"As little flowers, which the chill of night has bent and huddled, when the white sun strikes, grow straight and open fully on their stems, so did I, too, with my exhausted force."

― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

Scrabbling forward in the darkness the boy felt the rough bars of his cell. Reaching down with his right hand he used the line of metal poles as a guide, eventually his fingers wrapped around a smooth worn bowl. Lifting the old vessel to his lips he felt the tepid water trickle into his mouth. Quickly placing the bowl on the floor the boy moistened his cracked lips. Sighing softly to himself he sunk down, joining the bowl on the dirt floor.

Twisting his upper body he pressed his face against the rusted bars, his cheeks forcing their way through the narrow gaps as he tried to catch a glimpse of the light. The tantalizing prick filtered its way down the Pit and journeyed towards his small cell. As always it was out of reach, a reminder of the freedom that had been denied them.

"One day," a cracked voice promised from across the floor.

"One day Padre," the boy echoed, nodding his head solemnly.

"Now, we return to Virgil," the older man said, his voice breaking as he coughed violently into a scrap of cloth.

The boy sighed, his fingers tracing patterns in the thick dust that covered the floor of his so called home. Every so often thoughts of the outside world drove him to distraction, the longing he felt in belly was so profound he often thought he was going to be sick. The others laughed at him, how could he miss something he never had? But he could. He ached to see the light, to feel the sun on his skin. He wished to be free of the hell that he found himself born into.

Clicking his fingers impatiently the man waited for the boy's attention to snap back to him. The old man was a Catholic priest; he had done something or another to offend someone or another and had been thrown into the Pit because of it. Long forgotten by those who controlled the prison he had been content waiting for God to take him.

But in the form of Edmund Dorrance's son the priest was given a new lease on life. The boy had been sent down to a world of despair and darkness, his father letting his only son take the punishment that should have rightfully been his. For that the priest took it upon himself to educate the boy, and in the child he had found a willing student. But inevitably the boy's attention was prone to wander, a prison cell only going so far as to serve as a classroom.

The boy had been eight when he first killed a man. He had driven a shiv into the man's chest. Blood had blossomed across the man's shirt as he had fallen dead at the boy's feet.

It was the way of the Pit. It was an intricate dance between life and death, but sooner or later one would fumble their steps and the Pit would claim another.

The boy's hand shook as he withdrew the crude looking dagger, the other prisoners' eyes flicked dispassionately across the still warm corpse and several avoided the boy's gaze. Already he had moved one up in the pecking order. Those who had failed to kill we're immediately his subordinates, those who were not afraid to shed blood his competitors.

It had been an argument over sleeping arrangements, the boy having moved from the cell containing the priest to a recently vacated one. Needless to say, there had been some grumbles; one prisoner resorting to violence, thinking that an eight-year-old boy would not prove much of a challenge. He had been wrong.

It was the wizened old Turk, Selim, who had taught the boy how to fashion his shank, a scrap of clothing winding around one end to serve as a make shift handle. Whilst the Priest gave the boy an education that explored language and poetry, Selim taught the boy how to survive. It didn't matter how many languages you could speak in the Pit, the prisoners only responded to one – fear.

"Has anyone else challenged you over the cell?" Selim questioned, his eyes traveling across the mass of men assembled underneath the lone shaft of light.

"No," the boy shook his head. His finger's playing with the crude looking weapon in his hands.

"Good," Selim nodded. "You understand that you must not show an ounce of weakness? It will not matter to them that you are a child. You are meat, just like the rest of them."

"I know," the boy sighed and for a moment he was overwhelmed by the urge to cry.

Selim's hand gripped the boy's arm tightly, "Swallow your sorrow boy, every tear you could possibly shed. There is no place for that here."

"But…" the boy started, his grey eyes still shiny with emotion.

"No buts. You are one of the few that has been done an injustice but you are amongst us now. You are one of us now and you must learn to fight."

The boy's jaw tightened as he roughly wiped away the rebellious tears that had been so dangerously close to falling. "The Priest will not like it."

Selim shook his head as rueful smile spread across his features, "No he will not, but there are no gods down here, only darkness and fear."

It had been the soldier who had shown the boy what is was to truly fight. Not to stab blindly at an enemy, but to strike with ferocity and accuracy.

"Quo fas et gloria ducunt my arse," the soldier commented softly as he lit a bummed cigarette, silent laughter racking his large chest.

"Where right and glory leads," the boy said firmly, his grey eyes meeting the soldier's.

"The Priest has taught you well," the soldier nodded his approval, exhaling a lungful of smoke.

"You said you would teach me too," the boy demanded of the older man, his eyes narrowing in determination.

"Christ, you look just like him," the soldier stepped backwards, leaning against the cold stone as he appraised the boy in front of him.

"Who?"

"Your father," the soldier offered, his voice ringing out loudly.

"You knew him?" the boy questioned and despite himself he could hear the eagerness in his voice. Marshaling his features the boy fixed the mask of cool indifference back onto his face.

"I knew Eddie yeah, slimy git." The soldier shook his head, a large globule of spittle flying out of his mouth to land on the floor.

"How?"

Springing to a salute the soldier quickly barked out his name and rank, "Lieutenant Robert Jenkins, 4th Regiment Royal Artillery. Your father and I served together, Her Majesty's Government doesn't pay so good so Eddie got it into his head that we could sell our services."

"Is that why you're down here?" The boy questioned harshly, an eyebrow quirking.

"I didn't run," the mercenary whispered before he quickly stubbed out his cigarette.

"And he did?" the boy asked, his voice steady.

"Course he did kid, that's the type he was. If it makes you feel better, I don't think he realized the whore was still alive."

A guttural yell was ripped from the boy's chest as he charged towards the disgraced lieutenant. The boy's arm flailing wildly the mercenary neatly sidestep, whipping behind the boy he sent a sharp blow into the other prisoner's kidneys. With a howl of pain the boy dropped to his knees, roughly picking the boy up the mercenary slammed him into the wall, his arm pressing against the boy's throat.

"If you're going to start picking fights with people twice your size you're going to have to learn how to throw a decent punch."

The day he had seen Talia's face had been the beginning of the end for the boy. There had been something so wonderful about the sight of the small child cradled in Melisande's arms. From that moment he had been filled with an incredible urge to keep her safe. The small eyes that were barely open moved him; the ache in his stomach for freedom was strangely abated. It didn't matter if he could not rise from the Pit; all that mattered was her ascension. She would leave the darkness behind her and find the light.

"What are you calling her?" the boy questioned.

"Talia."

The boy nodded, "I promise that I will look after her."

"But you barely know her," Melisande smiled softly as she stroked her child's hair.

"It doesn't matter, she's precious." The boy replied, his eyes hard. "She's the only thing here that's pure and because of that she should be protected."

The boy had sobbed when they had killed Melisande, he had been unable to stop them, and because of it he had failed Talia. He would not allow it to happen again. He was her protector and all in the Pit would know it. They were not to touch her.

He had been 14 when Talia had asked his name.

"They all call you boy," Talia whispered as she gazed hungrily into the crackling fire, she liked these nights best. The flames casting a soft glow about their shared cell and for a moment she could pretend that she was not in the Pit. "I know your mother must have given you a name."

The boy shook his head, "Not my mother, the Priest."

"Tell me," Talia demanded, her blue eyes meeting her protector's. Already she knew that he would not deny her.

"He named me after Michael."

"The angel?"

The boy smiled, "Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Host."

"If only I commanded an army," Talia whispered as she hugged her knees to her chest.

"One day," the boy promised.

"One day," Talia echoed.

A/N: Just a little one-shot that wormed its way out of my head. I realise we don't know Bane's given name and a lot of the information I used was cobbled together from wikipedia. But I hope you guys don't mind and please let me know what you think!