The Protector Saga, Part I
A New Beginning
A History Lesson
"Before I begin, I would just like to say that Logan had not remembered all, or even most of his life," Jean began. "He has only remembered what seems to have to do with what we are now dealing with.
"Logan," she said, "was born in the year 1605 in what is now southwestern British Columbia."
"1605," Hank repeated, incredulously. That would mean Logan was nearly four hundred years old. Incredible, thought Hank. The number of historical events that he must have lived through was unbelievable. He was born before the publication of Don Quixote, and before the deaths of its author, Miguel Cervantes, and William Shakespeare. He was even born before Jamestown was established. Logan would have lived through the Salem witch trials, as well as the first Thanksgiving. He had also lived through the French and Indian War (Seven Years War), the American Revolution, and the English and American Civil Wars. In short, he had lived through almost all of the recorded history of the American continents. Hank's thoughts were interrupted as Jean continued.
"His grandfather was named Diego Cebrada del Sol and was the captain of a Spanish galleon that was shipwrecked off of the North Carolina coast. He was the only survivor. He was able to get ashore and head inland, where he happened upon a small tribe of Catawba. He married the chief's only daughter and soon had two sons: Miguel, and his younger brother, Antonio. Miguel's mother named him Running Wolf, and his brother Seeing Eagle. When Running Wolf was fifteen, and his brother five, their father died of a strange disease that wiped out many of their people.
"After their father's death, Running Wolf was named tribal chief. It would be ten years before Logan's mother arrived in the New World. Her name was Catherine Elizabeth Black, the daughter of a wealthy English merchant. She went to the colony of Roanoke with her fiancé, Thomas Ringworn. He had gone there as a favor to his father's friend, Sir Walter Raleigh, who was sponsoring the colony. Less than a week before they were to be married, some unknown creatures massacred the people of Roanoke. Catherine was the only one to leave the island alive. Somehow, she made her way to the mainland, where she eventually encountered the small Catawba tribe.
"They nursed her back to health after she had collapsed at their feet of exhaustion. When they found out about the creatures, it was decided that for the safety of all that were involved, they would have to move north. These creatures apparently did not like cold weather. They arrived in British Columbia, where Running Wolf and Catherine were married. They had five girls before finally having a boy: Logan. His father named him Little Bear, while his mother named him Logan Francis Black."
Jean continued. "Logan's senses began to increase their sensitivity when he was thirteen. It was also around this time that Logan discovered his healing factor, as well. It, however, did not seem to affect his aging until about the age of twenty."
"Okay, but when did Wolvie know about his claws," Jubilee asked.
"I'm getting there," Jean answered. "When Logan was about sixteen, he and his father were hunting a long ways away from their camp. As it happened, they came upon a large clearing."
Southwestern British Columbia, 1621The young man who would later become an X-Man walked carefully, without any sound, through the brush. Beside him was his father, who, in the opinion of Logan, was making far too much noise. But he didn't know that; he couldn't hear as well as Logan. As it was, though, his father was the second stealthiest person in their tribe, next to Logan.
Though all of them had heard of Logan's abilities, not all of them had seen them. When his abilities were first discovered, he was taken to his uncle, who pronounced it was a gift from the Great Spirit. Those warriors that had fought with him in battle had marveled at how his body knitted itself back together. It was their consensus, and that of his uncle, that he would someday become one of the greatest warriors of their people. But, despite his abilities, and their advantages, there were those that resented him for being different. Chief among them was Lame Wolf, his rival in everything, who believed that his differences would only spout evil. At least, thought Logan, Light Fox thought highly of him. They were in love, and would probably marry in a couple of years, after Logan had acquired more wealth. The only problem was that Lame Wolf seemed to be interested in her as well. In the end, she and Logan would probably be together, but Lame Wolf was devilishly crafty. He had been able pin the blame on Logan for any number of things.
Logan turned back to the hunt at hand. He had tracked a doe into this clearing. Now, though, he could not see it, and he couldn't smell it, either. It must be downwind from us, he thought. He stepped further out into the open area, where he heard a crunching sound coming from his left. He signaled to his father, and they began to make their way towards the sound. Despite Logan's better senses, his father led the way. They came upon some light brush, where there appeared to be a few bloodstains. It was deer blood; more specifically, it was the doe's.
The crunching sound continued from beyond the brush in front of them. Running Wolf signaled to his son that he would investigate the sound. Fearlessly, the tribal leader crouched and slowly moved towards the sound. Logan saw his father disappear into the foliage with an odd, disconcerting feeling. Suddenly, the wind shifted, and both he and his father were upwind from whatever it was that was beyond the greenery. Whatever it was could easily smell Logan, and could possibly smell Running Wolf. Suddenly, Running Wolf came sprinting out of the flora, followed by a large, growling mass of brown fur.
It was a bear, but not just any bear. It was a gigantic grizzly, and, judging by its smell, it was rabid. Running Wolf fell to the ground, the bear overtaking him. It began to maul him, tearing his flesh easily. In moments, his body was torn to shreds. Four large claw marks ran from his shoulder to his lower abdomen, destroying the muscle, and damaging the tender organs. His left arm was crushed; his right in so much pain that he could not move it. And still the bear continued.
Logan was in shock. He could not believe what was happening. A bear with white saliva foaming out of its mouth was killing his father. Suddenly, he felt his anger begin to rise. His mind was losing its touch with reality. His blood began to boil, and his instincts began to take over. It was the first emergence of what would later be known as the berserker rage. Suddenly he felt sharp pains from his hands. Detachedly, he noticed that three bone claws were protruding from each hand. Without knowing what he was doing, he began to growl. It came from deep within his chest, sounding more like an animal than he could ever imagine. He was challenging the bear.
The rabid omnivore turned around, hearing a challenge. The creature smelled like a man, but it definitely had the smell of the wild to it. But the enraged bear did not notice this as its mind had long since been shot to shit. It was crazy, without any fear whatsoever. It rose up on its back legs, bringing itself to its full height of nine feet, and answered Logan's challenge. The two wild animals began their mortal combat. It was inevitable that Logan would win; there was no way the bear could kill him.
The bear swiped a large paw at Logan, who ducked, and stabbed his right three claws deep into the bear's viscera. Howling with rage, it brought its large mouth down on Logan's shoulder, crushing his shoulder blade. Somehow ignoring the pain, the young man used all his strength to push both him and the unbalanced bear to the ground. Using the leverage of his position, Logan's right hand, the claws still deep in the insides of the bear, cut through the hide of the great beast until the claws were in the remains of the bear's brain matter.
"So that's how Wolvie learned about his claws?"
"Yes," Jean answered.
"What happened to his father," Joey asked.
"He died where he fell. But before he died, he told Logan that he was his successor. When Logan returned to his home, carrying his father's body, another dispute rose between Logan and Lame Wolf. Lame Wolf had, at one time, been married to one of Logan's older sisters. She died, though, taking him out of the possibility of being the leader of the tribe. Lame Wolf claimed he had the right as he was once married to Running Wolf's daughter, and was older than Logan. Thus he should have been the chief of the tribe.
"This argument came to a head a couple of days later when Lame Wolf challenged Logan to determine the next chief. Lame Wolf, though, did not have the backing of the rest of the tribe, or the elders. They saw Logan as the chief. Furious with the entire tribe, Lame Wolf was able to persuade his brother, Sleeps in the Rain, to help him get his revenge." She paused, and sighed. "Lame Wolf and Sleeps in the Rain killed Logan's eldest sister, Lame Wolf's former wife. When Logan discovered who had killed her, he was able to organize a war party of his other brother-in-laws to kill both Lame Wolf and Sleeps in the Rain. They caught up with the brothers less than a week later. Lame Wolf escaped to parts unknown, but Sleeps in the Rain was killed, and mutilated. If not for his brother-in-laws, Logan would have followed Lame Wolf. They were able to convince him it was his duty to lead the tribe. So, they gave up the chase."
"Why did they mutilate him," Kurt asked. "Was it part of the revenge?"
"No." Joey answered for Jean. "It was believed that you went into the afterlife the way you left your body in the physical world. So, during a battle, Indians would cut off their enemies' heads, ears, lips, or whatever, so they'd remain like that for eternity."
"When Logan returned, his mother and uncle spoke with him, and his sisters," Jean said. "They told the siblings the story of their mother's escape from Roanoke Island, the site of a brutal massacre."
"Roanoke," Hank repeated pensively.
"I've never heard of it," Celeste spoke up.
"Roanoke was the site of one of the most enigmatic mysteries in North America," Jean said. "An entire village disappeared, almost as if everyone just up and walked away." Jean paused once again, collecting her thoughts. "But, as I was saying, the two told the sibling of a brutal massacre. During the narration, they explained that their mother's entire village was destroyed by creatures that looked as men, but had eyes of brimstone, and who were able change the shape of their limbs into weapons."
"Sounds like the things you and Logan were describing," Scott said.
"Not the same, but I'm willing to bet they are close," Jean replied.
"What ever happened to this Lame Wolf," Bishop asked.
"He vowed revenge on Logan and the tribe. Five years after his banishment, Lame Wolf returned with a new friend. Together, they destroyed the entire camp. When Logan returned home, he found all of his family dead. His wife, Light Fox, was raped to death, and everyone else brutally slaughtered. Logan followed the both of them. He finally caught up to them, and killed Lame Wolf easily. The other one was to become his most hated nemesis. Sabretooth. It was the beginning of their hatred of each other."
"What happened to Logan after that, Jean," the Professor asked.
"Well, he fought in the American Revolution for the Continental Army, where even the Hessian mercenaries were scared of his reputation. He served in the American Civil War, where he was a Union soldier stationed with a regiment from Kansas. Because the state was one of the major starting points for the war, Logan saw a lot of battle during that time. However, the most important thing happened earlier, around 1839 or 1840.
"About this time, Logan was living in a small town in Mississippi, where he was the town blacksmith. About eighteen forty, a young woman named Anne McCormick moved to town with her family, where her father was going to open a general store. From what I heard about her, she apparently looked quite a bit like me.
"In any event, she first saw Logan when she was courting a man by the name of William Sorten, a plantation owner from across the river. She and William were having a picnic down by the river that ran past their town. Logan had also been by the river, though he had gone down to swim and take a bath. Logan came out of the water, nude, less than fifty feet from where the two were having their picnic. He dressed himself in his pants. Then, he walked to within ten feet of them, barefoot and bare-chested, where he sat down, and proceeded to smoke a cigar."
Mississippi, 1840William could not believe the nerve of the blacksmith, Logan. He had come out of the water totally naked, only pulled a pair of pants on, and then strolled over to where he and Anne were having a picnic. Then, to top it all off, he sat down and began smoking. The man was a scoundrel and a ruffian, and had no business interrupting their afternoon. He was determined to get the lowly blacksmith away from them as soon as possible. He signaled for Anne to stay where she was, and made his way towards Logan.
"Excuse me," William said. The blacksmith didn't answer. William stepped closer. "Excuse me." The blacksmith still did not answer. Angry, William turned the shorter man around, and said, "Now listen here, you ruffian." William found himself staring into intense, unblinking eyes.
"I heard ya the first time. Whaddaya want," the man asked gruffly.
"I want to know if you are going to move."
"Nope. I ain't gonna move."
"But we were here first. I was enjoying a picnic with this lovely woman on this great summer's day at my favorite spot, until you came along."
The man puffed on his cigar a couple of times before answering him. "It ain't yer spot, bub. Anyone can sit here. 'Sides, my shirt's in the tree next to ya."
William, his face red, and his eyes filled with a mad fury, looked at Logan with contempt. "I've wasted almost two years in trying to bed this little trollop. She is almost ready to spread her legs, and I will not let an uncouth, ill-mannered, uncultured blacksmith stop me." William finished, his voice sounding more and more like a strangling chicken. "Are you going to move, or do I have to use force, you ruffian," he whispered fiercely. His voice was now soprano, and almost hysterical.
"Force," Logan repeated, and snorted in contempt.
"I'm warning you, or else." William stepped closer, staring down the blacksmith.
"Or else, what," Logan asked, on his feet in a split-second. Suddenly, William found himself staring into brown eyes full of pain, sorrow, and, above all, an animalistic ferocity, trying to break through its human bindings to convey itself in a primal fury. The hardness and anger in the man's eyes were enough to terrify even the most weathered of mountain men. William began to take a step back, and was surprised to find Anne standing beside him.
"William," she said, "why don't you invite your new friend to picnic with us."
"Why," William asked, wide-eyed.
"Because it becomes ever so boring always talking about your plantation and your business"
"You always liked talking about my business, Anne."
"No, William, you like to talk about your business," she said tersely. "I do not. Besides, sometimes it is good for a break from the ordinary." With that, she grabbed one of the hands of each of them, and dragged them back to the picnic blanket. She sat them down opposite each other, and was the only reason that William was still breathing.
"So, Mr. Black, where are you from," she asked, as he pulled his shirt over his head.
"Call me Logan … darlin'. I'm from Canada. North and west of here." At the word "darlin'", William tensed markedly. He glanced at Logan, jealousy gleaming from his eyes.
"Really? I've never met anyone from Canada before," she said. "What's it like in the winter?"
"A lot colder than it is here. The snow can get over yer head pretty easy."
"I'm from Boston, originally," Anne said. "My father was born in Ireland, and moved here when he was about twenty. Then a few months ago, he decided we should move southwest, and we ended up here in Mississippi. He's the one that opened the general store on Main Street."
"Been in there a couple o' times. Ain't nothin' I really need in there though. But it ain't that bad of a store, if ya ask me," Logan said, still smoking his cigar and glancing at William warily.
"Why, thank you Mr. Bla-," she began. "Logan." She reached into the basket she had beside her, and pulled out something wrapped in checkered cloth. "Would you like some pie, Logan? It was baked fresh this morning."
"I'd be much obliged, Annie."
William had been watching their conversation with an ever-increasing anger. He had known this man for barely ten minutes, and he already hated him. He was sitting with him and Anne on their picnic, which was supposed to be private. What was even worse was that the man was smoking a cigar, was barefoot, and had no shirt on at all. But, yet, here he was enjoying a piece of the peach pie that Anne's mother had made just that morning. And, to make things even worse, it seemed that Anne liked him a lot. What could she see in him, he thought. He's rough, animalistic, uncultured, and full of himself. Finally, he couldn't take anymore.
"Anne, I have to get back to my plantation. Do you want me to bring you back home?"
"No," she answered, "I think I can have Logan here walk me home."
"Very well, then," William said stiffly, and walked away.
"If you don't mind me saying, I never liked William" Anne said. "He has always seemed rather … unstable."
"That was how Logan and Anne first met," Jean said. "Less than a year later, they were married."
"How long were they together," Rogue asked.
"They only lasted about two years. That was when Anne was killed."
"She was killed? Was it Sabretooth," Bobby asked.
"No. It was William."
"You mean the man that confronted Logan," Ororo asked.
"Yes. Several weeks before Anne's death, Logan prevented William from beating a young slave. The young boy fell when he was carrying too much weight on his back. He collapsed, spilling the contents of the basket. As William's arm descended, Logan's took the place of the boy, leaving a very bad mark on his left arm."
Mississippi, 1842Logan's arm was in the way of William's whip in a matter of seconds. It hit Logan's arm with a loud thwap, and wrapped itself around until it was nearly cutting off his circulation. Logan snatched the rest of the length of the leather weapon from William, and holding it in his hands, slowly unwrapped it. He noticed two things: the first that the whip was made of excellent leather, and the second being that it had small pieces of metal sticking through the surface. It was extremely dangerous. Finished unwrapping the whip from his arm, Logan threw an angry look at William. Then, without warning, Logan cracked the whip across William's face, leaving a scar that would be there until he died.
"It don't feel too good, does it bub," Logan asked. His voice and face were all that took the people around to realize he was trying to keep a control on his anger. Logan began to walk away, and William yelled back at him that Logan would regret having ever met him. "You'll regret this, you damn savage. Do you hear me? You'll regret this!" William's face was so red it looked like a beet. He continued to swear at Logan as he was walking away, putting himself into a psychotic rage. "You'll be sorry," William said in an eerily soft voice.
Logan caught all of this, but pretended not to notice. He knew that tone of voice. William was insane with anger; he wasn't used to people standing up to him. It made him into an incredibly dangerous man. Logan smiled to himself. But, he doesn't know how dangerous I can be. Only Annie knows about my claws, and about my temper. He smiled again. If William got too close, he would show him why he was so dangerous.
Logan went into his home, and found Anne beginning to cook dinner. He put his arms around her in a strong embrace, and kissed her passionately, until they were both gasping for breath. "What was that for," she asked.
"You know," he said, smiling devilishly. He playfully growled at her, and picked her up, taking her to their bedroom. "Hey, hey, I'm just starting dinner," she giggled.
"Dinner can wait", he said, throwing her onto the bed. He crawled on top of her, kissed her, and growled. "Don't you have another dress just like this one," he asked. She nodded, trying to get a hold of his lips. He smiled, and she heard the unmistakable sound of one of his claws unsheathing.
"Every time you do this Logan," Anne said, "you have to go out and get me a new dress." She had picked up the remains of her dress from the floor and was now holding it up so he could see all the damage he did to it.
"I know darlin', but it takes too damn long to take it off." He smiled slyly, and looked up to her. "Ya should get one that just pulls off."
"Would that stop you from cutting my dresses up," she asked, putting a plate in front of him.
"Probably not."
"I didn't think so, Logan dearest." He began to eat, but after a moment, looked up thoughtfully.
"Ya know, I saw William today."
A long silence followed. "And how is he," Anne finally asked stiffly.
"Angry," Logan answered. After a moment he added, "He was trying ta beat a slave boy today. The whip he had had metal blades in it. I stopped 'im, an' hit 'im with it ta see how he liked it."
"Logan," Anne said, "you really ought not have done that." She put a hand on his. "He's had a grudge against you since you and I married. This is just what he is looking for to get back at you."
"'And the fact that he's got that judge friend o' his don't help."
"No it doesn't." Anne looked down at the table, suddenly downcast. She knew Logan had been in bad situations before, but William was scary. Since the wedding, he had become increasingly violent towards the both of them. He had once tried to drag her off with him. Logan had nearly killed him then. Lord knows, she thought, he's killed for far less. She was lucky enough to get Logan to see that William had been drunk at the time. She knew that if William were to try anything against her ever again, Logan would fully lose his temper. She'd never seen it, but from the way Logan described it, it was something to be avoided at all costs. Her thoughts were interrupted by Logan's baritone voice.
"If he tries anything, darlin', I want you to go to that cabin I showed you up in the woods. You remember the one, right?"
"Yes, Logan, I remember it," she said, a pang of fear traveling up her spine.
"I'll get out of whatever it is they put me in, and I'll find you. Then we can go north; up to Michigan or Canada if you like."
"Okay," she said.
Logan was shooing a horse when Sheriff Clipton came. The horse was a beautiful Arabian stallion from John McCabe's plantation, just a few miles away from William's. He was only half way done when the Sheriff came by. Logan nodded to Joshua to finish shooing the horse. If he was taken by the sheriff, the boy would go tell Annie, and she would get to the cabin in the woods.
"Logan, I heard you had a confrontation with William Sorten the other day." They walked outside, into the warm afternoon.
"Yep. He was tryin' ta whip a kid who was carryin' too much."
"The kid was the son of one of his slaves. He's William's property. He can do whatever he wants to that kid."
"Yeah, I know. So is that it? I'm kinda busy."
"Logan, you know that's not it. You hit him with his own whip. I'm gonna have to put you under arrest. I'd appreciate it if you were to come peacefully."
"Yeah, I'll come peacefully, Roy. Just let me go tell Joshua."
"Okay." Sheriff Clipton waited several minutes before Logan returned. He sighed heavily. He would not admit it to many people, but deep down, he was scared of the blacksmith. The man had come to town only five years earlier, just after he'd been appointed sheriff. Roy Clipton had known rough men all his life. His father had been in the War of 1812. His uncle fought the Seminole in Florida. He was used to rough men, and knew what they looked like. When he saw the blacksmith for the first time, he knew he was rough.
His observation was proven over a year earlier, just after he'd married the McCormick girl. There had been a small number of soldiers in the area, and Logan had been the only blacksmith. A few of them came into town, needing to re-shoe their horses. Of course, they raised a ruckus, already drunk on whiskey when they arrived. One of the soldiers apparently thought it would be funny to try to spook their horses by shooting at them. He, unfortunately, killed Logan's favorite horse. The blacksmith had come out of his shop, an angry look on his face. He'd asked how the soldiers were going to pay for his horse. The soldiers had responded that they had the authority to do whatever they wished, and that he had to put up with anything they did.
It was unwise. Clipton wouldn't have believed what happened next if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. With a single, fluid movement, Logan yanked the soldier off his horse, to the ground, and broke his arm. Then, the blacksmith had broken the man's nose, leaving it a pulpy mess. The rest of the soldiers had come at the blacksmith then, all at the same time. All the soldiers survived, but most would have at the very least limps for the rest of their lives. But, it was the first soldier that got the worst beating. When Clipton saw the boy, he nearly lost his lunch. His eye had swollen up, and looked to be ready to pop. His jaw was at an awkward angle, and one arm and both of his legs were broken.
The next day, Colonel Bradham, the leader of this poor bunch of men, came into to town to have Logan arrested. The man was so fat, he nearly blocked out the son at midday, and had a sweaty, pale complexion. Clipton detested the portly, worthless man. He wouldn't hear of this pompous horse's ass taking away the town's blacksmith. Clipton had told Bradham to arrest Logan himself. The soldiers had been tearing up town for three months, drinking into oblivion every night, and shooting at anything that passed them in the day. The entire town had had enough of them. Logan, by all accounts, was a hero in the small town.
The Colonel had done just as Clipton had told him … or at least tried. The sheriff had seen the man go into Logan's house to arrest him. Not five minutes later, he came out, his face stricken, and pale, and a stream of piss running down his pants, and onto the ground. As the man had gotten on his horse, he was blubbering, and missed the stirrup twice, before finally getting on the horse. Whatever he'd seen in the house had terrified him to death. And, and scared him enough that the next day, he and his men marched away from town, never to come back again.
Sheriff Clipton was roused from his reverie as Logan walked outside. The sheriff sighed, and relaxed; Logan was going to come easily. That was good. After the affair with the colonel, rumors had spread about the blacksmith. Foremost of these was that he was raised by wolves in the wild, and that he could kill a man with only the flick of a wrist. He personally didn't know, and didn't really want to know.
As they arrived at the jail, Sheriff Clipton was surprised to see Judge Frasier sitting behind his desk. "Judge, how are you," Sheriff Clipton asked.
"I'm doing just fine, Roy, yourself?"
"Not bad, Your Honor. What can I help you with?"
"We have time for another hearing today. Is the man you have in custody ready?"
"I don't know, but I just picked him up."
"Good. Have him in my courtroom in one hour."
The hearing barely lasted five minutes. When he arrived, Logan saw that he would not get a fair trial. Judge Malcolm Frasier, as was his bad luck, was in the pocket of William Sorten. The Judge looked the other way as William, for all intents and purposes, ran the town. In return, Frasier was paid handsomely, already the second richest man in the county. So, it wasn't a surprise when he saw William Sorten in the courthouse.
That was when Judge Frasier walked into the courtroom, dressed in his black robe. He addressed William. "Tell me what happened."
"I was teaching a slave how not to carry a basket when Mr. Black took my whip from me and proceeded to lash me across the face." William's voice dripped vehemence. He turned to look at Logan knowingly, a sadistic smile on his face. "He apparently wanted the boy for his own amusement."
"What have you to say to this," Frasier asked.
Logan's eyes burned into William's, his lips pulled back into a snarl, exposing his gritted teeth. A silent contest of wills began, neither willing to back down, neither willing to drop his eyes. It was a contest William could never win. Logan kept staring at the man, his eyes exuding primeval malice, a feral strength that cowed the other man, finally turning his head to look at the plaintiff's table before him. "MR. BLACK!" Judge Frasier yelled. "You will answer the question or be fined in contempt!"
"I hit him across the face with 'is whip," Logan said. "No one should be treated like property."
"Very well," Judge Frasier said contemptuously. "I hereby strip you of your rights. You are sentenced to work Mr. Sorten's plantation until such time as he sees fit to relieve you of duties, or until you expire. Case dismissed."
Before Logan could protest the case, he felt a sudden, heavy pain at the back of his head, and he fell forward, darkness washing over his vision.
When Logan woke up, he was laying down on a small, dirty cot. He tried to sit up, but stopped when he realized his wrists and ankles were manacled. Finally, despite the iron shackles on his limbs, he was able to sit. Once he did, the smell of old sweat and stale blood assailing his sensitive nose. He was in a hut, barely ten feet in either direction. Yet, there were maybe seven or eight beds in the small area. Each one, like his, was incredibly dirty, looking as if they had not been washed in ten years or more. He also noticed the old smell of urine somewhere on one of the beds.
His eyes were suddenly struck by light as the door to the shack opened. In stepped an elderly looking black man, with an old straw hat, and dirty overalls. "My name is Ezekiel. Everyone jus' calls me Zeke, though. So, I s'pose you can call me that too." He held his hand out.
"Logan," the future X-Man said, shaking the younger man's hand. "Where am I, an' how'd I get here?"
"You're in bunk one on the Sorten plantation. I'm one of yer bunkmates, and there're a few others. Most of them you'll get to meet tonight, but right now, they're all picking cotton out on the east side of the land. You're s'posed ta go out there right when you wake up. Since you're awake now, I guess you're going to have to go out and work like the rest of us."
"You gotta key?"
"Sorry," the old man said, leading Logan outside the hut. "Only the Master has the key. Don't matter, though. Word is dey never gon' set you free." Logan followed the old slave into the cotton fields. What he saw there nearly made him sick. Men, women, and children were busy at picking the cotton from the small bushes, putting the white fluff in heavy burlap bags. To his left, he saw a man whose horse he'd shooed not two days ago. Thomas Hurley was a short man, whose stature equaled his brains. Hurley was lashing at random people with the whip in his left hand, solely to try to satisfy his own vicious needs.
"Well lookey here," Hurley said, noticing Logan next to the old slave. He walked towards the pair, with a sadistic smile of blackened teeth. "Well look at this. It's the blacksmith that attacked Mr. Sorten."
Logan glared at the man. He clenched his fists, feeling his claws almost itching to unleash. And in his mind's eye, he could see blood flowing over the white bone, like a river of crimson. He could feel the wonderful heat on his arms, the all-consuming metal smell of blood in his nostrils. He could hear the crimson river of life spilling on the ground, the battle rage that overcame him ….
No, he thought. I don't want to be an animal. He forced the thought away, his mind coming back to the present. He looked back up to Thomas, and, unfortunately, caught a whiff of the man's breath; his teeth were rotting in their sockets. Forcing himself to ignore the smell, he asked, "What do you want?"
"I want to see your beaten, ugly face starin' up at me with tears in your eyes, beggin' fer mercy," Thomas said, a sneer on his face.
"It'll never happen," Logan said confidently. His stare was boring into the man now, his eyes smoldering.
"It'll happen," Thomas said, playing his whip in slow, undulating waves. "It'll happen if I have to beat you to death's door myself."
"That how you have your jollies," Logan asked, smiling defiantly. The wind changed course then, just enough so Logan could catch another scent from the cowardly man. He looked at Thomas knowingly. "Or do you just fool little boys into sharing your bed?"
Thomas stood staring at Logan as if he'd just been struck by lightning. Slowly, ever so slowly, the shock was replaced by anger, and suddenly Thomas lashed out with his whip, catching Logan on his right side, just above his hip. But, instead of hearing the man's cry of pain, Thomas only heard a sudden, feral growl.
Logan, his lips pulled back in a snarl, walked forward, growling. He made sure the whip lash he'd received couldn't be seen by Thomas; the last thing he wanted was to be labeled a freak … or something worse. "Go," Logan said low and menacingly. "Run."
The sound of the man's voice was enough for Thomas to know to do what he said. Thomas backed away from the smaller man, never letting his eyes leave his face, for fear of being attacked. When he was out of sight of the blacksmith, and the slaves, he ran back towards the main house, nearly stumbling every step of the way. As he neared the house, though, his fear began dissipating, and he began forming a plan. He knew how much Mr. Sorten hated the blacksmith. All he had to say was that he'd nearly been attacked, and that the man was dangerous, and needed to be put in his place. Thomas smiled his dirty grin. This would be interesting.
"That wasn't very smart," Ezekiel said. "He'll be back. An' he'll have you whipped fo' sure."
Logan followed Ezekiel further into the cotton fields, angrily contemplating a plan of escape. He didn't know if his claws would be able to cut through the chains. But, he decided, he had to at least try. And once he was free, he would decide how he'd get his revenge. He knew that Frasier was in on his quick sentence. He knew Sorten had paid him off. But, he wasn't quite sure about Clipton. No, he finally decided, the sheriff was a decent man. He wouldn't have been in on the scheme. So, now he had two people to get his revenge upon. But, he realized, he had to get to Annie; let her know he was alright. That was foremost on his mind: escape to find Annie. Revenge could wait; after all, he had all the time in the world.
It was while he was contemplating what he would do after he escaped, that he saw Thomas return. Behind him were almost twenty men, all carrying rifles. "Blacksmith," Thomas said, "Mr. Sorten would like a word with you."
"I ain't interested," Logan spat back.
"You ain't got a choice," Thomas replied. He motioned to the other men, who raised their rifles, all pointing at Logan.
"It'll take more than that to stop me, bub," Logan said, unfettered by the show of aggression.
"The guns aren't for you," Thomas said. He pulled a young girl from behind one of the men, and held a pistol to her head. "It's for them."
Seeing no other choice, Logan said, "I'll come with you. Just don't hurt the kid." He walked forward, into the ranks of the men with the rifles. As they walked, they surrounded him, making him the very center of a dangerous circle. But, before they had gotten far, he smelled a change their scents from one of confidence, to one of nervousness. Then, before he knew what was going on, he was hit on the back of the head with the stock of a rifle. Before blacking out, the last thing he saw was the smiling face of that bastard Thomas.
When he awoke, he found himself chained at a 45º angle. His arms were bound to a pair of old, wooden poles, while his ankles were bound to stakes in the ground. He looked up to see William Sorten swaggering towards him, dressed to the nines. "Well, hello Logan," William said cheerily. "I suppose you wonder what we are going to do to you."
"Yer gonna try ta kill me."
"No," William said. "I plan to succeed in killing you."
"Go ahead," Logan dared. "Worse men've tried, and better men have failed."
"We shall see," William replied smugly. He signaled to two men, each holding long, evil-looking whips. "Two hundred lashes, Logan." William smiled dangerously. "Most men die before they see one hundred. Two hundred will kill nearly anything. I must admit I am curious: how many can you endure, Mr. Black?"
At that, Logan felt the white-hot pain of the alternating whips as they tore into the skin of his back. The sound of the whiplashes filled the afternoon, as the smell of his own blood overwhelmed his nose. But, despite the pain, despite the rivulets of blood running down his back to the ground, Logan willed himself not to cry out. He would not give William the satisfaction. Instead, he let the pain fuel his rage. It was the rage – the all-encompassing, blood-drenched, beast within him – that kept him alive. It pumped adrenaline into his system, sending incomparably powerful endorphins into his system. He felt no pain, only the caged animal that was his id breaking down the walls of its prison, wanting to sate its unrivaled bloodlust. His eyes stared at William, not as a man, but as his prey. They reflected not the man known as Logan, but the unbridled killing machine known simply as the Wolverine.
The last thought he had before he lost both his mind, and his consciousness, was that he was going to kill William. He was going to torture him, and keep him alive so that he could feel all the pain. Logan smiled dangerously to himself. He was going to make the fucking son of a bitch pay for what he did to him.
"Sir," the man with the whip said hesitantly.
"What," William asked, already going inside. He turned around, looking at Logan's body on the ground, in a puddle of blood.
"I don't know how it's possible, but …"
"But, what?"
"He's still alive, sir." He pointed at the blacksmith's chest. Sure enough, William saw that Logan was still breathing, albeit shallowly. Angered at not being able to dispose of the man, he ordered Logan be placed back in the slave house.
Logan awoke with a start. The last thing he remembered was being whipped by Sorten's lackeys. Then, he remembered the anger. It was still bubbling inside him, like a pool of magma beneath an active volcano. He moved ever so slightly, and winced. His back was still healing. He turned his head from the wall, and to his surprise, saw the old man, Ezekiel, watching him intently.
"You ain't exactly human," the old slave stated. He had an old pipe planted firmly between his teeth, a small puff of smoking appearing every now and then. For a moment, Logan thought he would have to say something. But, he was relieved when Ezekiel spoke again. "The way I see it is you ain't no demon. A demon wouldn't a been in this kinda mess." The old man paused. "An' I don' think you're an angel, either. So, my question is: what are you?"
"I ain't too sure myself," Logan said, as he wearily sat up. He could feel the wounds on his back knitting together, itching as it did, the feeling like an entire army of ants dancing on his backside. He looked at Ezekiel, sizing him up. "I'll tell you what I know if ya can get me some grub."
Ezekiel looked at Logan appraisingly, his pipe bobbing up and down as his teeth played with it. "Matthew," he called. A boy of about twelve came into the cabin. "Go to the kitchen, and get this man some leftovers from supper, if there are any." The old man turned around towards Logan, and nodded towards him. "Does it help? The food, I mean." Logan nodded, but if Ezekiel hadn't been watching him closely, he'd have never seen it. "'Tain't like nothin' I've ever seen."
The boy came back then, carrying an old, metal plate filled to the rim with beans and franks, and two heaping pieces of corn bread. "Ol' Mary Belle t'ought this was for you," the boy said, smiling widely. "She still likes you."
"Matthew," Ezekiel said, "me an' this man here have some things to talk about. Leave us be for the moment, and go listen to the music outside."
Logan watched the interplay between the old man, and the young boy. The kid obviously respected Ezekiel quite a bit. Logan, too, was beginning to respect the old slave. He was very perceptive. Not many people knew that food would help him heal faster. At first, he was not entirely sure he would tell the old man anything. He changed his mind when he asked about the food. The man would probably come to his own conclusions with or without Logan telling him anything. "I was born over two hundred years ago," Logan said slowly and evenly. "When these abilities showed up, I was taken to my uncle, who was known for his medicine. He told me that I would someday be a great warrior, and that I would lead a great many of the People into a great battle. He said I would do this because I had been touched by the Great Spirit."
The old man seemed to take it in stride. The man was thinking so long, that for a moment Logan thought he had died. He was almost surprised when the man said, "You're gonna break out, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Logan replied. He was wondering if the man in front of him was able to hear his thoughts. "How did you know?"
The old man smiled knowingly. "You got yerself a pretty wife, don't cha? She's out there. You're in here. And you seem to be a man who ain't about to let something happen to him he don't want." Ezekiel looked up at the older man. "I jus' want to know when."
"As soon as I get these damn shackles off," Logan replied. He'd had manacles on before, so it really was not anything new. He pulled at the chains, but they were new, and were not budging. But, the shackles themselves, he noted with satisfaction, were old, and rusted. He smiled to himself. There was one thing the old man had not seen yet. He unsheathed his claws as fast as he could, hoping to surprise the old man. It did, or at least Logan smelled that it did. The old slave, though, kept his poker face. He would have been a good soldier, Logan thought. He applied his bone claws to the metal.
The metal gave, but only a little. If he were to cut it like this, it would take a very, very long time. Instead, he pulled his other hand back, and gritting his teeth, brought his claws down on the metal with all his might. Logan wasn't sure it had worked, until he heard the magical sound of clinking metal. Looking down, he saw that he had cut cleanly through the cuff, and had broken the hinges. Blood was flowing freely from the three, parallel wounds where the manacle had been. But, even as he noticed them, they were healing, the flow of blood already waning.
He went through the same process with the other hand, and suffered through wounding his other arm. Finally, with the manacles on the ground before him, Logan stretched his arms behind him, smiling at the freedom. Next, he focused on the leg irons he wore around his ankles. These shackles were actually loose, and because of that, they would be much easier to remove.
Reaching down, he was able to get one of his claws between his ankle and the manacle. He pressed the bottom side of the bone blade against the manacle, and with a powerful upward thrust, cut the metal in two, the pieces falling to the floor anticlimactically. Finishing with the other manacle, he stood, stretched, and sighed. It was good to have the heavy metal off of him. "Now," Logan said, looking to Ezekiel, "what is this about an escape?"
The old man smiled. "We've been planning it for some time now." He stood up, and fetched a small stick. He began drawing in the dirt. "What we were planning is to take the guards at the west end of the plantation. On that side, there is much less security. The way we see it is that if we go that way, we could get a ferry boat ta take us north, to some free states."
"Won't work," Logan said darkly.
"Why not," Ezekiel asked. He was not offended, but rather intrigued.
"There ain't no ferry boat captain that'll do that. You'd have ta have a lot more money than the local plantation owners." He growled, his lips curled into a snarl. "And there ain't nobody 'round here richer than William Sorten."
"What do you think we should do then," Ezekiel asked.
"Go east," Logan said. "On the east side of this plantation is a forest. It goes north for about thirty or forty miles, before the trees begin to thin out. The lot o' ya could hide there until you decide where, and what ya wanna do."
"Would we have to worry about people north of us?"
"No," Logan said. "There ain't hardly nobody north of us, unless ya get close to a big city."
"I have only one question," the old man said. "What about the guards? They all have guns, and whips."
"Let me worry about them," Logan said, his eyes lighting up dangerously. "I have business at the Sorten house tonight."
Logan stalked his way towards the main house. Though he hadn't seen anyone, he still moved cautiously, a predator stalking his prey. Finally, he was close enough to the house to see that there was light coming from only one of the rooms. It looked as if someone had put all the candles in the house in one single room. Suddenly, to his left, he heard two men talking. Moving closer, he heard the sound of metal striking dirt. For a moment he was confused. Then it occurred to him. They were digging a grave. A slave, he assumed, until the wind changed direction so he was downwind. The first two scents he smelled were male and he didn't think he knew them. The third, though, he knew. It was Annie.
A wave of panic and dread washed over him as he began to walk towards the gravediggers. How did they find her? Hadn't she gone up to that cabin in the woods? These were the things he was wondering as he began to run towards them. He nearly bowled over the first of the men, large and burly with a beard that was just beginning to gray. He had seen Ezekiel talking with the man earlier. He seemed to recall his name to be Simon. The second man was Thomas, the man who he had confronted earlier. Had Logan noticed him, the man would have been dead. But, his attention was what they were holding.
Between them was a body wrapped in what looked like a bed sheet. Its feet were just poking out of one side, and long red hair out of the other. He kneeled beside the body, and unwrapped the sheet. His face turned into disgust at the sight of the body, before his eyes hardening, and his nostrils flaring. It was Anne. But, had it not been for her smell, he wouldn't have known it. Her face was cut up so badly, there was almost nothing to see but blood. From her shoulders to her knees, there was what looked like whiplashes. Her throat was cut; there was still blood on her nude chest running from the gash. That wasn't what held his attention, though. It was her smell. She was raped. But not just by anyone. It was William. He could smell the scent of William's semen on her.
He killed her. He cut her throat. He began to lose control of his rational mind. He could feel it slipping away like sand flowing through fingers. The only thing left was an animalistic rage that wanted only one thing. Kill William. Kill the man that did this. Without even realizing he did it, his claws unsheathed themselves, to the surprise of the two men watching.
Simon signaled to Thomas to move. He had heard that this man was dangerous, but was only now getting the idea of just how dangerous. He began to back up, slowly, less he attract the attention of the man in front of him. He was lucky; he was over twenty feet away when the man finally looked up. But, Thomas, who had always been slow in the head, was too close, much too close. Logan suddenly attacked Thomas with the ferocity of a cornered, rabid wolverine. Simon didn't see much, but he heard more than he wanted. Thomas' screams were incredibly loud, sounding more like a banshee than anything else. Suddenly, his screams stopped, and the only sound was an angry, inhuman growl coming from almost straight ahead of him. Simon turned, and ran for his life, never looking back. He didn't want to look back. Whatever the growl was, it would try to kill him.
Logan's bloodlust was only increased after he killed Thomas. He stalked Simon for a moment, but after the man ran, he focused back on his target: William. He looked to the house, and saw someone's shadow moving. He growled, something that would terrify anyone, and ran towards the house. He went through the kitchen, being ever so silent. He was hunting William; there was no other way to look at it. And Logan always got what he wanted.
William was in his bedroom when he heard the screams. He looked down to the slave girl in his bed, her dark skin a stark contrast to the white silk of his bed sheet. He didn't know what her name was, but he really didn't care too much, just as long as she was a good fuck. Like Anne was. Too bad he had to kill her, he thought. The little cunt had married that insignificant little blacksmith instead of him. How could she do that? He had heard the rumors around that Logan was a mountain man, and that he could kill a bear with his bare hands. Nonsense. But, what Anne said before she died had scared him. No, not scared him; it had terrified him.
"You don't know who he is, do you," she asked.
"I know exactly who he is," William replied. "He is a lowly blacksmith, who would fuck anything in front of him." Despite his bravado, William was scared. He had never expected that Anne was this … strong. Here she was, he thought, tied to the four corners of my bed, having just been given the gift of my seed, and whipped across her face. And yet, she was still defiant. A thought at the back of his mind told him she would always be that way – she was a wild spirit, who nothing could tame. "He doesn't deserve you."
"You really do not know him." Anne smiled, her face retaining its beauty despite the abuse. "Sun Tzu wrote that if you do not know your enemy, you will not when the war." She laughed, almost hysterically. "Perhaps I should enlighten you. Have you ever wondered why the Indians that sometimes come through here always want to talk with him?"
"I don't pay attention to the ways of savages," William replied.
"Perhaps you should." She smiled once again. It was a smile of someone who knows victory is at hand. "The Indians come to him because they wish to meet the living legend. Indians, you see, respect their elders. And Logan is elder to all the Indians. Those who do not respect him fear him. For you see, they know that to incur his wrath is to invite death itself into their midst. They believe he is touched by the Great Spirit." She smiled wryly. "That is one of his names: Touched by the Spirits. But he has many others. Chief among them are Sees as the Bear, and He That Cannot Die."
"What are you saying," William asked, trying his hardest not to be scared.
She smiled and laughed. And for a moment, William could have sworn he saw her as something else. He swore it had to have been his imagination, but … but the sheets were burned. He could have sworn he saw her not as a woman, but as a massive bird of prey, its entire body alive in a deadly, dancing pyre.
"Logan will kill you," she said. "He'll know what you did to me. And there is nothing you can do to stop him. You can kill him a hundred times over, and he will still take your life. You won't see him coming, and you can't hide from him. Tonight, you will die by my beloved's hands."
He had slit her throat before she could say anything else. But the way she was saying it had scared him. She had been perfectly calm, as if she cared naught whether she lived or died. Her voice had such conviction, that he had begun to believe it himself. And the flaming bird – that was something he was sure he had to have imagined. He had finally convinced himself he had been delirious, and that she had been playing with him. There was nothing Logan could do to him. He believed this up until he heard the first screams.
He ordered the girl to stay where she was, naked on the bed. He went downstairs to find his rifle. If Logan was going to come for him, he was going to be ready. The candle he had from his room was only lighting up a little of the area in front of him. Unlike his bedroom, where he had concentrated so many candles that there was no place left without light, the rest of his house was almost pitch black at night. Now, he realized, it had been a mistake to try to create a romantic atmosphere with that whore Anne.
William reached his gun cabinet without a problem. Taking his key out of his house-coat pocket, he nearly dropped it. God, why am I so jumpy? The reason is because I have a pissed off Canadian mountain man trying to take my head. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. What would Logan try to do? He was still in the slave house, wasn't he?
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud from the dining room. He finally unlocked the cabinet, and pulled out his rifle. He rifled in the drawer underneath the cabinet, and found a box of the rifle's ammo. He loaded the gun, and put the rest of the bullets in his pocket. Gun cocked, he left the den, and walked into the darkness of his house. Damn. He couldn't carry his candle while he was carrying his rifle. He would have to rely on his night vision, which, to his relief, was beginning to adapt. He made his way towards the dining room, where he heard the thud.
He entered the dining room cautiously, trying not to accidentally fire the gun. If he did, he would give off his position. He saw that one of his chairs had been knocked over. He knelt down and gently lifted the chair back on its feet. Once he let go of it, it fell back down. On careful inspection, he saw that two of the legs had been cut off. They were cleanly cut off, like a hot knife through butter. He pricked his finger on something on one of the legs. Taking it out of his finger, he saw that it was a splinter. But it was white. It was a bone splinter. How the hell-
"I'm gonna make ya die real slow, bub. You ain't never felt the amount of pain I'm gonna make you feel."
"Logan, come out here you goddamn coward!"
"I ain't the coward, bub. Yer the one that's scared. An' if you don't put down that gun, yer gonna poke someone's eye out."
William had been following Logan's voice. As Logan finished speaking, he shot. The flash lit up the room. He saw Logan just three feet in front of him as a bullet hit him square in the chest. William heard a loud thud as Logan's body hit the floor. Confident that he had killed Logan, he made his way back to his den to put his gun away. As he went to put the rifle back in its resting place, he heard screams coming from his bedroom. Quickly picking up the candle he came down with, he ran into the dining room. He searched the entire room, and found no trace of Logan's body, save a small pool of blood.
He ran up his stairs to his room. All the candles were out. His bedroom was now as dark as the rest of the house. He made his way to his bed, and found that the slave girl was no longer there. The bed was still warm, though. He began to search the room. The bitch was nowhere to be seen. It was then that he noticed that he didn't have his rifle. He suddenly felt uneasy, as if there was a pressure at the back of his skull. He was being watched. Turning around, he nearly died from shock. There, less than three arm lengths away was the man that had become his nemesis. "L-Logan. H-H-How did you do that?"
"You mean survive a gunshot to the heart? Didn't Annie tell ya? I heal fast. You can't kill me."
"Oh God." William suddenly felt a rush of warmth in the crotch of his pants. He looked down to see a puddle forming around his feet. William began backpedaling towards the window. That was what she was talking about. I can't kill him. There's only one way I'm going to get out of this. He looked towards the window. He looked back in the direction of Logan, and made his decision. Turning towards the window, he broke out into a flat run. He ran right into the window, felt the shards of glass hit him, and the cool night air around him. A sudden, sharp pain sprang forth from his left ankle as his feet left the window. Looking up, he saw something in his leg.
It was a single, bone claw. The claw belonged to a heavily muscled arm, which belonged to a face William didn't want to see. It was Logan. The man had bone claws in his hands. The claw was in his ankle, and had prevented him from falling. As his initial surprise faded away, the pain hit him like a ton of bricks. He screamed, a loud girlish scream. But despite the loudness of his own scream, he heard Logan say one final thing.
"You ain't gettin' away that easy, bub."
Logan pulled William back inside the house, and closed the windows, shutting out the moonlight. Almost immediately, there were loud, tortured screams echoing from the large bedroom. A moment later, a large botch of darkness appeared on the window, as the screams continued.
In the morning, Sheriff Clipton, after hearing Simon Beaumont's story of some man-animal running loose on the Sorten plantation, decided to investigate. He would enter William Sorten's house, and find his body in his bedroom, blood everywhere. The man's face had been cut off, his arms and legs split down the middle like they were gutted, and all of his innards ripped out of his body.
Clipton covered his face with the bandana he kept in his pocket. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that William Sorten had met the dark side of Logan Black's personality. It reminded him of something his mother once told him. "Everyone has a dark side, something that he or she doesn't want people to see," she had told him. "All's that's different between people is what'll make that dark side surface." It was, he mused, the same dark side that that Colonel Bradham also saw. But, if it was any indication, Bradham hadn't drawn out whatever dwelt in the blacksmith as well as ol' William Sorten. The esteemed colonel had only seen the smallest glimpse.
His reverie was broken when he heard Gabe Potter, his lazy deputy, yelling from outside. At the front door, Sheriff Clipton found Gabe, his pasty face glistening with sweat, trying to catch his breath. By the looks of it, the fool had damn near pushed his horse to death's door. "Sheriff-"
"Get off of your horse, Gabe," Clipton said gently. "Your mare ain't gonna last much longer with you sittin' on her after you raced here."
The paunchy man got off his horse, nearly falling to the ground. "Sheriff," Gabe began again. "The Coopers reported seeing the blacksmith, Logan, on that white stallion of his, Lightning, running towards the Judge's house." Gabe paused. "They said he an' his horse were dressed up in war paint, an' that he was screamin' somethin' terrible." When Clipton didn't seem to respond, Gabe asked, "Well, Sheriff, ain't we gonna go after him?"
"No," the Sheriff responded. "Logan's already killed Judge Frasier. And we ain't gonna go after him 'cause they weren't his victims."
"What," Gabe asked. "Course they were his victims."
"No they weren't," the Sheriff said tersely. "Frasier and Sorten waged war on Logan and Annie. No matter what they did, they would have lost." He neglected to say why. Deep down, though, he thought he knew. Logan was something more than human. But, he would never say it to Gabe. Instead, he said, "They underestimated their enemy."
"Their enemy," Gabe repeated incredulously.
Instead of answering his deputy, Clipton looked back down at the body. What was Logan that he could have done this? What could- The thought hit him like a ton of bricks. He looked down at the body before him, his eyes wide, and his face drawn. Could it be true? He crossed himself in sudden terror. Walking away from the body to regain his composure, he whispered, "Behold a rider upon a pale horse."
Logan held Annie's dead body in his arms until almost daybreak. He buried her, with a cross with her name etched into it by his own claws. He knelt beside the grave and whispered to her.
"I'm sorry," he said. It was as it had always been; as it would always be. His loved ones would die, but he … he would live on. Not for the first time he wondered why he was chosen to live this long, pitiful life.
He stood up, and looked at the grave one more time. Sighing inwardly, he turned west. He had always wanted to visit the Orient – Japan and China. Maybe now he would; though, he wasn't entirely sure. But, he did know one thing.
It was time to move on.
"Jeannie," Logan said, abruptly opening the door. "We need ta talk."
"I know," she said. She turned from the window, and sat down on their bed. "I know." She patted the space next to her for him to sit down.