In the following weeks, Adar spent more and more time with Naneth, nurturing my brother or sister's growing feä. He expected me to fill in for him more and more, and I found myself sucked into the vortex of political demands and royal responsibilities.

A royal pain in my arse.

I slipped out to practice archery whenever I could get away with such frivolous activities, but it wasn't nearly as often as I would've liked. All along, Rosseth remained a constant background companion, offering an encouraging smile whenever we crossed paths, and always willing to hear out my grievances.

Adar's councilors weren't nearly as forgiving—or helpful.

I held my head up with two hands burrowed deep in my hair, and two elbows planted on the conference table. The wood grain blurred in my vision as I halfheartedly tried to pick apart useful information from the sludge pile of meaningless nonsense. I hated these meetings.

Giving up on following the bickering lords' line of conversation, I entertained the vision of running away with a Silven caravan—or making my home in the twisted treetops of the Woodland. I liked that idea better of the two. I could easily hunt my food, and I wouldn't wander far from the river. The only question would be if it's more convenient to wear clothes or not.

A sudden silence jerked me from my fantasizing, and a delicate clearing of the throat informed me I was expected to do something. All the councilors stared at me, and Nòrui, Adar's advisor, scowled at me. "Prince Thranduil, can you be bothered to focus for just a few minutes longer?"

His peevish tone snapped my stretched-thin patience. My fist came down on the polished wood with a deafening crack. Damage lines split out from the point of impact. My fist should've hurt, but all I felt was satisfaction—and the need to get out of this claustrophobia-inspiring room.

The councilors stared at me in horror. As though Adar had handed this damnable head chair and its responsibilities to a wailing elfling.

Purposing to grant them an extra measure of patience, I attempted to speak reason into their lives—they desperately needed it. "We've sat here for the last two hours discussing the movement of Elves that aren't us. Why in Arien's name do we care?"

Nòrui bristled and shoved his chair back, stalking over to me. "Forgive the prince, my lords—I will educate him extensively." He clutched my robes at the shoulder and propelled me to my feet.

My first instinct was to resist—no, actually, my first instinct was to fling an elbow into his irritating face. But I rethought my instincts and decided that could wait until he escorted me out of the room, where there would be no witnesses. At which point, it would be Nòrui's word against mine, whatever befell him.

Adar would, beyond a shadow of a doubt, believe Nòrui over me.

Regardless, I let him half-shove me out of the room. Halfway down the hall, I ripped myself free. "I can walk," I snarled.

Nòrui stabbed a finger in the direction we'd been headed. "To the library. Your knowledge is lacking, and therefore your understanding."

I leaned into his personal space, using my slight height advantage. "Is this how you treat your Prince, Nòrui? What would the King think?"

He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, unintimidated. "The King charged me with guiding you through political situations with dignity. His exact words were to, 'let the prince run the terrain, teach him what he needs to learn, and try not to let him start a war'."

That hurt more than it should have—I wasn't that bad.

"If you refuse to acquiesce to my guidance, I will be forced to inform the King. And I fear even the Valar themselves could not bear Oropher's wrath if they interrupted his time with the Queen."

He made an inconveniently valid point. Baring my teeth at him, I turned and stalked to the library. Nòrui scuttled after me, wise enough not to keep prattling.

Once we made it into the library, I sprawled out on the plush sofa, intended for reading the adventures of heroes late into the night. Certainly not whatever mental torture Nòrui had in mind.

Indeed, he made a beeline for the dusty history bookcase plucked an ominous tome from the overburdened top shelf. With a disturbingly gleeful expression, he dropped the brick-book into my lap.

My knees twitched upward in defense, but I caught the book—narrowly avoiding a painful impact somewhere critical. "Careful," I hissed, glaring at him. "You very nearly ended the line of Oropher."

He rolled his eyes and turned away. "Enough of your childish theatrics. Find the Noldor kinslaying in the table of contents, and don't even think about escaping until you can recite the contents front to back, upside down, and backwards. This is critical history Thranduil—I'm sure your adar doesn't realize you don't know it, otherwise he would drill you for a decade straight."

My face flushed as I battled with fury. Nòrui had too much leverage over me. But at the moment, I could do nothing to buck his control. I would have to bide my time and suffer through the history lesson.

* * *

Of the one-hundred twenty-seven pages dedicated to the Noldor kinslaying, I'd slogged through ninety-three when the evening light cast more shadows than it eliminated.

Nòrui helpfully lit the fireplace. If glares could shove, he would've faceplanted in his handiwork. Shortly thereafter, he informed me that he needed to check on Adar—but I was still not to budge an inch until I'd finished my studies. The moment he turned his back to exit, I stuck my tongue out at him.

Sighing, I let my eyes wander over the page. Few paragraph breaks graced my vision—only walls of text that served only to reinforce the bottom line of the last ninety-three pages I'd managed to get through: Feänor was a prick and Noldor are in constant need of Mandos' cleansing halls.

Light footsteps caught my attention, and I stared at the door, eager for a reason not to read.

Sure enough, Rosseth walked in, carrying a tray of steaming food. A hesitant smile stretched across her lips. "I hope I'm not disturbing your studies, Prince Thranduil? But you missed supper."

I shoved the book aside. "You are disturbing my studies—thank Illùvatar Himself." Scooting to one side of the couch, I beckoned her closer.

Her smile grew more confident, and she padded over to me. Perching on the edge of the couch beside me, she held the tray in her lap while I tore into a fruit salad like a starving animal.

After a moment, she tentatively reached up and slid a lock of my hair back over my shoulder. "There's no rush," she murmured meeting my gaze for a moment. "The Queen sent me. She was worried."

I stopped shoving pieces of apple into my face hole, then slowly chewed my massive mouthful. When I finally gulped it down, I said, "What about Nòrui? Is he coming back?"

Rosseth shook her head. "Not until tomorrow, but the King is more of a concern. Lord Nòrui gave a full report on your 'behavior'." Her small fingers curled into quotation marks.

"That little orc," I hissed. "I've been reading for hours to keep him happy!"

She sighed and rested her head on the backrest beside my shoulder. "Yes...but you broke a table."

I nudged a grape around the bowl. "They were talking about stupid things." When she didn't immediately respond, I risked looking at her. She stared at me with an amused smile. I leaned away a little. "What?"

Leaning forward, Rosseth placed a hand on my arm. "I am of the firm persuasion that someday you'll be the greatest King of the Woodland Realm."

I swallowed hard and met her gaze. Lowering my voice, I leaned closer and uttered traitorous words I hadn't dare speak aloud. "I don't want to be King."

She grinned, altogether unsurprised by my confession. "I know," she whispered back. "That's why you'll be the greatest...you won't waste time talking about stupid things."

We stared into each other's eyes, caught in an unexplored proximity. I liked the feel of her leaning on my arm—or perhaps only the feel of someone there. I liked the warm brush of her breath, the taste. I liked that we were tucked away in a corner of the world unlikely to be disturbed.

But this couldn't continue.

Placing my hand over hers on my arm, I slowly withdrew. "Might I walk you to your chambers? Are you finished working for the night?"

A blush rose to her cheeks, and she slid her gaze away. "I don't know if that would be appropriate—you being a prince and me being a servant."

I shrugged and set the tray aside—I'd be returning to finish that blasted book section. "I need to stretch my legs, and you oughtn't make a habit of working so late." I held a hand out to help her up from the couch.

Rosseth met my gaze with a reserved expression, but she didn't refuse my offered help. Slipping her small, callused hand into mine, she pulled herself to her feet. I didn't drop her hand, and she didn't withdraw—and so the moment stretched a little longer than it should've.

Clearing my throat, I lifted her hand from mine and placed it in the crook of my arm, as the nobility led their ellith. And we left the library in silence.

I followed Rosseth's subtle guidance around several corridors to a back wing I'd only entered a handful of times—where the servants resided. The wing seemed abandoned, except for the quiet noises of life from the rooms on either side. And judging by the narrow distance between doors, the chambers were surprisingly small.

Rosseth led me to one door entirely indistinguishable from the rest and opened it without hesitation. "Good evening, Clorel," she chirped, going into the tiny chamber and plopping onto one of the two narrow beds.

Clorel looked up from her book with a pleasant smile, spotted me, and yelped. Snatching a pillow and holding it to her body, she stammered, "P-please forgive me, Prince Thranduil—I hadn't expected company, and I fear I'm dressed for bed..."

I bowed my head. "Then it is I who should apologize. I merely wished to see Rosseth safely to her room. I'll not disturb you any longer." I wrapped my fingers around the door handle and flashed Rosseth a smile. "Goodnight, mellon nin."

She rewarded me with a pleased grin. "Rest well, Prince Thranduil."

Shutting the door, I turned and headed back the way we'd come. A strange satisfaction hung over my thoughts, even as I trudged back to the library to finish that damn book.

* * *

(Additional Soundtrack: You Don't Know—Katelyn Tarver)

Rosseth could barely contain her crow of delight as Prince Thranduil closed the door of the chamber she and Clorel shared. He'd called her his friend. She was sure her heart had grown wings and taken flight within her chest.

Clorel took her time righting her bed from her scramble to cover her nightgown. Deliberation clung to her every movement. When she spoke, she did so quietly. "You play with fire."

Rosseth met Clorel's gaze, anxiety seeping into her youthful mind. "I fear I do not understand."

Clorel sighed and sat on her bed, folding her thin hands in her lap. "For a servant to grow especially close to royalty—well, the relationship you have with Queen Laegeth is healthy. You serve her well. But forging a friendship with Prince Thranduil...Rosseth, that is neither appropriate nor wise."

Rosseth flinched. She held Clorel in high esteem, for the elleth had taken her in much like a daughter upon her arrival. But Rosseth struggled to justify Clorel's warning with the warmth in her heart that she held for the troubled prince. "We are only friends," she assured her mentor. "He is very respectful, and I do not challenge the boundaries he sets."

Clorel shook her head. "I presumed that. But it's simply not appropriate. He is the future King of the Woodland...one day he will marry an influential elleth to strengthen our alliances and bear him heirs. Meanwhile, Rosseth...if the Valar see fit to bless you so, you may serve the next Queen much as you do for Queen Laegeth."

Rosseth clasped her hands, struggling not to cry.

"And when King Thranduil returns from his duties and finds you combing the Queen's hair, you will be dismissed so that he might make love to his soul mate." took a deep breath and shakily released it. "Please trust me, Rosseth...there is nothing for you down the path you wish to follow."

Staring at her whitening knuckles, Rosseth ground her teeth and willed the tears pooling in her eyes not to fall. She felt as though Clorel had thrust a knife into her chest and twisted it. "Goodnight, Clorel. I thank you for your council." She kicked off her thin shoes and stretched out on her bed, not bothering to undress. Turning toward the wall, she pulled one pillow to her chest and buried her face in it, finally allowing her tears to fall.