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A Northern Tale	By : WolverMean Category: X-men Comics > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2061 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: X-Men and its characters belong to Marvel and I make no money from this publication. This is for fun only. The rest are my own creations. Trigger warnings for dubious consent, violence, blood and gore. Any and all mistakes are my own.

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I am not the only traveler
Who has not repaid his debt
I've been searching for a trail to follow again
Take me back to the night we met
And then I can tell myself
What the hell I'm supposed to do
And then I can tell myself
Not to ride along with you
- The Night We Met by Lord Huron

Evra
The sand was soft and welcoming under her body. The billions upon millions of grains provided a softer place to rest than any bed she’d ever slept in.
There was no sky above her, no puffy white clouds or golden sun shining down; the atmosphere above her was a soothing white. A white canvas that had yet to inspire an artist, a white muslin dress that had yet to be worn and washed to greyness.
This was the place where she had no name. The only thing she knew was that she was female; it was more than just knowledge, it was an innate sense of self, who she was beyond the water and sand. It was more that the globes on her chest and the slit between her legs.
It was peaceful here. She was never afraid here.
She’d been here fairly recently, the sand still warm from her previous visit. Her fingers dug in easily, finding the wet, clumpy stuff underneath. It wedged under her nails leaving dark, gritty half moons. She wasn’t worried; they would wash away once she got into the water.
She rose and moved towards the water line, stopping to dip a toe in. She always did it but never knew why. The liquid was viscous— more of a syrupy quality than water—and it was always temperate.
It felt good as she waded in, the smooth, thick liquid lapping against her skin. She waded out further and slipped onto her back, enjoying the bright nothingness above her and the weight of the water.
A look to her right brought the shore back in to view. It was empty of sunbathers and swimmers. Instead, two dots appeared, one black, one not.
The fist dot was black, in the shape of a wolf. She knew that wolf. It lived inside of her. The not black dot revealed itself to be a tiger, not a big one, but its orange and black stripes were bold and bright. Somehow, she knew this tiger lived inside her now too.
Both animals seemed happy to see each other, scenting and licking each other, nipping at the other playfully.
She watched them tease each other good-naturedly, pleased that her friends were getting along. It was going to be unusual to be both inside, but she could do it. If anyone could do it, she could.
She felt rippling underneath her, disturbing the liquid, and then something brushed against her leg.
Something breached the water, a huge wave of water exploding around it and the whiteness, the beach, the wolf and tiger vanished and she was underwater, the thick liquid filling her mouth and lungs as something pulled her down, down, down, so far down she didn’t think she’s be able to find the surface.
Desperate, she kicked at the thing as hard as she could. She must have connected because the claws released and she pushed herself as far away as she could, aiming herself in the direction she thought was up.
Gasping, she broke the surface and started to swim towards the shore where she spotted the wolf and tiger. They had merged to become one animal and it was pacing, agitated, unable to set foot in the water in order to save her.
She felt the rumble before she heard it. The vibration caused the liquid to ripple as it moved up and out so that it filled the very air around her.
A giant blonde tiger surface a few feet behind her and lunged at her with its giant paws, its claws extended. It was massive, bigger than her, bigger than her wolf-tiger, and it wanted.
Oh, god, it wanted.
It wanted her.
Deep down, she knew she should try to get away, try to escape the very real threat that was in front of her but she didn’t. She eyed the tiger as it swam towards her, smiling at her with long, sharp canine teeth, teeth that could easily rip her apart.
She shivered. In fear or in delight, she didn’t know.
There was no resistance from her.
The blonde tiger collected her in its paws gently, pulling her close to its massive body. She couldn’t move as the blonde tiger stared at her, licking its large, jagged teeth. Slowly, those teeth moved towards her until they were at her neck.
“Victor,” she thought she said but maybe she didn’t because names were not permitted here.
Either way, the blonde tiger didn’t understand or care. Its teeth sliced into her neck, digging deep, pulling away chunks of her flesh as it feasted, licking at the blood before it escaped her body to cloud the water.
It felt good.
She was limp as the blonde tiger kept dragging her down and down into the murky depths. It was going to be okay, though.
She could take it.
She could always take it.

Jasmine
Jasmine had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming when she saw Victor Creed in Madame O’s.
She knew by correspondence that he wasn’t dead, but he was supposed to fighting in the war, not coming to northern Alberta to partake in whores. Whores could be bought anywhere; there was nothing special about Madame’s.
When James Howlett had come through, she didn’t think much of it, but she should have known better. Creed hardly let Howlett out of his sight much less let him travel alone.
Dreams of that night still haunted her; visions of her Ma, Pa, and sister Pauline being ripped to shreds by a monster who masqueraded as a man, a large blonde creature named Victor Creed. The blood and the screams never left her alone.
It didn’t matter how the feral had come into her family’s life, she only cared about what he had done to her family. She only cared that she had left to fend for herself in Ireland and had managed to hide on a ship on its way to Canada.
It was there that Jasmine met others like herself, people who had lost loved ones to the rabid animal Creed. They were a group—a family—that took Jasmine in and showed her their ways.
She was taught how to spot a feral and how to kill one on sight. When she was deemed ready, she was sent to stay with Madame Olive Johnson, a woman who owned and operated a bordello in Fort McMurray, Alberta.
Olive was one of them, but she was not a fighter; she was a spotter, someone who alerted the Family when a feral was seen around her territory. She also mired herself in research, taking copious notes and burying herself in books.
Jasmine was a little afraid of the odd-looking woman—Olive was tough and shrewd, but sometimes there was a bit of madness in her smart grey eyes. However, between the two of them, Jasmine and Olive had managed to rid the world of three ferals.
Evan Kitney was supposed to be the fourth, but here it was two years later and the feral was still alive. Then Victor Creed came.
Jasmine had not slept well the past two days.
The first night, Evan had not come back to the bordello until the early morning. The second, she’d seen Victor Creed carrying Evan’s limp and unconscious body to his hotel room in the light of mid-morning.
The large man had come down multiple times to eat, to ask for clean washing up water, to demand clean sheets, and to drop off clothes to be laundered. Evan had not come down once.
It scared her because she knew what a man like Victor Creed was capable of and she didn’t want to think that Evan had the same capacity for evil within. Evan was kind, attentive, loving, perfect, everything Jasmine wanted.
That wasn’t to say that she didn’t know about the hunting, the chasing of prey, the need to the fight, but that was common in all ferals. It didn’t have to progress any further than those needs. It didn’t mean they all had to become monsters.
Jasmine refused to have that happen to the love of her life.
This wasn’t her first mission but it was the first one where she’d broken a rule—the most sacred rule: never fall in love with a feral.
Had she meant for it to come this far? Of course not, but she’d never met anyone like Evan before in her life, someone who forged their own way, who was strong and sturdy, who knew right from wrong, who kissed Jasmine like their lives depended on it and made her feel things no one else had ever made her feel.
It had been hard not to fall in love.
Then Victor Creed had to come along and spoil everything because if he was here, that meant The Family weren’t far behind. They would come and see how badly Jasmine failed and then they would kill Evan.
They would take away the only thing in her life that made it worth living. She wasn’t going to let that happen.
The morning found her hiding in shadows of the dining room, content that the smells of eggs, bacon, and steak on the grill would cover her scent. Once she saw Victor Creed come down, a smug smile on his face, and head towards Madame Olive’s office door, she scampered up the stairs and made her way to his room.
The door was unlocked and swung open noiselessly at the slightest push. She slipped in quietly.
Jasmine’s heart clenched when she saw Evan sprawled on the bed, the sheet barely covering the small but powerful body. Rust coloured hair was a shock against the whiteness of the pillowcase, the beautiful green eyes still shut against the light of the morning.
She crept to the bedside and knelt, reaching out a hand to brush her lover’s cheek gently. “Evra,” she whispered. “Evra, please wake up. Please.”
The other woman stirred, her eyes blinking into wakefulness. She turned her head and smiled at Jasmine, taking her fingers and kissing them softly. “Tol’ you t’ call me Evan when we’re in Madame’s,” she said, those perfect Cupid’s bow lips parting with a yawn.
Jasmine fought the urge to press a kiss to those lips and spared a glance over her shoulder. “You have to get up,” she said quietly. “We have to leave before Mr. Creed comes back.”
Evra’s face was puzzled as she pushed aside the sheet. “Why?”
Jasmine stood and began to collect her lover’s clothes. “Please, there’s not much time—“
A strong hand on her shoulder her spun her about and she found herself looking into Evra’s eyes. “What’re you natterin’ on about?”
Jasmine dropped her eyes immediately. Keeping eye contact with a feral when upset or agitated could set them on edge. That was the last thing she needed.
“You’re in danger, Evra,” she said softly. “We need leave.”
“Leave? But—“
Jasmine raised her eyes and her voice. “Victor Creed is a dangerous man. I don’t know if he’s done anything to you, but you’ll end up dead if you continue to keep his company.”
Surprisingly, her lover didn’t bristle or try to challenge her. “What d’ya mean?”
Relief washed over Jasmine; Evra was listening. “Get dressed, gather a few things and meet me in our regular spot by nine,” she said. “I’ll explain once we’re there.”
Evra took her hands in her own and stepped forward, leaning down to kiss her firmly on the mouth. Jasmine moaned and opened her lips, letting Evra’s tongue stroke hers unyieldingly. Her lover moved closer and Jasmine became aware that Evra was naked, her breasts pressing against her.
“Stop,” Jasmine gasped, pulling away. “Please, tell me you’ll be there.”
Evra tilted her head and gave her a smile. “I’ll be there.”
She gave her lover another small kiss and fled from the room, her hopes flying high. Soon, she and Evra will be away from here and safe. They could find a nice, small farm to live on and spend the rest if their lives together.
Love could make one do foolish things.

Dr. Remy Laurent
He is picking his way through the destruction, hoping to find someone—anyone—that was still alive. Dust was blowing hard and Remy adjusts the kerchief he’s tied around his mouth. He’s unable to keep it from blowing in his eyes, so he almost misses the man who is crying quietly.
“I am Doctor Remy Laurent,” he says, kneeling down next to the man. “Let me look at your wounds.”
“No!” screams the man, trying to pull himself from Remy’s grip. “If there’s monsters like that in this world, I’d rather be dead!”
“Monsters aren’t real, m’sieur,” Remy tries to keep his voice soothing, but he’s not even sure if he believes his own statement. Looking out over the plain, seeing the shredded canvas tents and the carved up bodies strewn over the dirt makes him reconsider.
“What happened?”
“Monsters!” the man shrieks. “Two monsters, growling and ripping and tearing everything apart. One yellow, one dark. Oh, Jesus! The screams—THE SCREAMS!”
Before Remy can react, the man pulls out a small gun and presses it to his temple. He reaches out the grab at the man’s arm, but the gun pops and the man tumbles to the ground, yet another person Remy could not save.
He manages to keep the tears from his eyes as he gets to his feet and begins to walk again. Every person he comes across is dead, torn to shreds; some are almost unrecognisable as human beings because they have been turned into bloody mush.
“Do not bother, my boy,” says a cultured voice from the cloud of dust. “They are all quite gone. To a better world than this, one would hope.”
The wind ceases and Remy is able to see the man who has spoken. He is tall, dark haired, with a matching goatee. He is impeccably dressed in dark trousers, and a caramel coloured jacket. A scarf completes the look.
“Are you a praying man, sir?” the man asks, taking a step towards Remy, as if the death and destruction at his feet doesn’t bother him in the least.
“Non,” Remy replies, pulling down the kerchief.
The man chuckled. “Nor am I,” he said. “What is your name, young man?”
Remy is a polite man, raised with manners and breeding, so despite the strange feeling he’s getting, he reaches out a hand. “Doctor Remy Laurent.”
His hand is met with a firm grip and shook confidently. “A doctor, you say? I am one myself—Doctor Nathaniel Essex. But I am more a man of research. Evolution and that.”
“Forgive my rudeness, m’sieur,” Remy says, gesturing to the corpses and devestation around them. “but dat has nothin’ to do wit’ dis.”
The smile that stretches across Essex’s face unnerves Remy. “Oh, my dear boy,” the doctor replies, “that’s where you are dead wrong.”
~*~*~
His eyes snapped open and it took a few seconds for him to realise where he was—on the cot next to Marty’s in the nurse’s room—he’s not back in Coalspur surrounded by piles and piles of bloody corpses.
Remy ran a hand over his sweat-soaked face and sat up, noticing it was midmorning. His body was screaming for him to go back to sleep. The last few days had him run off his feet with Old Lady Winslow’s fractured tooth, Charles Hessler breaking his arm, Nancy Thurman’s baby deciding to make its appearance two weeks late, Marty being beaten half to death, and Connor McLean’s boil.
To say he was exhausted was a complete understatement but his work here never seemed to be done. Fort McMurray was a desolate place, not at all the kind of town Remy had been expecting to end up when he became a doctor but, in his chosen profession, he went where he was needed.
He was Acadian—born and raised in New Brunswick. He and his parents were the only ones left in the family that remained in the Dominion; many of the others had left for New Orleans, down in the American state of Louisiana, looking for work. Infrequent letters from them painted the place as a warm and wonderful Utopia with large cotton and sugar crops and jobs aplenty.
Remy had dreams of one day heading down and meeting up with his aunts, uncles, and cousins, but the plight of a doctor was never an easy one. Fort McMurray needed him, so here he stayed.
He slowly got to his feet and went to Marty. The man’s pulse was strong and sure, so he crossed the room to sit at the counter where his notebook lay. Remy dutifully recorded the time it had taken Evra to heal Marty as well as her own recovery stage. It seemed that it had taken less time for her to both mend and recuperate than it had the last time.
His colleague, Dr. Nathaniel Essex would be interested in that fact, Remy noted, and scribbled down a reminder to include it in his next letter. With a sigh, he leaned back and rubbed at his eyes.
He knew he shouldn’t be thinking of Evra. She was thirteen years his junior and involved in a relationship with Jasmine but that didn’t seem to stop him from conjuring her image time and again. Sometimes it made him feel like a dirty old man.
Remy’s affection for Evra had grown over the years, ever since the minute he’d laid eyes on the small, tough scrapper, a fifteen-year-old kid named Evan Kitney. The boy had been belligerent and arduous, refusing to remove his clothes. Of course, he found out why later, but it was too late by then.
He was already quite taken by the kid, by the swagger and robust nature in which Evra conducted herself. She was incredibly strong, never backed down from an opponent bigger than her, and always managed to grind her challengers into dog meat.
Remy never pictured himself being attracted to someone like that; he’d always envisioned settling down with a genteel woman, a lady who would be content to bear his children, darn his socks, cook his dinner and do it all with a smile.
Now that dream seemed silly, like an extension of the man he used to be. A sophisticated woman could never be happy being dragged all over God’s creation, being forced to settle in some small village or town where the people were rough and made their living off the land, a place where the climate was just one more thing that could kill you.
Remy needed a woman who was sturdy and durable, a woman who could handle herself in any situation, a woman like—
He shook his head to clear it of those asinine thoughts.
But then again, the arrival of this Victor Creed and the attention he paid Evra aroused jealousy in Remy, especially after the large man had the audacity to act as if she were his and his alone. Not only that, there was something odd about Creed, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Remy didn’t like how the man looked at her, how he touched her.
He knew he was being foolish; Evra could certainly take care of herself and she didn’t need Remy riding in on a white horse to her rescue.
He thought briefly of composing that letter to Dr. Essex or perhaps going to Creed’s room to check on Evra, but the pull towards sleep was too strong. Correspondence and jealousy disguised as check-ups could wait until later.
Lack of sleep could make one do foolish things.

Madame Olive
Olive Johnson was never a beautiful woman. She’d been an ugly baby and an even uglier toddler. Her awkward teenage years eased some of her dreadful looks, puberty helping out where it could—but it could only do so much.
She lived her life never expecting to get married of have any kind of sexual relationship; her father suggested Olive do the world a favour and join a convent, keep her unsightliness hidden from the rest of the world.
It was an idea she seriously considered—until she met Heath Feldman.
Heath Feldman was the son of a wealthy landowner, who happened to be a friend of her father’s. The young man was bright, having been educated at the newly established University of Alberta where he studied mathematics. He was accomplished and handsome and a man that most fathers would want to marry off their daughters to.
Olive and Heath had never met formally until a dance hall event being thrown by a shared associate of their fathers. It was really a party to celebrate the coming of age of his youngest daughter, so young men and women from around the area were invited in the hopes that the young girl might find a suitable match.
She was older than most of the men and women at the party, her invitation extended more out of propriety than the actual want of her company. She was already in her early 30s, an old maid in comparison to the twenty-somethings around her.
Oscar, Olive’s younger brother, was the complete opposite of his older sister. He was handsome but dim-witted and always the life of any party. This particular night found Oscar doing just that, laughing and joking, dancing with any pretty lady who caught his eye.
Olive was content to sit in the corner, having the foresight to have brought a book. She was enjoying the prose of Jack London when a shadow fell over her, effectively blocking her light. She looked up to find a young man around her age standing next to her, studying her intently.
It didn’t bother her; she was used to people staring at her odd looks, so she went back to reading her book. A few moments passed before the man cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Is that Call of the Wild you’re reading?”
Olive didn’t glance up. “Yes,” she replied.
There was shuffling and scraping as the young man pulled up a chair and sat down across from her. “I must admit my surprise that a lady of your stature wouldn’t be frightened by the descriptions of such violence.”
She closed the book and placed it on her lap, perturbed. “You do not know me at all,” she retorted, acid in her voice. “I am not easily frightened nor am I a swooning, foolish caricature of womanhood. Life is full of violence and pain and if one thinks otherwise, they are imprudent.”
The young man didn’t seem taken aback by Olive’s harsh and unladylike words. Instead, he smiled at her and held out a gloved hand. “My name is Heath Feldman and it is beyond a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Olive finally looked up into the face of the man who would change her life. His touch, even through the fabric, was electric. “I am Olive Johnson,” she said, “and you are wasting your time with me.”
Heath laughed, the sound lighting up his hazel eyes. “Oh, I doubt very much you’re going to waste any of my time, Miss Johnson,” he replied with a charming smile. “I doubt that very much.”
~*~*~
Heath was relentless in his pursuit of Olive, much to her father’s surprise.
Olive was twelve years Heath’s senior, certainly well past childbearing age, and if she managed to produce a child, there was no guarantee that it would possess any of the young man’s good looks. Mr. Johnson couldn’t fathom why such a handsome young man would want to woo his oldest daughter but he allowed the relationship to continue, more out of curiosity than anything else.
A year of courting led to a proposal, which was happily given. The couple were to be wed in the spring in six months time. Both Heath and Olive were elated, happy they were to become man and wife.
Of course, being betrothed meant that chastity must be upheld for the upcoming wedding night, but Olive had lost the right to wear white eight months before the proposal had been made.
Heath was happy to teach her the art of mathematics, the art of business, and more importantly, the art of lovemaking.
They were content to be in each other’s arms, slick with sweat and breathless from exertion and it didn’t matter where; the Johnson’s barn, the Feldman’s empty sitting room, the water closet of an acquaintance—wherever they could be alone.
The night of the proposal was no different; the couple snuck out to celebrate down by the river that snaked through the Johnson’s seemingly endless property where they wouldn’t be seen or heard. It would be just the two of them in the darkening autumn dusk, getting drunk on the pleasures of each other’s body until they were sated. It was going to be sheer happiness.
It was not to last.
An hour later found them satisfied, Olive curled in the crook of her future husband’s arm, her head resting on his naked chest. Dusk was beginning, its indigo light unfurling over the orange, snuffing out the brightness of the day.
Olive raised her head and looked down into Heath’s dark hazel eyes. “Why do you love me?”
It was a foolish question—a foolish woman’s question, she knew—but it was suddenly imperative Olive know the answer. He placed a sweet kiss on her lips and opened his mouth answer, but that’s as far as he got.
A loud roar shook the earth—the sound of a creature that was half-crazed—and Olive found herself being dragged away from Heath, screaming as sharp nails pierced into the skin of her legs.
Something large threw itself on Heath and the oncoming darkness didn’t let Olive see much, only a giant shadow. Her fiancée was trying to scream but all that came from him were gurgled cries filled with blood as the creature tore him apart. There were snarls and snaps of teeth as blood and chunks of her lover’s flesh flew everywhere and all she could do was scream.
A hand clamped over Olive’s mouth and she was pulled up tight against a small, firm body. “Don’t,” said a rough voice. “Let ‘im finish an’ maybe he won’t do you next.”
The man smelled of wild, of sweat and mud and blood and skin and heat. As much as Olive wanted to struggle, she was frozen in horror as Heath was devoured by the monster. Tears cascaded down her cheeks—tears of terror and helplessness—but she remained quiet, not wanting the attention of the creature.
She had never been more frightened in all of her life and she was sure the man holding her could hear her heart beating as if to escape from her chest.
“Good girl,” whispered the man as she trembled. “It’ll be done soon.”
He was right; only a few more moments passed before the fiend sat back with a satisfied sigh, Heath an unrecognizable bloody pulp before him. Olive whimpered behind her captor’s hand and the creature whipped around to look at her.
It was a man, but there was no humanity in his amber eyes. His long blonde hair fell to his waist tangled, unwieldy, and streaked with the blood of her dead love. The man’s face could be considered handsome if it wasn’t twisted into a vicious snarl filled with sharp teeth stained red. He was huge, muscular, with broad shoulders and he moved like a tiger, all ripples and bunched strength under his skin.
“What do we have here?” he growled in a deep bass voice.
The man who held her turned her away slightly. “Leave ‘er alone, Victor,” he said harshly. “You’ve eaten yer fill.”
The large monster—Victor—picked at a pointed incisor with a long, lethal looking nail, then ran his tongue over his lips. “Jimmy,” he replied. “I ain’t never had my fill.”
“I said leave her!” The small man’s voice was loud enough to make the other one put up his hands.
“Fine, fine,” said Victor, “but I’m gonna have a little fun first.”
The smile he gave Olive was full of teeth and flesh and gore.
She would never forget it and was not shocked when she saw the very same smile many years later.
Revenge could make one do foolish things.
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A Northern Tale