Chapter Text
It had only been five years since the Greenwood named its first King. Oropher of the Sindar was taken by the wood-elves as a strong, leading figure who could organise their armies and bring them trade from the outside world. Or at least, that was what Oropher thought his duty entailed. He only really went along with what he believed was right - and that meant having strict patrols and no trespassers in his realm at all.
There was security in isolation, even though the forest seemed relatively safe. In the first year of Oropher's rule the only thing that brought danger to the Silvan was a particularly stormy night, when the trees shook with icy rain and the green grass woke in a thick carpet of black. That night, something changed.
At present, Oropher was holding court. He sat absolutely still atop his high throne of carven beechwood, a twisted crown of branches resting on his silver head. The only signs of movement near his person came from his long tresses of hair that fell two meters to the ground. Thranduil sat amongst his father's dark green robes, carding his little fingers through the silken locks. He was six years of age and still rather small for an elf, appearing no older than a toddler. The entire Greenwood had grown used to the sight of him, for rarely was Oropher seen without his son by his side. While holding court, the King managed to concentrate despite slight tugs on his hair.
Thranduil loved attention, and seemingly the only way he could get it was by walking alongside his father. When he did not feel high nor regal enough, he demanded to be picked up. He did not ask for it verbally, however. There were signals, little hand motions and postural changes that alerted Oropher to what his son wanted. Currently, Thranduil was content with soft hair in his hands and a warm lap to sit in. Oropher paid him no mind.
"What of those in Rivendell?" growled Oropher, masking the concern in his voice with a low, gruff tone. One of the messengers before him cowered under the deep pressure of his King's command - delivering information about those beyond the Misty Mountains was his own job, and one that was called upon frequently.
"They are, ahh.. established quite well, your Majesty." said the messenger, a frail-looking elf by the name of Brelin. Oropher did not learn the names of anyone lower than his close staff and council. He cocked his head sideways, and made a forceful open palm gesture to the right. Thranduil's eyes flicked to track the movement.
"And? Are their supplies sufficient? Borders established? No attacks upon the folk?" Oropher expected so much more from his reports and frankly was quite frustrated with the lack of information. He was not a patient nor benevolent King in the slightest. Quick to anger and quicker to kill, Oropher gave unreasonable requests and wanted them fulfilled immediately.
Brelin cringed and wished he'd worn his helmet to this meeting, so at least his eyes could hide behind the black veil. Oh, but Oropher would've forced him to take it off. Humiliation and dominance were the Elvenking's favourite pastimes and he would never hesitate to make an incompetent servant feel their place beneath him. Oropher considered nearly everyone his servants, really. They could not deny him anything and most were too frightened, awed or clever to say 'no'. Therefore, in his mind they were there to serve his will and nothing more.
His will often bent to the protection of his folk and brutality of others, establishing the Silvan as a race not to be messed with or even considered for an attack. He showed their military might by sending armed soldiers to patrol the Greenwood's borders. Now and then, reports of stray orcs slain would reach his ears. And though pleased, he would not smile. His people were survivors. And they would kill anyone who threatened that.
Oropher was still waiting for Brelin's reply when he felt a particularly sharp tug to his hair. Momentarily he glanced to Thranduil who was staring right into his emerald green eyes. The Prince pursed his lips a little, the centre of his eyebrows twitched down. Oropher's body shifted to lean back against his throne, right hand clenched around the beveled armrest and left arm holding Thranduil close. Thranduil made a soft whine and snuggled up against his father, face pressed into the thick robes over his chest.
"There are… no problems…" came the soft voice of Brelin, trembling under the sudden intensity of Oropher's steel gaze. "I assure you… everyone is safe and there have been no recorded incidents…"
"You're not doing a very good job."
Oropher raised an eyebrow and looked down at Thranduil, who had turned his head for a second and frowned at Brelin.
"My Ada is tense. You are not assuring in the slightest."
Silence filled the wide, cavernous space of the throneroom. Of course Oropher was tense; he always was. He literally did not know how to relax. But to be called out on it by his own son was a thing he'd not expected. And now, he had no clue how to react.
"Naneth is alive…" murmured Thranduil up at his father, referring to his estranged mother with calculated detachment. Oropher froze.
Thranduil was not supposed to know about his mother, for she had been forced to flee shortly after bearing her son. Oropher had been the one to hold Thranduil, to see the light flicker in those wide blue eyes. He had brushed silky tufts of white-gold hair, clothed his son in fine robes and raised him to be a prince. Or at least he tried. Oropher never spoke of his wife, for the mere thought of his beloved sent his heart racing with worry and unsure thoughts. She could be dead, and he would not know. They hadn't bonded, hadn't formed the mental connection many married elves did in order to be closer to each other. As such there was no free speech over long distances between them. Mail could not be sent from Rivendell, for the birds would not pass into the cursed Greenwood. None of the Silvan knew this, of course. To them, their realm was perfectly fine with its thick-leaved trees and lush lime grass. Rarely did the hunting scouts find anything dangerous within the forest itself. All trouble came from the borders. And so, Oropher concentrated forces to guarding them.
Oropher snapped out of his thoughts at the shrill sound of Thranduil's voice.
"Begone!" was the command, and Brelin sprinted off as if given pardon from his deathbed. The Elvenking sighed and looked down at his son. Before he could even speak, his thoughts of chastising Thranduil were met with a premeditated reply.
"You don't need him." said Thranduil with self-assurance far past his age "There's nothing he could tell you that I couldn't."
Oropher squinted in confusion at his son.
"What are you talking about, dithen-pen?" he asked, barely aware that all eyes of the court were scrutinously trained on him. Thranduil smiled and did not blink as he looked at his father.
"She is not dead." he said, before adding "If she was, I would know."
None of this made sense to Oropher. Was Thranduil making reference to some innate connection all elflings had with their parents? Oropher had no clue, for he was a creation of the Valar and knew nothing other than himself. Wrapping his head around anything that wasn't pure slaughter was far too complex for him to care about, but seeing as Thranduil had not said anything like this to him before… It was mildly concerning the Prince would speak of his mother who he'd never known.
Oropher chalked it up to premature foresight and left the conversation there. He was not good with words. Fists and clear commands conveyed most things he wanted. Understanding Thranduil was a whole new matter entirely.
The meeting continued.