I "stole" the name Ophelia for the hero/princess from the stories of "Well I don't mind", because I thought it was a perfect name and I did not wish to rename her, but credit goes to them for that.

"The people are baying for your blood, Logan." Ophelia's voice rang out coldly through the stone-walled room. Her cold words echoed off the cold stone. "Some say I should spare you… after all, you did what you had to do. But the people don't understand that. They see the tyrant who has made them suffer for all these years, and they want him dead. No one would miss you, Logan." The queen of Albion walked back and forth, slowly, deliberately, never taking her eyes off her brother who knelt, hands bound behind his back. The sharp sound of her heels clacking on the stone echoed in the former king's ears.

"Do what you have to do, Ophelia," Logan growled in a low voice. He was prepared for death. After all these years, after all he had been through, after all he had experienced… death was inevitable. Death was almost welcome.

"Ah…" she responded in a calm, collected tone of voice. "I said the people wanted you dead. And there are some, including that sentimental fool Walter, who think that I should spare you. But I don't care what they want." She slowly, deliberately removed her sword from its scabbard. Logan was dimly aware of the faint red sheen that her blade displayed in the dull light. "Death, my dear brother… death is too good for you."

She touched the tip of her blade lightly against her brother's chin, tilting his head up and forcing him to look at her in the eyes. Logan grimaced slightly but made no sound and gave no response to her words. His face was tired, grey… The pride and arrogance that had usually glinted in his eyes had gone out like a light, and the uniform he had once worn so proudly looked ironic on such a broken man.

But Ophelia wouldn't settle for that. She would break him further.

She pressed the tip of the sword against his throat with a little more force, allowing the sharp blade to cut slightly into the skin, drawing just a little blood. She was going to take things slowly; after all, there was no hurry.

"Take your shirt off," she commanded him, her voice regal, if terrifying.

"Excuse me?" His eyes narrowed. He may have been in a hopeless position, but as the former king, he was not about to hand her the remains of his dignity that easily.

"I said take it off," she said again.

"I refuse."

"Very well." She snapped her fingers and two of the guards that Logan had barely noticed standing against the wall came forwards. "Remove his clothing."

Two of the guards that had once been his guards; that had once listened to his orders, done his bidding. The ultimate humiliation. He gritted his teeth as they forced him to his feet and ripped the shirt from his body, forcing him roughly to the floor once again. At a snap of her fingers, they beat him and kicked him with a violence that he had never expected. Kicks that felt like they could shatter bones, punches that bruised deep into his muscles, booted feet stamping on his limbs until he cried out with pain.

Ophelia watched with a muted detachment. Disinterest, even. When had she become this detached, he asked himself through the haze of pain. When had she become so cold, so cruel? He had done some terrible things, but he had never done them out of pure sadism.

A sharp cough from Ophelia broke off the beatings. Logan lay on the floor gasping and attempting to regain his focus and his breath. "Sit up. Sit him up."

The two men grasped Logan roughly by the shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position. He eyed Ophelia's blade as she brought it to his chest, before making a short, sharp cut. The cold metal sliced through his skin like a knife through paper, tearing sharply. A neat, clean cut. A neat, clean cut that hurt like all kinds of hell. For the first time, a small smile crept across her lips. Logan's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, but he did not make any other sound. He was used to pain, he could handle it.

It was going to be a while, however, before she would tire of this game. A deeper, longer slice right across his chest. A short, sharp slash across his middle; cuts to his arms, shoulders and chest. Deep enough to be utter agony, but not to cause significant bleeding. For a young princess, she knew far too much about how to inflict pain without serious, life threatening injury.

She stepped back a little to admire her handiwork. Her brother was shaking, sweating and turning the colour of sour milk. Deep red lines criss-crossed his bare torso. She was pleased, but it was not enough.

Ophelia beckoned to another guard at the side of the room. She took the man's torch from him and inspected it. Logan shuddered; it wasn't too much of a stretch of the imagination to surmise what she had in store. She pressed the burning implement against his bare skin, careful not to allow the flame to go out. It wasn't an easy task to elicit a scream from this man, but she managed it. His gasps turned to searing cries and screams of pain as she cremated his bare flesh.

"Stop," he gasped. Begged, in fact. "Ophelia… If you have any decency left in you, just kill me."

She laughed softly and pressed the burning metal against the skin of his chest. It was a few minutes before the screams subsided enough for her to get some sense out of him.

"What has happened to you?" he growled through clenched teeth. "You are not my sister. You are not the girl I knew, Ophelia. You have gone too far. Stop this madness, Ophelia; stop it before it is too late, before you go beyond redemption."

"Redemption? You speak of redemption, Logan, but it is you who has handed down death and judgement upon our people for years. It was you who sentenced innocent people to death, you who had Elliot killed. You wish, now, for redemption? You wish, now, for forgiveness?"

"I don't ask for forgiveness, not from you, not from anyone. I did what I did because I had no choice. You have a choice about this, yet you choose to use your power to punish me. I don't deny that I deserve your anger, your punishment, but not like this. You may be the queen, you may have power, but this is no way to rule Ophelia. This is no way to live your life."

"Hm. It's a bit late for you to be moralising. These people obey me now," she said, gesturing to the guards, and beyond the walls to the rest of the castle. "No one will judge me for punishing you. You forget, no one but me knows the truth. No one but me knows the real reasons for the way you have ruled Albion. You will forever be remembered as a tyrant and a murderer, whereas I will be loved and admired as the hero and saviour of Albion. Remember that, Logan, as you rot in your cell."

"Then the sister I once knew is lost forever. Perhaps people do believe that you are a hero, but sooner or later they will see your true colours, mark my words."

"How dare you." She kicked the kneeling man to the ground and brought her foot to his throat, choking him. "You want me to kill you, but I am a merciful and benevolent ruler. What better way for me to show to my people that I am a kind and caring ruler than to let you live? What better way to gain their respect and love than to offer my forgiveness to my tyrant brother?" She removed her foot from his neck, leaving him gasping, his eyes watering.

"Take him to his cell," she said, with a slight smirk on her face. "See to it that he stays alive. And make an announcement that the queen of Albion has shown mercy on King Logan and allowed him to live."

With that, she turned to face her brother for one final time, turned to look into his brown eyes. "You see, Logan… what matters isn't what you or I, or even any of these guards think. What matters is what the people of Albion think. And I am simply giving them what they want."