Giver43

My uncle grunted and pulled me closer as we left the stable. I found him curiously smiling at me and when I faced him, he chuckled to himself.

"Have I done something to amuse you?" I asked, feeling increasingly self-conscious. I feared the slightest misstep, a reason to be mocked.

He shook his head. "Do not ever think my laughter is at your expense," he assured me.

"Why did you laugh, then?" I questioned.

He paused and placed his hand on my shoulder. "Tonight you forgot your troubles," he explained. His expression remained warm and assuring. "You were brave, courteous, and I dare say immensely charming."

I gawked at him, certain he was mistaken. Throughout the night I had been terrified, awkward, and plagued by insecurity. I couldn't imagine a more wonderful trepidation.

"You did very well," he said with a nod. "You played before a crowd and danced with a lovely young woman your age."

"Because you…forced me," I replied, a hint of humor in my tone.

"Ah, indeed I did." His smile broadened and he winked at me. "You will thank me one day."

I grinned back at him as we made our way out of the stable and found Amelie and her mother waiting for us. Amelie wrung her hands while her mother stood with her arms crossed.

"Madame Batiste," my uncle said with a nod. He didn't sound nearly as nervous as I felt.

"My daughter said she was afraid you would punish your son for wandering off," she said, her voice filled with concern. "She assured me your son was a gentleman and had no ill intentions. I trust you will not harm the boy."

My uncle's expression sobered. He looked at me briefly, then cleared his throat and turned back to Amelie's mother. "Madame, I assure you, no harm has ever come to this young man at my hands."

Madame Batiste put a protective arm around her daughter. "He hides a bruise around his neck," she said, accusation in her voice. "I saw the marks when he was eating."

"He has never hit me," I blurted out. "Not once, not ever, not even when I deserved to be beaten bloody."

Her eyes widened at my words, though she remained speechless.

I spoke frantically, pleading with her to believe me. I stepped forward and clasped my hands. "Please, Madame, he is a good father, the best one I have had."

She narrowed her eyes. "The best?" she questioned. "What do you mean?"

Uncle Alak drew me back with a careful hand to my arm. "Adoptive father," he said reluctantly. "His father is my brother. He was not a patient man or loving toward his son. I have raised him as my own, Madame. Not long enough, I'm afraid, but as long as the good Lord would allow."

I turned away and knew I had spoken out of turn. They would look at me differently now, as a child who had gone unwanted.

"You have done no wrong," Uncle Alak assured me. He squeezed my shoulder, his grip firm.

I heard Madame Batiste sigh. "Monsieur, I apologize for making assumptions. I had no idea of his suffering. You are a blessing to this child, then."

"No, Madame, he has blessed a lonely old man." Uncle Alak turned to me and nodded. "You may speak, Erik," he prompted.

"He is the only blessing I have had," I said softly, painfully aware of the truth I spoke. "Until tonight."

When I dared to look up, Amelie stared back at me. She frowned, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I didn't want your father to be angry with you," she said to me.

"Your daughter has a very kind heart," my uncle said to Madame Batiste. "I appreciate her concern."

"She is very aware of the world," her mother said with a sigh. "Especially with her father… gone. They were very close, Monsieur Kimmer. His death, his murder, it has been difficult on us."

Amelie's bottom lip trembled and she turned away, burying her face against her mother's shoulder. I studied them a moment, conflicted between being remorseful and angry for them.

"Why?" I asked suddenly. "Why was he killed?"

Madame Batiste's lips parted when she turned toward me, horror in her gaze.

"Forgive him," my uncle said. "He is very passionate at times and has great compassion for others."

She nodded and smoothed her hand tenderly over her daughter's hair. I found the gesture intimate and beautiful in a moment of heartache. Inwardly I shuddered, longing for mercy and comfort, for one night of my own suffering to be treated with such care.

"He was alone in the field. My son found him in the dead of night," Madame Batiste said, her voice quivering. "He had no possessions, no money or jewels. Murdered, it seems, for no purpose other than killing."

Cold swept over me, a chill from such a senseless act. I had been beaten without mercy and without reason. I had been robbed of my childhood, cheated out of thirteen years by the man who had created me. I had been left for dead more times than I could count, yet I was not the head of a household, a man working to support his family.

My uncle squeezed my arm and I realized I was breathing heavy, like a lathered racehorse. I stepped back suddenly, seeking the comfort of shadows.

"This boy has seen too much," Madame Batiste said sadly. "He is reminded of cruelty. I can see the pain in his eyes."

My uncle didn't reply and I was too ashamed to speak. Even with my mask in place I felt as though I had been laid bare.

"We have traveled very far. We should retire for the night," my uncle suggested, though I wasn't sure if his words were aimed at me or an announcement to declare he wished to rest and be alone for a while.

I nodded and prepared to trudge behind him, my night of being whole come to an end. My heart ached, desiring a night that would not end. This darkness was comfort, a disguise I longed to wear.

"May he walk me home?" Amelie questioned.

She stared at me as I hid behind my uncle, her eyes glistening, her swan's mask in her hand. She offered a smile, her face pale and pink lips parted. There was no greater beauty or innocence than Amelie Batiste in that moment. I feared speaking to her, worried if I touched her again the dream would come to an end.

My uncle looked over his shoulder at me. "Answer her," he said when I stood gawking. "Politely, now, Erik."

"I—I," I swallowed hard. "I would be honored," I stammered.

Amelie held out her hand and offered an enigmatic smile. I hesitated, knowing her mother and my uncle looked on and my every word would be weighed and scrutinized should I make one false move.

To lessen my agony, Amelie marched forward and grabbed me by the hand. "This way," she said firmly as she pulled me toward her.

I inhaled sharply, glanced back at her mother and my uncle walking side by side. They followed several steps behind and I caught the twinkle in my uncle's eye, unspoken approval that I was allowed another moment in Amelie's gentle company.

"I apologize," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she hurried me along.

I shot her a look. "To me?"

"Yes, of course." She nervously swiped her hair back from her face with her free hand. "For fetching my mother. I thought he was very angry with you, I thought perhaps—"

"You owe me no apology," I said quickly, still shocked by her offer. "My life is of no concern."

Her pace slowed, her hand loose in my mind. "Of course I owe you an apology," she argued. "Of course your life is of concern."

In silence I walked beside her, wishing I could tell her the truth, longing to be a different person with a better heart.

"My mother was correct," she said sadly. "You have been reminded of cruelty."

"There is too much cruelty," I replied without meeting her gaze.

Her grip tightened, her small fingers laced with mine. The smallest gesture curbed a lifetime of pain and I wanted to hold her hand forever.

"But there is music too," she reminded me. "Beautiful music, as long as my sister isn't singing."

When I dared to look at her, she offered a wide, playful grin. We stood before a modest stone house with an overgrown rose bush leaning over the pathway. Its thorny branches stretched toward the door, guarding the entrance. In shadows, the long, slender stems looked like a witch's fingers. I didn't want her to leave.

"I am glad you were not invisible," she said, her tone still soft and teasing. "I would have looked utterly ridiculous dancing alone."

She had no idea how her words effected me, how grateful I was to be seen and heard, if only for an evening. I forced a smile and turned to face her, our hands still joined.

Her delicate grasp managed to both stir and settle me. The sensation terrified me, yet left me wanting more. I couldn't understand how the mere warmth of her grasp sent butterflies through my stomach and a tingle at the tips of my fingers. She was much more than a girl; she was an angel.

"Thank you," she said, offering a curtsy. Her movements were fluid and graceful, the perfect swan.

I swallowed hard and nodded, wondering if my performance would match hers. "Thank you as well," I replied awkwardly as I released her hand and bowed. Stepping back, I clasped my trembling hands at the base of my spine and looked away.

"I will see you in the morning," she said cheerfully.

My gaze snapped up to meet hers. By the light of day, the illusions would dissipate like fog, her image of me clear. She would know I was a ruined form, understand why I was met with cruelty. The night would be forever changed—in her memory as well as mine.

"You won't run off in the middle of the night?" she asked warily. "I will see you again, won't I?"

"Run off?" my uncle chimed in. "No, no, of course not, my dear. Your mother promised the finest breakfast in Northern France."

Amelie appeared skeptical, but she nodded and stifled a yawn. "We will stuff you like a pig," she promised.

If dessert was any indication of the food quality, I knew leaving in the middle of the night would be a difficult decision. Despite my trepidation of being viewed at the table like a monstrous beast, my mouth watered with the prospects of being stuffed like a pig.

"I do believe you have found his second love, Mademoiselle," my uncle said with a chuckle as he touched my elbow and ushered me toward the inn. I realized I had stood staring at her. "Music and food," he said with a wink at me. "The joys of his heart."

Amelie and her mother retired for the night and I walked through the darkness with my uncle, the sounds of the village celebration fading into the night.

"What will I tell them?" I asked nervously once we were out of earshot.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Of myself," I replied, agitated by the possibilities surrounding me and the limitations always holding me down.

He looked me over, his eyes narrowed. "Of your mask?" he questioned.

"Yes," I answered shamefully.

He put his arm around me and inhaled. "You cannot help it if you were burned in a fire your drunken father started," he said. "You were very fortunate I pulled you from the flames. The physician, as you know, was not certain you would survive."

I frowned in response to his dictated story. "But I did."

"Indeed you did," he said, his voice rich and dignified. "God spared you for a purpose."

There he was wrong, but I made no reply. I had not been fashioned in God's likeness and I doubted I served any purpose.

"You have great talent, my son, great talent and a good soul," he said as we approached the inn. "Too many men are given handsome features and not an ounce of talent or purpose in this world, save to serve themselves."

"Such as my father," I said.

Two men sat at the entrance smoking pipes. They nodded and continued their conversation, paying us little heed.

My uncle paused and nodded. "I will not ruin this night by speaking of him."

I lowered my gaze. Now that I had tasted kindness and seen a glimmer of friendship, I craved more. Now that I had experienced the feelings evoked by a young woman, I hated the man who had sired me and the woman who had turned me away.

They were cruel, heartless monsters, deformed and scarred from within.

"You look upset, Erik," Uncle Alak said.

"Did he survive the fire?" I asked suddenly, avoiding his gaze. "The one he started? The one in which I nearly died?"

He looked me over carefully, remorse in his gaze. "What do you think?" he asked.

"No," I said without considering his question. "No, he did not."