It took Samson two, whole days to properly come around. The amount of smoke drifting into the air had ceased. Fires had been put out and it seemed like a cleanup had started. One, solid propaganda channel ran, giving updates on the state of the rebellion, instilling propaganda and displaying the public humiliation of prisoners taken captive.

Several men were forced to walk nude through the city, often on pieces of glass and filth. I suspected it had been inspired by Game of Thrones, but what did it matter? These people were being served their punishments, some of them were thoroughly deserved.

"They have no sense of uniqueness when it comes to torture." I heard a mumble, turning to see his Royal Highness swaddled in blankets and looking as frail as ash.

"You look terrible." I commented simply.

"This couch is terrible, don't you have a bed?" He heaved a breath, sitting up a little and focusing his anger at me. I folded my arms and narrowed my eyes.

"You aren't getting into my bed." I stated firmly.

Samson scoffed but was silent.

The ails continued.

Samson would mostly complain while sitting alone on the couch. Complain about his joints hurting. Or being sweaty. Or the place smelling. Or the tv being too loud. It was too low. The quality hurt his eyes. He hadn't had a proper shower. His maids weren't there. He wanted to go home. He- and the list went on.

I clenched my teeth, inserting my headphones and began to cook.

Some time later, I handed him a broth, I was quite proud of it, in fact, it was my first, successful broth. Who knew that a rebellion would inspire me to cook so well?

"As a member of the Royal Family. I think I should be granted something a little more decent-"

I lost it.

"Let's get one thing straight." I scowled, dropping his bowl of broth and mine into his lap, spilling it and scalding him. "I took you in as someone who was hurt, I didn't take you in as a prince or a member of the Royal Family. I took you in out of the kindness of my pitiless heart. Therefore, it's a strict, my house, my rules. You make demands? I'm gonna chuck you out onto the street. You do something, anything that I haven't told you to do? I'm chuck you out. If you irritate or even come close to annoying me, guess what?"

"You're going to chuck me out onto the street, wow, I'm so scared." Samson's voice was bitter, dry, humourless.

"No, I'm going to call in the closet rebel family, which, by the way, is the family across the hall, and I'm going to get them, to drag your sorry ass up to your little Disney Palace and make you walk through the streets naked. We are in the midst of a rebellion, for Heaven's sake! You step half a breath out of line, and you won't be the only one getting executed."

I huffed, my rant finished, I spun around on my heel and stormed into the kitchen. Samson sagged down onto the couch, wrapping his blankets around him a little tighter and squirming underneath the wet blankets. I pulled some quick noodles from the cupboard and began making soupy noodles for Samson and dry noodles for me. I made a double serve for the both of us, knowing that I'd be his first proper meal since he fully woke up.

It took six minutes for the meal to be completed. I walked back over to him, setting down my bowl onto the table (tea-stained and in dire need of cleaning) and set his bowl in front of him, sitting next to it. I was still infuriated by the blowing up and broth incident, however, for now, I'd calmed down.

"Slowly." I cautioned as he sat up.

"I can do it myself," he huffed, shooting daggers.

I raised an eyebrow, passing him the bowl. "That's what you said last time."

"Last time?" He asked, bordering on horror and curiosity.

"You were higher than the moon on those meds, luckily they wore off quickly." I laughed at the memory of Samson's pure and completely devoted face when I told him about our betrothal.

"Oh no," he said, worriedly, but in a more, conversational tone, "what did I do?"

"Nevermind," I dismissed, then paused, "maybe I'll tell you another time."

"Oh?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. I shook my head and passed him the bowl of soup that had started to burn my hands. I shook out the heat and looked down. Samson's hands were shaking, he could barely hold the bowl. I grabbed it before it slipped out of his fingers.

"See?" I sighed accusingly, Samson looked down in shame, I muttered an, "it's okay,"

I brought the bowl up as much as I could, sweeping the fork through a couple noodles and holding it out for him to take.

"Thanks," he whispered hoarsely, picking up the fork and bringing the noddles to his lips and swallowing.

We repeated this several times, for a first, Samson didn't complain about the utensils or the quality of the food, which I was grateful for, he just ate. Even though he didn't get though the whole thing, he got through a substantial amount.

Ten minutes later, he was sick in a bucket.

Okay, so maybe he had too many noodles, but at least he had something to eat instead of four days of water and tea, which was, essentially, flavoured water.

"We'll get there," I gave him a small smile and an awkward pat on the shoulder. Samson just focused on breathing in and out properly, sweat covering his brow, he eyes fluttering sickily. I sighed.

I decided to take off most of the soaked blankets, even though the first flakes of snow had begun to fall outside, Samson would fare better without the blankets.

The broth hadn't soaked the couch, luckily, just dampened his clothes and while we had shared a little moment, leaving us on better terms, I wasn't sympathetic enough to convince the prince to shower.

While Samson drifted in and out of sleep, I would sit at the window and watch the snow fall outside. It had begun to build up in the balcony and the rebellion flag that was hung from the rail, matching the others in the street. I sighed, it felt like my own, personal holocaust. Anne Frank sitting on my lounge and Nazis pacing back and forth outside.

Except this Anne Frank was weak and extremely ill. I doubt that he'd be able to make it down the stairwell that I'd carried him up. Well, he could, if he fell down them. But he certainly wouldn't be alive by the end of it.

Samson's condition was improving, granted. His concussion seemed to have faded, his ribs, which I had suspected, were bruised, had healed to just ugly blotches. His scar down his back was looking reddish, the blood had clotted successfully and now, hopefully, it was healing. He ankle was my main concern, it was turning purple, and Samson struggled to move it successfully. It was difficult.

The next day, the living room had started to smell a little, so I convinced Samson to take a long shower as I cleaned up. He was fine by this. Our problem was getting him to the shower.

It was a scuffle that involved a wheelie chair, an awful lot of groaning and me, as a crutch. Whilst I'd forbidden Samson against using suggestive remarks, he did give me a wink as I helped him into the chair in the shower. I almost dropped him.

For the ankle problem, we'd decided to seat a chair inside the shower so he could sit. While Samson showered, I threw the blood and sweat-coated sheets into the wash. I pulled out the couch into its double bed form, threw a mattress onto it and covered it up again. I vacuumed, dusted and mopped the floor. I even lit some candles and turned on the air freshener to riot off the sweaty smell.

Samson knocked on the door, the signal that he was finished, dressed and ready to be wheeled out. I bestowed myself the honour of wheely-chairing the Royal Highness back to his makeshift bed.

"Wait," Samson said excitedly, he motioned for me to help him up. There was still a few meters between him and the couch, "I need to heal faster."

"You're not going to heal faster by breaking yourself again." I shot back, "how about we work on standing first?"

I wheeled Samson the last metre or so up to the bed, helping him in. He flopped down hard on my work.

"You know what? Nevermind, standing classes are for tomorrow." He wheezed out.

I sighed, sitting next to him on the bed. "Okay, but no whimping out tomorrow, deal?"

"Deal." Samson sighed, waving his hand around in the air.

We were silent for a moment or so, then he spoke again. "I never caught your name."

"Perhaps it's for the better," I replied, "what if I ditch you behind and you can't call me out? What if, the monarchy takes back Istreavenmore? It'll be good, you won't be able to thank me and expose me to the rebels in this area."

"Where are we exactly?" Samson asked slowly.

"A better place in a lower district, life it hard, resources are scarce, you haven't seen it but the power is constantly cut off. It's a difficult life."

"Why don't you go somewhere else? I'm sure you're talented, you can be ambitious when you want, you just gotta go out and make money."

I opened my mouth to reply, but the words became stuck in my throat. I stopped, looking down shamefully. I looked to Samson, he looked back curiously, I shook my head. "I-I just can't, I meant, I was never offered the opportunity." I frowned, looking away. I was no stranger to lying but this seemed to be my opportunity to get it out.

He's the enemy, remember. They are your enemies.

"I get that," Samson smiled, "I was very fortunate, in everything and some people don't have that, I guess they're not as lucky,"

I nodded softly. "You're very lucky, my Mum, she used to remind me, that the world owes us nothing, and the few things we are bestowed with, we have to fight for." I looked to Samson and smiled a little. "I guess you just got bestowed with a lot more than me."