A week ago, one of Erik's commanding officers had come to talk to both of them. He had given them boundaries of what he and his caretaker could talk about safely. Topics related to Erik's work or career were forbidden, but he had consented on behalf of the French government that he could talk about all legitimate instances of his past, which were few and far between. Christine could now learn a little about her patient. Though none of the exciting parts, she thought with a little mirth.

Before the officer left, he said to Erik and Christine, "We're never sure about these things, but rumors are spreading that both sides are thinking about peace talks. I hope to God it happens." And with that, he left.

Christine and Erik looked at one another, shock and a hint of hope crossing their faces. The thought of peace was both wonderful and terrifying for them, especially Erik. Combat, violence, death, blood…these had been their lives for what seemed an eternity. The thought of civilian life and peace seemed so foreign. They said nothing.

Later that night, as Christine slept, Erik laid awake in bed. For the first time in ages, he actually wanted to talk to someone about his past.

Unlike Christine, Erik had been born into violence. He came from a poor background and an abusive household. When he was young, he became a messenger for very unsavory sorts. He learned how to listen in on conversations, and how to ignore them. He also taught himself the fine art of vocal imitation, which got him into and helped him escape dangerous situations. He spent most of his time away from home, and earned his money by thievery. Whenever he did go home, he suffered horrible violence at the hands of his father.

He left his family and the small town he was born in when he was thirteen. He continued to work for dangerous sorts, with relative success. By the time he was fifteen, he was well on his way to becoming an unsavory sort of person himself. He had taught himself the fine art of hand to hand combat, and had seriously injured quite a few people and almost killed a couple more. He didn't have a name anymore, and didn't care to have one. He was used, and hurt and stole from those who used him in return.

However, when he was seventeen, he'd become disillusioned with his criminal activity, and disgusted by humanity. For his own survival, he still stole food from restaurants, bakeries, and houses. He was fortunate enough to have robbed the house of an Italian immigrant, who was a professional architect. Instead of handing him over to the authorities, he offered the boy an apprenticeship as an architect; room, board, food and all if he would stop stealing. The boy agreed.

The architect thought of the boy as an adopted son, and called him 'uccello', or 'bird' in Italian, because the boy had a beautiful singing and speaking voice. In his spare time, the architect taught 'Uccello' violin, and soon he was a better musician than his master. His life settled down, and he learned love and trust under the care of the old architect.

By the time he was 21, Uccello had become an excellent architect himself. But then the war and the draft came. The architect was afraid that fighting in the war would send his Uccello back to where he was before: a thief and possible murderer. But there was no choice. The young man enlisted with his old name and left.

He fared well in his training, and all of his previous experience in fighting came back to him, and was improved upon in training. He was offered the dangerous job of spying, and accepted. He tossed his birth name aside yet again. He learned and became fluent in German, and began his assignments. He was skilled and ruthless, and killed enemies quickly, quietly, and without mercy. He could escape tight situations quickly, which helped inspire his codename.

His commanding officers always told him how his past would serve him well in his career.

But on his last assignment he'd made a small, stupid mistake. When he was behind enemy lines he tripped and quietly cursed. In French.

Hence where he was now. He considered the people who had caught him idiots for not simply shooting him in the head. They had been sadistic, and that was his luck.

He sighed. Since he'd had very little identity before the war, he hoped it would be easy to create a new, if not isolated, life for himself now that his spying career was over. He didn't want to go back to criminal activity again…not after his time with the man he considered his father. Perhaps he could be an architect again, but work where he wouldn't bother people with his appearance.

I doubt my father is alive anymore, he thought with a pang of grief. The architect was in poor health when Erik was drafted. He had been suffering from worsening lung problems. He reflected that the last sound he heard from him as he left was a sickening cough.

Erik realized that this man had taught him that it was alright to cry, to feel…and that human contact could be loving and kind. He'd not known true kindness before he had met him, and the thought of his father being dead was too much. There was also the pang of something else lost, that he could not remember, which made the grief all the more bitter.

Christine woke up to the sound of Erik crying softly. Her first action was always to check if Erik needed anything or was in any pain.

"No, no. I'm sorry to wake you. I was just…remembering the past," he choked out. "I'm sorry, I'm usually much more composed than this."

Christine scooted her chair closer. "It's all right. You've been through a lot. Can you talk about it?"

Erik slowed his breathing, and after a last shaky breath, responded. "Yes, actually."

"Alright," Christine said. "Do you wish to talk about it?"

He sighed. "Help me sit up."

Christine got few extra pillows, and Erik propped himself up. "I came from a poor background, but I eventually found an apprenticeship with an architect. I consider him my father, and he miraculously considered me his son. I was remembering his kindness towards me." he paused and turned his bandaged face towards Christine. "He was in poor health when I was drafted, and I am afraid he's dead now." Strangely, he felt like he was lying.

Christine clasped his hands, a pitying expression on her face. "I'm sorry, Erik. Don't give up hope, though. He might still be alive."

Erik shuddered at her touch, but said nothing and leaned his head back slightly. "Do you believe in God, Christine?"

"Yes, very much so," she responded quickly.

"I've never been sure. If he's gone, do you think it's possible he's somehow watching?"

"Of course I do. If he was so good to you, I'm sure he is with God."

Erik nodded. "It's a good thought."

Christine rubbed his hand gently with her thumb for a few minutes in silence before she asked, "Can you sleep?"

"Yes, I think so. Go back to sleep."

She laid Erik back down upon his request. "I'm here if you need anything," Christine reminded him as she leaned back in her chair.

Erik stayed awake in bed for a while longer before sleeping. He'd grown very fond of Christine in the past month or so. He sympathized with her, and was truly sorry for the loss of her fiancé. Erik felt like he knew the man through her.

He felt like he'd known the young nurse for much longer than a month. She was extremely strong and compassionate, while also being honest to the point of bluntness. He worried though that she was the type of person who acted strong when in fact they were quite fragile in one way or another. But perhaps all people were like that. It seemed he was like that as well.

He wondered briefly what she had looked like before her time as a nurse, before Raoul had died, if she was happier. He could almost imagine her face…

He wondered if she would leave after he'd recovered from his injuries.

Of course she will you fool. She'll go back to her duties, and you'll go home, and that will be it.

He told himself it was a ridiculous thought. She would not choose to be saddled with a disfigured man her whole life, and he would be able to take care of himself soon enough anyway. He knew he shouldn't be thinking about a young widow in such familiar terms anyway.

But he wished things were different. And he wished he weren't falling in love.