He sat under the old, oak tree with gnarled roots.
And stared.
People passed. Heads bowed, shoulders dropped. They did not meet his eyes. The Shalom's that came from their lips lacked strength. They were uttered in the subservient, undertones of broken, resigned slaves.
He felt compassion for them.
But they were not his concern.
Although in a sense they were. The one he was sent to was the key. If the dude got it right, he would rewrite the story of all his people.
He watched the young man cast furtive glances every other minute. His apprehension was only matched by his need to survive. The latter birthed the ingenious idea of threshing wheat in a winepress.
He did not want their masters to confiscate it. He also did not want the associated fallout.
The messenger shook his head. This was going to be a tough one.
He moved to the man, who was startled by his appearance, and said, "The Lord is with you, mighty warrior."
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