Not sure how I feel about this chapter, but oh well. I suppose I won't keep you waiting any longer. I'm quite aware that the flashback doesn't answer Nadir's question and I did that on purpose. It leaves just enough to lead into the next chapter…when I get there. But what am I doing, telling you all this? I'm babbling!

The Winning Hand In Emotional Poker

At last, I got over my tears and returned the mask to my face. It wasn't often that I felt compelled to weep and over the years as the sensation came, I pushed it back. Being as deformed as I was, could I even produce tears, I sometimes wondered. But when the burning rush came, when my black heart was softened beneath my little angel's stare, I found I couldn't hold the tears at bay any longer. Now they took over at the most inopportune times.

Nadir shifted again. The man apparently couldn't sit still when I became emotional. I suppose it was because I became unpredictable at those times and only God knew what I was capable of then.

"Erik, will you finally explain to me the madness you just spat out?"

"I thought it very clear, Daroga." Though I was hopefully doing crying for the day, my breathing was still a bit off and a few more painful seconds went by. "I am dying."

"Of what? Of what is the famous trap door lover dying when nothing else in the entire Persian kingdom could lay a hand on him?"

"Love."

He filled the following silence with hysterical laughter.

"Daroga, my friend, have I finally driven you mad?" I chuckled with him, entertained by the notion he had at last submitted to my insanity.

"Erik, when was the last time you ever loved anything?" the Daroga managed between fits of laughter. "To love would be to give up your own happiness for that of someone else. To sacrifice all in the name of a mere emotion."

"And I could never do that? Of course not."

I took my cup of tea and tossed it, cup and all, into the fire with frustration. That shut him up.

"I thought you wanted into my head, Daroga. You've barely even begun to hear what I have to say."

We both listened to the wind howling outside, regaining a handful of minutes of content silence. The storm was still battling against the city. It was as I once was, eager to face the world and destroy it with all available power. Soon the mighty snow and cold would reflect my current image: tired and weak. It took me all of fifty years to be reduced. How long would this storm last?

"Why do you love her?" I heard the Daroga ask in a gentle tone before rescuing his lonely cup of tea from the table. Most likely to protect it from joining its brother should I become angered again.

I steepled my fingers and prepared for a long answer. "I have asked that myself countless times. I used to think that, like you did, there was no way I could feel love. This must be some kind of lust. I was obsessed because of her beauty and youth…But I was wrong."

… … … … … …

It was late after she had asked for my cloak and I began to wonder where she had scurried off to hours earlier. Nighttime had already come and it was far past her usual bedtime. Where was my girl?

I got off my favorite armchair and stretched a bit for I had been sitting in the same position for quite a while. How lucky I was to be so old but not feel half of what most men my age were feeling in their bodies, the old age creeping into their bones and such. No, I felt more alive than I ever had. Mostly thanks to one particular chorus girl who was nowhere to be found.

"Christine?" I called out with no real expectation of her bounding back to me excitedly. The darling girl had probably fallen asleep somewhere with a book.

She wasn't in the library curled up in a sofa, nor was she in her own bedroom. The music room was unoccupied as well as the main living area. I looked around for even the sign of a discarded cloak but it wasn't to be seen. A bit nervous, I checked in my bedroom and sighed in relief when she wasn't there.

Ah…the kitchen!

I sprinted to the kitchen, the sudden disappearance of my dear Christine having shaken me quite a bit, and sighed deeply in relief when I saw her dozing form half supported on the table. She was using a book as her pillow. A high pitched whistling from a pot (why hadn't I noticed it before?) told me the story.

She had been engrossed in her book when she'd had a thirsting for tea. Not wanting to disturb me again after the whole cloak discussion, she got up and went to prepare it herself. And while waiting for the water to reach the proper temperature she had fallen asleep over her book.

She was beautiful.

I anxiously approached, noticing the calm expression on her fair face. Should I wake her? Should I carry her to bed? Should I let her have her tea first?

Speaking of tea, the pot was whistling madly and I swiftly made to remove it from the heat only to jump back when my hand was seared.

How long had she been asleep?

With a hiss, I grabbed the edge of my sleeve and used it to pick up the offending object. Bloody pot burning my bloody fingers, I'll take bloody care of you-

"Mmm…"

It was at this exact moment that I nearly had a heart attack and ceased to be amongst the living.

Christine had half awoken, gotten up, and stumbled into me, head nestled warmly in my chest and hands pressed near my stomach like I was some huge pillow to snuggle up against.

Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord!

I became aware of multiple things at one time, nearly causing an overload. First of all (because Christine is always first in my book), Christine was sleepily rubbing against me. Second, I was frightened out of my wits and about to make a mad dash for safety. And third, the pot was burning my hand through my thin shirt sleeve.

I had to talk my way through the entire situation like a teacher encouraging a helpless student.

'Okay, breathe. Now put the pot down slowly so you don't wake the girl. I don't care if it burns the hell out of your fingers, you do it slowly…that's it…alright. Good job. Now breathe again. Everything is fine, Christine is just having an odd dream. A very odd dream. And if she wakes, you don't want her to be scared, right? So don't wake her! Get her off your chest.' That was a hard one. 'Nice and easy, there you go. Now pick her up, uh huh. You've got it. Excellent work. Go bring her to bed, old boy.'

Once she was settled in bed, I took a moment to appreciate my handiwork.

Christine was as beautiful as the voice I had molded to perfection. Lovely blonde hair encasing her innocent face, delicate hands, rosy cheeks, upturned faultless lips…

I found myself leaning forward, whole attention captured by those slightly parted lips between which her soft breath escaped. What it would be like! What a glorious feeling to have those lips touch my flesh! I could compose on the feeling for an eternity.

With a pull of caution, I yanked back. I berated myself harshly for getting distracted so easily. What if she had woken up? What if I had actually…kissed her!

'No,' a voice in my head warned, 'You love her enough to not want her, so stop day dreaming about what cannot be.'

That's a lie, I fought. I'll always want her.

'But never enough to act upon your own desires. Especially when she is unconscious, you idiot.'

Ah yes, the unconscious card always played well against my hand of longing. I got a grip on my handling and steered out of the room, only casting a final glance to wish her sleeping figure a good night. In that last look, I realized she was still wearing my cloak

The longing and desiring of fifty years was replaced with tender warmth at that sight. True, I did want her in the most intimate way possible, but I loved her so much more.