The first thing I did, was not scream.

Which, in my opinion, I think was a pretty impressive feat.

Here, the Crowned Prince was, currently unconscious and laid out across the road for any rebel to pick up and kill. I bit my lip, unsure of what to do. He was a little splayed out, limbs still attached, but in all different directions. His head lolled everytime I tried to move it but his eyes fluttered a little.

I breathed a sigh of relief, okay he was still alive, which meant that he should be okay in the long run.

I brushed away his curls, running two fingers along the back of his neck, feeling for any major injury along his spine. I couldn't feel anything too bad so I began to help him up. He was bordering on consciousness and managed to support some of his weight. I helped him into the passenger seat, taking off his Royal blazer to a white dress shirt and tie underneath.

A little less obvious there. I though, searching the pockets for anything that he may need. I tossed the phone, kept random scraps of paper and chucked the jacket onto a nearby fire. I tied the tie across his mouth and around his head, I wrapped Lahey's scarf around his hair and as much of his head as I could manage. I slide my glasses onto his eyes and buckled him in.

He looked like a rebel, I looked like a driver. Even though I hadn't passed any people, I hoped that it'd pass. I did the same, wrapping a cardigan around my mouth and hair, only leaving my eyes visible. Hopefully this'd pass.

I slammed the accelerator through the city, making it back three minutes earlier that I had on my way there. I drove into the underground carpark, thanked the stairs that the stairwell was empty and made it into my apartment.

I laid his Royal highness' ass down on the couch, using a pillow to support his head. I rushed back and forth around the apartment, seizing first aid equipment and ice packs. I was no doctor but you always picked up bits of first aid training throughout school and I summoned them from the recessed of my mind as I rushed about.

I made a point to drag the curtains closed, it was almost one thirty in the afternoon and I was sure that a state of emergency would be declared for at least a couple of days.

I put on gloves and began wiping away the blood from his head.

Him. I began to think. Samson, Crowned Prince of the Country sleeping on my couch.

A grin passed my lips, sadistic thoughts rushing through my head. Then I stopped, and sighed. I can't do that, the world will return to normal soon, he'll be back in the palace and I'll be in Billy's store. Assuming that my current boss is dead via rebels.

I applied sterilisers and bandages. His entire body was covered in cuts and bruises and I made sure they were as clean as possible. There was a massive gash down one side of Samson's back and I was glad that he was unconscious as I began to stitch up the wound. Using the bio-degradable thread and an artificial bandage that replicated human skin until the wound was healed.

I frowned, I hope that bandage did its work, it was pretty expensive.

I applied ice packs to the required places, tapeing them in and hand fed him small drops of water. I sighed, looking at his face, I'd seen that face pull into a charming smile for the cameras and women. I'd seen those lips pass lies of comfort and sincerity. I'd seen this man become the very thing a kingdom can't have; a selfish, scornful and unsympathetic leader. A snake in all respect.

But here he was, innocent-looking, peaceful, with blood-encrusted hair. His eyes fluttered in their sleep, troubling dreams passing through his mind. He was weak, in dire need of help, defenceless.

I groaned harshly, sitting back and rubbing my eyes. The list of consequences didn't even begin to match up to the probable reward at the end.

But you saved him in his time of need. My mind called out unhelpfully.

"Don't." I ground out, looking back to the prince. I stopped, thinking, searching for his name. "Samson," I whispered.

Samson. The strongest man in the known world, until he revealed his secret of his God-given strength to his wife; his long hair. It all went downhill when his hair was cut in his sleep and he couldn't fight off the attackers. He was dragged to a festival where he was chained to stone pillars, his body branded, his eyes pecked out, and his strength? It was gone. Crying out for forgiveness, he retained his strength just long enough to bring down the foundations to which he was chained, thus killing his enemies and himself.

That's what I could remember of the story at least. The strongest man, brought down by his wife, however, ultimately sacrificed himself for the common good.

I hated the common good. It never made an effect in the end, lives were lost, bodies torn apart, and always, in the end, the rulers were still ruling and the blood waters still ran.

"You've been awake for some time." I spoke aloud to myself, preparing myself dinner, eating alone, the falling asleep on the couch opposite Samson.

...

I awoke with a jolt, noting that this was the second, maybe even the third, time that I'd fallen asleep on the couch. I also noted that Samson was gone.

Well, not gone. He was trying to make his was out, stumbling drowsily, falling to the ground once or twice, then managing to stand again. He gruffed in aggravation and annoyance respectively.

I got up silently, as he took a couple more steps forwards. A blanket hanging off of his shoulder, favouring the left side of his body (the side I'd hit him on).

"Stop," I said softly, taking him and guiding him back to the couch, "you need to rest."

"Where am I?" He managed, swallowing, his lips chapped.

"You're safe, for now." I spoke, helping him back into the couch, he plopped down, his hair falling in his eyes, looking dazedly around.

"I hate that answer," he murmured. "Where is- where is everyone?"

"Safe, I think, I'll give you more answers when you've rested more." I tried, Samson begin to resist angrily.

"No! I want to know right now!"

"Alright, I'll tell you, after you eat these." I offered him three innocent-looking pills, one was antibiotics, but the others... "They're to help your healing process, antibiotics, me-"

"I know what they are," the Prince said angrily, picking up the pills and swallowing them whole.

Obviously he didn't, as the sleep medication began to kick in and his movements became sluggish. "I'm sorry," I grimaced, as he tried to fight off the drug, "you need to rest, and obviously you aren't listening."

"Treason!" He tried to cry, but his word came out as a slurred whisper. "I'll have you hanged for treason!"

"Istreavway doesn't even have the death penalty, you idjit, just sleep." I grumbled, helping him lie down. I was sitting on the coffee table and he was sitting on the couch. He tried to jump at me but I fought him back and set him down on the couch, making sure that his temperature and blanket coverings were regulated, the last thing I needed was the Crowned Prince of Istreavway dying on my couch due to hypothermia.

He drifted off peacefully and I rubbed my eyes, those pills had a solid six hours on him, therefore, I had six hours to myself before I'd have to deal with another scenario like him jumping at me.

We'd slept through the night, meaning he had a good few hours sleep, but not enough to heal properly. Guidebook in hand, I checked over the symptoms of concussion or infection. Luckily, he didn't show any severe signs of concussion, but the stitches were a little red, given, that Samson had tried to move them. His ankle was healing nicely, a little swollen but it was definitely subsiding.

I sighed in relief, changing the ice packs and bandages where necessary. I cleaned up a little around the apartment, vacuuming, and making myself a solid breakfast. I sat in front of the tv, the only channel was a shoddy one from an opposite state. Nothing much has happened; the state of the Royal family was still unclear, several lords and ladies were being held ransom, I looked through the list, Lahey wasn't there. There seemed to be no contact from the rebel forces or a representing leader. The Prime Minister had escaped, making a press conference, but he essentially repeated what was already common knowledge and condemned the rebels of their actions. Relief aid had been offered from several countries, including the United States and the Russian Federation. The whole thing was shrouded in fear, mystery and terrorism.

I turned off the tv, busying myself with working and checking on Samson's injuries. I tried to call Lahey's phone again, to no avail. At one point, I sat on the windowsill, looking at the view of the city, thinking about the fate of Lahey and the other, few people that I could associate as friends.

...

Several hours later, Samson awoke from his drugged sleep, sounding pretty disorientated. He appeared to have a lapse of temporary amnesia. As one does in this situation, I told him that I was his secret betrothed, the queen, we met in secret and I couldn't reveal his identity to the public as I was going to be married off to another man, an American man. He was a homeless guy who'd come across billions in his Auntie's stash and as his wife, he owed it all to me. In the fighting between the American forces and our own, he'd been severely hit on the head, losing his memory, we were now in a safehouse.

I told him his name was Creepy Bill.

He believed wholeheartedly, and when I'd gotten my satisfaction out of it, I knocked him out with some sweet Chamomile Tea (something I knew he hated, from Lahey).

"Imagine if he woke up and believed that." I laughed to myself. "Betrothed. To a Prince." I laughed to myself, fading as I looked to him, innocent-looking, unconscious.

"Betrothed." I laughed to myself again.