A sharp pain woke her, and she muffled a small yelp as she opened her eyes. It was dark in the room, chilly and silent, but she was warm under the blanket. Carefully, she adjusted herself. Erik had just accidentally elbowed her in the chest—hard, and she grimaced a little, wrapping an arm around herself. It wasn't his fault, so she wasn't mad, yet she couldn't help but give a few pitiful whimpers of hurt, half-heartedly hoping that they would wake him up, and he would ask what was wrong, and she would tell him.

Still, he slept on, unknowing of her injury, and she sighed, beginning to become sleepy again as the pain receded. They had fallen asleep on the couch. It was the first time such a thing had happened, and she was more reluctant to have Erik wake up and leave than she wanted him to apologize. So she stopped sniffling and leaned against him, all of her silly hurt feelings going away as she felt his thin arm underneath her cheek.

He was not accustomed to consistent and affectionate physical contact, so she was going very slowly with him. She started out with sitting next to him. Then she would hold his hand. She wanted him to become comfortable with it all. Those few embraces they had had had made him tense and edgy. She wanted him to know that he could touch her. And tonight, she had pulled out a blanket and had spread it over both of them, as the last bit of the cold spring was sweeping through the underground house one more time. As the night had worn on, she had nodded off and had fallen asleep. And so had he.

She pulled the blanket up to her shoulder and snuggled closer to him, letting her eyes slip close. Still warm and sleepy, she managed to find a comfortable position, and she wrapped an arm around him before letting herself drift off into sleep once more.

She dreamed of Sweden again—the green hills and the blue sky, and there was music there as well, violin music that seemed to be carried on the wind, filling her up. It had been so long since she had heard such music, and it seemed to press a soothing balm to the hurting wounds in her soul. But this time it wasn't her father's violin music.

"Christine."

She woke again with a surprised little grunt, blinking sleepily, her cheek pressed against something cold and bony.

"Hmm?" she managed to say.

"You are crushing my arm."

Yawning, she pushed herself up and felt something slide out from underneath her. In the dim light, she could see Erik flexing his long fingers.

"Sorry," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I didn't mean to." She stumbled off the couch and stretched, her back a little achy from being curled up all night. Then she glanced back at him and said, "Want some breakfast? I'm hungry." Without waiting for him to answer (because she knew the answer), she walked across the room. However, before she got to the kitchen, her foot hit something solid.

"Ouch!" she said loudly, holding her foot up. "Ow. Stupid box. I need to move these. Yeah. I'll do that today. I'm sorry. They're everywhere."

The front room was scattered with boxes of her possessions. She had at last sold the contract to her apartment, but it was not without a discussion with Erik. Christine had realized that he had never even said out loud that he wanted her to stay. In fact, there were several things he hadn't said out loud.

She had wanted to hear it from him, so one night she had sat by him and tried to talk to him openly and frankly.

"I don't want to be down here if you don't want me," she had said, putting a careful hand on his bony knee. His gaze had rested on the ring on her finger.

"Yes…You will stay."

With a little smile, she shook her head. "I want to hear you ask me so I can say yes."

He had glared at her, his awful face twisted up into a sour sneer. "You will stay here, like you said."

"Ask me," she had repeated stubbornly. She didn't want it to be a command or an order. She wanted him to ask her a real, genuine question about what she wanted. Maybe it was silly or childish…but she had gone so long with him ordering her, controlling her life and her decisions. She wanted him to ask her to do it.

After a few minutes, he let his head hang a little and had then said quietly, "Would you please stay here with a monster?"

She had hugged him tightly, trying to ignore it when he flinched a little. "You're not a monster. And I'll stay. Thank you."

So her things had been moved down, and she hadn't yet found a place for everything. Carefully, she maneuvered her way through the rest and made it into the kitchen.

As she fried some eggs, she wondered vaguely if she would have to go shopping in the next few days. Probably…they were out of sugar and almost out of bread. It had become easier to go through the tunnels, as Erik had provided a flashlight, but it didn't make it any less scary. She wished he would go with her—but he still didn't have his mask.

With a little gulp, she thought that perhaps today would have to be the day. He wanted to get out. She could tell. His pneumonia had finally gone, and she sensed that he was beginning to become restless down here. But she had selfishly enjoyed having him to herself. Maybe she was as bad as he—she had trapped him down here with her.

Dishing up a plate, she tried to think of a good way to give it back to him. But nothing came. So, in the end, she grabbed it from one of her bags where she had been hiding it and carried it out to him.

He was off of the couch and was standing by one of the boxes, a violin in his hands. Her stomach lurched slightly. It was her father's. She was going to give it to Erik, but she wasn't quite sure how just yet. So she had packed it away.

"Oh," she said simply. He glanced at her and then quickly set it down, like a small child being caught.

"I shouldn't have," he said simply, stepping away. His limp was still there; not as bad, but still present.

"No—no. It's fine. It's…it needs to be played. He wouldn't mind." Feeling a little odd, she approached and held out the plate and the mask. When he saw it, he was by her alarmingly-quickly and yanked it out of her hands.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"Nadir Khan gave it to me," she said quietly.

It saddened her to see him tie it back on. As soon as it was secure, he drew himself up, looking menacing and confident once more.

"You don't have to wear it, you know," she said, trying to hand him the plate, which he steadfastly ignored.

"What makes you say that? Have you enjoyed gawking at me?" he snapped.

She set the plate aside and sat down on the sofa, staring moodily at her own breakfast. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that," she said, grumpy that the morning had already turned so sour when last night had been warm and comfortable.

"Why else would you hide it from me for so long?" he said, pressing his fingers against the cheek, as if to ensure that it was still there.

"Because I knew you'd be like this as soon as you had it," she shot back, grabbing her plate and heading back to the kitchen. "I like you better without it."

She ate her breakfast by herself, stabbing at her eggs with a particular anger. Why did he have to be such a jerk to her? Couldn't he tell that she was trying? It wasn't as if she had experience dealing with disfigured, angry men. The two other men in her life had been calm and patient and loving and very handsome.

With a little sigh, she pushed her hair behind her ears and rubbed her eyes. No. She knew from the start how difficult this would be and how much patience she would have to have. Erik needed time to accept her in his life, and he didn't know how to deal with her as well. They were still becoming used to each other. Even though they had lived together before, it had been under different circumstances, and she hadn't wanted to stay. They had to build back their relationship, and it wasn't going to be easy.

She cleaned up her plate and then went back out into the front room. Erik was sitting at the piano bench, and her heart leapt a little at the familiar sight. However, he wasn't playing. He was simply sitting there, staring at the keys. She went up to him.

"I'm sorry for what I said," she said. "And I'm sorry for keeping your mask from you. I shouldn't have done that." When he didn't reply, she put a hand on his shoulder, hoping he wouldn't shrug it off. "Are you still mad at me? I'm really sorry. I just…I liked having you here. I thought that if you had it back, you'd…I dunno. Go out all the time and leave me here alone. I guess I'm selfish that way. I hope you can forgive me."

"You do not need to be forgiven for anything," he said at last. "You are here…you came back…That is more than I had ever dreamed."

Relief spread through her, and she smiled a bit and then sat down next to him on the bench—there was a lot of room because of his physique. She put an arm around his narrow waist and leaned against him, watching the piano keys with him.

"I've forgotten most of what you taught me," she said, putting her other hand on the white keys. "Remember how bad I was?" She plunked down a key that was nestled in between two black ones.

"You were adequate enough," he said.

They sat there for a little while longer, and she waited hopefully, but he made no move to put his arm around her as well. Maybe she was wrong—he just didn't want to touch her at all.

The piano gleamed, but she still hadn't heard him play anything yet. She missed his music with a sharp sort of ache in her chest.

"What did you do while I was gone?" she then asked, trying to draw a conversation out of him.

"Nothing worthwhile," he said. "Nothing you would like to hear."

She paused, her heart beginning to hammer. "Did you…kill people?"

"No."

That was good. She felt she could deal with anything else. With a little jolt, she realized he hadn't killed anyone in over a year. Did he realize that as well?

"Did you do drugs?"

He paused. "Yes."

It hurt her more than she thought it would. Hadn't he said that he had been stupid when he had done them before? She hadn't thought he would revert to that. But…still. He hadn't hurt anyone else except himself. Maybe she should just count herself lucky that he hadn't reverted to anything else…like murder or kidnap or arson.

"I'm sorry you did," she said quietly. "I wish you hadn't."

"It was only a few times," he said. "What happened wasn't very…pleasant. I'm much too old for that now."

The last comment made her laugh. "You're not old," she said, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. She wasn't surprised in his reaction—he shifted uncomfortably.

"This doesn't bother you, does it?" she asked then, her mouth a little dry. "Me touching you? I'm sorry if it does. I'm—I know I touch you a lot. But it's like I haven't seen you for almost six months, so I'm—I guess I'm a little excited." Her cheeks burned. "But you don't really ever touch me, and I know you said you don't like it when people touch you, so…if it bothers you, just tell me."

"No—I…" He was struggling for words, and he looked away from her and toward the wall. "I hardly know how," he said after a moment. "I've never touched a woman before."

The answer was so sweet and so surprising that she grinned. "It's easy," she said, carefully taking his arm. "I like holding hands or having your arm around me—like this. And I like it when people play with my hair or rub my back. You could even put your hand on my leg—that's fine. Or—or anywhere else you want to put it, really." She needed to tell him that, because she had a feeling that if she didn't, he would limit himself to the places she had listed; all the respectable places, in short. And maybe she should have been embarrassed or ashamed, but she was excited to have their physical relationship progress as well as their emotional one.

Over the next few weeks, he experimented with touching her. She never, ever pushed him away or gave any sign that she didn't enjoy what he was doing. It was awkward at first, as everything was with him. He was more often than not too rough, and his movements were mechanical and jerky. He had a hard time approaching her in the beginning, too. He only seemed to be able to touch her when she went to deliberately sit next to him and wait.

It took time, but he was smart and a very fast learner. All of it was worth it when he would stroke her hair or carefully press a cold hand over hers. During times like that, she felt ashamed for ever having doubted his innocence in Iran. She had a suspicion that if she brought up the idea between the two of them, he would have a stroke or heart attack. She would just have to be patient and let him learn at his own pace—allow him to grow comfortable with what he was doing before introducing something else.

With his mask back, he did take to leaving, but he never left for more than a couple hours, and she felt sheepish for before, when she had wanted him to stay down there. She left several times a week to make trips to the store or run other errands. It wasn't fair for Erik to stay stuck down there. And sometimes he brought her presents, which she always accepted with shameless glee, wanting him to know how much she loved that sort of thing.

On one night, they were sitting on the couch together. Erik had played his violin for the first time in months—a concert for her. When she had asked, he had appeared a little hesitant, but he had obliged. Christine had sat on the couch, enraptured, watching him play. The music was such a factor in their relationship, and that night was proof. It seemed to soothe away so many unspoken hurts and worries and concerns, and afterward, he sat with an arm around her, and she put her head on his shoulder, feeling at peace with herself and with him and with the world.

The mask drew her attention after a while, and she looked at it on him for a few moments. She couldn't count how many nights she had sat staring at it during those long winter months, wondering and wishing so many things. Oftentimes her mind would drift to those first times she had held his hand; the first times she had felt that excited, hopeful longing in her heart.

"Can I ask you something?" she said softly at length.

"Yes," he said.

"Remember that time we were in the car, and you said that you didn't have a mom? What did you mean by that?" She didn't miss the way he tensed a little. "I want to know about your childhood," she continued. "I really do. We're so close now. I think it's time for you to tell me."

The discomfort in his posture grew when she said the last sentence, and he shifted. A silence stretched on for a while.

"My childhood was not pleasant," he said abruptly. "It would…abhor you. I am already disgusting. Perhaps it would be better if you invented a story of your own."

She frowned deeply. "Erik, I'm not going to blame you or think badly of you because of a bad childhood. Those things can't be helped. And you're not disgusting. At all."

"When you hear, you will not be able to forget. You'll look at me, and all you will see is my repulsive origins."

"You know that's not true," she said. "I know so much about you already—so many bad things that I wish you hadn't done, but I'm still here. I just really want you to be honest with me. I want you to trust me like I trust you."

Another moment passed in silence. Then he roughly said, "You promised to stay."

"I know. I will."

When he didn't speak, she was afraid that he was going to refuse further, but before she could ask him, he then said, "I was born in Paris."

She couldn't resist smiling a little. "Okay," she said, relaxing into his embrace again. "That's good. A start. Keep going."

For a moment, he seemed to struggle with what to say next, and then he said slowly, "Are you convinced that you want—?"

"Yes," she interrupted. "I do."

He touched her ring, as if to reassure himself that she was still there with him. "I was born in Paris," he repeated. "The Berlin Wall and the fall of the Soviet Union happened when I was an adolescent, so I am…a much older man than you."

Her smile grew. "I know. That's fine. Keep going."

"I…" He trailed off again, sounding frustrated. "This is ridiculous, you know? I hardly know what to tell you…where to begin. It is not a story worth repeating."

Christine knew that that couldn't be further from the truth. He was about to tell her of his childhood —what events and people had shaped him and made him…who he was. She was anxious, curious.

"Well, maybe I could ask you questions instead," she suggested. "That way I can know everything I'd like to."

He paused. Then—"Yes. That would be acceptable."

"And you won't lie to me?"

A soft, tired-sounding chuckle came from him. "Unfortunately, no."

Playing with the buttons of his shirt, she gave herself a few moments to think and try to decide what to begin with, and at last she said, "Who was the woman who…had you?"

"Her name was Nadezhda Reshetnikov."

"Wow. That's a mouthful," she said, laughing a little and trying to ease some of the tension between them. "But that's Russian, isn't it? You said you were born in Paris."

"Yes, I was. She was Russian, born in a poverty-stricken suburb of Moscow."

"Did she marry a Frenchman? Or did she move there?"

"She was around fifteen or sixteen when she arrived in Paris, though it was not a voluntary relocation. I believe the civilized world has a delightful term for it…What is it…? Oh yes. You call it Human Trafficking."

Her heart clenched up a little, and she sat up to be able to look at him. He looked a little too calm, and his mouth quirked oddly when he saw her watching him.

"Yes, poor girl," Erik said, sounding relaxed about the fact that the woman who bore him had been forcibly taken from her home. "She was smuggled across Europe and deposited in Paris to take up a life of drugs and prostitution. I learned all this after, you know—many years after her death. I knew nothing of this when I was a child."

"Didn't her…her parents try to find her?" Christine asked, suddenly finding her tongue thick and heavy. "I mean, she just disappeared. Didn't they talk to the police?"

He actually laughed at that. "My poor, dear, naïve little Christine," he said. "Not everyone is blessed with devoted, loyal parents. I am sure they were rather glad to be rid of her: one less mouth to feed and all that. You, having grown up as the sole object of affection for your parents, would never understand such a thing."

"You're right," she admitted. "I…I don't. I don't understand."

"And you should count yourself lucky," he said.

A few moments passed in silence, and Christine wondered if he wanted this time to think and compose himself. She watched him, but he soon gave her an expectant look, and she continued her questions.

"So…did your mo—I mean, that woman. Did she end up marrying someone?"

He looked at her, and his gaze was almost incredulous.

"You are delightful," he said simply.

"Oh," she said, confused.

To her surprise, a gentle, pitying look came into his eyes. "No. She never married."

"But…So who's your father?" She realized her mistake in the terminology, but she didn't have another word for it. Who was the man who impregnated the woman who birthed you but was not your mother?

"I do not know. There's no way of knowing." He shifted again. "But you still do not understand. You could not. You. You sit there, so innocent and perfect…You cannot even fathom this world, this world of money and sex and violence and drugs. Yet I was born in it, raised in it. I breathed it all in for years, and I thought that that was the natural way of the world. And it was…Until I found you."

During his soft speech, she had felt a little bashful and embarrassed about his proclamations of her 'innocence.' Erik reached out a careful hand and gently took a few of her curls and wrapped them around his fingers. He stroked them with his thumb, his eyes focused on his task.

"Well, help me understand," she said, not making a move to pull away.

"But you are so beautifully simple," he said. "I'm reluctant at the thought of sullying you."

"Don't be silly," she said. "I'm not some stupid little airhead, Erik. Even if you don't believe me, I do know some…things. You can tell me. I want to know."

"You already know more than I've ever wanted you to," he said, and he at last drew his hand away, fixing her with another look. "Yet we've come this far, I suppose, and you look very lovely when you're curious, so I'll indulge you a while longer."

"Well, I'm flattered," she snipped sarcastically. It took her a moment to get over his words, which she took as an insult. 'Beautiful' was one thing, but 'beautifully simple' was another. But after a deep breath or two, she felt calm enough to continue their conversation. "Please tell me more."

"Let me paint you a dirty, unpleasant picture," Erik said. "The girls that are put into these situations are nothing more than objects. They are assigned a small, filthy, cramped room that they hardly ever leave. Men are sent up whenever they arrive, and so one girl could…entertain a dozen different men throughout the day. Money is given to the group of men who own the business, and they in turn give the girls enough drugs, food, and other such necessities to keep them alive…in a way."

The thought was horrible. Christine had to stop herself from putting a hand over her mouth.

"You were…born in a place like that?" she whispered.

"I am not quite sure where I was born," he said. "Usually unwanted pregnancies are quickly and unquestionably disposed of, and yet this girl was able to somehow carry me full-term and birth me somewhere. I have a suspicion that she somehow escaped her…establishment after she discovered her pregnancy, as such heavy drug use would have killed any fetus. I have no solid proof, but it seems logical that she would have borne me and then begun a career as an independent prostitute. She took up a cheap room and hid me there."

Christine was feeling worse than ever. How could he have survived such an environment? How could a poor, innocent little baby have been raised in a place like that?

"I don't know why she was inclined to keep me," he said, and he sounded so impersonal that Christine wanted to cry. "If she had been merciful or had had any common sense, she would have thrown me into a dumpster and left me to freeze to death, especially considering…" He trailed off, and she knew he was talking about his face. "Well, in the end she kept me. I was put in a small closet, and I spent my childhood there."

"You lived in a closet?" Christine whispered.

"Of course. Where else was she to keep me when her clients came? Under the bed? Ah. You pity me. Or you are disgusted."

"No!" she said quickly. "I'm just so…sad. I can't believe that."

"What did you expect?" he said, somewhat forcefully. "I told you it was repulsive. And yet you insisted on hearing it."

"I know—I know. And I'm glad." She wrapped her arms around him, not letting him pull away when she felt him try. "I don't want to make you upset." Her voice was muffled slightly by his collar. "But I'm happy you're telling me." Trying to be discreet, she used the opportunity to dry her teary eyes as best she could with his shirt. She hoped he thought she was simply nuzzling his neck.

With a small breath, she felt ready to hear more. "How long were you there?"

"I have no idea," he said. "Six—maybe seven years. No more than ten, I'm sure. It was harder to hide me when I became older. I was outgrowing the closet. Sometimes, when no one would interrupt, she would let me out and allow me to look out of the window. There wasn't much to see—just a dirty alleyway full of garbage…but it was very fascinating. You can't imagine how starved I was for interaction, fresh air, open spaces…" His voice became a little distant. "Art, books, music…I spoke Russian and very limited French—mostly things I heard from Madeleine's visitors."

"Madeleine?" she repeated, confused.

"Oh—yes," he said. "They gave her a French name early on. No Frenchman would have been able to say Nadezhda."

"I didn't know you were Russian," she commented.

"Yes—and it's anyone's guess as to what nationality my fraternal half is."

"Maybe Swedish," she said jokingly, grateful to be able to smile a little in spite of their heavy conversation.

To her pleasure, he laughed softly at that. They were quiet for a moment. It was still a little chilly in the house, though summer was beginning to break the cold.

She tried to warm herself by shifting closer to him. He wasn't exactly comfortable, all bones and no warm flesh, but his arms around her did feel nice, as well as his soft breathing that was ruffling her hair.

"Why did you leave?" she then asked.

"It is…unpleasant," he said. "You will be disgusted."

"I won't," she said firmly. But inside, she wavered. Would she?

He sighed, and she had the impression that he was bracing himself—whether to tell the story or to weather her reaction, she couldn't be sure.

"Prostitution is a dangerous profession," he said at length. "I'm sure Madeleine knew this, but I doubt she would have been able to do anything else, as her French was poor and her education minimal. Perhaps she never even thought that the world offered more than that room. She had been in France for ten or so years by now, and it was bound to happen."

She let him sit in almost a minute of silence until she squeezed his hand gently and murmured, "Erik?"

"There was an argument one night," he said. "Apparently a man hadn't paid her enough. It got violent quickly. He was…incoherent. Drunk and high, I'm sure. I couldn't help her. I was locked in the closet—but he heard me and opened the door after a few minutes. There was blood everywhere. He had used a loose floorboard."

Her stomach was rolling, and her eyes were shut tightly, her face buried in his neck.

"I had this horrid makeshift mask—just a piece of cloth with eyeholes—and he took it off. The sight seemed to enrage him. He nearly broke my jaw, but he did manage to crack a few ribs before I was able to get out."

She wanted to burst into tears and cling onto him and say Poor Erik over and over, but she knew he wouldn't appreciate it at all.

"And your mom?" she whispered tremulously. "I mean—Madeleine?"

He shook his head. "Dead, of course. Bludgeoned to death."

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Why should you be?" he said. "It was over thirty years ago. There is no use in dwelling on such things."

"I know," she replied. "I just wish it had been different for you—you deserved a lot more."

"Probably not."

"You did," she insisted firmly. "I think you deserved everything."

"You would be the only one," he said facetiously.

"Then everyone else is stupid!" she said shortly, angrily. He paused for a moment, and then he laughed, loudly. She blushed and smiled nervously.

"Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have said that. That was mean."

For some reason, that made him laugh again, and even though she was pretty sure he was laughing at her, the fact was that he was laughing, and it warmed her more than anything. When he was finished, she gave a sheepish giggle and put her head back on his shoulder.

"Where did you go after that?" she asked.

His voice was now infused with a sort of gentleness, and it made her heart leap to her throat—she wondered if he would sing for her soon. "I wandered Paris for a while; a year, most likely, until I stumbled upon an old university. It had ideal hiding places, and I stayed there for years. It was the place I had dreamed about. There was art and books…and music there. I educated myself by listening in on lectures and spending nights in the library. But I was young and became restless, so I left Paris, made my way across Europe, and eventually found myself in Tehran. That is where I…met Nadir, as he told you."

Christine could instantly see through some of his story. There were probably a good five or six years of time he had skipped—'making his way across Europe'—but she was silent. There was so much time to hear those stories. Years. And she had pushed him far enough for today.

"Thank you," she said. "For the violin concert. And for telling me. It means a lot to me."

"You're not going to run screaming, are you?" he asked, and he was trying to be humorous, but he couldn't manage to suppress the slightest tremor in his voice that gave him away.

"No," she said instantly, tightening her grip on him. "I'll be here forever."

His hand covered hers, and she looked at the bare skin of it, the blue veins running like rivers across it. His fingers were bare, and she glanced at her left hand. Her stomach did a somersault as she looked at the ring. She was going to get a ring on his hand, too, and this time it would be done right. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. This was it, now. She could feel it, running through her veins, flowing into her heart and being pumped into every corner of her. Her ring lightly rubbed against his grayish skin. Questions and concerns didn't seem to have a place just now. It had taken her a year, but she had arrived, and he was with her, and she would tell him, no matter how scared she was, no matter how afraid she was of his reply. He needed to know. She loved him, and she wanted to marry him in a white dress with a bouquet of flowers.