This story is dedicated to sydneynr, who planted the idea in my head.
I take and use the information given in the film—not speculations about deleted scenes.
Enjoy!
VVVVV
Better To Be Loved
Alydia Rackham
1
"Tell me about Bane! Why does he wear the mask…?"
V
The crisp wind gusted through the upper branches of the ancient oaks, sending their leaves tumbling down to rustle around Bane's booted feet. He stood alone, unarmed, the collar of his thick coat turned up against the chill. The shadow of young night hid his great frame amongst the leaning grave-markers—weathered stones that huddled at the base of the darkened Wayne Manor. And he gazed, fixed, at the single window that bore light.
It was unique light. Deep and flickering. Not electric, and certainly not from a lamp or candle. It glowed from a wood fire, in a broad mantel. Warm, quiet light. Perfect to thaw the bones after being soaked by an icy autumn rain.
Bane shifted, his brow furrowing against the mask, as his breath became a little too loud in his ears.
He knew where she was, and what she was doing. She had told him her plan, clearly and succinctly, her bright eyes flashing to his only once, to see that he understood. He had wordlessly nodded.
And after she had safely set off, he had followed her.
No one ever asked him questions, so when he left the central League room within the Gotham sewers without a guard or weapon, he did so without interruption.
And now he stood upon Bruce Wayne's green and untamed land, outside in the night air, watching the firelight blush against the glass of that one window.
He knew her plan.
He knew what she was doing.
Bane's breathing hurt him.
He ducked his head and swallowed—a dry convulsion.
He turned sharply, tugging at the vest strapped around his chest, and swept back into the night.
He would be dealing with Bruce Wayne soon enough.
BBBBB
Bane remembered his face before the mask. He had caught sight of it a few times in still pond water, windows, and polished metal. The reflection had always struck him as one belonging to a proud, handsome man—one with noble, hard features and wild, dark hair.
Then had come the prison. And the gnawing plague that had cost him his wild, dark hair.
But that same prison had brought him Talia. Little Talia, with her eyes like blue flame—whose silent glance or quiet word healed like a balm. A blooming flower in a pit of bones.
She would sit next to him on the stone, like a little nymph, staring up at the circle of stars and the silver moon that walked among them. And Bane taught her the names of the figures in the stars; and her pointed, wistful questions made him smile. For he was still a very young man, then—and hope burned hot within his chest.
Then came that black day—the day when the fumbling doctor neglected to lock her cell. When the other inmates, mad with vice and violence, had broken in and torn Talia's mother apart.
They had almost done the same to Talia.
But they had not succeeded.
And that had cost him everything else.
BBBBB
Bane sat on the wooden floor in a lost corner of a fortress—a fortress that clung to a mountainside in a forgotten corner of the world.
He was not a prisoner. The broad, carved door to his left hung open, and a long, half-lit hallway lay beyond. A tray of food sat next to his sandaled feet. He stared ahead of him, at the blank wall. At nothing. His arms rested on his bent knees. He blinked—his eyelashes brushed the bandages that covered his mouth and nose all the way up to his lower eyelids. More bandages hugged his forehead and wrapped around his bare head and neck.
What did they mean by setting bread and cheese and meat and water down next to him like this? He swallowed. He was thirsty, but again, what could be done about that?
The League of Shadows had found him because Ra's al Ghul's wife had been a prisoner in that hell. Many of the inmates who had killed the woman and split Bane's face were dead by the time the infamous warriors had repelled down into the pit—Talia had made her escape years ago. Bane had no idea, even now, why he had been spared by these lethal fighters. They had brought him to this fortress, given him a room and a pallet—and, while he had still been delirious from neglect, they had given him "medical attention."
They had tried to repair his face, his throat, his head. Tried to remove and reform years of hardened scar tissue, and smooth over the jagged marks left behind by clumsy stitch-work. Instead, they had rendered his left cheek immobile, the inside of his mouth nearly useless with pain, and his lips lacerated. The only difference seemed to be that they had straightened his nose—stopping its perpetual bleeding—before covering his whole face with bandages.
And they were not an overly-compassionate lot. Bane sensed that they had done what they were willing to do, and if he could not find a way to feed himself—well, so be it.
He knew this. But he also knew that trying to force food or even water past his broken lips and down his torn throat was impossible. He would rather die.
Footsteps.
Footsteps in the hallway.
He blinked again, slowly. That was odd. Usually, the ninjas made no sound when they walked. And these footsteps sounded light, but deliberate.
Feminine.
His throat spasmed—he frowned, but couldn't bring himself to turn his head.
A slight, winsome figure entered the edge of his vision. Then, it moved around and stood before him, in the wash of grey light coming in from the window back behind his head.
He lifted his eyes, and looked into hers.
Her eyes, like blue flame.
Talia.
But she was tall, now. Tall and strong, with long, chestnut hair. He recognized her face, but it had gained maturity, beauty. She wore simple, woven clothes and soft-soled boots. She was still quite young, but she was enough of a woman that the sight of her pierced Bane straight through the heart.
He stopped breathing and stared, stricken.
She stood still for a moment in front of him, then tilted her head. Her flawless features sharpened as her dark eyebrows drew together.
"Bane?"
His jaw moved—his tongue tried, and his lips parted to say her name in answer.
He couldn't.
Agony flooded him.
Her bright eyes flashed.
"What did they do to you?" she murmured thoughtfully. And she stepped up to his side, knelt down right by his left hip, and took hold of the edge of the bandage at his throat.
If anyone else had even moved to do this, Bane would have ripped them in half—even if it did cause his heart to burst the next instant.
But her touch—firm and gentle—Bane yearned toward it, toward her. He could feel her warmth as she rested her hip against his and began pulling the long bandage loose, unwinding it from around his neck. He sat up, aching, and leaned toward her, lowering his head as his brow knotted. He let his knees relax, straightening his legs out on the floor, his hands falling limp to his lap.
Sometimes, the bandage caught on dried blood and he would flinch—but her careful fingers worked it loose, and lingered upon his throat in a way that calmed him. She edged closer to him as she used both hands to unwrap the linens around his head—once, his forehead bumped hers. She said nothing the whole time, and Bane's eyes drifted shut—lulled by the rhythmic motion of the bandage in her hands.
The wrappings eventually came loose of his lips, then his ears, his nose, his forehead, and then fell free altogether.
Bane sat as he was, eyes closed—feeling her run her glance all across his scars and new wounds. For a long while, she stayed still.
"Do you know," she finally said. "That my father has commanded that no man inside this castle shall help you to eat, drink, dress, walk or fight. Upon penalty of death."
Bane swallowed again.
She leaned even nearer to him, and lowered her voice to a confidential tone.
"So I would say it is very lucky that I happen to be a girl."
Bane blinked—
And she took his face in her hands.
His head came up. His startled eyes met hers—she gazed back at him steadily, defiantly.
He could feel every one of her fingers upon his skin—her thumbs lay across two of his deepest scars. Her lovely mouth formed a small smile as she watched him.
"And soon, you will be the strongest of them all."
Bane could not speak.
Then, she drew his face toward hers. His eyes reflexively flickered shut…
And she pressed her lips to the soft, untouched skin of his left eyelid.
Tears spilled down Bane's cheeks. They trailed over the backs of her fingers, burning him as they went. She kissed him again, just below his eye—and it felt as if someone was opening up his heart with a knife.
He could do nothing but tilt his head toward her, and when she withdrew an inch, lay the side of his head against hers. They remained there for a long while, not speaking.
Then, at last, she sat back, studying him. She nodded once, and ran her thumb across his lower lip.
"I know it will hurt," she said. "But you will drink some water today."
Bane blinked. More tears fell. But he did not fight her. And as she brought the metal cup to his lips, the icy liquid seared his throat—and her blue eyes held him steady—he thought that, perhaps, he might rather live after all.
To be continued…