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Fic: "Poor Old Soldier" R (1/1) [Logan/Rogue]

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  • Nadja Lee
    Poor Old Soldier By Nadja Lee English is not my native language. Please forgive me my mistakes. Disclaimer: “X-men” and all the characters here belong to
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 12, 2002
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      Poor Old Soldier
      By Nadja Lee
      English is not my native language. Please forgive me my mistakes.
      Disclaimer: “X-men” and all the characters here belong to Marvel , 20 Century
      Fox and I intend no infringement, this is a piece of amateur fan fiction, and I
      make no money of it.
      Only the original idea contained within this work is the property of the
      author. Please do not copy this story to any website or archive without
      permission of the author.
      Timeline: Set in the movie universe. Set after the movie.
      Universe: Set in the movie universe.
      Romance: Logan/Rogue
      Summary: How does Rogue react to Logan’s nightmares?
      Archiving: Want, ASK, take, have.
      Feedback: Yes, please. My e-mail address is nadjalee2000@...
      Rating: R
      Sequel/series: Comparison piece to “Poor Soldier Boy”.
      Dedicated to whose who were there.


      * * *





      ”Poor old soldier, poor old soldier

      If ever I ‘list as soldier again

      The Devil will be me Sergeant!”

      - Hagman, “Sharpe”



      * * *



      I heard him from my room, the mumblings and unvoiced screams. The others can’t understand, they don’t know what he’s going through. But I know. I know – because I’ve been there, through him I’ve felt what he feels.

      I get up from bed and walks to his room and enters, making sure I close the door behind me. I stand in my nightgown that covers my entire body, complete with gloves, and looks at the man I love. His face is twisted with pain and words are forced from his lips. It’s nothing but a dream but I know his agony was real once and that breaks my heart.

      When I was first in this room, in his bedroom, he almost lost his life at my hands…but it also bind us together stronger than any force on Earth could. Inside my mind I carry all his memories, all his joys, all his pains…and all his nightmares. His desires don’t control my body anymore but he’ll never leave my mind or my heart.

      I tiptoe over the floor and climb into bed with him. I’m not afraid; he’ll never hurt me. He knows my scent now and as I reach over and hold his hand in mine he squeezes my hand ever so gently and he calms down somewhat. I lead closer to try and hear what words he’s still mumbling…

      “No, don’t…. glasses…doctor. I won’t.“

      His words give little meaning but I know what they mean all the same; he’s reliving his operation. I saw those things in my mind; doctors congratulating each other in champagne, pain, tubes, water….

      “Shoot! Help them…so many dead…monsters. Bastards! Dieses ist nicht Krieg, es ist Mord![1]“

      What nightmare is he reliving now? Which dark past has his mind entered now? Is he a soldier somewhere? Is he alone and lost? Does he fear for his life? Does he see a friend in need he can’t help? Those last words he spoke…what kind of language was it? Was it German? Has he fought in WW2? I got his memories but as time goes by I am losing them no matter how much I try to keep them. Logan’s memories are more often painful than not but they’re a part of him so I want them with me.

      Logan told me that he has fought in both the Korean and Vietnam Wars. I wonder now…. has his entire life been one great battle? I wonder, is he so much a fighter, a soldier, that he knows nothing but pain, betrayal and loss?

      No, that’s not true. When he looks at me I feel the warmth and love in his eyes, in his soul. I know he loves me. I never have and never will doubt his love for me. By heart is aching for his pain, tears is in my eyes for the lonely years he must have had but I swear I’ll change all that.

      I close my eyes and force my mind to go back, reach far, to find the part of Logan that is still with me. I want and I need to understand. I get closer, my mind gets more clouded, more complicated…. haunted. And…I’m there. It’s a dark place. I don’t like being there yet somehow it still brings me comfort for it’s a part of him. I remember what he remembers, I see battles, I see men dying, I see women running, I see children dying…I remember far away countries like Germany, Ireland, Korea, Vietnam...the Golf…. Bosnian…all blown up, buildings no longer standing, dogs running in the streets eating from corpses, escaped Zoo animals roaming the streets, an old confused lady waiting for a bus that will never arrive…….the ever present stench…God, I see it all now.

      I feel despair, I feel loss, I feel betrayal…guilt. I feel an overwhelming guilt. Guilt for all those I couldn’t help; civilians, comrades…I see them all now. Their eyes…they’re looking at me now. Hands reaching for me. No, don’t. Don’t crowd me, don’t push me! There’s too many of you! Too little of me! Don’t crowd me! Don’t crowd me!

      I lived, I survived. Why? I always survive. I feel guilty for being alive. When I walk the street and see couples fighting over whom shall drive the car I feel so angry. Don’t them know they should be happy to just be alive?! When I see a mother arguing with her kid that she won’t buy him another toy I want to yell at her. Don’t she see that she should be lucky that she has a kid at all?! Don’t she know how many mothers I’ve seen crying over their dead children’s bodies, how many mothers I haven’t meet who have begged me to take their children with me, to save them…and see the sorrow in their eyes, the despair and pain as I’ve had to walk away from them, leaving them to die. Why don’t they understand? Coming home is worse than the war itself. People don’t understand and they don’t want to. They don’t want to know about the terror, the pain, the bodies we had to bury, the stench…for years the smell of burned flesh disgusted me……reminded me…..they don’t want to know but what if I *need* to tell about it? What of me?

      War is so much simpler. I’ve seen so many of them and I’ve hated them all for in war there are no good guys. One group of people kills and tortures another, then the first group retaliates ten fold and so on. War is hell, pure and simple…but at least in war I know what is expected of me, I know what to do. In real life…all their pretend at happy end, all their desire to glorify what was terrible…they want heroes and tales of uncommon bravado; not tales of men breaking down, crying, dying screaming for their mothers, boys not yet men being made into killers, the bad food, the cold weather, the fear…bravado is loyalty between friends and not to a country…or a moment of insanity…yet they still want their paper cut outs…it stinks.

      I’ve always been surprised at how good people are at lying to themselves. People who say they’re Christians leave their neighbours to die; so much for love thy neighbour, hmm? Soldiers killing and raping women; so much for honour. Prisoners of war being tortured and killed; so much for fair play. War has no rules anymore…sometimes it all just blows apart in my brain and I fear I’ll end up hurting someone when I can’t control my anger anymore.

      I recall…I had a friend in ‘Nam. He always seemed to cool, didn’t let the place get to him, the screaming women and burning children…then six months after we got back home he blew his brains out. Only his mother and I showed up for his funeral. After all what he had been through, all what he had suffered and all he got was a country which didn’t understand him and didn’t want to and a plain gravestone which spoke nothing of his courage and bravado. People remember what they want to but soldiers haven’t got that luxury; they remember everything, it’s like a movie running through one’s brain. When first it starts you can’t stop it. It keeps running; you keep seeing the images…. bodies laying in the streets, men having been hung up on the side of their houses, women raped and children burned………hearing the noises…………screams, rain of bullets, yells of pain and fright, someone far away begging for help……….it is a nightmare that will never end.

      Sometimes it’s worse than others. Sometimes I can almost forget I was ever there, I can almost forget the faces of the people I killed or buried……….almost be happy. Almost…

      Too much! It’s too much! I can’t handle this. Pain, sorrow, guilt. It drives me crazy. I don’t have your strength. Let me out! I want out. Please………please *sob* I need…I can’t see this. Please, I can help but not from within here. Break free. Break free!

      I’m out. I’m…me again. I take deep breaths. The images…they’re fading…the sounds…are disappearing. My heart fills with sorrow, compassion and love as tears runs freely from my eyes. I gently stroke his hair. I can escape the pain but he has to live with it forever. I can’t take his pain away from him but I can try to heal him, give him a moment of peace. I can be there for him, support him, try and understand and give him the space he needs when the memories become too much.

      I lay my head on his chest and I hear his heartbeat through the thin fabric of my hood. I listen as its rhythm slows down, he grows calmer and his words of agony die out.

      As he protects me with his life so will I protect his soul with mine. As he stands before me in battle so will I stand before him in dreams. No more battles, no more silent tears for my poor old soldier. Centuries of being a soldier are enough. From now on, just be a man. The man I love.

      So, sleep easy now. No more demons will hunt you tonight, my love. Sleep easy now, sleep easy.

      As my eyes closes a smile plays over my lips for I know…no more nightmares will hunt my love this night.





      The End







      --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

      [1] German for ” This is not war, it is murder!”
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