A/N: Hope you guys like it! Took forever to try and get them in character, still don't think I managed it completely but...oh well. Anyway, read and review! x

Old Wounds

Lucia rises from the warm bath, her body cleansed and covered in suds of water. It is one of the rare occasions she is not besieged by her many handmaidens and even then it took some convincing to get them to allow her to bathe alone. There would be two here now –one to scrub her skin and another to wash her hair- had she not lied and told them she did not want anyone to see her scars. They were kind when she said it, assuring her that nothing could mar the body of such a beautiful queen as her, and for a time she had given up trying to get them to go away. It wasn't until they caught her crying on night that they decided perhaps it was best to leave her be.

That was four years ago and still no-one interrupts her nightly routine.

Her scars don't really bother her. It was the people she lost she had cried over that night. Elliot, Walter, Aiden –the man who she had taken as her lover not long before she became queen.

They had met one day while she was traveling through Mourningwood, where he dropped down from a tree high above her head and pulled a gun on her. He didn't care that she was the princess. In fact when she told him, he smirked and bowed sarcastically. Whether it was his utter lack of respect for the monarchy or his fearlessness, she couldn't help but feel attracted to him. He was not the most handsome of men, but he had a way with women and she was no exception. It was a few months on, at a meeting for the Bowerstone Resistance, when she saw him again. A week and one too many bottles of Portentous Stout later and she took him to her bed.

Before Aiden, the last person she had lain with was Elliot -two days before his execution- and she missed the feel of a man's hands on her body, of moans of pleasure and whispers of devotion in her ear. In those moments when he was between her legs and his mouth on her lips, she felt loved. Wanted. He was the first in a long list of men who helped her through her grief.

No, abstinence and purity are not virtues she possesses, but she is faithful.

Loyalty binds her. It is the very root of her being. To her a person's trust is as of much value as their life and she would not betray it. That said, it isn't exactly easy being permitted to bed with only one man. More so, when her husband is away and her eyes are free to wander. There is no escaping it. A body wants what it wants. She plans to give the King a demonstration of this when he returns. Perhaps then his next journey will not be so long.

Ignoring her damp mess of hair, Lucia slips on her nightgown and leaves the great expanse of the bathroom behind to check on her son. Little Walter stirs in his crib, suckling away at his thumb as she smiles down at him. He is such a good boy, her little prince. When his dear uncle doesn't go about frightening him anyway.

Long before the revolution or the threat of the Crawler hanging over his head, Logan was a man of ill temper. One day it would be because a new shipment of rifles and cannons had been lost at sea, the next there was a tiresome tax reform he had to take care of, the day after that Duchess had left muddy paw-prints on the new luxury carpet. Whatever the reason, he was always on edge. Or troubled. Or wallowing. She thought his brooding would stop once she took the throne, and that his mischievous laughter would again once fill the castle halls. But no. She is used to his outbursts. It's Walter's terrified and tearful screams she doesn't know how to deal with.

Nothing she could do would calm him. Yet within moments of Logan taking her son in his arms and humming some old lullaby she didn't recognise, the cries stopped. Even now, she cannot believe it. He is better with his nephew than she dared to hope he would be; holding Little Walter when he can, teaching him to say 'Hero', taking him for walks in the gardens when he gets restless. Anyone would think he is as much Logan's as he is hers.

Her brother's love for her son is almost enough for her to forgive him his crimes. Almost.

Lucia pulls herself away from the sleeping child and makes her way to her old quarters where her brother now resides. It seems odd, walking up these steps to visit him now when, little over five years ago, she had been escourted here by two guards at his command. Things are different now. Logan is no longer the tyrant he was when the Darkness threatened Albion. At least, that's what she tells herself as she knocks on the unforgiving oak. There are no footsteps, no scratching of bolts being removed, no exasperated sighs from the other side. Nothing. She is about to take her leave when he opens the door.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, scowling, "And at this hour. Have you forgotten you have a reputation to uphold?"

Lucia smiles and brushes past him, "I came to see how you were. Surely, there is no wrong in that."

He's annoyed, of that she is certain. He would not dare to enter her room this late in the evening when he was king. At this hour, a bedchamber is a place of intimacy, of losing oneself in another's body. To visit her brother at this time will lead to no end of wild rumours. But she doesn't care. She can't spend another night on her own. For she will only end up torturing herself with her own thoughts.

"You need to leave." He says, voice strained and impatient.

Only now does she fully take in the sight of him. Tousled dark hair, face white with a sheen of sweat, his fist clenched at his side, the deep crimson soaking through his shirt...

"You're bleeding!"

"It's fine. Please, go now."

Lucia lifts her brother's shirt to find the wound reopened. He inhales sharply as she examines the ragged, bloodied skin up close. Tiny lumps of metal graze her fingertips. This is more than a mere tear. Some of the fragments sit just beneath the skin, others are well hidden and wedged deeply into muscle. How long has he been walking around with the remains of damned bullets inside him, she wonders.

"Take off your shirt."

"I will see to it myself."

"You will do as I command."

Logan glares darkly at her and does as she says. His body is not all hard lines like most men she's seen, but elegant curves and unrelenting muscle. Lithe and dangerous. It makes him look softer, somehow, but no less powerful. He can still hold his own in battle. Can still take her hands in his and push them away. He can fight her, if he wants to. Though, he knows as much as her they are evenly matched, he makes no more attempts to refuse her.

It is the first time she has seen him unclothed since they were children and his scars are many. More than hers even. The ugliest runs from his right arm all the way across his chest. Much too long and too deep to be the result of any manmade sword. It is a claw mark and she knows full well the beast that gave it to him. His men died that day. All forty-four of them. From the looks of this mark, he could have one of them. She can taste the bile rising in her throat and swallows hard. Until now, she never realised how easily she could have lost him all those years ago.

Taking her hand in his, Logan closes the door and leads her towards the table on the far side of the room. The washbasin, the needle and thread, the dagger, it is all there. She frowns. He wasn't even going to call a doctor, or anyone else for help for that matter. Anything could have happened to him and she wouldn't have the slightest idea of it if she hadn't come.

With a shiver, Lucia shakes the thought away and lifts a bottle of wine.

"You have a problem, sister." He says, from behind her, "Perhaps you should try dealing with that before you see to me."

"Ah, but it is only a problem if I dislike it."

Logan takes the glass she proffers to him without complaint, sipping once and setting it aside just as quickly.

"I see Reaver is starting to rub off on you. Tell me, what else has he sullied in my absence?"

His voice is smooth and laced with bitterness. Under which there lies an unspoken threat.

"Nothing that I'm aware of."

His tensed throat muscles start to relax, and the corner of his lips come up in a barely visible smile. The untrained eye would not see it. But she does. She knows her brother too well. He can try to hide it all he likes, she knows he is smirking at her.

Lucia pours what is left of the wine into the bedpan and leaves it to boil on the fire. The fire iron would do just as well she supposes, but doctors say wine works best. When boiled, half a glass can purge the body's wounds of infection. It will be agony, of course, and the marks will take eons to fade if they ever do. Fortunately her brother does not indulge in vanity. He will not mourn the disfigurement of his body the way others would.

"I shall not sit by and watch you fall to waste for your wine. I have seen it happen to too many men already."

"Then be grateful I am not a man, brother."

One minute her brown eyes are on his, the next she is working the remains of the bullet out of his abdomen with the dagger. She eases the tip of the blade in between the muscle, doing all she can to work the bullet fragment out without harming him further. Logan grimaces every now and then, small, pained sounds escaping between clenched teeth, but otherwise he is quiet. A part of her wants to leave him be, reluctant to cause him any more pain, still she forces herself to keep going. If he has taught her anything, it is that cruelty and kindness are not so different.

Minutes later the first tiny metal piece fall into her blood-soaked palm. She smiles up at him, holding the tiny bullet shard between her finger and her thumb. He takes a long swig of wine and nods. Again, the dagger goes in and again she manages to work another piece out. It is a painstakingly slow process, and no sooner has she got one piece out do they start all over again.

There are nine pieces in total, four of which are so small they look like pieces of silver dust. Wiping her bloodied hands on her nightgown, she lifts the pan of boiling wine and carefully makes her way back to the bed.

"Do you need a moment?" she asks, seeing his white knuckles and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Logan shakes his head, "Let us be done with this."

Thus she tilts the pan just enough to allow the scalding liquid to drip on to the wound. By now, his restraint is all but wasted and a ragged scream claws its way out of his throat. Lucia stops, hands trembling and glances up at her brother once more.

"Do not stop." He manages between ragged breath, "You must remember, Lucia, I have been through worse. I have done worse."

The Queen of Albion is a connoisseur of pain, she has been through almost every kind and is privy to the rest, and she would like to think his words are a lie. The scars tell a different story. Steadying herself, she pours again. Wine meets skin with a sizzle. Through the fog of steam she can see his flesh melt and meld together and smell the foul stench of burning skin. His pain pains her also. Nonetheless, it is still better than stitching. The thing will not tear again and he will not bleed to death or die from infection.

When the wound is fully closed and the wine no longer bubbles against his smooth skin, Lucia places the cooled washcloth to Logan's side to ease the pain. He holds the washcloth in place with one hand and takes another guzzle of wine, eyeing her prudently as she grabs what clean linen she finds in the dresser for a makeshift gauze.

"You're certainly not a child anymore. But then a man only has to look at you to know that."

The words falls from his lips in a slow, seductive whisper that caresses the spine. He looks her up and down, eyes lingering over the curves of hip and mounds of breast. He is teasing her. He has to be. Lucia feels a blush being to stain her cheeks. She has seen such a look on men before, she just ever expected to see it on her brother as he gazes down at her.

The young queen clears her throat as she ties the many folds of linen around Logan's waist.

"About the allegiances...I can't go into battle with people I don't trust."

"Then it is good I made them take an oath."

"But I can't leave Walter to visit these people." she proceeds, ignoring all he has just said, "Which is why I would have them invited here for his birthday."

"Where you can not only gain their loyalty, but protect Albion as well." he muses, "Good. Then I will make arrangements for it tomorrow."

"You will rest before you do anything."

He raises his brows briefly in a way that tells her he has every intention of doing just the opposite. She opens her mouth to tell him he doesn't have a choice in the matter, but before she can say anything Logan takes her chin between his thumb and his index finger. She feels a ripple of pleasure at his touch and she finds herself tilting her head towards him, overcome with the longing to feel his lips on hers.

Even as a child she was oddly compelled by him.

When they were young, she would crawl into his bed and wrap her arms around him. After a while, it became a kind of ritual for her, each night she would to sleep in her own bed and wake each morning in his. At first, he did not seem to mind. But then he became a man, and as he told her, young men do not share beds with their infant sisters. The innocent thing they shared became…improper. She couldn't understand at the time. All she knew was that once he had cared for, then one day he turned her away. It felt like a betrayal. The memory of it pains her still.

However, now she understands. Not that it changes anything. She still loves him as she did back then. The only difference is that back then she loved as a child and now she loves him as a woman. Either way, that love is the worst kind of sin. For too long she has allowed herself to forget they are bound by blood. He is her brother and it is time she starting him like one.

"You have been kind to me, sister." he murmurs, his mouth millimeters from hers, "More than I deserve."

It takes all her strength to push his hand away and climb to her feet. Though the glass of wine he abandoned helps. There is by no means enough left of it to leave her in her blissful stupor, but it's warm and bitter and seems to embrace her from the inside out.

A few more glasses and she will forget all about the man in front of her.

"You should find a wife, Logan. Have a few children of your own."

He clenches his jaw and his eyes harden, "And how would I do that when the entire kingdom hates me?"

"There are many people outside of Albion." She trails her finger around the rim of her glass, avoiding his gaze. "I hear Runnec women are very beautiful."

"Hmmm..."

"And their bloodlines date back centuries."

He is silent, staring at the few candles on his bedside table with a troubled expression.

Without another word, she bids him goodnight and makes for the door. He seizes her wrist before she can take another step away from him, his thumb grazes lightly over the raised white skin that covers the lower half of her arm. Logan's eyes narrow at the sight of the crescent shaped scar, and a look of anger passes over his handsome face. Perhaps she will tell him about them someday. When her King has returned and Logan is married and a mere touch of his hand doesn't leave her wanting for something as wicked and unnatural as this. When she can trust herself around him.

His dark eyes dart back and forth, searching her face for something.

"If marriage is what you want." he releases her, "Then so be it."