Destiny

She cannot see the future, but she knows what will come to pass. She knows her heart and head are conflicted, but knows that it is her mind that will win in the end. She knows that while greatness does not lie for her, she must still follow destiny's path.

"Destiny..." a single word with three syllables in the Common tongue and one that she's come to despise. Why should the beings of this world be forced to walk down the roads paved for them before their feet even touch that which their stone does not cover? Why must she accept what is, rather than entertain the notion of what could be? Why must circumstance be so cruel? Why must some stories end in happiness and glory everlasting while others end with torn pages?

Apparently, some things are beyond even the will of the quendi.

Or maybe it is because their wills are simply not strong enough. This is the Fourth Age of the Sun after all and it is called the Dominion of Men for a reason. History is written by those who live it, but that is not to say it has no momentum of its own. Sometimes the future taunts you, attempts to mislead you into taking one path, only to find yourself thrust back onto the one chosen long beforehand.

But there is still time. While she can see the end, she can also see, or at least guess as to how much time there is before the end is reached. An eternity lies before her while only mere decades remain for him, such is the fate of the engwar. And in the time that remains, she knows that there is time enough to make a detour off destiny's road. A penultimate journey has to be made, one to act as prelude to the final one before her and all those of her kind who choose not to stay in Middle-earth.

Readying a cloak and horse, Idrial begins her journey eastwards.

"Idrial..."

The elf nods, closing the door behind her, not at all surprised that there's no servants to do it for her. The White City and the realm of which it is capital is prosperous, but Berethor has always struck her as the self-sufficient type, bar needing someone to free him from the influence of the Witch King and fallen Istari. And even now, his hair greyer, his eyes darker, the man she met in a former age has apparently changed little.

"You can put the sword down Berethor, I'm not here to do you harm," Idrial murmurs, knowing that he's reaching for his blade.

He nods silently, bringing both his hands onto the desk in front of him in what she supposes is an act of faith. "My apologies," he says, clearly restraining himself from doing...well, whatever his instincts tell him to do. "Please, have a seat."

Even now, after all these years, he knows Idrial well enough to know that she would rather seat herself, the elf promptly doing so. Still, there are things that he doesn't know. And while she can see that he is bursting with questions, he has still changed enough to keep himself under control.

"So...why are you here?" the man of Gondor asks, his voice in control but his emotions clearly not. Well, no matter. It only serves to vindicate her belief that travelling hundreds of miles from the Grey Havens was the right thing to do.

"I'm here to say goodbye," the elf murmurs, shamefully omitting the full story.

"Goodbye? But you've only just arrived!"

Idrial sighs, rubbing her hands uneasily and watching them as she does so. Apparently learning how to handle a quill instead of a sword hasn't led to a rise in brain power. Still, she can't help but like/love him all the more for it. She always liked being the smart one after all.

"Berethor, you know what I mean," says the firstborn of Illuvatar, her gaze coming to meet his. "I think even you realized that this moment would come ever since we sailed away from Osgiliath. It's time to part ways from both you and this world. But before that moment comes, I wanted to at least see you before embracing fate."

Fate...funny that. She'd been using the word "destiny" up until now. Still, in hindsight, "fate" is a much better word. And given the despondent look on the man's face, it's as if he knows this as well.

"I see..." Berethor murmurs, fingering his quill in a joint desire to calm his nerves and to get back to work so he can ignore his emotions. "Well, I'm glad you travelled here to say that. Still, there's probably a ship waiting for you somewhere so I shouldn't keep you waiting."

Idrial blinks. That was...blunt, more so than even a dwarf seeking to spend time with jewels rather than people. But then again, what else is there to say? He's married to a north-woman while she's an elf. Circumstance has just delivered a giant "screw you" to naive hope and all that remains is to keep as much pride while ignoring circumstance. And rising to her feet, that's what Idrial intends to do.

Still, as she nears the door, she can't help but ask...

"Are you happy?" the quendi asks, standing in the doorframe as if between one world and the next. "With Morwen?"

Berethor looks up from his work, his attention turned away from it. So when he answers, much to her sadness, she knows that he's telling the truth.

"Yes," the former warrior says. "I am."

Idrial nods. That settles it. And if he's happy, that's all that matters in the-...

"But not as happy as I could have been with you."

Idrial stops in the doorway again, but this time she doesn't say anything. She simply smiles. And with the man she still has feelings for smiling back, she knows that some things don't have to be said. Even if they are obvious.

And fighting back tears as she sees him for the last time, she knows that saying that destiny is cruel is perhaps the most obvious thing of all.