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"The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." - Lao Tzu
After the weeks of capacity, Bruce's legs wobble as he finally reaches the long and flat stretch of land that is nearly fifty feet above the dark pit that was his prison. He pauses with his feet just brushing the outside of the opening and takes a long moment to breathe in the arid air. After the months of breathing in the damp and foul oxygen in Bane's hell, Bruce savors the dry and hot taste of air in . . . in . . . in . . .
His dark hazel eyes flit around. Where is he exactly? All he sees in any direction is the endless expanse of scorched dirt and sand. He takes one moment to let down the rope for the other prisoners and then chooses a direction at random. He can't waste time making sure the old blind man and his doctor get to safety. His city needs him.
As the last drops of water from his flagon trickle down his throat, Bruce realizes how deadly Bane's prison might actually be. Between falling on his first attempt and refusing the rope on the second, Bruce nearly lost his life attempting to leave the cursed placed. And now . . . Bruce runs his tongue over his cracked lips and coughs hoarsely from the sand flying into his raw throat. He's probably going to die in this desert, wherever it is, he acknowledges. Despite his attempts at conditioning his body back to its previous strength, Bruce's legs are sluggish to move in the hot sand and every step causes searing pain throughout his bad knee and back.
And perhaps worse still, he hasn't caught site of any of the men from the pit. When he remembered to watch for them, which was too long after he started walking, he didn't see so much as a footstep. Alfred would scold him for thinking he could do everything himself. He would always . . .
Alfred.
The pain comes again, but this time more localized in his chest. Bruce stops for a moment and crosses his arms over his torso, subconsciously reflecting the teachings of his mentor Ra's al Ghul, who long ago told him to "take care of his chest, because his arms would take care of themselves." But the cold that nearly killed him is now replaced with a horrible throbbing ache right against his heart.
Tears sting Bruce's eyes in shame over the man who set his bones, cared for him, loved him, advised him, and most importantly taught him how to be man. Yet . . . Bruce shudders in shame over the memory. He let Alfred walk out of his house like he was nothing more than an old butler.
With his heart beating sickeningly in his chest, he shakes the thoughts of Alfred away and focuses on making each step in front of him. If he manages to make it back to Gotham alive and in time, Bruce will right the wrong he made and make it up to Alfred. He has to.
After miles of increasingly agonizing steps, Bruce thinks it's a heat induced apparition when he spots a little dark haired boy a short distance in front of him. Bruce slowly creeps up, unsure if he's finally sunk into a dehydrated and crazed dream. But the boy appears to be about ten years old and playing by himself at the tip of a large sand dune. He doesn't see Bruce; he's drawing something quite seriously in the sand, using his fingertip as the pencil. All of a sudden, he throws back his head and emits a delighted laugh. Bruce decides that apparitions don't make sounds and opens his parched mouth to speak.
"Hello?" he croaks out.
The boy nearly jumps out of his skin and whips around to see Bruce. In a single motion he's up and ready to run.
"Wait!" Bruce lifts a shaky hand. "I'm not going to hurt you. Please, I need – "
The boy's eyes are huge and startled as he takes a step back. But he hadn't realized how close he was to the edge of the dune. His left foot slips in the dense sand and his body starts to fall back.
Bruce flings himself forward and gets to the boy just as his body leaves the sand. He catches the boy's skinny body before it touches the arid sand. The boy stares at him as they both catch their breath, his huge dark eyes filled with both fear and relief.
He jumps up and starts babbling to Bruce furiously in a foreign tongue. He points a finger accusingly at him, and then to the horizon behind Bruce.
Bruce raises both his hands to stop him. "I don't understand you," he says slowly. He points to the boy, then to his mouth, and then shakes his head. "English?" Bruce tries half-heartedly.
The boy just stares at him and takes a step as if to run again.
"Please!" Bruce stops him. "I just need water." Bruce mimics drinking from a glass this time. "Aqua?" He attempts feebly in Spanish. He asks again in Mandarin and Portuguese, two languages his picked up from his escapades after leaving Gotham nearly fifteen years ago. But the boy's face doesn't change.
Bruce falls to his knees in desperation and puts his head in his hands. What is he going to do? He's in some foreign country, in the middle of the desert, with Gotham merely days away from destruction. His chances of even finding a plane, never mind sneaking on to one, are slim to none, and without any type of map or guide he won't know if he's even headed the right direction. His city needs him, and he can't even get to them. He probably won't even make it out of this desert. Most likely he'll just dehydrate and die, left to be another death in a foreign land.
Something tugs on his sleeve and Bruce looks up with distraught eyes. The boy's little face is surprisingly close to his. Bruce stares, slight taken aback. He expected the boy to run the second his eyes were off of him. But with his brow furrowed, the boy tugs again on Bruce's sleeve and Bruce pulls himself up to stand.
The boy says something in his language and points a finger forward. He looks meaningfully at Bruce and then scurries forward in that direction. He looks back to see Bruce unmoved and frowns. He waves his hand to beckon him forward adamantly. Bruce takes a step forward. And then another. And another.
Though the boy looks back at him concernedly a few times, Bruce manages to follow the boy despite his excruciating pain and thirst. After about a mile, Bruce finally reaches the outskirts of a small village. The glimmer of stone from the houses was the only thing that kept him moving for the last few feet, despite the little boy's liveliness.
His heart lifts as he takes in all the people chatting amongst themselves in the streets, but at the sight of a strange man dressed in tattered rags walking with the little boy by his side, people nearly sprint to the safety their stone huts. With the streets nearly abandoned, one man stands in the middle of the street and waits until the little boy and Bruce reach him. Bruce nearly falls to his knees in exhaustion and dehydration.
The little boy looks from the man in front of him to Bruce and begins to look uneasy. He speaks rapidly to the older man who looks down emotionlessly. The boy keeps speaking insistently until the man holds up a hand to stop him. The boy stops immediately and lowers his head in obedience.
"I'm sorry," Bruce begins, placing his hand to his chest for a gesture of universal apology. "I don't mean to impose on your village. All I ask for is some water. Please." The man looks at Bruce impassively, his dark eyes unmoved.
The man stares at him for a moment before replying in the foreign tongue. All Bruce catches is the distinctive name, "Bane." At this, all the faces pressed to the windows disappear.
"Bane is gone," Bruce shakes his head. "I escaped. No more prison," he tries.
A flash of surprise glimmer in the man's eyes before he returns to looking at him suspiciously under his heavy eyebrows.
"No prison?" the little boy peeps up in heavy accent, to Bruce's surprise. The man gives him one glare and the boy sprints off.
"No prison," Bruce agrees warily, watching the little boy go. The man frowns at him, but points a finger to the sheep in the distance.
"Water," he says to Bruce, almost as if it were a challenge.
Bruce winces at his knee and back and inches another fifty feet until he reaches a huge cluster of sheep grouped around a small watering hole in the ground. Bruce falls to his knees and throws his head into the pool to drink the murky water with desperate gulps.
Eventually, his thirst quenched, Bruce shakes the water out of his beard and feels his stomach grumble. The man who conversed with him from before stands in front of him with a young woman wrapped in a shawl beside him.
After a quick glance from the man beside her, she turns and asks in accented and broken English: "You are from the prison of Bane?"
"Yes," Bruce sighs without standing.
"You escape?" she asks, obviously confused.
"Yes."
"No one escape there," she shakes her head adamantly.
"I did," Bruce replies grimly.
The woman turns and appears to relay this to the man next to her. He says something in the same indistinct language back.
"Where is Bane?" she asks in English to Bruce.
"No place around here." Bruce sighs and continues are her questioning look. "He is in the United States, in a city called Gotham."
"Will he come back?"
"No, he won't."
"Why?"
"Because there are people there that need my help. And to do that – I need to stop Bane." Bruce says fiercely.
The woman raises her eyebrows and relays this without turning. The man looks interested.
"You are one man," she says curiously. "Injured," she adds, nodding at his knee.
Bruce grits his teeth as he attempts to heave himself off the ground. His legs shake and for a moment he thinks he might fall, but he regains his balance. The woman looks skeptically at Bruce, who stands panting from the excursion and bent over like an old man.
"I have a job to do," he tells her, his shadowed eyes serious.
The woman's dark eyes give it away. They flit quickly away to something behind Bruce and then she looks back at him again, her eyes slightly widened. She starts to open her mouth to say something but Bruce quickly turns around and swings his good leg to take down whatever may be behind him.
Bruce has the thug pinned in less than a minute. With surprise on his side, Bruce twists the man's wrist back so he drops the dagger on the ground at Bruce's feet. The man yelps in pain and Bruce slams him to the ground to knock the wind out of him.
Bruce picks up the knife, trying to hide his shaking hands, and the woman and man who spoke to him earlier both take a step back quickly.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he insists angrily, and throws the knife so it burrows into the coarse dirt several feet in front of them. His heart drops. If they're trying to kill him, it's doubtful that they'll helpfully lead him to the closest airport. Bruce gives them one last look before he turns on his heel in the opposite direction.
"You are one of Ra's al Ghul's," the man says in English without the aid of his female interpreter.
Bruce pauses mid-step. He doesn't turn around though he's suspicious at the sound of the familiar name.
"You were trained by him," the woman adds incredulously. "You are of the League of Shadows?"
"No," Bruce says, turning around to face them both. The thug is still knocked out on the ground.
"You are like Bane? Excommunicated?" the man asks, his eyes glued to Bruce. The woman takes a submissive step back, and Bruce realizes who is really in control of this situation.
Bruce narrows his eyes at the now apparently fluent English speaker. "No. Ra's al Ghul trained me. But I never joined his league."
The man's dark eyes flash with comprehension. "You are the one they call the Dark Knight?" he asks carefully.
Bruce jumps slightly in surprise. The woman openly gasps behind the other man, and squints her eyes as if to see Bruce in a different light. Bruce frowns at his apparent notoriety. But despite his suspicions, he feels a glimmer of hope as he realizes that the thug may have in fact been a test, not a death sentence.
He's fighting the urge to run away. He doesn't like this village that seems to know about him, Bane, and even Ra's al Ghul. But Bruce knows this may be his only option of getting back to Gotham. Hopefully they won't kill him on the spot. Bruce bows slightly while keeping his face tilted upwards. "Yes."
The man smiles for the first time. "Come with me, Dark Knight. We can help you."