Hello all! This story was supposed to be a one shot, and then it grew from there. Anyway, chant du cygnet means swan song in French. This is the first of four chapters in what I like to think as my 'French Note' series... I hope you all enjoy!:)

Also a giant thank you to Amonraphoenix for beta reading this chapter for me, and encouraging me to do three other you are awesome!

Anyway, please enjoy:)

Chapter 1: Chant du Cygne

Raphael stumbled; his knees striking hard against the damp stone. He didn't feel his flesh scraped away from his kneecaps as he struggled desperately to stand. He placed a steadying hand against the moisture covered brick wall and blindly pushed onwards.

His breath came out in ragged gasps, the heat of his exhalations hitting the cold air, gathering into small puffs of transparent white mist before vanishing into the darkness.

He needed to get away; escape his pursuer before he caught up with him. His vision wavered and he wasn't sure if it was because the tunnel was dimly lit, or if it was because his vision was actually beginning to failing him.

Using his right hand, he placed it against the wall to guide his staggering movements; a heavy trail of crimson smeared across the earth-toned brick behind him like a macabre arrow, pointing the direction he had come and where he had gone.

His other hand was desperately clutching his throat in a valiant effort to try to stem the crimson tide that pumped more and more of his precious life blood out of his body with every fluttering beat of his straining heart.

Pushing away from the wall, he staggered back the way he had come, doubling back slightly and taking a smaller, narrower passage, hoping that he would be able to conceal the direction he had gone, his pursuer following the bloody trail Raphael had left on the wall to lead him away from where he had gone.

Making his way slowly in the dark, he tried not to touch the walls as he waded through ankle deep, stagnant water, hoping to keep his presence concealed.

The sewer floor suddenly vanished from beneath his feet as he stepped out into nothingness; an endless black hole from which he would never return.

Falling forward he tumbled onto his side, sliding and rolling through mud and refuse slicked debris, before finally coming to rest at the bottom of some sort of embankment.

He may have lost consciousness for a moment, he wasn't sure, but his world had gone frighteningly dark, and when he opened his eyes, his world remained that way.

Trying to repress a cry of agony, a pathetic whimper managed to creep past his lips parched lips anyway.

Gathering himself he tried to move, tried to do anything but sit and wait to either die, or have his pursuer find him.

Move damn it, move! he screamed at himself inside his head as he forced his failing body to reach out with a shaking hand and drag his broken body through the cold, slick mud and rancid filth he had fallen into.

He felt tears of bitter frustration sting his eyes as his fingers spasmed, trying to claw his fingers deeper into the muck and drag himself forward a few feet more.

Biting back another cry of pain as every nerve ending he had in his body lit up in agony, he was able to pull himself forward a measly few inches. Ignoring the pain, he forced himself to again repeat the action, his fingers scraping against what could only be a tunnel wall.

The space he occupied felt small and enclosed, as if he had fallen into some sort of collection point or unused water reservoir, and he couldn't get out.

He was trapped.

Closing his eyes in grim resignation, he rolled onto his side, his breath catching in his throat as agony blazed across his chest. He made another pathetic whimpering noise and hated himself for it.

He refused to go out like some snivelling, pitiful coward.

Using the wall for support he managed to drag himself up so that his carapace was leaning against the wall. A choked sob escaped his bloodied lips; pain ripping tiny trails of blood red agony across is plastron. He took in a rattling gasp of air; vicious razors tearing into his delicate lungs causing him to choke and struggle for breath.

Is it supposed to be this hard to breathe? he wondered to himself in confusion.

Taking in another shuddering breath, he let out a cry of agony as stars exploded before his eyes as tears of frustration rolled down his cold cheeks.

He closed his eyes; the sound of his heart pounding in his chest filled the small space.

Is my heart slowing? Was the previous beat just that much slower than the last? he questioned himself fearfully.

He pushed harder upon the laceration that had torn through the sensitive skin of his throat. He was no doctor but he was pretty sure more than just skin, muscle and tendons had been cut.

Turning his attention from this, he realized that the blindness that engulfed him seemed to heighten all of his other senses; almost painfully so. He could hear the faint drip of water upon metal some distance away and the smooth roll of moisture running down stone walls. He could smell the scent of his own sweat, blood, and the stench of sewage; biting, and bitter. He could feel the rough texture of brick behind his carapace and the slime encrusted floor, rife with unknown debris, waste and mud that had begun to leach a cold, clinging numbness across his skin and into his flesh. But beneath all of this, he could smell the salt from his own frustrated, unwanted tears, and feel the warm damp they produced down his cheeks.

Steel bands of pressure suddenly wrapped their unforgiving, painful grip across his plastron, making his breath catch in his throat, a gurgle of frothy blood trickling from between his lips as he choked on it.

He tried to stifle the sound, its echo bouncing off of the curved walls, possibly alerting his pursuer to his location.

Listening, he thought he could detect the faint splash of a foot striking water, the pace quickening, purposeful; almost frantic.

Are the footsteps getting closer? he silently asked himself as he strained to determine if the rapid sound of running through a series of water drenched tunnels was getting closer, or further away.

He strained his hearing to its limit, trying to quiet his breathing and ignore the gentle beating of his heart, the rhythm melodic; frighteningly so. The low cadence was soothing, almost hypnotising; lulling him into a dark sleep from which he would never awaken.

Raphael finally only detected silence. He concluded that his mind was obviously playing tricks on him, making him believe that his pursuer was close, when in reality; he was alone; completely and utterly.

He opened his eyes, his vision managing to pierce the inky darkness enough to allow him to view his surrounding and confirm his impression of a small circular hole.

He leaned his head back against the cool, damp brick wall, clenching his jaw together and reaching out a shaking hand, attempting to gain enough purchase to haul himself to his feet. He slowly pulled his knee up towards his plastron, straining to accomplish what should have been such a simple task.

Using the wall as support he pushed up against it, forcing his protesting muscles to obey his desperate commands to move, to run, and to get further away. But his effort was to be in vain. His foot slid upon the muck that covered the ground, the slight progress he had made in lifting himself up off the ground, only increasing his pain filled agony as he crashed back to it.

The air was driven forcefully from his lungs and lights danced before his eyes. At that moment he came to the grim realization that he didn't have enough strength in him to try again.

He was going to die in a filthy hole, alone and in the dark. He smiled bitterly to himself, thinking that his death was somewhat fitting. He had lived almost all of his life, hidden, within and living in the dark, without anyone knowing or even caring that he existed, and now, he would die there, almost no one the wiser of his existence or his death. A brief life extinguished with brutal violence, which was the same way with which he had lived.

He managed to let out a mirthless chuckle, though it sounded more like a choked cry of regret.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the pained wheezing of his struggling breaths, wondering how close his killer was to finding him, or if his killer had even bothered to pursue him.

This last thought intrigued him slightly.

Had his killer known he had already delivered the mortal blow, and had not bothered to pursue his fleeing victim? Or had he pursued, wanting to make sure he finished the job he had begun, and had managed to lose him within the winding twisting tunnels of the city's sewer system?

He listened to the sounds around him, his body becoming oddly numb, his thoughts more clouded, less clear and coherent.

Balling up his free hand into a fist, he slammed it into the wall behind him, jarring his injuries. He drew in a sharp, painful intake of breath, and let out a quick hiss, followed by a curse. He tried to draw in another breath and found that his chest felt even tighter than it had before.

He forced himself to ignore the pain and take in a gasp of air, which didn't seem to help his breathlessness.

He snarled angrily. He didn't want to go out like this. If he was going to die, he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, taking as many of his enemies with him as he went. He hadn't planned on dying, slumped up against a brick wall, covered in mud and waste; tears of despair rolling down his cold, numb cheeks.

But he hadn't stayed to fight. He hadn't fought back as hard as he should have. He hadn't gone in for the kill when the opportunity had presented itself. Instead, he had hesitated, and that hesitation, that lack of resolve, of conviction, had left him open and vulnerable.

His killer had taken full advantage of Raphael's split second indecision; that singular realization that if Raphael made that move, performed that brutal, deadly action, there would have been no going back. It would be an action that could not be undone, and he could not allow himself to bear that kind of heavy burden.

His killer had seen the opportunity, a weakness in his opponent's defences, and trained fighter that he was, did not hesitate; not for a single moment. He moved in for the kill, his movements sure, skillful and true.

When steel pierced weak, delicate flesh, Raphael had done the only thing he could, he ran.

He ran for several reasons, and not because he was a coward. He could face death head on and not bat an eye, was prepared for it; had always been prepared for that singular, final eventuality. But he had convinced himself that he had to run because he had believed he could escape his attacker, and if he managed to get away, he would be able to recover, heal and fight another day. But deep down, Raphael knew that this was a lie. He knew the blow that had been struck was a mortal one, and that his time had become finite. He was dying, and by running, he was going to accomplish one last desperate act before he finally died; he was going to conceal his death.

He knew he was still too close to where he and his killer had fought, but it was the best he could do, trapped as he was within this filthy hole. He was going to leave his killer with the belief that Raphael had managed to escape, and that he was still alive, somewhere, out there. Whether plotting his revenge or just healing, his killer would believe that he was still alive.

And that was going to be his final act; his eloquent, poignant gesture.

Trying to move his head, he found that he could only move it very slightly, his limbs having long since gone numb, the cold creeping into his flesh, his bone and finally, into his very soul. He stared into the dimly lit darkness, realizing that his hand had long since slipped away from his throat, lying limply at his side; his precious life slipping away by seconds. Each beat of his heart was like a tick of a timer, counting down the very last moments of his life.

He took in a slight, rattling whisper of breath, his limbs heavy, heart faint. The sounds of running footsteps through damp tunnels echoed around him, coming closer. A voice raised in hue and cry, the voice of his murder bouncing and sliding along the circular tunnel walls that had become his unwanted resting place.

Raphael felt his vision grow dark, the painful agony he had been enduring seeming to dim as his final breath exited his now still lungs.

A figure leapt in front of him, mud and waste slopping onto his legs, not that he could feel this, but he was dimly aware that this action had occurred.

His heartbeat fluttered, giving one last, final, pitiful, desperate pump before growing still.

His final act, not made out of hate or fear, but of love, ultimately made in vain.

Raphael's vision faded completely. The final image burned into his very soul, was the tear stained, cerulean blue mask of his killer, his murderer...his brother.

Tissue...anyone?