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Rising of Surrender	By : SisterWine Category: X-men Comics > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 1361 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The X-Men and Jean-Luc LeBeau are properties of Marvel Comics. I make no claim to them nor do I earn any money for their use. This fiction is strictly for entertainment. I do not buy, sell, or steal. THIS IS FICTION. No harm intended.

Chapter List
- 1-Rising of Surrender
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
Author: SisterWine

Rating: R, NC-17 later

Disclaimer: Logan and Remy belong to Marvel Comics, 20th Century Fox and Disney Corp. I don't know own them, nor do I make any moneys off of them. Strictly for fiction and fun. No harm intended. I do not trade, buy, sell, steal or wish to slandre the X-Men. Do not sue. You won't get anything from me.

Summary: The war has ended and Remy has been released from his Hell. A stranger lives in his house and nurses him but for what cost? sisterwine75@hotmail.com.

Notes: What happened at Camp Douglas, Chicago is true. I am not hiding any information or swaying anyone to either side. My references are: "80 Acres of Hell" documentary, and random Civil War books and sites of that nature. Read with caution. For BJ and Lex (wherever he is), because they like history as much as I do.

One

May, 1865

The road had been a long one, full of twists and turns and uncertainty as Remy started home from the horrid camp he had been imprisoned in. His feet and legs were sore but his heart and soul guided him back to his family's acreage in Louisiana like he had only left a day ago, not two and a half painful years ago. The hot wool clothes weighed him down in the burning sun. His hair had grown long and had fallen in his eyes several times, each to be swatted out by an irritated hand followed by the dampened sleeve of his now-yellowed-but-once-white cotton shirt.

His own breaths seemed to echo on the empty countryside that once held bloody battles and loud, agonising pained screams of falling soldiers. He had paused on several occasions to glimpse the torn landscapes and bloodied edges, flinching once as he passed the very field where he had been taken prisoner. A cold shiver raced throughout his body as his mind replayed the events that led to his capture and the death of his beloved friend and companion. He sighed and shrugged on his way before the sun fell too deep into the horizon.

The few weeks that followed him home had been foggy and terribly gray. He supposed it was the soot that never settled from those damned noisy canons that once hailed their rackets from one end of the farmlands to the other. Perhaps, it was a mixture of the Angels above crying down their tears in the bitter cold rains while shielding their eyes in a shroud of fog from the unforgivable destruction mankind has reigned onto his brothers and fathers and sons. He could still hear the sounds of guns firing and bones cracking from the pellets ricocheting through the target's insides.

Remy had traveled for days before he lost sight of the last of his fellow prisoners. Each night, he would huddle close to the small campfire and spend the endless hours staring out, into the darkness beyond the flames, wondering when a stray Yankee battalion would come along and send him back to his outside Hell of Chicago and each night, there was none that came. Remy shook in his sleep with dreams of tortured screams and pleas from his comrades or himself.

His long, tiresome days were filled with visions of torn landscapes and broken, shattered families on both sides. Each face he saw, he searched for his own family, who must have been searching for him. How they would know where he was, or if he was still alive, he hadn't grasped yet.

Rabbits and fish were all he could catch but both animals seemed to have little on them for sustenance. The water that he drank was sifted through his hands from what little streams and ponds he crossed.

Finally, the end of his long journey drew near. Remy could see his family's fencing that bordered their large property from a quarter mile away. He began to run and hop-step as his legs grew tired quickly. At last, he was home! Just barely making it to the property line, Remy stepped down, into a slope in the ground and lurched forward, tripping himself and landing face first into a creek that ran through his land. He lay there, too tired to move. His hands refused to push himself up, out of the water that bubbled around his face from the air he breathed into it.

Big, strong hands grabbed his forearms and pulled him back, out of the water, rolling him over and then lifting his body off the ground. He was being carried but his eyelids were too heavy to open. Remy needed sleep-- and food. As he leaned his head against the thick shoulder, he mumbled, "Poppa, Remy's home." Exhaustion caught him by the sleeve and wouldn't let go for about two more days.

****

August, 1865

Remy lay on his back, head on two fluffy pillows and body under clean, cool sheets with a thin, hand-sewn quilt that his mother had made just before he left for war. He opened his eyes and slowly looked around for any sign of life. He was clean and his wounds were dressed with fresh bandages and salve. However, something about the room didn't feel like his own. The room door was on his right and the two big windows with lace curtains were on his left. He was in his parents' room. But, where were his parents?

He listened for any sign that his parents still lived in the house but couldn't lift his head without feeling the swim of nausea set in. Every time he tried to call out for his mother, his voice went hoarse and the air in his lungs felt like sand was poured into them. Finally, with a sigh and a headache, Remy laid his head back down and drifted in and out of consciousness over the next two days.

The dreams that plagued his mind were so horrible that a nightmare would be more pleasant. Dreams of the camp invaded his peace and choked out all that hope might lighten. He tossed and turned in his sleep and sometimes, the dreams felt so real that he could really feel the strong hands holding him by the arms and screaming in his ear to lay still. When the fight had gone out of him by either plain exhaustion or giving in to tears, Remy listened to the voice that spoke with gruff and harsh tones, and reclined back into the mattress but never opened his eyes to see what was real and what was fiction.

On the eighth evening, he turned his head to the door and opened his eyes to see a wooden chair with a dark blue coat, draped over the back. Remy blinked and let his mind wrap around the blue coat. "Yankee!" He screamed and jumped to his feet

in the middle of the bed. His fists balled and he stood in a fighting stance as a stranger entered the room with a covered tray of what smelled like chicken soup and pieces of fresh baked bread.

The stranger was shorter than Remy but had more muscle to him. His hair was dark and either black or brown in colour, Remy couldn't necessarily tell in the low candle light.

Remy's vision began to swim and a collage of colours started to flash behind his eyes, making him lose his balance as the stranger stepped forward to set the tray down on the chair and raise his hands to calm the crazed young man. He could see the man's lips moving but couldn't make out what the man was saying. The next thing he knew, Remy was falling backwards, tumbling off of the other side of the bed. When he opened his eyes again, he was on his side, on the hard wood floor, staring at the plaster wall, underneath the first tall window.

Again, the strong hands were on his arms and he fought the stranger that wrestled to pick him up. "Let go, Yankee!" The struggles continued as he was picked up, off the floor and placed back into bed. "Ain't goin' back dere!"

"Back where?" The stranger stopped what he was doing, after tucking Remy back into bed, and raised an eyebrow. His voice was gruff but his tone was not demanding as Remy thought it would be.

Remy scoffed and turned his head away. "You Yankees are all alike."

The man sighed and gritted, "ain't no Yankee. Canadian."

"You all Yankees ta us. T'ink you can kill us all off in dose camps an' no one say a word to how many really die, in dere. Damn Boss Sweet can jus' go to Hell." Remy didn't bother turning to look at the disgusted expression his stranger had on his face, but he knew it hurt.

Walking around to the chair, the man reached for the tray and sat down, pulling back the white linen napkin to reveal the hot food. "Hungry? I fixed what little I found in the cupboards and icebox."

"Non." Turning his head to stare out the window and into the dark sky.

The man was silent for a moment but changed the subject to addressing each other. "Name's Logan. You must be Remy. I've read some o' the letters you sent to--"

Remy's head darted back to the stranger. "Where's my family? You kill dem? Huh?!"

"Calm down, kid." Logan raised his hand in a hushing gesture but paused as Remy flinched at the movement and shied away from the conversation. "Look, it's been a long evening for you, and you shouldn't get all worked up, right now. I'll be back later to collect the tray." Logan stood and replaced the tray on the seat of the chair and quietly backed out of the room.

Remy watched as the stranger that introduced himself as 'Logan' left the room and closed the door, leaving an inch width open. He wondered where his parents were and why Logan wouldn't tell him. The more he thought about it, the more his head pounded with pain and his stomach growled in hunger.

Taking a breath and sitting up, Remy glanced at the door, first, and then back to the tray of food. "Might be poison?"

"If you want, I can taste it for ya?" Logan stood at the door with a tin cup of water. Raising the cup to his lips and taking a swallow, he offered Remy a drink from the doorway and slowly stepped into the room as Remy reached for the tray.

"Trick."

Logan shook his head as he replaced the tray on his lap, reclaiming the chair. "If I was gonna kill you, why would I be nursin ya back to health?"

Remy thought for a minute. The camp was harsh, and even the physician would only give minimal amounts of sympathy to the prisoners before turning them back out to be punished for being Confederates, again. "Can't trust blue coats." His stomach growled in its own rebellion. "But, hungry at de moment."

Handing Remy a slice of bread, Logan was taken aback as he watched the malnourished Cajun devour the piece before asking for more.

"More, boss?"

"I ain't yer boss. Just, Logan." Logan handed the confused young man the cup of water and then eased himself over to the side of the bed to sit and feed Remy the soup he'd made.

Continued.
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Rising of Surrender