Added 5-7-22 as part of my expand-the-beginning project.
Motives, thought Storm, are as important as methods.
To Sky, what mattered was that the Sindar had come in and tried to change their way of life. Storm understood why she was fighting back against it, but to him, there was an important question that still needed to be asked—Why? What were the Sindar's intentions for Greenwood?
And that was why he'd been spying on the king for a week.
. . . . . .
Sky didn't get why Storm was following the king. In her mind, his reasons for taking over were simple: he was a cocky, full-of-himself elf who wanted a whole kingdom to order around. And she was right.
But there was more.
Oropher was certainly arrogant; there was no getting around that fact. It frustrated him when elves didn't show him the respect he'd gotten used to from the other Sindar, though he tried to hide it.
"No, no," he grumbled upon leaving the study in his large, but not extravagant, house; Storm was sitting on the roof, eating lunch and listening. "You are supposed to bow when I enter the room, have you forgotten?"
"Sorry, Oropher—I mean, my lord," said one of the three elves Oropher had selected as servants—this one was unendingly patient and had previously worked as a housekeeper and caretaker to badly injured or mentally unwell elves, but had been willing to change careers so he didn't have to travel so much to find jobs.
"Try it again." A pause. "...I suppose that will do for the moment, if it is all you are capable of."
"I'm sorry, we Silvans aren't used to this sort of thing."
"I had noticed."
. . . . . .
At the same time, Oropher had an impressive work ethic for an elf who'd supposedly never had to work for a living, which was what Sky thought. Right now, as Storm perched on a branch outside Oropher's new tree house, cloaked and with his face and hands covered in natural dyes for camouflage, the Sinda was muttering to himself and furiously riffling through papers (which he'd taught the Silvans to make specifically because the Sindar were apparently addicted to them). "What're you so excited about?" Storm wondered.
Though the Silvan elf was quite some distance away, too far to hear what Oropher was saying, his eyes were more than good enough to read the Sinda's lips.
"Explicate," Oropher muttered in Sindarin, making Storm raise an eyebrow. The Sinda leaned back in his chair and set his boots on the desk, rocking dangerously as he frowned sternly at the ceiling. "Explicate... Aha!" He repeated the word in Silvan, though with an accent, then swung his legs to the ground again and returned eagerly to his paper. "Compulsory..." This time he got the word much more quickly—the Silvan and Sindarin were similar.
"Interesting," Storm mused. Those were obscure words—Oropher was determined, that was for sure. He didn't need to learn every Silvan word, by any means; most Silvans only spoke basic Sindarin, but the Sindar as a group spoke enough Silvan that the language barrier was practically gone. This was an attempt to show he cared enough about Silvan culture to learn every last detail of their language, even if he mostly spoke Sindarin to those who understood it.
. . . . . .
Equally obvious was Oropher's ambition; the elf spent hours each day organizing his fledgling government and writing to other kings to secure alliances and establish Greenwood as a legitimate kingdom.
"'Like Doriath?' My friend, I intend to make this kingdom superior to Doriath, and that is why we must begin regular patrols as soon as possible. We have no Maia to protect us, no, but I intend to keep my subjects safe all the same."
The other elves in the room—Oropher's six newly-appointed advisors, all Sindar but one—murmured approvingly, and Storm shifted on his perch among the wood beams holding the house in place. "Hello, and what d'you call what I've been doing all this time?" he whispered, shaking his head.
"Now," Oropher continued, speaking over the others, "the highest rank in the military shall be the generals, and I believe four shall be sufficient—"
"Oropher," interrupted one of the elves, "hold on a moment."
Storm was amazed when the king did.
"Do you not think this is all a bit premature? There are still large regions of the forest which have not promised loyalty."
Oropher huffed. "Must you always interrupt when I am about to promote you, Taensirion? As I just stated, I wish to form a functional military as soon as possible."
"Are you certain we need one? After all, neither the terrain nor the Silvan elves' abilities are well suited to Doriathian military tactics; I expect a few smaller, less formal groups would be more efficient. There are not many orcs in the area, anyway."
Not anymore, thought Storm smugly.
"Hmph. I will consider it, but I still want captains selected within the year. Competent elves who are loyal—which means not that green-eyed one."
Storm muffled a snicker.
"You are the king," Taensirion agreed respectfully.
"I am. Now, as for the construction of permanent government buildings..."
. . . . . .
And finally, Oropher loved his son. Yes, he had extremely high expectations for him and the two often disagreed, but Oropher worked very hard to find time in his schedule to check how Thranduil was doing and see what he thought of the various developments in the new kingdom. It helped, of course, that they had something to commiserate about.
"She—will—not—leave—me—alone," Thranduil growled between thumps. Storm—sitting cross-legged under the window, repairing his boots—was pretty sure the prince was hitting his head against the wall.
"At least she has not blown up anything belonging to you," Oropher grumbled, flipping through papers. "Look at this—I have an entire stack of paperwork dedicated to things she has destroyed!"
Hmm, thought Storm, I wonder who they're talking about...
"She never stops talking," Thranduil complained. "And she is always in the way."
"She told the eastern elves we wanted to enslave them, and now they will not meet with us."
"She keeps taking over the fighting lessons. Especially archery."
"She stole some of my documents and rewrote them backwards so I could not read them without a mirror."
"I suspect she broke into my house a few days ago."
That quieted Oropher for a moment. "...And why do you think that?"
"The quantity of radishes."
"Would you like some guards?"
"I doubt they would deter her."
"True enough..." Oropher tapped on something, thinking. "There must be something we can do."
"I have found she is slightly kinder if I remind her how difficult she is making my life, rather than simply getting angry."
"I have tried that. It did not work."
"It is hardly a perfect method, but—did you hear something?"
Storm had finally lost his composure and snorted; he hopped onto the roof before Thranduil could look out the window and spot him.
. . . . . .
And so, Storm concluded at the end of his week of spying, Sky was right about Oropher in a lot of ways, but there were things about him she hadn't considered, too. He was full of himself and had plenty of blind spots, but he also intended to build a strong kingdom that would benefit everyone involved, Silvans included. So, maybe Sky was also wrong about what would happen if Oropher stayed king.
The last thing Storm did before going home on the seventh night was to slip through the window of Oropher's house and take a look inside; he knew Sky had come in here before, but he wanted to see it for himself.
Doriathian style? He wondered as he took in the living room from this angle; he'd traveled a bunch, but not that far west (and it was too late to go now, or he would've). There were actual paintings on the wall—some of them scenes depicting what had probably been places in Doriath—and the furniture was, as a rule, fluffier. Still, the actual materials and construction of most things were Silvan, with lots of tree shapes and amber incorporated. There was a painful lack of houseplants.
Storm wandered through the various rooms, checking random drawers and cabinets. He left the room where one of the servants was sleeping alone, and the bathroom—probably nothing important there. There weren't any skeletons in the closets, just cleaning supplies, and Storm figured Oropher hadn't been in there in years. The same went for the kitchen, which was normal except for a pile of recipes Storm didn't recognize in a little box—did Oropher miss Sindarin cooking?
The room Storm was most interested in was Oropher's study, but it turned out to be disappointing. Storm looked through everything, but didn't find a single significant thing he and Sky didn't already know; then again, he'd forgotten that Oropher didn't really keep plans to himself unless he had to, and Storm and Sky had ways of hearing the things he told his advisors. Trees were useful friends.
"Hm," said Storm under his breath. "Is this all? I thought surely you'd have at least one secret plan." He flipped through one book, a diary of sorts detailing Oropher's thoughts on forming a kingdom, but the most interesting thing was the many angry paragraphs about Sky.
"One more place to check," Storm mused, and he put the book back in its spot and slipped out the window, then cautiously peeked into a different one—Oropher's bedroom. After all, if the king knew Sky had been in his study already...
Luck was on his side; even though the king's eyes were open, as was normal for elves, he was thoroughly asleep as far as Storm could tell, and facing away from the window. Storm slid inside and crept over to make sure, then began checking every conceivable hiding place.
Who needs this many clothes? he wondered as he dug through the dresser and closet. And the few sets Oropher had brought with him from Doriath—presumably—were the simpler ones, things an elf could fight in. Honestly, what was the point of robes except to make someone look silly?
Aha, here was something hidden—a secret wine stash in the little set of drawers by the bed; not that surprising, even if Oropher was the king and could get wine whenever he wanted. And in another drawer, some letters and two little portraits, one of Thranduil and one of a she-elf. Storm left those alone.
Storm checked under the bed and considered the mattress for a moment, but decided Oropher wasn't the type to hide anything there (never mind the difficulties of checking while the king was sleeping on it). He turned to the last place of interest: the small, simple writing desk next to the window.
There were two small books there, both open, but one was new while the other was yellowed and crumbling, a problem elves often ran across when they kept books. Both, Storm realized after a brief glance, had the same words, but the new one was in Oropher's handwriting, while the other was written in a flowery, feminine hand, which meant it definitely wasn't from Greenwood. Curious, Storm bent closer to see if he could pick out, in the weak moonlight, what Oropher had been copying.
The attacks are becoming more frequent, it said. I worry for my friends, and for Thranduil most of all. The orcs know we are weak. Oropher thinks we can pull through, but I do not know how.
Thranduil lost another friend today. Not a dear one, but all the same, I fear he is too young to see so much death. He is strong like his father, but these things cut him deeply. I can tell.
So many elves dead. There is talk of leaving; I think even Oropher can keep us together for only so long. I wish I had studied the healing arts so I could do something useful.
There the entry ended, and Oropher's copy stopped. Storm straightened up, uncomfortable with the realization that he'd been reading something very personal. Suddenly he was ashamed of himself for snooping around at all, invading Oropher's privacy, and he resolved to go. If Oropher was hiding anything illicit, Storm wouldn't find it here. He took a step toward the window.
Oropher rolled over.
Storm's heart missed a beat, but Oropher didn't bolt upright or yell at the sight of an elf in his bedroom. In fact, after a few moments where Storm didn't dare to breathe, he realized the king was still asleep, though his pale eyes gazed nearly directly at Storm.
Don't move, Storm thought. It's dark; he probably won't notice you unless he sees motion. Elves could recognize faces when they were asleep, sort of, but Storm had been smart enough to wear his cloak with the hood up, so his face was shadowed. Still, he was afraid Oropher would see his outline and be startled into waking, which would be very bad for him since Oropher would probably take this a lot worse than having his work messed with. Don't move.
Heartbeats passed—literally; Storm could hear his heart pounding. Eventually Oropher's eyes shifted, but Storm stayed still, knowing the king's eyes would be moving much more frequently if he was dreaming. Dreams would be good; elves didn't usually react to things they could see in the real world if they were dreaming. No such luck tonight, though.
Storm considered trying to inch his way to the window, but quickly disregarded the idea. If Oropher hadn't seen him yet, he probably wouldn't.
I deserve this, he mused. Sneaking into elves' bedrooms while they're sleeping. That's kind of creepy, isn't it? This was the sort of thing elves got thrown in jail for, even if they didn't do it to the king. That didn't deter Storm, but he still felt a bit guilty.
Sorry I misjudged you, Oropher, he thought. Don't get me wrong, I still don't think you should be king, but I guess you're not a bad elf, all things considered. Just arrogant, narrow-minded, and from completely the wrong part of the world. It could be worse.
After a long time, Oropher finally rolled over again. Storm strangled his sigh of relief and slipped outside, leaping into the nearest tree. That had been a close call.
Maybe I'd better change my plans to spy on the other Sindar, he decided. Or at least stay out of their bedrooms.