He was the second person to love you in The Pit. You remembered - hazily, because of how young you had been - that you'd charged after your mother, desperate to save her from the three, or four, or five thugs who'd grabbed her. A noble yet pitiful attempt, really; you remembered that strong arms had swept you away, covered your ears as you thrashed, keeping you from hearing her screams, keeping you from helping. You'd hated him. He'd saved you, but why not your mother? Why not the first person who cared about you, the person who gave you life?
You found out early that you couldn't survive on your own in The Pit. Every time you avoided him, you ran into trouble; every time you ran into trouble, he was there to beat off the other prisoners or sweep you up in his arms and run. Eventually you clung to him like you used to cling to your mother. Eventually, you understood.
He may have been tall as a mountain in your childish eyes, with arms that could wrap around you and hide you entirely; he may have been strong enough to hold his own in a two-against-one fight. He was your protector, your guardian, and while you liked to think he was indestructible... he wasn't. There was no way he could protect a child and her mother, not with the odds he'd been up against. Forced to choose between you and her, he'd chosen you. How could you hate him for that?
Women didn't survive long in The Pit. As much as you hated to think, women were physically weaker, easier targets, easier prey. The Pit was filled with the finest monsters; if they wanted to kill each other, who would stop them? You were lucky enough to have a guardian who treasured and protected you, sheltering you like a fragile flower, even at the cost of black eyes, broken noses, and fractured bones.
The prisoners called him Bane, and you, The Girl. You called him Guardian, called yourself Talia.
He called you Angel.
When it was peaceful, when nobody dared to cross him, your Guardian would lift you high on his shoulders and show you the entrance to The Pit, stand in what little sunlight there was so you could get a good, clear look at each other. Some day you'll get out, he promised under the clear blue sky, Some day you'll be free of this place. You dreamed of it, hugging your protector in the safety of 'somewhere else'. You never noticed that he had never said he would be with you.
You always thought you'd be together forever, no matter what.
You were eight when they decided to mob him. How many enemies had he made in The Pit while defending you? Ten? Twenty? He could take them in ones and twos, maybe in threes, now, but not as a whole. Not as a gang. You remembered the terror when he had grabbed you, sprinted, cradling you to his chest as he slammed into any who barred his path, ignoring punches and kicks. He couldn't run forever. He couldn't protect you forever. Where did he think he could put you, so you could be safe? He could lock you both in a cell, maybe, or... or...
... the entrance to The Pit. You knew immediately what he wanted you to do; he wanted you to climb as others had climbed. The prisoners would stand below any who took the rope, chanting Rise, Rise! as they tried to escape. Panic made you ignore the fact that you wouldn't have a rope, a safety net like all those who had failed to escape. Falling would mean death. Staying would mean death.
Your only option was to escape.
Before you could think he was lifting you, boosting you until reached and climbed, adrenaline and panic giving you strength. Out of reach of the others. Out of reach of your Guardian. They thought you would fall and surrounded him before he could haul himself to safety along with you.
The rocks dug into your fingers and the soles of your feet; you didn't care and climbed, found yourself at the dreaded leap that grown men had failed to jump. You didn't think. Falling meant death. Your safety was there - up, out of reach of hell's finest. You sprinted, bunched your tiny muscles, and made it. At any other moment, you would have been thrilled, exhilarated.
You were filled with dread as you glanced down, hoping your Guardian was safe, that they would leave him in peace if you weren't there.
All you saw was the crinkle of skin around bright brown eyes, warm with relief that you were safe, even as the others set upon him in a frenzy. You saw his lips mouthing the words Fly, Angel! before he was swallowed entirely, buried beneath struggling bodies and bloody fists, screams from the crowd drowning out all else.
You turned and climbed, and tried not to cry.
You weren't sure how you'd found your father, but you did. When he found out about your Guardian, the way the other prisoners had set upon you and him, the way you'd had to flee... his eyes had gone dark with rage. It had taken you, what, a month to find him? Two? Longer? Your Guardian was likely dead. You knew it, your father knew it, but he left anyway.
A week later he was back, ushering you into a room with a person who couldn't stand on his own. You'd walked forward hesitantly, unsure of who or what it was. The closer you got, the more you realized it was a monster lying in that bed.
Bloody bandages encircled a shaven head; scabbed-over holes and crumpled cartilage were visible where his ears should have been. Fingers were bent awkwardly, still in the process of healing badly; he smelled like rot and death, visible skin ashen and grey. He was a demon who made a pained, choked gurgling sound when you neared, reaching painfully towards you as you cowered.
Bandages shifted but you couldn't see his mouth; you didn't need to once you noticed one brown eye, bright with pain, warm with relief, crinkling around the edges in a smile. You couldn't forget. How could you forget? You loved those brown eyes, and they had been your last sight of him a month ago.
You'd forgotten your misgivings immediately, a smile splitting your face even as your father held you back to prevent you from exacerbating your Guardian's injuries. You had climbed The Pit; you'd survived Hell. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that you had him back.
He was different when he healed, and it saddened you. Before, he had been strong and proud, a normal-looking man with short-cropped dark hair. Before, you could have recognized his silhouette in the dark. Sometimes you still expected him to look like he had when he'd saved you and not your mother. He wouldn't. Not again.
He was shaven bald for convenience. The metal mask that held his shattered face together covered him from jaw to nose, circling his skull, crossing between his eyes. You couldn't see his ears - there wasn't much left of them, anyway - and you couldn't see what teeth remained in his smile. Scars criss-crossed his chest and back where infection had set in; he looked like a monster from hell. The mask distorted his voice, giving it a tinny, artificial tone that tickled your ears and somehow always made him seem happy, despite whatever he was saying. Everything was different.
If not for his eyes, you would never have recognized him. He still had the same eyes that crinkled around the corners when he smiled under his metal mask, the same eyes that lit up when you were happy and darkened when you were in danger. It was because of those eyes that you recognized the affectionate purr in his new voice when he called you his Angel; it was because of those eyes that you let him swing you onto his shoulders, lifting you towards the sky like he always had.
He was your protector, your Guardian, and he gave so much for you, sacrificing blood, flesh, and bone; sacrificing his face, voice, and very nearly, his life. He saved you from The Pit, gave you the strength and power to fly. No matter what he looked like now, he was yours. You owed him your life, even as he gave you his; he followed you unquestioningly as you dedicated yourself to your father's cause, pledging himself to you.
Everyone who saw him cringed, screamed, and ran, called him Bane, a monster, a devil. He didn't care about that.
You were the only one that mattered, and you still loved him. You still called him your Guardian, like you always had. Like you always would. Together forever.
No matter what.