Sleeping Death

Charge of the Light Brigade

So there's some poetry in this chapter. Poetry, which is clearly not mine.

Credit where credit is due, the poem used in this chapter (hence the chapter name) is by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

While writing this, a line of poetry started bouncing around in my head. I do not quote the whole thing, just the pieces I found most fitting. The other small bit of poetry is mine (you'll know because I'm not much of a poet). Anyway, hope you enjoy!

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He had to squint under the harsh gray light. Why was it so bright?

Whoa! He threw his arms up to protect his face when a powerful gust of air flung him back. It did little to aid him. The eerie wind lifted him clean off the ground. He summersaulted over and over—arms flailing—grabbing at nothing.

For a few seconds he hung midair before abruptly realizing that the whipping winds were dying out.

"Ooh-ah-mpf!" he exclaimed, landing on his shell. Sitting up and rubbing his head, he looked around.

It was all so unbearably bright. Where the shell was he? What about the Mutanimals? Had they gotten away? Had he been captured by Shredder?

What about Raph? Slash had said...but what had he meant? Was there really a chance? Could Raph be alive?

Leo stood, brushed himself off, and set out to find some answers. He turned around and stopped dead in his tracks. He gasped. He was atop a giant dune—a dune of fine, soft sand that reflected the harsh light like a foggy mirror. There were three such dunes, sloping down like mountains to a great valley. Spiraling down into the basin like a giant sift. Down in the gulf stood a precarious little village of black tile and bright red rock.

He didn't like the look of that place. It looked like one of those ancient digs he'd seen on television in those archeological programs Don liked to watch. The village was unnatural, like it oughtn't to be there—like the desert could swallow it back up again at any moment. He shouldn't go down there, but—

There was something. Leo couldn't quite put his finger on it, but his instincts were acting up again. There was something down there that he needed to see. At the same time, he was arrested by a jolt of foreboding.

Into the valley of death...

No. He shook his head. This was no time for poetry, he told himself. He reached back for his katanas and spun around a few times when he realized they were gone. What the—

Great, he thought, rolling his eyes.

On high alert, he edged down the slippery slope, feeling the tickle of the sand between his toes, a sensation that was strange and hard to get used to, Leo pressed forward. Closer and closer to the dark center...

"Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward

All in the valley of death," he muttered under his breath.

Master Splinter was never remiss when it came to their general education, but each of his turtle sons had a keen appreciation of art and literature, since they were two of the rat's favorite subjects.

Michelangelo was the arty one of the family. Donnie's genius manifested itself in all areas. Leo had fallen in love with classic literature, Japanese and otherwise. Oddly enough, Raphael's interest had fallen into more contemporary works.

"Boldly they rode and well,

Into the Jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell," Leo whispered, distractedly. He knew that he'd jumped quite a bit, but he couldn't remember much of the verses. It had been years since he'd read any Tennyson. Not one of his favorite poets. Classic—yes—but not his style. This particular piece, he knew, was one of Raph's favorites.