Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except some random extras; everything else is Marvel's only.

4. 1908, November

He was scared.

Mister Howlett had not once taken his eyes off him, and he knew – he knew – that the old man had somehow found the truth.

He didn't dare lift his eyes from the coach's muddy floor. He followed a small dark spider working its way past the mountains of earth scattered around, until it reached the vicinity of Mister Howlett's black shoes. Yet, even glancing at those shoes felt foolhardy and he quickly looked somewhere else.

He hated how long the journey was taking. He was tired of sitting, despite the cushioned seats, doing nothing but looking down and remembering to exhaustion all the events that had happened in the last two days. The coach had been going on for hours, it seemed, and so far he hadn't once dared looking through the window. However, he had been able to glimpse the growing number of houses. Soon, he decided, they'd be in the big city to the east. The one where Mister Howlett lived. At least he hoped they were going to that house… No, he once more decided. They were definitely going to that house. Definitely. However, unevenly tucked under that decision, was a strong paralysing fear born from the countless stories he had heard about the man sitting opposite.

What if Mister Howlett decided to take him away? To somewhere else, he meant, far, far away? Like that land where folks used to have slaves and where black people were still treated like rabid dogs.

The boy knew of the other house the old Howlett had, down in the south, in another country. He wasn't sure what the name of the country was, but its king was a George or something. Yes, the country of George, if he remembered folks right. Mister Howlett had worked there and opened up a big mine in some lakes and got very, very rich. And then he had opened many more mines everywhere and got even more rich… And it was all because he had slaves, he knew. Because folks in the village said so, sometimes; that old Howlett wanted miners and everyone else to work like slaves, and that he treated them like dogs, too. Rabid dogs.

So what if… and it was such a scary idea he didn't even want to think about it, but what if Mister Howlett decided to turn him into a slave, too? Could that happen? Could white folks be turned into slaves? No one in the village had ever said anything about the miners being white or black, that he had heard of, so he had no way of knowing.

Anger boiled inside him and burned his eyes. It was all James's fault. Cutting his face with a knife and then killing everyone and running away. And Rose, too. Why hadn't they come back for him? Why had they left him behind to take the blame for it all? Damn them all to hell! Both of them.

The boy was so focused in his own fear and anger, he actually jumped in his seat when the coach came to a halt. Mister Howlett got out and waited for him to follow. Barefoot, he followed, his head hanging so low he could barely acknowledge his surroundings. All he could realise was that Master John's Estate was much bigger than Mister Howlett's, and that the gardens sported tall trees and hedges, keeping the main building from everyone's sight as much as possible.

He followed Mister Howlett into the house. In the hall, the old man called for a housekeeper, who took his coat and hat and went in search of paper and ink. Then he entered a wide room and the boy reluctantly followed.

"Stand where you are, boy. Those carpets are not to be dirtied by your feet." Mister Howlett sat down and the housekeeper arrived with the requested goods. The man ordered the woman to do something while he wrote a note, with which she alighted out of the room as quickly as she could without running. "I shall repeat what I told you yesterday, boy, to make sure you have not forgotten one word of the exchange: you are mine to do as I please, from now on. And you will obey me in everything."

"Yes, sir."

"Look at me when you're talking to me, boy!" The boy jumped at the irritation in Mister Howlett's voice and swallowed hard. "I want to be able to see if you're lying in your eyes."

The boy stared helplessly into the old man's blue eyes. Old, those eyes might be, but not in the least weak or forgiving. He was uncomfortable and uncertain about his future, but something inside him dared to rebel and he knew he would not run away from that stare of steel.

"What're my duties gonna be?"

There. Even if it was only a whisper of stubborn voice he had managed, he had set down his foot and warned the man he was not going to be anyone's slave. Yet he almost repented his decision when Mister Howlett narrowed his eyes threateningly.

"You shall not speak unless you are asked to, is that understood, boy?" He swallowed and nodded affirmatively. "And you shall always address me as 'sir'! Now, you have gone to school, have you not? How well do you read and write, and count?"

The boy trembled. School?

"I've asked you a question. Speak up!"

"I… huh… I don't… I ain't ever gone ta no school. Sir." And at Mister Howlett's deep frown, he explained: "Pa said 'em teachers knew nuthin' worth botherin' with."

"Well, of course he said so," he snorted, disgusted. "That father of yours was nothing but a stupid murderous savage."

"He was not stupid!" The boy jumped towards the old man, who held on to his walking stick. There was a self-preservation instinct that stopped him from actually trying to attack Mister Howlett physically, but the anger inside him had found an outlet and it was blazing recklessly. "Pa was not stupid, and he was no savage, you… you dumb-ass! Pa was…"

The walking stick crashed onto the table with a deafening sound that cut the boy's rebellion short.

"You enjoy biting the hand that feeds you, huh? Well, don't you worry, because I know just how to handle dogs with a temper." The boy sensed his undoing was near by and thought frantically of a way to escape. "You're as much a savage dog as Logan ever was, that's for sure. But we'll see if I don't fix you up, boy. Duties, wasn't it? You wanted to know your duties? Well, your first one shall be to fetch me a whip from the stable house. Ask for Mister Alcott to give you the boy's cat."

"Huh?"

The man approached the boy slowly, but the slap that had him sprawling on the oak floor came as fast as lightning.

"You have been warned, boy." Following long imprinted habits, the boy curled up into a ball, his hands over his head to protect it from any incoming blow. "You shall always treat me as 'Mister Howlett, SIR'. And do not ever forget it again. Now do as you were told!"

But the boy continued curled up on the floor, much to Mister Howlett's chagrin, inviting the tip of the walking stick to poke into his back quite fiercely.

"Get up, you lazy bastard! Get up, I say; and fetch the whip at once!"

The boy scrambled to his feet and walked out the door, followed by the threatening walking stick.

"Fetch the whip and wait for me at the stable house, you hear?"

But the only thing the boy heard was his heart beating in his throat, and fear urging him to flee as fast as he could. Hanging with be preferable to be chained and whipped like the slaves he had heard about.

Unfortunately for him, Mister Howlett had expected such a reaction and had previously warned his men to keep watch for a run away boy. When the stable foreman saw the ragged kid bolt blindly past the stable house and into the back garden, he mounted a horse he had readied before-hand and rode after him. Soon he found the scared boy, running towards the back wall of the garden, and quickly cut him off.

"That's far enough, you." He called out, but the boy wasn't giving up. It was all or nothing, now, and he scrambled desperately away from the stomping horse. "Darn, ya blasted fool…"

Naturally, the horse caught up with him without effort and the man kicked him in the back, making him fall. Then, before he could piece his wits together, the man had dismounted and grabbed him by the neck.

"Ya'll soon find out it ain't good fer yer health t'upset Mister Howlett, kid. Or me. Now get movin'!" There was a bit of fight in his body yet, fuelled by fear, but it cooled down the moment the man let go of him to bring down his horse whip over his back. "Ain't I jus' tell ya ta behave? Ya gonna do as ya're told now, or do I have ta flog some sense inta that dumb brain o' yers, huh?"

The boy was down on his knees, again, his hands once more protecting his head while he whined an apology. The stable foreman eased somewhat and coaxed him into getting up and returning quietly. Giving up, he finally obeyed. His legs were shaking somewhat, at the thought of Mister Howlett and the whip, and he was still thinking of a way to escape, but hope had fled and abandoned him to his fate.

Just as he had feared, Mister Howlett was waiting at the stable house, whip in hand. He didn't seem terribly angry, but the whip, with its five leather straps dangling freely, was more terrible than the most fearful monster. The boy hung his head in shamed terror.

"He's a feisty one, sir. What would ya have me do with 'im?"

"Place him by the fence that he may hold on to it."

The boy's limbs had gone numb and his hands trembled as the man placed them on the fence board. Tears burnt his eyes when he looked up at the man who had hunted him on horseback, silently begging for mercy.

"I warned ya," he rebuked, his dark eyes trampling down the boy's plea." Now, ya just hold on ta the fence an' take yer punishment like a man, ya hear? Don't make this any worse."

"I'll do the first five myself, Alcott." He heard Mister Howlett say in his regular brisk voice; and then he heard him clear his throat. "I'll be kind to you, boy, since that insolent behaviour towards me was your first offence, so you shall take only five lashes for it. However, you have since disobeyed my orders and, to make the matter worse, tried to run away. Therefore you shall take ten additional lashes for each of those offences."

There was a terrifying silence in which the boy clung to the boards until his fingernails hurt. As helpless as he was, at the moment, his bladder was rebelling and he feared an unbearable humiliation on top of the unimaginable pain he was about to receive. Tears threatened to fall as he thought of his Pa. He wouldn't have allowed this. He would have sooner blown Mister Howlett's head away, like he'd done for Master John, than let the old man lay a finger that it may be on him.

"Now, boy… can you do that sum and tell me the exact number of lashes you will take in the next minutes?" The question barely sank within his spirit and he gasped, outstretched arms trembling as he waited hopelessly for a miracle. "Five for your first offence, and ten for each of the two following ones. How much is that, boy?"

He stuttered, unable to think, and suddenly he felt a searing pain strike over his back. His body stretched and arched of its own volition; then the strength of his arms broke down and his chest hit the wooden fence, where it rested in shocked expectation.

"I suggest you start counting," Mister Howlett's cold voice ordered after waiting for his yelp to die into a whine. "If your father was able to teach you as much."

Pa… He would never have allowed this. He would have sav…

"I said COUNT!"

The boy screamed when the second lash landed, and instead of heeding his orders, he preferred to follow his instincts and tried to spring out of harm's way. The third lash hit him more violently, hugging his right arm and flank. He threw himself down and covered his head, but Mister Howlett's enraged voice was terrifyingly clear when he snapped for Alcott to flog the mindless dog until he knew right from wrong.

The boy whimpered hopeless apologies as the man got in position. When a new lash cut through his shirt and skin, his bladder broke free and he didn't even notice it, because another one was coming, and another and another, until his entire body was a ablaze and he couldn't hear anything but his own hoarse voice screaming.

The first thing the boy heard when he regained consciousness was a strange moaning sound he couldn't quite locate. It didn't bother him much, though, since his back was hurting so pitifully he thought he had died and gone to the Hell of eternal punishment he had been threatened with when he had been caught playing in the cemetery with other kids, down in the village.

"Ya're awake, huh?"

He realised the moaning sound was coming from his own throat when he tried to spoke. He coughed and his back hurt even more.

"Here, have some water, boy." It tasted cool and heavenly, and he drank avidly. He then opened his eyes and noticed he was lying down on a heap of straw; the man from before was helping him keep his head up as he drank. "There, now, that's enough. Next time ya decide t'act smart, kid, think it over very carefully. Mister Howlett let ya out easy, this one time; he won't do it again."

"Easy? Ya call this easy?" He couldn't help groan, as his eyes filled with tears. Pa had never hurt him so; not even all the village boys together had ever hurt him anywhere as bad.

The stranger looked at him and shook his head.

"Mind yer manners, boy. Ya should'ave taken five and thirty lashes, after that last deed o' yers. Awake or not. But he told me ta stop when ya lost consciousness, so ya only took seventeen." The boy forgot his self-pity at the idea that the next ten or so lashes would have certainly killed him. And yet, he could still feel the grievance and resentment raging within. "Ya never been whipped before, huh?"

The boy tried to get up but the pain was too strong and he gave it up. He shook his head. Once, he remembered, he had almost been canned by the local police. He and a few other boys had gone out to the cemetery for a dare, and he had half-dug up a recent grave. Peter Jones had been digging up an old one when the priest had shown up. He called the law, and all the offending boys got canned in the public square. He had seen the results, afterwards: their rear-ends striped in red, purple and black. Some had even bled and hadn't been able to sit for some days. But Pa had stood up against all of them.

"I'll blast ya all ta Hell, ya lay a finger on my boy," he still remembered his enraged voice, seconded by the shotgun. Sure, Pa had given him the belt until he thought he was going to die; but he hadn't been canned down in the village, with everyone watching.

"My Pa used ta hit me with a belt," he finally croaked, remembering that one thrashing. "The buckle was the worse, but it was nuthin' like this…"

"Yeah, well," the man grinned, "ya be a good boy, and I guarantee ya won't have ta get used ta it. Mister Howlett's a fair man an' doesn't go about whippin' folks. He was just teaching ya a lesson, back there."

"A lesson?"

The man laughed a hateful "ya ain't that very bright, are ya", but although he was too hurt to as much as scowl, the mutiny within was organising its ranks.

"Obey Mister Howlett in everything, and ya ain't ever gonna be whipped like that again. That's the main lesson. But here in between us, if ya gonna aggravate the man, make sure it's one 'offence' at a time. Ya don't wanna pile 'em up again, like ya did today. Ya understand what I'm sayin'?"

"He can't do that ta me." He frowned threateningly at the seasoned man in front of him, his mutiny unable of providing more assertive actions. "Whippin' like that's fer slaves. I ain't no slave, and I ain't gonna be one, either!"

The man got up and grabbed him by the collar, making him yell and beg for mercy when the shredded shirt scrapped against his bleeding back.

"I have warned ya ta mind yer tongue, ya lil' piece o' trash." The man hissed fearsomely, and the boy's rebellious streak shrunk into temporary oblivion. "Ya was a slave, ya wouldn't have had thirty lashes, ya'd have had fifty! Ya was a blasted lil' slave, ya wouldn't have had the boy's cat, ya'd have this!"

He threw the boy on the heap of hay, where he vainly searched for a less painful position. But he hadn't yet eased the throbbing pain that had been awakened when another whip was thrown down over his head. It had nine long leather straps and each ended in a fearsome knot.

"That, my boy, is what slaves got from Mister Howlett." The other growled from above. "That an' sometimes with metal clamps tied ta the end. Ya think they had good food and proper clothes? Like yer gonna have, if ya ever learn yer place?"

"I'm sorry…" It was a whisper which escaped unconsciously through clenched teeth.

"Yer sorry, indeed!" The man spit to the side and picked up the whip. "Ya'll be sorry if ya don't start obeyin'. An' the next time ya think o' runnin' off, or as much as escapin' a punishment, ya just remember this: I've worked fer Mister Howlett fer thirty goddamn years, and he's a fair enough master who makes sure his every worker's got 'nuff food and clothes on 'im. But ya rub 'im the wrong way, boy, and ya'll see if ya won't get yer fifty lashes down on yer back; and 'em wounds rubbed over wi' salt, too. Then ya'll know just what's like ta suffer like 'em slaves used ta. Ya understand?"

The boy swallowed hard, fighting to keep hot tears of fear, pain and frustration from streaming down, and nodded feebly.

"That's better." The boy closed his eyes for a moment of silence, while the man wandered away for a few seconds, probably to put away the cat o' nine tails. When the heavy steps returned, though, the man's voiced had lost some of its edge. "All right, then. Now that ye's straightened ta rights, ya open yer ears and start actin' like a man, ya hear? I'm the stables foreman, and the name's Mister Alcott fer you. That'll be Mister Alcott, SIR, too. Ya gonna be helpin' me out fer a few weeks, while Mister Howlett decides what trade ya gonna follow. Ya knows yer way 'round horses?" He nodded again. "How's that?"

"Huh… Yes, sir?"

"Good." The man grinned approvingly, showing off his yellow teeth. The boy figured he was probably older than his Pa was. Had been. "What's yer name, then?"

He froze. His name? He let his head drop on the straw.

"Dog." He whispered dejectedly, but looked up immediately when he heard the man laugh.

"No, ya dumb boy. Just 'cause Mister Howlett called ya dog, back there, it don't mean he's gonna be changin' yer name t'that. Darn, ya can't even change a person's name unless it's yer slave or somethin', ya stupid kid." And he laughed harder, much to the boy's embarrassment, who wiggled and then whimpered when his wounds complained of the movement. "Sit up, and start actin' like a man, already. Now, what did yer parents call ya, huh?"

"My parents?"

He was lost for a moment, as a vague memory of a blond woman repeated his name like a prayer; but the one word in her prayer had got distorted since the last time he had recalled it and he wasn't sure what she was saying anymore. But anyway, he couldn't have told anyone that name. And then, just like that, it dawned on him that Pa had given him a name he could use. At least now, he could.

"Logan, sir. My name's Logan."