Disclaimer:   I don't own the X-Men.  If I did, the main focus of every comic episode would be Ororo and Logan shagging, interrupted only occasionally by an actual plot.

Warning: This is serious AU, which deals with issues of death, dominance/submission relationships, and torture.  There will be quite a bit of violence, but no graphic sex 'cos I suck at writing it.  There is also some mild slash, but frankly, that's not what you should be worried about.  Hence the R rating – kiddies, this is your last warning.  I don't want your folks suing me for corrupting your innocent little minds.

Major points of history changed: No Weapon X project.  Logan has all his memories (including some he'd rather forget), but no adamantium.  Xavier and Magneto are a couple, and run the Xavier-Lensheer Institute for the Gifted.  Their students/X-Men are Jean, Remy, Hank, Bobby, Kitty and Jubilee.  Where are the others?... You'll see… (evil grin)

Prologue:

Somewhere in Acadia, 1676.

Logan deChasseur waited anxiously for his father to come back from the hunt.  He paced endlessly outside the little hut he and his parents called home.  He was almost thirteen now, and soon he'd be allowed to join the ranks of the men.  For the meantime, he was trying to avoid the chores his mother doled out – collecting firewood, or getting water from the river.  Let his little brothers do that.  Kids work.

There were twenty or so similar wooden shacks along this stretch of the river – fairly close to a main road, although visitors were rare.  There were a fair few children his age – he'd liked Appoline LeBeau best, but she'd left with her parents, on their way south.  They'd left behind her grandfather, Jean Baptiste LeBeau, who was the one coughing his guts out at the end hut and yelling at his mother between fits.

"Get away from me, halfbreed!  I don't need none of your MicMac nonsense!"

Logan's mother, Genevieve deChasseur, was half Mi'kmaq.  Sometimes his grandmother would come and visit.  She called his mother 'Bright Dove', and gave him the name 'Wolverine', spoken softly in her native tongue.  She told him it was a strong name, a hunters name.  Most of the families around didn't mind that his Grandmother was MicMac – people were sparsely spread, and men, it was understood, got lonely.  But Old Man LeBeau was just mean.

Never mind.  If he didn't let Mama give him the medicine, he'd cough himself to death, and that was just fine by Logan.  Right now, he had more important things on his mind – he could hear, just barely, the sound of horses hooves, thudding against the moist dirt.  Sometimes he'd tell Mama when they were coming – she just looked at him, unbelieving, and from time to time, Mrs Marcheur would overhear, and laugh, rocking her youngest son.

"That boy of yours got good hearing, Genevieve.  Guess it's his native blood!"

And lately, his hearing just got better and better.

 As soon as the horses were visible, he ran to his fathers side.  They had a few rabbits, but the LeBlanc boys were also carrying a deer between them, thin from the winter, but still good eating.  He ran up to the side of his fathers horse, like he always did – but then a wolf, closer to the settlement than usual, howled, long and loud.  Most of the horses shifted a little, but his fathers, perhaps confused by the small shape running at it, reared up – one deadly hoof coming down upon his skull.

Lazare deChasseur leapt off his horse, cradling his eldest sons still body to him.  A circle of people quickly surrounded them, Genevieve running to his side.  Then the boys eyelids fluttered and he awoke.

"Papa?"

"Hush, son"

 Lazare turned him to look at the wound that until recently had gaped in the back of Logan's head – as evidenced by the blood on his shirt, and the crowd gasped.

The wound was already almost healed, the flesh knitting itself back together, the new skin bright and pink as if nothing had happened.

"Diable…" someone hissed – perhaps Rene Marcheur?  It scarcely mattered at this point.  Many made the sign of the cross; suddenly, a cracked voice wheezed:

"Well what do you expect from the son of a half breed?"  Old Man LeBeau grinned.  "Heathens, all of them.  Marked by the devil!".  He gestured to Genevieve and her son.

"You don't talk that way about Mama!" Logan yelled, jumping up from his fathers arms.  He didn't understand quite what the fuss was about – sure, the horse had kicked him, but it mustn't have been too bad or he'd be dead.  Just lucky, that was all.

Why was everyone staring at him?

And why were even his parents backing away?

Why did his knuckles suddenly hurt, a pain like the slice of a knife?

A/N:  The area I refer to as Acadia is present day Nova Scotia/New Brunswick.  The Mi'kmaq were one of the native peoples in the area at the time.

Tell me if you think I should continue this one… trust me, it's only going to get stranger…