I needed a tissue well before the end of this chapter. Would really appreciate your feedback too.

Giver49

Throughout the night I woke from fitful sleep, my heart racing each time my eyes popped open. Uneasiness gripped me, tightened my stomach and filled me with dread.

I sat trembling in the dark, certain my father had followed us. Goose flesh rose along my arms, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

My God, how I feared him.

He would have been furious with me for being in the presence of others. In the back of my mind I could hear his gruff words telling me I was worthless, that I was a wicked, evil creature. Now that we were only days from Paris, I worried he would steal me back.

Or he would be there waiting, blocking our path.

Rain started before dawn, a light drizzle and distant thunder that kept me awake. Once dawn approached, I could see my uncle sound asleep on his side facing away from me. He breathed deeply and muttered under his breath. I was glad my own nightmares hadn't disturbed him. Unable to sleep, I draped my blanket over his shoulders and briefly knelt beside him.

"My father," I whispered to him, resting my hand on his thin shoulder. "You are my true father."

When at last he woke, he sat up and coughed hard into the crook of his elbow, leaving behind a spatter of blood on his shirt. He stared at the stains for a long moment before he lay down again and closed his eyes.

"Uncle?" I questioned.

"A moment longer," he said, his voice weak and slurred. "Start up the fire again. Make breakfast."

There was no greeting, no soft, familiar smile and twinkle in his eyes. He lay motionless and moaned softly as he drew the blankets up to his chin and shook violently.

I nodded even though he didn't look at me or say another word. Crawling from the tent, I found the rest of our wood pile beneath a tarp, started a small fire, and warmed my trembling hands.

Fear paralyzed me. I stared blankly into the distance, into the fog that laced through the hills and the vast, frightful unknown of the world we were supposed to travel. I sat motionless until the drizzle turned into a steady rain and the cold drove me back inside the tent.

"Uncle?" I said as I peered into the darkened interior and hoped to find him sitting upright.

My words were met with silence. I swallowed hard and slipped inside where I knelt at his back and placed my hand on his shoulder.

"Uncle Alak?" I tried again.

He gasped, made a sound as though he struggled to fill his lungs. Dark red blood stained his bottom lip, his face ashen once he turned onto his back.

I was too ignorant to move or speak, too afraid of his condition to do more than gawk. His eyes slit open and he reached for me, settling his hand on my shoulder.

"I am ill," he said weakly.

"What do I do?" I asked.

His eyes closed, his breaths labored. "Keep walking south," he whispered. "Take all the supplies you can carry."

"No." I shook my head, my chest so painfully tight I felt as though I would suffocate. "No, I can't do that."

"You cannot argue," he said to me, his voice little more than a hiss of air past his lips. "My son is waiting for you. The address is in my pack. Go. Now."

"Rest," I said, unable to do more than offer one pleading word. With the foolish hopes of a child I prayed an hour more of sleep would refresh him. This would pass, I told myself. I had been so ill I could barely move and yet I had survived. He would do the same.

"Eat," he said. Gently he reached toward my face and nodded, silently telling me to lean forward. His slender fingers were cold, and when he pulled my mask up, I shuddered.

"I can't," I said under my breath, unable to hold back the fear and emotion bubbling up within me.

"Do this for me," he whispered. He caressed my cheek and neck, smoothed his hand along the hair at the nape of my neck with such tenderness. There was no disgust in his eyes when he looked me over, no fear or repulsion. I trembled at his touch, ashamed mine would be the last face he would ever see.

"Erik," he said to me, his voice trembling. "Look at me, my son."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, fearing what he would ask of me. Tears clouded my eyes, spilled down my cheeks in hot, thick drops. I choked on each breath, overwhelmed by a situation I could barely comprehend. He was dying.

"I want you to leave," he gasped.

I shook my head, so overcome by grief that I couldn't breathe or see. I gripped his wrist and he pressed his hand against my face, wiping the tears from my eyes.

"Don't make me leave," I begged. "Please, Uncle, don't make me leave."

"Erik," he said between labored breaths.

I tilted forward, doubled over at his side and draped my arm over his chest. All the peace in the world threatened to leave me, the one pinnacle of kindness fading faster than I had ever imagined.

"Don't leave me," I wept. "Please don't leave me."

He rested his hand on my back and I felt his body jolt, breath hitch. He inhaled sharply and turned his face toward mine. Cold lips touched my right temple, shallow breaths brushed past the ruined side of my face.

"Would you play for me one last time?" he requested.

I forced myself upright and wiped the tears from my face. Numb and unable to catch my breath, I searched through our belongings until I found his violin case. Once I held the case in my hands, I remembered what he had told me on the first night of our journey. With my feet bloodied and blistered from a day of walking, he told me of the Angel of Music, the entity who had come for his beloved wife.

He would join her. He would leave me.

This was his one last request, my one last time to please the only person in my life who cared for me. He had loved me unconditionally, through my temper and naïve, childish moments. The moment I opened the case, I began to sob so hard I nearly made myself sick.

He watched me with such sadness in his eyes and mouthed forgive me, my son as I finally managed to take up the violin and bow. I played each bar as they came to me, a series of notes that trickled in between each rattling sob. I had never played the song before and I never would as I had little recollection of the melody. This was my final gift to him, a song I would never play again.

The rain came harder, the hiss of a dying fire outside the small tent we shared eventually drowned by the rain. I shook with despair, with more heartache than I thought I could endure.

"Bravo," he said when I finished, his voice so soft I could barely hear him. Blood stained the corner of his lips and the insides of his nostrils, bright red and fresh. The site of blood terrified me, the threat of death made me light-headed.

I placed the violin carefully into the case and crawled toward him, unsure of what to do or what to say. He reached for my hand, gently squeezed my fingers, and closed his eyes. He smiled weakly, his lips parted as though he would say one last word to me.

I waited a long moment for him to speak, craving just the sound of my name on his lips. No single word would be enough, I knew.

"Uncle, I love you," I whispered, foolishly hoping my words would save him.

His hand grew limp, his body stilled. I never knew if he heard my last words to him or the howl of pure anguish I released, the scream from the very bottom of my lungs.

The rain poured down in sheets, battered the sides of the tent like fists and dampened the ground beneath us. Time passed unnoticed.

I ignored the threat of rain and the sound of horse drawn wagons. As I had done so many times before, I shut down, unable to register the pain of loss. Physical pain I could tolerate, but this…this hurt far worse than any beating I had ever endured. I would have gladly offered myself up for my father's cruel amusement if I could have had my uncle one more day.

Unbearable grief consumed me, left me unable to move or breathe. I would have remained there for days, laid down and died beside him merely to keep from being alone.

My cries, however, had drawn the attention of other travelers.

A tall, dark, thick man drew the tent flap open, startling me. His beard was braided and decorated with silver beads that accented the white hairs in his eyebrows and a deep, old scar across his forehead. He stared me in the eye for a long moment, reminded me of the cruelty and malice my father often displayed. When I failed to acknowledge him, he eyed my uncle's body and wrinkled his nose.

"Dead?" he asked.

I turned from him and made no reply. My answer would not matter.

"Did you kill him?" the man asked.

I shook my head, horrified by the question. I wanted to hit him in the face, to scream that I would never do anything to harm my uncle, to harm anyone at all.

"What has happened to your face?" he questioned.

All too late I realized I wasn't wearing my mask. Too stricken with grief, I had forgotten my uncle had removed the covering to see me fully one last time.

The man left, though I didn't notice when or for how long. When he returned there were others.

And they stalked toward me with chains.