Author Note: Howdy, guys! Yes, I am, in fact, still alive and still writing stories! I know, crazy right? Anyway, firstly I want to apologize for not writing. Just-thank you so much for sticking with me, for checking up on me, and for still reading/faving/reviewing/following. Your interest in these stories drives my interest. Special shout-out to SpruceMoose if he's still around. He seemed particularly invested in this story and I hope he'll enjoy this chapter (as well as the rest of you's guys!) Okay... what else... ah, yes, the story. This has been in progress for a good long time (ever since I neared the end of This is the Story, believe it or not), It concerns our lovely crown prince, now aged fifteen, and his dramatic, epic, and probably very-much-too-long quest to find himself and yaddayaddayadda... it's supposed to be more epic than how that just sounded, and includes adventure, fighting, unlawful behavior, family, love, loss, and some romance on the side. Hopefully you'll enjoy it, and hopefully I'll be able to finish it! As well as the other stories I'm working on... I know, I know, just give me time and don't listen to deadlines, they never work out.

Anyway, this is to all of you guys! As well as my best-bud and first reader, who knows more than anybody else and simply wants the rest of you guys to find out what's what too! :) God bless you all and happy reading!

Note about the following chapter: I highly suggest reading Chapt. 30 of Family Life before reading this, as it will help clear up a few things.

P.S. I'm considering making a Fiction-Press account (under the same username) to post a short-story or two. Would you guys be interested?

Soli Deo Gloria

Disclaimer: Disney owns Tangled, its characters, and its story

Thomas Eugene Fitzherbert was not having a good day.

First of all, he had missed breakfast and ended up running late for class that morning. Secondly, he had earned rather poor marks for a paper on which he had spent the better part of the last week toiling away. Thirdly, he had gotten into an in-class debate with the oldest son of the baron of Sarphona, exchanging several slanders between arguments, and failing the debate because of his lack of sportsmanship. But the definitive moment that proved his day was going south was when the professor stepped out of the room and the crown prince had his face smashed against the surface of his own lectern.

Thomas squirmed as Castor, the baron's son, continued to apply pressure to the back of his head. One of the other boys had gotten hold of Thomas's cravat and was now using it to tie his wrists together behind his back.

Castor gripped his victim's hair, looking around at the room. The desks were built, amphitheatre-like, to surround a central stage where the debaters talked and the fire pit smoldered. His classmates were watching the show going on below, and a few muttered to each other, exchanging eager grins.

Castor cleared his throat, announcing: "As you can see, not only has my opponent failed to form an accurate defense for his argument, but he has also failed to give a conclusive excuse for why his parents have led us into this mackerel of a war."

He glanced down at the struggling boy, a cruel smirk twisting across his face. He patted the prince's head mockingly. "It's all right, though. Out of the goodness of our hearts, we'll forgive you."

Thomas grunted, but was unable to say anything more.

"Richard, pick his Highness up. I can't talk to him when he's eating wood."

"At once, your Honourableness." His minion finished tying the cravat and then grabbed Thomas by the back of his shirt, tugging him upright to a standing position.

Castor nodded to his opponent, "And thus, Prince Thomas, you are forgiven. Our dear sovereign queen, on the other hand, has yet to explain why we're sending our soldiers into battle for a broken land. Nor has she told us why we are allowing such swine into our cities under the pseudonym of 'refugees'."

"They are refugees." Thomas retorted, his voice a low growl.

"Refugees from what, though?" Castor asked his audience, walking around the platform. "A war they started centuries ago—and have quite neglected to deal with properly. So we have to do it for them. And I ask: why should we? Why should we use our money, our blood, to defend them? Any ideas?" He held up his hand to his fellow peers, waiting for a response.

There was uncomfortable coughing, and then Mason, son of Lord Leighton, asked uncertainly, "Beee-cause the Lock is our enemy?"

Castor frowned, surprised someone had actually answered.

Another boy stood up, agreeing, "Aye—and they're attacking the Midlanders close to our border. They're causing unrest even among our own people."

"This war is causing unrest among our own people!" One of the older boys retorted, standing up to glare at the speaker. "The fact that our men have to go and die for that race of treasonous wretches—that's what's causing the unrest! Don't you dare try to defend the slaughter that the crown has sanctioned!"

The student held up his hands anxiously, "I didn't say I was defending, I merely meant-."

"What you meant, Derrick, was that you side with those who think that the Midlands are more important than our own people!"

Another boy rose to his feet, retorting suddenly, "Well they certainly aren't worthless! And they're a buffer between our country and the Lock!"

His opponent rolled his eyes, snarling, "They're doing a poor job at that! Can't even keep their own war in control!"

"It's war! It can't be controlled! How do you expect-?"

Castor started to laugh.

His classmates stopped quarrelling long enough to look down at the baron's son, trying to discover just what was so funny.

Castor grinned, glancing behind to where Thomas stood. "It would appear, your Highness, that some of your arguments did make an impact. Very good. Very good." He clasped his hands behind his back, looking at the floor.

After a moment, he continued, "But tell me, fellows, are you willing to support your claims with actual evidence? Which of you want to join our prince in his fantasy?"

The students glanced at each other, hearing the dangerous cold anger in Castor's voice. Then Mason shook his head, looking at Thomas and muttering, "Castor—this isn't right. What if Master Clinton comes back?"

"Master Clinton doesn't have a brother out on the red plains of the Midlands, does he?" Castor asked, a vein pulsing in his forehead. "Nor does-," he smiled grimly at Thomas, adding, "-our prince."

Thomas closed his eyes, feeling dull stab of pain in his heart—a stab of guilt. He whispered, "Castor, I—I'm sorry about your brother-."

"Oh no." Castor interrupted, marching over to him. "You don't get to talk about him. Don't even dare speak his name." He leaned forward, hissing, "It's not to be sullied by the likes of you."

There was complete silence, and tension was heavy in the smoky air of the chamber.

Boldly, Thomas took a deep breath, knowing full well he was going to regret this.

"Adrian didn't deserve-."

The wind was knocked out of him as Castor drove his fist directly into Thomas's stomach. Thomas keeled over onto the floor, wheezing as his midsection complained vehemently of its treatment. He lay there, fully expecting to be kicked or otherwise harmed, but he was surprised to hear shouting.

And then suddenly he realized that the rest of the class were streaming down onto the stage or else struggling with each other in their seats. Castor himself had been thrown bodily down by a burly fellow Thomas recognized as the son of Lord Rowell. There were insults being hurled, as well as books and stools—whatever weapon could be found. Evidently there was a lot more disagreement amongst his schoolmates than he thought.

A hand grasped at his shoulder, and Thomas felt himself being pulled up by Mason.

"Are you all right, your Highness?"

"I'm-."

There was an enraged yell to their right, and suddenly another boy shoved Mason to the floor. Thomas narrowed his eyes and glanced over just in time to duck a flying book. He ran forward across the platform, tripping over flailing legs and arms and trying to find a path through the chaos. His arms were still pinned awkwardly behind him, hampering his running and forcing him to twist quickly in order to avoid being crushed by two wrestling classmates.

There was a son of the duke of Calscon swinging a chair over his head, chasing after the fleeing Derrick. And there, in the corner, huddled what looked like the moaning nephew of some lord or another. To his left, Lawrence of Gavin pulverized Lord Trenton's son, while the latter continued to bark slurs despite having a few teeth knocked out. Just by his elbow, three students were hounding a fourth as he hid desperately beneath the schoolmaster's desk.

Abruptly, Richard slammed into Thomas, dropping the boy onto the stage. He had landed close to the fire pit, scattered ashes caking the side of his face as he turned to his tormentor. Richard had a gash running across his forehead, and his teeth were bared. He reared back to deliver another blow, but somebody collided into him at top speed with the bellow of an injured bull. Thomas, meanwhile, had gotten up again. He darted past a couple of fellows beating each other with pieces of a shattered lectern.

The prince sidestepped one of the groaning forms, tugging vainly at his wrists in order to tear the fabric binding them. The fine material was strong and instead of giving way it merely chaffed his skin. He was still attempting to break free, watching the ensuing brawl, when Thomas noticed the unmistakable figure of Castor thundering towards him. Immediately, Thomas began to run again, an idea popping into his mind and, without slowing, he jumped up with the intention of leaping over his bound wrists. His toe caught on the cravat, snapping it in two and sending him plowing into the flagstones for the third time in the space of five minutes.

Thomas felt sticky blood dribbling down from fresh scrapes on his face and ear. He rolled over to see Castor looming above him. The baron's son had a purpling bruise darkening the underside of his jaw, and his collar had been badly torn. However, he grinned maniacally and crouched directly on Thomas's legs, driving his knees down to prevent him from escaping.

Castor bellowed into his face even as Thomas grappled with him: "You and your family are cowards and fools!"

There were strangled yelps from somewhere beyond—as well as a sterner noise—a more authoritative set of voices.

"Letting our people die-," Castor continued, bringing his elbow down onto Thomas's shoulder, "-letting Adrian be captured—all for the sake of a wasted race that rebelled against us!" His voice cracked hysterically as he hit again.

Thomas responded by drawing his own fist around to crash against Castor's nose. The baron's son fell back from the force of the blow, clutching one hand to his bleeding face while the other grew slack upon Thomas's shirt. The prince jerked away and got to his knees, an unexplainable anger rising in his heart. With a savage yell he had suddenly locked his arm about Castor's throat, squeezing tightly.

Every bad thought that had been swimming around Thomas's mind that week flashed before his eyes. Every death toll—every insult—every time he remembered that his nation was at war and his family was being blamed and the world was burning all seemed to ignite a white-hot hatred within his chest.

Castor's fingers were scrabbling at his arm, but Thomas no longer felt them.

"Let go! Let go of him!" A gruff voice and two very strong arms were tearing the prince's grip loose.

Thomas blinked away the fire from his eyes and numbly allowed one of the school guards to pull him off Castor.

The prince then realized that his professor was standing in front of him, his stricken countenance white with fury.

"Well, your Highness." Master Clinton said, his words quiet. "It would appear you have won your debate."

Thomas looked at Castor and found that the young man was coughing painfully through the blood streaming from his nose. Then he glanced around the room, seeing the wreckage of desks and torn pages—his battered classmates—and finally the few guards breaking apart lingering fights.

It had never been this bad before.

"I don't see why we can't ask the Salisburian king for help. Salisbury is our ally—why should they not also assist in taking care of the refugees?" Lord Leighton asked.

Duke Chester of Dean snorted, answering irritably, "Because they're already helping us in this war, Leighton! They've lost hundreds of men already. We can't ask them to take in the Midlanders."

Before Leighton could respond, the baron of Sarphona interjected furiously: "I don't see why we have to take in the Midlanders, either! Our cities are milling with people who want hand-outs despite the fact that it was their lot who started the war!"

"Byron, have sense." The duke of Calscon urged quietly, his mustache fluttering with every word. "We are helping the Midlanders because they are our people."

"Those dirty criminals are not our people, Francis!" The baron snapped, pointing at the duke. "They fought against our people! Your ancestors! My ancestors! They fought against us!"

"And now they're fighting amongst themselves." Duke Francis responded. "It's civil war, Byron—which the Lock provoked. You know this."

Samuel, duke of Wentworth, shrugged, "What if the Lock provoked it? I say let the Midlands reap destruction."

"Filthy dogs that they are—they'd deserve it!" Byron declared angrily.

"Baron-," the prince consort said, not even bothering to look up from cleaning his glasses, "-for the last time please refrain from insulting the people of my mother-in-law. Thank you."

The baron of Sarphona let out a disgusted huff and rose to his feet, stalking over to glare out the far window of the council chamber.

Eugene replaced his glasses and cleared his throat, surveying the table's occupants. The table was barely half-full, with many of the absent noblemen either busy organizing their cities and towns or else working with his wife and father-in-law in the war chamber. But even then, those that had showed up were staring listlessly at new reports. Tired eyes and worried faces bespoke of a preoccupation with other things. They wanted to get back to their holdings—duchies, baronies, or lordships—not be here listening to men complain about things they could do nothing about. They had other concerns. Some of them had sons in the war, while others had grandsons or even nephews.

Eugene glanced over at the set of empty chairs to his right. Some of the men were even out there now, serving the country as generals and lieutenants. Fighting against the alliance of the Lock Country and the Midlands' revolutionaries. Meanwhile, refugees were still pouring over the border, most of them illegally, to escape the terror and battlefield of that torn nation in the middle of the map. And it was his job to convince the nobility to not only accept them into their cities, but also help them regain their land.

He picked up a page of his report and began reading snippets aloud: "'Three hundred souls sitting in customs in Gavin. Fifty-seven have papers, the rest without. Suspected thirty or so already left without going through customs. Sending a hundred to Florence. Need destination for another two hundred and fifty. Three hundred souls. Just had a hundred and fifty added this morning.' And the list goes on…" Eugene inhaled wearily, observing, "Well, gentlemen, it appears another wave is coming. Probably aftermath of that battle in Connaught."

"Chantill will take a hundred. We have room." The baron of Chantill announced, already drafting a note for his messenger boy.

"They might already be heading your way." Eugene warned, looking again at the report.

"Probably are." Byron remarked over his shoulder. "No respect for barons around here, Christopher. Certainly not where the Midlanders are involved."

"Perhaps if the barons would show some respect for the Midlanders, they might actually be worthy of it." Eugene muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

The last of the baron's composure disintegrated, and he marched over to the prince consort, slamming his hands on the table. "Listen here, Fitzherbert. You may have relations in that God-forsaken country but I do not! Hardly anyone in this room does! We are the sons of proud Coronans—men who fought against those ungrateful wretches when they decided to revolt!"

"I've heard this story before, Baron."

"Well it seems you have forgotten it. Because let me tell you something, Fitzherbert, that war never ended. I don't know if anyone has told you lately, but my son is out there! Captured, tortured—I don't know what! All because the queen decided to-."

Eugene stood up, breaking off the baron's speech.

"Baron you may insult me all you want but the moment you mention my wife you have crossed the line." He said, his words rigid with anger. "I don't care how injured you feel—or how much better you think you are compared to the Midlanders. I don't care if your great-grandfather engaged them on the field of battle and lost a foot in the process. The Midlanders are our people. They have been claimed as our people. And we are going to fight to the death for them."

The baron stared at him, grey eyes hardened in a painful rage.

Eugene took a deep breath, adding in a calmer voice, "And I am sorry about your son. But he is not the only son out there, and I think you should remember that."

The prince consort took his seat again and picked up his report, trying to ignore the dead silence around him. Byron stood there for a long moment, evidently trying to decide if he wanted to continue to press the matter. Finally he returned to his chair and slumped down moodily, glaring at the edge of the table.

Eugene then proceeded as if nothing had happened.

"Now gentlemen, I understand that harboring these refugees can be difficult but we have to get them out of Gavin. Gavin needs to be clear so our troops can pass on through without problems. Duke Samuel, how much room do you have in the Wentworth villages?"

Samuel cleared his throat a few times before answering, apparently trying to swallow the surprisingly large lump lodged there. Eventually he managed, "Well—if we included the countryside, I'd say enough for five hundred—possibly a thousand if we must."

"I doubt a thousand is necessary, but thank you."

"Um, Eugene?"

The prince consort looked at Chester, one of his wife's cousins. "Yes sir?"

"Dean could manage a—another set if needed."

Eugene frowned, "Do you have enough open pasturelands for the sheep?"

Chester raised his eyebrows, "Well, not terribly, but-."

"I'll see what number we get to at the end of the meeting, Chester." Eugene said, nodding a thank you.

The duke coughed, "Yes sir. Sounds good."

"Brilliant." Eugene turned to the men at his left, "Lords Leighton, Edwin, and Henry, could you split the rest of the refugees amongst yourselves and your holdings?"

The three men exchanged glances before Leighton agreed, "Yes, your Highness. We can try."

"Thank you. Now Duke Francis, have the food supplies from Calscon gotten through to the soldiers?"

The duke of Calscon shook his head mournfully, "Still blocked up in Gavin."

Eugene hissed absently, "Always Gavin. I'll write Duke Lawrence about clearing the ferries. Are papers needed?"

"I think that the letter from you should do the trick."

He pulled out a piece of paper, replying, "I'll get right on it, then. Moving on, we need to-."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in." Eugene called.

A servant hastily scooted into the room and went over to Eugene. He handed him a note, apologizing, "I'm sorry for the interruption, your Highness."

"No. That's quite all right." Eugene opened the note and scanned it quickly. His jaw tightened, and he told the servant, "Have one of the small coaches ready by the time I get down there."

"At once, your Highness." The servant bowed his way out of the room.

Eugene removed his glasses and rose to his feet. He began gathering up his reports, apologizing, "Gentlemen, I'm sorry, but this meeting has to be cut short. I have to go pick up my son from University."

"They don't get out until 3:30." Samuel said, confused.

"I know, but things change." Eugene raised his eyes and spotted the baron of Sarphona skulking in his seat. "Baron Byron, you may want to ready your coach as well. Your son's in the University infirmary with a broken nose."

The baron started, his eyes wide, "Castor?"

"The very same." Eugene straightened, his face grim. "And I do apologize for that, as it was my son who did it."

Thomas sat on a bench in the University courtyard, shivering in the January wind. His ear and face were stinging in the chill of the salt air, and his shoulder and chest throbbed from the bruises forming beneath his sooty school tunic. He had not bothered to go to the nurses, given that they were far too busy patching up his classmates. A lot of them had broken bones, and he knew Mason had snapped a finger. There did not seem any point showing up and adding to the list of the injured when he was fine.

The crown prince sighed, knowing that in a few minutes, his father would return from his meeting with the headmaster. He would not be happy. Even from the brief moment Thomas saw his face as he passed in the hallway, he knew that they would share a very uncomfortable conversation on the way back to the palace.

And yet, he felt that his father had no right to condemn him. Not with everything that had been happening. Not with the Midlands conflict on one side and the quarrels with the nobility on the other. It was almost impossible to avoid fights at school. Half the noblemen's sons were against the war. They were also the half who did not like him, the monarchy, or anything the crown had done during the last few months. They all thought he was some kind of self-righteous, pompous dunce who did not care or understand what was going on in the kingdom. They thought that he actually wanted the war, and he did not want it. They believed that he was siding with the Midlanders, but he was not siding with them at all—at least, not completely.

This last thought caused shame to burn inside him, and he quickly shoved it down. But it was still there, lurking in the shadowy corners of his mind. Because the truth of the matter was, he resented the Midlanders. He did not like the fact that they had turned against his country in rebellion. He liked them even less now, when Corona was exerting every effort possible to help them, there were Midlanders actually aiding the Lock. The Midlanders were still fighting against them, centuries later, and all that had come of it was hatred between two countries that had once been whole.

Two countries split apart and yet tied together by violence and blood. It was inescapable. His life as crown prince, heir to whatever travesty the next years contained, was inescapable.

The realization of it all made him want to scream.

The doors of the main building suddenly opened, and quick footsteps told him his father was approaching. Thomas stood up, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.

However, Eugene only said, "Come," and continued walking towards the entrance of the compound.

Thomas followed, making sure to keep a few steps behind his father.

A small coach was waiting for them at the edge of the street. The footman held open the door so both could enter. Eugene sat on one side, his son on the other, and the door slammed shut behind them.

Immediately, Thomas felt his father's eyes snap up to stare at him. He tried to ignore the piercing gaze, choosing instead to look out the coach window.

There was a sharp whistle, and with a kick, the coach began to move forward.

It was not until they had reached the main road that Eugene began to speak.

He cleared his throat, nodding at his son, "I would've thought the infirmary had cleaned you up by now."

"I didn't bother to see them." Thomas replied, keeping his face turned to the window.

"Why not?"

"It doesn't hurt much." He was lying. It actually hurt quite a bit.

"Yes, well I suppose a few scrapes doesn't compare to having a cleanly broken nose."

Thomas closed his eyes, knowing what was coming next.

"The baron's son, Thomas?"

"I'm sorry."

His father raised an eyebrow, "Are you really?"

The boy lifted his head, shrugging, "I don't know, Dad."

"You two had a debate."

"Yeah."

"Insulted each other and, according to your stuffy headmaster, 'desecrated the hallowed halls of this prestigious institution'."

Thomas grinned slightly.

"How did the rest of the class get involved?" Eugene asked.

His son shrugged again, "Everybody had an opinion. It just sort-of happened and—it got a little out of control."

"You were throttling the baron's son."

"He made me mad."

Eugene glared, "Thomas."

He glanced away.

His father continued to stare at him. "You know better than that. We've taught you better."

"Well, apparently I didn't learn my lesson," Thomas replied sarcastically.

"Hey." Eugene pointed at him sternly. "Don't be smart. You've done wrong and you know it. Don't think you can act out and get away with it because you won't. From what your headmaster said, you've been doing that quite a lot."

"Anything else Headmaster told you?"

"Apparently this wasn't your first fight. Although, it seems you forgot to tell me about the other four."

"They weren't—barely even scuffles," Thomas mumbled, shaking his head.

Eugene drew in his breath. "Thomas, what's going on here? Since when have you become this—this," he gestured at him helplessly, "I don't even know what to call you anymore."

"Easy: people hate me—people hate the war—and to be perfectly honest, I'm not that fond of it either."

"Well no one is."

"Yeah, but we still have to fight, don't we? We have to uphold our sacred duty of 'protecting the Midlanders'."

Eugene frowned. "Is that what you're mad about? The fact that we're fighting?"

Thomas shook his head, replying, "No it's just—have you ever wondered if everyone is right? If we—we're not supposed to be in this war after all? The Midlanders turned against us."

"A long time ago. We've made amends since then."

"We?"

His father nodded at him. "Your ancestors. Your great-grandfather and your grandfather. And now your mom."

"And then it'll be my turn, right?"

"Yes. In a few years, it will be your turn. It's a legacy, Thomas. Standing up for people who no one else wants to defend. Taking care of a country—of a people—simply because it's the right thing to do."

The right thing to do.

Thomas pressed his face against the coach window, hardly paying attention as his father continued to lecture about duty and sacrifice.

They were still traveling through the elite section of town, the University being the school for the sons of the higher-end aristocrats. However, things had changed dramatically within the last year. Every rentable mansion had been converted into a boarding house for what remained of the wealthiest Midlander nobility. He could see a maid hanging a substantial amount of washing in the front lawn of manor. From the veranda of that same house hung the colours of the Midlands, red and gold.

But while the nobility got the mansions, the poorer exiles were left to the public areas. Many of the parks had been transformed into makeshift camps. Lean-tos and huts were made out of gazebos and people bathed their children in the fountains. Further down, in the lower parts of the capital, all the inns were filled to bursting. Refugees who couldn't afford a room slept out on the docks or else crowded the alleyways and plazas.

Thomas knew it was worse in other parts of the kingdom. Especially Gavin and Florence, which were much closer to the border than the capital. In some places there had even been Midlander vs. Coronan scuffles over housing or supplies. The reserves had to be sent out to quell the fighting, resulting in a few casualties and a lot of uproar.

All of this at home, and far more horrible news was coming in from the warfront. There was slave trafficking and massacres and pillaging and all other kinds of wickedness being wrought by enemy and ally alike. Every day, the palace received new reports each more damning than the last. Was it really for the good of their nation and the Midlands? Or was it just a botched attempt at recovering something already lost in the centuries of fighting? And a more pressing question: did he want to be the one who had to deal with it all?

Thomas glanced over to find that his father had given up on lecturing him and instead had begun reading reports. His father—the supposed thief 'Flynn Rider' who had lived a life of adventure and freedom—was now trapped behind a desk trying to help a country that did not even want his help. And he was only prince consort. He was not crown prince with the threat of total kingship hanging over his head.

"More bad news?" Thomas asked.

Eugene straightened his glasses and looked at him. "Hmm—what was that?"

"Dad, I don't want to do this."

"Do what? Explain to your mom why Castor of Sarphona has a broken snout?"

"No—be prince."

Eugene stared at him as the coach began to ascend a rise in the street, his face uncertain. Finally he said, "You know, we've had this conversation before."

"Yeah, but you never listen, do you?" Thomas asked.

His father pressed his lips tight together, biting back the sarcastic retort rising to his mouth. He set aside his report, nodding. "Okay, Thomas, I'll try to listen. Go ahead."

"I don't want to be prince. I don't want to live in the palace or be stuck in the palace all my life trying to solve everyone else's problems. I just want to get away and be free. Free to be and do what I want."

"And it's all about you, is it?" his father asked.

"Dad, you don't get—"

Eugene shook his head, interrupting, "No, you don't get it, Thomas. You may think that being royalty is awful because of the amount of sacrifice involved, but that's not all it's about. It's about being willing to sacrifice. It's about the rest of the country and everybody in it. It's not about you."

Thomas groaned in frustration. "Why not?"

"Do you even realize how selfish you're sounding right now?" Eugene asked.

"Dad, you and mom are the ones who are being selfish! I just want to live my life the way I want to live it—you two want to put a little crown on my head and dump an entire kingdom into my lap!"

The prince consort inhaled loudly as the carriage came to a stop outside the palace. He then pointed at his son, saying, "You know what, I'm not talking to you about this anymore. I've got too much to do to spend an hour listening to you complain." He opened the door and got out of the coach.

Thomas got out after him, following his father up the front steps of the palace.

"You guys never listen to me," Thomas hissed, gathering speed to walk beside his father. "You're always too busy and you don't care about what I'm dealing with."

"Thomas, be quiet."

"And you don't care how I feel, at all!"

"Thomas—"

"For goodness sake, I don't want to spend my life trapped in a—!"

"Will you just be QUIET?!" Eugene's voice rang out in the cold afternoon air.

Thomas stepped back slightly, realizing he had gone too far. His father looked at him, eyes blazing and jaw held taut.

The man's next words were dangerously calm. "Okay, you don't want to be prince, I get it. But you have a very messed-up idea about what being prince really means."

"No I don't," Thomas replied, his anger resurging.

"Yes you do. Because it's not about bondage to something you hate. It's about sacrifice for someone you love. Just put yourself aside for one second and think about it." Eugene turned and entered the palace, leaving his son alone out on the terrace.

About ten minutes later, Thomas wandered into the palace kitchens to find his younger sister and the new Head Librarian talking to each other at one of the tables. There was the smell of baking bread in the air, and he saw Annabelle slide another tray of dough into the brick oven.

"Stan, why won't you tell me where you guys are going?" Ginger asked, looking up from her notebook.

Stanley scratched the side of his face absently with the ledger in his hand. "It's a secret. Even Annie doesn't know where we're going and she's the bride."

"It's true, Ginger," Annabelle said, wiping her hands on her apron and coming over to stand beside her fiancé. "He won't even give me a hint."

"It's a secret," Stanley repeated, grinning down at her.

"He's probably taking her to the Peninsula," Thomas muttered, pulling up a chair for himself and plopping down into it.

"Whoa." Ginger blinked at him. "Who beat you up?"

"Tom, are you all right?" Annabelle came over and, despite his protests, began to examine the cuts along his face.

"Annie, stop, I'm okay." Thomas winced as she brushed the more sensitive injuries.

Annabelle looked at the Head Librarian. "Stan, get me a wet towel, please."

"Sure thing." Stanley went over to the faucet even as his fiancée continued to tend to her brother.

"You were fighting again, weren't you?" Annabelle asked, her voice worried.

Ginger leaned forward, smirking. "Was it Nathaniel of Florence? Did you deck him for stealing Elloree from you?"

"I was never courting Elloree, Gin'! I didn't even like—Annie, stop it." Thomas tried to dodge the wet towel she was pressing against his face.

Stanley crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "Is he all right? Do you want me to get the physician?"

"No, no, I'll just take care of him." Annabelle sat down next to her brother and began to clean his ear and cheek.

Thomas glanced over at Ginger, nodding at her book. "What are you doing over there?"

"Matching," she answered.

"'Matching'?"

"She's matching people together," Annabelle said, rubbing down his neck. "Apparently she has a knack for it."

"Is this why none of your boyfriends last longer than two weeks?" Thomas asked.

Ginger pouted, replying defensively, "For the record, it's not my fault I don't know I'm not the right match for them when we start courting. And once I do know I immediately set him up with one of my friends—exactly the perfect girl for him. Andrew and Jennifer just got together this morning."

"I don't suppose you have a page for me in there, do you?"

"Of course I have a page for you, Tom. I just don't know if there's a saint out there that's patient enough to take you."

"Thanks," Thomas said dryly.

Ginger squinted at him. "So if it wasn't Nathaniel, what did you get in a fight about?"

"None of your business."

Annabelle removed the remainder of the soot and blood, murmuring, "Tom, don't be mean."

"She's the one who's being nosy! And anyway, I—" Thomas knocked aside his sister's arm. "I'm fine, Annie. You can stop."

"You're not fine, you're hurt."

He groaned. "I'm fine. Just got into a little argument at school about the war. No big deal."

"You're lying. It is a big deal." Annabelle said, narrowing her eyes.

Thomas took a deep breath and shrugged. "So what if I am? Doesn't change much and really, I don't care anymore."

"Mom's not going to be happy," Ginger said, shaking her head.

"Mom can stay that way forever if she wants."

Annabelle frowned. "Thomas."

"What?"

"What's the matter with you?"

Thomas made a face, responding, "Oh, I'm sorry, did I ruin your happy discussion about your honeymoon trip?"

Stanley stepped forward, his face stern. "Tom, you shouldn't—"

"Don't talk to me," Thomas said, standing up and heading towards the door. "None of you get it. None of you understand." He slammed the door shut behind him.

It was a few seconds before Ginger looked at the other two and asked, "Okay—what was that about?"

Annabelle sighed, folding the towel. "The same thing it's always about. He probably had a fight with Dad and now he wants to take it out on everyone else."

"Do you want me to talk to him?" Stanley asked, setting his arm about his fiancée's shoulders.

Annabelle smiled at him. "Thank you, Stan, but no thank you. Tom needs to think this out by himself. I don't want you to get a black eye just from offering advice."

"I wasn't going to offer advice. I was going to tell him to stuff it."

Ginger's green eyes widened, and she said, sounding impressed, "Wow, Stan, I didn't know you could get angry."

"Yeah, well, give me a reason and I can."

Annabelle patted him on the chest. "I appreciate your concern, but please don't."

He nodded slightly. "Okay."

"Anyway, you have that meeting you need to attend. They need someone to write down the report and look up numbers."

"And I'm their man," Stanley replied, tapping the ledger.

"You are the best at it," Annabelle said sweetly.

"I'm okay."

"No, you really are the best."

"Not as good as you."

Ginger rolled her eyes at the two lovebirds before coughing and declaring, "For goodness sake, stop flirting and smooch already. You two are going to get married in a few months. You might as well get used to kissing in front of people."

Stanley grinned and lifted the ledger up to hide his and his fiancée's goodbye kiss from public view, earning gales of laughter from Ginger.

Thomas did not bother attending dinner, and his sisters did not ask their father about him. Their mother did not arrive until late, having been away at another meeting for most of the meal. She ate lightly and inquired about the day, letting her eyes stray only once to the seat her son would normally fill. Her husband did not say anything about it, naturally making Rapunzel even more concerned. However, she held her peace on the matter and did not bring it up until her husband had finished with his bath and was coming to bed that night.

"When did I get so old?" Eugene asked, peering at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

In the bed, Rapunzel continued to write, not looking up as she said, "You're not old."

"Of course I am. I've got grey hairs, my eyesight's going, my back hurts so much I can't even pick Ginger-snap up anymore."

"You just took her to her room half an hour ago."

Eugene glanced at his left hand and pressed his fingers against his palm, remembering how he had cut it against a rock a long, long time ago. Rapunzel had healed it then, but he was still surprised to see no scar there.

He murmured, half to himself and half to his wife, "Sometimes I just wish things were back to the way they used to be. Well, maybe not exactly how they used to be, but I catch myself wishing that it was just you and me back in that forest, running from guards and Maximus and just on an adventure again."

Rapunzel did not reply, and he looked over to see her still writing. Working late as usual—the poor woman almost never stopped.

Eugene looked back at his reflection again, recognizing glimpses of his son in his own movements. He shook his head and blew out the bathroom candle, coming into the room.

Letting out a low moan, Eugene fell face-first onto the bed.

His wife folded up the paper in her lap and reached over to stroke his damp hair, asking, "Hard day?"

"Yes," he answered, voice muffled against the sheets. "Though probably not as hard as yours."

"I wouldn't count on it."

Eugene rolled over and gave her a half-smile. "Really? Even after you had to deal with the bloodshed that happened at Connaught?"

She shook her head, responding, "It wasn't particularly bad. General Macintosh and his men managed the battle and clean-up quite well. I only had to sign a few things."

"A few things like death warrants and prison sentences."

Rapunzel sighed. "Unfortunately, yes."

"What are you doing now?"

"Condolence letters. The king of Salisbury lost another son."

Eugene gazed at her for a long moment before sitting up and taking her hand. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, dear. It happens." She squeezed his hand tightly, watching as his shoulders stiffened.

"You should've never had to deal with this. You of all people."

"Thank you, but you know I have no choice."

"You do have a choice," her husband pointed out.

"My conscience won't let me. And at any rate, there's something far more important to talk about than the war." Rapunzel set aside the letter and met his eyes. "Eugene, why wasn't Tom at dinner?"

He shrugged. "Must've decided not to come."

"That's not an answer. What happened today?"

Eugene did not answer right away, choosing instead to stare up at the dark ceiling. Eventually he asked, "I'm a good father, right?"

"Of course you are," Rapunzel said, her anxious green eyes studying his face.

"Good father—good husband—even a good statesman some of the time. I do good things and I work hard and I've tried to teach our kids to do likewise, right?"

"The lock picking lessons might have been a little excessive," Rapunzel replied, smirking slightly.

He grinned. "As I said before, it's a life-skill. But anyway—I am a good person and I've taught Annie and Thomas and Ginger-snap to be good people too, right?"

"Yes, you have."

Eugene nodded, asking, "Then how come our son—my son, really—how come he's been acting so selfish and so angry lately?"

"It's not that bad—"

"Sweetheart, he broke someone's nose today."

"He did what?"

"And he flat-out told me that he didn't want to be prince. That he wants nothing to do with the job because it's just too much work and he'd rather go run off and live his life the way he wants. No responsibilities, no rules—nothing. Just him and his own desires."

Rapunzel smiled sadly at him, and he hung his head, adding, "I know. Never thought I'd see that part of myself in him."

His wife narrowed her eyes, protesting, "That's not only you."

"Rapunzel, the most rebellious thing you did as a kid was escape the crazy lady who kidnapped you. I think it's safe to assume Thomas is channeling me, not you."

"All the same, it's not your fault."

"Then whose fault is it?" he asked, looking at her.

"Tom's," she replied simply. "And you know, in the end, he's just scared. He's seeing everything that's going on—all the meetings and late nights; the soldiers and unhappy subjects—and he's getting worried. He thinks that's what awaits him when he becomes king."

Eugene cocked his head, saying, "Well we're not going to do that. We agreed when this war started we would try to clear it up before he took the throne. He's got years before he should even be thinking about this."

"He doesn't know that."

"But I've told him we—"

"Have you?" Rapunzel asked. "Have you actually had time in the last few months to sit down with him and really explain the situation?"

Eugene thought for a few seconds, his gaze focused on the bottom of the bed.

Finally he muttered, "I suppose not. Most of the information he gets comes from listening at keyholes or whatever his professors at school tell him. And they can't be very helpful. They're just academics, after all."

"Eugene."

"What? I've never liked teachers."

She made a face at him, and he laughed, "I know, I know. Stupid response."

Rapunzel began to rub his shoulders, replying, "It's just—we haven't had time to do anything nonwar-related. For goodness sake, I hardly see my kids anymore. I miss them."

"They miss you too. So do I."

"We need to sit down with them all tomorrow—before breakfast-."

Eugene shook his head. "We have that meeting with the Duke of Florence then."

"Fine. After breakfast—"

"Generals Fergus and Neptune are talking to you and your dad in the conference room. And the council's going to be there."

Rapunzel let her hands drop from his shoulders, exasperated. "All right. We will sit down at lunch—and I don't care what's happening then," she said, cutting over her husband's next remark. "We will sit down with all three of our kids and relax a bit. Even if it's just for an hour. We need to spend time with them and, more importantly, we need to talk to Tom. We need to let him know that he does have a choice about being prince and that he doesn't have to worry."

"And that's the plan?" Eugene asked, once again taking her hand in his.

"That's the plan," she replied.

"You are amazing."

His wife yawned. "Really? I don't feel like it."

"You really are, though. You are so," he kissed her hand, "absolutely," he kissed her cheek, "amazing." He finished with a long, gentle kiss on her mouth.

Rapunzel rested her head against her husband's chest, closing her eyes. "Let's go to sleep, dear. I'm very tired."

"All right." He extinguished the candles and slid under the covers, wrapping his arm about Rapunzel's waist and holding her close against him.

She must have been able to feel the tenseness in his arm muscles because she said quietly, "Stop worrying, Eugene. Everything will work out eventually."

He breathed in the scent of her hair, asking, "What makes you say that?"

"Because Tom is like you. He'll figure out how to deal with his problems and come back a better man for doing so."

"Sure about that?"

"Positive."

Eugene hesitated and then said, "I hope you're right." But by that point, Rapunzel had already fallen asleep.

Out on the rooftop of the royal apartments, Thomas reclined against the cold tiles and watched the sky darken as the stars began to come out. He pulled his jacket tighter about himself, his breath puffing in the chilly air.

He really should be getting to bed. He had an exam the following morning, and then military training during the late afternoon. Not to mention, he had to be well rested if he wanted to escape whatever revenge Castor and his friends were planning to enact upon him.

Thomas reached into his jacket and withdrew his slingshot, sending a few, half-hearted pebbles arcing across the roof. They clattered against the tile, rolling down the sloped eaves and possibly annoying whomever slept beneath their path. Thomas replaced his slingshot and sat up to run his hand over the scribbles and carvings marking the shingles above his bedroom. A whole history of crown princes had shared the room before him, and many had left their mark upon the ceramic. He could see his grandfather's name, and even his great-grandfather's name scrawled across the area next to his right elbow.

The prince glanced down to his left, spotting his own childish writing of the name 'Flynnigan Rider' on one of the tiles. When he was younger, he had longed to be like that character. To go wherever he wanted and do whatever he wanted—to have adventures and freedom and the world at his feet. Apparently some things never changed with age.

He looked out over the lights and smoke of the city, and then beyond the ocean waters to the dark corners of the forest and river. He could disappear forever out there. No one would ever find him, not even the so-called master thief of his father's stories. He could simply leave and never come back.

A fluttering noise alerted him to one of the tower flags whipping about in the wind. A few more seconds, and the flag suddenly ripped from its pole and flew away into the night.

Thomas gazed after it, and then abruptly began to make his way back to the window of his room. He dropped to the floor and went over to his closet, rummaging about before emerging with a satchel. He started stuffing clothes into the bag, his heart pounding with his decision.

Where would he go? Did it matter? Was he really going to do what he had been thinking about for the past several months? Did he even have a chance?

Thomas grabbed one of the blankets from his bed and began to fold it, looking around his room for anything else he might want. His toolkit, yes—he would need that. And his hunting knife would be useful.

His stomach growled loudly. Food. Yes, he would have to stop at the kitchens on his way down to the stables. Maximus II had more necessary items in his saddlebags. But how to leave without being spotted by the stable-hands?

Thomas buckled the clasp on his bag and was on his way out the door when he tripped over one of his textbooks. He glanced down at it, and then picked it up and opened it to the back pages. There were maps in here. Maps were useful.

It took a bit of tugging, but he managed to rip out a map of Corona, the Midlands, as well as Orae. He had his travel options. Now he just needed food, some money, and his horse.

Without looking behind him, Thomas closed the door and crept down the hallway, his feet barely making a sound on the soft carpet.