Three chapters in and I only now remember to say... Disclaimer! Batman does not belong to me, but to DC Comics; The Dark Knight Saga is similarly not mine, just a fun little sandbox for me to wallow around in. The films belong to Christopher Nolan and the rest of the crew and cast, who all did their jobs and performed their characters marvelously, especially the guy who played John Daggett, who looked like he was having way too much fun hamming it up, probably because he knew he was due to die halfway through the film.

And with that out of the way, the next chapter!

WHERE YOU GO

Chapter 3

Confusion and terror washed over Talia as soon as she was out of the cell, making her stumble. She grabbed onto the railing and pushed herself forward, not daring to look back. Men were stumbling up and down the levels, huge, looming, dangerous, and she shrank against the wall as they drew near her. Most had their faces covered, so that when she stopped, she could not even tell if they were looking at her or not, and their shambling walk made them seem like monsters from half-formed nightmares.

A shout echoed around the walls, and Talia jumped and started running once more. She had never gone outside, almost never run about, and already her small legs ached, her breath rasping in her throat. And she was lost, terribly lost – she looked for the landmarks but her run about the circular prison had disoriented her –

A hand grabbed at her arm. She gasped and jerked out of the grip, feeling cloth tear. Without looking, she ran again, adrenaline adding an extra burst of energy. She was going about in circles, passing stairs that seemed the same as ones as she had just run by. Panic was rising in her chest. She tried to think but her mind was a jumble. She had been lower down, could remember the pit walls soaring higher above her, so her mother's cell had been up, on a higher level – the stairs! Before she could hesitate, she ran for the nearest steps and hurtled up the steep stairs on hands and feet, her calves burning as she forced herself up and over each one –

She grabbed at the railing and pulled herself onto the floor, clutching a stitch in her side. Her chest ached and she could barely see from the sand that had swept into her eyes, but she forgot it all when she realized that she recognized where she was. She was just a few yards from her old cell.

She shoved past another prisoner and clung to the bars of the cell that was three down from the old one – then two down– one –

She almost jumped for the door, her weight pushing it open, and even as a thought prickled her mind (unlocked, the door was never unlocked, it was wrong) she threw herself inside, opening her mouth to cry out for her mother.

The cell was empty.

For a moment she thought she was in the wrong one. Her mind clung to that explanation – but the bed was in the same place. The frame had the same grooves in it. She ran a finger down one, but this time their familiarity did not reassure her. It was the same stains on the sheet spread over the bed, the same holes and notches in the wall… and her mother was not there.

Her mother was gone. Talia collapsed on the bed, gripping the metal frame and squeezing until it felt her fingers might break. Her mother was gone, her mother was not coming back, and it seemed that a terrifying void opened up in her mind. She was alone, with nobody to look after her, to take care of her, and all she had left was a horrifying uncertainty.

She sobbed, so hard her body shook the bed, gasped and cried again and again as the pain grew in her chest and would not leave, twisted her insides and blocked her throat. She buried her head in the cot and stayed there, crying until the grief and the sadness dulled and she was tired, so tired. Dimly, she thought that if she stayed there, her mother might come back, just like before. She didn't believe it, but she was weary and lost and helpless, so she curled on the bed and closed her eyes. As she did, her fingers caught on something soft and familiar. She drew it nearer instinctively, but it was only when she opened her eyes did she see it was her mother's decorated blanket, the one she had brought from Outside. It had been squashed up between the bed and the wall, unnoticed. She hugged it close, burying her nose in it and taking comfort in the faint, residual scent of her mother. It did not take long for her to fall into an exhausted sleep.

She dreamed again. She heard the door open in her dream and smiled when she saw her mother enter. She had been right after all. Her mother was merely out, maybe searching for her, and in her dream she sat up and lifted her arms, waiting to be gathered up and held close, where nothing could harm them –

A hard shake made her spring up, still clutching the blanket to her chest. The dream had been so real that for a moment she was confused, but then joy soared through her heart. She turned around and cried out, "Mother-!"

Then a hand that was definitely not her mother's grabbed her and dragged her off the bed. She tripped and smacked her foot against the floor, the sudden pain making her cry out and almost lose hold of the blanket, and the room whirled as she was spun around.

She entered a world of chaos. There were men, men everywhere, their faces covered and their dirty hands snatching at her. They flooded through the unlocked door and surrounded her. She shrieked, thrashing wildly at the one hand that was holding her in place. Fingernails scratched her bare arm and she screamed again as they jammed into the cell, their bodies squashing her and hands raining blows on her limbs and almost tearing her mother's blanket from her hands –

She heard a wet smack, then a heavy thud, and suddenly the men parted, and she was being swept up and away and held against a hard body. The world dipped sickeningly and she yelped as another punch landed on her back, but then she felt a heavy weight pressed against her body and the back of her head. Before she could register more than the swirl of multiple men around her and the wildly careening room, and then a crash.

She saw the cell door swing open and slam into the bars; the man holding her had clearly run into it, the force of his body pushing it open. His momentum sent them out farther than he intended, the both of them banging into the railing. He staggered, and the world dipped; Talia felt her stomach drop as she seemed to plunge out over the pit. Pain was spiking up her legs from the metal bars that her smacked into her thighs. She slipped from his grip and she cried out, grabbing wildly – but then he scooped her back safe into his grip at the same time that he was scrambling up. She clung to him instinctively, feeling his heartbeat thudding rapidly under her own body. Men followed them, their shouts filling the air, but before they could crush them, she saw a fist whip out and send two back. They fell back against several others, who fell back against more, and in that break the man carrying her regained his balance and ran, his body jolting up and down against Talia's, his breathing fast and loud and hot in her ear –

They were at the cell when the others caught up. Talia, facing the back while the other fumbled at the door, screamed for the third time as one snatched at her face. The man carrying her jerked forward just in time, the other prisoner grabbing empty air. The world spun again – Talia felt hands at her shirt but only for a second before she was pulled free – and again they whirled, so that all she saw was a flurry of shadows and walls and robes –

The sound of the door opening and smashing into the wall resounded sharply in her ears, but never had something so painful give her so much relief. They tilted again as the man stumbled in, then she was dropped onto the floor. It was quite a distance down, and the shock of the fall send pain shooting up her wrists and ankles.

Before she could even get up though, Talia felt herself being jerked around by the back of her shirt. She had no time to struggle, heard only a bang and saw the bed smacking into the corner farthest from the door – and then she was sent flying onto the cot. She flung herself about to see the man shoving the door closed against the mass of prisoners pushing back – and when another prisoner tried to snake his hand in, she saw the man grab his wrist and twist it all the way around. As the other howled in pain, the man grabbed him by the neck and smashed his head onto the bars before shoving him back into the crowd. As he tried to close the door, the crowd surged forward; he slammed his fist into one's throat and snapped another's prying fingers, flinging the man howling back at the mob. The temporary reprieve as the men were pushed back was enough for him to slam the door shut and jerk down the lock.

Talia crawled to the end of the bed, her mother's blanket rolled up in her arms, and her savior shot her a glance. She started. She recognized the eyes. It was the same man who had rescued her when they attacked her mother, the man she had just escaped from... the man who was protecting her.

He turned to the crowd, shoving her back towards the corner without looking at her, crouching in front of her. The other prisoners seemed only to get more enraged – Talia could hear their shrieks grating in her skull. A glob of spit shot between the bars, landing on the floor, and she saw her protector twitch, his hands balling into fists.

Her protector pushed Talia back even further, dragging down the cloth covering his face. There was a feral look to his face, his teeth bared at the prisoners, his body restless and pacing, and when one prisoner tried to jam his finger into the lock, he rushed forward and crushed the bones in his hand before hurrying back to Talia, sitting until she was blocked entirely from their view.

She curled in her corner, shaking. Her arms stung from the scratches she had received, her legs were throbbing, and leaning against the wall only made the bruises on her back hurt more, but she was still frightened, still terrified of this man who could hurt the others so easily.

But he was familiar, she thought, at least more so than any other place, than any other man. Her mother was gone now, and she recognized nobody else in the prison save for the doctor and the few others who had passed by her cell and been kind to her. But where had they been when her mother was attacked?

She touched his robe. He jerked around as abruptly and fiercely as if she had been one of the inmates, and shoved her back to her corner, and for long moments she huddled there, not daring to move again. But as her fear lessened, and as the shouting of the mob outside lessened, she gathered up the scant courage remaining in her and drew closer to him. She settled herself close to his back and drew in a quivering breath as she touched his robe again. This time, he did not react; perhaps he did not notice. She let out her breath, steadier now, and felt safer; the queasy uncertainty in her stomach was dissipating. With her mother's blanket held against her body and a corner of the man's robe in her hand, she closed her eyes and slept.

The rest of the day and the days after were full of firsts. The first time she looked him full in the face, though still all she saw was his eyes, the blankness in there that scared her more than the ferocity she had seen while he fought the other men. The first time she took bread from his hands, followed by the first time he gave her a sip of precious water from a crude bowl, flicking a dead fly out of it and holding it for her because her hands were too small for the heavy ceramic. That was also the first time he reached for her and she did not flinch back, and the first time he touched her, wrapping his hands over hers to help her hold the bowl. And that was the first time she really saw his face, when the crowd was finally gone and he had turned to look at her. She was surprised then, so surprised that she stared pointedly at him, forgetting her mother's admonishments to never look at people. She had expected to see an old face like the doctor's, or a ravaged, scarred one like that of the other prisoners. Instead, he was whole, and young. She stared for a very long time, so much that he noticed her looking and hurried out of the cell.

There was the first time she examined the cell thoroughly. It was much the same as the one she shared with her mother, yet different. The bed was on another side of the room, and looked more worn, more stained. She rubbed a finger on them, but they did not come off. The leather had more ties knotting it to the frame, more holes in the edges. But there was also an extra blanket padding it, and a softer pillow. The alcove contained more bowls than her mother's had. Even the rocks seemed smoother, and several were loose. Talia wriggled at them but did not try to peer inside, not sure if the man would want her to. She did, however, explore his entire cell while he sat in his old place in the corner, watching her. She watched back, counted how many times he would leave the cell (which was more times than she had fingers and toes), and how he would pace fiercely around the cell or the perimeter of the prison with odd irritability, the restlessness of his movements making her feel twitchy as well.

And then there was the first night, the first time, that she shoved down her fear and sadness and anger, that she grabbed his blanket off the bed and walked over and sat down by the man's side. He looked down at her, perhaps surprised, but then wrapped his blanket around her small form and called her "little one". Before she fell asleep, she felt him tuck her mother's blanket around her from where it was slipping out of her arms.

That night was also the first time she had a nightmare, a dream of a mass of men grabbing at her, her mother's dying screams echoing in her ears when she awoke and found herself being held by a person who was not her mother. Immediately she jerked back, forcing back a scream, and then she struggled, smacking her fists against the mysterious person. The man, forced awake firstly by the jerk of her body when her mind fled the dream, then by the fact that she was kicking him in the stomach, fought back, grabbing her arms and pinning her hands and legs until she collapsed against him in exhaustion.

Only then did he speak, soothing away the bad memories as she entwined her fingers in his clothing, whispering of safety and comfort and the hard satisfaction she would feel when he would get rid of those men for her. His touches and his words were clumsy, not at all like the caresses and sweet songs her mother used when Talia awoke in the night, but they reassured her enough that she might sleep again. She buried her head into a soft spot under his arm and fell asleep to his voice. There would be other nights, other dreams, some that even he could not stroke away, but this time at least, there were no more.

And the last of those firsts – the first time he slept next to her on the bed. She had lain there as the sunlight left the prison, his blanket tucked around her side and her mother's bundled and gripped close to her chest and face, and watched as the man locked the door, arranged the bowls, and pulled off his outer robe – slowly, it seemed. Delaying, she thought, her stomach twisting slightly.

All of a sudden, he turned around and strode towards the bed. He tossed the robe over her, the quick movement making her start. She scooted over as he sat down heavily beside her, the bed jolting under his weight. For a few seconds he remained there, and Talia wondered if he was planning to sleep sitting up, but then he crawled stiffly into the bed and lay down at the very edge of the bed, pushing at the blanket, bunched over her stomach, to move her over further. When he felt she was far enough, he rolled over to the middle of the bed and promptly squashed her into the wall.

He shifted aside, perhaps feeling her bones jabbing into him, or maybe hearing her muffled squeak as her breath was squeezed out of her lungs, and said, "Do you have enough room?"

Talia started, her elbow smacking the wall behind her. A hot tingling ran down her fingers and up her shoulder. She nodded and buried her head in her mother's blanket.

He jabbed at her with a finger. It hurt, and she flinched back. He must have noticed that too, for when he touched her next, it was the lightest of taps on her forehead.

"I know you can speak, child," he said. "Do you have enough room?"

She thought of remaining silent, of continuing to mime her communication, but then she thought of how he had treated the other prisoners and how angry he could be, and she changed her mind. She said, "Yes."

The word rolled clumsily off her unused tongue. Her own voice sounded foreign to her ears, as harsh and painful as those of the other prisoners.

In the darkness, she saw him nod. He didn't speak again, but rolled onto his back, placing his arms behind his head. This gave her just a bit more space, even if it meant having to draw nearer to his side. Then she tried to sleep, lying beside him and feeling that tightness come over her limbs, uncertain whether she should lean away from him and lie against the wall, which made her back hurt, or move closer to him. She sucked in her breath and inched just a tiny bit nearer, and when he didn't push her away, or really even respond, she moved another inch, until she was lightly touching his body.

He was different from her mother – large where her mother was small, heavy where she was light, hard where she was soft. But his warmth – that was familiar. The blanket that he had folded and tucked only around her because it was too small for them both – that too was like her mother, wrapping her in a hug, so that even if there were no songs and she had a little less room and felt a little bit hotter than usual, it was better than having an empty, cold space beside herself. So she rested her head against him, and he accepted this, and as she fell asleep, she thought that it was not really so different from before.

But the third thing, that was what she remembered most.

A/N: A couple of people told me that they really liked how silent Bane and Talia were, which was highly amusing to me as the actual reason they didn't speak was because I couldn't get their character voices and dialogue right, particularly Bane's. So I copped out, hence the silences. Writing, yeah! Though it's fine by me if you all continue to think of me as an actually talented writer who planned all this out for symbolic purposes and what-not.

More seriously, it's a bit hard to envision Bane's dialogue pre-TDKR. I though his, erm, very florid way of speaking was due to the learning he did after leaving the pit, plus the mask, the accent, and the fact that in most of TDKR he's "play-acting", i.e. not talking the way he "naturally" would. It's more that he's projecting an image of himself as leader, terrorist, whatever, to various people, so how he speaks to them would obviously be different from when he was younger and with Talia. It also doesn't help that the only word we ever hear him say to Talia is, "Goodbye". Not a whole lot I can extrapolate from that. (Seriously, Nolan, you couldn't give me more than that? But it was probably intentional, you know, mystery and ambiguity and leaving it to the viewer's interpretation kind of thing. Not like what I'm doing, which is more like, "Oh crap, every piece of Bane's dialogue that I write sounds stupid, well I guess he just won't be much a talker, ha ha ha, nobody will notice!")