Dustfinger was far from selfish, as everyone seemed to be convinced he was. Everything "selfish" he did was compensated with a good heart. A good idea. A good intention. But no one saw those aspects of his actions, did they? No one except Mo.

Mo was the only one he could honestly say he missed as he plucked grass from the fields in front of his house. He held the bright green blades between his fingers, and, with an orange flash, they were reduced to nothing but ash under his nails.

Mo. Silvertongue. Mortimer. Every name given to him seemed to match him beautifully. Silvertongue. That one had always made him blush. Did he really have a silver tongue? Dustfinger wondered. He doubted that it was actually made of silver, but still... the idea of the man with a brilliantly skilled tongue made the fire-eaters insides tingle.

Dustfinger sighed ever so softly, his lips in which the gust of air passed started to become dry and chapped. He didn't notice, though. He was too engrossed in the idea of Silvertongue's silver tongue.

"Dustfinger?" he heard a soft voice coo. His gaze fell behind his shoulder at his wife. His beautiful, devoted, perfect wife. The woman he left behind that god-awful world to be with. She was his. She was his Roxane.

"My sweet." her soft lips pressed against his rough cheek in something like a theoretical embrace. A beautiful idea of love. But as she pressed her breasts against his side and her hands rested on his shoulders, all he could think of was the low baritone of that magical voice wrap around his mind and his ears. All he could thinks of was the warmth of the man's body standing close to him, but not close enough.

Never close enough.

There was a pause in the affection his wife was giving him. "What's the matter, my love?" she murmured into the shell of his ear. He paused himself, thinking about all the things that were wrong right that moment. "Nothing." he said back, smiling softly at her from the inch they had separated themselves. 'Everything'. His mind improvised in his head.

Everything was wrong.

But he let Roxane lead him away, hand in hand, to their bedroom. The children were away, she had said. They were alone.

But they were not alone. The thought of Mo still lingered on the surface of Dustfinger's mind, even as he made love to his beloved wife. The scent of the man's cologne that he probably never wore, the sight of his tussled, brunet hair... he almost cried out the Reader's name instead of his wife's as they climaxed loudly, beastial, horrible. Rough. Painful. Wrong.

But so was the want that had been spreading throughout Dustfinger's body in the past two months. So were the angry thoughts left by the masculine magical man. So were the wet nights he had woken to, only to get a sultry response from his wife, which felt even more wrong.

Why was there ALWAYS something wrong with him?

He had told that old man! He had admitted that the so called "Creator" of his entire being did NOT hold a single candle to what he was able to be! But... why was he feeling so selfish?

Why was he feeling so alone? Even with the figure of his beautiful wife pressed against him. Why did he feel like he was cold, inside and out? The ice in his heart spreading to his lungs and his stomach, robbing him of appetite and breath.

In the morning, he couldn't talk. He guessed it was the ice spreading to his throat. Maybe it would devour him completely so that he would never have to be haunted with such strange, horrid thoughts as he had been having for the past couple of months.

No. These thoughts were NOT normal. They were wrong. They were bad. They were... selfish. Selfish like he's always been.