cakeShe accepted his words with the readiness of a person who had already been taught the ways of the world. Bane found he appreciated this, it being so rare to find a like soul in this place that bred heathens and criminals, with the godless among them thriving at every turn. When she confessed to him the deity she followed, he found he heard something different in her voice, briefly; this passed and he let it leave them, but he kept it there in the back of his mind for the time being. Bane spoke of what he believed in in such terms simply because it was what most understood, in his experience. What mattered to him wasn't the origins of the God itself, the scriptures or traditions that gave them meaning, or the manner in which one worshipped. The belief, the faith that gave a man reason, that was what mattered. She believed: one way or another, it was enough.
cakeShe had been brought to him, and so it was worth it. Bane believed this as well, and it pleased him to hear her say this. It was an odd emotion, and something he wasn't entirely used to. He had learned (like any good boy) to hide himself behind a mask of serenity. He had learned (like a competant soldier) that weakness was a disease that corrupted, festered like an infected wound from the inside out. It was like fear, thick and heavy and tantalising to those who would seek to hurt you. After so long it had become like breathing to him, so that he rarely even had to focus to rid himself of the unwanted excess of it, of the baggage it brought along. Despite this, he found it nothing but unusual: there was no threat here, after all. These walls closing them in offered a safe haven and he let himself feel content for the moment. Rather than replying, he simply smiled, though his eyes remained calculating. Why, he wasn't entirely sure.
cakeSilence ensued, a comfortable silence, and Bane leaned against the soft back of the sofa. The doctor in him was pleased that she ate, knowing an appetite was a sure sign of eventual recovery. Still, he couldn't help but feel she was eating and drinking merely to appease him. He would take what he could get. "Whatever is written," he replied, a ghost of a smile appearing briefly on his face. Then, after a pause that somehow felt poignant to him, he continued: "I don't know your name." It was a question, hidden, and strangely it didn't feel impolite. Given how they had met that night, that intimacy they had shared in the dark, he felt that any attempt at traditional courteousness would be lost on both of them. He had shown her more of himself than most were permitted to see, and the facade suddenly felt too draining to keep up.
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