Disclaimer: I do not own the story, plot, screenplay, or anything else associated with Casino Royale and 007.
Note: I took some liberties that I'm not proud of, and it's a little OOC. :\
---
He liked to think that he was the perfect villain. No, he didn't sympathize with Hitler. That would have gone a little too far—even for him. Dachau hadn't exactly been a picnic in the park. And then they expected him to be a regular citizen after his release back into society. No one could be ordinary after that.
Still, after intense practice in front of every mirror encountered, he had mastered the perfect criminal sneer. It was different than the hopeful smiles he'd produced at the camp. It was more animal in nature, showing all his teeth as his thin lips curled slowly upwards. It was sinister and looked more like the start of a growl than anything else.
Funny. Before, he never imagined he'd be able to growl. It's not something one thinks about on the verge of death—"Oh, what a shame I never learned to snarl like a German wolf." He let himself have a laugh over that on occasion. He liked to think of it as more of a deep cackle, though. Villains typically don't guffaw.
The name, however, was his pride. Le Chiffre. The Number. When the Americans came to rescue him, they wanted to take away that name—the only thing he had left—and restore his old. It hadn't been very original, and he was sure he didn't look very impressive when they arrived in the camp. But it was the principle of the matter. He could never become that person again—the son of a Jewish banker. So he pretended to have forgotten. He pretended not to be able to speak.
And they believed him. They sent him to Strasbourg three months later, tired of having to deal with him. He was only a number on the passport they gave him—no other identification. Le Chiffre. That's what he was after all. The Number. He thought he'd come up with a good name.
He liked to sit in front of the mirror as he thought. It was a huge mirror framed in gold that leaned against the red satin wall of his dining room. The wall was closer to a maroon, he realized, than a Chinese red.
He liked to sit in front of the mirror because he liked to look at himself. It wasn't a statement of his vanity, though he often let people think that. He liked to look at himself because it wasn't painful anymore. He had managed to grow a few inches, to gain a bit of meat on his bones. A diet of beluga caviar, pommes soufflés, and good wine does that to a person.
Still, when another would stand behind him or next to him when he was gazing into the mirror, he would realize once again how doll-like he really looked. His thin lips—even when drawn back in a sneer—looked feminine. His skin was a smooth, porcelain white. The lines of his body were slender at best. His hands would shake sometimes… not because of a fear of the present, but rather a fear of the past. His addiction was a weakness.
When he was with other people, there would be no supper before the mirror. Instead, he preferred to take them down to the basement for a game of poker. Anything that would help him feel sure-footed and superior again. He never ate much at the game table. Maybe a roll before, but nothing during the game. Hunger was a human weakness he had already toppled.
He liked to think that he was a master of the sinister, but after the company left he would sit in front of his mirror with no lights on. The moonlight would catch the metal of his inhaler as he brought it to his lips, and he would see once again that his entire being was flawed. Playing against Bond, his temperature had risen as his blood sugar had dropped. Every time his fingertips rested against his temple, he could feel the fever rising. His insides screamed for nourishment. Stress had that effect on him.
He couldn't sleep alone during those nights. He had won, but he still needed someone to hold onto. She was nothing more to him… just a rock. Rocks weren't alive, but they were strong—stronger than him. He wouldn't let himself think of her as more than that.
"This isn't a fairytale, boy," he would later tell Bond during the torture. "No one is coming to save you from me."
He liked to hear himself speak, even in other languages. He had only a slight trace of a Marseilles accent when he spoke German, but his English was flawless. His voice always came out soft and even. No more screams. It was unnecessary to scream. There was no fear in the present.
There was no fear even when he had lost the final hand. His eyes showed no trace of regret, though his fingers lingered on the chips he had recklessly pushed to the center of the table. He liked to think there was more than one way to accomplish something. He would get the money he needed, a different way—a more dangerous way. He would pay his debt and then he would take his rock and live a fulfilling life of crime on some exotic island.
There was no mirror for him to gaze into as he died. Nothing to help him see as the third eye bored into his forehead expanded, a dot dripping thick crimson. Bond could see it, though. He could see as the slight figure fell heavily to the ground, delicate fingers still wrapped loosely around the carpet beater.
Bond would later think of Le Chiffre as the perfect villain. No, the man hadn't sympathized with Hitler—not by the stretch of any imagination. The man had been small and delicate, but powerful enough. He was the only man to topple the confidence of 007, to make the agent consider retirement. He was the only one whose death came with truly serious repercussions. The perfect villain for the perfect hero.
A perfect fairytale.