Claudius Blood drifted in and out of New England for as long as I could remember, and far longer than he could.
From what I have gathered over the years, Claudius was born sometime shortly before the fall of Rome. How he made it to England, and then to the colonies is a mystery no one knows the answer to. Most certainly not Claudius.
He knows his name and little else. Upon his body, he bears the scars of thousands of battles, and his eyes look upon the world with a sadness no one can fathom. I have seen him lift up a hurt child and soothe them with a smile, and I have seen him whisper into a man’s ear and convince the man to kill himself.
There is no limit to his kindness or his cruelty.
I last saw Claudius in 1952, when he returned home from the Korean War, more from boredom than anything else. He stayed a short time. Ate and worked, gathered up his clothes, and vanished into Gods’ Hollow with little more than what he carried. When I asked him why the Hollow, he responded, “I’ve a mind to do some more killing.”
Someday, Claudius will return. Or he won’t.
I’ll be here either way.
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