1862

The first things James noticed as he regained consciousness was that his head was pounding and that the air smelled delicious here, wherever here was. After a moment he could hear a female humming, a nice and soothing sound, and the air felt colder after a moment. It was winter though, at least he remembered it being winter, so he wasn't too concerned about that.

"Nice to see you awake. Someone whacked you right good on the noggen." The woman's voice, despite using such uncaring words, had a southern lilt to it that James was sure should send his hackles rising but made him feel at ease. Her voice was sweet and low, yet it had some quality that he couldn't quite name . . . dangerous or lethal came to mind. Like a pretty flower that was actually poisonous, but you didn't know until after you plucked it and were already halfway to having your heart stopped. "I hope you feel up to eating, I made soup for lunch today. I have something else if the soup doesn't appeal to you."

"Soup's . . . soup sounds good." James opened his eyes, nearly blinded by the light coming in through the windows. He blinked rapidly, getting accustomed to the light. He saw that he was in a kitchen, on a table slightly wider than him, and positioned far from where a woman (presumably the one that had talking to him) was dishing out a bowl of something that smelled amazing.

He sat up gently, his head pounding some more before settling down. He checked all of his extremities, flexing and trying to feel if anything was wrong. He felt that this was unneeded, something in the back of his mind telling him that even if something was hacked off, except his head, it would be easily reattached or grow back. It was an odd feeling, one he didn't like too much. James got off the table, swaying when he was on solid ground, and sat down in nearby chair.

"Here, it's just a soup I feed to people with an upset stomach, chicken and pea soup." James felt pulled in by that voice, it resonated with something in him, it made him want to nuzzle her neck and have his scent wrapped around her so others would leave her alone. This floored him, metaphorically, and he sat there in stunned silence. What in the fucking hell was that? "Oh, I forgot the spoon! Just a sec', Mister . . . "

"I'm James Howlett." That sounded like his name at least, he remembered a woman calling him James when he was sick in bed. His mother?

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Howlett." The large smile on her face pulled him in just as much, if not more than, her voice. What was it about this woman that made a part of him (wild, feral, animal, dangerous, protective, bloodthirsty) want to stay and make her smell like him? "I'm Morticia Wolfden, the owner of the farm you are currently on."

That didn't exactly tell him where he was, but it better than just thinking of this place as here.

"Thank you for the meal, Ma'am." Thank God his mouth wasn't saying anything stupid.

"You're very welcome, Mister Howlett." She turned away from him and went back to the wood stove, hefting a heavy looking pot like it was nothing. "I've got to go give this to the workers, I'll be right back, sugar."

"Okay." And with that she was outside. James looked out the huge window, it took up at least half of the one wall, to see a long table with at least ten blacks sitting at it. Soon Morticia came into view with the big pot of soup. She put it on the table, seeming survey the group, before frowning. He saw her lips move, and could faintly hear her voice.

"Where's Alma and Lavi?"

"Miss Mora, they be finishin' goin' through the pig pens. They say they want ta make sure all the pigs still in the pen af'er they mucked i' out." said one of the older ones.

"Hmm. Ya'll go ahead and eat. I'm going to make sure those boys ain't into trouble again." There was amusement in Morticia's voice. "Lord knows that the last time they were late for a meal I had to kill a bear chasing 'em."

The group laughed as one filled a bowl and passed it down. Where had the bowls come from? They were almost the same color as the table, looked to be made of mud clay, so perhaps that's why he hadn't seen them before then.

Shaking it away, such odd thoughts, James looked down at the bowl in front of him. It was also made of mud clay, a strange contrast to the green soup. He picked up the spoon, sterling silver.

The woman owned at least twelve slaves and could afford sterling silver cutlery, but cooked her own food and used mud clay for the things she ate out of. The thought of owning slaves, people, didn't sit right with James. It was apparent that she cared for them, cooking for them, worrying about them, and killing bears to save them, but he felt that owning a person, no matter the skin color, was wrong.

He pushed these thoughts away. It wasn't his problem, and he couldn't really object since it seemed she took care of them.

James looked back at the soup, not steaming anymore, and took a tentative bite. He, after burning his tongue, admitted that it settled his stomach and tasted quite good. He was halfway through with it when Morticia came back with two teenagers that were, surprisingly, not black.

This was a really weird place.

How did he get here? She did say that he got hit in the head. Noggen meant head, right? Well . . . how about trying to list things he knew.

His name was James Logan Howlett. He grew up some place cold. Canada. He was from Canada? Wow, okay. Um, he had someone he could always count on, who would always find him, no matter what. Hmm. What else did he know about himself? Did he have parents? Did he have siblings? Did he ever have pets? Was born born with a silver spoon or not?

His head hurt. He was just going to focus on this soup.

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Next Chapter: How Morticia found James/Logan.