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The chill of winter had settled over the land of the Great Greenwood and all was silent under the watch of a pale full moon - the first after the first snow of the year - even as Tilion guided it through the deep of the heavens with the steadfastness of his hands. Long had it been since the great forest had known such peace in winter, for now there were no fell beasts to disturb the hush of the star strewn nights nor the glistening white days approaching the winter festival. Yet despite the peace of the evening and the elder children's legendary love of Telperion's flower the woods were bereft of any of the elves - save one.

Long into the night the great king of the Greenwood had stood watch over the white forests with his gaze fixed upon the moon. Ever since it had crested the misty mountains to the east and began it's heavenly ascent he had been unable to pull his eyes from it's pure white light. Like a great diamond mirror in a field of crystal strewn velvet, sailing with the silence of a white owls flight in its slow voyage across the sky. It felt to Thranduil as if the moon stared at him in return, it's gaze peering towards Arda where he waited - it's will striving with his and locking him in an unwavering embrace. It was the silver flower, radiance of the eldest tree, first light of the sky.

Often had it snared him in such a way, compelling him to turn his face upwards in adoration of it as it watched over the night sky. Often he had hidden himself beneath the surface of the earth in dark caverns innumerable to avoid it's painful beauty. That night, he had been caught unawares.

And in the shadow of the door waited the young prince, who was almost as spellbound as his father, though the moon was not his focus. Instead his vision was filled with the sight of a great Elven King, ageless, yet ancient, staring into the night sky heedless of the frost and night - enraptured by the light of the full moon. Thranduil was tall, even in the reckoning of Elves, and strong with a presence that cowed any but the most forceful of will. In the light of the full winter moon his hair gleamed like polished mithril at his back, his robes of fine blue-violet velvet were of elvish make, crafted in the very city itself. In the light they shifted from one color to another and waves of color rippled with every slight movement. These were pulled around him in great deep folds crested with white, reminding one of lonely hills after the snow. Upon his head was a crown of silver that rose in tall smooth peaks like tapered candles, and each tip was lit with the unwavering golden light of magic flame that would not burn those who touched it - for it was winter and the red leaves and berries of autumn had faded away in the season of ice and snow. The kings face was upturned to the moon, and his son stared silently at his fathers back.

Legolas had left him in this very spot several hours ago and had only noticed him a second time in passing, having assumed that the king had retired to his quarters already. Yet there was no sign of movement in that moment or for many to come and the lord of the Greenwood gazed longingly and in silence.

His mind was turning backwards as the light filled all of his vision and his gray eyes came only to see the sheen of the silver flower - it's lustrous white petals outspread before him. He had seen such splendor before, yet magnified a thousandfold...yes...it had been centuries since last he had gazed on the wonder of all elven creation...their beautiful bane for which even brothers might murder one another...

It had been in the candlelit halls of Thingols realm of Doriath that he had first lain eyes on the wonder of the ancient world in all it's radiant splendor. In those earliest days of his youth he had been taken under the wing of Beleg who had aspirations that one day he may find a position for the young elf in his own command. The days spend in training had been a rapturous joy to Thranduil - yet his joy was doubled by his fathers approval. Life in Doriath could have been far harsher, for they were not completely out of reach of the Dark Lords tower - in fact many feared they were too close and that even a slight spread of his power my spread the Wasting Sickness into the heart of the capital - Menegroth.

Ah! Menegroth! The city of elves beneath the stone, hewn out of deep caverns and fortified beyond measure. Beautiful dwelling of the most beautiful of creations, and the most beautiful of all Iluvaters children to ever live. This Thranduil would attest to above all else.

For there while he was still just a young elf, not even a half century old, he had seen glory. In those days when Luthien had first lived he had known the beauty of her form and song, and later when she lived again he had seen her radiance restored in full - and more. For as he stood beside his father he among precious few watched the adorning of Luthien - Luthien Tinuviel of legend crowned with Nauglamir, set with the Silmaril.

The light of their realm was unrivaled in all the world and all who lived in the grace of the beautiful maiden, under the watchfulness of her silvery eyes, watching the ripple of her midnight tresses or the sweep of her snow-white arms, her throat shining with the light of Telperion itself.

Joy, beyond measure was his in those days...yet it could not last. Already it had been sullied with the bitter memory of his mentors death. Beleg, betrayed by one who loved him as a brother - though he did not know it until it was too late. Turin had never forgotten such pain as the one his hand wrought that night when he slew his dearest friend who had saved him - mistaking him for an enemy in the darkness. His lament; Laer cú Beleg, was mostly forgotten by the world...though not yet by Thranduil who remembered every note and line as if it were engraved upon his heart and so it would forever remain, for the black bow would sing no more...

Yes...his days had begun to darken with the death of his teacher Beleg...and they grew darker still. It was in those early days that his hatred of many things had been first kindled. Of strange elves - not of his kind. Of dwarves and their lust for treasure...and of terrible evil which no name could fully describe...and the black iron gates of Angband...and of the moon casting fire...

"Ada!"

Thranduil turned to see his son beside him, pale gray eyes shining with worry and fear - as if some sight had struck fear into his heart. The cold winter wind blew, Thranduil turned aside and his right hand moved to his face, remaining there until flesh had begun to cover the bone again. When the silence became unbearable Legolas spoke again, his voice betraying his deep concern - for he had never before seen the grievous wound his father hid so clearly and it had shaken him.

"Father...are you alright?"

Legolas' voice wavered with the uncertainty of a small child who has suddenly realized that the adults around them are not invincible and can be hurt. For a moment longer there was silence. Then at last Thranduil turned back towards his son, a kind light in his gray eyes, a soft smile on his beautiful face. And with a gentle hand he touched him on the cheek, brushing away a strand of gold.

"Laegolas. Le hannon."

"Losto mae." He whispered softly in return.

At this the king departed, walking up the wide step and back through his study which had long grown dark and cold as the hearth fire had burned out. He passed through into the hall and then toward his chambers even as Legolas stood on the terrace, troubled at heart. Thranduil retreated to his quarters, weary and concerned. He lay his crown down on its stand and himself on the velvet couch, for he intended to pass into the waking meditation that gave rest to the elves. But as he lay upon the couch a sudden darkness overcame his sight and the world faded and Thranduil passed into a deep and perilous sleep from which the coming of morning could not stir him.

Le hannon. (S) I thank you.

Losto mae. (S) Sleep well.