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 …

On the mount Moriah Abraham and Isaac had celebrated together with God, they had given their prayer, and together with the smoke of the fire their thankfulness had risen up to Heaven.

"Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, Abraham." God had said. "In blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed, as the stares of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the sea shore. And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed, because though hast obeyed my voice."

It had been a hard order for Abraham, offering his only son, but again, never had God expected anything he wouldn't do himself either, because God would offer him, Jesus, his only son, to the world, to mankind, to redeem them even though they would always remain sinners.

God had forced neither Noah, nor Abraham or any other of the true servants of God, and neither would he force Hereweald. That was not the way of God. His Father didn't force his children. He offered them ways and possibilities, he offered them one thing or another, but if they didn't want – then he didn't force them but allowed them their own ways.

His Father welcomed home every child that turned to come back to him after men had to leave the garden of Eden so many generations before, and he didn't leave them but a few minutes for that decision, not even just a few hours or days, but years and years did his Father give men to turn and come back to him, their entire life they lived on Earth did he give them to consider following him, but if they turned never, then he let them go, then he didn't run after them, he didn't force them to follow his command.

And he knew, that Hereweald knew the very same – the man was just looking for any excuse he could find, for any way out he could find, like so many other faithful men before him, but in the end, he would follow his heart anyway. It was a question of time only, and time didn't play a role since Hereweald Hrothgar was out of his time anyway.

… and sit a while with me …

Part two – of learning and doing

Chapter eleven – look at me, little one

Near winter 29 A.C. about December – Jerusalem

Waking slowly he allowed his fingers to play with the blanket his teacher had covered him with the evening before, enjoying the softness of the blanket, relishing in the thought that it had been his teacher who had covered him with it, doing something his own father had never done, savouring the thought that it had been Jesus who had given him the blanket the evening before to begin with, again, doing something his own father had never done before.

Refusing to open his eyes he furrowed his brows at the thought of Jesus.

His mother had always told him that Jesus wouldn't care about him because he was a worthless little whelp, and his father had always told him that even if someone like Jesus would exist, then surely he would care for those who could pay him, for the rich and for the gifted, but not for the poor and those who had learned nothing.

But he had learned nothing, and he had no money either.

Sure, he could read the clock, and he could clean the table, but that surely didn't count because – anyone could read the clock and anyone could clean the table too, it was worth nothing.

He was really good in being silent though, and in staying in the dark and out of the way – but that was nothing he could pay Jesus with either. But maybe he could show Jesus how to play with the rats without being scared of them? But why would Jesus want doing that? Jesus had a lot of friends, he didn't need to play with the rats because he was alone, because he wasn't.

Sighing he turned on the mat, not noticing the man who sat with him, watching him with a thoughtful look on his face as he still refused to open his eyes, believing that he was alone at an hour so early.

He could read. Elliot had shown him how to read, and he had promised that he would show him how to write too, but then he'd died, and so he couldn't show him anymore. But he'd shown him how to read – and he had practiced it later, when Elliot had been dead, he'd read, and read, and read, and read, and read.

He wasn't entirely sure if he had read, and read, and read, because this way he hadn't needed watching Elliot laying there, staring at him with his accusing eyes, or if he had read, and read, and read, so that Elliot would hear his voice wherever he was, and wouldn't feel alone so much, as alone as he had felt, or if he had read, and read, and read so that Elliot would be proud of him, so that his brother would know that he did as he had told him, he didn't know it, but he had read.

But again, everyone could read, and so that was nothing he could use either. On the contrary – he couldn't even write. Everyone could write, but not him.

He had tried, on his first day of school. He knew what the letters had to look like, after all, and so he had tried to draw them the way they looked – or needed to look – but he hadn't managed and soon the other children who sat on the same desk as him had gotten angry when he had made the table shaking by erasing his strange things that had come out of his trying, because surely they couldn't be called letters.

If only he could do something no one could, then he could maybe use it to pay Jesus, because money he didn't have, and without paying him, he wouldn't care, his mother had said so, and his father, too.

Sighing he run his fingers over the fur of the blanket.

It was made from the wool of sheep, Jesus had told him so yesterday morning, or yesterday forenoon. The last two or three days were a blur to him and somehow he had lost track on time, didn't really know how long it was since he had left home, or since Elliot had died – and startled he sat up. Maybe Elliot was angry with him because he had forgotten how long it was since he had died? He'd been sitting beside his brother, after all, even though he'd been really scared at all the blood and at Elliot's eyes looking at him. So – he should remember it when it had been, shouldn't he? But he didn't. And maybe now Elliot was angry with him because he couldn't remember it.

"I do not think that your brother is angry with you." A soft voice came from behind him and quickly he turned again, turned towards the room to meet the dark eyes of Jesus, the very man he had been thinking of before. "And there is no reason for you to pay me either – I wouldn't know whatever for."

Whatever for?

Well, he had eaten in the man's house, hadn't he? He'd had breakfast, sweet bread with honey, and milk with honey, and he'd had fruits for lunch, and in the evening he'd even gotten vegetables and bread. Not the sweet bread but bread that had been roasted. And Jesus had even gone to the market because of him, to buy more things, and raisins too. And then there was the blanket Jesus had given him so he wouldn't be cold during the night – and now the man said he didn't know why he should be paid?

"These things are the things any child needs to be provided with." Jesus said and for a moment he wondered if the man could read his mind. "Your father didn't provide you with much of these things, but that does not mean that you are not worth these things, because you are very much worth being fed and cared for."

Frowning he looked at his hands for a moment before looking up again, to meet the dark eyes.

It was strange, he wasn't really sure if they were black, or if they were dark brown, or just a strange brown. Maybe they were just a really, really, really dark blue, he wasn't really sure because he didn't dare looking at him for long enough to find out. It was different with Professor Hrothgar. Professor Hrothgar had black eyes, he didn't need looking at them for long, even though he couldn't really read them.

Not that he could read Jesus' eyes, and surely he didn't dare looking at him long enough to try it even, but anyway …

He was startled when there were fingers touching his chin to lift his head up until he couldn't help looking at the man, and with large eyes he realized – they were neither, neither black, nor dark brown, nor dark blue … or maybe they were even all of it at the same time.

"God has made you as he had made any other man before you." Jesus then said to him. "And like anyone, like you, when you have drawn a picture, he does love what he has made. He does love you, because you are his child, and as his child, you are my brother, because I am the son of God, too. You are to look at the men around you. There is no need for you to lower your eyes in shame, Jamie, because there is no reason for you to be ashamed."

His brother?

Jesus was his brother? But Elliot had said that Jesus was their Lord and that they had to obey him. And that they needed to be happy because he had given his life for them, for their sins. But if he was his brother – Elliot had been his brother, and Elliot had cared for him, even though he had only learned of it last summer, that Elliot had cared. And if Jesus was, like Elliot, his brother, then did this mean that Jesus did care for him, too?

"What do you think, little one, is the reason as to why I will give my life for you?" The man said, and he was sure by then that he indeed could read his mind. "I am many things, Jamie. I am your brother, I am your Lord, I am your saviour, I am your Master, and I am your friend. I am your God, I am your teacher, and I am your Father. And as either of these things I do care for you. Your mother was wrong, little one, because I do care for you, and very much so. And your father was wrong, too, because you need not pay me for the care and love I give you."

But, if that was true, he thought, trying to avert his eyes but being unable to, then why had his mother told him that Jesus wouldn't care 'bout a worthless little whelp like him? Not that he had ever asked, he would never do such a thing because he had soon learned to not bother the adults around him with idiot questions, but he knew that his mother was visiting church every Sunday morning – not that his father liked it, but his mother did so anyway. And often his mother had some women from her church to visit, even though his father did like that even less, and sometimes he wasn't in the cellar when they were there, talking about God and Jesus, and about the priests and about other people in church, about what kind of dress Miss Mason had worn last Sunday, about the pinstripe suit of Mr. Benson, and things – and one day, when he'd been really small, he'd drawn a picture of what the women had been talking about.

There had been Miss Mason in her violet dress and Mr. Benson in his pinstripe suit, and then he'd drawn the priest with his black dress and the stole, even though he hadn't known what a stole was and so he'd drawn a hat for it. He'd never been in a church, after all, and he'd never seen pictures of one either, and so he'd drawn the church like the school he'd seen a picture from once.

His mother hadn't been happy, and later in the evening, after coffee, when the women had been gone, she'd told him that he was too stupid to draw a church even, telling him that he hadn't even drawn a cross atop the roof. He'd been very hurt because of it and he'd been close to crying. But he hadn't, even when his mother had ripped the picture into pieces and had said that neither Jesus nor God would care about a worthless little whelp such as him who couldn't even draw a church, and luckily he hadn't cried or his mother would have put him back in the cellar again because of his crying, but he'd cried later, in his room, silently, and secretly.

"It is not important what way you draw a church." Jesus said, pulling him close. "If you like to draw a church like a school, then that is alright, Jamie. Did you know that about hundred years before your time, in some American states sermons had been held at the school buildings, actually? Or that lessons had been held in the church in other states? And if you like drawing a church like a ship, then that is alright too, and if you like to draw just people on a mountain, then that, too, is alright. One day Professor Hrothgar will read with you the bible, and there you will read about the sermon on the mount – it is not important where a sermon is held, as long as the people are in it with their hearts."

Professor Hrothgar would read the bible with him?

That surely couldn't be possible!

Professor Hrothgar hated him! He didn't really understand it, but the man hated him and he surely wouldn't ask him, because he really better didn't risk anything with this man – not because he would hate him, but he feared him. It wasn't that he feared him because he was all black with those deep, black eyes, nor that the man looked so foreboding in the first place, scary somehow even. It wasn't the fact that the man had this unmoving facial expression he couldn't read anything of either. He just feared him, because he feared everyone.

"Hmm, yes, I know." Jesus said and with large eyes he this time for real looked at the man, because so far it could have been by accident, that he always had answered on his thoughts, even though it had been a close draw with the picture of the church, but this time? This time it was a clear answer to his thoughts, wasn't it? "But there is no reason to fear Professor Hrothgar. He is very dark, yes, and he is very reserved too, but he would never harm you and he would protect you with all his life, little one. His bark is worse than his bite – and yes, I do know your thoughts. I want you to trust in your professor, little one, he will raise you well."

Elliot had said the same.

Elliot hadn't told him that his bark was worse than his bite, whatever the meaning of this was because he was sure that the Professor would not really bite anyone. But Elliot had said that he had to trust Professor Hrothgar, and that he would have to stay close to him and do what he said, that the Professor would keep him safe.

Taking a deep breath he nodded at the man who smiled at him.

"You are a good boy, Jamie." The man said.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

"Hmm, yes, I know." He heard Jesus saying the moment he approached the house.

He had woken early – after Jesus had … 'sent' … him to bed last night. Well, apparently the man had sat beside the brat all night long himself instead of him. He'd then got up and after looking around the room, seeing the man sitting beside the mat – and casting a questioning gaze at him – he had just lifted his own eyebrow, challengingly, before turning and leaving the house, not ready yet to get into a discussion with Jesus, not so early in the morning. He'd walked the – what could be considered at least kind of 'road', looking at the houses and exploring his surroundings.

He'd met only few people on his morning walk.

There had been a guy whom Jesus had told him the day before was the stonecutter, and the man had carried two wooden buckets to the marketplace to get water. Then there had been a guy wearing a needle in his tunic, looking at him blearily when he passed his house, and then there was a young man in front of a house preparing for the day, and considering the equipment in the yard beside the house, he had to be a ropemaker. But other than that, most people here in Jerusalem seemed to sleep still in the early morning hours – like anywhere else in the world.

He'd soon walked back, not ready for getting lost in the labyrinth of streets and crossways yet, especially not alone, while all the way realizing how far they had indeed got stranded in the past. Jerusalem today was much different to what he could see here.

"But there is no reason to fear Professor Hrothgar." He heard Jesus saying when he entered through the small doorway. "He is very dark, yes, and he is very reserved too, but he would never harm you and he would protect you with all his life, little one. His bark is worse than his bite – and yes, I do know your thoughts. I want you to trust in your professor, little one, he will raise you well."

So, his bark was worse than was his bite, huh? He'd show that bloody guy 'bout his bite! It was one thing accusing him of being – not dangerous, and not bad, what Jesus had done just the day before, but telling his student the same, and therefore destroying his reputation, openly, that was an entire different thing!

"You're a good boy, Jamie." Jesus said when the brat nodded at him and for a moment he didn't know if he should laugh at the enormous – and comically – large eyes the boy made at the comment, or if he should huff with annoyance. He decided to do the second.

"You're a little bother, Novak." He huffed while approaching them, glaring at Jesus for smiling up at him knowingly. "I suggest you get up, boy, and prepare for the day, because if you think you can get away from lessons here, then you are thinking wrong. It will be writing lessons today, and now hurry, boy!" He growled, glaring at Jesus for coddling the brat and smiling at him, Hereweald – and for destroying his reputation. He would make sure that the brat had a bit more work to do than he had originally planned – just to show him that he was not a teddy bear he could cuddle with.

Turning and seeing Peter and Tomas whispering together, while looking at his socks, he scowled at them as darkly as possible before passing them and getting the bowls and mugs from the shelf on the wall, starting to lay what they were calling their table. He'd get never used to sitting at the floor and eating from a near to the ground wooden board.

It wouldn't be as bad as it actually was, had he only had coffee.

Casting a careful glance at Jesus, he wondered if the man would provide him with a cup of coffee today too, like he'd done the day before, turning his water to coffee, but even though his gaze was meant to be a secret glance, the man looked back at him – with his eyebrow lifted daringly, and he scowled.

"I've made porridge." Matthew said a moment later. "Lay the wooden spoons and suffer those two looking, they have just never seen someone wearing sacks on their feet."

"Socks!" He growled, frowning and then taking the wooden spoons from the shelf. "They're socks, not sacks, and in – my – time, everyone wears them!"

"Really?" The man asked, surprised. "But why would you do that?"

"So that our feet won't freeze when we're laughing." He huffed, ignoring the man's perplexed gaze – and ignoring Jesus shaking his head at him with a silent chuckle.

"You're strange, you know that?" James said, sitting down at the – table.

"Then your feet are never freezing as you're never laughing." John added, sitting down at one of the mats too.

"Take the smaller spoon for the little one." Jesus said, coming over with the brat and only little time later were they all seated around the – well, table, and somehow he couldn't help the thought that maybe Jesus had sent half of his disciples away, so that they didn't feel as if residing in a crowded room, house, whatever.

"I might be strange." He growled. "But I am successful with my ways."

"You are." Jesus said, filling the boy's bowl and then adding raisins – and honey – and he scowled at the man coddling the brat, again. "And now imagine how successful you will be the moment you are going your ways together with God, Hereweald. You will be able to change things, not only to prevent things. Eat."

"I refuse eating mushy things like this." He growled, lazily pointing at the bowl with the porridge and sniffing at the mug with water, and the little fact that it remained water didn't do any good to his bad mood this morning. "This food is for little snotty toddlers without teeth but not for grown men. And you, stop gawking at me, brat, and eat. There's a lot of work to do today!"

Well, there really would.

He'd never before taught anyone how to write and if he had to be honest, then he had absolutely no idea about how to do this – he didn't even know where to start to begin with!

Alright, that wasn't entirely true.

Once he'd had a few kids from the streets in the orphanage he'd been working for his practical year who couldn't read or write, but he hadn't been alone in teaching them back then. And he'd also taught a second grade class once, for two weeks, in his first practical. He'd been close to his first exam and he'd needed to teach several grades for a fortnight each – and he'd barely survived the second, the third and the fourth grade – how very fortunate that there had been no need for him teaching first grade students – or even snotty kindergarten toddlers – or he wouldn't have survived. The second grade students had already been close to having him dying, after all.

Flashback

"I won't!" A boy in the front row said, just the moment he entered Howell's classroom and he frowned. "I've never managed and I won't pass tomorrow either. I just hate geography and this bloody essay is just as stupid."

"My mom always says that if you believe in God helping you, then you'll be able doing it. You just need asking him." The boy beside the first one answered and taking the worksheets from the desk he read through them shortly. Geometry, circles and ellipses. "You'll just need an opening for your essay and then the rest of it will be easy. The first sentence is always the hardest."

Well, that boy definitely had a point – if he forgot about that God-Crap thing he'd first mentioned – and at least they were talking about school related things until their lessons started, but well, school related things or not, this was math and not geography.

"What's your opening sentence anyway?" The first boy said, just when he approached the two.

"I'll start with 'the Mount Etna is a very active volcano that just last year had another enormous erection'." The boy answered and he stopped mid-step, having to fight hard to not laughing out loud at the seriousness the boy brought up the wrong wording. Damn, holy shit! What had he gotten himself into! One could clearly see that they were primary babies – a volcano that had an erection instead of an eruption. If he'd bring that up in his essay, then he'd really be left alone by his God!

"If you start your essay with this particular sentence, Mr. – Mason," he said upon taking a look at the nametag on the boy's workbook, "then I'm sure that it will be a very entertaining essay for your geography teacher, more so if you should happen to explain the several steps of the volcano's activity, but at the same time it will definitely have your marks in geography dropping as it is not an erection but an eruption you should write about." He said the moment he could be sure that he had himself – and his facial expression – under tight control, leaning with both his hands onto the tabletop of the desk and piercing the boy with his dark eyes – who watched him back with very large eyes himself. "And now I suggest you take these worksheets and hand them out to your classmates."

"Squares!" The boy groaned upon looking at the sheets, sighing a suffering sigh. "I hate math just as much as I hate geography."

"I can see that – these are circles." He frowned down at the boy who got up to hand the worksheets over to his fellow students.

"A circle is just a round square anyway." The boy shrugged and now it was him, inwardly groaning. God in heaven help him! What a mess – and what a lucky man he was, not having to teach second grade students for the remainder of his life. At Hathaway he would have to teach high school students and he was very glad about that.

Noticing one of the children drawing a line with his pencil, taking another pencil as a ruler, he approached the table, scowling down at the boy that was misusing his equipment.

"Care to explain what you are doing?" He asked, scowling down at the boy.

"I'm drawing a line, sir." The boy answered, clearly not understanding where the problem lay.

"Using – or rather, misusing – your pencil as a ruler?" He asked, lifting his eyebrow.

"Well, yes." The boy said. "Mr. Howell don't like it if we draw lines by hand."

"Doesn't." He corrected. "And where, pray tell, is your ruler you normally should use for such a task, Mr. – Henson?" He asked, after reaching out and turning the boy's notebook to look at the name on the front.

"Uhm, well." The boy made, blinking at him. "I forgot it, at home."

"You forgot it." He said, taking a deep breath. "And what are you doing in the first place? You are to do a circle in your first task, not a line."

"Uhm, well … that is a circle." The boy answered, looking up at him sheepishly.

"Very well, Mr. Henson, then I ask you to draw the circle from a bird's eye view, not from the side." He smirked down at the boy who sighed.

"I can't." The boy said, shaking his head.

"And why are you unable doing so?" He asked, very well knowing the answer already.

"I have no compasses." The boy then said.

"And why ever not, boy?" He asked, his eyebrow lifted.

"Forgot them." The boy answered, rather meekly. "At home."

"Is there anything you have not forgotten – at home – except of the pencils you are using – and misusing?" He scowled. He really was lucky that he would be working at a boarding school generally, his students wouldn't forget things – or at least, they wouldn't forget them more than once. He could easily send them to their dormitory to get them – and into following detention. "Well, then ask your neighbour, and next time I expect you to have your equipment with you as such disturbances are not only slowing down yourself but your classmates just as well. Should I ever hear that you have forgotten your working tools again, then it will be detention."

There was a quick nod and the boy turning to his sitting neighbour who scowled at the other boy and he could hear something like – 'not again, you're always forgetting things and then asking for mine.'

"What the fucking hell are you … keep your fucking fingers off my bloody sheet or you …"

"Language, Mr. Clayton." He drawled, approaching the desk in the back of the classroom. He didn't even have to look for the student's name on his workbook as one look into the fair face with the golden blond hair and the sky blue eyes showed that this boy was a brother of Isabelle Clayton, the cat-loving girl in third grade he'd had just the week before. Well, if you took the nearly painful sweetness of the girl in his former class, then it was startling, the boy's language and he only could hope that the girl would never end up at this point. "Your sweet looks are definitely belied by your bad language, Mr. Clayton and I suggest that you change that – this instant – or you will end up scrubbing this very classroom after school – just to teach you a lesson about keeping things, your language included, clean."

"This fucking idiot has …"

"Say what you want to say in proper language, or don't say anything at all, Mr. Clayton." He hissed, leaning down at the desk and close to the boy, piercing him with his darkest gaze possible.

"Eddy the idiot has smeared ink all over my paper!" The boy growled angrily, not backing away from him like other second grade students would and looking down at the parchment he noticed that the worksheet was already done – and perfectly so.

"And how exactly did this happen, Mr. – Eddy?" He asked the other boy, ignoring Clayton for now.

"I didn't mean to." This boy said, defending himself. "I just wanted to change the ink pot because it was empty, but when I put the quill into the new one, the ink splattered all over Benny's sheet. I just wanted to clean it."

"After two months of working with ink and quill I'm sure that you should know by now – you cannot clean ink away and especially not with smearing over the paper." He drawled, taking a deep breath. "Not another word, both of you! Just go on with your work. Mr. Clayton, I will write a note on your sheet so that Mr. Howell knows that this mess was not created by you. Just go and take a different worksheet from the desk and try to solve those tasks as well as you have solved these."

"Very well." He said after forty minutes of watching the second grade class. "Mr. Henson, I expect you to write an essay about your equipment belonging into your schoolbag – why it belongs in there, what will happen if it isn't and what you will do to solve the problem. Mr. Clayton, I expect you to write an essay about using proper language – why it is important, why you should not use bad language and what you will do to work on it. Mr. – Eddy – I expect you to write an essay about the proper use of a quill and ink pots, how to change them without creating a mess and what you could do to avoid something like that again. And finally, Miss Winslow, I expect an essay of you about why chewing bubblegum, and writing letters to other girls during class is not only disrespectful but also keeping you and your fellow students from learning – and what you will do to make it better in future. All your essays will be no less than twenty inches in legible handwriting and handed in to me by tomorrow morning, first lesson. Class dismissed."

God in Heaven!

What the bloody fuck had he gotten himself into!

End flashback

Well, he'd been young, he'd been inexperienced, but he had shown these idiot little snots how to behave in school and at the end of the week they had learned how to behave – and he had learned that teaching would be a deathly job, a heart attack or at least insanity lurking at every corner of his future life! And right now he was learning that, this boy, young Mr. Mason, had indeed been correct in his saying about God helping if one did just ask for his help, and maybe, if he had realized this sooner in his life, then maybe his life would have gone into an entire different direction. And maybe he'd have, if only it hadn't come from such a bloody little snot as the Mason boy – what a good thing that he didn' t have to teach children so young anymore.

"And anyway there was one boy in this class whom you have given your attention." Jesus said, the man clearly having watched him for some time now. "Whom you have comforted even, whenever he'd been a mess."

"Of course I have." He growled, looking at the idiotically smiling man with a dark scowl on his face. "I am a dark and a cold man and I am demanding, but I am not completely without responsibility and if there is any child so young, that is in pain or scared than the bloody thing should be helped – even if just so that he wouldn't disturb the other children in class." He quickly added for reputation-saking-measures.

"Elliot was not – any child so young." Jesus said and he scowled.

"No." He admitted. "But that bloody boy has wormed his way into my not existing heart somehow, that horrifying devil!"

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Elliot was a horrifying devil? But how? Elliot had done nothing wrong, and he'd helped him a lot, too.

Sure, somehow he'd often been jealous 'bout his big brother, and sure, somehow he'd often thought that it was unfair, that his big brother could be at that school, and that his big brother wasn't beaten and … and … and things … but a horrifying devil? He'd never seen his brother as a horrifying devil. He, Jamie, he was a horrifying devil, even though his mother had never called him that. His parents had called him other things than that, but somehow he knew that it was the same anyway, that the meaning of it was the same anyway.

Trying to watch the man from beneath his eyelashes, he tried to find out if he was serious or not, tried to read his face – but he couldn't. He couldn't read the man's facial expressions at all, because there was nothing. The man's face was a blank mask and the black eyes – which right now watched him – were as emotionless as was the stony face – even the man's posture was not giving anything away at all, like always – very much to his dismay, because beside listening to people's voices, reading other persons' facial expressions was the only way to know about how angry the other person was – and therefore how safe, or unsafe, he was at the respective present time.

He always had been able to detect the anger and the hate in his father's face, or the loathing and the disgust in his mother's face, and he always had been able to – somehow at least – tell what would come, but not with this man. This man was impossible to read. He seemed only cold and dark and hard and rigid and severe and … and well … things.

Biting his lips he quickly looked back down towards his trainers. Better not trying anything with this man. He was as tall as was his father, if not taller even. He was not as massive as was his father, was much thinner even, but he nevertheless was sure that this man would be as strong as was his father, if not stronger and surely he was much, much quicker. He'd had enough experience with watching some of his father's pupils in the dojo, and he'd soon learned that – well, less mass meant faster movements while more mass not always meant more strength.

Hereweald Hrothgar, at the same time, watched the boy close too, and the fact that the – 'child', he thought with a suffering sigh, nearly shuddering with displeasure at alone the word – never left his eyes from his, Hereweald's, hands, except of one time when he peeked at his face, secretly, as if doing something forbidden, disturbed him greatly. Yet, he should have known. Of course Novak would watch his hands, fearing he would be beaten at one point sooner or later – and he didn't know what to do.

Novak surely wasn't the first boy he had under his care who came from a home that was less ideal, and surely he wasn't the first boy that came from a home with one or even two violent parents, but what he had learned of the brat so far, and taking his brother's death into consideration too – he couldn't help feeling anger beyond what he had ever felt in his life.

He often had felt anger. Anger at his father for his cruelty, anger at himself for letting Olivia die, and his unborn son too, anger at Garcia for his scheming and for forcing him to become a teacher, even if he took it as an opportunity to atone for his sins, and last but not least – anger at himself again for letting his brother die, for letting Elliot die, for letting …

But never before had he felt anger such as right now upon watching the child.

Those monsters, as it seemed, had not only neglected and starved the boy, they had not only abused the boy, they actually had – 'trained' this child – into what, he better didn't dare thinking of. Not really, not like one would train a dog, or a horse, or any other animal, but they had done so anyway, unconsciously with their actions against the boy, with their crimes against the boy and closing his eyes for a moment to keep himself calm, Hrothgar took a deep breath. He didn't want to frighten the boy with his temper that right now treated to take the upper hand of him, the boy was scared enough as it was already.

But honestly, to admit pain was an instinctive thing to do for a child – this boy didn't. To admit fear was an instinctive thing to do for a child too – but this too, the boy didn't. To ask questions was an instinctive thing to do for a child just as well – which this boy didn't do either. And to keep himself from asking for help if being in need surely was not an instinctive thing to do for any child – which this child here did, nor was keeping himself from looking at other people an instinctive thing to do – which this child here did, too.

In other words, those idiotic monsters that were the human beings his student had the misfortune to have as parents, actually had beaten all the instinctive things out of him while they had taught him things no child should know about – that was very much training in his opinion, and for a moment Hrothgar was at a loss, while fury swept through him in a wave so strong, he for a moment wasn't able to inhale a deep breath that would calm his anger at those damn, blasted, wretched, insufferable and abominable monsters named Novak.

"Look at me, boy." He said, his voice low, and he wondered how in the name of God he managed keeping his voice as calm as it sounded right now.

When the boy hesitantly did as he was told, Hrothgar gazed into those frightened dark eyes, pierced them with his own black ones and he gritted his teeth the moment the boy averted his eyes again.

"Look at me!" He again ordered, growled, demanding the boy to answer to his wish. "Regardless to what those bloody idiots that are your parents had taught you, I do wish you to look at me when I speak to you."

The boy obeyed and looked up at him again and he could see that the child was ready to bolt from the room.

"Walk a while with me, Hereweald." Jesus' voice got him out of his fury and with a sharp glare he looked up at the man. For a moment he was short to saying that – it was none of Jesus' business how he was handling his student, nor what he was demanding of him. But then he took a deep breath, gave one last glare towards the brat before getting off the mat he was sitting at, following the man outside the house and into the meanwhile sunlit yard, ignoring his creaking joints and his stiff muscles after having sat on the floor for more than half an hour – damn, he was getting too old for that kind of shit, really.

Following the man he left the house, went through the yard and towards the entrance. Jesus then led him over to the small path that went southwards, most likely towards the Dead Sea – but well, at least it wasn't the path that went towards the market place – and to the market-wallet where they've sat the day before.

He didn't really know what Jesus wanted of him now. The brat needed to learn, after all! He needed to learn to look at people instead of lowering his eyes submissively and he would have to learn that he was worth as much as other people around him, that there was no need to hide or to – be silent. The brat needed to learn how to write, he needed to learn – or to re-learn how to speak, depending on if he had ever spoken, or how long it was since he had spoken last, and he needed to learn how to express himself at all.

The brat then needed to learn that he could move without being judged, that he could take food without having to depend on the permission of the adults around him, and he would have to learn that he was allowed to ask questions. How could he learn if he didn't ask questions! Damn! How could he learn if he – the brat needed to learn and he needed to see things so that he could deal with them. How could he deal with his problems if he hid them away!

"That is correct, Hereweald." Jesus beside him said at one point, getting him out of his thoughts and with a frown he looked at the man. "Come, and sit a while with me." Jesus then added, gesturing his hand towards – a wallet. How could it have been otherwise? Of course it would be just another wallet.

Taking a deep breath he sat at the edge of the bloody thing.

He was sure that soon, he would know of any well near Jerusalem!

"Elliot Novak was the child of an unhappy man who thought his son had to be as good and as strong as was he himself and as were all the young men he is teaching at one of the best combatant sport schools of the America of your time." Jesus then said and he scowled, knowing very well what the man meant. "And if the child didn't fit his expectations, then he tried to toughen the boy up with beating him, and by screaming at him, by telling him how worthless he was. As if that would help – wasn't that your thoughts, days ago? As if that would help – and you were correct."

"It is one thing if you invade my thoughts here, and now." He growled at the man, even though he knew very well that it was in vain. "But it is an entirely different thing if you do the same with thoughts that have passed – I really ask you to stop that!"

"I cannot stop knowing what I know, Hereweald." Jesus said and he sighed with annoyance. Of course that bloody guy couldn't. "But that is not the point – the point is, that Elliot would have needed a gentle hand and a wise mind to lead him instead of cruel words and an unbending heart filled with discontent. Jamie is Elliot's brother. Do you not think, that he needs the same?"

"Then I am the wrong person for that idiot brat." He growled. "Because I am …"

"Neither of what you are accusing yourself of." Jesus said and he scowled. "You do have a wise mind, wouldn't you agree with that?"

"Of course I have or I would be neither a teacher nor a head of a house at a boarding school such as Hathaway." He huffed.

"You have no unbending heart, or you would be unable handling children as difficult as most of your students are." Jesus then said and he took a deep breath. "You are able to see that Jeremy Haynes is no criminal but hungry only, fearing that he wouldn't get enough food as he isn't always provided with that. You are able to see that Marvin O'Dough is no criminal either but has just learned to depend on himself instead of you, his head of house. You are able to let him be instead of insisting on your ways. And you were able to see that Elliot needed understanding, someone who'd lead him and someone who'd answer his needs. All that, is not proof of an unbending heart, Hereweald Hrothgar. Your words are – harsh, because you are a harsh man, but they are not cruel, nor are you – and your actions towards Jamie show that you are able feeling kindness – what is just a synonym for gentleness. And now tell me again, Professor, that you are the wrong person for this child. He does not need coddling, I do agree to that, but he does not need cruel words either. He does not need a soft hand, but he does need a strong hand that is able to lead him – with wisdom and with patience. And you have all of that."

"I am not a patient man!" He huffed, glaring at Jesus.

"How many – detentions – did it take you and Brandon, until he had learned the basic rules and terms when it comes to chemistry?" Jesus asked and he scowled – because it had been countless detentions. Again the bloody man had taken the upper hand of any kind of discussion, never mind what!

"It has been too many hours of having the bloody brat sitting in my office while trying to teach him the simplest things!" He growled. "Two hours each week, and for nearly two years I've had the brat in detention – wasted time which I could have used better for spending time with my own students instead of a student of Frogman's house. Frogman's, mind you!"

"Wasted Time?" Jesus asked and he took a deep breath, because he knew very well what would come next. "Was it not Brandon who had passed his year exam with the best score last term? And was it not you, who felt like swelling with pride at the good marks the boy had gotten, even in your subject?"

"Surely I have not felt like swelling with pride as I would never feel such a foolish thing!" He growled darkly, angrily. How dare that man accusing him of such! "Feeling pride at your students is reserved for fools and I am not one while getting good marks is what is expected of the students and nothing to fuss about. They get good marks, or they will leave the academy. You wouldn't feel proud of a newborn soiling its nappies either. It's a normal thing to do for a newborn, after all."

"Of course." Came Jesus' answer, but the way he sounded, he knew very well that it had been a rather sarcastic 'of course'. "It is proof of your patience anyway, amongst other things."

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

He still wasn't really sure if that man was the best company for the boy, now less than before.

How could he, a teacher, say such about his students, about any child? That man was a horrifying devil, not the child! At least the devil was acting through Hereweald Hrothgar, he was sure!

Watching the boy who had come together with the man, he could see the changes in the pale face. Jamie had always been very shy, frightened even, and even though he had meanwhile learned that not the teacher had mishandled his student, but that his parents had done so – something he couldn't really fathom somehow – he still didn't trust him, and surely not with the child.

Alright, the night before, when the boy had stopped breathing because of whatever thing the fig had caused, Hrothgar had really been very worried, had actually been the very first arriving at the child's side, and alright, he'd been sitting beside the boy on the floor until late into the night too, until Jesus had sent him to sleep himself, but surely that didn't change the fact that the man itself was a bad man. What was the saying, after all? Even a blind hen finds a grain of corn once in a while.

Sure – Jesus would say differently and normally he would agree with the man, because Jesus was always correct. He was Jesus, after all, wasn't he? But this time, he just couldn't help listening to his gut feeling and his gut feeling told him that Hereweald Hrothgar would cause a lot of trouble until his time here was over, and it would be bad trouble, he knew, trouble that would cause death, or worse even!

Shaking his head he watched the boy slumping in his posture, watched him lowering his eyes after he had looked at the man with startling large eyes, eyes as big as his palms surely. That child too was very strange. He'd often seen young children making big eyes at their mothers if they wanted something. After all, a child needed to learn that he didn't get everything as it lay in the nature of any child to touch things and to wish having things, they needed to learn and they needed education – and then the big eyes stopped. But never before had he seen a child that could make such big eyes as this one, and never before had he seen any child that would make big eyes at – at a simple handful of raisins someone gave him.

He'd been together with James and Jamie yesterday.

Strange, how these two, even though they had two-thousand of years between them, bore similar names. Did this mean that Jamie would be the future name for James? Casting a quick glance at James, he noticed that James, too, watched the boy. Earlier, when the man had accused this child's brother of being a horrifying devil, James had nearly gotten off his place to give Hrothgar a piece of his mind. He hadn't though, and he was sure that he hadn't, because he knew that Jesus wouldn't like it.

However, James had taken Jamie to the stand with the raisins and the figs and other fruit, and while buying one thing or another, the owner of the stand had taken a handful of raisins and had offered them to the boy.

But Jamie had not taken them.

Any child would happily have taken the raisins, would have sat on the floor near the stand while their parents or caretakers bought things, and eat them happily, one by one putting the raisins into their little mouths until they were gone, what wouldn't take long normally – but not so this one.

Jamie had looked up at James, had then turned to look at where Hrothgar was standing together with Jesus by the stand with the herbs and spicery, and then he had turned again to look up at James once more. James had then told the boy that he could take the raisins, that it was alright, and only then had Jamie taken them – even though he had been really careful and he wasn't really sure if he'd been scared of the marketer or if he'd been careful to not letting a raisin fall to the ground.

However, he'd then held the raisins in his little fist, not eating them, but carrying them with him, enclosed in this tight little fist – until James had bent down to him, telling him that this way he would only smash the raisins, that he was meant to eat them instead of making mush, that he would hurt the marketer if he didn't eat them as he had gotten them as – a present. He'd smiled at James' wording, but he'd laughed at the boy's large and startled eyes he'd looked at the marketer with.

After that Jamie had done what any child would do – he'd taken one of the raisins and slowly he'd put it in his mouth, closing his eyes while chewing, and only a few minutes later the boy had been relaxed, slowly – very slowly, he'd never before seen any child eating a handful of raisins as slowly as this one had done – eating raisin for raisin while following James over the marketplace – until they had reached the stand with the spicery and the herbs – and therefore Hereweald Hrothgar.

The boy's teacher hadn't been happy about Jamie eating those raisins.

Alright, in retrospect he could say that surely the man had no problems with his student eating the raisins to begin with. He'd just thought that the boy had stolen them and he had acted accordingly, and maybe he would have acted the same way had his charge been found stealing. But anyway, that didn't change the fact that the man was just – a bad man.

"I am anything than kind or gentle, but I am not a completely heartless bastard either." Hrothgar had said, yesterday, but he was sure that he had been wrong, because in his opinion he was heartless! And very much so. Somehow the teacher seemed to be happy only if he could hurt others. And he'd said so himself, just today, just a few moments earlier: "That bloody boy has wormed his way into my not existing heart somehow, that horrifying devil!" He'd said so himself, that he had no heart.

And who was Elliot anyway?

Watching James leaning back against the wall and pulling the boy close until he rested with his shoulder against his side, he leaned back himself while John cleared the table and Matthew and Judas started washing the dishes, all of them casting one or another angry glance at the door of the house through which Jesus had led Hereweald.

Of course he knew that Jesus had led Hereweald out of the house so that he could calm down before the situation would get out of hands. Alright, not really. There hadn't been a situation that could get out of hands. But that didn't change the fact that Hereweald had hurt the boy, and Jesus had wanted to set a stopper to that before Hrothgar could do more harm than what he had done already.

He didn't like that man, really – where he had again reached the point where he couldn't fulfil Jesus' expectations.

Jesus clearly said, that they had to love their brothers, and Hereweald was a brother, wasn't he? Jesus had even said that the man would become one of the disciples, hadn't he? He should love him, the way Jesus loved him, but how? Hereweald Hrothgar didn't make it easy for the people around him to love him, after all! That man did everything in his power to make himself unloved, after all.

Taking a deep breath he wondered what kind of disciple Hrothgar would make.

And taking another deep breath he wondered why Jesus was so sure about these two. Of course, he knew that Jesus' Father, that God himself had sent the two – but why?

Because the people in their time would need a disciple too? What would these times be like? What was this time, the two came from, like? Their clothes did look very strange, after all and they seemed unfamiliar with everything else, with their living environment, with their food, with simply everything.

Hrothgar had wrinkled his nose at the donkey that lived in the neighbouring house together with the family from the potter. So, where did they keep their animal, two-thousand years later? Did they even have animals in two thousand years? Maybe they would drive with vehicles which weren't pulled by donkeys or oxen anymore.

And why would their feet freeze while they were laughing anyway? How could things change like that within two-thousand years? Two-thousand of years wasn't that much of a time, was it? That was just – nonsense. He was laughing a lot, together with John and James, but his feet weren't freezing when he laughed. That man hadn't meant it seriously, had he? But why otherwise would they wear sacks on their feet then, if not for keeping them warm? Would it be cold in two thousand of years? Or maybe it was cold where they came from?

"Why don't you take a nap, little one?" James asked, getting him out of his thoughts and he looked over at the man and the child, the boy nearly having fallen asleep on James and he blinked, only now realizing that the boy had sat there for all forenoon, reading in the book that teacher of his had given to him.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

To be continued

Next time in … and sit a while with me …

Well, just that! – Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, he's not too happy about it. How will the dark and tough man deal with his suddenly present emotions?

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 …