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The caverns called him again.

High above the forest realm the moon shone in white splendor, covering the land with a pale blue sheen. Songs arose in the early evening as Isil peered above the dark outline of the eastern range and lit the land surrounding the lonely mountain. Deep beneath the earth their King listened and thought, far from the light of the moon that had come to haunt his thoughts and heavy his heart. For many long hours he paced the winding causeways and thought of many things that had already faded into forgotten history. Most of all, the memories from Doriath called him. In the hours of thought he returned frequently to Doriath. There were only too few now in all of Middle Earth whose memories of those days were clear - for Elrond half-elven, though he be old by the count of men, was still a child when Beleriand stood proud above the waves. But the forests of Lothlorien were far away - too far for simple counsel.

Celeborn he felt most ready to speak with about his state of mind. When the new title for what men deemed 'Mirkwood' had been decided the Lord of Lothlorien had stayed in Thranduils halls and there they had walked the paths and reminisced about the kingdoms of old that they had known. He had known of Celeborn for all those long years, yet, only lately had he come to know him. Their duties had separated them as there was not much chance for a kinsman of King Thingol and a member of the Kings Guard to meet on informal terms. And as for Thranduils personality in those days he doubted the relationship would have been friendly even if they had. Time had stilled the worse of his temper - though there were still those to whom seemed quick to anger him.

Dwarves mostly.

Here the wheels of memory turned again, and it was yet another matter in which he and Celeborn could speak long of - the treachery of Dwarves. Legolas had said something of an invitation from the Dwarves. Which meant of course a trip to Erebor. It was not the cold and the distance of the span between their realms that worried Thranduil - rather the coldness of their hosts. More that he had not survived to his age by counting on Dwarven hospitality, generosity, and mercy...

These thoughts wound around each other for many long hours still and it was late in the night when Legolas appeared down one of the side halls. But he did not see his father, instead his eyes were fixed on the goal of his search and soon he was standing beside Idhrenir. His gray eyes full of worry, he was unusually subdued in his manner. In the torchlight by the walkway his clothes shimmered silver in a way that only magnified the graying of his hair - something that had taken a long time to come to.

"Idhrenir, you are trusted by my father and often know what ails him or what thoughts are on his mind. Tell me, has he given you any reason for his mood?"

The younger elf shook his head but raised a hand for silence. "No. Yet unless you wish to ask him directly lower your voice - for the king is just ahead."

"Ah." Legolas noted, speaking in a whisper. "No, I do not wish to speak of this to him yet...for I fear I may have something to do with this strange behavior. He was cold to me at the gate and hurried away, something he has never done before."

"My young Lord," Idhrenir began in a soft, but caring tone. "The king has no quarrel with you - that much you should know already. In all your years when has he ever remained silent in anger?"

Legolas hushed a sudden laugh. "You are right! I would have noticed if he were wrathful with me. But then, what is the cause of this malaise? He is not himself - he acts as if he were bewitched or is afraid of becoming bewitched."

Idhrenir shifted closer to his masters son, and the two moved ever slightly from the area. Once they were a safe distance away from any potential eavesdropping the younger elf spoke.

"I am not one to pry into the Kings affairs...yet, I have heard of the names that he whispers while watching the moon, or while pacing the long halls.

"A name? And what is this name he whispers?"

Idhrenir hesitated a moment. "My grasp of the old tongue is enough that the names at first may sound fair, but feel foul even as they are spoken. I am loathe to repeat them, but to you I will. I have heard him utter 'Isilrís, Alquanár, and more often Silimanárë.'"

And Legolas set a scowl upon his face and replied, "Are you sure these are the names? For they sound strange - they are Quenyan. Moon-rift, Swanflame, and Crystalfire you have named. Yet my father has an ancient aversion to Quenya and does not speak it willingly."

Idhrenir gave a deep sigh. "I did not know of his aversion, and if your translation of these words be true then they sound fairer than I had suspected at first, yet there is another name that is uttered most often of them all. 'Vanyaqualmë.'"

At this the elf-prince felt his spirits drop with dread and a look of great fear came into his face. Idhrenir glanced nervously from the King and back to the prince, as if the mere utterance of the word may draw Thranduils attention to them.

Legolas regained his composure. "This is the name used above all others?"

"Yes. Though I do not know what it means."

Legolas turned his gaze from the amber elf before him and regarded his father yet again, pacing lonely on the causeways of their city. One might think he was pining for something lost, for he seemed to wander without care as to where he might be journeying to. At length Legolas spoke to Idhrenir again.

"I know you are accustomed to look after my father, and for that I thank you. But I have much to think about myself this night, so I will take over the watch."

At this Idhrenir bowed low, understanding Legolas' wish. "Of course, good night."

"To you as well."

The advisor was slow in his departing and it could be seen in the hesitant and lingering steps that he truly wished to stay behind, but was not willing to contest the will of Legolas to do so. After a few moments he turned the corner, the last of his maroon colored robes trailing for a second after.

Then Legolas turned his gray eyes toward his father, resuming the watch he had taken up.

"Beautiful Agony," He whispered, fear in the breathless sound. "Agony or death..."

And all the while Thranduil continued to pace his lonely path. His mind turned inward and for him time wound backwards on itself as he fell into a waking slumber filled with memories of the past.

'Beleg - beloved mentor. If only I had known then your bane. Could I have done something to stay fates hand or to spare you? Perhaps if I had known then...'

It came as a gift-tribute to the King of Doriath on his throne in the great Beech-Hall. It was one of two in all the world that would ever be.

Standing at the Kings right side, behind the carven throne Thranduil silently watched the approach of an elf-lord clad all in black silk and velvet studded with polished stones of jet and obsidian, hematite and black diamonds, and trimmed with buckles and clasps of a dark steel the likes of which few had ever seen. Like a wraith he came into the midst of King Thingols beauty and light with a long silk-bound package in his hand, wrapped with golden threaded cords. Beleg at the foot of the Kings throne stepped forth in his role as Chief Marchwarden of Doriath and halted him, saying;

"None may approach the King with such craft in their hands."

And the dark elf replied. "So none may bear tribute to the King? Such an odd custom Menegroth holds."

"If you bear tribute then, bear it properly and remove your mantle." Beleg retorted. And the dark elf smirked.

"Gladly I would. But it appears my hands are full, if you would be so kind."

Checking his own haste, Beleg gently and respectfully lifted the dark velvet hood from the elfs head and laid it back, revealing him to the hall. Beneath the hood lie eyes of dark steely gray, dark as cold iron but alive and quick as a blade. For a moment the mist gray of Belegs own eyes met at close distance with the cold iron and a dread feeling overtook him, as if doom had been wrought at this meeting. Then Beleg stepped back. Eöl had a sudden inspiration. Through his own darkness he had gained a keen eye for the light. The token he bore would not heed his call - though he had wrought it with the work of his own hands. But perhaps someone else could bring it to life - if not turned by it instead.

"My Lord and King I come bearing glad tidings and the fruit of your grace, for this is what has been wrought in the lands you have allotted to me for my solitude."

And unwrapping the dark cloth he revealed a fine blade - as dark as night it reflected no light yet was ringed in a flame red glow at it's very edge.

"Wrought from star-iron and sharp enough to cleave any steel of this world. Anglachel is it called, a token to you of my goodwill for the lands given for my dominion."

Eöl bowed to his knee, holding the sword aloft with head lowered toward the King in supplication, for it was Beleg's task to give all tribute directly into the King's hands. And as Beleg grasped the sword a voice issued in his mind and such was his surprise that he nearly dropped it onto the dark-elfs head. Yet Eöl smiled and Beleg had little choice but to bear the sword to the King. All this from his immobile perch Thranduil saw, for he was one of the Kings ceremonial guard and as such he was to attend the kings side, silent and still and clad in shining true-silver. He could do nothing but remain as a statue. Beleg gave the gift to King Thingol and the King beheld it in wonder, as if the sword were speaking to his soul. At length Thingol stated;

"A masterful blade and well wrought of rare iron." Then as if torn at heart he made to speak more but hesitated. In that opening Eöl struck.

"Thank You my King. It is my hope that long will Anglachel protect your lands, for its only will is to lay low thine enemies o' King Thingol - the sole purpose for which it was made."

"A pity then it would be," Thingol spoke and a hint of wariness tinged his words, "if it lie in the treasury fast in it's sheath. Such a sword would not oblige that I suspect."

"I imagine not, your grace."

It was some time after this when great need came to the land. One fateful day Beleg came to the king to ask of him a favor. That favor was the possession of Anglachel. Melian, fair Maia and queen of Doriath advised against it - for she foresaw an ill fate for whoever owned such a dark blade. Yet Beleg was willing to risk the danger, for the sake of their peoples safety.

"So be it." Thingol decreed. "Then none better to wield this blade than my truest sword. As gift and sign of my faith I entrust to you, Beleg Cúthalion, the ownership of the blade Anglachel - to use in the warding of Doriath as long as you are able."

And Beleg knelt and took the blade and was thus doomed.

'Alas! Had I but known then the sorrow that blade would wreak I would have slain Eöl with it myself. And yet...'

Thanduil raised a hand and trembling touched the wrought broach at his throat, a dark diamond set in branching arms of dark mithril. 'If I were to meet Eöl again even now I could not lay such an end upon him.'

And the sun rose with a new day, yet his spirits did not rise with it. All the long night Legolas kept watch from a distance, lost in deep thoughts of his own.