Culver swiped his hand wildly in an attempt to grab the man as the latter's foot slipped over the edge. His fist closed around the man's hair, but the momentum of the man's falling body tugged Culver forward too. Barely managing to keep his balance, he grabbed the russet strands with both hands and threw himself backwards. His feet slipped on the icy rock and down he went while the drunk man whooped as if on a roller-coaster. Jamming his foot against a small outcrop gave him a moment's purchase; with a roar of effort he straightened his knee, pulling himself and his companion up a vital few inches. "HELP ME, YOU NITWIT!" Culver bellowed. "QUIT DANGLING LIKE AN IMPOTENT'S BALLS AND CLIMB!!!"

Maybe Culver's words pierced through the intoxicated veils of the man's reason, or the cold wind suddenly whipping his face sobered him up. Still singing off-key but sounding a little more scared, the man pulled one leg over the edge with astonishing flexibility and gave himself a weak push. Boosted by Culver's efforts, he managed to get himself up the ledge up to his knees. "MOVE, YOU DRUNKEN SHITBUCKET, MOVE!" yelled the Prince desperately. "USE THE OTHER LEG TOO! DON'T YOU TOUCH - THAT'S MY LEG, DUMBASS!"

Culver delivered a sharp slap as the man tried to tug at his leg that was supporting both their weights. It took a minute of angry yelling and frustrated directing before both were completely prone on the ledge and motionless, no longer sliding into the river. Completely exhausted, the young Prince pulled out his phone to check the time and blanched. If he was to make it in time to the morning tea his father the King forced him to have at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., he had to leave now.

With a groan rivaling that of his less sober companion, Culver hauled himself to his feet. Stepping carefully so as to not slip on the frosty lichens and moss covering the rock, he pulled off the man's Wellingtons and put them on himself, jamming his own boots onto the feet he had just bared. "Huh," Culver mused as the shoes fit after a moderate amount of wrestling. "I know I have big feet, but are his supposed to be so small?"

"Feet," groaned the inebriated man. "Hurt..."

"Not my problem," Culver snapped. "Now give me your hand and get up. Up!"

"So loud," complained the man, holding out a hand to ask for support. "Woe is me."

Culver grabbed the man's hand and tugged, dragging the man over the ice till mud and larger plants caused too much friction. "Woe betide you," he promised, "if you don't start using those fairy-footed stompers. Now, MOVE! QUICK MARCH!"

"Yes, sir!" exclaimed the man, took one large step forward, and face-planted into a skunk cabbage. "Mmmm, snake?" he said, hearing an angry hissing and sputtering from underneath him, which, upon rolling over, turned out to be a very livid, very stinky Prince. "Nice eyes," said the larger man jovially.

Culver did have nice eyes, eyes that were currently busy examining the face of the man on top of him in the dim streetlight. The man's eyes were so dilated their natural grey was but a thin rim around large, bottomless pupils. His body temperature was high enough that Culver could feel the radiated heat even in the dead of winter. His nose was wet and he kept sniffing as if he had a cold; occasionally an erratic twitch made itself perceptible over his continuous shivering.

Narrowing his eyes, Culver sniffed the man's breath. No alcohol. "You," he growled. "You're on drugs, aren't you?"

"No, sir!" claimed the man, rolling over and finally allowing Culver to breathe. "I'm just happy!"

"Sure you are." Culver sat up, sighed and rolled his shoulders. "It's going to be a long day. You!" Scooping some icy mush into his hand, he tossed it at the intoxicated man. "What's your name?"

"The question is, what's yours?" The man jabbed a shaking forefinger before him.

"I'm behind you, stupid."

Mr. Stupid promptly turned around. "The question is, what's -" Culver clamped one hand over his mouth and gripped his finger with the other. "Get up, and get moving," growled the Prince. "Come on! I don't have all day!"

"So mean," whined his irritating companion, hauling himself to his feet. Immediately his knees buckled, and it was only Culver's quick move to support him that prevented him from kissing the slush underfoot. Nearly crushing the smaller man under the weight of his large frame, he finally started staggering towards the road.

Three hours, about a dozen slaps, four angry outbursts and a kick in the balls later, Culver finally collapsed, wheezing and aching all over, into the driver's seat of his car. The man he had stuffed in the backseat. He couldn't just leave the guy alone after revealing his face in the red light district of Emmer and possibly rendering the man infertile. Right now, all he cared for was a hot bath and a couple of hours of sleep to get rid of his foul mood. He could work out how to deal with this troublesome civilian later.

Culver made it back to the castle at two in the morning. By then his unusual cargo had fallen asleep, and he had to sling the man over his shoulder and haul him up to his rooms. None too gently, he dropped his heavy load onto the bathroom floor. "Wake up, asshole," he said, giving the guy a resounding smack on the cheek. He awoke with a disoriented cry of pain. "I still have to clean you up."

The man looked up at Culver through a curtain of his hair. With a start, the latter found himself looking into intelligent grey eyes that were no longer dilated. "I'm not high anymore," came a low, hoarse voice. "You don't have to be so rough."

It took a couple of seconds for Culver to shake off his shock and resume his attempts to remove his guest's clothes. "If it weren't for me, you'd be dead or beaten to a pulp," said he. "My treatment might as well be that of a lover."

"Well, well, then I'm in luck." A slow smile, smug and arrogant, spread across the man's face. "Then I'll enjoy it, Your Highness. I'm gay too."

Culver froze. His heart dropped to his feet and he turned as pale as the man now grinning at him. "What?" he whispered.

"Culver Ermine, Crown Prince of Mevinje. You're gay, aren't you?"

Culver turned away from his unpleasant guest and began to draw up a bath to hide his panic. "What sort of bullshit are you spouting?" he spat, hoping that his expression of horror had passed unnoticed.

"There, that confirms it," said the man from behind him. "You are gay."

Culver didn't say a word until the bath was full. "Are you a fan of bath bombs?" he finally asked.

"Considering my line of work, I'm not a fan of cleaning up after them."

The lack of a straight answer stroked Culver's frayed temper, and he malignantly threw a bright yellow sphere into the water. "Mature," remarked the future victim of the rapidly fizzing mass of lemon-scented bubbles.

"Get in," Culver responded simply. "Step out before I come back in here and I'll have you thrown from the tallest spire."

With that pleasant tidbit, he left to bring the guy fresh clothes. His brother Caolán had about the same frame, and nobody entered the former Crown prince's chambers except for Culver himself. Frowning at the musty smell of dust, disuse and mold, he pulled open the closet and retrieved a comfortable T-shirt and the pajamas he had always coveted as a child. He cast a sad, longing look at the empty bed, swallowed the rising tide of emotions within him and practically ran our of the room, slamming the doors shut behind him.

The man was obediently still in the bath when Culver returned and, as he noted with petty satisfaction, had taken on a nice yellowish hue. "Thank you, Your Highness," came the courteous response, and he had to suppress a shudder. "Just Culver is fine," he said quietly.

"Are you sure you want to give that liberty to a common stranger you just picked off the street?"

"You just happen to be here at a time when I really want to forget that title."

The man gave him a long, contemplative look. Twisting his torso a little, he placed his arms on the edge of the bath and laid his chin on them, fixing Culver with an intense stare. "Being a Prince is part of who you are," he said. "Forgetting your title won't help you run away from yourself."

Culver stood up and glared at the man, having no patience for a lecture. "Hurry up and finish," he ordered. "I have to get this vile stench off me before five."

*

The jerk took his time, and Culver barely had time to scrub himself sore and pull on a shirt with mismatched trousers before heading down to the dining room for tea. He left the long-haired giant in his bedroom with a promise of a painful death if he got spotted by anyone, instructed the steward to send the cleaners to his room only when he called for them and tore down the stairs, making it into his usual seat just in the nick of time.

The King of Mevinje was a short but fierce-looking man with flaming red hair streaked with grey. Culver had inherited his father's height of five feet five inches, and his siblings had never let him forget it. The older Ermine was a lot more sporting about his height and more than made up for it with his reputation as a warrior and the iron hand with which he ran the kingdom. Seated at the head of the table in the stately posture of a royal, he sipped his tea and surveyed Culver's attire with a critical eye. "Rough night?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Culver, suppressing a yawn as he reached for the butter.

"Nightmares again? And I do wish you would take it easy with the butter, boy."

"No, I just couldn't sleep." Culver ignored his father's complaint and layered his toast with an artery-clogging thickness of butter. "The meeting with Garrix took a lot out of me."

"Of course it would! The royal family hasn't interfered in military policy for five generations, and you suddenly arrange for the replacement of our entire armory. I really don't understand why you had to unilaterally order a complete overhaul."

"If Astor decides to attack us again, we need to be able to fight back. Minister Echart's loose tongue has already emboldened them enough."

"Well, the Ministers weren't happy being told what to do. You cannot be this rash with people in power, son. We cannot afford to have the discontent reach the point of rebellion."

Culver shrugged. "Dr. Treo vetoed the last attempt to purchase new helicopters. Minister Barring diverted the money we would have used for the helicopters into that black hole of a plan to clean up the Halle. I can list something screwed up by almost every Minister - and they know they were wrong. The Council was in no position to oppose my interference."

The King nodded sagely. "The Halle's waters don't seem to be any cleaner than they were before that plan's inception. I'll meet with Barring and - what's that phrase you youngsters use? - ah, rip him a new one."

"Ew, Father!" Culver stood up, ready to flee. "Why must you insist on using slang that doesn't suit you?!"

King James Ermine laughed heartily as Culver grabbed another piece of toast and stalked away. "Aw, come off it!" he roared at his son's disappearing back. "I'm still young and you know it!"

*

"Crazy old man," Culver panted as he sprinted back up to his room. "What is wrong with this family?"

The madness, however, was only beginning. The newest weirdo to enter Culver's life was seated stiffly in the lush chair before the large ebony desk, shoulders hunched, head bowed so low his hair brushed the desk top. It was quite a difference from the uncomfortably observant, infuriating young man Culver had left behind. This person was dispirited and dejected, the very picture of loneliness, as if the world had evaporated from around him.

It was like looking into a mirror.

"What, no smartass comments?" Culver jibed to distract himself from that uncomfortable feeling.

"I've hit rock bottom." The man did not move from his position even though he knew the Crown Prince had just entered the room. "And I think it's going to get even worse."

"We'll see about that. Here, sit on the bed with me."

The man flinched. "I... I don't know if that's -"

"If I say it's fine, it's fine. I want to see what your face looks like when you're sober."

Slowly, stiffly, the man stood up, crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Look up," Culver said, working to make his voice sound gentler.

The man did so. He was a fairly handsome fellow (though Culver had seen better), though his waist-length hair gave him an odd, enchanting beauty that was both magnetic and intimidating, like a patiently seated tiger. The gentle fluidity of the pale reddish-brown locks spilling onto his shoulders only enhanced his masculinity. Penetrating smoky eyes sat above a Greek nose and dry, chapped lips that would have been pale pink if they weren't splotchy and purple from drug use. A long neck led down to once-powerful shoulders that were now raised in self-conscious wariness. "I wonder what the real you is like," Culver mused.

"This is the real me. Drug-addict, almost fired, broke, alone."

"What's your name?"

"Orion."

Culver blinked. "No, not your street name," he clarified. "I mean your real name."

"Orion is my real name! What do you mean by street names?"

"Oh? So you're not a drug dealer?"

"I'm a hotel manager!"

Culver chuckled. "An almost-fired hotel manager, you mean?"

"Yeah, yeah. Let's not split hairs. I'll take your leave now, Your Highness -"

"Culver, and you're not going anywhere. We need to talk about that allegation of yours about me being homosexual."