and sit a while with me

by mrs.trabi

AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, then 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 ...

9. Hereweald, Olivia and James

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 …

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.

… and sit a while with me …

Part two – of learning and doing

Chapter nine – Hereweald, Olivia and James

Fall 29 A.C. about November – Jerusalem

"Who're you?" He asked upon stepping through the entrance of the house – and yes, after he had seen the other nearby houses, he had to admit that it was indeed a house, because those houses were even worse than was this here, barracks only. This seemed to be indeed – well, Jerusalem, but not the Jerusalem of the year 1944. It rather seemed to be 1450, 1250, or some similar year. There seemed no glass existent anywhere, and a door seemed to be a foreign thing, because all the houses had just an entrance in the form of an opening where normally a door would be, some even without a curtain covering it.

"I have told you – I am Jesus." The man calmly said while laying what clearly seemed to be the table, a low wooden panel on small wooden block-like legs, with a lot of mats surrounding it, and scowling he leaned with his shoulder against the doorway, folding his arms in front of his chest while watching the man taking several bowls from a rough wooden shelf on the wall.

"Jesus died about two thousand years ago." He answered. "He's been a guy who'd tried to make the world better, I don't deny that, but he'd been killed for it."

"That was in your past – not in mine." The guy said and he rolled his eyes.

"I don't think that your past is so different from mine." He huffed. "I am living in the year 1944 as well as do you, Jerusalem or not."

"You are living in the year 1944." The man said. "I am living in the year 29. Go upstairs, please, and wake the others. Breakfast is the most important meal. It is the first meal of the new day and it is also the least formal meal of the day. It is a quiet and a friendly time of renewal, and it is the time of the day where we are not tired from our day's work. We are able to sit together and to eat together, to spend time with our friends and brothers."

"It is an inhuman time." He growled darkly. "And I would rather sleep for an hour longer in the morning instead of partaking in breakfast with a bunch of imbecilic teenage boys."

"It is a private time you can spend with Jesus." The Peter guy said, glaring at him and he huffed. "Too often you find yourself busy with your all-day life, and you won't find the time to sit down in peace. And more often than not you may find that, if you listen carefully, then God will give you your mission for the day – and beyond. So, today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter – why not have breakfast with Jesus?"

"Because I do have a daily mission already." He growled, shaking his head. "Namely to teach, and to care for fifteen bloody teenage boys. I do not need an added mission from God for that. And concerning you being Jesus – I don't know who you are, but I'm not a credulous fool and you can't pull my leg."

Well, he would prefer to turn and leave right now, to give his words some – theatrics, but without knowing more of the situation, he surely wouldn't leave his student alone with them – even though he was sure that these guys were insane, but clearly harmless and they wouldn't hurt the boy or they would have done so already. He would need to find out how to get the brat out of here anyway, whatever or wherever this here was.

"Come here, little one, wash your face and your hands and sit down." That Jesus guy said, calling the Novak bother over to their – eating place, for the lack of a better word – and he scowled at the brat who stumbled to his feet and then awkwardly hurried over to a small sideboard that stood at one wall, at which the guy had pointed, to do as he was told and to wash his face and his hands with the water in a bowl on the board.

His face darkened even more at the unsure and awkward movements the brat used, casting unsure and questioning gazes at him, as if to ask if he was allowed, and then at them every now and then as if to ask if he was doing this the right way before hurrying – and nearly stumbling – towards the 'table' that stood in the back of the house.

He had to admit that yes – considering how all these houses were built, even though he was no history professor, they could dwell in the year 29 or something like that – but his human sense simply told him that it was a stupid thing to believe such a thing. He rather needed a way to get back to the States – because he needed to know what had become of his other students. He was still responsible for them, after all, never mind his presence at the school or not, they were his students and he was still their Head of House.

"They are alright." Jesus said and he scowled at him.

"I have asked you to stay out of my mind." He growled, but that guy didn't even react to that.

A moment later the house seemed to erupt with – a lot of chatting and laughing, and the feet of a 500 head strong army that was stomping down the steep stairs, and for a split second he prepared for an attack, until he remembered that Jesus had told him to wake the others – which apparently had been done by John meanwhile, he now realized.

Down the stairs came – one man after another, until the ground room was filled – or rather overfilled – with fourteen grown men and a child, and he groaned in realization that … of course, Jesus and his twelve disciples. They were good, they were thinking of everything, regarding all the things and all the information the Bible seemed to provide.

They all went to wash their hands and their faces – and then they sat down at the mats on the floor, with much noise and with a lot of pushing and shoving and laughing, worse than the students he was housing, while at the same time he couldn't help noticing that they were just behaving openly, naturally – again, for the lack of a better word. If this was a show, then it was a damn good show, because no actor could act so very naturally in a role such as this. And then –

"We do thank you, Father, for the day you have given us, for the bread you are providing us with, and for Hereweald and Jamie which you have sent to us."

For heaven's sake! Religious people or not, believing people or not, but wasn't that a bit over the top? He – surely wouldn't thank for being here!

"Eat, little one." Jesus said to the brat and he huffed. "It is oven baked sweet bread, with honey and raisins. I have loved it when I was a child – and yes, you are allowed to eat it. This is not your parents' house, little one, and I have baked it for you."

Little one – indeed!

And said little one was looking at the man with eyes large enough so that he was sure they would plop out of their sockets any moment, unbelieving and startled, but then the miracle happened – the little bother looked over at him, again questioningly as if to ask for his permission, and after inclining his head the brat slowly reached out his hand to take a piece of the bread, even though he did it so slowly and unsurely, he wondered what the brat was fearing would happen if he took it.

A moment later he couldn't help thinking – what if … and for a moment he himself wanted to stop the brat, to keep him from taking food from not only strangers, but from strangers that had taken them captive. After all, they couldn't know what kind of poison or worse was in the food – but then again, the brat was thin enough and for another moment Jesus' words came to his mind – 'this is not your parents' house'.

Did this mean that the boy hadn't gotten enough food at his home?

Considering his appearance for the first time without his anger in the back of his mind, he had to admit that – yes, seeing how starved the brat looked, he guessed that he indeed hadn't gotten enough food at home. Regarding the brat with a thoughtful look he had to admit that – maybe he should re-think and change his view of the boy. He seemed not better than Elliot had always been after the summer holidays. He'd apparently been locked up in the cellar of their house together with Elliot and he'd been forced to watch his brother dying. He had clearly been beaten up, and badly so – and more than just once too, and from the looks he could tell that the boy had been just as starved as had been his brother.

He wasn't stupid, and from experience with his students he knew very well that there was a difference between a quarrel and abuse – and a child that showed signs of repeated beatings, like scars or bruises in different states of healing, then it was not caused by a quarrel between two boys but it was abuse – and the abuser was in most cases part of the family – an older brother, an uncle or the father, maybe the mother, sometimes both parents even, and he knew that Elliot had not beaten his brother, that simply was not Elliot's ways but his father's.

And well – if he was viewing it from that point, then maybe he would have to admit that, just maybe, the atrocious and much too small clothes the boy was wearing, were not the brat's choice of clothes, but that what he was given by his parents.

Flashback

"If I remember it correctly, and I am sure that I do, then I have told you to dress properly – meaning in your black school jeans, a white shirt, or t-shirt, and shoes." He said upon Elliot Novak arriving at the canteen for dinner, the boy wearing a black jeans, sure, but a black jeans that had surely seen better days and were more high-water pants than anything else.

"But I have no shirt, sir." The boy softly said and he scowled, because appearing in his study while wearing pyjamas – that was one thing. At least the pyjama had been clean. But these atrocious clothes were entirely different and he wouldn't permit such disregard of clothes.

"And your parents have not enough money to spend it on a clean t-shirt either, Mr. Novak?" He sneered at the brat.

Sure, he knew very well, that the parents of these children didn't care about them, because they were a nuisance to them. They had sired them without thinking first, and had then realized that the sweet little thing not only grew into a not so sweet little pain in the ass, but that also they kept them from doing what they wished. And therefore he also knew that these children indeed were neglected – but not neglected of clothes and things. On the contrary.

Those parents had more money than they were able to spend, ever, and they only bought the best and the most expensive clothes for their little bothersome snots – and a lot of those clothes – because they had a bad conscience and because they thought they could buy their children's love with that. In other words – Novak's claim was an entirely ridiculous claim, even though he didn't really know what the boy intended with it. But whatever it was, he would make sure that the brat learned one thing from the beginning on – namely that lying to him was the worst mistake possible one of his students could do – and that he always would find out about the lie, too.

"After dinner, I expect you in my study." He hissed angrily while leaning close to the brat, ignoring the startled and large eyes the little bother was regarding him with. "Together with your trunk."

End Flashback

Well, Elliot had of course obeyed, like he had always done, and he had indeed appeared after dinner, together with – a trunk that was clearly smaller than any trunk any student would ever arrive with at Hathaway. He had motioned the boy to open his trunk, and then he had taken a deep breath at the few – at the very few – rags that had been in there. There had been two or three pairs of good socks and just as many socks that were single socks with holes, there had been two new underpants and a handful of perforated ones – a few dirty t-shirts and a ragged jeans – added to the pyjama the boy had been wearing before, the stuffed bunny, and the clothes he had worn while presenting his trunk, and other than that there had been no possession at all. No more clothes, no books, no toys, no anything and angrily he had closed the boy's trunk, had sent him back to his room.

The day after he had demanded money from the school fond and then he had taken the boy to Salem, to go shopping. It hadn't been much, and it hadn't been designer clothes either, but it had lasted for the school year and the boy had been happy enough so that he had him clinging to him for – holding his breath for a moment he realized that, he'd had the boy clinging to him for the remainder of his life, for a few little years, yes, but for the remainder of the brat's life anyway.

Feeling someone's gaze on him he looked up and into the dark eyes of the guy who called himself Jesus, and he scowled at the warmth and the softness in the dark brown, being reminded at VanHarkins, even though Hendrik had incredible blue eyes and not dark brown eyes. Anyway, the softness and the warmth were the same – weak fools as they were!

"Don't say anything." He growled, just in case.

"I had no intention of saying anything." The guy answered, seriously, not grinning, not smiling, not doing anything than watching him sincerely.

"Good." He huffed. Because he did realize that – if he was wrong once, like he'd been with Elliot Novak, then most likely he could be wrong a second time, with Jamie Novak. And if he was wrong in one thing, concerning Jamie Novak, then most likely he could be wrong in more than that too. Damn that bloody brat for having him wrong, because he was Hereweald Hrothgar, and he wasn't wrong on things!

He'd find out how they could go back to their place – and maybe time, if necessary – and then he would have the brat suffer for it. He would have him in detention for the next ten years, and he would have him writing daily essays for the next ten years too – after he had taught him how to write, he thought with a silent groan.

And then he would have the boy in detention during each holiday for the next ten years, too! Not to keep him from his abusive and clearly neglecting parents, surely not, never such a thing which would only be a sign of his weakness – but only to have the boy suffering for getting him, Hereweald, into a situation such as this here, and for no other reason!

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

"He will be alright." He said, approaching the man that was sitting beside the mat he had put in the corner of the room. He could have put a mat upstairs too, but the boy was small and weak, and the thought of having him climbing down the steep stairs didn't sit too well with him. Going upstairs wouldn't be a problem, the child would simply climb up there on all fours, but downstairs wouldn't be too easy and he knew that from own experience – after all, he was a human now, and he'd been a child too, once.

"Of course he will." Hereweald growled at him, looking at him angrily and he sighed at all the hate and all the anger he could feel coming from the teacher, the man fearing he could be viewed as weak if he worried over his student and so he pretended that he didn't worry while in truth, he did, like he always did, with all his students.

Of course he knew that this man was not as bad as he pretended to be, and of course he knew that he was not as bad as he gave himself credit for, either, that he was not as bad as the role he was displaying so carefully, mediculously fending his bad reputation, and he knew that Hereweald was doing good things over and over again while at the same time he didn't harm others – except of that one time where he had gone to the extreme and had even taken a life in pure and blind desperation and pain, but he also knew how the man suffered from it, blaming himself so much that he didn't think himself worth anything, least of all his, Jesus', love and forgiveness – not seeing that God had forgiven him long time ago.

And Hereweald Hrothgar didn't realize, didn't even know that he had not killed the other boy when he had been young himself, but Garcia, the man having taken advantage over the teen and blaming him for what he himself had done in a 'bout of anger and lack of care.

He wasn't ready to see that he was doing so much good with his students – even if secretly only – and now, Hereweald would need to learn accepting that which he had done, and that which he had not done or he wouldn't be able taking care of this particular boy properly – he needed to help himself before he could care for others.

"We need to go to the market." He said, not ready yet to do more, because he knew that Hereweald needed to get used to the situation first, before he could start changing the man. He would pick the man up where he stood, literally, and then he would see where he could go with him.

"And that would bother me – why?" The man asked, watching him coldly, lifting his eyebrow at him challengingly.

"Because I would like you two going with us." He answered, calmly. "I would like the child choosing one or another kind of food himself."

"I have not planned on staying here for too many more meals!" Hereweald growled at him and he sighed.

"My father has brought you here – and so it will be him bringing you back the moment He thinks it appropriate." He said, hoping that finally Hereweald would believe him. "I have no influence on that."

"If you are Jesus, as you say you are, then you can heal the sick, you can bring the dead to life and you can make water to wine." The man said, his deep voice still dark and angry. "And now you tell me that you can't send two people to the place where they belong to? How pitiful."

"It is not important what I could do, or what I could not do." He said, trying to make the man see that it was God's will that was important and not his, Jesus'. "But that, what is my Father's will."

"You do realize that in my world you would have a nice white padded room – in a closed ward." Hereweald growled at him and he nodded his head, because yes – he knew. "Or a nice cell with metal bars. What you are doing is kidnapping, never mind you feeding us and being polite. It is kidnapping anyway and that is a crime in my world – as I am sure it is in your world, too."

"God has given you your freedom, and if He decides to take it away from you, then you should still be happy for the freedom you have had." He said. "Not to mention that you do have your freedom still. You are just residing at a place different your home. Do not worry, our Father will care for you one way or another, like he cares for everything else, and like he cares for everyone."

"Like he has cared for Elliot?" The teacher asked and he could hear the unbound anger in his voice, and the pain.

He knew that Hereweald had loved that boy, that he would have taken him as his son if he had been able to. The professor thought that Elliot Novak was the only child he had endured, maybe even liked – but he, Jesus, he knew that the man had actually loved the boy like a son and his death had hit him more than he dared to admit. He was shoving it away like he was shoving away everything else, like he had been shoving away the death of his wife so many years ago.

"Neither starvation, nor abuse, or murder is a creation of God – but is an invention of mankind." He said, trying to make Hereweald see the difference. "Elliot, Olivia, James, and the twins, do not blame God for the people you have loved and lost, being killed by men."

"I have not loved that brat!" Hereweald exclaimed, harshly, and he sighed, knowing that the man was too stubborn for his liking. "I may have endured his presence, I may even have – kind of – 'liked' him, but surely I have not loved him! Love is for the weak and – 'love' – is for the fools. And I may be many things, but I am not a fool. Nor am I weak."

"I did not say you were." Jesus answered, realizing that – if no man was able getting him to the end of his rope, then this man was. "Love has nothing to do with weakness – I do love mankind."

"Then you are a fool." The stranger said and one thing made him smiling – the man did speak his mind openly instead of lying to people to spare their feelings.

"Maybe I am." He said. "Anyway, you are here and I cannot do anything against it without going against my Father's wish which I won't do. And that means that we need to go to the market as soon as the child is awake."

Hereweald had sent the boy to lay down on the mat shortly after breakfast, presumably knowing that the child would need more rest than what he'd had lately, surely knowing that Elliot had often been too cold to sleep in the cellar where his parents had put him during the holidays, and therefore guessing that this boy here most likely had been too, and Hereweald surely knew that Elliot had often been too hungry and too scared to sleep also, and so the man knew that this child here had been too – especially after his brother had died. Hereweald clearly knew that the boy had fallen asleep with exhaustion every now and then, but that it had been neither a restful sleep, nor enough sleep.

His body was most likely drained and he needed at least some rest – the fact that he had fallen asleep immediately was proof enough to that. He also knew that Hereweald – who had complained about him, Jesus, spoiling the child when he'd offered him the sweet bread with the raisins – knew just that as much as did he know, but Hereweald would have acted the same. He allowed his own anger and hate to rule, to take the upper hand over his actions, and so he forced any other emotion down, only allowing his anger to be at the surface of his being.

"I'll wake him." Hereweald growled, glaring at him and he inclined his head before he turned to leave the house and giving the two some room and privacy.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

"Get up, Novak." He growled, angrily.

He wasn't angry at the boy, of course not. Novak had done nothing – at least not this time – but he was angry at this guy, at Jesus. He was angry at him for calling him weak, and for calling him a fool, and he was angry at him for accusing him of such a thing as loving people. He didn't love people! Because if you loved someone, then this was your weak spot, then horrible things happened. And that was the biggest reason as to why he was angry at Jesus – because he had reminded him of Olivia.

Where did he even know from that he'd had a wife once? And where did he even know from that Olivia had been killed? No one knew, not even Garcia – the only one who knew about it was Hendrik and Hendrik wouldn't tell anyone, he knew. So, how had this guy gotten hold of that bit of information? Most people didn't even know that he'd had a wife once and those little few who knew, they thought that Olivia had divorced him because of one or another reason. Should they think so!

He'd loved once, many years ago, but this love had been ripped from him, had been taken away by force and death, and he would never ever in his life allow himself to love any person ever again.

Flashback

"His name will be James." Olivia said, laughing, just before she grimaced and he lifted his eyebrow at her.

"No child of mine will have a name like James." He growled at her, playfully, while helping his wife down the stairs to the entrance hall and the counter with the nurse that would fill the child's papers. "He will be a Hereweald Hreodbeor Veland Eadweard Hrothgar, like any other child in my family would be named. And should it be a girl, then she will be called Hrodwyn Ermintrude Hrothgar."

Well, of course he would never call any child a name such as this, never mind the child being his own or not, and of course his son would become a James Hrothgar if Olivia so wished, but he knew that she would be distracted from the pain of the contractions if he annoyed her a bit.

"Oh, I love you, Hereweald." Olivia said and he pulled her close until her head rested on his chest, running his hand through her long, black hair. How much he loved her. He would do everything in his power to make her happy, and if she wanted her first son being a James – then so mote it be.

End flashback

It had been a moment later only, just one moment later, that his world had been destroyed, that Olivia had lain in her own blood, bleeding to death like his younger brother had years ago, his unborn son dying together with his wife after a homicidal maniac on rampage had entered the hospital and had shot down several persons in the main hall for only God knew what reason – and the first thing he had done after being able to move, after realizing that the guy had not only killed his wife and his unborn son, but would kill any other present person who dared to even breathe, he had stood, had walked, had started running, and had then stormed, had overrun the guy. He had acted without thinking, not caring about his own life, actually wishing that the guy might shoot him down, too.

Of course the guy hadn't – most likely being too startled to react in time before he had run him over, before he had hit his fist into his face and before he had stumbled and then fell, his head hitting the counter behind him. He didn't know if it was fate or if God had been the cause for poetic justice – but the guy had been dead immediately.

As had been his wife and his son.

Whatever reason for, maybe out of shock, maybe out of … anything … he didn't know … he had left the hospital right away, without looking back, and he had never ever again allowed himself to look back ever, or to love anyone ever again – not even Elliot. He had liked Elliot, yes, he did admit that, but surely he had not loved him. And that this guy here, Jesus, had now reminded him of it – it had made him really angry and he didn't care about whom he vented his anger at. And at the moment it was the boy.

The boy, who was looking at him with wide eyes as if he were about to eat little children.

"Stop looking at me like that and get up, boy." He growled darkly – just to have the boy scrambling to his feet, still large eyed, and sighing he shook his head.

"Get over here." He huffed in clear annoyance, but instead of obeying his order the boy took a step backwards, nearly stumbling over the blanket Jesus had provided the brat with – most likely more so that he had something to … cuddle … with than because it was cold, because it wasn't – and he growled darkly, his anger flaring anew.

He didn't really know what had caused this new panic attack – his words, his growl, his angered face – but most likely it wasn't even important, because, sighing, he realized that he'd scared the little bother with his actions when there was a small, startled, scream coming over the boy's lips the moment he reached the wall in his back, the brat standing there on his small sticks he might call legs, while shaking like a leave in the wind and looking at him like a spooked horse.

"Now you listen to me, Novak." He began, his voice so low and calm that he wasn't even sure if the boy heard him. "I will not harm you. You have absolutely nothing to fear from me. You are safe here and your parents will never find out what happened here. None of us will tell them. You have my word, Novak."

Taking a deep breath, and with some concern in his eyes, Hereweald Hrothgar shook his head while still watching the child, trying to hold these black eyes with his own black ones, trying to find a point, any point, where he could reach through to the shaking mass in front of him, because the boy, being Elliot Novak's brother who had caused all of Elliot's trouble and his death in the end – 'and had maybe gone through the same', a small voice in the back of his mind whispered – well, the boy being Elliot's brother or not, no child should feel such fear and terror as this one in front of him did right now, at the last none of his students. Not to mention that suddenly he realized … this boy, actually, hadn't caused Elliot's trouble, nor his death, and slowly he lifted his hand and touched the small and trembling shoulders in an attempt to calm him down, heard the low whimper of fear, felt the stiffening that increased, felt the pointed bones under the anything than clean shirt the boy was wearing as if there were no meat and not even skin beneath it, but he did not withdraw his hand, just his gaze got any darker as he watched Novak trying to regain any kind of control he no longer seemed to have over his emotions.

For a moment the boy just stood there, as white as a ghost and shaking in his panic so badly, Hrothgar didn't know how he could be on his feet, still, his entire body tense while shaking his head in a silent plea to let him go and Hereweald rarely had wished to comfort one of his students as much as he did in that moment, except Elliot, maybe. Yet – he knew that he had to keep his composure, that he had to keep the upper hand, that he had to keep his strength and his authority. He would be able to comfort him later, he even knew that he had to, but not now. Now, in this moment, he had to lead the boy with a firm hand or he would have the brat running off – and only God knew what would happen to the boy then, while aimlessly running through the camp of their kidnappers.

Seeing the look on Novak's face, his mouth half-open as he struggled to find words, Hereweald narrowed his eyes at what looked like the boy wanting to say something, even though he knew, he would have to be very careful. But well, he always was careful with students of which he thought were abused. He normally kept his desk – which he didn't have right now – between his students and himself when speaking to them or telling them off, and even then he kept his hands lying still atop the wooden furniture, knowing that space was important to some of his students, knowing that for some it was important to see his hands to detect any kind of danger. And if this was not possible, then he always kept his arms behind his back or he folded them in front of his chest so that his hands would not picture any danger.

Some of the idiots he could call his colleagues often gestured with their hands, flailing with their arms in front of the children and more than once there had been one or another student of his, coming home to his house being scared and startled, and there was no difference in their age. The younger students might be coming home crying openly, but he could sometimes see the same fear, only calmer and hidden, in the face of one or another of his older students too – and it was him, who had to get them normal again after his insane colleagues had scared the hell out of them.

But somehow he felt, that this would not be enough with Novak and for a moment he couldn't help wonder 'what exactly did they do to you?' Yet – Hrothgar did not really want to know, while at the same time he knew that he had to know in order to help the boy.

But what happened next startled him nearly to the core.

The boy, retreating another small step, to the side this time, until he touched not only the wall in his back but the wall to his right too, slid down the wall, still with a slight shaking of his head, and wrung his hands in front of his chest – and with a voice rough from lack of use for only God knew how long, he whispered a barely audible "please …" before he dropped to his knees in front of the professor.

Unsure if he had imagined the situation, but clearly hearing the boy's soft voice, laced with desperation Hereweald had rarely heard in anyone's voice before, he nearly stopped breathing and looked down at his student, not knowing what had just happened – or how to react to it. That whispered, rough voice pleading so softly, so desperately, had Hrothgar's chest nearly squeezing painfully at the single word and he had to stop himself from moving to take the boy into his arms – and to scare him even more in the act. Instead he slowly lowered himself onto one knee next to Novak – he, Hereweald Hrothgar, kneeling down before a child! – and ignoring the shaking hands the boy wrung in front of his chest as if not knowing what else to do with them, he cast a really stern gaze into those still damn, big and black eyes.

So the brat had a voice, he was able to speak – at least in a desperate situation like this.

"Please …" Novak repeated in his rough whisper, so soft this time that it wasn't even audible anymore, still wringing his hands together in front of his chest, and taking a deep breath, Hrothgar suddenly felt his own worry increasing to a point he barely had felt for another person in a very long time, and if he could have done so, then he would have removed all the boy's fear and pain just so that he wouldn't have to watch this any further.

The expression on Hrothgar's face was still absolutely unreadable, as always, and only the horrified look in his eyes betrayed his true feelings as he questioned himself what had just happened. He was sure the boy had not lied to him, that he really was unable to speak – in a normal situation at least. But the fact that he had done so now, proved not only how desperate the child in front of him surely was, but that it was not a matter of a physical muteness but a mental disorder.

He still was kneeling before his student and he felt all his normally so perfectly prepared defences shatter, felt every single mental shield he normally had in place to keep his emotions under his usual tight control drop as he watched the boy who still was shaking in pure terror while watching him with eyes as large as saucers. He kept himself from closing his own eyes for a moment as his own emotions ran through him, as his own mind screamed at him to take the child into his arms and do anything that was needed to comfort him.

Instead he once again lifted his hand and touched the small shaking shoulder, once again noticing that the shoulder he touched should not be as small as it was. He had touched Jacob's shoulder from time to time during the years, and even if his godson was not as sturdy as were Moore and O'Dough, even if he was slender, he was not as bony and skeletal as Novak was. That was not the shoulder of a seven year old, it was the shoulder of a small child.

But well – Novak was a small child, wasn't he? The brat didn't look like the seven year old he was, he didn't even look like the six year old he had recently been, until just a few days ago. He looked like a small child.

"None of us will harm you – and we are far away from your home, Mr. Novak." He calmly said, suddenly realizing that – maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that they were far away from the States. "You are safe here, and you will be alright the moment you have calmed yourself down. Take a deep and steady breath, boy. Very good, and now release it, slowly. You are safe, and no one will harm you here."

They had starved the brat for years, apparently, and they had kept him in a dark and most likely cold and wet cellar – no, it was no wonder that the brat was too small for his age – and it was no wonder that the boy was as scared as he was, either.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Jamie flinched back as the Chemistry Professor placed his hand on his shoulder, his eyes growing wide with his fear and for a moment he was back in the cellar with his father, for a moment he was back in the dojo with his father, while his father was angry at him, because he hadn't managed to do what his father had expected of him and he nearly gave a startle scream away before he held his breath for a moment, yet – somehow, against all previous experiences in his life, the touch of that large and heavy hand on his shoulder didn't hurt, but began to convince him that he was really safe with that man, because it was not bringing pain, for the moment at least, as he knew from experience that such a thing as being safe could change from one moment ot the other. Anyway he tried to follow his professor's lead, tried to calm himself.

Hrothgar recognized his young student at least tried to calm himself somehow at his words, tried to even his jagged and irregular breathing out and he slowly nodded, noticing the strength this boy tried to show even though it did not work as he wished it would. At least he tried to show the strength he expected from all of his students, tried to show even the same strength which he could expect from some of his older students in a situation such as this.

"That is much better, Novak." He said anyway, because he knew that it was not one of his older students, but a child, a seven year old child. "Just calm yourself down and we will sort out this mess. We will find a way to go on without further trouble for you from your parents, I promise. Are you ready to go outside? The sun out there will do good to you and that is the only reason as to why I have woken you in the first place." He then added, getting to his feet – while ignoring the creaking of his joints – and hoping that the warmth and the brightness of the sun would indeed help the boy to calm down further and to cheer him up too, a horrible thought in his opinion – and even though he would destroy his reputation about him being a vampire that ate little children, housed in the dark dungeons of his house, and died in the sun if he went outside now with the brat – he knew that the warmth would do good to his joints and bones too, but well, if only the little bother calmed down. He was getting too old for this, he realized.

Not to mention that, after all, at least if he was honest, then it was his fault anyway that the brat had gotten startled. His thoughts hadn't been too happy and neither had been his mood, considering his memories, what had reflected in his behaviour with which he had startled the little bother. But really, the little snot would have to get used to his ways. He was a complicated man, and he was a harsh man too, he knew that, and he surely wouldn't change for the little snot! The brat would have to learn dealing with it, he'd survived breakfast too, after all, and for breakfast they'd had been sitting together much longer than what the brat was in his presence since he had woken now.

Breakfast had indeed been a rather calm affair, even though the appearance of the twelve hadn't been calm at all.

The boy had actually taken from the sweet bread Jesus had broken for him, even though he had not thought he would. All the meals before, the brat had not taken from the food, but had – 'stolen' – a slice of bread, or an apple, or similar after the meal had been finished, and with a scowl on his face he realized that he should have seen it before, that he should have seen the signs before, and that he should have reacted. He should have made sure that the brat ate and he should have had a word with him, too.

However, this time the little bother had taken from the sweet bread, and during breakfast so, but he had immediately noticed that the brat had been unsure, that he had not really known what to do with it – or rather, how to handle it, as if it had been too much, or too big, for his small hands.

His scowl changing into a frown he noticed that most likely that had been the case, indeed. The brat was used to only God knew what little food – and little things for food too – so, most likely the bread had indeed been too large for what his small hands were used to handle and only after watching the others, had he mirrored them, breaking the bread into smaller pieces which he could handle easier.

Sure – watching the others, he huffed for a moment – especially James and John who had both launched at the sweet bread like a bunch of wild hyenas, had taken from the sweet bread too, grinning like small children themselves and breaking small parts of the bread before dunking them into the warm milk that clearly seemed to be sweetened with honey too, considering the smell of it.

Most of the others had taken from the fish on the wooden panel, fish of all things, for breakfast, and from the ordinary bread – and most of them had taken water instead of the warm milk, but well, he'd had his coffee, and nothing else had mattered to him back then, he'd been happy with it and the first thing he would buy on the market would be – coffee.

Calmly he watched the boy getting up too, his dark eyes following the little bother when he passed him, and then he placed his hand on the small shoulder, leading the brat towards the door even though he knew very well that the boy could have gone towards the door – that was close by anyway – alone and without his lead. He did anyway, just to give the brat an anchor.

Awkwardly Jamie walked towards the door, feeling his Professor's hand on his shoulder when he passed him, and after a moment of expecting the well-known pain, he nearly sighed when the touch brought warmth but not pain at all, and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to make out what exactly it felt like, allowing the man to lead him, and he realized that it felt good.

Was that what other children felt if their fathers touched them, he wondered? Was that what it felt like if … ignoring the knowledge that it was wrong, ignoring the knowledge that he shouldn't do that, and ignoring the knowledge that his Professor would surely be very angry if he knew his thoughts, he imagined that it, indeed, would be like that, had his father done such once.

Sure, his father had loved him during the holidays for the past few years, but he'd never touched him like that anyway, had never touched him at all. He'd called him "son", and he'd called him a "good boy", had allowed him to eat with them all the time, and during all the meals, but he'd never hugged him, or put his hands on his shoulder, or something like that. Nor had his mother.

His mother had called him a "sweetheart" and her "baby" – he hadn't liked that much, but he'd been so happy that they had loved him then, so that he hadn't minded. And she had played games with him and had bought him things, clothes, sweets and toys.

But now he realized that all those things weren't worth anything, because neither had they been meant honestly, nor had they really … no, his parents had never loved him, not really, not even during those weeks in the holidays, they had only played a game with him, and with his brother too, so that they could hurt Elliot – but his professor seemed to, at least like him, a little bit at least, a tiny little bit at least, as dark and as scary as he was. So, Elliot had been right all the time. He just needed to trust Professor Hrothgar, he would keep him safe, and maybe it was a good thing that the Professor was so dark and so scary too, because that surely meant that he was scary to others, and with the Professor as his Professor, no one would dare to harm him, not even these people – even though he was sure they wouldn't harm him anyway. And maybe even his father would leave him alone now, that the Professor was there.

On the other hand – the Professor had watched over Elliot too, Elliot had said so, and anyway had his father beaten Elliot, and anyway Elliot was dead now.

Sighing he shoved those thoughts away, because right now he was here, and his father wasn't, and neither was his mother, but his Professor was here, as was Jesus, and his Professor would watch over him, and Jesus would do so, too, and closing his eyes he imagined that his Professor was his father who loved him, imagined that Jesus was his big brother who loved him, and closing his eyes he tried to burn that particular feeling into his own memory, tried to make his mind never ever forgetting what it felt like, because he wanted to conserve it for bad times, wanted to remember it in bad times, and he knew that they would come, the bad times, because he knew that there wasn't anyone else who cared, because he knew that they always came, the bad times.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Watching the boy and the teacher leaving the house, the man leading the boy with his hand on his shoulder, he knew that it was the right thing, knew that this was what had to be – even though he did realize that he would have a lot of work to do for that. Alone the boy's entire way of thinking – that he 'knew' that there wasn't anyone who would care about him, lest of all people him, Jesus, and knowing his upbringing, it was no wonder that he was taking his 'knowledge' as what was true.

He would have to teach the boy differently.

He also knew that in Hereweald's and Jamie's time people always seemed to say that – you just believe in God, and nothing else is important, God will deal with everything, you need not suffer, you're stupid if you suffer – just believe in God and everything will be sunshine. But they forgot that it wasn't easy to shake off everything that had been done to some people – and he knew that himself, even though he was Jesus.

Sure they were right.

Would they, who needed help, bring their troubles before God, then He would – in most of the cases – help, of course, at least if he thought it a proper thing to do. Sometimes his Father had one reason or another to not providing help to some people, at least not at the time that those people thought they needed said help, but most people He would help, if they just asked for His help instead of forgetting Him and messing around for themselves until they got stuck in the middle of nowhere.

That did however not mean that those people could turn over a switch in their minds, and from one moment to the other they could believe in God, could trust Him and bring their troubles before Him. It wasn't a conscious decision only, it wasn't only a 'yes' without their hearts being in it – no, they needed to learn to believe in the Father, they needed to learn to trust in the Father, and they needed to learn to love the Father, and to see Him as a Father to begin with. It wasn't just a decision, it was a turning, mind, body, heart and soul, and nothing else would make a real follower, he, Jesus, would expect nothing less than that – and so, people would have to learn.

This boy, for example, had never ever in his life learned what it meant to be loved – so, how could he understand that he was loved by the Father and him, Jesus? And Hereweald, too? Even though Hereweald didn't know it yet, and even though he wouldn't admit it yet, would he even know. This boy had never ever in his life learned what it meant to be forgiven – so, how could he understand that he had not done anything wrong in the first place? And how could he understand that he even would be forgiven if he did something wrong? And therefore, if he had never learned that he could be forgiven – so, how could he forgive anyone himself? His parents for tormenting him the way they had done? His brother for leaving him behind when he had died? How could he forgive himself, if no one had ever forgiven him?

How could he even begin to trust in God, the Father, while his own worldly father had treated him so badly? How could he start a relationship with his Father in Heaven if his father on earth had hurt him so badly? If he hadn't learnt the difference between the two first? No – there were so many things this child would have to learn first – like many other people needed to learn first – before they, could feel, could live, and could freely act on what was his Father's wishes. No, it would be a hard thing.

And the same did apply to Hereweald.

That man had never learned that anyone could forgive him, so – how could he forgive himself? And if he couldn't forgive himself, then how could he forgive others? Hereweald had never learned what it meant to be loved – except for the wife he'd once had, but this same wife had been killed, had been ripped from him violently, what didn't make it any better, however, on the contrary. The only person who had loved him, had been killed – what did that say? So – how could he love himself? And so – how could he love others? Hereweald would have to learn his own value in his life, as much as Jamie needed to learn that – and only then could he get the two together, only then could he lead both to his Father, to their Father.

Sure, both did believe in God.

Hereweald did believe in God unconsciously, secretly, even secretly before himself, not even admitting towards himself that he did believe in God, because believing into something that gave him no physical proof was a foolish thing to do for a scientist – and Hereweald Hrothgar was no fool, nor was he weak, believing blindly into something like Father God. He had said so himself. But anyway he did believe.

In his earliest childhood Hereweald had learned that God, the Father of all mankind, was not only existent, but that he had created all heaven and earth, that he had created men to begin with, and that he could ask him for his help. And only the years of harshness had hardened his heart and his mind, had hardened his entire being so that now he was saying that – no, he didn't believe in God anymore because believing in anything that couldn't be seen or prooved, was a sign of weakness and he was anything but weak. But anyway, in truth, he still did believe in God – in secret before himself even.

And Jamie did believe in God too, even though he, too, did believe in God only secretly, secretly just like Hereweald but differently anyway. Where Hereweald refused to openly, to even consciously believing in God because he was too proud and because he was too stubborn, there Jamie did believe in God consciously, but did so secretly because he feared his parents – even though the child did not really understand what he was believing in because no one had explained it to him, ever.

It had been Elliot, who had told Jamie about God, down there in their cellar, during the past few weeks. It had been Elliot who had taught his little brother about Heaven, about God, and about him, Jesus, who had taught him one or another children's prayer – but Elliot had been unable telling Jamie everything. And it had been Elliot who had died for it, who had been killed by his father for – 'a foolish thing such as this' – and Elliot had been taken in by his Father, by God, for his loyally, for his love, and for his trust.

And it had been Carmichael Novak who had then – and not for the first time – told Jamie that, even if something like God might exist, not even saying someone but 'something', then he wouldn't care about such a little bother like Jamie anyway. Just after he had beaten Elliot so badly that he had died of it later in the night.

"Don't forget the raisins." Andrew called after them when they were about to leave the yard and to walk down the road, a group of six men and a child. "And we need honey too. And we need lentils and garlic or you won't get dinner tomorrow!"

"Never mind the lentils." James called back to the man. "It's the honey and the milk that is important, the lad needs both of it!"

Well, looking down at said boy, he smiled at the colour that spread over the boy's cheeks at James' comment.

"What is important is coffee." Hereweald softly growled and he shook his head, because the man wouldn't get that at the market. Coffee would be invented much later in the timeline, and so Hereweald would have to deal with drinking water, or water with wine like they all did. Maybe a mug of tea in the evenings before bed, and maybe a mug of milk in the mornings for breakfast, but other than that they had water or water with wine.

"I would like to buy something I could use as an antiseptic." Hereweald said, addressing him. "That boy is likely to cause trouble and I would like being prepared for things."

"We have the ointment you have used on the boy this morning." He answered. "There is no need to buy any of it yet."

"I would like to have something more efficient at hand than that." Hereweald huffed at him and he sighed. "Knowing that brat he will fall at any turn he takes and if he won't break his bones, then he'll at least scratch his knees open."

"Yes, most likely he will do that." He answered, knowing that boys did such. He had fallen when he was a child as much as John had fallen when he had been a child and other children fell too. It was an important process in their learning – that they could fall, but that after a fall they could get up and go on walking.

"You know – your father – has made the human body amazingly resilient." Hereweald said, as if conversationally, but he could hear the sarcasm in his tone anyway. "We are fighting against poison, illness, violence and catastrophes. Death is lurking at every corner and it seems as if a small miracle that we survive. Maybe if he had made sure that there are no illnesses, and no violence, no catastrophes, then maybe he wouldn't have needed to make the human body so resilient in the first place."

"Maybe." He answered. "But do you not think that without one or another challenge your life would be very boring? You are growing with each challenge our Father is presenting you with, and you are learning with each riddle you have to solve. You are getting stronger in mind and body, and in your trust in God. You cannot only take the dark moments in your life, you need to take both, shadows and light, and while the light will restore your strength, it is the shadows that will bring you further ahead in your life, it is the shadows which make you growing, and it is the shadows which make your trust in God growing deeper, and deeper."

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

It were the shadows that made people growing – he could very much do without them, really, and he'd be as strong as he was now anyway.

"Really?" A small voice asked in the back of his mind and he scowled at the bloody, damn thing, because he knew that in 99.99% of all cases this annoying little voice was right.

Feeling a touch on his hand he looked down, scowling angrily, and for a moment he was close to pulling his hand back, startled, outraged – how dare that little bother taking his hand! He was no big teddy bear the little snot could take by the hand! No one had ever dared taking his hand as if … his name was not Hendrik VanHarkins but Hereweald Hrothgar and he didn't take little snots by their hands!

But then his eyes fell on the small and pale face – and on the large black eyes, as large as cups of black coffee, black coffee the way he preferred drinking that brewage, large and begging, looking up at him with something he couldn't read but … gritting his teeth he scowled at the little imp but then ignored it, allowed the brat to hold his hand – who happily smiled up at him.

At him!

That damn, bloody, little bother actually dared smiling up at him!

And a moment later he stopped mid-step, abruptly, looking down at the brat in shock and realizing the similarity between Elliot and this boy – not in looks, but in actions.

For four years Elliot Novak had clung to him, smiling at him like an idiot – until he had died. And now Jamie Novak, his brother, seemed to take over his place, smiling at him like an idiot, and for a moment he skipped a breath, because he suddenly realized that he would make sure that at least this child wouldn't do so until his death, or rather, that he would have to make sure that he wouldn't die as soon and as young as Elliot had.

Sure, he was still angry, he admitted with a huff and then went on walking.

He was angry because Elliot had died while this little bother here had survived, even though he did realize that the brat couldn't have done anything against it anyway, that it wasn't the boy's fault, but he had liked Elliot, and so – well, his knowledge was one thing, his feelings was another and as much as he always claimed that he had no feelings, he knew that he had them, and his feelings were simply – anger at the moment, anger, because he had lost Elliot whom he had liked.

So, yes – he was still angry – but at the same time he did realize that he couldn't allow the same fate befalling Elliot's brother. He would have to act upon coming back to their own – whatever, and he would have to place charges against the boy's parents. For murder, and for complicity in murder.

Not seeing anything similar to civility, still no cars, no bicycles, no motorbikes, nothing that could indicate that he was still in the year 1944, he shook his head. The only transportation seemed to be donkeys, once in a while he even could see a camel, the only clothes seemed to be tunics and leather sandals, and all in all he couldn't help thinking that they were, indeed, stranded in the year 29.

Children were running along the roads, laughing and clearly being happy and he remembered another child he had – not hated. A child named Timmy Evens, and even though he'd learned to know him upon rather adhere circumstances, they had gotten along for several summers now.

Flashback

It was summer, July the fifteenth 1939, for being correct, two weeks into the holidays, finally – and he could do as he wished. No schedule to follow, no meals to attend to in the canteen, no lessons and no trouble around him – no snotty little bothers he had to teach. He could just sit there, reading, thinking or doing nothing at all if he so wished. He could be wandering through the gardens or through the park, he could ignore Garcia and his stupid calls and he even could ignore anything else that had anything to do with school at all.

It wasn't that he didn't like the school in general. Hathaway was his home after all, his real home. And it wasn't even that he didn't like teaching. He just disliked teaching the dunderhead idiots that the students in general were. Teaching, without students would be a wonderful thing, and a school without students, would be a wonderful place. But well – now it was his well deserved summer holidays and he intended to actually enjoy them.

Right now he was reading an article in "Chemistry Monthly", about penicillin. Alexander Fleming, Professor of bacteriology at St. Mary's Hospital in London, England, had accidentally stumbled over it in the year 1928, eleven years ago. And now Howard Florey and Ernst Chain from Sir William Dunn school of pathology were trying to turn the penicillin from a laboratory curiosity into a life saving drug, but they seemed unable to.

Frowning Hrothgar went over the formula they were working at.

He couldn't imagine that there was no way to actually get the penicillin to work. And he was sure that they would succeed with some time given, because he knew – with chemistry you needed a lot of patience and like all chemists they just needed to do much more attempts than just the few they had done yet – and in this particular case it might be helpful, if they separated the active ingredients.

The telephone, sitting on the corner table, made itself known by ringing, getting him out of his thoughts and the Chemistry Professor frowned at the offending thing – he should never have gotten the damn thing in the first place. Sighing in frustration he got off the armchair, wondering who the hell would call on him, especially as it was in the middle of the night, while at the same time he knew that if he didn't answer the call, the phone would continue annoying him.

Sometimes one or another of the neighbours called, asking him if he needed anything. These elderly women somehow seemed to be in the misconception that he, as a young bachelor – even though he wasn't really young anymore – who lived only two months of the year alone at Widow's Way, would be unable of caring for himself.

It all had started with Mrs. Adams seven or eight years ago, maybe even nine. One day he had seen the old woman more staggering than walking along the main road in Tonopah, resting every now and then while coming from the grocery and carrying a shopping bag home. It had been clear that the woman had not been feeling well and knowing old women in general, she surely had not seen a doctor, believing that she would be fine in a few days using home remedies.

So he had crossed the street, had gone over to her, simply taking the shopping bag from her hand and with a steadying grip on her upper arm he had led her home.

He had stayed over for the night and the following day until he'd been sure that the worst was over, had visited her for several days after, and ever since Mrs. Adams had called at least once a week during the holidays, asking if he needed anything. Soon other neighbours had followed and he was sure that the old lady had told her friends about the 'nice Mr. Hrothgar' who had helped her and had given her medicine.

He shuddered at the 'nice Mr. Hrothgar part'.

However – normally those old women that were his neighbours wouldn't call on him so late in the night. So – maybe one of them had an accident. Most of them were widows after all and had no one to look after them. So he simply took the receiver and answered the call.

"Hrothgar." He said, not really sure why he remembered one particular – and rather strange – call, from several years ago.

Flashback within flashback

Casting an evil glare at the phone he got off his armchair to answer the call, with the full intention on his mind that he would throw the bloody thing out of the window as soon as he had put the receiver back down. He hated that bloody thing and nothing good came out of it anyway, only annoying news, requests, questions, or other spoken things coming from idiot people which were too lazy to come over for a talk – or too cowardice to face him and his wrath in person.

He should have rented a house in Italy, or in Spain, then he would have his peace – and he had made enough money over the years to do so, anyway.

Teachers at a regular school weren't paid too much money, he knew that, but a teacher at a boarding school got paid a lot of money due to the higher responsibilities – and risks – especially a teacher teaching at a private boarding school and not to mention that not only was he a Chemistry Professor and no simple teacher, but the Head of a House too – and as he was a man who didn't need much, well, he had saved a lot of money over the years. He wasn't even sure if it wouldn't be enough already to buy a small house – but he didn't want that, not anymore.

"Hrothgar." He answered the phone with a growl.

"Hello." Came the voice of a very small child from the receiver. "Can you help me, please?"

"Who are you?" He asked, frowning at the bloody receiver. "And what do you need help with?" Didn't this child's parents take care of their bloody brat?

"'m Timmy." The child answered – so, he had to deal with a boy. "'n I need help with math."

With what? With math?

He had a little brat calling him because of his math homework?

"Don't you think that your parents would be more suitable for helping with your homework?" He asked, frowning.

"They're not here." The boy said. "Can you help me?"

"Where do you live?" He asked – that boy sounded young enough to needing a parent at home instead of being left alone.

"At home." Came the answer from the receiver and he inwardly groaned. "Can you help me now?"

"And where, exactly, is your home?" He asked, cursing under his breath.

"Here!" The boy answered and he nearly groaned again. Of course the boy would give him an answer like that. "Can you please help me now?"

"What is the problem?" He finally asked, knowing that he wouldn't get a straight answer out of the boy. He apparently was too young to know where exactly he lived. Damn! Wasn't it enough to have to teach the little brats during the school time? Did he have to get called by a little snot during his holidays now, too?

"I have to do take aways." The boy said, giving him a very suffering sigh.

"So …" He sighed himself, not even knowing why he didn't put the bloody receiver back immediately.

"Uhm … nine … take away seven … what's that?" The boy asked and he blinked at the telephone. That boy actually asked him what – nine minus seven was? That surely wasn't …

"How old are you?" He asked, not sure if he should find out the location of the brat and take him over his knees.

"'m … 'm one … two … three … four … five. Five, 'm five." The boy answered and he sighed, sure that the idiot boy had counted it down on his fingers. Alright – so it was not so absurd, the boy not knowing what nine minus seven was.

"Now, what do you think it is?" He finally asked.

"I don't know … maybe five?"

"Surely not." He sighed. "Do you have another task?"

"Sure!" The boy called out, sounding desperate. "The paper is full with 'em."

"God in Heaven, help me!" He growled. Surely he wouldn't sit here all day long and tell the boy the solutions to his math problems.

"Do you have a garden at your home?" He asked. "Maybe with a lawn?"

"No." The boy answered, sounding unsure. "But we have a driveway … with pebbles."

"That is very good." He said. "Can you go and get a handful of those pebbles?"

"Sure." The boy said.

"Do not go anywhere else and leave the door open, do you hear? Boy? Timmy?" He called and then, sighing he waited, hoping that the boy would make sure the door wouldn't fall close while he was outside. The child had been quick with doing as he'd told him, too quick for him to give him an answer. If only his students at Hathaway would be so quick with obeying his commands too.

"I have them." The little boy's voice came back, panting, and it was clear that he'd been running.

"Good." He sighed in a mixture of suffering and relief about the boy not having closed the door when he'd gone for the pebbles. "Now you count nine pebbles on the table."

"Ok." The boy said, followed by a soft "one … two … three … four … five … six … seven … eight … nine … have nine pebbles."

"Good." He said, shaking his head about his own idiocy, wasting his valuable time with a little brat like this boy on the phone over something as trivial as a math problem. "And now you take seven of the pebbles away."

"Ok." The boy again said before there was another softly whispered "one … two … three … four … five … six … seven … have taken them 'way."

"Good." He groaned out in frustration. "Now how many pebbles are left?"

"Two." The boy answered, happily.

"Well, then nine take away seven is?"

"Two!" The boy nearly screamed into the receiver and therefore his ear, happily.

"Indeed." He took a deep breath. "And this way I am sure you will be able solving your other math problems just as easily."

"Can I call you 'gain if I can't?" The boy asked and he smirked, knowing that the brat surely had dialled any number and only by accident had gotten him, that he surely hadn't remembered the combinations of numbers he'd used.

"I do not know if you can, but you may." He therefore said before putting the receiver back down.

End flashback within flashback

Well, the thing was – the boy had called him nearly every day, for nearly two months, sometimes with a different math problem, sometimes with an entirely different subject and sometimes with the same problem when things seemed to grow over his head.

In the beginning he even had thought that there was a teenager behind the calls who used his little brother for a prank, but soon he had learned that the boy's parents both were working, expecting him to work on different subjects during the afternoon, forgetting that a five year old surely was too young for doing such things alone. One time the boy even had been crying. Not that he would ever allow any child to affect him with his tears – and surely that boy hadn't either, but he had done his best to help his little daily caller anyway.

Huffing, and shaking his head, he remembered the shrill children's voice.

The brat hadn't called during the next summer when he'd been back from Hathaway for holidays, nor had he called for the past few years, and he had to admit that – he had missed it.

"Good evening, Mr. Hrothgar." A male voice at the other end of the circuit answered and he frowned, because he didn't know why anyone that was not his neighbours would call him. "I am William Everson from Tonopah Police Department. You are Hereweald Hrothgar, I presume?"

"Indeed." The Chemistry Professor said, wondering what in devil's name the police would want of him – but at least, it wasn't his little, now surely teenage, daily caller from the past.

"Well, Mr. Hrothgar." The man said hesitantly. "We have taken hold of your son half an hour ago, committing thievery. If you could come for a short talk and to pick him up, Mr. Hrothgar?"

His son?

Hereweald blinked for a moment, frowning at the receiver, and then gritted his teeth in annoyance.

"I will be there shortly." He simply said and put down the receiver with some annoyance, because – he had no son!

He turned towards the front door, grabbed his jacket and left the house, wondering which imbecile had dared naming him, Hereweald Hrothgar, as his father. It only could be a student from Hathaway as no other child knew him.

He walked along the street, and then turned into Cabbage Alley near the beadhouse.

Or it could be Jacob, maybe, the only child he could imagine daring to use his name as his father's. Jacob Graham was his godson after all. And if he – what ever reason for – had landed himself in the streets of Tonopah and at the Police Department because he had committed thievery, no less, then he surely would not want his father picking him up, surely aware of the little fact that his father, being one of the rich, would be anything than pleased.

But somehow he doubted it. He couldn't imagine the boy having any dealings ending up in Tonopah, alone.

He walked down the road and entered the Willow Lane.

Probably it was one of his other students. There were some that had a home life far from ideal and none of them would wish their fathers picking them up from the police in the middle of the night.

Reaching the end of Willow Lane he turned left into the Department Road.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Hereweald Hrothgar entered the Police Department in Tonopah and went to the reception where a young man in uniform looked up at him questioningly.

The place was filled with bright light coming from the neon lamps above, and behind the counter he could see an office that looked simple, but friendly. The now dark windows were large and he was sure that during daytime the office looked very bright.

"What can I do for you, sir?" The man behind the counter asked with a kind smile and Hrothgar inwardly cringed in what was clear annoyance at the idiot man's friendly tone of voice. Sure – with this nice tone of voice all the criminals out there were to follow him by free will. Couldn't that man display the necessary seriousness of a police official?

"Hereweald Hrothgar." The Chemistry Professor introduced himself, glaring at the man. "I am here for my son."

"Ah, yes, the boy." The man's smile even widened and he went to round the counter. "A fine lad, Mr. Hrothgar. If you'll follow me, I'll lead you to Officer Benson. The boy's with him." The officer nodded towards a just as annoyingly smiling woman behind the counter, making sure that she would overtake duty or whatever, and then led him through the hall and down a corridor.

"Found him near the park where he'd been trying to steal the patrol car from Sheriff Benson." The officer babbled on while leading him along the corridor and he nearly coughed at that bit of information – the brat, whoever that brat was, had really tried to steal the patrol car from the sheriff? God in Heaven! "Asked him what he was doing but he'd just shrugged his shoulders." The officer went on. "A kind young lad, apologized for causing any trouble."

Hereweald wished the man would stop his senseless babbling and maybe say the boy's name so that he would know who the imbecile was before he stood in front of him, but the officer didn't and he knew – asking for the boy's name was out of question. It would sound a bit strange if he asked for his – well, for his 'own son's' name. The boy, whoever it was, would soon enough rue the day he had named him – of all people – as his father, that one was for sure. The boy would learn that it wouldn't be pleasant if he had him as a father.

The officer knocked at a door down the hallway and opened it.

"The boy's father, Benson." He said, allowing him in and the Chemistry Professor strolled past the smiling and babbling idiot and stepped into the office.

End Flashback

Well, it had been a teenage boy who had lived just two or three blocks down the street, about thirteen or fourteen years old – and with the name of Timmy Evans, his daily little caller from just a few years ago. Sure, he hadn't learned of it upon seeing the boy sitting there as he'd never ever seen the brat, had only heard his voice through the telephone, but when he had addressed him in the Sheriff's office with a sarcastic: "It is a rather unusual time for a young man such as yourself being outside, in the midst of Tonopah, the police department no less, while you actually should be laying in your bed at Widows Lane safely, do you not think so, Mr. Hrothgar?"

Well, two could play this game, after all, and he had nearly smirked at the brat's surprised look.

"I … uhm … yes, I think so … dad." The bloody idiot boy had said after getting off his chair, the Chemistry Professor – again – had to call up every kind of mask he had in store to not showing his surprise at recognizing the voice from his daily calls years ago, daily calls from a small child which had been left alone by his parents to do his school work.

He'd filled the papers, hoping that they would never find out that the boy was not his son, knowing that he would be in a lot of trouble if they did, but they hadn't. Later, when they'd been out of the police department and out of sight, he'd just taken the boy at the front of his shirt, nearly shaking him.

"What the hell did you think, boy!" He'd growled darkly. "Why for Heaven's sake have you tried to steal the Sheriff's patrol car? Of all the bloody, damn cars out there? And then naming me as your father? Have you lost your senses?"

"I've needed it!" The boy had answered, large eyed.

"Whatever for!" He had demanded.

"For moving out of my parents' house." The bloody brat had said.

"And you couldn't have packed your things into any other car?" He had asked, shocked about the audacity the brat had shown. "You actually needed to steal the patrol car?"

"Sure." The boy had answered, shrugging his shoulders. "It's the only car in the town of which I know has a hitch and I've already loaded my dad's trailer."

Well, for a moment he hadn't known if he should laugh, if he should shake some sense into that boy's head, or if he should – well, he had simply brought the boy back home to his parents, he'd had a word with them without saying anything about where he'd picked the brat up, but had made sure that the brat wasn't killed, and then he'd gone home, hoping that he would never ever hear anything of the brat – or the police.

It's been just a few days later that the very same brat had appeared and had – wordlessly – started weeding the beds in his garden, and that he had done for the remainder of the holidays.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

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To be continued

Next time in … and sit a while with me …

About raisins, visions, memories and the will of God

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 …