its smell, something took a chunk out of her cheek, and her right arm just flops to the side — but April's breathing, eyelids fluttering.
"Red," Casey whispers, reaching out to touch her head. The priest slaps his hand away, and glares back when Casey glowers at him.
"She cannot be touched," the priest hisses. "She has been tainted — she must be scoured. Leave her to us."
April makes a rattling noise in her throat, and opens her eyes. They're so bloodshot Casey can't see any whites at all. "Casey," she chokes. Tears bead along her lashes, and Casey just wants to grab her hand and squeeze — something so he can help push away that horrible, desperate look on her face. "Did he get it? Did Donnie get the spear? I had it —"
"We have to get her inside," the priest shouts, over another burst of lightning and thunder. The wind's turned, and all the leaves are twisting. "Please, let us help her!"
"Don't touch me!" April yells, her voice cracking. She grabs his wrist with her good arm and squeezes till the bones ache. The novices try to get her to lie still, but she bares her teeth, eyes rolling, and yanks on his arm. "Did he get it? Is it done? Casey?"
"I —" The novices slide the stretcher under April's back. Her face constricts in pain, but she doesn't look away from Casey. He swallows hard, his mouth dry and sour. "Red, I don't know."
The first drops of rain hit the gravel. April screams.