They started with spears—the type that had been around as long as he had—they were the one weapon he refused to touch. He had not held a spear in his hand since Golgotha, and today he used a metal pole to defend himself against one.
The Old Guard soon grew bored and exchanged their weapons for claymores. Kahtar managed a brief moment of fleeting pleasure by scoring a small mark across his Old Guard’s cheek with the sword. The scratch faded almost instantly, and the man laid him down with the flat of his blade right across Kahtar’s back, smacking him to the ground as he had threatened to do to the plebes earlier. Moving on they graduated to gladiator scissors, which they strapped to one hand. The weapon had a razor sharp blade attached and they both held a katara dagger clenched in their other hand as they circled. Kahtar had been named after that dagger in this repeat. He felt it was his duty to win the round with his namesake. He felt an affinity to the name Kahtar. He’d been named after many weapons, but Kahtar was a new name, and new was always good in his book. He wondered if anyone had any idea how many different variations the name John had evolved into over the centuries.
When the Old Guard grew bored of besting him, the man simply flickered away in a flash of light, letting his gladiator scissors and katara dagger drop to the dirt floor. Kahtar put the weapons away, hanging them on the posts and crossbeams where hundreds of other weapons waited for tomorrow. Limping a bit as he made his way over the dark field to the pond, he wiped blood that trickled into an eye. The cut was deep and eventually he gave up, letting it run freely. Plebes had run his bath in the shed that served as his bathroom. All of Cultuelle Khristos had indoor plumbing except Kahtar. After all his time on earth, something about putting a toilet inside a house still seemed wrong to him.
In the dark of the shed, his plebes managed to heal the wound above his eye. Three of the boys pressed fingers to his forehead and whispered their healing prayers. Kahtar felt the sting of the wound as it closed. The lads were honorable, if inept in most other areas. Honor and faith were necessary for healing.
Preparing for the day, he wondered if Beth White had any aptitude for healing, and if she’d ever thought to try. Few women could heal well. They had a far greater gifting than knitting bones and flesh. Standing in the black of the shed over a bowl of water, and lathering soap on his face, he used a straight blade to shave. It wasn’t necessary to see to shave that face, it wasn’t necessary to even scan. He knew that face—every dimple, divot and curve. For thousands of years, in every repeat, he grew into a man wearing that exact same face and he shaved it.
THE FIRST LIGHT of daybreak painted the sky pink, and the dark shape of Wolves raced across the field in front of him, barking an enthusiastic greeting. Christian Moore waited for him, trying to shoo Wolves away with a folder and failing. The balding man in the grey suit retreated up the porch steps to escape the dog’s dirty greeting. Kahtar whistled one sharp bark and Wolves slunk off into the woods with his tail between his legs.
“Thanks, Kahtar, I’m working at the bank today and that dog stinks. I think he rolled in something.”
“Good news or bad?” Cutting straight to business Kahtar sat on the porch steps, accepting a mug of tea from one of his plebes and offering it first to his kinsman.
“Ah, no thanks, I ate breakfast with my wife who was kind enough to cook this morning. She tends to take pity on me the mornings I need to be in town.” Taking a seat on the stairs below Kahtar, right in a wet spot, Christian opened his folder.
“It’s bad news. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve put plenty of obstacles in her path. Financially and legally I’ve squirreled up everything with Beth White’s name on it, from the IRS down to the music she buys online. It will
The Old Guard soon grew bored and exchanged their weapons for claymores. Kahtar managed a brief moment of fleeting pleasure by scoring a small mark across his Old Guard’s cheek with the sword. The scratch faded almost instantly, and the man laid him down with the flat of his blade right across Kahtar’s back, smacking him to the ground as he had threatened to do to the plebes earlier. Moving on they graduated to gladiator scissors, which they strapped to one hand. The weapon had a razor sharp blade attached and they both held a katara dagger clenched in their other hand as they circled. Kahtar had been named after that dagger in this repeat. He felt it was his duty to win the round with his namesake. He felt an affinity to the name Kahtar. He’d been named after many weapons, but Kahtar was a new name, and new was always good in his book. He wondered if anyone had any idea how many different variations the name John had evolved into over the centuries.
When the Old Guard grew bored of besting him, the man simply flickered away in a flash of light, letting his gladiator scissors and katara dagger drop to the dirt floor. Kahtar put the weapons away, hanging them on the posts and crossbeams where hundreds of other weapons waited for tomorrow. Limping a bit as he made his way over the dark field to the pond, he wiped blood that trickled into an eye. The cut was deep and eventually he gave up, letting it run freely. Plebes had run his bath in the shed that served as his bathroom. All of Cultuelle Khristos had indoor plumbing except Kahtar. After all his time on earth, something about putting a toilet inside a house still seemed wrong to him.
In the dark of the shed, his plebes managed to heal the wound above his eye. Three of the boys pressed fingers to his forehead and whispered their healing prayers. Kahtar felt the sting of the wound as it closed. The lads were honorable, if inept in most other areas. Honor and faith were necessary for healing.
Preparing for the day, he wondered if Beth White had any aptitude for healing, and if she’d ever thought to try. Few women could heal well. They had a far greater gifting than knitting bones and flesh. Standing in the black of the shed over a bowl of water, and lathering soap on his face, he used a straight blade to shave. It wasn’t necessary to see to shave that face, it wasn’t necessary to even scan. He knew that face—every dimple, divot and curve. For thousands of years, in every repeat, he grew into a man wearing that exact same face and he shaved it.
THE FIRST LIGHT of daybreak painted the sky pink, and the dark shape of Wolves raced across the field in front of him, barking an enthusiastic greeting. Christian Moore waited for him, trying to shoo Wolves away with a folder and failing. The balding man in the grey suit retreated up the porch steps to escape the dog’s dirty greeting. Kahtar whistled one sharp bark and Wolves slunk off into the woods with his tail between his legs.
“Thanks, Kahtar, I’m working at the bank today and that dog stinks. I think he rolled in something.”
“Good news or bad?” Cutting straight to business Kahtar sat on the porch steps, accepting a mug of tea from one of his plebes and offering it first to his kinsman.
“Ah, no thanks, I ate breakfast with my wife who was kind enough to cook this morning. She tends to take pity on me the mornings I need to be in town.” Taking a seat on the stairs below Kahtar, right in a wet spot, Christian opened his folder.
“It’s bad news. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve put plenty of obstacles in her path. Financially and legally I’ve squirreled up everything with Beth White’s name on it, from the IRS down to the music she buys online. It will
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