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Scavenging had never been truly lucrative but with the winter season hitting New York, resources went from uncommon to downright scarce. To make matters worse, Splinter felt uneasy leaving his children on their own with the frigid temperatures permeating through the sewers. Turtles were not built for the cold, and he found himself curled up around them using his fur to stave off the worst of the chill more often than not.
His excursions up became shorter, and the amount of supplies he could find and bring down dwindled. Whatever it was about the cold season, it made humans less likely to throw out edible scraps. More than once he’d had to give up his own portion of food to ensure his sons ate their fill, but even with every morsel he could find piled up, the meals were half the size he usually strove for.
With a quiet sigh, he sets out the plates and chopsticks as he listens to his sons roughhousing a few rooms away. They are growing older, stronger, and he’s certain they’ll take to training like ducks to water when they begin. But for now, he let’s them enjoy their youth, let’s them play and mess around without a care in the world.
Once everything is in place, he divides the food as evenly as he can, taking into account differing tastes. Leonardo was going on an odd streak of refusing any meat aside from worms, while Donatello despised radish with a passion to rival Raphael’s hate of carrots. Thankfully, his youngest, Michelangelo, tended to be the most agreeable when it came to eating. Anything the other three wouldn’t tolerate was often left to his plate, and he’d eat without complaint.
Splinter settles into his spot at the head of the table, folding into a seiza. Typically, he didn’t sit so formally for dinner with his sons, but he wanted to have a short discussion with them this time around. His own plate is completely empty, and he instead nurses a cup of tea, waiting for the tell-tale signs of someone approaching.
This time it comes in the form of Leonardo’s voice as he calls his brothers to eat. He had always been a stickler to the rules Splinter enforced, including the specific times they had food or went to bed. He was also shaping up to be a budding leader, but Splinter was very careful to let them all cultivate their own personalities and “roles” without his influence.
Fast-paced footsteps come Splinter’s way, and Michelangelo quickly bursts through the door, excitable and energetic as always even as he sits down at the table. His youngest son was his most lively, constantly on the move and actively playing up his designation as the little brother. Yet, at the same time, he was also the most observant, seemingly knowing what comfort each of his brothers needed at any time and more than willing to provide.
Leonardo follows at a slightly more sedate pace, and pauses to bow respectfully to his father. He doesn’t quite glare at Michelangelo, but he does give him a slightly reproachful look, likely for the lack of decorum. As the oldest, he’d instinctively fallen into a guiding role for the rest of his brothers, as well as a nurturing and soothing one; Splinter has more than once heard his brothers refer to him as “Mamanardo,” both teasingly and not.
Next comes Donatello, who looks slightly morose at no doubt being forced to put down whatever he was working on. He gives Splinter a quick bow before settling into a seiza, having noted his father’s sitting position and mimicking it. Donatello grew with an intelligence Splinter struggled to keep up with, and an inventiveness to match. Along with that, he was the most goal-oriented of his sons, always keeping the others on track with whatever they were doing.
Bringing up the rear, likely because he was making sure Donatello didn’t stay behind, if the way he glances over him is any indication, is Raphael. He shuts the door behind him before dipping into a short bow, then settles into a seiza as well. Raphael is the most passionate of Splinter’s sons, and the most protective. None of his brothers went more than a room away without him knowing, or anxiously following along.
“Sensei, is something the matter?” Leonardo draws him out of his musings now that everyone is settled, peering up at him from his seat across the table. His sons quiet instinctively, all eyes turning to him and awaiting an answer. With a soft, barely audible sigh, he holds up a hand and gestures around the table.
“This is a valuable lesson you must be taught. You are young and I wish I could postpone it, but our lives will never be easy enough for such allowances.” As he speaks, he keeps a careful eye on all of his children. Just like he expected, Donatello glances at everyone’s plates and something like understanding dawns in his eyes. Less expectedly, though not in a negative sense, Raphael seems to figure it out next, going so far as to subtly slip a few worms off of his plate and onto Leo’s when he thinks everyone’s looking away.
Leonardo, for his part, is more focused on trying to puzzle out his words, while Michelangelo looks around in confusion before turning back to him. It’s moments like these that remind him why he weathers the city above every day, why he takes care of his children even when the pressure mounts and all he wants to do is sleep it away. If only he could keep them sheltered for just a while longer.
“There is less food now, and we must make sacrifices in trying times. Your meals will be smaller, and for this, I apologize.” Understanding dawns on everyone, though there’s a small frown on Michelangelo’s face. Splinter waits a moment, and is rewarded when his youngest hesitantly speaks up.
“Sensei, why’s there nothing on your plate?” Ah, trust Michelangelo to notice the discrepancy, and draw attention to it. He smiles calmingly, picking up his cup and waving away Leonardo’s alarmed stare.
“I ate beforehand, there is no need to worry.” The white lie soothes his sons, and he focuses on the warmth in his chest instead of the hunger in his stomach and worry in his mind. There will always be time for concern and planning later. For now, he allows himself a moment of rest in the silence.
The prospect of a serious talk, no matter how light it actually ended up being, drags the atmosphere down, and the somber feel gets to the tots. They all nod along quietly, not daring to ask any more questions before they turn to their own meals, being able to spot the diminished portions now that they’ve been pointed out.
The silence only lasts a few more moments until Raphael slams a shoulder into Michelangelo when he tries to steal a leaf off of his plate. There’s a short scuffle, though it doesn’t escalate into anything, and Splinter turns yet another blind eye to Raphael silently sneaking the leaf onto Michelangelo’s plate anyway. He would have to talk to him about that later.
It’s not quite up to their usual level of activity, but banter starts building up between his sons again. Due to the reduced portions, the meal ends faster than usual, and there’s a clatter of plates as they’re gathered up. At this point, Splinter would ordinarily let his sons wash the dishes as a chore, but after the short talk, he finds himself collecting them himself.
“Dad, we can do the dishes!” Of course, Leonardo notices and quickly assures Splinter that they’ll handle all of the dishes, insisting when he gently tells him they don’t have to. After a brief internal debate, he acquiesces, mostly due to the earnest expressions sent his way. He allows his sons to clean up, giving them all a small hug before going to meditate in the dojo. The doors shut softly behind him, and the calming aura of the room pulls him into a meditative trance easily.
Back in the kitchen, Leo gathers up the dishes and chats quietly with Raph as they wash them, then pass them off to Mikey to give to Donnie. They work in tandem, until Mikey prods Donnie with an elbow where they stand side by side drying and putting away plates at the counter by the sink.
“Hey, Dee?” He questions as he dries any plates handed to him, then hands them to Donnie to place into the cupboards. Even with the little stepping stool Splinter had found, Donnie was the only one tall enough to reach the shelves safely, and was thus delegated to any duties that required his height.
“What is it, Mikey?” It’s an arrangement Donnie is more than content with, considering he has a very specific organizational system that he doubts his brothers would catch onto. He also hates washing dishes, so leaving that particular duty to Raph, who admitted, under pain of death while fevered and delusional during a bad bout of illness, that he found the repetitive actions calming, is not a burden by any means.
“You know how dad said we have to make sarick- sacker- soccer-” Mikey stumbles over the word, nose scrunching up in irritation until Donnie cuts in, almost fully on reflex. Correcting his brothers is pretty much second nature to him now, just like Mikey distracts them when they’re upset and Raph knows when they’re injured and Leo knows when they’re breaking any rules.
“Sac-rif-ices.” He sounds it out carefully, pretty sure that’s what his little brother was trying to say. He does vaguely remember Splinter saying some line about making sacrifices. He zones back in, rolling his eyes when Mikey nods along distractedly instead of trying to repeat the word.
“Yeah, those. Uhm. What are those?” Huh. If the word was new overall, that explains his difficulty pronouncing it. Raph and Leo also stare curiously, wanting to know as well. Having a definition tended to help it stick better in Mikey’s brain, but this particular time the answer eludes Donnie as well.
“Well, they’re- uh. It’s when- kind of like . . huh. Hang on, let me go look it up, I can’t figure out how to explain it.” Stashing away the last of the plates, he pads into his room, all of his brothers hot on his heels. They didn’t have much else to do down there, and following Splinter’s teachings was important to them.
The pride of his book collection, the dictionary he’d received from Splinter on their last mutation day, is gently slid out of its spot on his shelf. He thumbs through the worn and well-loved pages, eventually arriving to the S section. There’s a few chunks of text torn or faded, but luckily, sacrifice is not one of them. Everyone crowds around Donnie as he settles onto the floor, sitting down in a sort of circle.
“The act of slaughtering an animal or person or surrendering a possession as an offering to God or to a divine or supernatural figure,” he reads the first definition aloud, ignoring the second one as he deems it more boring, “as in, “they offer sacrifices to the spirits.””
There’s a moment of silence as everyone puzzles over the definition, before Raph speaks up.
“So a sacrifice is like . . giving something to someone cooler so they’ll give you what you want?” It’s a gross oversimplification, and doesn’t even confront the religious aspect that coats the word, but it works. He’s not sure who they’re supposed to give sacrifices to, until something pings his mind.
“Pretty much. You know, dad does talk about the ancient spirits of his ancestors watching over us all the time.” It’s more of a casual remark, but it makes a lot of sense when he thinks it over. Who else would their dad ask them to make sacrifices to? There’s a few murmurs from his brothers, until Leo speaks up, face twisted in confusion.
“So we have to offer them some stuff, and then they’ll give us more food?” Donnie mulls over Mikey’s question even as he nods. It seems a bit odd to Donnie that Splinter doesn’t just do the sacrifice himself in order to get more food, but maybe it’s another lesson? It would be useful to learn how to sacrifice things and get others in return.
“I guess so. Maybe this is how we start our training? Dad did say we were going to start that soon.” Raph points out, on the same brainwave as Donnie. Leo, who had been standing to the side with a clear aura of disapproval, immediately straightens, all inhibitions shoved aside. It’s effective in the way that only Raph can manage, tricking Leo into doing something once he starts pushing his buttons. It’s convenient to have Leo on his side in attempting a sacrifice.
“So what do we sacrifice?” It’s a good question, considering the definition isn’t really specific beyond animal, person, or possession. Donnie’s pretty sure it’s usually living things that get sacrificed, so that at least narrows it down a little.
“Do you think they like stuffed animals? Not that- I don’t have any! I’m just asking- if they would want them if, like, if I suddenly found some!” Raph quickly stutters out an explanation that no one really cares about or asked for. But he does draw attention towards himself, and Donnie perks up at the reminder.
“Actually, usually people offer living things in sacrifice. Raph, you’ve been befriending those pigeons, right?” He recalled seeing his usually loud brother mumbling and chirping quietly at some of the city birds, mimicking different calls until they came at his beck and call. It was actually kind of impressive, if Donnie was being honest.
“No way! My stuffed toys are one thing, my pigeons are another! I’m not giving them up!” Raph puffs up defensively, not realizing he’s taken back his admission of not owning any stuffed animals- yet again, no one really cares. There is a small huff over his blatant denial, but it’s understandable.
“Ok, ok. Hmm . . oh, you know, since we aren’t asking for a lot, maybe we don’t have to give the whole thing up. Just a little bit should be fine, maybe like a wing or something?” Maybe a couple of wings to make up for the fact that they’re not sacrificing a whole bird, but that’s for them to discuss later. He still gets an adamant refusal, though.
“Still not happening. I’m not gonna let them- wait, just a little bit, right?” The sudden request for clarification is a bit concerning, especially because Donnie isn’t actually sure about that part. He’d give himself a 70% chance of being correct, and it's just going to have to be enough.
“Yes, I think it’s probable some sacrifices don’t use the whole animal.” I mean, honestly, how many times could humans sacrifice entire animals for some random things to happen? It’s likely they compromised and offered just blood, or maybe some leftover bones. Humans were greedy by nature; Donnie doubts they repeatedly slaughtered all of their animals for some gods.
“Ok, so can’t one of us do it?” Raphael breaks his train of thought, and Donnie blinks as he tries to catch up. Then he blinks again, because the thought didn’t even cross his mind, but it made sense. They were bigger, so a smaller part from them would probably be equal to at least two birds, and they would be taking initiative.
“Huh. That’s- I don’t see why not- that’s not a half-bad idea. Good thinking, Raph.” His immediate older brother puffs up in pride at the compliment, and is then shoved aside by Mikey, who squeals loudly as he jumps up and down. Donnie isn’t really sure where the sudden enthusiasm came from, but it is a little bit infectious.
“Ooh! Ooh! Can I be the sacker-face?!” Mikey waves his hand around, grinning broadly. This does make it easier, since they don’t have to spend time finding something or someone else to volunteer. Splinter will be so proud as soon as they figure out how to do this!
“Sacrifice, and sure. We just need to tie you down and cut off one of your arms or legs or something. I’ve still got that tanto dad gave me, we can use that. Would you rather have one arm, or one leg?” Leo makes a noise of alarm somewhere behind him, but it goes unheard as Mikey genuinely contemplates the question.
“If anyone’s getting hurt, it’ll be me, I’m the oldest.” Leo finally interjects, firmly pushing Mikey back down into a sitting position as he stands up himself. It doesn’t really matter much to Donnie, but Raph makes a noise of disagreement as he stands up as well.
“I’ll do it instead. I’m big, and I’m second oldest, and you,” Raph reasons, “gotta lead the ritual thingy, ‘cause you’re the leader and the oldest. Mikey can be on clean up duty.”
Those are the magic words to convince Leo to sit back down, though not without a final stare passed between him and Raph while Mikey splutters in the background at being assigned work. Seemingly content with what he finds, he nods firmly, then gestures towards Donnie. With that settled, Donnie grabs his tanto and leads everyone to the kitchen.
“I mean, if the sacrifice should happen somewhere, it should be in the kitchen, right? Because that’s where the food will . . appear? And it’s closer to the sink for clean up.” He reasons at the questioning glances he gets. There’s a quiet “oooh” passed between his brothers, and Leo nods approvingly at the planning.
The kitchen is exactly as they left it a few minutes ago, though Leo shoots the dojo doors a look as they pass. Should they tell Splinter before they started, so that he could guide them? But if they did it all by themselves, it would show that they were more mature, and ready to start training. Maybe it would even prove that Leo was a good leader, conducting the sacrifice with Donnie.
“Do I lie down or something? I mean, we can put my arm up on the table and try to chop it off there.” There’s a bit of shuffling as they all try and find the best way to go about doing the whole thing. Leo blinks as he notes that his brother has already decided what limb to give up, wondering about the thought process.
“You sure you don’t wanna do a leg instead?” Rather than ask directly, he goes about it in a roundabout way, questioning Raph’s decision directly. As expected, he gets rolled eyes and the actual answer for his efforts.
“Nah. I can still punch Mikey with one arm, but it’s gonna be way harder catching him if I’ve only got one leg.” There’s a faint noise of disagreement from Mikey at the comment about him being punched, and a giggle from Donnie, who seems to be rooting around the cupboards for something.
“I think I’ve heard of sacrifices being held by rope. Do we need rope?” Leo makes his way over, looking through the drawers as well. He doesn’t really think the kitchen will have any rope, but if it’s needed to do the sacrifice right, maybe it’s better to be safe than sorry. Based on the annoyed groan from Raph, he disagrees.
“It’s not like I’m gonna try and run, Don. Let’s do this already!” Donnie rolls his eyes at Raph’s complaint but acquiesces, padding back with Leo before handing over his tanto to his older brother. Seated at the table, one arm laid across it for easier chopping access, Raph rolls his eyes dramatically at the slightly hesitant expression on Leo’s face.
“For crying out loud, Leo, get on with it! We aren’t getting any younger here!” The very real irritation in his little brother’s voice finally draws Leo out of his reverie, and he nods firmly. This was for the good of the family. For Splinter’s approval. He could do this, even if his stomach was starting to turn at the thought of making his brother so much as bleed.
“I’ll try to hit somewhere that doesn’t hurt as much, okay, Raphie?” It’s more of a reassurance for himself, and Raph sighs, eyes softening ever so slightly. He reaches out his free hand to nudge Leo gently, then leans back as if the contact never happened and sneers at him.
“Way to make a turtle feel calm. Just hurry up and get this over with, I’ll be fine.” With a final deep inhale, trying to soothe his strangely frazzled nerves, Leo nods and positions himself nearby, facing the table and Raph’s arm. He draws the tanto up, then pauses. While he’s more than confident in his ability to cut through Raph’s arm in one clean go, he’s not sure if he should give him a warning or not.
Leo considers counting down for Raph, but maybe doing it suddenly would be better. That’s how they did it in movies, after all. Just as he finally finds the mental footing to swing the blade down, the dojo doors slam open. In the blink of an eye, Splinter is in front of him, his fingers stopping the blade just a few inches above Raph’s arm. Leo blinks owlishly at his father, Raph similarly sputtering somewhere beside him.
“What is going on in here?!” Splinter thunders, snatching the tanto blade away from Leo in a smooth disarming mood. Never has he been so thankful for his parental and ninja instincts; when something had started nibbling away at his focus, a strange feeling insisting that something was wrong, he hadn’t expected this. If he had been even a second late, it is unlikely Raphael would still have his arm.
“Aww . . I wanted to see Raphie get sacrificed!” Michelangelo whines. Splinter feels his confusion growing exponentially, trying to come up with any possible explanation for the current situation. The utter panic he had felt, still feels, at seeing one of his sons about to be harmed is making it hard to rationalize.
It’s only the fact that there’s no otherwise signs of distress on any of his sons that stops him from making any rash moves.
It doesn’t stop him from giving them the tongue-lashing of a century.
-
“My sons, that is not what I meant by sacrifices.” Splinter sighs deeply, pacing in front of his children. At the very least, they all look properly chastised after his nearly hour-long lecture. They had been silent throughout it all, and only at the end had Donnie hesitantly piped up to explain what they were doing.
To think that they had misinterpreted his words so heavily- it was a miracle no one had actually ended up hurt. He hadn’t thought word choice would be so important, especially not with Donatello having taken to explaining everything to his brothers. This lapse in his judgement could have ended catastrophically.
“In this scenario, I meant sacrifices as in giving up something important for something else. Like having smaller meals so that everyone can have some because there’s less food overall.” He tries to keep his voice steady, and it seems to work as his children blink at each other. Donatello lets out a quiet “oh,” mouth falling open a little.
“Oh. Oooh. You know, I considered it might be that one, but I thought the other definition for sacrifice was more fun to try.” Following the admission, Splinter takes a deep, calming breath before burying his face in his hands and silently screaming.