Repudiate || legolas

𝟐𝟓

'I was supposed to die'

...

How does one sleep with such words ringing in one's ears. Kili and Thorin were meant to join fili in the Halls. Yet somehow, he saved them. But he wasn't meant to even be there. Hell, he was meant to die alone in the cave with the stumble or at least die from the curse slowly killing him. Whatever caused him to survive was a deep mystery. One he would probably never have answers to until he meets the makers of Middle Earth themselves.

Bilbo rocked in the hammock next to Awarthon asleep and comfortable with the company of elves. Yet Awarthon could not seem to rest at all. How does one deal with such news? That in all time lines, you die and in some force of the world this one you live. His childhood room was meant to aid in such comforts of learning this news. Yet it seemed to only instill the knowledge of what should have happened 9 miles from this room.

Ever so quietly, he crept down from his hammock. The house was nowhere near as nice as the castles. But it wasn't underground where the roots of every tree hang. But instead on the very top of a long tree. Each generation of elves had a room upon this very tree that had handled the family since the dawn they arrived at the greenwood. Slowly, Awarthon made his way down to where his parents sat in separate parts of the house.

His mother read a book with her hair tied up in beautiful braids and a gentle gaze upon her face. She had wavy blonde hair that seemed to lay like a waterfall amongst her warm skin of milk and sugar tea. Her eyes where a green a kin to fresh grass. Like Tinnel, she had taken a great deal of care into her looks. Wearing a fine gown with silver threads around the neck line and a band of leather around her waist, her sleeves laid loose like a lily. Her eyes met her sons, and she struggled to give a kind smile. It was clear in the air she feared Awarthon. The features of her son had changed so drastically to her, "Is the night not gifting you with rest?" She asked as she finished her page and shut the book. Tucking her legs closer to her for Awarthon to sit, her smile warmed. The gaze Awarthon had was familiar and reassured her that this was still her baby.

Awarthon shook his head and sat down. His gaze shifted to his father. His father poured over a paper sketching out designs for a jewelry that would be fit for a farmer to give to his eldest daughter, who had just got accepted to work on a project. Awarthon felt he took most after his father. Quite and passionate. Dark auburn hair that laid straight down his back and pulled tightly into a braid that seemed to have been done to look like leaves. The brown of his hair made his skin look all the more pale, like fresh snow against a redwood tree. His eyes were the same blue Awarthon had before the changes.

"Nînith" Faunor spoke softly towards his wife, saying her name as if to warn her not to pry.

She brushed Faunor away and looked to her son, "We had thought you had joined your ancestors, my dearest child, my little sapling," she spoke as she reached out to his hair that was short for an elf but long for man. Elves over their lives get given names or pick one for themselves when of age. She had picked Learonres or wife of tree songs, and Awarthons' father picked Trevad, a shocking gender neutral name for not gendered suffix plauged the name of traveler. Awarthon adopted the name of Trevad and the nickname of Galadh or tree to honor his mother. Yet when Thranduil cast him aside, Awartha is what he was called. Forsaken.

Awarthon went quiet as he directed his gaze to the warmth of his cloak. His mother sensed her child's cold skin and tossed some of the blanket upon his legs. He looked at her and gave a nod of thanks, "I was meant to," he spoke as he slicked back some stray hairs, tucking them into his disheveled braid.

His mother nodded slowly, as if trying to comprehend, "Well... I'm glad my... child... is here with us," she still struggled to call Awarthon son. Despite him asking her for two
Thousand years. "Even If cursed and strange," she reached out to touch his hair in a way only a mother could to comfort her child.