VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX
Disclaimer: Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings. I don't own anything related to Wolverine, X-Men, or Marvel Comics.
Chapter 7 – War and Passion
posted February 10th, 2008
"Do you think he'll be ready soon?" the military officer asked, his medals glinting in the brightly lit examination room.
"The Doctor said that he was capable of understanding English." the assistant replied. "And, with the... medication... he's received, he'll be compliant to your orders."
"Hmm..." A pause. "What about his identity? Any progress?"
"None. We've been calling him X for years, now."
"Weapon X, then. But a proper name would do better. He can't be another John Doe. We've had enough of them already." the man said pensively.
She shrugged. "Take your pick, then. He doesn't speak, and doesn't seem to react to all the names we've tried to address him with."
"Well... since he's the first one on record that you've succeeded in dosing with that metal, we could call him log-one." He smiled. "He slept as a log, too."
"Log-one?"
"Yes... Logan. Codename Weapon X. Or... what was his aspect when the Service found him, already?"
"An animal of some sort." she replied, frowning. "A badger, I think, or a glutton."
"A glutton? What's this."
She smiled. "It's an animal which, while being small, is so fierce that it's capable of killing preys or other predators much larger than it is. Gulo gulo is its scientific name, and it's also called wolverine."
"Wolverine, huh? I like the sound of it."
D-Day (June 6th, 1944), a beach near Arromanche, Normandy, France...
"Come on, boys!" the captain yelled over the sound of artillery shells hitting the ground around them. "It's the day we build ourselves a name! Let's fight for freedom. Let's kill those Nazi assholes! Go, go, go!"
The men straightened up. Despite having lost half their numbers in the landing, they had to progress toward the bunkers the Germans had built on the French seaside. Bunkers from which hot lead was raining on them. A suicide mission, if there was one. They were still hesitant, but knew that behind them was the sea, and that no one would be safe there as long as the beach was under Nazi control.
Suddenly, they saw a soldier running past them towards the German positions, with what looked like knives in his hands.
They were quite surprised, but their officer shouted "Go!" again, and they followed the lone runner. Bullets rained on their right, on their left, and on themselves too. Many fell, but the lone runner didn't stop despite having received several of these bullets.
"Who's this man?" Captain Marcel Beauvau thought as another projectile flew past them. Why would a fellow member of the Canadian Army go against a heavily fortified position with only contact weapons? He could only think that the man had fallen into a trance-like rage due to fallen comrades – he had witnessed that occurrence happen enough times in his long career. But, generally, those going in such rage were rapidly killed by enemy fire.
Not this one.
And, when he eventually reached the blockhaus, the kamikaze-like man raised his knives and slashed at the metal door. Under the few remaining witnesses' surprised gaze, said door gave way almost immediately. And the rain of lead they were under ceased quickly afterwards.
What they would witness in the bunker would make some of them throw their lunch up. After all, after all his brainwashing and the experiments he endured, the man was the best at what he did… and what he did wasn't very nice.
Japan, a year later...
The second World War was in the process of being ended, but some countries didn't recognize when they were outdone. Japanese pilots were trained into kamikaze bombers, and many of them died while trying to push the American soldiers back. While the Americans privileged life (of their own citizen, of course), the Japanese favoured victory.
It did cost them, dearly, when the US bomber Enola Gay reached Hiroshima, later.
The reconstruction of a weakened country involved ferreting out the remaining kamikaze and other civilians not used of being vanquished so forcefully. The man known as Weapon X was often on such parties, always leading the searches with his strangely acute senses and his otherworldly endurance.
Having already lost many men in the conquest of Nazi Europe, Canada had less involvement in the fight over the Asian islands, but their Secret Service had still use for their captive-turned-secret-weapon. Weapon X was loaned to the CIA from their Canadian counterparts, although it was under another codename: Agent Ten. He was more awake, by now, and had assumed his loaned identity of James Logan. The name Agent Ten was also less revealing about his former condition of "weapon".
It was during such a party, while searching for a particularly elusive and influential samurai lord, that Logan got separated from his party. He had been exploring the building's basement, and his sense of scent led him into trapped room. The door sealed itself and machines began to remove oxygen from the room, replacing it with carbon monoxide.
Despite his claws – which the Allied soldiers had thought were knives, during the Normandy assault –, he wasn't able to open the reinforced door, neither could he slash his way through the thick walls. Even his stamina wasn't enough to allow him to stay conscious more than fifteen minutes after all the breathable air had been removed.
He fell into oblivion.
The next day...
His right arm moved, only to be blocked by metallic restraints.
A feminine voice sounded near his ear, saying things that he wasn't able to understand.
A stern male voice replied curtly, followed by shuffling sounds.
Logan opened his eyes slowly, only to close them again as he was assaulted with the light from a morning sun.
"Are you awake, now?" the male voice sounded from his right. The man's English was good, even if you could make out a slight Japanese accent.
Logan only groaned, testing his bounds again.
The man chuckled darkly. "No, you won't. You see, when many of my compatriots started dying gruesome deaths, I planted cameras in the house of the survivors. I saw you killing hundreds of men without a scratch afterwards. I noticed your unusual... weaponry. All in all, I acquired intelligence on you. I know you are strong, but I also know your weaknesses. Air, for instance – even if you just survived an otherwise deadly room. And the fact that your impressive claws go in only one direction. They won't help you right now."
Logan knew he was in a sticky situation. Truth be told, he had considered getting his adamantium claws out to see if he was able to hack his way out. What the man had said was sound, though: if his whole body was held by strong enough restraints, he wouldn't budge.
"Alright." he almost spat. "What do you want?"
"Me? Nothing from you, I'm afraid." the man replied. "Only that you don't try to kill me, hence the restraints. I won't free you either. Consider yourself my prisoner."
Logan shuddered, having heard tales of American prisoners before.
The man noticed, though, and chuckled darkly. "I guess you think of me as a barbarian. But I'm not. I'm Shogun Lord Shingen Yashida." he intoned, as though his title was enough to make people drop to their knees.
Logan wasn't going to, though. Firstly, he knew nothing of the Japanese nobility. And, secondly, he was bound by inch-thick steel manacles bolted into his metallic bed frame. "Explain." he merely said, hoping that his host would drop some hints.
No such luck. "You Americans see our whole country as backwards and barbarian. Our traditions are something we're proud of. I recognize that we've lost that war. I also recognize that I can't do anything against that, right now. But rest assured that I'll keep an eye out for ways to make Americans' life miserable. Be it in a year, a decade, or in a century. Yes," he nodded to himself, "I have made plans."
A pause ensued, while the two men glared at each other, none of them willing to lower their eyes. It was only interrupted when a bell sounded from afar.
"I'd say that it was a pleasure, but I'd be lying." the man said. "I'd say that I hope you are going to enjoy your stay, but that would be a lie as well. Whether you like it in here is of no consequence to me. You are a hostage, and I'll make use of you whenever and however I see fit."
A pause, while he looked around. Logan tried to glance at his prison as well, but he couldn't see much.
"The walls and doors of this room are reinforced and their state is remotely controlled." the man said factually. "The floor and the ceiling are, too. If you try something, we'll know, and we'll react by removing the oxygen from the room again. You have no mean of escape." He paused to look firmly at Logan. "If you try, I might reconsider my decision of keeping you alive, and I'll behead you. Even with your impressive ability to live through wounds, I doubt you'd be able to once your head is separated from your shoulders. Even if you do, I'll find another way. Such as immerging you in a tank full of carnivorous fishes, for instance, and then rolling a tank on your carcass. Don't tempt me."
He went to the door, and, without any other move from his part, the door slid open and he went through. Before it closed, though, the man threw him another gaze, although it was amused, now. "I want you to suffer, but I don't want you to become insane too early because of a lack of stimulus. Well... no more insane than you are now, I mean. Enjoy the recreation."
When the door closed, a panel in the ceiling opened, and a television screen came into view right in front of him, where news were displayed in Japanese.
Logan struggled against his bounds, but it was of no use. Defeated, he lied down and looked at the screen. With nothing else to do, he decided to see if Japanese was a hard language to learn by himself.
It was.
Logan spent years in imprisonment. His manacles disappeared quickly, and he supposed that they had been there so that he knew they could have their little tête-à-tête. He discreetly tried to find defects in the wall panelling, but everything was as the old guy had said – even the air-removing mechanism when he went too far in his explorations of the room's weaknesses.
There were none, and he found himself doing only two activities: television watching, and whatever physical training he could do while restricted in the room.
Thanks to the filtering his captor had installed on the television set, he only saw traditionalist programs and re-enactments. He learnt of the Japanese way of life. And he learnt the language as well, aided in this by fuzzy memories in which he was speaking different kind of languages.
It would be decades before he'd realize that most of these languages were extinct.
A particular even changed his captivity. After five years spent by learning Japanese and almost nothing else, Logan's instincts were slightly dulled. That's why he didn't react immediately when, one night, his door was opened with a bang.
At the doorstep were two men clothed in black robes, with a bone-white mask covering their face.
"Nothing here." the first said in a bored tone.
"'xcept this Muggle." the second completed.
"What is he doing in here?"
"Dunno. And it's not important. The Dark Lord told us to loot the place, and nothing's here."
"But he didn't tell us not to play our favourite game, did he?"
"No. Let's Crucio him."
The two men drew their wands and cast the spell on the weary man they thought of as a lowly muggle, and it was their last mistake. Logan's brain, awash with Japanese, had had difficulties following their conversation, but the Cruciatus took care of reordering his priorities. Just as the two wizards stopped the spell, readying themselves for another one, he exploded into action.
His claws out, he lunged at the unsuspecting wizards, beheading one and impaling the second before he had even landed.
As he passed the threshold, he had a second of hesitation: was that another test from Shingen? He had had several of those, during the years. But if this wasn't, that was perhaps his ticket to freedom.
Not caring for an answer just yet, he proceeded forward. He met several Japanese men dead without a visible reason – except that some wore an expression of terror on their face. He also found many of the stick-wielding black-robed masked individuals. This time, he didn't wait to be cursed before using lethal means. Leaving behind him a trail of blood and gore, he eventually reached the doorway to the courtyard. The door itself was barely hanging from its hinges, and the courtyard below wasn't empty.
Several black robes were using the same torture "weapon" against someone. And two of them spotted him as soon as he passed the doorway. Logan jumped over the beams of red light and landed on those two, claws extended. In a whirlwind fashion, he maimed and killed several wizards before coming to a halt.
Only two men were alive. A few yards from him were Shingen Yashida and another man clad in robes, although this one didn't wear a bone-white mask. That allowed Logan to see the annoyed frown he wore.
As he was advancing menacingly, the man whipped his wand and spoke his favourite incantation. "Avada Kedavra!"
And Logan fell down, his heart not beating anymore. But his healing factor took notice and tried to restart it. It took three tries before he could stand up again. Fully healthy. And mightily pissed off. Nobody noticed that several dozen runes had activated upon the spell's contact, keeping Logan's soul in his body.
"What are you?" the man asked.
Lord Voldemort had thought that he could find allies in several parts of the world. He had successfully recruited the worst of the worst from the Russian wizards, and had proceeded towards the Japanese crime world. But Shingen Yashida held principles above the mere "let's wreak havoc for the fun of it". And he wasn't magical. Two conditions that had made the Dark Lord rescind his offer of joining forces in the most brutal fashion.
When meeting the man who would literally rise from the dead, he was so shocked that he decided to Apparate out immediately. He had noticed the man's savagery, and he didn't want to be sliced in ribbons, like his recruits had been. No, thank you, bye-bye.
Tom Riddle had been a wizard with cunning and ambition, as well as a modicum of intelligence, and he would remember the man's face. He would recognize it anywhere.
When Shingen Yashida noticed who had freed him from the curses, he groaned internally. How was he going to get out of that one?
Fate helped him at that point. Logan had spent hours fighting in the large basement he had been held in, culminating in a near-death experience. Upon seeing his prey disappear into thin air, Logan's mind returned to less adrenaline-driven instincts, and his hunger and tiredness made themselves known.
He collapsed.
For a few minutes, Shingen looked at the unconscious man appraisingly. He had been saved by this prisoned, and honour demanded that he did something for him in return. He finally reached a decision. In exchange for a vow against using violence against him, Logan would be able to spend time outside of his prison.
Since he was now slightly cognizant in Japanese, Logan understood the contract, and he also accepted it. It was perhaps due to Stockholm Syndrome, or an association born in the blood of common enemies, or the repetition of honour diatribes on the telly. Whatever the case, he didn't try to escape or use his claws during his trips out of his cell – which had been furnished like a real bedroom, now.
The two of them started to discuss. Military things, for the most part, but also esoteric conversations on beliefs and faiths. Naturally, mixing the two quickly led the conversation towards martial arts, a topic Logan found fascinating. Shingen accepted to train him, but he also decided to focus on his mind instead of simply teaching him lethal moves – Logan's body was already a killing machine, and, by teaching him respect and honour, Shingen also thought that Logan would be faithful to him. Logan spent three years learning of the will and discipline needed to perform the katas, before even trying them.
And, during these years, he also met Shingen's daughter, Mariko. And he fell for her. She was beautiful in her own right, of course, but his captivity added to this – she was the only woman around. Despite his mind not remembering about it, his body had spent millennia of "normal" relationships with women, and, by not having any of his recent means of output for his enhanced testosterone – violence –, he tried, awkwardly, to express his interest.
Her father noticed, of course, and he first tried to express his displeasure by locking him again. By then, though, Logan was too smitten to forget about her, and his renewed captivity didn't give him anything else to think about. Deciding to try another venue, Shingen restarted his hostage's courses in martial arts with a pronounced interest in self-discipline and meditation.
Logan learnt to control the "beast within" and he was soon able to fight honourably with two or more opponents without resorting to his usual means – savagery.
It was during such a session that something different happened. Logan was fighting with a katana against four adversaries, and Shingen was observing him behind a one-way mirror. Mariko was behind him, serving tea for her father and her. And the ceiling collapsed.
There had just been the sound of an explosion, and the five swordsmen had just enough time to look up to see heavy slabs of concrete falling on them. Above the damaged roof was a floating helicopter, a plume of smoke indicating that it was where the explosion-inducing missile came from. This was an unusual one, because it made much less sound than conventional ones – it benefited from military-grade advanced research, which would be available only decades later. Logan noticed a name of its tail, but didn't recognize it. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't the name of any country he knew.
Three of Logan's opponents were immediately crushed under heavy slabs of concrete. The walls were damaged and the windows had already exploded in several directions, adding injury to... injury. Through the broken mirror, Logan noticed Mariko and Shingen. The old man had been crushed by another bock of concrete, and she was rushing to her father's side when some more debris fell. She was struck by a mid-sized piece of rock before other pieces of the roof blocked his view of her. But this was going to be of less concern for Logan, as a much heavier beam of steel fell on him. It was only thanks to his enhanced skeleton that he wasn't crushed immediately.
As his vision started to flicker, due to the shock and lack of oxygen from his compressed lungs, Logan noticed soldiers being roped down into the room from the chopper.
And then, there was blackness.
New York City, June 23th, 1958...
In a large office filled with military references, two men were discussing. The office was in a tall building of metal and tinted glass, its windows overlooking other identical skyscrapers. One of the men was sitting behind his desk, while the other was pacing in front of it.
"I want to return there!"
"It's of no use. They are all dead."
"Listen, sergeant, I-"
"I'm not a sergeant, mister Logan. I'm Nick Fury, executive director of the S.H.I.E.L.D. and I simply can't allow you to return to the headquarters of a rogue Yakuza criminal clan. Unless you were part of said clan." Fury sat back, stroking his chin. "We first thought of you as one of them, but you are clearly not Japanese. Weren't you a prisoner of them?"
"Yes." A sigh. "At least, tell me where it was."
"I'm sorry. Despite you just getting out of the hospital – congratulations on your prompt recovery, by the way –, this information is classified."
"Very well. Goodbye, then." Logan replied, before turning on his heel and walking out.
"A moment, mister Logan." Fury called out just as he was reaching the door. "In fact you haven't noticed, the hospital downstairs, where you've been healed, is reserved for mutants, like you." Mutants weren't as much an unknown quantity to the S.H.I.E.L.D. as to the general population. "Your embassy – you're Canadian, the Immigration Service said – has been sent a notice of your arrival and of your recovery. They will need to contact you. You have an address?"
"A what?" Logan asked, half-turning. In his mind, the concept of address was quite strange.
Fury shrugged. "A place where you stay, a phone number... the usual."
Seeing that the other man wasn't reacting, he continued. "Well... get yourself a hotel room, and contact me, or them, as soon as you have it." he wrote a couple numbers on a card, and stood to give it to Logan, who had reluctantly stepped back towards the desk.
"Enjoy your stay in the Big Apple."
"Thanks." A pause. "I guess."
Logan left the room, leaving a perplexed Nick Fury behind.
But Logan didn't call back, and he promptly disappeared from the scope of the S.H.I.E.L.D. detectors in New York. That's not to say that he intended it that way, rather than he fled the bustling city and its nightmarish transportation systems.
All his missions had been focused on the invasion of one place, and he had never been left alone in a city before. Much less the biggest city. His quickly fled, alternatively walking and running, until he found himself in woods, weeks later. Only then did he pause to consider his current state.
He was alone.
His name was Logan. Logan who? Or was Logan his last name? He didn't know, actually. Some people called him Agent Ten, others had dubbed him Weapon X, and his preferred nickname was Wolverine.
But he didn't remember who he was. Or where he lived. His mind had been profoundly affected by his enforced hibernation, as well as the drugs the Secret Services had filled him with. Using his recent training in meditation, he tried to centre himself, to follow memory trails towards his identity. But they all failed.
Sighing, he stood up, his legs wobbly from his stopover. Considering this, he knew that he had to eat in order to stay in good condition – he didn't need food to survive, but it helped greatly.
In the darkness of the woods, he found that his other senses worked quite well. He could sense the animal life around him almost as well as dogs or wolves. Speaking of which...
A couple of wolves had emerged from the tree line in front of him, and some more were arriving, circling him in the classical tactic of wolf packs. When the Alpha snarled at him, he hesitated, his feral instincts battling with his recent conditioning.
He took a step back.
And the pack attacked.
Surrounded by wolves, Logan took his best option, and extended his claws. Like a whirling dervish, he succeeded in killing one of them on his first strike, wounding three afterwards. He then remembered some nature-oriented program he had seen on the Japanese television. Even if he hadn't understood it at the time, the social order in a pack of wolves was clear: to lead one, you had to kill its leader.
He turned toward the Alpha, and snarled in the imitation of the wolf's own expression.
Understanding that a challenge had been issued, the other canines padded backwards.
The Alpha didn't wait much, though, and jumped on Logan, teeth ready to bite and tear the imprudent man's throat... only to be stopped by said man's hand, clasped firmly around its own throat.
Not even using his claws, Logan succeeded in choking the animal to death, and, after laying it on the ground, he threw his face upwards and howled.
Years later...
The man was a shadow. A powerful and lethal shadow in the woods boarding the Canadian Rockies, and also the shadow of the man he once was. But his relatively short sojourn with civilization had marked him, and he found himself needing more in his life than wilderness and his wolf pack. At some times, he needed things that only civilization was able to provide, such as medication for his wolves when the pack encountered difficulties.
And, to buy the things the civilization provided, he needed the exchange currency said civilization used: money. And he needed something else, too. The season was winter, and feet of snow were covering the unyielding ground. Food resources were at an all-time low for the pack, and Logan had decided to build himself a base. To travel from said base – a mere cabin in the woods – to the veterinarians and to the city markets, he also needed a transportation device. He bought a used truck, for which he needed some additional money.
That's why he often found himself in the lowest suburbs of Canadian towns near his cabin in the Rockies, fighting for money in underground bars and other end alleys.
His adamantium-laced skeleton helped him endure the blows from his opponents, and his enhanced healing factor took care of situations where endurance itself wasn't enough. But people started to get weary of the indomitable fighter, and some barmen were hesitant to pay him his due.
On such a dreary day, he was so fed up that he instinctively extended his claws to threaten the reluctant man behind the counter. That, more than anything, tagged him as an unnaturally-developed human, and the shocked barman used a word he had heard once, but not understood at first: "Mutant."
Logan collected his money and left, his anger making him unaware that he was being followed. It was only later, when he was driving his truck around, that his sense of smell picked the scent of the girl hidden in his truck.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he asked the startled girl.
"Please, sir... I'm Marie... I'm a mutant, like you, and-"
"What's this about mutants?" he asked gruffly, interrupting her, before another scent made him turn his head.
"Don't you kno-"
"Shh! We're not alone."
Truth be told, they weren't. A larger man-like creature jumped from the woods surrounding the track, and a short scuffle ensued, quickly ended when the creature used a tree trunk to send Logan into the air. The shock and subsequent bump with his own truck made Logan pass out, leaving Marie to deal with the creature – who, since he didn't care for the fallen man, had appeared with only one task in mind: abducting her.
It was not to be, though, as three new opponents arrived on the scene: Storm, a mutant whose gift was to influence the local weather; Jean Grey, who could manipulate objects and thoughts at a distance; and Cyclops, whose eyes emitted a constant beam of energy – and who used special glasses to direct said energy.
Sabretooth couldn't fight against the three of them, and he fled the premises, leaving them the two other mutants.
Somewhat later, in a special school for "gifted" students...
"The results of his medical scans are strange." Jean said to her teacher and colleague, Professor Xavier – the owner and Headmaster of the school the basement of which they were in. "His body seems to have been enhanced surgically, especially his bones: they are covered in a strange metal. And he seems to be healing at unnatural speeds too: when we collected him, he had several open wounds, which were completely healed minutes later. Due to this, we can't be sure of his age." She turned to her mentor. "For all we know, he might be older than you, Professor."
"What about his mind?" Xavier asked, knowing that Jean was gifted in telepathy – although less than he was.
"I tried." was Jean's answer. "But it's so jumbled – probably the result of years of medical malpractice. It gives no indication of age either."
"Hmm... perhaps I can try, then."
Jean nodded and stepped back, as Xavier rolled his wheelchair until he was closer to Logan's head. In his mind, he found the same things Jean described: a jumble of memories, with none relative to the man's childhood. But he perceived something else, too: there were several memories staying there, out of Logan's reach. When he tried to grasp one of them, a strange aura surrounded the memories and pushed him outside.
"That is... peculiar." he commented, before explaining his findings to Jean.
"Can he help us?" she asked after a few minutes of reflection. "Or is he one of Magneto's?"
"There are others, you know." Xavier scolded her. "Mutants who, like regular humans, don't wish to see themselves involved."
"I know, but I also know that we need all the forces we can have, in order to win this war."
"Perhaps he can be persuaded to stay." Xavier concluded, turning his gaze to the sleeping man. "But let's not push him too far. His mind is malleable, but he is also slightly dominated by his instincts. He has been dubbed Wolverine by the ones who... transformed him. I think it's accurate."
"Wolverine? Will that be his codename among us?"
"Perhaps." Xavier answered, before leaving the room.
Not having anything better to do yet, Logan (or Wolverine, as he was to be called) decided to stay with the X-Men for a while. He participated in several missions, in which his talents were proved to be quite useful, as he saved the day more than once. He was also held by a promise Professor Xavier gave him: the two of them met once a week, and the telepathic Headmaster tried to unlock the hidden memories.
In the course of their meetings, they had made little progress.
Logan now remembered a place where he had slept with – and been intimate with – a woman, on the banks of a river. The problem was that the place his memory indicated had been struck by civilization, and it was now the end of an underground road between Windsor, in Canada, and Detroit, in the United States. It hadn't been a sandy beach for centuries, something which raised uncomfortable questions.
Such as: how old was he?
In the fragment of memory, there were two other items of interest. The first was a staff, which was important for a reason. The second was a cup, which was important as well, but for which he didn't have a mental image – he could now remember the staff perfectly, but he still didn't know what it was used for.
Helped by colleagues and students alike, Logan used the school's information terminals to get information about either the staff and the cup, but it didn't yield anything relevant. One of the students was most eager to help him than the others – who were still seeing him as a gruff PE teacher, with reason. Marie, also known as Rogue, had had her mutant powers catalogued, and, as Logan was the only one who could resist her touch for more than a minute, the two of them had forged a friendship of sorts – outcasts among the outcasts.
After several years of no progress towards a complete recovery of his identity, and the fending off of a powerful telepath who wanted to give him an imaginary one, Logan decided to quit.
He told Jean first, because the two of them seemed to be quite close… when Scott wasn't there (which was quite rare these times). He also told Marie, of course, as well as the new girl the power-stealing mutant was talking to at that moment – a passwall named Kitty Pride.
And, surprisingly or not, the young woman decided to follow him. "After all," she told him, "who's gonna help you out there if I don't come with you?"
Kitty wished that she could join, but she was not an adult yet. And there was only one passenger seat on Logan's bike, too. "Next time." she said with a sad smile, waving them off as they left on the quest for his missing memories, now.
Since Logan had a clue leading to Japan, they went there first, searching for traces of the dark wizards who had attacked him during his stay with Shingen Yashida. And Mariko.
They didn't find them, of course. After all, most of those men had spoken English, some of them with a heavy Russian accent. Speaking a foreign language was a sure sign that you didn't belong to the country you were in.
But they found something. Or, rather, someone. Apparently, Mariko hadn't been killed in the collapse of the ceiling years ago. And she had taken the reins of her father's clan – or what was left of it. Sadly, the reality matched the rumours: with the passing of time, and of their leader, the gang embraced the yakuza instead of their honourable history.
Logan tried to persuade her to join him, but that failed. His heart heavy, he then asked her to let them leave peacefully. But that failed as well. The ensuing battle did cost Logan his heart, and Mariko her life.
Marie was there every step of the way, and she tried to comfort him the best she could. There weren't many ways to reach a man's mind when it was buried under so much sorrow and guilt, but the young woman was old enough to know of some. And despite the gruff exterior, she knew him and appreciated him.
Since then, the two of them saved some money each day by renting only one room in the hotels they stayed at.
Since Japan didn't yield anything but pain, they moved towards Russia. Amidst the dark wizards, some has spoken Russian, while the others were clearly English – British, even, if their accent was something to take into account. They intended to travel to England should their trip through Siberia yield nothing.
But it didn't.
They were following a lead in the forest north of Vilyuysk, when Marie stopped suddenly.
"Logan?" she asked uneasily, looking at the foreboding forest they were traipsing through.
"Yes?" he asked distractedly, his sense of smell having picked an interesting scent.
"I don't think this forest contains anything interesting. Let's go."
"But..." he trailed off, before turning all of his attention on her. "Wait a tick. What's your problem? You don't usually cower before danger. What is it?"
"Nothing." she replied, still casting furtive glances towards the darkened canopy. "I just don't think it's a good idea to go there."
"Again: why? We're both more dangerous than anything a mere forest can throw at us."
"Perhaps..." she licked her lips. "Perhaps this is more than a "mere forest", Logan." she looked up, her expression pleading. "I'm sorry. These woods creep me out."
"You have nothing to fear, Marie." he said, taking her into his strong arms. "And I'll be with you all the time."
"Promise?" she asked, absently cursing herself about the little-girl tone of voice she had just used.
"Promise."
That said, he took her gloved hand and dragged her forward. After a dozen yards, she was still afraid, but Logan was there with her. After a mile, her fear had escalated to a new level. After two, she couldn't take it anymore. "There's nothing here, Logan. Let's turn back, now."
"I can't. We're near, I can feel it."
"Feel what? There are only trees here."
"You just said so: there are only trees. So, please, calm yourself."
As he was saying these words, a low rumbling sound came from the forest in front of them, a sound that evolved into a growl. At the same time, trees moved, only to make way for a huge reptilian head. The head was easily larger than Logan's cabin in the Rocky Mountains. And the body that followed...
Marie was white as a sheet. "It's... it's..."
"Tyrannosaurus Rex." Logan said, looking the beast in the eyes while evaluating the best way to overcome it. Without thinking about it, his claws extended and he took a defensive stance.
"Yes!" she exclaimed. "A bloody dinosaur! And you said-"
The following words were drowned out when the beast roared. And the ground shook as it charged. Marie was ready to bolt – or even pass out from fright – but Logan held his ground. He smiled, even, and retracted his claws, shocking her.
"What are you doing?" she screeched.
Still holding her hand, he extended his other arm forward, as if to hug a long-lost friend. The huge beast was now ten steps from them. Five steps. Three. Two. One. Zero.
Marie closed her eyes, certain that Death had struck. But nothing came. Only a low chuckle. "The scent was off." Logan commented.
"What?"
"Look." he said, gesturing at the trees in front of them. Truth be told, where there should have been broken trunks and large footprints, the trees were undisturbed. "A joke. A practical joke. To make us turn around and leave. An illusion."
"But why? And who could have created that... that... beast? It seemed real to me." A pause. "And why did you say that its scent was off? Have you smelled one before?"
"I don't think so." he replied, frowning. "But you know how my mind is. For all I know, I could have."
She dismissed his last comment with a swipe of her hand. "That doesn't answer our question, though. What does need protection so badly to create illusions of long-dead reptiles?"
"We won't know unless we press forward." he said, and she nodded in response. Together, they walked some more into the wood.
A mile further in, Logan stopped so brusquely that Marie walked clear into his back. Unfortunately, he had stopped just because he had sensed a barrier of some kind, and she pushed him forward. It wasn't much, but the barrier had been less than an inch from his nose, and the two of them tumbled through it. The forest seemed to become alive instantaneously, vines raising around them to hold them.
Using his claws, Logan succeeded in severing several of them quickly, but there were too many, and the two of them found themselves tightly bound.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now we wait." he replied calmly.
"Wait for what?"
"For whom, actually. They're near."
A pause.
Another voice raised from behind – and a little above – them. It was a male's voice, but it was so soft that they had trouble distinguishing it from the forest's natural sounds. "Indeed." it said elegantly. "We are near."
"The question is, what are we going to do with you?" another said. This time, it was a woman's voice, clear and flowing like a mountain river.
The two last speakers moved around, their steps not disturbing the forest in any shape or sound. When they arrived in front of Logan and Marie, the two of them were promptly shocked. Marie blushed when she noticed the unnatural beauty and grace the two newcomers held themselves with – as well as their state of (un)dress. Truth be told, the two newcomers seemed clad with nothing else than leaves and silver ornaments. Logan eyed them critically, trying to evaluate their threat level. When he noticed their ears, though, he froze.
They had pointy ears.
The woman turned to her companion and uttered a sentence in a foreign language. A language Logan had some difficulty to grasp, but which seemed to be natural for him. Almost like... a mother's tongue, forgotten after years not using it. Or centuries.
"Do you think they're Veel?" was the question.
"I don't think so." was the answer. "Normally, only the Veels' elven blood make them able to enter our woods. But let's be sure before bestowing judgement."
The woman nodded, and she knelt in front of Marie, looking for some distinguishing feature. The man did the same in front of Logan. A second later, a curse escaped his lips.
"What?" the woman asked. "What is it, Eleigh?"
"It's not possible, Ailee. It's just not possible."
"What?" she asked, before turning to Logan, trying to see what had caught her companion's interest. Nothing in the eyes, nothing in the ears, nothing in the bone structure, but... "By the moon! He's got the Mark!"
And, indeed, on Logan's forehead, peeking from under a lock of his unruly hair, was a mark. A lightning bolt-shaped scar.
The Elves had found their forefather.
To be continued in next chapter: Identity Crisis...
Author's Notes: I first wanted to base this upon the written canon for Wolverine's timeline. Unfortunately, it quite extensive, and, taken in its entirety, doesn't fit well with my story. I have based the end of this chapter on the X-Men movie trilogy instead (which I haven't detailed either). Only... think of them as having occurred in the sixties.
On that subject... congratulations to those of you who found out about the crossover. I'm sorry for those of you who don't like the inclusion of X-Men in this story. As a quick answer, I'll tell you that this crossover had been in my mind before even starting to write the story. If you must know, the starting point of this story is Jean's remark to Xavier (quoted from my memories of watching the film): "He could be older than even yourself, Professor."