FROM THE ASHES

Chapter 2

The next night Bane awoke in the wee hours once again. Normally a sound sleeper, he knew only Talia could be the reason for his awakening. For a moment he listened, detected her voice, but not loud like last night. He crept across his room. Tonight he had left the adjoining door ajar. Pausing there, he listened again, holding his breath so the noise of his mask would not impede his hearing. Distressed murmurings reached him, the rustle of blankets, the squeak of the bedframe.

He told himself to wait, to see if she quieted, but he was unable to restrain himself. Using stealth learned from ninjutsu, he glided across the floorboards. Twenty-five years in the subterranean prison had given him excellent night vision, so he easily made his way through the darkness to Talia's bedside.

"No," she mumbled in her dream state. "Bane…Bane…"

Hearing the anxiety in her voice, he decided to wake her. He turned on the bedside lamp. "Talia," he gently said, reaching to touch her warm cheek.

Her long lashes fluttered then slowly lifted. "Bane." She breathed a sigh of relief before giving a soft moan. "I woke you again."

"No, I got up to use the toilet, and thought I would check on you."

She offered a sleepy smile. "You're lying; I woke you. I'm sorry."

Bane settled on the edge of the mattress, rested a hand on her hip, which her scarlet chemise barely covered. "Your dreams were troubled again." He hesitated. "You said my name. What were you dreaming, habibati?"

Talia groaned and rolled from her side to her back. "I was climbing the shaft again. But this time when I saw the men attacking you, I went back for you. This time I wasn't a child."

He frowned. "It is your guilt about my injuries that caused your dream. I do wish I could keep you from blaming yourself still after all these years." His sigh rattled through the mask. "Yet another bad dream about the pit. Now you must allow me to contact your grandmother so you may go back to her."

She frowned ruefully. "I'll keep my word and allow it, but…will you return with me?"

"Is this an order from the Demon's Head or a request from my habibati?"

"It's not an order. Because of the danger either one of us imposes upon Jiddah, it must be your own decision."

"My decision, as always, is based upon your desire. So tell me what that is."

Talia hated to think of being without him right now. She needed him and his strength. Though he, too, had been grievously injured during the battle for Gotham—indeed, he had been near death for some time afterward—she had never viewed him as weak. Even as he lay comatose for weeks, she had been confident he would regain consciousness, that he would come back to her, for she knew him to be the strongest of men, both physically and mentally. She had been at his bedside as much as her own injuries allowed, holding his hand, speaking to him, desperate to let him know that she, too, had survived, for she knew Bane would struggle to live if for no other reason than because she asked him to.

"You may think me weak—and perhaps I am—but I need you with me, habibi. I know it's selfish of me, but—"

"It is not selfish; it is understandable. And it is what I want as well." He smiled behind the mask, took her hand and squeezed it.

She smiled back, enjoying his touch; it chased away the darkness of the dream. "Do you ever wonder how things would have been different if you had climbed out of the pit with me that day? If you hadn't been injured?"

"When I was younger, before I was initiated into the League, yes, I occasionally wondered such foolish things. But Temujin's training helped me accept my past, my fate, and leave it behind."

"You were able to accept your past because it was heroic. Mine isn't."

"You are talking nonsense, Talia. You were the bravest of children. You never could have made that climb if you weren't. And then to find your grandmother on your own, with no real knowledge of the outside world. What other ten-year-old could have done as much?"

"I had Mama's instructions to help me find Jiddah."

"Memorized instructions are one thing, but actually navigating a foreign land and enlisting the help of total strangers at that age were remarkable, heroic feats. How many times must I tell you this? You must let it go."

"I thought I had…until my failure in Gotham. Since then, it seems everything has come back to me, every failure, every sin in my life. They haunt me." Sitting up, she was closer to him now. His scent overwhelmed her—a blend of odors from the materials of his mask as well as the vapor that circulated within, mixed with a touch of perspiration slipping through the cleanliness from his bedtime shower, along with the smell that was distinctly his own, something unique that stirred her passion, especially with him so close, wearing nothing but linen, drawstring pants.

"As I have said before," Bane insisted, his voice becoming throatier, "the failure in Gotham is my fault. I should have killed the Batman in the sewers when I had the chance, regardless of my own pride or your desire to prolong his suffering."

Talia lay her hand against the side of Bane's mask. "You've always tried to claim my failings as your own. I won't hear it anymore."

"Then we must both agree to never discuss this again. It is in the past, habibati, like the pit. We must look to the future."

"The future," she said sadly, her hand slipping back to her lap. "I have been thinking about it. And I believe it would be best if I step down and pass my powers on to you. I am no longer worthy of the post."

He scowled. "I will hear none of this. Your recent trauma has impaired your judgment. Now is not the time for such momentous decisions. Once you have completed your physical therapy, your confidence and strength will be restored, and you will see clearer then."

"I don't need confidence and strength to realize that some of my past decisions have been flawed. My convalescence has given me time to reflect. I told myself all those years in Gotham that I was doing my father's work, that I was avenging him, but now I realize I was merely trying to satisfy my own selfish need to erase my guilt for my broken relationship with Papa."

"Again, your guilt was misplaced. I was the reason for your estrangement."

"The choice to sever ties with Papa was my decision alone, Bane. Yes, he unjustly excommunicated you, but you never would've been in that position if it weren't for me. Now, tell me, will you accept your new role as the Demon's Head?"

He scowled. "I will continue to serve in the interim as de facto commander, but by birthright the title is yours, and that is the only way it shall be, habibati. I will hear no more of this. Do you understand?"

"But it's necessary, Bane. Don't you see? I'm no longer worthy or able to perform the role. The League needs you."

"You are my priority. You always have been. I will always serve you. We have been apart for too long. My wish is to remain close to you, in whatever capacity that may be. Taking over as the Demon's Head would not allow that."

Sadly, she studied him, touched his mask again, felt him lean into her palm, his gaze softening. She knew the power she had over him because of his love for her, and she also knew she had abused that love. Until her injury, she had been too blind to see it. After he had ordered her last lover killed—an act to which he had never admitted—she had been resentful and bitter for some time, making it easy to justify her treatment of him.

For now, she decided to let the discussion about relinquishing power die. It was obvious she would make no headway with him on the subject tonight. Tomorrow she would try to recruit Barsad for her cause, and once she was back with her grandmother, she would acquire her assistance as well. Her grandmother had never wanted her to inherit the title of the Demon's Head, so Talia was confident of her aid.

"You are too good to me, Bane. I don't deserve you."

"More foolish talk, habibati."

"I wish it were only talk." Her hand dropped away. "But the truth of the matter is that in many ways I became Miranda Tate after playing her for so many years in Gotham. I lost myself, and it changed me. I fear that I can't go back to being Talia al Ghūl."

Urgently Bane took her small face in his hands, his protrusive mask nearly touching her nose. "You are not Miranda Tate. You played a role, and you played it well. But you will always be Talia…my Talia."

His possessive word moved her in an unexpected way, pleased her, eased away some of her turmoil. Her hand drifted up to touch his fingers, and she impulsively placed a soft, brief kiss against the mask's grating, which covered his damaged mouth. Bane's eyes crinkled in a smile. His eyes always amazed her, how transformative they were. In the line of duty, they were frigid and dark, almost lifeless; but whenever he was with her, their true slate blue came through, and they brightened and softened.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," she said near a whisper. "Will you stay with me?"

He caressed her cheek. "Of course."

She nodded her thanks and made an attempt to return some order to her bedding. When she turned back to him, he was pulling a chair over to the bedside.

"Bane," Talia said, amused, "I don't mean for you to spend the night in a chair." She patted the pillow next to her then shifted over to the other pillow and settled beneath the comforter.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "Very well."

Bane had lost nearly two stone during his convalescence but had regained much of it over the past few months, putting him back around twenty stone, so Talia's bed groaned when he lay down, facing her. He tugged the comforter over him enough to hide the erection that pressed at his pants.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"For what, habibati?"

"For this, for everything."

He smiled indulgently. "Shall I turn off the light?"

"No, not yet."

The sight of his physical arousal had awakened her desires, a surprising manifestation after weeks of little sexual cravings. Her months of recovery and self-loathing had claimed her appetite for most everything. But what right did she have to him? She would not blame him if he were to refuse any advances on her part, now or in the future, considering how she had treated him over the past year and a half, since he had eliminated Dominic LePage from her life and her bed. Of course at the time she had been furious with him and deeply hurt, blaming his possessiveness of her. But now, looking back during these months of recuperation, she saw that his actions had not been motivated solely by personal feelings but by necessity. He had recognized back then how she was losing herself to Gotham and its wealthy society. Killing Dominic had been as much for the League's protection as her own. Though she had told herself that she would never allow her relationship with Dominic to affect her work, perhaps in time he would have. Bane had seen that danger where she had not.

Talia's fingers drifted over the silver tubes on the front of Bane's mask. "Have you given any further thought to the reconstructive surgery we discussed before? Since we are going back to India, it would be the perfect time for—"

Bane closed his eyes and shook his head once. "We both know such an undertaking would require multiple procedures and a long convalescence. This is not the time for it."

"There will never be a good time; we also both know that. Meanwhile you require more and more of the drugs to ease your pain, and they are causing damage elsewhere in your body. You can't go on this way forever, Bane."

"Perhaps not, but for now…"

She frowned, wished there was an easy way to restore the old beauty to his face. Even though it had been twenty years since he had been attacked in prison, she could still remember how he had looked as a young man. Surrounded by a harsh, inhuman environment of stone and dozens of men made ugly either by nature or their lives of crime, Bane had stood out as a thing of beauty to her. In a place that had nothing to encourage laughter or smiles, he had always managed to produce those for her benefit. His full lips would spread wide, and his eyes would dance, free of pain, bright and hopeful, always hopeful for their future, for her. Often she had kissed his straight nose or played with his ears, delighting in the way his right ear stuck out slightly more than his left. Again, she thought of his lips, their pillowy softness and the way the corners of his mouth extended just beyond. Most of the time in prison he kept his light brown hair cropped short to discourage vermin, but sometimes he let it grow, and her small fingers would play with it—mussing it up and smoothing it down in turn. After their escape from prison, he kept his head shaven to allow a tight fit for the mask and its flowing vapor. She wondered now, if his hair were allowed to grow back, would there be gray in it? She hated the thought of her protector growing old before her eyes. The lines of his sloping forehead had been there at an early age—he had a very expressive forehead—but years of responsibility and hardship had deepened them. Her fingers now traced them, smoothing them for an instant as she gently pressed against his warm skin. A slight throb at his temple betrayed the increase of his pulse.

"I wish," she murmured, "you would reconsider and have the surgery. Think of how wonderful it would be not to be a slave to the mask any longer. And more importantly, think of how such a drastic change could throw off the scent of those who wish to find you and avenge what we did in Gotham. The Masked Man would be no more."

"As I said, my priority right now is you, my dear. First, you will recover your health and vitality, then we might be able to have this discussion again."

"But to protect yourself is to protect me, isn't it?" She raised a coy eyebrow.

He chuckled deep in his throat. "Nice try, my little minx."

She moved her hand to the fresh surgery scar on his torso, and her pensiveness returned as she felt the roughness beneath her fingers. "You seem to forget that you're still healing as well."

"I am quite restored, I assure you."

Sudden anger caused her to scowl. "Someday I'll make Selena Kyle pay for what she did to you. She was wise to go into hiding afterward. Imagine her surprise when I find her. I'll relish it as I kill her."

Bane chuckled again. "So my little flower is going to defend my honor, is she?"

Surprised, Talia turned her scowl upon him. "You doubt that I can?"

"Of course not. You are a warrior. What I am saying is that there is no need for you to do so. Ms. Kyle is no concern of ours, wherever she may be now."

Talia's anger drifted away as she admired his magnificent body. No amount of scars could ever diminish the sculpted, primal beauty of his musculature. In Gotham, she had been surrounded by and catered to by untold numbers of attractive men and had shared her bed with many of them to further the League's cause, but even those appealing enough to grace magazine covers failed to compare with Bane. His was a body she could get lost in, one whose embrace allowed her to forget everything—every responsibility and care, every fear and secret; she could be vulnerable and free. With the others, she had to pretend and control—all of them except Dominic. Yet even with Dominic, she had felt superior. Bane was her equal and deserving of respect always. With him, she could be completely herself; there was no need for secrets. He was her sanctuary.

She shifted closer to him. He watched her intently, and she knew he was waiting, waiting for her to let him know that she was ready to renew their sexual relationship. Of course he would wait forever if she asked him to do so. Over the years, he had been with no one but her; she had been his first and perhaps would be his last. Occasionally she had asked Barsad—Bane's constant companion—if Bane ever sought female companionship of any kind or if women ever offered themselves to him, but always Barsad said the same thing, "You're the only woman he's interested in, Talia. I don't think that'll ever change."

She had often wished, for Bane's sake, that it had changed. He deserved so much more than she could give him, a woman who prostituted herself for a cause. No matter how worthy the cause, she was tainted. Though Bane never looked at it that way, she knew he hated the role she had played in Gotham. Barsad had told her how Bane reacted to her sleeping with Bruce Wayne, their sworn enemy and the man who had killed her father. She had taken no pleasure in the act; like the men before him, Wayne unwittingly served a purpose for the League. Purposefully her Miranda Tate had seduced the billionaire, playing him perfectly to get him to fall in love with her. When he had discovered her true identity at the last—the moment after she had plunged her father's knife to the hilt in his side—the pain in his eyes and voice had been sweet nectar to her. She had drunk it in with dizzying pleasure, her revenge complete…almost. Wayne had died; unfortunately, Gotham had survived.

She feared no physical rejection from Bane now; his erection dispelled any doubts, as well as the love in his unblinking gaze, the deep rise and fall of his chest. But still she hesitated. Was it right to do this after the way she had used him? Was it selfish? He might think her display driven only by guilt and pity. Yes, perhaps guilt did play some small role, but in truth she wanted him, as much now as she had their first night together, when she had feared never seeing him again. She had been so young and foolish then, barely a woman. Perhaps she was being foolish now, too.

Her hands slipped along the rock-like ridge of his trapezoid muscles. She felt his heat not only through her touch but emanating from his entire body. His face had taken on a slight flush.

"I won't blame you if you reject me now," she murmured, diverting her gaze from his. "I know sleeping with Bruce Wayne—"

Unexpectedly he grabbed her hand, quickly drawing her stare to him. His eyes had turned stormy. "Do not speak his name," he said strongly but without menace. "His or the others. Not here." Gently he brought her hand to the mask's grating, as if to kiss it. "It was Miranda Tate who did those things, not you, habibati. I recognize that; so must you. You must forgive yourself."

Unconvinced, she allowed a nod.

"And know that I would never reject you," he continued. "Not in anything, for any reason. Here, lying beside you—there is nowhere else I'd rather be."

Talia smiled her appreciation and embraced him. His massive arms encircled her, pressed her to him. His erection, firm between them, fired her need for him even more, encouraging her to move her hips in a gentle grind. A gush of moisture soaked her panties, and in the next instant his hand was there. His touch against her most sensitive regions drew a gasp from her and a quiet growl of pleasure from deep in his throat.

"It has been too long," he murmured through the mask. "You must never make me wait again, habibati."

"No," she whispered then bathed his closed eyes and the mask in kisses. "But we must be quiet lest our brothers hear us."

"Tonight I don't care if the whole world hears."

Over the years they had kept their physical relationship from their League brethren; only Barsad knew. In an organization where marriage was not allowed, they felt it necessary for morale and integrity as the organization's leaders to keep their few rendezvouses a secret. Whenever they had slaked their lust for one another it had been in the isolation of her grandmother's palace compound.

Now, seeing the blaze of passion in Bane's eyes, Talia's own fire consumed her caution, making her realize that she agreed with his statement. Besides, their brothers were no fools. After these weeks of she and Bane being with one another every day, their followers no doubt suspected more than loyalty bound them together.

When Bane pulled away her panties, Talia tugged his pants off his hips then gripped his penis to rub its head against her slick folds.

As always, she regretted that he left his mask on—only once in the past had she convinced him to remove it during their lovemaking—but she understood his unwillingness to reveal the ruination beneath it as well as the inconvenient requirement that he inject himself with morphine in order to do so. She longed to kiss what was left of his lips as she rubbed against him, saw the same desire in his eyes as he drew her chemise over her head. His finger trailed along her ear, sending a shiver through her, then caressed her cheek, sliding inexorably toward her lips, touching them so tenderly, closing his eyes, imagining. It was his way of kissing her. She opened her mouth, inviting him inside and sucking sensually.

"Lie back," she crooned, then straddled him, guided him inside her. His girth filled her up, and she sighed, realizing how much she had missed this, how lacking her other lovers had been. She had been a fool to deny herself and Bane these pleasures.

Bane's hands engulfed her breasts, warmed them in the chilly room, kneaded them, teased her nipples. Talia closed her eyes, smiled, and began to move her hips. Bane had always been a man with amazing control in all things, including the sex act, but she could see that tonight he wanted nothing to do with delaying his release. And she would not expect patience from him, not now, not after having waited so very long to be with her. So she rode him harder now, hard and fast. Her fingernails dug into his arms as his fingers tighten upon her breasts. His back arched, and he groaned, the animal sound of it increasing her fervor. Talia's moans rose in volume and pitch as her body responded to their unified movements until finally neither could restrain themselves any longer, and their outcries echoed in the room.

###

Barsad awoke in the night, senses instantly alert. He listened. What was it this time? Was Talia having another nightmare? He waited. Nothing. Irritated by awakening needlessly, he shoved back the blankets and shuffled into the adjoining bathroom to take a piss.

Just as he returned to bed, a distant sound caused him to pause with one knee on the mattress.

"Fuck it," he mumbled and padded to the door.

He stuck his head out into the hallway, listened again. A murmuring from beyond Talia's closed door. Soundlessly, Barsad slipped across the corridor, paused outside her door with his ear close. Bane's voice, very low, not conversational, barely heard. The squeak of bedsprings. Talia's voice, but no words, just…quiet moans.

Barsad's spine stiffened with sudden realization. Was he hearing right? He held his breath, frowning with concentration. The noise of the bed became rhythmic, Talia's moans louder.

Shit…

Barsad fled back to his room and quietly shut the door. He paused with his back pressed against it. The noises from Talia's room had been blunted, but if he listened close, he could still hear them having sex.

"Well, I'll be God-damned," he muttered.

Grinning, he returned to his bed.