The Princess of Mirkwood felt elated. After all, tomorrow was supposed to be her fiftieth birthday. A whole anniversary. Coming of age. And the coronation to the throne. Because of this, she was a little nervous, fidgeting slightly on the king's lap.

His majestic and tall figure sat on an overstuffed armchair. And the magical and attractive beauty was accentuated by a silver crown and a heavy dark red robe. His perfect features expressed a slight weariness. And a deep, caring gaze is fixed on her. His favorite princess.

Traduil sighed wearily once again and looked at the blazing fire in the fireplace, as if asking for more patience from an inanimate phenomenon of nature. Then the warm blue eyes shifted back to her.

Please don't move around, bunny. I beg.

The comb slid through her curls again. After a few minutes, she started scratching her ears nervously. The High Elf bit his tongue, trying to restrain himself and be patient, but he exclaimed sharply.

Calm down, meleth nin! His hand gripped your shoulder tightly. Otherwise, we won't finish on time and you won't get enough sleep. We don't need that!

Then he sighed heavily and kissed the top of your head.

Sorry, love. I just want you to do well and at the highest level. You should be happy. And my concern in this regard is quite justified. You know that perfectly well, because you are a my princess with the best manners and a good girl. You just have to be patient for a bit, okay? For the sake of everything.

Thranduil tucked the strands of hair behind her pointed elf ears again and began to comb them slowly and carefully.