#donatello!

Donatello was incredibly bored and incredibly cold. Even with the heated gear that Bishop had provided for him, Donatello could practically feel his heart rate slowing and body temperature dropping lower than it ever had in New York. If he didn't have the coat and hat to keep him warm, he was certain that death would have been quick and painful in this environment. He knew movement was the best way to keep warm, but it took a great deal of effort for his brain to persuade his body to obey.

Donatello stood from the snow finally. This place still unsettled him, the unnatural shape of the campgrounds a constant reminder in his head that this place was not a good place. Perfectly circular and barren of life, as if trees and bushes and even grass refused to grow in the area, old tattered tents and even some makeshift shacks scattered around in no true order; Donatello was sure the shacks would provide better warmth than the tent he was given with his supplies, but some better part of him didn't want to step foot in any of them. Some were very old, wood rotting and peeling away, while others seemed much fresher and steadier; the tents were much the same way.

Donatello forced himself to find the place farthest away from the rest of the homesteads to start laying down the foundations that would form his tent.

“Hey. Hey kid.”

Donatello dropped the supplies from his arms. That voice could have feasibly been coming from anywhere, but Donatello’s eyes naturally settled on the cave. The cave was at the base of the mountain, the inside Vantablack in such an unnerving way that Donatello hadn’t dared venture anywhere near it. It was day out, yet even with the sun there was still only black. He could see no stone, no nothing inside except for a blank abyss.

“Come here. Come here.” The voice rasped once more, this time all around Donatello with no true origin. “I’m here! In the cave.”

Donatello grabbed his bo staff for security.

“Don’t do it!”

More voices— children's voices— made Donatello fall and turn quickly to face the forest behind him. The voices were much more pronounced than the first one, much more real.

“Don’t do it. He only lies.”

Donatello searched and searched until he found two black dots staring at him from a cluster of leaves. When the black dots blinked, Donatello quickly started to recognize more and more of those dots— those eyes— staring back at him.

“Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it…”

“Okaaayyyy creepy children of the trees. Something tells me I should listen to you.”

Donatello went back to his work, ignoring the further beckoning calls of the cave in favor of setting up his tent to get some shelter from the harsh elements. When the tent was up, he went to sleep, clutching his bo staff tightly.

His slumber was fitful and plagued with nightmares of varying severity. Buildings crumbling under the weight of something far bigger, something Donatello couldn’t understand. The sound of screams so familiar to him yet sliding through his fingers like dry sand. An endless abyss trying to swallow him whole. Then he was back in the campsite, swallowed by snow and haunted by the sounds of paws scampering across dead earth. The fabric of his tent ripping under sharp canines and powerful claws…

Donatello woke up sooner than he would have wanted. He could still see light outside the tent, just barely. The air was almost warm, but a sharp breeze alerted Donatello to the open tent flap. He thought, no, he knew, he had closed it! Giving a growl of frustration, he crawled forward in the hopes of sealing it again, but what he saw outside the tent made him stop in his place.

Foxes. Two foxes with his bag in their mouths, standing on their hind legs! Not like mutants or yokai would, but like an animal had just decided to walk that way!

“Hey!” Donatello called out as he scrambled out into the open air, colder than it was earlier in the day. “That’s my stuff!”

The emerald eyes of the foxes remained fixed on him for a moment before they dropped to all fours and took off into the forest. Donatello knew better than to go off the trail, but all the food and water he had to last him through the torturous trial was in that bag and it was being taken away! He paused at the campsite’s edge, staring off into the thick, snagging brambles and the low-hanging branches ready to reach out and grab him. He allowed himself only a moment of respite before he took off into the woods after them.

Donatello used the sharp of his new bo to cut himself a way through, but still the foxes were faster. Where Donatello had to hack and slash and strike a path big enough for him to pass, the foxes weaved through the brambles with expert knowledge, fur not catching and foxes not slowly. Eventually, Donatello forsook his attempt at making a path as he could hear the yips and hollers of the foxes getting further and further in the distance. If it wasn’t for their paths in the snow, Donatello would have lost them already. Instead of cutting a way through, Donatello forced his way through. The worst of the damage the brambles gave him was absorbed by the thick sweater that covered the entire length of him, and what the sweater didn't save him from, his boots and gloves and hat and scarf did.

Donatello realized far too soon that he was dreadfully lost. The yells of the foxes were almost gone now, and all that left him with was the hooting of the ural owls and the blowing winds. He had no flashlight with him, and the light of day had gone quickly. The night he was used to wasn’t like this night at all. The nights he had been raised on were illuminated with the street lamps and the shining windows of late work and disobedient children. This night didn't belong to people. This night belonged to nothing.

The moon was something that Donatello had never really considered beyond the scientific curiosity of a child, but in that moment he had hoped that maybe it would give him the guidance he needed to find his way back to camp. Looking up into the starless sky, no moon stared back at him. He felt truly alone.

Donatello wasn’t sure how he made it to morning, but he did. When the dawn light ended what seemed an endless night, Donatello rubbed his eyes to clear them of the ice trying to form and looked around in a quiet, defeated stupor. It didn't look like the same place he was in last night. The dark shapes no longer moved. The owls no longer called out. The winds still came, but not as powerful as before. Or maybe it was just the calls of the songbirds waking peacefully from the same night Donatello had painfully endured that warmed him. There was no use in waiting here.

It got brighter as Donatello tried to search for the path he had taken in his rush. He was hungry now, and thirsty. He wished he had something to store the snow until it melted. He knew better than to eat the snow as it was, but he would be lying if he had said that the thought didn't cross his mind. Luck provided Donatello a break in his aimless search and brought him to a path. Not the one he had made, but still a path. A path that might lead him back to the campsite! Instead, it led him somewhere completely different.

“A monastery?”

It wasn’t much. A small Vihara, smaller than any building Donatello had seen in New York. Faded white paint peeled and crumbled, and what Donatello assumed used to a golden roof had lost its point, cut off at the center, and lost its color; now it was the most unruly shade of yellow. Windows shattered, vines creeping over the walls and through cracks to spill into the building itself. It was a wonder the place was still standing! Featured on either side of the Vihara’s entrance were two identical kitsune statues.

Make a wish!

I wanted to do something special, but I'm just proud of myself for remembering. I missed my 1,000th post. But I am lack of creativity. So have the most recent picture of me!