A Shot in the Dark (Thilbo - Bagginshield)

Chapter 38

(You were named for the spring)

"Spring is the rebirth of the world after a ruthless death at the hand of winter," his father—adar/father of mine/the one who granted me life—had explained when he had asked about the meaning. "It is the start of a new age, a new beginning for all. It is my favorite season because it represents hopes and dreams. That is why I named you for it, aur."

Thranduil. The vigorous spring. Even his nickname—aur/sunlight/my sunshine/my sunrise/my sunset/the light of my life—was a part of it in some manner.

"You are the light that guides me, Thranduil," his father had told him as he brushed back his hair to settle a goodbye—gwann/depart/you're leaving me behind again—kiss on his forehead. "Never forget that."

(You never did)

His father had named him for hope because that was what he had been to Oropher—the high tree/the one who rises like the trees/a father who would always overshadow him in some way—then. He was the hope and dreams for a new age, a new generation. When naming his own son, he had gone with a simpler meaning—Legolas/a green leaf/the fresh green leaf of spring—because he had simpler hopes. He named his son after the new leaf that was blown about but never fell in hopes that his child would be just as strong.

(You would never burden Legolas with your dreams and ambitions as your father did)

His father had been a better soul than him. Oropher had been kind and wise—beleg/great and mighty/strong in spirit—and had loved the people with everything he had. He never got angry and was always quick to forgive his enemies. Hatred—delu/spiteful/full of hate—was something he could not understand. His father had just been too good to ever despise anyone.

(Unlike you, who could hate so easily and freely)

Legolas was the same in some ways. He never hated anyone, not really, even if he mistrusted them. It was not in his nature to be so spiteful. He could rage and fight and bear a grudge, but he could never slit the throat of his foe's wife in front of him while he watched on helplessly. He could never watch a kingdom burn to ashes while the people screamed for mercy. He did not know what it was like to burn with a need—baur/desire/obsession/a craving you cannot deny—to kill and destroy because it was the only way to fill the aching void inside.

(You are so very thankful for this because it is not something you would ever want for your son)

He was unlike—iâ/void/abyss/alone in this—his father and son. He was not a noble soul who was beloved by all for his compassion and wisdom. His people respected him for his strength and protection; the outsiders looked at him with unease and mistrust; and his cousins regarded him with bewilderment and scorn. The only one who ever looked at him as if he hung the moon and the stars was his precious child. None of it bothered him though. He did not care about the world, or the people in it. The only ones who ever mattered—iâr/blood/my blood/my kin/my family—had loved him, and that was enough.

His differences made his ability to understand his father difficult. Even as a child, he did not understand Oropher's desire to sit with his men during meals like they were equal; or to visit the cities of Men and Dwarves for pleasure. He cared so very much for others that he would put them above himself in every way, small or large. He was even willing to die in order to protect the people of Middle-Earth from any sort of harm.

(You hate them the most for this reason alone)

His lack of understanding had never changed even centuries later. The halfling—filigod/small bird/always fluttering around/so delicate and easy to break—was much like Oropher. He loved his fools—Hadhodrim/Dwarves/fools/pests/unbreakable—to the point of dying for them. It did not matter if they hated him back; he was willing to walk into death's arms just to save them. It was all so irrational.