It's always about him. From the very first light of dawn seeping through the tattered holes in her window curtains to the last flicker of the candlelight in the evening, the auburn-eyed prince seemed to squeeze in every nook and cranny of her thoughts. This morning, as Anatole sat straight on her bed in the wee hours of the dawn, already the young prince flashed in her mind. She knew of his suffering, his desperate clamor to be appreciated like his brothers. Though prince Rowan may not have known it, Anatole always did her best to learn more about him every single day since the moment she became his personal servant. She knew of his sleepless nights; and while he toiled relentlessly, tearing through scroll after scroll of knowledge, she stood outside of his quarters, ready to attend to any request he might have. Though her eyes threatened to shut close in fatigue, Anatole believed that if her charge refused to rest as he worked hard to obtain what he had now, then, she had no right to rest as well. She remembered how her ears would perk up in attention once the constant clatter and crumpling of papers and books would cease, signalling that the prince, more or less, fell asleep due to exhaustion. This would usually signal for her time to enter the prince's quarters, tidying up his mess as she sorted the scrolls and books on his desk, neatly filed and organized. Then, her heart would clench and flutter as her eyes swept upon the exhausted Rowan. She recalled tugging the groggy prince up, leading him to his bed as she helped shimmying off his shoes and vest to leave him comfortable in his casual clothing. Like a mother with her child, Anatole always tucked the prince into bed in nights like this, and after she drew the blanket over his chest, she would take this silent opportunity to rustle his rather untamed onyx locks until Rowan's breathing calmed. This lad, no, this wonderful man oozed of ambition and strength. And, though, he didn't exhibit his own potential and abilities in the more traditional ways of the sword, tongue, and gallantry, she still saw the makings of a wonderful leader of Hiertania. No one was to blame for the prince's seclusion, none but the ailing king who failed at being a father. Truly, Rowan deserved to experience-- not just know-- the love that he never found at home. If anything, Rowan deserved to be the king more than Luthier, because if someone can still rise and persevere despite being left in the snares of cold and isolation, then, that certain someone is already stronger than most. Rowan is already stronger than the black-haired, smiling idiot who bathed in the affection of both father and mother. The same went for the third prince who kept going on and on about poetry, believing that he was destined to become the greatest bard of all time when his words sucked as much as his swordsmanship skills. In all honesty, she wouldn't mind helping the third prince stumble upon the edge of a cliff... or the pointed end of a pitchfork with all his baseless arrogance. Rowan was the needle in the haystack, the diamond in the rough-- it was just a shame that no one saw his potential as Anatole did. But, she dare not pity the second prince. He did not deserve to be pitied; rather, he needed the support and trust of his countrymen-- two things that Anatole had a lot to give him. He never really appreciated Anatole's efforts, but as long as she saw the smile on his face, then, perhaps, everything was right with the world again. [i]You'll always be the king of Hiertania to me.[/i] She thought to herself before leaving the quarters to finally get a good night's rest. --- "You're suppose to cut the fish like this, Dothy." Anatole explained, incising two lines in the grouper's side. "This allows the heat to pass through more effectively when you cook it, and thus, the insides will be tastier. Now, you try." She handed the knife to the woman who nervously took it before proceeding to cut. "Don't be so stiff." She commanded, and immediately, Dothy exhaled to relax her nerves. Immediately, Anatole's head snapped to the side, seeing one of the cooks busying himself with the contents of a pot at the far end of the kitchen. She clicked her tongue before fixing a deadly glare in his direction. "Ahmar," Her voice sliced through the quiet early morning air. "Don't try to pretend to be busy by washing your hands inside the pot. The wheat is in the upper cupboard. And, don't think I didn't notice your constant search for the sack of wheat. Your eyes were everywhere." Ahmar uttered an anxious affirmation as he dashed off to retrieve the sack just in time for another troublesome duo to enter, lips locking against one another in an intimate expression of affection. However, the moment their eyes landed on Anatole, they parted for dear life. "Didn't expect me here, did you? Now, go wash your hands before I broil your lips together!" Anatole pointed the ladle at the two lovers before they bolted off to their respective stations. Early morning meal preparations were always tasking, and it was only when Anatole took part in the routine did things make sense. In fact, the only time that meals were served on time was when she headed the breakfast cooking. The quality of kitchen help was deteriorating, and he had the blasted king to thank for that. Then again, if he couldn't take care of his second son, then, what could she expect with the type of people he hired? "Hey, Ana!" Ahmir called out as he brought in the sack. "Have you heard of the news lately? Apparently, some bandits were found in Tiadan." "And, this is related to making porridge... how?" Anatole raised her brow, stirring the pot of porridge in front of her. "Come on, not everything is about cooking!" Ahmir replied in an exasperated tone as he raised his hands in surrender. "Look, this act of aggression is new on Lutaires' side coming from Tiadan. This might prompt the queen of that country to ask for some help from the neighboring kingdoms." "And, look, I feel for those pixie dusts at Lutaire, and I certainly support catching those thugs," Anatole huffed as she faced Ahmir. "But, there are more important matters to discuss. Like, how can we improve our services to the crown, and even how can we overth-- overwhelm the crowd when prince Luthier will finally become king." [i]Or, just slunk off and smile at everything whenever he helped someone, like a dog expecting praise. That's what he does best anyway.[/i] Anatole turned back to the porridge before deciding that it was finished. She sighed, heaving the pot to the side as he thought of Rowan once more, and how he rightfully deserved to stand in front of the people he loved so much with the crown on his head. Damn it. Even now, it's still about him. And, maybe, it always has been.