Caveat lector - reader be aware

First: English is NOT my native language and I don't live in a English speaking country, so forgive me all my grammatical errors etc. If you have something to say about the language, please email ( I would really appreciate all suggestions you might have), but don't rant about it in the reviews, OK?

Second: This is an alternative universe. Don't expect to know how things work or how they should work. "These are my rules. I made them up." (George Carlin) So don't bother to post reviews about that either. I already KNOW it's not canon, even if it is based on the movieverse. But if you do have something to say about the pot per se, feel free to do so. I would even appreciate it.

Third: As this is an AU story, don't expect to know Wolverine/Logan. My rules and all, remember?

Fourth: I sincerely hope you enjoy it, as I have something to say about being a mutant and about Wolverine.

Fifth: This is my first fan fic and my first story in English.

Sixth: I know all about Mary-Sues, so no need to rant about that either ;)

Rating:M This is a violent reality. There will be blood, tears and swearing; death and despair before there is hope.

Disclaimer: All the characters known from Marvel Universe and the idea of the Marvel Universe belong to Marvel, we all know that. All the rest is mine or my interpretation. No money was made and I never expected it (But hey, it doesn't give you any right to use MY characters/ideas, bub. ;)

Enjoy!


1. The Choice

I found him lying prone on the forest floor half covered in mud, leaves and brown dried blood. His hands were bent under his chest, as if he had been holding something when he fell. But there was nothing there now.

I sat down on my haunches a few steps away waiting for the right time to approach him. The earth beneath me was moist from recent rains and I could feel the dormant life in it beginning to awake from Winter's Sleep. I let my consciousness merge into the surrounding forest and I felt the scent of his body in my nose. The wound on his side was almost healed now, but the damp smell of fresh blood was still on him. I drifted past it and felt the wound closing. It shouldn't be long now.

His body stirred slightly. I moved closer and laid my hand on his upper arm before his was fully awake so that my presence would not come as a surprise to him. I felt his muscles move and then a deep breath. I moved back to where I had been and squatted down again.

He pushed himself up a bit, then rested on his elbows looking at his knuckles and chest. He shook his head and pushed himself onto his right side while being cautious of his now only bruised left flank. He was still slightly disoriented, but his eyes were fixed on me and I saw him thinking hard, assembling his mind back into a coherent whole. I gave him all the time he needed and remained still with my arms on my knees, looking at him passively. He pulled his legs under him after awhile and sat up leaning heavily on his right hand. He bent his head a bit and took two or three shallow breaths. The wound was obviously still bothering him, but his eyes never left me.

"So," he said with a low, hoarse voice, "How long have I been out cold for?"

"Hard to say exactly. Maybe a day. Or a bit more."

He remained silent for a while measuring me with his eyes. I gave him a small reassuring smile, but otherwise held my passive stance.

"And you just happened to stumble upon me while, what - pickin' berries?"

"No, you're right," I replied with a smile, "My friends found you and sent me word."

"Friends?"

"Aye. I reckon they were worried about you. And a bit startled too, I guess."

"And where are your friends now?" he said with a sarcastic smirk, "They just left you here all alone with a dyin' man and went home?"

I had to smile again, though not at him. "I suppose so. My friends are easily distracted and have more important things on their minds right now."

"So, it's just you now." A statement, not a question.

"Aye, just me," I said remaining motionless on my heels. I took the canteen from my belt, opened it and drank a mouthful. "You must be thirsty," I said and leaned forward placing the canteen on the ground near him. He waited until I had moved back before picking it up. He drank with small slow sips holding pauses between swallows. He screwed the cap back on when he was done and held the canteen out toward me.

"Thanks. I needed that."

I knew well what to expect when I reached for the canteen, but his speed was still astonishing. He dropped the canteen when I was just about to take it, grabbed my throat and drew me down onto my knees.

"Well," he sneered at me, "I ain't dead yet." He twisted my head sideways with his steel hard grip and felt his way through my belt and pockets with his left hand. He pulled my knife out and threw it far into the undergrowth. I kept my hands slightly raised away from my sides, palms open toward him.

"There really is no need for this."

"I'll be the judge of that," he growled and twisted my head even further. "I could just wring your fuckin' neck, you know." There was no doubt about the malicious tone, but I more felt than heard a hint of underlying hesitation.

"I know," I whispered through my teeth. His thumb was pressing hard against my artery just below the jawbone and I felt the pulse of my own circulation.

Suddenly the malevolence in him subsided. He tipped his head curiously and sniffed the air. He turned my head to stare straight into my eyes with a hard frown.

"But I might have other ideas to try out before that," he said with a sinister smirk, but the emotion was not there to back up the words. I met his eye and let my hands rest on my thighs. The evening sun was warm on my back, but the shadows had already grown cold.

"It's going to be a cold night," I said, not wanting to spend a cold spring night outdoors. He wrinkled his brow in sudden puzzlement and, for a fleeting moment, I was not so sure about this after all. But then he laughed wholeheartedly.

"You really are somethin' else." His expression turned grave. "I'm gonna let you breath for a while longer, bub." He tightened his grip around my throat. "But don't get any ideas. Your sad life is mine to take." He held on for a while longer before letting me go. He sat back and for the first time looked away from me. He flexed his fists, rubbed his knuckles and let his hand drop to his lap.

I let my eyes rest on his broad shoulders for a little while, then inhaled deeply and drifted past the clothing. I touched briefly the dry, leathery skin before I delved deeper into him.

I found traces of constant hunger in his muscles. Signs of repeated injuries, still healing. Strain, dehydration, malnutrition. His body had opted to scavenge itself when there had not been enough food and water to sustain the regeneration. It could be your gift, your cure that kills you, I thought while moving through the veins and tendons. Nature plays it cruelest jokes on us.

Then there was something else. Something deep inside him. Something that was not supposed to be there, but that nevertheless was part of him. Something hard. Cold. An electric taste of - steel?

I fled from him.

I fled too fast. The muscles on my shoulders convulsed violently forcing me to gasp sharply. I felt like choking, fought to breath again as an other spasm shook my sides. I retched and pushed my hands against the ground in need to feel something sound and solid. The earth's warm firmness took a hold of my hands and seeped upward through my arms. The spinning stopped and I opened my eyes. He was looking at me with a touch of curiosity in his eyes.

"Feelin' a bit giddy, are we?"

"Ah'll be. Fine. In a while." My sides hurt and I wondered whether I had fractured a rib with my stupidity. Christ, it hurt to breath out, so I knew I must have. I decided not to take a closer look. An inward delve would cut me off from the world for the duration and it wouldn't make much of a difference anyway. Instead I let the muscles in the small of my back do the breathing. It did lessen the pain a little as the pressure against the fractured rib decreased. I managed to sit upright again.

He in turn picked up the canteen and offered it to me. "You must be thirsty," he aped me mockingly. I laughed and took the canteen. He smiled sardonically while I drank.

"We need more water," I said as I clasped the canteen back to my belt. "There's only a quarter of a canteen left." He frowned thoughtfully looking past me with narrow eyes.

"Alright," he said focusing at me, "What the hell, lets get some water." He smiled and prepared to push himself up.

"Do you mind if I get my back knife first?" I said. It was a good knife, well crafted and it fit my hand perfectly. No harm in asking, I thought.

"Yeah, why not." He stood up and started to brush the muck off from his clothes. His wound appeared to be completely healed now. I got up and walked to the direction he had thrown the knife to. I found it gleaming amongst the green but leafless blueberry stalks and picked it up. I heard his steps behind me, but he snatched my hand by the wrist before I had the chance to say anything.

"I still own your life, don't you forget it," he hissed into my ear while holding my neck with his left hand. He pushed me forward forcing me to stoop.

"I know."

"Good, 'cause your gonna take me home with you - bub." I watched the back of the hand that was gripping my wrist and the taste of steel filled my mouth again. There was something in those hands, moving, itching to penetrate the skin. I twitched, fighting off the beginning of an involuntary delve. He pulled me up into close contact with him.

"In case you get any ideas about me and that knife." He changed his hold to take my fist and the knife in it. "I let you keep the blade, 'cause there's nothing you can do with it." He moved my hand to his thigh and drove the blade all the way into the muscle. He pulled the knife out and blood poured from the wound. "This," he said and dipped his thumb into the blood, "is all your little knife can do." He smeared the blood onto my cheek with a slow stroke. "Just remember," he breathed into my ear, "it could just as easily be your blood, on my face."

I was beginning to doubt my dream.


In this dream I'm walking in a forest of tall aspens, their silver grey trunks rising far above me like living rows of balustrades. A tender summer breeze moves through the forest and the sound of quivering aspen leaves follows in its wake. The light is soft and warm, and I am filled with serenity.

I come to the edge of the forest and I stop, unable to walk any further. Beyond the trees a sun-burnt expanse of fields shimmers in the haze of a hard august sun so bright, that it obscures the view. I screw up my eyes in the sun as a vague form appears in the distance. I wait and I see that it is a dark man with broad shoulders walking toward me. The sun's smouldering warmth burns my face, but the forest behind me is cool and soothing and I hold my ground.

Burning heat ripples the figure and, as I blink, the man disappears and in his place I see a huge war hound with long black hackles. It jogs effortlessly until it reaches the fringe of the forest where it sits down, remaining in the sun, but looking intensely at me. Its mouth is open, the long tongue hangs out and I notice streaks of blood in its ruffled coat. It licks its lips, swallows and turns its head to look back into the blaze, but then turns back to me, its auburn eyes burning.

I turn my back to the dog and the fields and start walking back into the heart of the forest. I stop when I feel a cold wet muzzle in my hand and I turn around. The dark man is standing right behind me with auburn eyes gleaming behind a long ruffled hair. I don't see his face, but then again, I never do. And the war hound is there too, inside him, and I can't tell whether it is the man that I am seeing or the dog. But they both share the same eyes.

I wake up.

I lay awake in my bed watching through the window how bands of colored lights weave their way across the winter night. The dancing reds and greens keep me focused as I memorize my dream.

The auburn eyes stay with me through that winter and when the crow taps at my window one morning, I once again feel the muzzle in my hand.


It took us good thirteen hours to cover the distance between the grove where I had found him, and my home. He followed my lead through the rugged landscape, but insisted on deciding the pace himself. The pace and the harshness of land took their toll on him, though he didn't let it show. The only sign was our slowing gait.

He did allow one stop, a short rest long over due, in the wee hours of the night. I sat down and leaned my back against an old, twisted pine-tree. It was a crisp, starlit night, and I had ended up not minding having to spend it outdoors. The stars were so bright, that I felt being pulled to them, to the sky, to the space beyond. I closed my eyes and merged with the tree. I didn't want to go.

The darkness was beautifully silent. The pine swayed with the soft wind, rustling, and I moved with it. Night's little creatures moved unseen amidst the undergrowth and I followed their small, warm bodies on their nightly journeys.

I found a larger creature moving quietly towards us in the darkness. I opened my eyes to find him already on his feet staring intensely into the woods. I got up and walked to him.

A lonesome wolf slipped out from the shadows. It halted and looked at us warily, keeping its head low and moving from side to side. It took few tentative steps towards us and stopped again to sniff the air.

The man next to me crouched slightly, ready to fight the wolf if need be. I laid my hand gently on his forearm. He shied at my touch, but I didn't let him break the contact.

"No," I whispered, "hold still. Wait." He eyed the wolf for a while longer, but then relaxed and straightened up. The wolf began to circle us coming slowly closer.

"It's just curious," I said watching the approaching animal. "It smells the death in you." His arm winced under my hand and he glanced sharply at me. I payed no attention.

Suddenly the wolf jogged straight at and past us, sniffing his leg in passing. It continued toward the trees, but paused briefly to give us an indifferent look over its shoulder before disappearing into the dark.

I stayed there looking at the tree line and chuckled. "How appropriate," I thought out loud. He looked at me. "A wolf at the hour of the wolf. How about that." A quick smile flashed across his face.

We set forth once again.


I stepped first to the porch and walked to unlock the door. He kept his fist between my shoulder blades through all that and pushed me forward when I opened the front door.

"Stop. Stay." I did as he told and stood there in the middle of my living room. He walked to the table and shoved a chair next to me. "Sit." I did.

He sniffed the air and looked around. "Give me the keys to your gun locker." I pulled the key ring from my jacket pocket and tossed it to him. He snatched it from midair and pushed the keys in to his jeans' pocket. "The spare keys?"

"In that tin box on the third shelf." He put those in his pocket as well. He turned around and walked across the dimly lit room to me. The shutters were still closed. He came to stand in front of me, arms crossed, looking thoughtfully down at me.

"I'm gonna eat somethin' and then I'm off," he said. He rubbed his eye with the back of his hand and sighed with arms akimbo. "Haven't decided what I'm gonna do with you though."

He turned to leave, halted putting his head to one side as if to say something more, hesitated and took off to the kitchen. Half way across the room his knees gave way under him and he fell heavily to the floor. He started to get up, but his legs just didn't seem to have the strength for it. He kept on trying, movements turning frantic, but then he slumped back to the floor and gave up.

"Shit."

I stood up and walked around him. I sat down on my haunches in front of him and lifted my hand to hold his shoulder, but he furiously shoved my hand away, a low growl rising from his throat. His muscles started to shiver.

"What the hell's goin' on?" he asked no-one in particular. I closed my eyes and delved in him briefly.

"You're dying." His eyes shot up at me in disbelief. "Your nervous system is collapsing."

"The hell I am."

"Well, not right now you're not, but eventually yes." He looked down.

"No fuckin' way," he said shaking his head.

"Yes."

"Shut the fuck up!" He aimed a punch at my jaw, but the stroke went wide landing to my left shoulder. "I can't die!"

"Aye you can and you will." He grabbed me by the arm and tried desperately to stare me down.

"You don't fuckin' get it. I'm not able to die," he growled. I said nothing. He let my arm go and pulled back.

"Your serious," he said half asking, half reassuring himself. He fell silent and stared at the floor boards. "I don't get it."

I changed into a squat and rested my chin on my shoulder.

"I've tried every damn way to kill myself and every time I've woken up all healed. And yesterday I thought that's it, I can't die, and now you," he looked accusingly at me. "Now you're tellin' me that hell yeah, actually I am dying." His eyes narrowed and he started to shake all over in rage. I stood up to get out of his way.

"Looks to me like you finally got what you wanted," I said. He winced at that. "It will take time, a long time, before you actually die, before your healing ability does enough damage while trying to repair your body. But with all the injuries you have inflicted on yourself and the lack of food and dehydration combined, your body will eat itself out - kind of." He seemed to be considering that. The shaking died out and he looked tired. I sat down again.

"How long will it take?" he said after a long silence.

"I would bet my money on a month." He turned his head away. "But only if you stop eating and drink next to nothing." I sighed. "It won't be nice." He turned his head to look at me.

"Well, you gotta take what's been given," he said smiling mordantly. I saw the old hound in his auburn eyes and I knew what my dream was all about. I looked away.

"There is another way," I said softly. He held his breath. "There is another way to kill you."

I got up not giving him a chance to say anything, went to the kitchen and picked up the water-filled bucket and the enamel scoop from the counter. I walked back to the murky living room and laid the bucket on the floor.

"But it's something you can't do yourself," I told to him, voice level. "You have to trust me to do it for you." He was a little taken aback by that.

"Alright," he said after a while, "What is it?"

I went to the back of the room and pushed a iron-laced travel trunk aside. I kneeled down to the floor, put my finger through a knothole in a floorboard and lifted it up. I reached under the floor with my hand and my fingers found the edge of an old wooden box. I was an other box in that blackness, similar to this one, but pushed all the way back, almost out of reach. I thought about the war hound and stuck to my plan. I pulled the box closer at hand out.

I sat down on my knees and placed the long box between us on the floor. The mahogany colored lacquer shined softly as a beam of light stole through the shutters. I opened the box and took out an elongated object bound in silk, laid that carefully next to the box, closed the box and moved it to my side. I gently unbound the silk to reveal a sword in a black lacquer scabbard. I stood up and drew the blade. Light reflected from the steel and danced on the walls. His eyes were fixed on the swords edge.

"This is Shiokaze," I said lovingly. It had been such a long time since I last felt the grained ray skin on my palm. I lowered the blade and his eyes followed, but he then turned to look at me.

"You're thinkin' about beheadin' me with that," he said.

"Aye." I looked at my sword.

"I don't think that anythin' can cut through my bones," he said eyes back at the sword. "You'd have to cut right between my vertebrae."

"That is not a problem."

"You have done this before?" he said half knowing the answer.

"Yes." I remembered an other forest, an other continent and an other man kneeling before me.

"You sure you can make the cut?"

"Positive." He held his breath again and exhaled deeply as he came to a decision.

"Alright. Do it."

I closed my eyes.

"I need you to kneel before me, eyes front. Don't bend your head all the way, just a little." I heard him move and when I opened my eyes he was ready, on his knees, in perfect position. I pushed the hair away from his neck and followed his spine with my fingers to find the right spot. I halted when I found it and ran my finger across the joint a few times to memorize the angle.

I straightened my back, went around to the bucket and took a scoop-full of water. I turned to face him. He hadn't moved, still looking down, still looking resolved. I took the position on his left side.

"You are certain about this?" I said.

"Yeah." I barely heard him answer.

I slowly poured the water on the blade, watched in silence as it ran down the steel and onto the floor, cleansing off all evil from the sword and the act. I laid the scoop down and readied myself, standing legs apart next to him.

His breath was shallow, maybe hesitant.

"I'm sorry," I said mostly to myself and I don't think he heard me anyway. I raised the sword, wrapped my fingers firmly around the hilt and I cut down in one fluent stroke, exhaling to the motion, aiming for that certain spot on his neck.

"No," he whispered in desperation just as the blade was about to cut into him and I didn't have the time to break the move. But Shiokaze has a mind of its own.

The sword froze in mid stroke cutting only through his skin, and I was paralyzed as I saw the blood running down his neck. He didn't move either, not for a moment, but then he fell forward breaking the fall at the last minute with his hands. He stayed there on all fours, shaking.

I took more water from the bucket, washed the blood from Shiokaze and laid it on the floor. I turned to the door. I had to get out.


He heard her close the door and walk briskly across the porch to sit down on the steps. Her smell lingered in the room along with the scent of his own hot blood that ran down his spine and around his neck, unseen under the shirt.

He slowly lowered himself to the floor to lie flat there, hands besides the shoulders, right cheek against the smooth boards. He felt how the blood on his back changed direction and began to trickle over his sides. He did wonder, briefly, why he was still bleeding.

The sword lay close to him and he watched its gleaming blade in the darkness. He thought how beautiful the weapon was, following the damask waves in the steel. He reached to touch it gently with his fingertips and it felt so smooth, so soothing. He knew that he shouldn't be touching the steel with his bare fingers. Knew that the oil from his hand could ruin the steel, but he didn't care.

He remained there, fingers resting on the cool steel.