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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.

Chapter Text

Days passed, and life in the Greenwood was as uneventful as it could possibly be. 

Thranduil and Oropher sat in the baths together, Oropher with his eyes closed and head tilted back. His long white hair hung just below the surface, floating like water weeds around him. In the misty confines of the King's private baths, where spring-fed rock pools shone mineral green and clear in the atmospheric light of amber lamps, steam offered them both privacy and warmth.

Thranduil sat on the low steps leading out of the water, for it was one of the only places he could sit and not be taken into the pool's depths. He always bathed with Oropher, and preferred to stay close to him instead of sitting on hard stone. Just as he pitched forwards into the water, two large hands caught his lithe body and lifted him close to a disapproving face. 

"Be careful, iôn nín." said Oropher, his voice low and thick like the relaxing steam curling in the air. "I do not want you to drown."
Thranduil tilted his head to the side as he was lowered into the water, eager to scamper back up Oropher's chest and maintain eye contact. A low frequency rush enveloped him as he was dipped down beneath the surface, only for a second before he came back up with wet hair plastered to his skin. Being of Telerin descent, sudden submersion into water was thrilling and not terrifying at all, even though he could only hold his breath for so long. He did not understand the concept of drowning. 

"Why?" asked Thranduil, batting his eyelashes to free them of heavy water droplets. They glimmered like emeralds before his vision, and as they fell he brought his hands up to catch them. 

Oropher's tone was serious as he spoke. "If your lungs fill with water and you sink beneath the surface, you will die." Almost immediately Thranduil responded with knowledge of his own, more curious than challenging. 

"Elves can't die, Ada!" he exclaimed with a confident smile, splashing water up at Oropher for emphasis. "We're immortal."

The Elvenking shook his head and looked grim, despite finding his son's naïveté quite endearing. Yet he did not wish to talk of death here, now in these moments of warmth and peace. Thranduil however saw his father's disagreement and sought to prove him wrong, and like a slippery fish he backflipped out of Oropher's grasp. All he heard was a surprised grunt and saw green, green everywhere. Tickling long strands of white. Soft giggles rising from his throat and appearing as wobbling bubbles that danced towards the surface. Air. He needed air. Oropher's hands reached for him but Thranduil could not reach back, his body heavy and swelling with water… Light and dark flashed in his vision, he screamed in silence and asked why, why wasn't he truly immortal, how could his lungs ache so and his body feel so cold…

Eyes wide open. He was awake.
Oropher still slept soundly beside his son, flat on his back and with his upper body completely uncovered. Thranduil didn't realise he'd been grasping at his father's chest in his sleep. He blinked several times, refusing to believe he'd just had a dream. No, it couldn't have been. It was real, he could still feel the chills inside his body and… oh. His hair was dry… but his heart was pounding. That had been too vivid for his liking, and he'd felt far too much control in his own actions that lead to… what may have been his death.

Little did he know, foresight often equaled deja vu. He had witnessed a thing soon to come, similar yet not as deadly… or so he would have hoped, had he known a single thing about what his 'dream' meant. For now, he was thoroughly rattled and dove under the covers, before pressing his face into Oropher's chest. It was a thing he always did, no matter what situation Oropher was in. Seated and speaking to others? Thranduil still faceplanted into his father's body and nudged at him like a cat. This was his favourite position to sleep in, however. Curled atop Oropher, he was small enough to use the elder elf as a bed. Here he felt safe. Nothing could harm him now… not even his dreams.

Chapter Text

It was a gentle, eerie day in the Greenwood as soft winds trailed through the thick leaves of late summer. No birds sang this season, and the elves were at a loss for the lack of musical wildlife in their forest. Shortly after the Spring had faded into days of sharp heat and wonderfully cool nights, things had gotten a lot quieter in the Woodland Realm. In the absence of bright chirping and melodic voices, quiet whispers of worry and sadness took to the Silvan community, and found ways to the ears of the King.

Oropher sat by the balcony where he and Thranduil usually ate lunch together. His thick arms were folded over his chest and there was not a single pressing thought in his mind. One would not normally describe him as level-headed and calm, but few knew of his talent at ignoring the world. Oh yes, the entire forest was most definitely under his pale emerald gaze. But did he see? No. All was black, absent, nothing for him. The Valar had given him the gift of ignorance, of blocking out the world, and ended up cursing anyone who had to communicate with the Elvenking.

Here, Oropher was at peace. His mind was completely blank, and remaining closed to reality was so effortless he could find his grasp on it slipping away. Faint breath passed his thin, dry lips and the tips of his hair picked up in the warm breeze. But the breath was not his own. Wetness touched him, but he could not feel it. All senses were dulled to the point of nonexistence.
He would awaken when he saw fit, and this was a thing that annoyed Thranduil greatly.

"Aaaaadaaaaa…." whined the Prince, poking at his father's face with his soft, slightly sticky fingertips. His own face was so close, if he stuck his tongue out he could lick a few breadcrumbs from Oropher's cheek. He had been eating sweetmeats and staring at Oropher's eyebrows, wondering if one day he too would own beautiful, sweeping monuments of darkness upon his face. Now, Thranduil wished for his father's attention and a few words on what was going through his mind. Of course he could sense the moments when Oropher was lost to the world, but surely the Elvenking had to be thinking of something! One did not simply just stop their brain. Brains were interesting, thoughtful, with their own special intrigue that drove unique actions and created different behaviours in different people. To Thranduil, they were to be read, toyed with and manipulated. It was such fun to see an elf tear at their own hair or cry themselves to death when given the right emotional stimulus. It made Thranduil laugh.

"Wake up!" Thranduil began to shake Oropher's broad shoulders, not making the Elvenking move an inch. Frustrated, he grabbed a nearby fork and was swiftly going for his father's thick jugular when it slipped from his fingers, glinting silver in the air as it tumbled over the balcony. He lunged for the fork and smacked a hand atop the vine-covered railing of twisted branches to vault himself over - not realising there was a steep drop of over six hundred meters. The momentum of his body pushed him just a little more, Thranduil reached for the fork but it was already too far away, suddenly a heavy weight slammed into his stomach and his head reeled. Both of Oropher's hands clamped down tightly on his son's abdomen, and Thranduil struggled to get away. One of those hands slid up and restrained the Prince by his forehead, much gentler and forcibly stiff. Oropher could barely keep himself from shaking. He had felt something there, in his little dark place where nothing could touch him but his own will. A force, driving and deep, had told him to move, from instinct or sense he did not know. But now he was with his only son clutched tight in his arms, so tight that Thranduil could hardly breathe. Before the Prince could have his stomach cave from the incredible pressure of Oropher's hand, it was released just enough for him to be secure and alive. Gasping, Thranduil twisted himself around and glared into his father's eyes.

"Ada!! Wha-" He barely got another word out before Oropher smooshed Thranduil's face to his own chest, questions and protests muffled between thick, silk-covered pectorals.
"Iôn nîn, you must be more careful." growled the King, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "I do not want you to fall and die."
"I just might if you keep neglecting me!" Thranduil cried into his father's robes, straining to peek up at a strong jaw and hooked nose. He struggled a little more until Oropher let him climb up, and was soon supported with his legs splayed and face at Oropher's height. "Why do you stare at nothing and ignore me?"

Oropher stared at Thranduil, his brows slowly tightening into a frown and dark shadows forming beneath his eyes.
"I love you, Thranduil. But sometimes, I need to consider things on my own."
Thranduil did not like the sound of this at all, and began to think his father was hiding things from him.
"What, Ada? What do you need to consider?" he asked, leaning to press his forehead to Oropher's so that he might have an easier time staring into his soul. But Oropher's eyes were blank, with a saddened grey tone overcast in those deep emerald pools. Thranduil could not read him. Nobody ever could.

"Have you eaten enough?" asked Oropher, changing the subject with a slight tilt of his head to the side. Thranduil's head fell to his father's shoulder and he tugged at long white locks of hair in frustration.
"I'll eat you if you don't tell me what you've been thinking of."
That caught Oropher off guard, for he hadn't even considered Thranduil to continue his demands after being asked a proper question. One that required an answer… not a threat.
In a rare moment of quick thought, the Elvenking came up with a comeback just before Thranduil began to gnaw his face off.
"I'll take that as a 'no', then." muttered Oropher, his hand flicking to the table and picking up a pastry dripping with honey. Thranduil's eyes flicked to what his father was doing at all times, never missing a beat but his reflexes weren't ready for when Oropher pushed buttery softness to his lips. Pouting, Thranduil allowed Oropher to feed him while maintaining the best annoyed look he could. That didn't last for long as Thranduil ended up eating just about anything Oropher gave him. He did so love the affection involved with being hand-fed. Feeling like a proper prince, Thranduil closed his eyes and was nibbling on Oropher's fingers when he heard a soft sigh.

Oropher was incredibly relieved that he'd managed to disarm Thranduil's ever-probing behaviour with food, and made a mental note to remember snacks for the next time a difficult situation hit. He could not always out-talk or sass people, let alone his own son who seemed to have the sass of every single elf-lord in Arda combined. For an elf who always solved his problems with screaming or physical force, Oropher was often at a loss to deal with things when his own agenda conflicted with his son's. And when Oropher felt uncomfortable in explaining things (what King had to explain his own behaviour, he thought) he often went silent. Thranduil did not deal with his father's silence well. Not at all.

For now, Thranduil was content and in a haze of sugary sweetness, licking the last of some honey from Oropher's index finger and peering up at him. The Elvenking looked down at his son and offered a little smile, as natural as he could make it. Such a thing was rare and mostly nonexistent from him, and Thranduil took it to be a treat for his behaviour. Yes, he'd stopped asking questions and did what Oropher asked of him, which was to keep still and enjoy some fine food.
'I can comply with that.' said Thranduil to himself, and smiled gently at his father. Oropher found the sight quite endearing and booped Thranduil's nose with his finger, stroking his son's hair with his other hand. The Prince did not need words of praise to know he was being rewarded, and snuggled into the warm body that supported him. Oropher was perfectly still save for the soft, calculated petting motions of his hand. His eyes roved to the forest once more and he could see thick green leaves leaning towards the ground, as if they drooped in the slight summer heat.

Oropher wondered about that. The forest had been looking a little more depressed in the past year or so, though it was less noticeable in Spring. Many of the chatty and vivacious wood elves had grown quieter in the few months without birdsong or flowering plant life, which concerned Oropher greatly. In the five years he'd known the Silvan, they were a boisterous lot who drank too much wine, had no knowledge of 'inappropriate behaviour' and essentially enjoyed life as simply as it came. The Noldor saw them as uncivilised and dangerous, the Sindar sadly looked upon them as living memories of how pure life could be. Oropher thought of the Silvan as the pinnacle of grey-elven society, free and limitless with their own cohesive hive-mind mentality and fierce protection of their lands. These elves did not care for rules, class or structure. There was much less conflict within their community when compared to the Sindar, who almost envied the simple life. The Silvan however were considered some of the most unholy elves ever to be counted kin. They had never seen the glory of Aman, never stepped along the shores of the Eldamar and had barely even considered walking in the gardens of Valinor. Most of the Silvan had some sort of Telerin ancestry, that which they shared in common with the Sindar, and even the Nandor to some extent. The Sindar were those who tarried on their way West, lingered in Middle-Earth and did not seek to be highly revered as the Noldor. Those Noldor. Always seeking power and greater things to craft, more knowledge, more out of life. The Sindar preferred things at a slower pace, for they were those who stopped to breathe flower-scents, hear the music of the Ainur in flowing streams and speak languages the world's creatures understood.

Nowadays, the Silvan could hear muted voices calling from the trees and laments rustling through drooping leaves. The few Sindar that Oropher had taken with him from Doriath to the Greenwood were not as attuned to nature, thus heard nothing. But they were elven all the same, and could feel that something was wrong.
Oropher worried just a little more, but kept things low and calm so as not to alert Thranduil. A quick glance down told him that the Prince was sleeping, his soft cheek squished against the broad chest which barely moved as it served its purpose as a pillow.
Very gently, Oropher ran his hand down the back of Thranduil's head to the tips of his chin-length hair. It was so very soft, he could not help but feel it as his mind roamed back to dark thoughts.
Something was wrong with the Greenwood, and as ruler of these lands it was Oropher's duty to make things right. He wanted to see soldiers aggressively sparring under the sunlit training grounds, with their healing enchantments and warm grass patches. He wished to find happiness for his folk, the smile on an elfling's face, the laughter of friends gallivanting through the trees. As long as daily life went on and was peaceful, not interfering with Oropher's own existence… it was a thing he strove for. And quite difficult to explain, as you can see here. Anyway.

As if mirroring Oropher's concerns, the vines curled around the balcony's railing dropped a few leaves as if dying. The Elvenking sharply looked towards the movement, seeing dark green fall to rest atop his boots. With a sigh, he bent to pick them up, holding Thranduil close. The leaves were placed atop the railing, where they could rejoin the rest of the vine. Oropher stood, cradling Thranduil in one arm while the other swept back through his own hair. It was then that he realised he was crownless.

Would his people ever consider him a King when nothing but misfortune had befallen the Greenwood since the beginning of his reign?

Chapter Text

A few weeks had passed since Oropher’s reflexes saved the life of his son. Thranduil did not mean to seem ungrateful, but happened to be getting into more dangerous situations as time went by.

“Thranduil! What are you doing over there?” The Elvenking did not mean to shout. His voice carried throughout the palace and even the guards by the huge golden doors heard him. Thranduil remained crouched, so still it looked like he’d been frozen there.

“There’s a crack.” He said this so matter-of-factly it made Oropher wonder if he was supposed to know that. Bending as best he could, Oropher shoved his face beside what Thranduil was looking at. There was indeed a crack, and Thranduil had stuck his finger there to feel it. Since the palace was high up in the Woodland Realm, there was sunlight cast onto the face of the hill where it was built. Thranduil appeared to be enjoying the warmth, but there was a strange, placid lack of emotion upon his face. The only thing that clued Oropher as to what his son was feeling happened a second later.

“I will stay here.”

“Oh no you won’t. It’s not safe to be doing such things. What if a bird came along and bit your finger off?” Oropher tugged his son away and found little resistance. Thranduil turned his head around as far as it would go. Oropher heard something crack.

“You’d kill it for me wouldn’t you, Ada?” He smiled sweetly and licked his lips, as if imagining the sight of blood dripping from his father’s strong hands. “Mm…”

Oropher’s face would have gone transparent if it could pale any further. He held Thranduil at a distance away just out of instinct, looking at him with a bit of horror in his interest.

“It’s not good to kill animals, Thranduil. If you want to be in the sun, come with me to the balcony.”

Thranduil shook his head. “Now I want to be with you.” Oropher did not exactly want to deny his son this, but couldn’t find himself being comfortable with Thranduil at this moment. The prince picked up on it immediately.

“There it is again! I’m going to take out your brain and have a look!” Oropher wasn’t prepared for how fast Thranduil’s hands were and he was suddenly grabbed by the ears, a jolt of sensation smacking into every nerve he had.

“Ah!”

Thranduil had never heard his father cry out like that before. Oropher quickly composed himself though, at least until Thranduil tugged on his ears again.

“Stop that…” Oropher shook his head but Thranduil still held on tight. He pressed his forehead up to touch his father’s, playing with the tips of his ears.

“Why are you feelsy here?” Thranduil had tried clawing Oropher’s skin off once and the King appeared to barely feel a thing. “I didn’t know you could feel.”

“Mmmnhh…” Oropher only breathed a half-coherent response, his voice cutting off as his natural silence took over. His eyes were half-lid and there was colour rising in his cheeks.

“Your face is changing colour.” Thranduil pointed it out and slapped Oropher’s cheeks to see what would happen. Oropher didn’t feel that, and opened his eyes properly. What was he supposed to say?

Thranduil’s eyes were so wide and scrutinous, unblinking in their fixation. They didn’t even flick from side to side as most elves’ did when making eye contact. The exact same thing was conveyed in both of Oropher’s eyes, and Thranduil could see both of them at once. No, it wasn’t exactly that. Rather… he could feel what his father was thinking, through the closeness of their foreheads and the touch of skin together. Looking into Oropher’s dark emerald eyes only strengthened what he could feel. There was… great confusion, a swelling warmth that was suppressed by such strong willpower it was like an avalanche against a bread crumb, and… nothing else mattered. What was that warmth just barely flickering there? Thranduil could see it all. And he felt how hard Oropher was trying to push it down. He reached for Oropher’s ears again and felt wariness, discomfort. Grabbed them, and then resignation came through Oropher’s sigh. The warmth burst out like lava from a capped volcano, only to be rained on a second later. Oropher’s arousal fizzled into nothing but smoke as his mind began to shut down.

“Oh, no! Don’t ignore me Ada, don’t!” Excited about his new discovery, Thranduil wished for Oropher to remain conscious and aware of his surroundings. But it was no use – leaning back a little, Oropher clutched Thranduil to his chest and then collapsed like a stiff statue onto the ground. His eyes remained open and Thranduil tried to lick him, seeing no reaction no matter what he did. ‘DAMN IT.’

Oropher’s racing heart calmed to a slow, steady thump until it was barely there at all. His thick skull remained unharmed by the immense weight of his body slamming it and the rest of him into the floor. This sensation wasn’t even like he was floating in space or laying in bed. There was absolutely nothing he could feel. Only his own mind was with him now, yet it was not at peace. Very gently, the feelings of having his ears touched ebbed away until what remained was a nagging disquiet.

‘How can he be so young and yet know how to drive me completely mad? Nobody but Lileth knows of my… sensitivity there. Stupid ears. They shouldn’t even exist. It’s not like I want to listen to anyone’s shit anyway.’ He remembered whenhis wife had been tending to his wounds after an encounter during the War of Wrath – he’d insisted he was okay, she stuck her hand into a laceration in his back and he felt her touch bone. Her bloodied hand went to smack him in the head and the moment he felt the sharp impact at his ear, he groaned. It was then that they had the most furious and messy coupling of their lives, bringing Thranduil into the world a little later. Oropher remembered it fondly. How he loved to mix pain and pleasure. Often he could not tell the difference between the two.

When he opened his eyes he was still on the floor and Thranduil was nowhere to be seen. None of Oropher’s servants dared to touch him, but he noticed Galion hiding behind a corner with a worried look on his face.

“You…” Like a zombie rising from the grave, Oropher sat up. Within seconds he was on his feet and heading straight for Galion. “Where is my son?”

“He is holding an audience, your Majesty.”

Oropher took several moments to process the information. “What?”

He didn’t wait for Galion to say anything more, instead making his way to the throneroom with urgency in his steps. A crowd of elves had gathered there, many others standing around on the paths listening to Thranduil’s boisterous voice.

“Well then, we should get more soldiers!” said Thranduil, smiling at the guard captain Nelien like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Ernilen, we are already spread thin with our defenders at the borders and hunters patrolling daily… What if we are attacked? What army do we have to stand against a threat to our home-“ Nelien’s voice quavered with emotion as she spoke, only to be cut off as Oropher shoved her out of the way.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” So many elves cringed around him at the volume of his voice it was like they’d been hit with an explosive blast. Nelien had no clue how many bones she’d broken and could still feel the imprint of Oropher’s hand in the middle of her back. “Thranduil! Get down from there!”

“Ada~ Come join me! We’ve made a good battle plan.” Thranduil clapped his hands together, inviting Oropher to the throne with a childlike smile.

‘At least he’s acting normal.’ Oropher thought to himself, striding through the elves who shrank away from him with their heads bowed. Stepping up to the throne he bent to scoop Thranduil into his arms and then he turned, seating himself with legs spread and back straight. “What is this?”

“Nelien told me about how she’s scared of people coming to attack us. So, we need an army! Oh, Dorongûr also said some stuff about the Greenwood and how something might be wrong. Have you been outside lately, Ada?” Thranduil’s words streamed out, neverending and quite difficult for Oropher to glean much meaning from. There was one thing he understood, however. These elves had been poisoning his son’s mind with worries.

“Tâdliel, kill her.” Oropher gestured to one of his guards, hand half cupped and flippant in gesturing at Nelien. “I will not have any of you filling my son’s mind with your baseless anxieties!”

The crowd of elves didn’t dare to look up, and a circle was formed around Nelien as they parted. Someone who’d gone to help her found themselves on the receiving end of Oropher’s glare – it was Tâdliel, aiding her younger sister. She froze, looking up at Oropher. The Elvenking’s mouth twisted in a cruel snarl and again he gestured with his hand. Watching intently, Thranduil giggled at her. The hilt of a dagger was pressed into Tâdliel’s hand and she turned to see Dagorlas, a fellow guard, urging her to do as the King wished. She looked back to Oropher. Now he was getting angry and wasted no time in shouting at her. “Hurry up, you fool!”

Nelien turned her head as best she could to look at her sister. “Tell Naneth I love her, mm?” She tried to smile. Tâdliel shook her head.

“No.” The blood of both ellith spilled upon the throneroom floor, Nelien first with a quick slash to her neck and Tâdliel stabbing herself in the heart. She could not bear the guilt of doing this to her own family – thus, her life was ended. Oropher rolled his eyes.

“Ach. Dramatic as ever. Now you, Dorongûr. What is this nonsense about our forest you are going on about?”

Dorongur stepped forth, his thin white hair falling like spider silk behind his back. “Your Majesty, please… the forest is ill, and it pains me to see it so sorrowful every day.” Now Oropher was not entirely oblivious to what was going on in the Greenwood, and it honestly disturbed him when he tried to ignore it. Such guilt came because of his natural pride and duty to his people – they had accepted him as their King. His love for the forest extended far beyond his own need for peaceful delusions.

“You say this to my son and not me? Why?”

“I did not want to trouble you…”

“And so you trouble my son? Do you seek to taint his pure mind with your waylaid thoughts?” Oropher bounced Thranduil on his lap for emphasis, and heard the prince gasp softly. He looked down to see Thranduil’s eyes wide and fixed upon the two ellith laying on the floor, dead and bleeding. The surrounding elves were trying their hardest to keep from gagging at the sickeningly sweet smell like boiled sugar rising hot and suffocating in the open, airy space. They could all acutely sense death. It disturbed many, and left Thranduil absolutely mesmerised. Everyone’s sorrows hung like black clouds above their heads, now visible with the added weight of sudden, merciless slaughter.

“Look Ada, do you see those?” Thranduil whispered without taking his eyes from the gruesome sight. Oropher’s focus shifted entirely to what Thranduil was on about, forgetting Dorongûr, much to the elf’s delight.

“What?” Oropher could only see the dead, depressed grey in the eyes of his people as they silently mourned the sisters who were the last two children of a family with one daughter left. ‘Murderer’, they did not cry. Only they stared, listless in that vacant, elvish way. It was now that Oropher raked them over with his scrutinous gaze. This did not sit well with him, and he no longer felt the compulsion to smirk or pick a fight with sharp words and baseless accusations. He could feel something, deep in the black pool of his suppressed emotions. Why was there not even an idle sway of the bodies standing before him, barely a flutter of hair from the breaths at each neck and shoulder? The wholesome air of the Woodland Realm had become thick with a viscous chill, like tendrils of icy sludge creeping down Oropher’s back. Behind him when he reached, there was nothing touching his skin. Suddenly the elves all blinked in unison, and when they opened their eyes they were staring right at him.

‘Killer...’ A whisper, in both of his ears at once. ‘Killer…’ A little louder. He looked down, only just realising his numb white fingers were pressed right between Thranduil’s shoulderblades. And Thranduil did not have anything covering him there. ‘Wonderful, just…. Yes, this is right. Deserved.Good.’

Oropher jerked his hand away and almost instantly the chill down his spine vanished. Thranduil turned to look at him. The gash in his silver robes remained open.

“Thranduil…?” Oropher stared at his son, still aware of all the elves looking at him. Why couldn’t he ignore them? Wasn’t that normally supposed to happen? How could it be that he was so focussed and aware of everything going on?

“The forest is dying, Ada.”

‘My Ada. My Killer.’

“Save us.” said the elves, speaking as one, their eyes hollow and mouths agape.

‘My King.’

Oropher felt as if he was losing his mind. Was that Thranduil speaking in his head? How did he get in there, and just what was going on with all those Silvan elves? Sweet, thick blood coated their shoes and nearby someone threw up, nothing but wine coming out. Oropher had seen it all before, and wasn’t disgusted. But damn, he was creeped.

“I will… see what is going on in the forest tomorrow.” Oropher decided aloud, and the deep baritone of his voice rumbled throughout the frizzy shadows prickling at his vision. It washed over the elves and broke them from their unified trance – some began crying while others began the task of removing the bodies.

Leaning back on his throne, Oropher closed his eyes. He could feel Thranduil’s stare.

Chapter Text

Oropher left his son in Galion’s care on the day he decided to go into the Greenwood. Clad in dark green and shades of grey, his tight tunic and leggings clung to his powerful, strong body. He needed no armour or even weapons on this little scouting expedition but nonetheless brought a host of guards with him for backup. In his eyes they were there only to help look around, up in the trees and following his every move. In one hand he carried a single greatsword, having left the other at home. There was no room for him to hack and slash without harming the forest itself if he was attacked, so he made sure to be alert and precise when swinging his blade. His thick-soled boots with vine patterns on them crunched a mixture of wet and crisp leaves on the warm ground. Yes, even though it wasn’t a particularly hot day the ground held heat like the fevered body of a sick animal, pulsing in wet spots where Oropher noticed strange plants pushing up from the ground. Large, glistening mushrooms oozed poisonous colours at the slightest touch, leaves brushing against them inciting a shuddering reaction. The Greenwood was most definitely alive, but not in the lush, vibrant way Oropher remembered.

‘Something is not right here. Where are all the animals? Why do all these plants look so… unwell?’ Had he known how to register emotion, pity and concern would have taken his heart in a desperate grip. Instead, a basic confusion muddled his head as did the thick, suffocating fog he only just realized had begun to descend. He looked up, meeting eyes with one of his leather-garbed hunters. A rather drowsy displeasure twisted the elf’s face, making it look close to falling apart. Oropher narrowed his eyes. The command to stay alert was silent.

The lack of anything other than birds in the canopy kept the party of elves on edge for any signs of land animals down below. From above, the Greenwood looked healthy enough and the sun-warmed leaves grew in thick bunches of green. On the forest floor, thick roots strangled each other and the trees creaked in pain. Sticky sap and terrible fungus exploded from every dark crevice, yet Oropher could not find the source of his forest’s malady. The further south he ventured though, it became clear that a heavy rainfall had stained this part of the Greenwood in the past. The acrid stench of old, rotting blood coagulated in pools reached Oropher’s nose first, then assaulted his guards. Just past the Emyn Duin where their mountainous slopes dipped into deep crevasses, thick sticky red filled every fissure and cleft. There did not seem to be a source, and it was just a fact that there was some sort of blood poured in large quantities atop and beyond the Greenwood’s central mountains. Oropher breathed in deep, the smell reminding him of old battlefields and festering wounds. Nothing he liked too much, but familiar all the same. The near-silence was broken by a harsh cough, then several more as Oropher’s guards tried to suppress their wretching. The King turned right around and stuck his greatsword into the air.

“If you are too weak to accompany me, go back to the realm and cry.”

Half his guards fled while the other insisted they were fine, steeling their nerves and finding new balance on the thickening branches. The trees looked a lot blacker and perhaps more solid, despite what looked like acid burns in their warped trunks.

‘Now where did all this blood come from?’ Oropher thought, knowing the history of his realm yet having absolutely no clue about what battle took place here. ‘From the mountains? No, it is in spatters there, it does not trickle… rather, it is stagnant… like it has been here a while. Eugh. I could throw someone in there and never see them again…’ He looked down to his left as he walked alongside a massive triangular crack in the ground, which splintered as if the pressure of being a lake full of blood forced it to push its burden into the very earth. Curious, he drew the tip of his greatsword along the surface of the blood, cutting the dark skin to reveal fresh red beneath. Then he saw it. A hand.

Unwilling to have his sword taken (though confident no floating hand could wrest his weapon from his powerful grip) Oropher stepped away and went a little further south. His guards could not hold back their choking however and one of them groaned in very obvious pain. Oropher blinked to see the formerly white mist now completely black, so heavy that it bothered his guards yet only felt like a slight oppression on his shoulders. There was evil here… and somehow, he had a feeling he would discover something horrible at the deepest southern point of the Greenwood. He did not want to risk the lives of any more elves, not after what had happened yesterday. His people needed to see their King willing to solve problems, not following his son’s words and killing innocents left and right.

“Come, let us return. We shall be back before dusk.”

~

As Oropher neared the gates of his realm he heard a loud squelch and glanced back to see his guards having dropped out of the trees all at the same time. They straightened their backs and said nothing, flanking their king.

“What’s the matter?” he grumbled, not seeing any immediate danger but feeling uneasy all the same.

“The voices…” the guards whispered with their own words more hollow than a dead, dry wind. “They call.”

Like eager children reaching for candy the trees scratched their branches against Oropher, leaning towards him and crying. He could indeed hear the voices but chose to ignore them as they were so horribly desperate and pained… they reminded him of Thranduil, for when he was ignoring the young prince with all his might there was still a voice in his head begging for attention. The forest did not have a singular want, however. It simply did not wish to be left without Oropher, who would lock himself up in his kingdom and stay away from the diseased, depressed realm he was supposed to protect.

“No, aran nín…. Come back, come back, return to us…” The trees wailed. Oropher strode with brows furrowed and lips firmly set in a line to go through the tall gates, held open by two heavily armoured elves.

The moment he got past the golden palace doors deep inside the Woodland Realm, Oropher was met with a high-pitched screech.

“ADA!!!” Thranduil sprang up from the ground and latched onto his father, who slowly closed his arms around the tiny prince. “Aaahh, I have missed you! I thought you would have drowned to death!”

Oropher takes a moment to not shit his pants and sigh. ‘Ah, back to the usual morbid banter I see…’ Without replying or even meeting his son’s eyes, Oropher made his way to the velvet-carpeted lounge where he sought a bit of rest. Curiously enough, Thranduil did not pester him after his last few words and fell silent, eyes fixed on Oropher’s tiny pupils. A sluggish pressure was flowing through Oropher’s head the longer he focused on how intently Thranduil stared, and it only grew until he sat down, jolting the elfling’s concentration.

“Beh!” Thranduil’s head bobbed with the force of Oropher’s ungraceful collapse to a nearby sofa. The carpet glittered at him in shades of rich dark red, while candles in gilded wall-holders lit the room with a warm glow. Thranduil crawled out of his father’s arms and straddled his shoulder, as Oropher lay with the right side of his body smooshed into the sofa. Oropher could barely feel what Thranduil was doing and peeped out of his left eye to take a look. His son’s hands went for his face, and the pressure was back in his mind once more.

“Oh fuck me, what are you doing?” he mumbled, suddenly feeling a frustration and loss bloom out of nowhere. Thranduil only continued to assert his will upon his father’s mind, sliding down until he lay on the thick muscle of Oropher’s upper arm and fully gripped Oropher’s face. With his cheeks pulled and a few strands of hair tickling his sensitive left ear, Oropher shook his head. “Get off me.”

“Why?” A pulse with great force came for the exact center of Oropher’s mind, attacking the spot that was supposed to make him relaxed and at ease. Thranduil’s eyes had turned to a piercing ice blue, his voice a cold slush that prickled deep inside Oropher’s ears. “I want to know how your journey went today.”

“Then ask me… later, I want to sleep. I have wandered the whole day…”

“…and you are exhausted.” Thranduil finished the King’s sentence. Of course being followed by imbeciles in the deep, dark woods for ten hours would tire him out. “Just relax and stay here with me. I don’t want you ever leaving me alone again…”

Oropher sat up a little, shouldering Thranduil off to squish him into the back of the sofa. He then snuck his hand around his son’s waist and pulled him up close, allowing the prince to bury his face in his neck. “But you were not alone. I assigned Galion to look after you.”

“I don’t neeeeeed looking after…” Thranduil whined, and the sensation in Oropher’s head changed to something clingy, hooked, as if his brain was being drawn out through his ears. “I only want you, Ada. Why can’t you understand that?”

‘… I have a damned headache after all that foggy, stinking shit in the forest. Ai, I think I am going mad… I do not have time for your games today, Thranduil.’ Just as Oropher went to choose words to express himself to his son (for he felt that was the only way he could get Thranduil to stop bothering him), the prince bit him on the neck. It felt like a gentle kiss, but he smelt his own sweet blood and blinked at the sting of a warm tongue against the exposed flesh.

“Okay, Ada.”

That was all Thranduil said, and he continued to nibble at his father’s neck without another word.

‘Okay?! That’s it? Wha- you know what? I am not going to even bother with any of this tonight. Sleep. Now.’ At his own command, Oropher began drifting off but could not shake the slight nausea that remained from such terrible pressure in his head, along with the loose, watery feel of having his brains pulled out by Thranduil’s desperate need. His mind was still fully intact, that much could be said, but Thranduil had finally gotten his teeth where he wanted them most. Not just in Oropher’s skin with a connection of flesh. No, there he had the hooks of his will planted in the Elvenking’s mind and it would only take a bit of honing to get the great, hulking beast that was Oropher to bend like a good little puppet. Yes, he was rather well-made for a lone Sinda who dared to claim leadership over the vast Greenwood, with nothing but a son and battle cruelty to his name. His influence was greater than Thranduil’s at this point in time and there was nothing the prince wanted more than for his father to obey him. He knew best, after all. And Oropher was so very, very stupid, getting himself into all sorts of dangerous situations without a single care for the one who loved him. Protecting the realm? Why, it was already ruined beyond measure. The elves would only grow distant and sad, while the forest shriveled under its corrupt, bloody curse. Oropher would endure, if Thranduil had anything to say about it.

‘He is my Ada, after all. He is mine.’

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