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Different Yet Destined

Rating: PG for now

Summary: Ororo is a princess and Logan is a pirate - well pirate Lord -

Authors Note: In this fic Ororo in the King/Lord of Scotland and Ororo in the Princess of Egypt. I chose Scotland as Logan's place of origin because during this time period Scotts were known to be "big" "burly" warriors (all characteristics that Logan posses). Almost all the characters have a Scottish accent.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the following story



Chapter 1:
The Journey

************************************************************

Portshaven, Scotland
1817

“Look there. Aint that the biggest ass you ever seen?” Peter Rasputin asked, and pointed gleefully over the heads of his shipmates.

Not daring to glance right or left lest her stomach spew forth its dubious contents, Ororo Munroe, crown princess of Egypt, kept her eyes strictly on the balding head of the passenger in front of her. She could not help but wonder, however, if some Scottish maid should be mightly offended or if, perchance, there was a prize-winning donkey upon the blessed terra firma they had almost reached. ‘Twas impossible to guess with the giant called Victor. Indeed, hiring him was near the pinnacle of folly. But boarding this leaky tub was surely the worse mistake of all. She hated the sea. When she returned to Egypt, she would ride astride for a week and never board a ship again.

The waves slapped hard against the ship’s weathered side. Beneath her feet the Melody heaved and groaned. Ororo’s stomach did the same. She pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her head.

“Ahh.” Peter sighed and shook his oversized head, apparently oblivious to the sickening roll of the ship. “Makes me ’appy just to think of the things I could do with and ass like that.”

The Melody bucked. Ororo swallowed hard and closed her eyes against the roiling misery.

“Aye, she was the finest ass I ever ‘ad she was.” Peter sighed , and Ororo realized somewhat belatedly that her hired body guard may well have been waxing nostalgic about his long lost burro for quite some time, but in that moment he noticed her expression. “You unwell, missus?” he asked. He called her that from the first, even though she had ordered him more than once to refer to her as Mrs. Mulgrave, or Widow Mulgrave. Or even Linnet, if he must. But Peter was something like an upset boulder. Once he was set on a path it was difficult to change his course. Still missus was better than some things he might call her if he knew the truth. If he knew she was a crown princess incognito, with a paid imposter on the throne. The imposters features were strikingly like hers, however a great deal had to be done to transform her dark hair into that of the snowy whiteness of the princess.

“Yer lookin’ a might green about the gills there, missus. If’n your gonna vomit, ‘twould be best if you made your way to the rail.”

She gritted her teeth. “I am not about to-” She paused to swallow and squeeze her eyes shut again.

“Tis naught to be ashamed of, missus and you’d feel the better for it.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t dare.

Peter elbowed her with a chuckle. She bounced off his arm ricocheting into a stout man holding a speckled chicken. It squawked its offense and fluttered wildly whiles its owner cuddled it to his chest and glared at her from beneath his frayed cloth cap.

She suppressed a groan and reminded herself that while Viscount Xavier might be one of the few advisors she trusted she trusted without question, he had not chosen this particular guard for either his wit or his charm.

“Ey,” he exclaimed, “there’s that ass again. “ I can see her ears.” He laughed happily. “ Perhaps I could…” he began but at that moment the man ahead of her stepped onto the plank, leaving a bit of space between them and allowing fresh air to caress her nostrils. She gulped it in, but in a second it was gone, stifled by the host of bodies jostling towards the shore.

“Me uncle Tod ‘ad him an ass one, though it wasn’t near so bid as that lady’s-”

“Cease talking about that lady’s ass,” she gritted. Perhaps her words were louder than necessary, but Victor’s expression was placidly mild as ever, but she felt the gazes of the other passengers. Remembering her intention of remaining unnoticed, she smiled and lowered her voice. “Please.”

“Have you got my trunk?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Got it right ‘ere.” He hoisted the leather-bound bag onto his shoulder, like another might lift a lute, than nodded toward the solid earth beyond. “Way’s clear.”

She glanced ahead and found with breathless relief that he was correct. She stumbled forward onto the plank, shambled down the dock and blessedly, miraculously, reached the firm soil of Scotland. Her head swarmed with the sudden cessation of movement. Her stomach boiled, but she straightened her back and glanced about. There was little to see, for bodies milled about her like eels, pushing and shoving and cutting off any hope of a better view.

“We’re to make our way to the abbey,” Peter said above the ebb and flow of the crowd. “This ain’t a good place for a lady misses,” he said. “Best not be dawdling ‘ere.”

She tried to shoulder her way through two sailors, but they were drunk and tipped her off balance. The movement did nothing to still the turmoil in her stomach. “Let Peter ‘ave a go, he said and stepping around her, thrust the crowd aside like many grains of sand.

**********

About half an hour later Ororo found herself inside a shabby dimly lit tavern, but at least it would afford her some privacy. It had taken quite a bit of convincing to get Peter to leave her here while he sought out the abbey, but in the end she succeeded. Ororo closed her eyes and willed her stomach to last a few minutes longer. Her upper lip was moist and her head was swimming. She managed to make her way to and empty booth in the farthest corner of the room. In the adjacent booth a man made a disparaging remark about her condition. His companion chuckled. She longed to confront them with the truth, but she dared not turn, dared challenge her fragile system.

She sighed and in that moment of relaxation, her bag leather valise was wrenched from her hand. The force of the motion yanked her from her seating and onto the floor. She cried out in shock, but her bag was already gone, whisked through the crowd by a ragged darting figure.

“No” she muttered in disbelief. No one tried to help. She scrambled to her feet. “Stop him! I command you to stop him!” Not a soul turned to comply, but the crowd was as thick as a London fog, barring the thief’s way. He clawed at their backs trying to get through, and in that moment she saw her chance. Snatching up her skirts she lurched after him. He turned in a panic, his face soiled, his eyes wide, and she almost had him, but at the last instant, the crowd murmured and broke. He skimmed between two elderly men, darting into the mob.

There was nothing she could do but give chase, past the laughing maid with the goat, over the drunken sod. A dappled horse reared, thrashing huge hooves over the thief’s head. He cowered away, and she took the opportunity to lunge at him, but her equilibrium was still unsteady and she tottered sideways into a man with a cane. He cursed and swung at her, hitting her in the shins. She leapt away, causing her the hood of her cloak to fall off. A hound snapped at her heels, latching onto her billowing skirts. She pivoted about, grasping her gown in both hands and swinging the mutt off his feet. It let go with a whine, and she swiveled towards the thief. She bolted after him rapidly covering the distance where the mob was thinner.

Her lungs ached in her chest, but in a moment she was upon the narrow robber. Her fingers skimmed his ragged tunic. But suddenly the crowds opened and he dashed through. She stumbled after him, tumbling into a solidly built man and tottering backward. He caught her, his hands tight upon her upper arms.

“Careful there or you’ll-” he began, then stopped short as his grip tightened around her biceps.

“The Devil!” he hissed.


She jerked back, startled as much by his dark gaze and scowl as his daring to touch her. “Unhand me!”

But he didn’t. Instead his grip tightened and with that a smile lifted his lips. “So my luck holds,” he said and laughed. “Another thief caught.”

She glared up at him, trying to catch her breath, her wits. “You’ve apprehended him?” she asked.

He canted his head slightly. His hair was slightly darker than his eyes, and a bit longer than fashion deemed proper, long thick sideburns ran down the sides of his face. “You know Victor Creed, do you?”

“Victor Creed?”

His lips lifted in the corner, as if he laughed at her. “Yonder thief,” he explained, and turned her slightly. “Do you know him?”

She jerked at her arms again. But it was a futile effort. “Of course I don’t know him. He snatched my bag and fled. Do you believe I would have asked his name before hand?”

He stared at her for a moment longer, then laughed. “I knew you were clever lass, but I must admit, I am impressed.”

“Tis easier to impress some than others,” she retorted. “Where is your Lord?”

“My Lord?” he was still smiling, looming over her like an overdressed barbarian.

“Yes, your master, whomever you answer too. The Lord of this isle preferably”

“You want to speak to Laird Howlett do you?

“Yes.”

“Laird… Logan… Howlett?”

“Yes!” She yanked away and he finally released her, she stumbled slightly. The crowd surrounding them was quiet. “I will have a word with him. And when I tell him about your treatment of the prin-” but she stopped, remembering all. She dared not tell the truth. Not here. Not in front of this self-important cretin, for she had traveled far and risked much. The crowd seemed ungodly quiet behind her and the smell of rotting fish attackin her senses, twisting her stomach.

‘Perhaps Lord Lenshur had been right’ she thought. ‘Teleere was not a place she should visit. But how could she determine a man’s quality if she had never met the man? And it was too late for a turn about now. She had set her own course and would see it through.’

She glanced around trying to find a more suitable man with whom to settle her disputes, but at that moment her stomach lurched.

Fifty feet away, above the heads of the packed crowd a gallow stood against the grey-blue sky. And upon those gallows a body swung with slow deliberation.

She gasped.

“A friend of yours?” asked the cretin. “Or is it Creed you favor?”

She tried to shift backward, away from the staring corpse, but there was no room. “What did he do?” she rasped.

“Rethinking you sins, blue eyes?”

“Cut that man down!” she demanded. “Does your Lord know of this… this….” She faltered, realized that there was another man awaiting execution- a handsome fellow with rakish golden hair. “Does your Lord know of these proceedings?”

“Aye, he does.” He watched her intently and stood too close. “In fact he is enjoying the…proceedings…even now.”

Dear Goddes! So the stories about Teleere’s rouge ruler were true. She had been entirely wrong to come. At least she knew that now, and could return to Egypt and choose another to share her throne. “Then I will see him at once!”

“Howlett?” There was laughter in his voice. Laughter at the entire situation. “Will you now?”

Rage shoke her. “Laugh at me and you will share the same hapless fate as the corpse! Now take me to Laird Howlet!”

“Tell me the game we play Darlin’ so I may know the rules?”

“You think this is a game!” she gestured wildly about her. “Take me to your pirate lord!”

He grabbed her by the arm, starling her breathless, and leaned in close, baring his razor-like teeth. “I am the pirate lord, as well you know, and you have played your last trick!” His fingers cut into her flesh.

She reared back in shock. “Let me go!”

“Go?” he laughed and pulled her closer. “I think not. In fact…” he nodded towards the gallows. “There seems to be an extra rope for you, my blue eyed thief.”

“My Lord, the hour grows late,” said a soldier from behind. “Are you ready for Creed?”

He didn’t turn toward the soldier, and in that insane moment Ororo wondered if he had told the truth. Was he really Lord Logan Howlett- the man she had hoped to marry to fulfill her uncle’s requirement and become queen regnant in her own right? If he was, then she’d been foolish.

“What say you?” he asked. “Are you ready to see your friend die? Or perhaps you would like to test the rope first?”

She tugged frantically at her arm. He tightened his grip and she cried out in pain. “Of course your light weight would hardly be a test at all. You could hang there for hours.”

“You’re mad.”

“And you’re a thief” he gritted. “But I’m not above a bit of thievery, murder on the other hand-”

“Aye murder, but perhaps you did not know that about him? Perhaps you only warmed his bed? Or did you also share his plans?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I tire or games,” he gritted. “Spill the truth or share his fate.”

She did not speak. Indeed she could not. So he grabbed her chin and turned her toward the gallows. The corpse’s eyes bugged from his head, his tongue was grayish purple. She jerked her chin free, but it was too late. Her stomach revolted. She tried to control it but there was no hope. Half digest food spilled forth, striking Logan full in the chest, plastering his blue cutaway and dripping from his double row of brass buttons.

The crowd gasped and drew back. A soldier hissed something unintelligible. From the gallows there was a scrape of metal. A woman screamed.

Logan jerked away with a curse. “Drake! No! Worthington! Stop Him!” A pistol fired then another. Ororo watched d as the man called Creed raced towards a galloping horse. A gun fired again but he had already grabbed the rider’s waist and launched himself onto the saddle. Soldiers yelled and swore, but Logan turned back to her with a deadly silence.

She backed away slightly, realizing belatedly that she should have run, escaped when she had the chance.

“Well it seem like you have accomplished your goal, my little harlot. But you forgot one thing.”

She didn’t speak, didn’t move. Couldn’t, for the hatred in his eyes held her entranced.

“We are not biased her in Scotland, we hang women just as well as men.”

She tried to voice the truth. To back away. But she could not do more than stare at the vomit that hung suspended from the black piping of his lapel. It swung gently back and forth. She watched its cadence movement for a moment, and then, like a broken marionette, she fainted.





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