Title:

… and sit a while with me …

Author:

Mrs. Trabi

Timeframe:

1944 and 29 A.C.

Summary:

AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child learn from a man his parents have always said won't care about him because he has no worth?

Disclaimer:

Well … I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words nor the persons, places, or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies … I'm just borrowing things from that book, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story … I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

Rating:

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

Author's Notes:

Here, I'd like to say that this story isn't meant to discredit the Bible, God, His word, Jesus, or anything we believe in. God is and remains our first and most important priority – or at least that it is what should be. I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult.

I will be trying to handle the subject as delicately and as seriously as possible, I promise, and I do hope that not only I won't be flamed for this, but that also I'll find one or another of my readers who'll gain a new view and understanding … and that you'll like this one as much as you do my other stories, even though this concerns a different – and in my opinion much more important – book … thanks …

Warning:

Story will contain bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story will contain references to child abuse.

Child abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever - of once having been abused, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Previously in … and sit a while with me …

"That's fine. On your feet now, Novak." Hrothgar sighed, feeling suddenly very tired – mentally tired, tired of such situations, because after all, Novak was not the first student he picked up from the floor after a mental breakdown and a panic attack. They all reacted similar to mentions of the infirmary, child abuse, or their parents, and he knew that in most cases only his firm and demanding presence in the infirmary would keep the children under some control and from running off again, depending on how deep their fear went – he knew that he always had to be prepared for nearly anything when it came to handling abused children.

Turning he grasped the boy's file just when a book caught his eye and he frowned, trying to remember when he had last taken this one off the shelf – 'American sign language for beginners'. It was years ago and he didn't even remember having it in his possession still, but right now it was just what he needed and without a second thought he took it from the shelf – just at the very same moment when the alarm for an air raid went off and another moment later he had again a boy at hand that was about to get into a panic attack at the loud and apparently unknown noise while he knew – he should get not only the brat, but his other students too to the cellars … while at the same time he realized that – a cellar, Jamie Novak being locked up in a cellar for only God knew how long, together with his brother whom he had watched dying down there …

What a fun the next few hours would surely become.

Without thinking he pushed the book into the boy's backpack, together with the file Garcia had given him, and he knew – giving the boy the backpack would be out of question, the brat was gone too far in his newly risen fear caused by the alarm and so he grabbed both, the backpack and the boy's shoulder without further ado.

A moment later there was a loud crash, an explosion close by, followed by the scraping of stone against stone and he could feel stone-splinters passing him, could feel the pain of something hitting his shoulder when he turned to shield the brat from the source of the explosion what was surely the impact of a bomb – wherever this one had come from.

It was a moment later that he realized – he, as well as Novak, whom he still was holding, weren't in his office anymore, that he wasn't even – in a building anymore, that he was … he didn't know where exactly he was, except that it was not where he should have been and he was sure that somehow the building – or at least part of it – had been hit by a bomb. Just how the boy and he had survived this impact, he really didn't know.

… and sit a while with me …

Part two – of learning and doing

Chapter eight – Welcome in the past

Fall 29 A.C. about November – Jerusalem

Opening his eyes he tried to get back his bearings, knowing that there was something – wrong. He just didn't know what exactly was wrong, and frowning he tried to tick off each point that came to his mind.

He'd been in his office – but right now he was laying in a – well, kind of hut, a hut that was built of stone, mud, and few wooden beams, a hut that was built in a very simple way and if he remembered anything he knew from his history lessons, then he was sure that this was the architectural style from the early Jerusalem.

He also knew that it had been afternoon – but, looking out of the window, it seemed to be evening right now, considering the setting sun out there, and the golden rays of sunlight coming in through the window that missed its glass.

For another moment he frowned at the glassless window in the small room, because so far he didn't really know of any room at school or near school that was built of stone, mud, and rough wooden beams, not to mention that there were no shards left in the window that looked as if there had never been glass in it to begin with, rather than being destroyed during the latest bomb raid.

Turning his head a bit he realised that there was no door in the wall either, only an open entryway that was covered with a curtain and – and all in all he could say that the room, or the building, whatever it was, was built … well, it was plain and simple, the building as well as the equipment - plain and simple, but surely not the outcome of a bomb raid.

"Where the fuck …" He murmured while sitting up on the – rack – and he lowered his head to one side in concentration while considering this new bit of information – bomb raid. There had been a bomb raid – and he doubted that any other than Japan had finally managed an attack on U.S. soil, most likely just one of their stray fire balloons reaching them, and he hadn't managed to get his students to the air raid shelter in time before the building had been hit, what surely had caused a lot of casualties, maybe even dead.

As if to belie his thoughts, children's laugher could be heard through the open window, and running his hand over his face he wondered why he would hear children's laugher, because it sounded too young in his ears, they couldn't be his students. Hathaway housed young teenage men, not small children, so – who the hell, were the children laughing out there? Because they surely were not his students, and surely they would not be so – for a moment he closed his eyes at alone the thought of the word, this particular word clearly causing his headache he already had, to increase – cheerful - after there had been a bomb raid – and not really the first one. There had already two of those bloody fire balloon the Japanese had started reached Hathaway, as if it were cursed.

His students – well, he hoped that they would be alright until he had looked for them. After all, his prefects knew very well what to do the moment the sirens sounded – as rarely as such a thing might happen, considering the little fact that they were at World War 2 – namely gathering the younger students and leading them down to the cellar, which were air raid shelters too, but there had been …

Frowning, and running his hand through his hair, he tried to remember all that had happened before he woke here – which wasn't so easy a task, he noticed. The last thing he remembered was the sirens and his worries about his students. He'd been in his office, not in his study in his house, but in his office in the main building where classes were held. He'd been in his office together with one of his students …

Novak!

Novak had been with him the moment the wall to his left had exploded, the moment part of the ceiling seemed to come down on them and even though he had turned the boy – whom he had still been holding in his grip, or again had been holding in his grip, he wasn't so sure about that anymore – away from the source of destruction, shielding him with his body from the explosion what only could have been caused by a bomb … the wall, or the ceiling, maybe even both of them coming down on them …

The boy wasn't with him now …

What the hell had the bloody boy done now!

"Good morning." Someone said to his right, just the moment when he was about to jump off the bed in search for the brat, and he looked over at the voice, preparing himself for – anything.

"Where is the boy?" He asked the first thing that came to his mind, not having seen the person in the room before – and neither the boy.

"Jamie?" The man asked back and he narrowed his eyes.

The brat couldn't be dead then, if that man knew his name. Or he was dead, seeing that Novak had been unable to speak anyway and so surely Garcia had told this man who the boy had been. A rather unlikely thing however, because – why would Garcia get him to a place such as this? And so he was sure that Garcia had nothing to do with his present situation – and if Garcia had nothing to do with it, then this man couldn't know Novak's name – unless Novak had told, or written down his name, which he knew the brat hadn't, neither of the two as he was unable to.

So, they were either dead and in some kind of strange afterlife, what he however doubted, or they had been taken captive and brought here. He didn't really mind the first scenario, seeing that he wouldn't be able to change it anyway were he dead, but should the second scenario be the case, then this guy better prepared for death himself. He had never lost a student, had always protected them, never mind what, and hating Novak or not, he would do the same with that particular little bother – whatever the brat had gotten himself into – and this guy better prepared himself, because he wouldn't be the first on his list of dead he had killed, he didn't mind a third.

He would punish Novak later for it, for causing all this trouble and confusion, he would have that brat in detention for the remainder of his ten year long school attendance at Hathaway – if the school still existed, that was.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and the strangest clothes he had ever seen a man wearing, he recognized, while watching the man with his eyes narrowed, keeping his muscles tense and ready for an attack – clothes as strange as was this room, the bunk bed, and … simply the entire situation, clothes that reminded him of some Israeli underground people or similar rebels. So, where the hell was he!

His frown deepened at the man's wording – 'good morning'. So, the sun wasn't setting but rising and it was morning already? He had – slept – through the entire afternoon, evening and night?

But he knew that he hadn't slept, he'd been attacked, taken captive and abducted by these people – together with the little bother, and so he guessed that he'd been unconscious. But why? And what interest would an Israeli underground group have in him in the first place? Was he a prisoner of war? Why would they take him captive? And why would they bring him here? To an Israeli one-horse-dorp?

"Where – is – the boy?" He growled at the man threateningly, slowly, repeating his question and he took a step towards the man, ready to attack – because he wanted the brat, and he always got what he wanted. He could see the man tightening his own muscles to do a step backwards, but then the stranger stood his ground, watching him calmly.

"He is with Jesus." The stranger then said and he frowned, blinking at the man stupidly for a moment.

His first thought was – alright, the brat is dead and therefore, most likely, I am too. But the next moment he knew that, he wasn't dead, and neither, therefore, was the brat. So – they had been taken captive after the air raid, whatever reason for, and their captivator's name was Jesus. But Jesus? Of all names? Who, in the bloody names of all three hells, would call their child Jesus? As a teacher he knew that – the poor guy would have to suffer the mock and taunt from the other children for all their childhood and youth! No wonder he now, as an adult, had gone crazy, even fanatical, and had stepped low to abducing people for only heaven knew the reason why. And that he was an adult, he was sure of that, because children generally didn't take people captive.

"Take me to him." He growled at the man, threateningly, ready to attack him, should he not answer to his demand.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

"Where the fuck … " The man murmured and he looked over at him.

It was by far the strangest man he had ever seen in his entire life, his clothes, his shoes, his everything, and he had spoken in a strange language during his sleep too. He was now speaking his, Peter's, language, after he had woken – even though he didn't really understand the meaning of the word 'fuck' – but in his sleep, he had spoken in a language he hadn't heard before, not ever. He knew that this language now was still strange to him, but now he could understand it anyway.

However, considering the 'where' in the man's question, it seemed that he wanted to know where he was – a reasonable question. If he just knew how to explain things to him, but regrettably, he didn't really understand it either.

Jesus had woken him in the middle of the night, had told him that he should help James and John with carrying the man into the other room, behind the main room, and that he should then watch him while he was sleeping, that he should lead him to Jesus the moment he had woken, and he had told him that he wouldn't be very happy the moment he woke either, that the man would be very protective over his student. So he had learned that the man was a teacher, a teacher by the name of Hereweald Hrothgar, a teacher who had been sent here by God – and whatever reason for, because Jesus had not told him of the reason.

He could see the confusion on the man's face, on Hereweald's face, when he woke, looking around, and he wondered if the man was as confused upon his surroundings as was he upon the man's appearance. If so, then maybe he should help him to understand.

"Good morning." He said to get the man's attention, and immediately he could see him going tense, his muscles preparing for an attack, and he knew – Jesus had been right, that man was not happy upon waking. The man cast another quick glance through the room and then –

"Where is the boy?" He asked, his voice a soft growl but he instinctively knew that – soft or not, that man could become dangerous, and he seemed to take his responsibility over his student seriously.

"Jamie?" He asked, just so to show the man that – he knew, he was no stranger, he was no fiend, he was a friend, he knew, and he wanted to help. He knew the boy's name, and he wouldn't harm him.

He could watch the man narrowing his eyes at him, and he knew – somehow he had made a mistake, because it was clear that the man didn't understand his reason for saying the boy's name the way he had meant it, because he got off the bed, looking as if he was ready to attack him at any moment if he didn't show him the child right now. And yet – this teacher hadn't called the boy by his name, he had not asked 'where is Jamie?', he had asked 'where is the boy?'

"Where – is – the boy?" The man repeated, threateningly, his voice even softer – and slower – than it had been before, dangerously soft, and he knew that – no, that man, Hereweald Hrothgar, was not the peaceful and patient man as was Jesus.

He held his breath the moment the man took a step towards him, his dark eyes piercing him, but then he pulled himself together and stood his ground, knowing that the man wouldn't kill him, knowing that God wouldn't allow the man killing him, knowing that God hadn't sent the teacher here for murder, and he calmly watched the man, trying to read his face.

That man's dark eyes weren't as soft and as warm as were Jesus' dark eyes, they didn't speak of kindness and of love, they were hard and cold, dark eyes that spoke of hate and of danger, of disdain. The man's face too was cold and dark, speaking of despise and danger – but at the same time … he had seen hate in the faces of men before. Twisted faces, red with anger, or pale with anger, twisted into gruesome and horrible masks. Not so this man's face. As dangerous and as angered as he seemed, as cold and as dark – his face was calm, unmoving, a cold mask that didn't move, not a muscle in the man's face twitching into a well-known hateful face.

"He is with Jesus." He calmly said, meeting the man's piercing dark eyes, and he could see the teacher lifting his eyebrow at him, looking at him as though he didn't understand. A moment later the stranger's gaze went pitiful before it went cold and hard again, really cold and hard. He had barely seen anyone with eyes as cold and hard as this man's eyes.

"Take me to him." The man then softly and slowly, calmly growled, darkly, threateningly, and with an inclining of his head he waved the man to follow him.

Jesus had told him that he was a teacher – but how could a man as cold and as dark as this one was, as hard and as uncaring as this one was, be a teacher? And what was he teaching anyway? Surely it had to be something to do with science, because any other subject would require a bit more – kindness and understanding, warmth. Well, he definitely couldn't be a theologian teacher, because – no, he didn't even know where to begin, would he just try to compare this man with Jesus. That man was so very – different! Where Jesus loved simply everyone, this man seemed to hate everyone. At least that was what he radiated.

Alright, surely, he gave the man some discredit, because surely he couldn't be completely uncaring – he seemed to care very deeply for his student or the boy's whereabouts wouldn't have been his first question. Would he be uncaring, then his first question would have been something like – 'where am I?', or maybe even 'when am I?' if he realized from seeing his surroundings that he was in a different time. But that hadn't been his first question. Sure it had been, while being unaware of his, Peter's, audience, a question murmured as if speaking to himself. But other than that? No – his first real question towards him, never mind where he was, had been where the child was. So – he clearly cared, didn't he?

Sure, just alone the thought of – 'when am I?' – was so absurd, he still couldn't understand how this man and the child could come from a different time.

Lifting the curtain that separated the back room from the main room of the house he led the man to Jesus – and the boy.

Here in this part of Jerusalem the houses generally were built of one room where people ate, and lived, and slept in – often together with their cattle, and most houses didn't even have a second floor. There were few houses that had an adjacent stable and barely a house had two rooms, one for living in, and one for sleeping in.

The closer you got to the palace, the bigger the houses got and the ones surrounding the palace were really large houses, consisting in two or three rooms and a second store even – they were the houses of the rich, the houses of the employees of the temple, workers for the King – tax collectors, writers, masseuses and messengers, ambassadors. They were the houses of the rich and they were built of stone that bore pattern and other design, houses with a veranda and with a garden.

The house they lived in was the only house not far away from the city that held not only a second floor and a second room downstairs which was separated from the main room with a heavy curtain, but a yard too, and they had only been able building it this way because it was outside of the city, near the watergates, what meant that they had to walk some minutes to the market to buy food, but well, it was worth the room they had for living.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Knowing that it was not his part to heal that child, even though he could feel his disciples' confused gazes in his back, he had just laid him down on the makeshift bedstead, on his stomach, while wondering how cruel mankind would become over the centuries. Sure, he knew that men could be cruel at this time too, already, but to manhandle his own child like this? And to kill their own son? And yes, he knew of that child's brother, and he also knew that his father had killed him.

Sighing he covered the boy with the blanket while sitting beside the mat, and – waited, waited for either the child waking, or the man, and he hoped that it would be the child that woke first, because he knew that this man could become very uncomfortable if he felt that he was in danger – or thought his student was in danger – even though he knew how much the man loathed the child, loathed everyone, himself included.

Looking up at the ceiling of the house for a moment, as though he could see his Father in heaven through the ceiling, he took a deep breath, asking him for enough strength to handle that man with patience and wisdom. Because a man that believed he had caused the death of two people and was comfortable with this belief? A man that hated mankind as much as this one did? A man that even hated himself as much as this one did? A man that – didn't know about the relation between his student and himself? A man that hated his own –

"Jesus." James said, approaching him, and looking up he met his disciple's gaze. "Won't you heal that child?" James then asked and he smiled at his disciple asking the question that had the other disciples as confuse as was James – at least those of them who were awake by now.

"That is not my place." He answered, seriously, knowing that they really didn't understand. And how should they even?

"But you love everyone, don't you love this child, too?" James asked, nearly shaking his head, as if he was close to being in shock, not understanding the situation, not understanding him, Jesus, not understanding anything anymore. "I don't understand, Lord, we don't understand."

"Sit." He said, pointing at the edge of the mat, knowing that it had to be serious if James called him 'Lord', and James sat down, laying his hand on the boy's arm. "This child is hurt, and that man over there is hurt too, and they will be in need of each other. It is not my place to heal this child physically, not this time. I only need to heal both of their souls, that will be important. I need to get them together, and I need to help them loving each other – I need to help them bonding with each other, but it is not my place to heal them myself, not their bodies, not this time."

"This man over there has done horrible things!" James said, angrily. "He has hurt this child and he has – he isn't hurt! Why would he need healing?"

"Are you sure that this man has hurt the child?" Jesus asked his disciple, his eyebrow raised at the other. "And are you sure that this man is not hurt? Do not act upon the first view, because you only can see the outside of a man, not his inside."

Sure, he could understand James.

The two had appeared out of nowhere, both of them unconscious, the man holding the child in a tight grip while the child looked as if he had fought the man previously – clearly looking as if he had gotten a good beating from the man, the child was injured while the man wasn't, and so of course his disciples were angry, because it seemed clear that the teacher had abused his student. Who otherwise should have done such a thing? No parent would beat their own child like that, after all. And James especially, as much as John, was a fierce man who would stand by those in need.

"Who else, if not that man?" James softly asked, regarding him with a dark look of his own.

Flashback

For a short moment he couldn't help casting a quick but angry glance at the unconscious man when he took the child from him, seeing injuries and scars through the gaps the boy's clothes showed when he moved the body, but then he took a deep breath and willed his anger away, knowing that he should not judge quickly. And really, he hadn't even finished his thoughts when he also knew that – actually they hadn't been caused by the man at all, the teacher having tried to help in his own awkward and cold ways, and effortlessly he laid the boy on the makeshift bed in the back of their ground level room, before he regarded the man for some time, thoughtfully, learning of his life, knowing what he had done, knowing what he tried to display towards others, knowing that what he was trying to display was a mask only, a mask he used to guard himself from other men, a mask he used as a protective shield, while in his heart he was different.

And immediately he also knew that – this man, and this child, they were the same, and they would always remain the same if they didn't bond with each other. And knowing that these two belonged together he woke James and John who were both sleeping in a corner nearby, asking them to carry the man to the adjoining room where he could rest without disturbance, and then he woke Peter, asking him to help the two brothers, asking him to watch over the man while he would watch over the child.

End flashback

So – no, he couldn't blame James, because he had felt the same anger for a split second, had felt the same heat rising up in his chest at seeing the boy's injuries, and for another split second it hadn't been easy to quell it down, to push his anger away.

John had gone back to bed, barely awake as he had been, and he was sure that the man hadn't even noticed the child, while James had remained with him, Jesus, unable to go back to sleep.

It was always John who could sleep for hours and hours, being to bed early and sleeping long, while James often remained with him for half the night, being awake early before sunrise, needing less sleep, even though the two were brothers and he smiled at the thought. Peter, James and John, these three always slept downstairs, in the back room – Peter and James because they sat with him until late night, and John because he fell asleep before he could go upstairs. On the other hand, it was already very cramped up there, with nine of them sleeping – and snoring – in one rather small room.

"Jesus." Peter's voice came from the other room before he could give James an answer, and with a sigh he turned towards them, knowing that the teacher would be with Peter.

"Good morning." He simply said, getting off the ground and standing before the man – who didn't answer however, but looked past him at the prone figure of his student.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

"What the hell did you do with that boy!" The stranger called out, angrily, after looking at said boy laying on the makeshift bedstead, and a moment later that guy already had a grip on the front of Jesus' shirt and pressed him against the wall beside the mat. For another moment he, James, blinked in shock, but then Peter as well as him took the man's arms to pull him off Jesus, their shock changing to fear and then to anger. How dare that man attacking Jesus! Jesus hadn't done anything! He'd just …

"Stop!" He heard Jesus' command, ringing through the room in a sharp tone of voice. "All of you!"

"The same we could ask of you!" He couldn't help hissing at the stranger, being rather reluctant in obeying his Lord's command to let the man go, being as reluctant as was the man – who had started to answer to the quarrel, too – but then he obeyed Jesus' command, while Peter had done so immediately, causing the teacher to look at him strangely, as if he didn't know how it was, that someone obeyed Jesus' command so easily. Wasn't it normal in that man's time to obey Jesus' commands?

"This man has not hurt the child, James." Jesus then said and he looked at him questioningly. "And neither have we, Hereweald." He then added, causing the man to look at him just as unbelievingly.

"Wherefrom do you know my name?" The stranger growled, his dark eyes nearly piercing Jesus, but his Master held his gaze calmly. "And wherefrom do you have the information about the boy?"

"I just know it." Jesus answered, and he looked between the two. Sure, he had often seen Jesus arguing with others, with the sinners, and with the Pharisees, and with the simple people too, but never had it been with someone who had attacked him first, and was – most likely – about to attack him again – at least not as openly as did Hereweald.

"You just – know – it." The man sneered at Jesus, disdain written on his face, his dark eyes cold and he gasped for a moment, while Jesus just lifted his eyebrow at the stranger.

"How can you be sure, that it wasn't him, Jesus?" He asked, again, trying to understand his Lord, trying to understand why he allowed that man speech like that, even sneering at him in disdain. "Who else, if not that man has done this?"

"This child's injuries are too old for being caused by his teacher upon his first day of school." Jesus answered, still calmly, and he took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Really, sometimes Jesus tried his patience and his nerves very much.

"I don't care where you get your information from." The teacher softly hissed and he could see how much effort it cost him to stay calm. "And I don't care who you are either. But right now I just demand you to step aside and let me see the brat." He then added and wordlessly Jesus did, stepped aside so that the stranger could approach the boy – even though he realized that … the brat … was not meant in a kind way but in anger.

"Don't you know whom you're speaking to?" John asked, being roused by the quarrel Hereweald had caused.

"He could be the King of China, the President of the United States, or Albert Einstein, I couldn't care less." The man said and he was just about to take a deep breath to give the man an answer to that, and to tell him that it was the King of the Kings, whom he was speaking to, when Jesus took John's arm, and mentioned Peter and him to accompany him outside – most likely to calm the situation as well as to allow the stranger a moment of privacy – and taking a deep breath to calm his anger, he followed him outside.

"Why would you allow this man to treat you such?" He then asked, looking at Jesus disbelievingly.

"This stranger has neither manners nor respect!" Peter growled angrily and he nodded his head in agreement – while Jesus was shaking his head.

"This man has any reason to being careful and he is very worried." He then said. "Neither of you would act different upon – let me say Nathaniel or Mark being in danger – even though I have taught you to not acting with violence upon any situation, even to get someone out of prison. It is the way it is, or don't you think that I would have had John rather out of prison than being dead now?"

Well, that had hit the nail and he could feel himself calming down, because he had to agree with Jesus, because he knew that – Jesus would really have had John out of prison rather than having him dead now. He knew how much Jesus had loved John, after all, and he knew how much his death had hurt him.

"But this child is not in danger." John, his brother, said, pointing towards the house.

"And Hereweald does not know this." Jesus said. "He found himself here, at a strange place and with strange people after an attack on his home. Allow him to get used to his new situation, allow him to learn of what has happened and give him time to accept that he is here now. He will learn, as will you."

"Anyway he has no respect!" Peter said, nearly pouting, and he could hear he was still very angry, as was he. "Did you hear the way he talked to you?"

"He does not know who I am." Jesus said, still defending the stranger, and he nearly rolled his eyes, because that was so very typically for Jesus. If there was anyone he could defend, then he did.

"I have told him who you are." Peter still tried to argue, shaking his head.

"And you think he believes that upon just your word, two thousand years after we have lived?" Jesus asked, trying to show them the logic of the situation. "It is easy for a child to follow his father if the child has known him his entire life – but for a child that had never had a father and then is taken in by one, it is not easy to follow him. Have patience, and give him time, he will learn."

"He has no respect anyway!" Peter, too, growled softly, folding his arms in front of his chest.

"I know." Jesus sighed. "But he will learn, and one day he will be my thirteenth disciple."

Looking at Jesus for a moment, and then looking at John and Peter, he realized that – well, Jesus could just as well have declared that his thirteenth disciple would become a donkey – because if his face mirrored James' and Peter's faces, then it could not have become more disbelieving than it became now.

"Do you really think that you can make him a disciple?" He asked, incredulous – not because he didn't believe it, he knew very well that if anyone could make a follower of that man, then it was Jesus, but because it was just incredible.

"He will not only be my thirteenth disciple, but my apostle too." Jesus said with a sureness that was – like so often – astounding, and he sighed, yielding, because he knew that Jesus had not only made his mind up, but he had also already found a way how to accomplish his task – not to mention that Jesus was acting on his Father's words anyway. And so, who was he to question his Lord's decisions?

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

There was one thing he had learned rather quickly in his life – namely to not give away that he was awake upon hearing voices before he had not learned more of the situation he was in, and with whom, and so he kept his eyes close while he tried to remember what had happened.

He had come to this school, and he had tried to walk the tightrope between doing what seemed to be expected of him – even though he didn't really know what exactly it was that was expected of him – and between what his parents would expect of him, which he knew very well, and which differed from his new situation very well, also. He had gotten into trouble with his teacher who had called him to his office, and then his teacher had found out!

Oh, shit!

For a moment he couldn't help hitching a breath.

His teacher had found out everything, and now he knew! And now he would go to his parents and bring him back, and then his father would think that he had told his teacher, and he knew, never mind how often he'd make it clear that no, he hadn't told Professor Hrothgar, that he didn't even know how he could tell him anything at all, his father would never belief him and he would kill him.

Of course he knew that one didn't die easily, he'd learned that during the past years of his life, too, as little years as there were if you took into consideration of how old his parents were, or other grown ups, because they were much older than he was. But between reality and his fears, there was a difference, even though he knew that it was a small difference in the first place. Sometimes. He guessed that it could be a big difference too, sometimes.

Because – well, Elliot was dead, and his father had beaten him and then Elliot had died, and that was a big difference, wasn't it? So – did that mean that … no, he better didn't think about that!

Reality was, one didn't die easily – but his fears were, well, he had seen Elliot laying on the ground in the cellar. He'd seen him laying him there, bleeding, and never mind what, he hadn't been able to make the bleeding stop, to make it going away. And then Elliot hadn't answered him anymore, had just lain there with his eyes open, staring at him and – he still felt as if it had been an accusing stare.

Elliot had told him that it wouldn't be his fault, at one point or another during the night had he told him. He didn't really know when exactly, 'cause he hadn't had a watch in the cellar, and neither had Elliot, but he knew that it's been in the night anyway, because there hadn't been the smell of coffee from breakfast when Elliot had told him, had asked him to not blaming himself about what would happen. He didn't know why Elliot had told him that, too, why he would ask him to not blaming himself. Had Elliot known that he'd die before he died? That was scary, really.

He remembered that in the beginning of the holidays he'd been very happy to see Elliot in his cellar. Over the years, there had been one or another fleeting moment of jealousy sometimes, of anger even, when thinking of his brother who was at a school far away, away from his father who always beat him, at knowing that his brother could sleep in a bed instead of on a blanket on the floor in the cellar. But he had always shoved those thoughts away, knowing that whenever Elliot was at home during the holidays, then the tables would be turned and he would be in the cellar instead of him, knowing that there wasn't reason for jealousy, knowing that he would be blaming himself for Elliot being in the cellar then, while he was in his room, knowing that he would feel very bad about it.

And so he'd been happy at seeing Elliot in his cellar too, because that meant that he wouldn't be alone down there. Sure, he would have been happy with being in his room during the holidays too, like all the other holidays before, but being together with Elliot in the cellar was better than being down there alone, wasn't it?

But then, with the time that had passed, it hadn't been alright anymore either. Because he'd never ever before been so very long down there without being let into his room for at least two or three nights when he'd been very good, for a week or two maybe, or for a month sometimes even, if he was very lucky.

And because their mother had more and more started to forget them – and they'd been really hungry and really cold too, and then their father had started taking them to the dojo and in the end he'd been unable to sleep, not knowing which way he best laid down so that it wouldn't hurt.

Until that one night when Elliot had told him that he shouldn't blame himself.

And then Elliot had stared at him, all the time, unresponsive, unmoving, un-anything, and not even blinking, and his father had kicked him away from Elliot when he'd come down the other evening, and then he'd kicked at Elliot, and he'd said he was dead. So – he was, wasn't he? And it was his fault anyway, because he hadn't been able to make the bleeding stop, and then Elliot had looked at him with his dark eyes dull and accusing all night long, or all day long, he didn't know, when he'd been dead.

But at least his father hadn't taken him to the dojo anymore that evening, had left him alone.

For some time he'd thought that Elliot would be sleeping only, and he'd shaken him, trying to wake him, but Elliot hadn't woken. And then he'd poked him every now and then, trying to get him to react one way or another, knowing that – if he just annoyed Elliot long enough, then he'd get angry – until he'd realized that his brother wasn't just sleeping. So, yes, in the end he'd known that Elliot was dead even before his father had told him. He just didn't know if he'd really been ready to accept his knowledge as the truth.

"You can stop pretending to be asleep." He heard Professor Hrothgar saying and he held his breath for a moment, trying to make himself invisible, but then he opened his eyes to look at the teacher, knowing that it wouldn't do any good if he lied to the man.

"Any explanation to the situation?" Professor Hrothgar asked and with large eyes at the man he quickly shook his head – only then looking around and realizing that: the situation seemed to be really not a normal situation.

The room they were in seemed to be the room in a hut – kind of. His first thought had been 'a cellar', but not only was the light too bright for the room being in a cellar, but also was it too warm too, and too friendly. It was not a cold and uninhabited cellar, but a room where people lived in. The sun seemed to be even brighter than what he had ever seen before and there were children laughing outside, happily. And the sun seemed warmer than what he had ever felt too.

Looking at his teacher he shook his head again, because, no – he didn't know where he was, but he wasn't at home yet, was he? And that was the most important thing, wasn't it?

"Undress." The professor said and he needed a moment so that his brain could work itself around the order – but then he shook his head, his eyes large at the teacher, because – surely he couldn't undress in front of the man!

"For heaven's sake, boy!" The man then exclaimed, clearly unnerved while looking at him darkly. "I won't do anything inappropriate!" – whatever this word meant – "I will take a look at your back that is clearly hurt, and then I'll think of a solution to our situation, whatever situation it is. And now get off this shirt!"

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Seeing a bowl with water and a few clean clothes laying beside the bed his face darkened when he realized that – there hadn't been anyone who'd taken a look at the brat's injuries, most likely this Jesus-guy hadn't had the time for that before he had woken and demanded to see the brat, what he was happy for as he didn't want them being alone with the boy. So he would have to do this lovely task as he doubted that Goodwin was here together with them, because knowing Adam Goodwin, he would have heard the man already complaining, loudly and fiercely, through the entire underground camp – which was overground anyway – and for a fleeting moment he couldn't help the fear that they had killed him because he had betrayed them to whatever police or officials would be here with his screaming and fighting them.

In other words – this lovely task of caring for the little bother would be with him. Nice, really. That was what he always wanted to do, to take care of a little snotty toddler and his injuries. Just great!

"Undress." He growled, taking a deep breath when the little bother just looked at him with large eyes like a spooked horse, shaking his head to indicate that – no, he didn't know what kind of situation they were in.

Tiredly he massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers, wondering why he would be so tired if he had slept through the entire day and night. He had surely slept about sixteen or eighteen hours! But then, one didn't find himself in a situation such as his, being taken captive by only God knew what Israeli underground group, and for only God knew what reason, having to deal with not only his captors but with a stubborn student too. He was used to the young teenage men he generally taught, not to a small brat who needed more explanations than what he would give with a command to his students generally and for him it was as if stepping down a step – or rather a thousand steps.

Next thing would be that he started handing out cartons of milk in a kindergarten, and that he started reading stories to small, snotty toddlers, covering them with their blankets during their afternoon nap! Damn, bloody bullshit! What had he gotten himself into! He was too old for that kind of shit!

And why did this little bother still sit there on the clearly makeshift bed without doing what he had told him to do?

"Is there any part of my order which you have not understood, Mr. Novak?" He asked, forcing himself to not simply either shaking the little bother or starting to undress him by himself, but to wait patiently – patience, the last thing he was blessed with.

Another quick headshake was his answer.

"Then I expect you to do as you are told – now!" He growled, desperately trying to find a mixture between enough force to scare the little brat into obeying his command and avoiding the little bother to wet himself with fear. That would be the last thing he needed right now, the brat wetting his trousers. Damn! How much he hated children! He'd always told Garcia that he couldn't effectively teach the lower grades, that he would prefer it – just as much as his students – if he taught the upper grades only. And now he had to handle such a small little bother as Novak was! A seven year old with the stature of a four year old – he'd surely break into tears upon a harsh look only!

Damn holy shit!

Why, by all the gates of hell, did he – HE – have to deal with such!

But well, at least the boy had learned to obey a command, even though it had taken him two commands, actually, but darkly he could watch the brat opening his shirt with shaking fingers before slipping out of the fabric, slowly and unsurely.

A moment later he could feel his anger welling up within his chest to a level where he would like nothing more than killing someone.

He had been prepared to see a skinny and bony Novak with a few bruises, considering the bruises he'd seen on his neck when the brat had been laying there, but by what he saw he clenched his hands into fists. Every single bone was clearly visible under the pale and yet scarred skin littered with bruises, cuts and welts in different shapes of healing so that he easily could count every single rib over a sunken stomach, and now, without the clothing which had hid the most, his arms were clearly visible, practically only bones and skin. There wasn't any meat on the boy anywhere and Hrothgar growled darkly while his gaze wandered to Novak's hands, the thin and scarred fingers trembling slightly. Slowly he took one of the thin wrists in his hand, carefully avoiding too much pressure for fear he could break the damn small thing – the last thing he'd need right now added to anything else, and inwardly he seethed in pure rage, his mind dreaming of thousand ways how he could kill Novak Senior slowly and painfully – after all, he was a chemist, and as a chemist he knew of one or another, he actually knew of a lot of chemical substances which could kill slowly and painfully.

But well, he doubted that there was anyone who'd play nursemaid for the brat here at this underground group and he guessed that they could be glad to being alive still. On the contrary, he – most likely – would have trouble getting enough food from those guys to keep the brat from starving finally, something he wasn't too eager looking forwards to.

So, without a word he just crouched down beside the boy – because no, he would not step down to sitting on the floor, and surely never ever would he kneel before the little bother – and taking one of the clean clothes he put it into the water before running it over the brat's dirty face, dirty from what was clearly dust and dirt from the collapsing building after the bomb raid, and for a moment he wondered how it was that they had survived, because in his mind he could picture the wall to his left not only collapsing, but exploding into their direction, and in his mind he could picture the ceiling coming down on them, too. He knew that he'd turned the boy whom he'd still held in his tight grip away, so that he was between the explosion and the child, but …

He wasn't in pain – except of his headache what wasn't a new thing however. Shouldn't he be in some kind of pain if the ceiling had come down on him? And he was sure that he had felt the power of some of the brick stones from the wall passing him from behind too. So, how in Heaven's name could he be alive still? And without being in pain even? Without one single broken bone?

Wordlessly he took the boy's hands to wash them too, wondering why he even did such a thing – but well, most likely it was to inspect them so that he knew if he was hurt somewhere else. He had often enough watched Goodwin with the children he sent to the infirmary each year, had sometimes even helped the school medic. And other than that he'd been growing up in a household with a drunken father and a just as drunken mother – and as the oldest of three brothers he'd always had to watch out for them. He knew how to care for a few scratches. And he knew that little brats didn't always know when they were hurt if they were used to it and in shock too.

But well, the boy seemed alright so far – except of one or another bruise on the much too thin chest.

Still wordlessly, but with pure anger on his face he grabbed the little snot by his shoulder and carefully turned the boy, or at least made him turning on the mat he was sitting on, for a moment nearly fearing that he could break the frail body, but a moment later, when he saw the scars and the bruises, the welts which covered his student's back and shoulders, he was glad that he had the boy sitting with his back towards him so that he couldn't see the shock – and the anger, he had to admit – on his face while he swore that he would get Novak Senior into prison for not only killing Elliot, but for child abuse on this boy here too, preferably for attempted murder. Living with his father surely had never been a walk in sunshine, but at least his father had never killed any of his children.

With a gentleness one seldom would be able to see from the normally cold-hearted and sarcastic Chemistry Professor, he began to clean the many cuts and welts on the boy's back and shoulders.

Not that his siblings were alive still, he couldn't help remembering while running the wet cloth over a dusty back that was covered in bruises and welts which were clearly caused by a cane or similar. One of his brothers had run off when he'd been twelve years old and he'd never ever seen him again. He didn't know what had become of him other than that he'd apparently died sometimes two years later somewhere in South America, and his other brother had – stopping in his work for a moment he remembered the fourteen year old boy coming home one night, two years after his twin brother had run off, covered in blood and his parents hadn't been there.

Not that he had trusted his parents, or rather their ability to know what would be necessary, or their being sober enough to do anything in the first place, but he remembered that – for once – he would have been very happy had they been at home instead of visiting one or another party from their business associates. He'd called the police office, back then, had told him that his younger brother was hurt, and badly so, and that he didn't know what to do, but the moment the officer had arrived his brother had been dead already. It's been in fall 1914, they'd all come home for the twin's birthday, and back then, even though they'd already had a telephone, one of the few households with a telephone, actually, neither the police nor the ambulance was as quick as they were nowadays in 1944. It's been in the beginning of the First World War and times hadn't been too easy, either.

He remembered that he hadn't opened the door upon the police officers knocking, that he'd been sitting there on the floor, holding the dead body of his brother, and that they had come in through the veranda door a few moments later. It had been the last fall at which he'd been at home at all, he'd left his home after that, and after his father blaming him, after his father calling him a killer. He knew that he'd been drunk when he'd called him that, but that didn't make it any better anyway.

He knew that his mother had died just a few years later, his father had informed him about it in a letter, but he'd not come to the service. Just a few months later his father had been on his way home from a party or a pub, he didn't know, and he'd been drunk. He'd died when he'd crashed the car on a tree that was unlucky enough to stand in his way – he hadn't gone to that service either, nor had he come to accept any inheritance. He didn't know what had become of the houses and the grounds of his parents, nor did he know what had become of the business concern or any other possession they had, he didn't care and he didn't want anything anyway.

He was an adult and he was his own man – and he was a proud man. Whatever possession he had, he had gotten hold of it by himself and with his own work.

Soft sniffing got him out of his thoughts and frowning he realized that the little bother was crying.

Damn that little brat, really! He was just cleaning a few welts on the boy's back, which were barely open wounds, what was there to cry about! Little attention seeking snot!

But at the same time he knew – this was not the loud and annoying, attention seeking crying of a child that didn't get what he wanted, or that didn't get enough attention, but it was the still and nearly silent crying of a child that had learned that crying would get him nowhere, that crying would only get him into trouble, but couldn't help his pain needing a way to vent – and to make itself known for once.

"You know, Hereweald …" A small voice in the back of his mind said, a small voice that strangely sounded like Olivia's voice had sounded. "Just a few weeks or maybe just a few days more, and that boy could be dead too …" And Hrothgar nodded, wordlessly.

He knew – he knew, because Elliot was already dead.

"I know you do not trust me, child." He whispered, with much more kindness than he originally had intended. "How could you. But I promise that you will not be hurt while being in my care. I will not harm you. I will not beat you. And I will not lay my hand on you in any inappropriate manner." Not knowing how often he would have to repeat these words he slowly but with confident movements continued in his task.

It was nearly an hour later when Hrothgar finally put the cloth aside and placed the jar with what clearly held a salve made of olive oil and the resin from a myrrh tree back at the floor beside the bowl with now dirty water, and he was shocked to find his own hands shaking – because his hands never shook!

What the hell had they thought? Had they tried to kill the boy? Their own son?

Not knowing how to deal with the situation he hurried to finish his work and then got up, with an awkward "get dressed, boy, and then we need to find out what exactly our situation is", before he left the house, preparing himself to have another fight with this Jesus guy and his partisans – and realized that he was anywhere, but surely nowhere in Indiana – most likely not even anywhere in the United States.

So, they had brought them to some godforsaken place on this earth, and only Heaven knew where the others of the school were – and meanwhile he didn't think that the boy and he were the only ones taken captive, because there was no reason for anyone to take them. Except – for a moment he frowned while looking back at the – what these people surely would call 'house' – before he turned back to the man called Jesus and his adherent, his eyes narrowed, realizing that he was a biochemist – and what could be done if you had a biochemist at the mercy of your hands?

"Now, what is it you want?" He growled while approaching them, knowing that there were two possibilities: either he survived the situation, or he didn't, and even though he was no fool, and surely not suicidal, he was no coward either and he had never hesitated addressing his situation, never mind what kind of situation he was in.

"Nothing." Was all this guy called Jesus answered, his eyebrow lifted at him.

The others looked at him darkly, but with clearly less anger than before.

"Then why have you taken us captive?" He asked, folding his arms in front of his chest while regarding them with a dark look.

"We have not." The cloak-horde-leader said and he lifted his eyebrow, disbelievingly. Would they wear colourful cloaks, maybe with pointed hats, then he'd bet his behind on them being a bunch of wannabe-wizards, but they weren't. The cloaks they were wearing were grey, light brown, beige, white – cotton coloured.

"If you have not taken us captive, then care to explain as to why we are here?" He drawled, getting impatient. These guys were clearly playing a game with him, and he was no one who allowed anyone to play games.

"My Father brought you here." Mr. Jesus said.

"Let me guess – God." He huffed.

"Yes." Was the simple answer of the man and for a moment he wondered if he should call 911, if he should rather wring his neck, or if he should laugh.

"Sure." He shook his head. "And I'm the Queen of England. I don't know what kind of game you are playing, but surely you cannot think that I would believe a story like that."

From what he could see he guessed that he was in the slums of one or another village in Israel – or similar place, but somehow everything seemed older than it should be, because there were no cars, there weren't fences, there weren't people in normal clothes, there were no normal houses, even in the distance, there were no anything, no nothing. It just didn't make any sense!

"You are in Jerusalem." The leader of them said, the other three guys standing close by without saying anything, just watching the scene, unsurely, and he scowled at them. Idiot simpletons! "My name is Jesus of Nazareth and these are Peter, James and John. You are here because my Father wanted you to be here – and these are no idiot simpletons but three of my disciples."

The dark eyes of the man were watching him calmly while he tried to comprehend the man's words.

Jesus of Nazareth.

Claiming that his name was Jesus was one thing – but Jesus of Nazareth?

To his knowledge there had been only one Jesus of Nazareth, and this one was dead since about two thousand years – a few more or less. It was a story for children anyway, a story told to the sinners so that they would repent and turn, and become 'good people' in the eyes of the priests and other church people. It was a story for the weak and for the credulous, for children like him, when he'd been a snotty little toddler himself. But he was an adult now, strong and proud, and anything than credulous or weak. He didn't need a story, nor a book for rules – he knew very well what was wrong and what was right.

Sure, he knew that there was God who'd created Earth – and as much as he'd tried believing differently, he couldn't help believing that this was what had happened, even though he was a scientist, any other explanation about the big bang theory was so very much far fetched, he simply couldn't bring himself to believing in that – there were simply too much things which didn't fit into it.

The man approaching him with a mug got him out of his thoughts and he prepared himself for anything while he schooled his face into his usual calm and cold mask – but the only thing the man did, was reaching him the mug. Sure – what else should he have done? Using it as a weapon in form of pouring water over his head? He wasn't baptized, and he had no inclination of getting baptized ever, but he was sure that – Jesus or not – this guy wouldn't use baptism as a weapon.

"You will be." The man – well, he would just call him Jesus, for the time being, until he had learned of his real name – calmly said and he scowled. "I am sure you are thirsty."

Huffing over his own wariness he took the mug and sniffed, glaring at the man – and realized that it was water. Simple and plain water! Damn! Didn't they even have coffee here? He could understand that they – most likely – wouldn't have whiskey here, but no coffee? Not even simple and plain coffee? Hell, he needed two cups of that brew in the morning to get awake and a clear mind!

"If you're the son of God, then what proof do I have for God's existence in the first place?"

"There was a young fish who asked an older fish: 'How do I find the big ocean? I'm searching for the big ocean and I've swum for miles and miles, but I couldn't find it. You're much older and surely wiser than I am, so – how can I find it?'" Jesus said and he sighed, knowing that he shouldn't have asked. "And the older fish answered: 'You have already found the bit ocean, all that water here is the big ocean.' 'This here?' The younger fish asked, shocked. 'But that's only water! I'm searching for the big ocean!' And away, the young fish swum, desperately searching for the big ocean without realizing that he was already in the middle of it. Why do you ask a question you are already know the answer to, Hereweald Hrothgar? You do know very well that God exists, and that He has created all man and earth. So, why do you ask?"

"If I just could have a cup of coffee." He sighed heavily while running his hand over his face in pure frustration. Of course he knew! And how in the name of all three hells should he survive without coffee!

"There is only one hell and its name is hell." This guy said, Jesus. Damn, he would have to get used to calling anyone Jesus. "And you shall not use its name for anything, like you shall not use the name of heaven for swearing."

"And I would prefer it, if you stayed out of my mind, thank you very much." He growled at the man. "However you are doing this, just stop it."

There wasn't an answer, just the guy turning and leaving, entering the house and with another huff he took a sip of the water – just to choke on what was clearly … coffee, nearly spitting it on the ground with shock. He gazed into the mug, seeing the clearly black liquid that had been clear just a moment ago and then he took a sip of the brewage what had been clear and plain water just a moment ago. But now – it was coffee, clearly and obviously coffee – hot, strong and black, the way he preferred it, and he turned to look after Jesus and the others which had entered the – house, for the lack of a better word.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

To be continued

Next time in … and sit a while with me …

End of part one – Hereweald and Jamie are stranded in the past now

Added author's note

thank you for reading - and yes, I would appreciate it if you took the time to review this chapter too, thank you …