Hi guys. New chapter! (Obviously). Sorry, I'm a little down today. Too much to do and I don't feel like doing any of it.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, of course. Reviews make my day, most of the time.

Iluvenis: I think for the most part (save one scene or two, which won't be most of the chapter...) Lunian and Legolas are in the story from here mostly as friends alone. A little cutsy cuddling here and there, perhaps. Anyway... You've sort of got your closeness here. If you're confused about something, ask me about it if you'd like an explanation. Sometimes I won't be able to do more than hint, but I'll try to clear things up.

LJP: I wasn't trying to make him come across as superior so much as distant and a bit hesitant. Guess it didn't work. He is greatly aware of the gap in their years, more because he feels himself too old and broken for a vibrant young spirit. Agnh... whatever. Maybe this chapter clears their relationship up a bit. Maybe. I'm too tired to tell.

Chapter 8 Disarm me no further

"Cara, are you sure you shouldn't be talking to Ethwan right now?" Luthier asked hesitantly.

She rolled her eyes. "Luthier! You of all elves!"

"What?"

"I will not talk to him first!"

"Why not?"

"Because every time I talk to him first, I end up feeling like I'm the one who compromised. I will not compromise on this. It's too important."

"More important than your relationship with one of your brothers?" he asked.

She set her wine down with a dull thud, and got to her feet. "Yes. Because it's not about the argument so much as it is about his treatment of Lunian. If elves can kill for something as foolish as a stone, crafted by other elves, then why not remain silent for an argument over the mistreatment of one who is as dear as blood?" She whirled around, striding quickly from the hall, steaming her way through the gardens.

After a few turns she noticed she was being watched. Bright eyes watched her slow to a stop without any emotion showing.

"Let me guess," she snarled. "You think I should talk to him, too?"

He shook his head slightly. "I don't know enough about it."

"You probably heard every damned word of our argument."

"Yes," he admitted, completely unabashed at admitting to his eavesdropping. "But that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? What else could you possibly need to know to tell me that my brother is a stubborn idiot of an elf who will probably never apologize to Lunian, and never speak to me again?" To her horror, the tears she'd held at bay in every other argument about her confrontation with her brother appeared at the edges of her eyes as she looked up at him. She turned quickly aside, brushing angrily at her betraying tears.

He sighed softly, catching her chin in his hand, tilting her head up again, brushing gently at the moisture her rough movements had missed. "That you know that tells me what I didn't."

"Oh?" she laughed shakily. "Then what would you have me do?"

"Apologize—"

"No!" she yelped, jumping back so quickly she tripped over one of the border stones.

He caught her before she could fall, righting her without comment. "Apologize for striking him, Carathwan. That you should not have done." His hands dropped from her arms.

"Maybe not," she agreed after a moment. "But he's so damned stubborn, so cocky, so full of himself at times that it was the only thing I could think of to get his attention. Throwing his book across the room didn't work."

"You threw his book?"

She snorted at his shock. "You weren't there for that part?"

"I heard you slap him."

She looked up, and slowly shook her head when she understood. "He would not strike me."

"The same can't be said for you."

She sighed, and bowed her head. "So you came to berate me?" she asked softly.

Fingers curled under her chin, lifting it. "No," he countered quietly. "Merely to ask how your reading has gone."

She managed a faint smile as a bit of odd humor caught her. "Better than Ethwan's."

He shook his head slightly. "Carathwan."

"Findel?"

"If you shorten my name, expect me to shorten yours."

"I'm quite used to it."

He lifted a brow.

She smiled faintly. "Well… it was definitely different than I'm used to."

"In a good or bad way?" he asked dryly.

"In a… different way."

He rolled his eyes. "Did you like it?"

"I… did," she agreed.

"You hesitate," he warned, lifting a brow.

She smiled. "Yes… because I wasn't entirely sure what to make of it."

He blinked at her, before his golden brows drew together in a strict frown. "The story was quite straight forward, Carathwan."

"Yes. Which surprised me. There were few convolutions, few plot twists—the main characters stumbled through their journey mostly by dumb luck, completed it successfully, the bad guy was killed—without them actually lifting a finger to do it… and then they head back home where all of a sudden they're kissing." She shook her head. "It wasn't a bad story…"

"But?" he asked, resignedly.

"It was well-written, despite the obvious flaws…"

"But?" he repeated pointedly.

She laughed. "But I don't understand why, out of everything you've likely read, you would suggest something so juvenile… so idealistic."

"Because it is so idealistic, Carathwan. It is nice to simply escape into a world where things don't constantly go wrong, where the heroes and heroines don't die fighting, or in worse ways. Where they don't have to kill to complete their quest."

"Where everyone ends up happy, innocent, untainted?" she suggested, frowning slightly at him.

"It is nice, is it not?"

Her frown deepened. "It…" finally she shook her head. "It is my life, Glorfindel. I can understand someone whose life has been harder enjoying such a refuge, but my life has been too…" she grimaced. "Happy, innocent, untainted," she parroted. "While it is no doubt nice… it holds little pull for me."

"So you want a life of danger?"

She shook her head. "No. I wouldn't be suited for it."

"Why would you think that?"

She laughed shortly. "I know it. I wouldn't survive there, would I?"

He studied her for a long moment. "Not as you are now, no."

"No. I would be changed, I'd be harsher, colder… touched by the darkness that yet has a hold on you. Seeing it in your eyes when you forget to make them blank is enough for me. I'll take my books of design any day."

He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed and glanced away. "Would you have tales of intrigue, then? Mysteries craftily solved, intricate knots cunningly unraveled?"

"If I were to read such, then… yes. I suppose so. Having things laid out, exposed in the midday sun, is a bit much."

"A fundamental difference between us."

"I don't think so."

"No?" he glanced at her for a moment. "Why not?"

"Experience is the difference, Findel. I haven't had it. You have. You prefer things to be simple, clean, because that way they can't surprise you, can't hurt you. I've not been so affected, so I am still naïve enough to enjoy the puzzle, the excitement of riddles and the mystery of exploration."

"And now you seek to unravel me?"

She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him from under her lashes as they walked. "I am not the one who seeks you out, Glorfindel."

His hands tensed slightly for a moment, before relaxing. A rueful smile touched his lips, and he briefly shook his head.

"What is it?" she asked, pausing.

He shook his head once more. "Enough for now—disarm me no further."

"Isn't that the point of such sparring?"

She knew she had pressed too far when he looked at her, then took a half-step back. "Then I will yield the match."

With a shake of her head, she reached out, lightly touching his sleeve. "I don't want you to."

"It's best that I do."

"Why?"

He blew out a harsh breath, and shook his head. "You know why."

"Because you're a lord, and I'm no one? Because you're Goldtress, Golden Glorfindel, Chief of the house of the Golden Flower, a lord in a house of princes, of the destroyed Gondolin? Because you have seen the terrors that could keep me awake, had I any firsthand knowledge of them? Because you are the Balrog-Slayer? Because you played a part in great workings on the other shore? Because you died to save what remained of your people?"

He didn't look at her.

"Or is it because you're thousands of years my elder? Millennia beyond me in knowledge, wisdom, and experience?"

Still he said nothing, staring off into the distance.

She sighed. "Or perhaps it's me. Young, naïve, inexperienced…"

"You know it's not," he stated at last, his voice nothing more than a cracked whisper.

She looked at him for a long moment. "Yes," she agreed at long last. "I know what it's not… but I've not yet found the book that can tell me what it is."

Slowly, after a long moment of nothing, he shook his head. "It is in no book."

"I know."

He met her eyes, and hesitantly reached up, gently touching her cheek. "All the titles, all the honors… are nothing. All I am is a broken warrior, old enough by far to be your great-grandfather."

"What is age to the elves?"

"I do not speak of years, Carathwan." He turned a bit, slowly walking away.

"When did you ever?"

He stilled for a moment, his head bowing slightly, before he continued, leaving her alone in the heart of the garden.