End of My Rope

It was a place free of all distractions. It was peaceful and cool, surrounded by air and stars untouched by the light-pollution of the city. The only sounds were distant to his ears, the trails of footsteps and music, of voices and chatter. All were lost to the wind, to the sound of currents swept into the clouds.

It could have been a vision of perfection, had things not been so very wrong.

He struggled to hear something, anything, feeling robbed of his senses and skills.

Instead of being peaceful, the emptiness was crushing. It pressed down on him from the heavens, falling from the clouds of gas and dust. It was pushing him down; Leonardo could feel it. The rope bit into his hands, burning his skin as his boots ground into the wall, making a scraping, gritty noise which got under his skin. Sweat beaded against his brow as he felt himself slip further, the rope feeling dangerously thin beneath his fingertips. He steadied his weight, settling it against his grip, muscles trembling from exertion.

Leo's breathes came in puffs, spreading a thick mist into the air. He slowed them at once, unwilling to give away his position for even a moment. His vision blurred, the wind nipping at them with an icy cruelty. He blinked and tightened his grip, the night pressing around him.

There was a growing knot within him, just below his lungs as he dug his fingertips into the rope, aware of the bruises he'd have the next day.

If there was a next day.

The thought came quickly, a dark cloud constantly present at the back of his mind. Leonardo pushed it aside, focusing his thoughts elsewhere.

There had to be something he had missed. As a ninja, there had to be a way, a technique, a means to get him to a lower level of safety. Grasping the rope firmly, he allowed himself to look down. Beneath him, the ground seemed to swim. Just as each time before, layers of glass-paneled windows, a sleek surface, met his gaze. It was a straight drop, broken only by strips of concrete, like the one he ground his boots into right now.

No grip, no way to scale the eighteen floors without equipment.

Turning his gaze upwards, Leonardo did not waste his breath cursing modern architecture, but by gods he wanted to.

His muscles strained and he could feel the growing numbness which tingled up his limbs, causing his heart to stop and his grip to tighten.

It would not be much longer until he caved. As a leader, he acknowledged his flaws. As a warrior, he refused to submit to them. His jaw throbbed, teeth clenched in determination not to fail. Their mission had been a success. If he could stay here, out of sight, for just a few moments longer, he would be able to lead his brother back into safety.

He needed to get them to safety.

Things started to tilt before he'd even completed the thought, the world spinning on its axis. Leonardo was unsure if he'd allowed his mind to wonder. Not for a moment had he felt his hardened resolve falter, or seen a crack in his focus. But somewhere amongst his aching muscles, and battle-weary form, something had gone wrong.

For a moment, it was as if the building had tilted, and he'd been left, hanging in space. He could feel the grip on the rope slip, helpless to keep it from falling through his fingertips. He could feel the heaviness in his chest; he could hear the awful, awful scraping of boots against the concrete.

He could feel a bitter, choking sensation in his plastron. He felt weightless. For just a moment, he felt like he was nowhere at all. He could no longer tell what was up or down, which side was which, or how to keep his balance, how to keep the fragile grip which tore and bloodied his fingers.

And for a moment, it was almost like flying.

There was a moment of weightlessness, before he was jerked back to the realities of the world. His hand, aching and torn, found its grip again. Or rather, the grip found him. His hand was snatched from the air, his arm screaming its protests as he jerked to a stop. He let out a grunt of exertion, as his feet found the concrete again, scraping against it, knees bracing hard to keep himself steady.

For a moment, Leonardo was unsure what had happened, his plastron heaving silently for breath, his world moving at a dizzying pace.

He was no longer falling.

He tightened his grip on the hand which had stopped his fall, struggling to tilt his head upwards, the terrible spinning sensation still lodged in his mind. Tensing and settling himself, he raised his head, to see the stars blocked out by a powerful silhouette.

"Leo, ya alrights?"

His brother's whispered tones sounded booming in the night air, causing a flood of quiet relief to pool in his chest. Strength returning, will power growing, Leo just nodded and tightened his grip, the silent exchange speaking louder than any words.

His free hand found the rope again, and with the help of his brother, he began to haul himself up.

It was rare for Leonardo to find himself on the edge of failure. It was rare he allowed himself to slip. But when he did, he knew he'd be pulled through and picked up by his family. It was something he could trust with his life. And often did.

So Leo tightened his grip, kept moving upwards, and didn't look down to see how far the fall was.

Because he knew it was a long way down

AN: I worry about the flow of this piece, but all in all, I think it went alright. I would love to know what you think.