A/N The final chapter for the Giver stories and it's a long one!

I'm sure Young Kire will be ready to talk about the gypsies soon, but I think I'm going to go back to some happier, albeit still irritated with the world, adult Kire and Julia. This whole story was emotionally draining, so I'm ready for a little bit of Alex babbling on about whatever enters his head and their time by the seashore. If anyone deserves a vacation, it's Kire.

Also, I was going to add a few short stories from Madeline's POV because she's been so understated and I think she'd have a lot of dirt on Kire no one else would tell. Thank you to everyone for all of your reviews and comments. I appreciate you sticking with Kire (and me) for so long. New Kire story will start going up probably in a week or two. I don't have a title for the new one yet.

Giver50

Grief stood in the way of trepidation. The men tore through the tent, weapons in hand and teeth bared like vicious animals. They ripped the fabric to shreds and broke the poles as they rummaged through our belongings and apparently found nothing of interest.

Once they formed a circle around me, I eyed them but made no attempt to flee or acknowledge their presence with words. Reminded of my father bearing down on me in the cellar, I knew no words or actions would spare me whatever cruelty they had in store. Salvation had abandoned me.

I didn't care what they said or what they would do to me. A new wave of emotion took hold and I reached for my uncle's cold, stiff hand. The cold didn't bother me, as his hand against my face had felt quite cool. What alarmed me was his fingers had turned stiff. He felt more like a statue than my beloved uncle, and this frightened me. Sucking in a breath, I released his hand and sat back, recoiling slightly from the body.

The realization that the man I adored was gone and only a corpse remained clouded my eyes with tears and stole the air from my lungs.

"Lasso him and pull him away," I heard a man instruct. "Do not touch either of them, especially the boy's face."

Slowly they neared, stalked toward me with apprehension. Chains dangled from their outstretched hands, ropes gathered in order to tether me. The understanding that I was alone and my uncle would not protect me, made me abruptly roll to my feet.

These strangers terrified me.

"Easy," one man said, his voice a threatening growl.

"He doesn't understand," the man beside him said. They all looked the same to me; dark eyed and dark haired. "He's a mute. Ignorant by the looks of him. Probably can't hear, either."

Always underestimated, always judged before I could prove my worth, I glanced down at my uncle's body, at the only person who had faith in me. These men, these gypsies, they would take me away from him. They would take away everything.

My uncle deserved one final moment of dignity. I wanted one last farewell—and I was more than willing to fight them for the right to see him at peace.

"I must bury him," I said suddenly, my voice an urgent plea. A sob escaped as well, a deep, guttural sound.

The gang of men surrounding me paused and exchanged looks. Behind them in the distance, something billowing and white darted between the wagons. I almost swore a ghost walked amongst them, for one hopeful instant I thought my uncle had come to guide me to Paris.

An old woman in dark clothing and a scarf covering her hair pushed through carrying a broom. She shoved the men aside and muttered under her breath, which drew their attention. Every few steps, she made the sign of the cross and shouted, then pushed the bristles against the dirt and grass.

She glanced at me briefly, her weathered, olive expression stern but dark eyes keen. Waving her hand in the air she shouted, "Bad spirits! The dead must be buried!"

"He was not bad," I protested.

"Not him," she said, briskly walking in a wide circle around me, all the while sweeping at the dirt. She had come to sweep away the evil the gypsies thought clung to the grounds. "No, he has gone, but there are bad spirits here. They must go."

Her actions left me both fascinated and bewildered as she continued to sweep and demand whatever spirits she sensed were near to leave at her command. I froze where I stood, afraid some unseen entity would brush up against me. The closer she drew toward me, I held my breath and waited for her to pass.

"Evil," she said. "There are evil spirits on this ground. They will not follow us. I will not allow it. God protect my family, God protect my littlest grand children, God protect Roxana, God protect these roads." She paused and waved her wrinkled hand in the air and stared at me again. Looking me dead in the eye, she made the sign of the cross again, her hand slowly sweeping through the air. "Make the sign," she ordered. "Do it now. Right now."

I swallowed hard and looked from her to the crowd standing behind her. The same billow of white I had seen only a moment before passed behind the wagons.

"Do it!" she ordered. "Like this!"

I imitated her movements, unsure of what she hoped to accomplish. The horses seemed to grow uneasy, pawing at the ground and snorting to one another. The old woman took several steps closer to me and narrowed her eyes. She had marks on the palms of her hands, dark, tattooed lines that drew my attention.

"There is still evil around you," she said to me. "Within you as well."

There was no room for evil within me, I wanted to tell her. All emotions, all feelings had turned to grief and turmoil. I looked away from her and sank to my knees where I rummaged through my uncle's belongings and found a small shovel. Ignoring the looming crowd, I began digging a proper grave, intent on putting him beneath the ground and away from scavenging animals.

"He will bury his dead," the old woman announced. "He shall do so alone."

Interest lost, the crowd pulled back and I was left to work in solitude. My throat tightened, tears held at bay for the sake of duty. I felt them watching me, their interest piqued by my sullen duty as I removed what was left of the tent and piled the fabric and broken poles on the opposite side of the fire. Saw dust and bits of wood remained from the statues we had made the previous day, discarded remnants created during our final conversation.

Crestfallen, I sank to my knees and began to dig. Sweat poured down my face, blisters covered my palms, and dirt caked beneath my fingernails. Daylight turned to dusk, my shoulders ached, cramps bunched my legs as I crouched and moved stones, hard clumps of clay, and black dirt until I had a shallow grave dug.

I didn't have the stamina to give him anything more. My hands were raw and aching, my throat dry, my body sore from hard labor. With the last of my strength, I grabbed him under the arms and dragged him little more than arm's length away to his final resting place. He was heavier than I had imagined, especially given his frail state. I nearly collapsed into the hole on top of him.

The way in which his body tumbled left me choking for air. I wasn't strong enough to move him with care, to respect him the way I desired. Specks of dirt coated his lips and fell onto his shirt, and through tear-clouded eyes, I sat on my knees and shook, the tight bind of emotion strangling any sound I attempted to make.

With great reluctance I covered his body with cold earth, the heady scent of soil a bitter reminder of my father's home. Every time I inhaled, sickness swelled in my empty belly and several times I gagged until I was forced to cover my nose and mouth with my shirt and wait until the sensation passed.

I sat motionless for a while, my uncle's legs and torso covered by black dirt, his chest and ashen face still visible. Looking at him—at what had been him—became nearly impossible. Over and over I cursed myself for walking slowly, for arguing with him, for asking to stay the night and spend the morning with Amelie.

Disappointment turned to acute loathing for myself and my selfish ways. If I had been of any worth at all, I would not have accepted his offer to leave. He should not have traveled as far as he did, with such a worthless child at his heels. I was a horrible child, always sneaking about, always escaping. He would have lived if I had stayed put, if I had accepted my fate and gone to the asylum as my parents desired.

I wondered how long his own son would hold out hope for our arrival, if he would think his monster of a cousin murdered his beloved father. Part of me wanted to write to him and explain what had happened, though I had no desire to speak of my uncle's death. I felt wholly responsible, a murderer without blood on his hands.

Darkness fell and I sobbed as I pushed dirt into the grave. His face disappeared before my swollen eyes, and once I patted the dirt into place and secured stones over the body, I realized there was no suitable marker for a headstone. He was gone completely from me, a man deserving of so much more than what I could offer.

The old woman returned and made the sign of the cross as I sat cross-legged beside the burial plot and finally caught my breath. Exhausted and defeated, I made no attempt to acknowledge her.

"Deception," she said as she pointed a gnarled finger at me.

I sat hunched over, wrapping my arms around my chest as though I could somehow contain the deep ache resonating through my body. Staring at the mound of dirt, I was certain there would be no greater agony in my lifetime, no amount of physical pain that could compete with how I felt.

Each kind word, each moment of praise, had disappeared with his body.

"You," the old woman said, her tone accusing. "You are deception."

The gypsies crowded around, and despite their close proximity—or perhaps because of where they stood, I felt more alone than I had felt before.

The old woman swept dirt toward me and brandished her cleaning tool like a weapon, which she swiped back and forth through the air. The bristles grazed my arms, dust tickling my nose. I turned my head and coughed, and the moment I took my eyes off her, she sprinkled me with water. Startled, I shot her a look and watched as she capped a small indigo glass bottle decorated with beads strung through wire. A silver cross dangled from a satin string tied around the neck.

"Away!" she shouted. "Out! Out of here!"

Her outburst made me wince and I jerked away from her, fully prepared to flee. At once I received a knee between the shoulder blades, which forced me forward and immediately punched the air from my lungs. Hands gripped my shirt and drove me onto my stomach where I was pinned by a hard, blunt object in the center of my back. A foot, I thought, though I didn't bother turning to find out. Curiosity and struggling seemed worthless.

Horse hooves pounded the earth, echoed in my ear as I lay with the right side of my face pressed to upturned dirt and grass. Once whoever drove me down realized I would not fight, the pressure lessened and I could breathe.

Resigned to my fate, I released a pent up breath and found no reason or desire to struggle. After months of peace in my uncle's company, despite the distance I had traveled from my father's home, my life had not changed. Cruelty and hatred, no matter where I traveled or what I did, would find me.

"Roxana!" the old woman shouted. "What do you see?"

From the edge of my vision I saw a wisp of white. I turned my head a fraction of an inch to see a girl perhaps a year older than myself standing on the back of a white horse. Everything about her was ghostly from her alabaster gown, her pale face and eyes, and her waist-length white hair. She had a narrow, cat-like face and silver beads draped around her neck. Silver jewelry adored her fingers and a belt hung around her thin waist. She reminded me of starlight, pale and cold.

Unable to tell if she was real or imagined, I turned my head to fully stare at her. She jumped from the horse's back and landed smoothly on the ground, arms in front of her for balance. Either she didn't notice me or she pretended I didn't exist, either way, she spared no acknowledgment.

"There is nothing here or worth or value," she said as she sauntered around. Her horse danced in a circle, its white legs kicking high in the air.

"Do you sense them still?" the old woman asked.

"No, grandmother, the spirits have passed," she announced. "The road ahead is safe."

"What of him?" the old woman questioned, pointing her broom toward me.

The girl—Roxana—spared me a glance. She wrinkled her nose and stood a little straighter as she toyed with her rings.

"I see darkness," she said, keeping her voice low. Her gaze flitted toward the distance. "A void my eyes cannot penetrate."

A fortune teller, I realized, though I doubted her gift of foresight. There had always been darkness around me. In a strange way I found comfort in knowing my path would not be greatly jarred, that my fate was tightly sealed.

Thick cuffs clamped around my wrists, and as Roxana turned away and effortlessly mounted her white horse, I was forced to stand. My hands were bound together, linked with an iron chain too thick and heavy for even an elephant.

"Leave everything else. Bring only the boy," Roxana ordered.

With a handful of chains, I pulled back from the two men who had chained me. They looked startled but didn't move. While they gawked, I bent and reached for my pack. The scattered food and supplies I left behind, taking only my leather bag containing shirts, a comb, and a wooden angel. I strained to grab the violin case and managed to stuff the cumbersome object into the bag. My uncle's cane lay beneath cooking supplies, though I was too far away to reach it.

I would not abandon my only possessions, my greatest treasures and memories. The rest I was forced to leave behind and no one else dared to touch per the fortune teller's instruction.

"Secure him," I heard a man shout from his seat at the head of the wagons. "For God's sake, secure the beast."

My time alongside my uncle had ended. A prisoner of the gypsies, I knew Paris would remain out of reach. I wrapped the leather strap around my wrist as the men pulled me forward and secured the chain to the back of the final wagon.

The white horse trotted past, the rider once again perfectly balanced on its back. She whistled and the gelding raced past us, a streak of pearl white in the dark. The last I saw was her still standing on its back as though she stood on solid ground and not a galloping horse.

I knew for certain that if I had attempted such a feat on Moon's back I would have fallen with her first step. I wondered if Roxana possessed skill or somehow tricked my eyes. She intrigued me with her balance and grace, not her fortune telling.

Once she was out of my sight, I wondered how long Amelie would faithfully keep Moon. There would be no returning for either of them, which greatly saddened me. Both would think I had simply abandoned them and retracted my word. Amelie would think me a liar; Moon would most likely go to slaughter. Both realizations devastated me.

"You," a voice behind me growled. "You are not to look at my daughter."

Obedience was never my strong point, but I didn't reply or acknowledge his words. The wagons lurched forward, heavy chains dragged along the ground. I hesitated a moment, waited for the chain to be pulled taut before I was forced to take my first step.

"Walk or be dragged," the same voice rumbled from behind me. "Make your choice."

Reluctantly I followed behind like a dog chained to the end of their caravan. Through the darkness they wandered, nomads scratching a living from one town to the next, constantly driven away. They truly were no better than me.

Once the caravan crested the top of a hill, I glanced back into the darkness at the unknown, distant place my uncle was buried. There was nothing of significance to mark his burial site, no prominent gathering of trees or nearby village I would be able to recognize. There was only a hill in the countryside and nothing more, a miserable enigma that would keep me from ever finding him again.

Knowing I could never return to him, never pay the proper respects, nearly brought me to my knees.

I managed to pull my arm through the strap and hefted my bag onto my shoulder where the violin case rested against the side of my neck. I caressed the leather case, found comfort in an instrument.

Though miniscule, I found a heartbeat of peace as I stood alone. There were shadows all around, reminders of the man who had warned me of the asylum, who had fearlessly taken me away from my parents. He had been stern in telling me I would leave that horrible village, yet permissive in allowing me to follow him. He had stood up for me against my own father, defended me from total strangers, and forced me to enjoy the most wonderful night in my life. Not once had he struck or berated me, not even when I deserved both.

I couldn't allow his faith in me to fade so swiftly. Cloaked in darkness, I walked alone but imagined he was still at my side, his hand on my shoulder, soft gaze set on me. If I had nothing else, I still had his memory and no one could deny me that—no one but myself.

His memory would keep me alive, at least a little while longer. Eventually the pain coiled in my heart would become unbearable, my grief too intense and lacking outlet. I would attempt to emanate his strength, the power and cunning in his voice when physically he was weak. For years I would want to be like him, but eventually I would do everything in my power to forget him.

I knew he would have been greatly disappointed and grieved for what I would become. Perhaps he would have been proud of me for continuing with my music, but he would have loathed the ghost I became for so long.

But there would be another unlikely person in my life, and decades would pass before I truly understood the impact of her compassion.

At last, in the throes of my deepest despair, I would remember the man who had seen good within me and a boy worth saving. Whatever he saw in me, I found impossible to find in myself.

Despite the brief time we spent together, I knew without him in my life, I would not have had the courage to raise my son or the sense to see past my own self-loathing. I would not have survived my childhood.

I always wondered what type of man I would have been if I had remembered him with greater clarity, clung to his memory rather than pushed away my grief. I didn't understand the pain I harbored within was the result of love, not weakness.

I would be weak for a very long time.