Ever since the beginning of his journey, Berethor had felt as if he were fighting a non-stop battle. He'd traveled Middle-Earth, slaughtering his way through the Dark Lord's minions and following Mithrandir's orders to the letter. And yet for all his accomplishments, for all the glory, for all his battle prowess and his mighty sword arm, he had failed quite miserably.

So thought Berethor as he sat in his old home, the ancestral house of his line, recently restored to its former glory after his ruinous actions and banishment from Minas Tirith. He'd fought alongside the King, Aragorn, upon the fields of Pelennor; the allies he'd found throughout his adventures at his side. Men and women of all civilized races had come together with Berethor as he followed the trail of the Fellowship, Hadhod the Dwarf, Elegost, Morwen, and Eaoden of the race of Men, and of course, Idrial, the she-elf who'd been Berethor's oldest companion. It was she who filled his mind with fanciful daydreams and complicated emotions that tore through his being like fiery beasts. Her face shined brightly in the forefront of his thoughts, the way she always carried herself regally, the way she looked as she slashed a sword through the air, like a beautiful goddess of war…

And yet there Berethor sat, dressed in fine garments befitting the honor he'd reclaimed for his House, wishing for all his power and fame that he could simply see Idrial one last time. For a moment, one wonderful moment, back when they'd first begun their journey, Berethor had thought there was a chance they could be together. They'd fought at each other's side, even shared a moment of passion, but that seemed ages ago. A knock upon the open doorway to his ancestral home brought him back to attention. It was a bright day outside, magnified by the white stone used to build the city, and in the doorway stood a dark figure in clothes just as fine as Berethor's own. A man he'd come to know as a dear friend over their adventures together.

"Berethor, you slouch," Elegost called, "come outside you recluse!"

The man in question, a skilled bowman and member of the Dunedain, leapt inside and quickly threw an arm around Berethor's neck, putting him in a headlock and violently grinding his knuckles onto the top of Berethor's head. The Guard Captain of Minis Tirith broke free of his friend's antics and scowled at him.

"Assaulting a high ranking member of society," Berethor asked accusingly, "that'll get you the stocks… if you're lucky."

"Well, technically, I am the new leader of the Dunedain, as Faramir abandoned the position, and seeing as I report to King Aragorn himself, I think I'm safe in assuming I am out of your jurisdiction," Elegost said, sitting in Berethor's chair and throwing his feet up on the fine wooden table.

"If you're in my city, you're within my jurisdiction," Berethor said, slapping at Elegost's boots to get him to take them from the polished table.

"Still a man of honor, I see," Elegost grumbled with a sigh.

"And you're still a first class upstart," Berethor said.

For a moment there was silence, but then Berethor, who was trying his best to look grim and moody, finally felt the stress of the last few months release, and he felt a smile twitch across his lips as he looked at his friend. Elegost, too, failed at stifling his laughter behind a solemn frown. A guffaw escaped his lips and after a moment both men were laughing heartily.

"I'm glad some things don't change," Berethor said tiredly, gripping the forearm of his comrade and shaking it firmly, "how have you been my friend?"

"Well, I feel about as tired as you look, so I'm pretty much the same as ever," Elegost said, kicking out a chair for Berethor to sit in, "but what of you? I've heard much about your efforts to rebuild and your merciless insistence that we need to maintain vigilance… don't you ever relax your guard?"

It was a question Berethor had heard many times before, from as many people. Even so, his answer was about the same as it always had been.

"No," Berethor said quietly, opening a decanter of hard cider that was a gift from Hadhod and pouring a glass for both himself and Elegost, "and even though Sauron is destroyed, we must remain on our guard."

"But the enemy-"

"Is gone, which means this is the opportune time for him to be replaced, whether by one of his subordinates or perhaps even a domestic threat. The fact remains that there is never truly peace," Berethor said, taking a healthy swig from his clay mug.

"Ugh… your logic, while horribly depressing, still possesses the grain of truth necessary to keep me awake at night," Elegost said, rubbing his temple before taking a drink himself.

"I don't mean to cause you to unrest," Berethor smiled, "I simply wish to make sure people remain at the ready."

"This is all fine and well, but your tone seems unusually grim for a man who plans to be wed soon," Elegost said, raising an eyebrow.

"Where did you hear that?"

"A little bird told me," Elegost replied, leaning forward, "whatever the case, I was shocked when the news reached me by sources other than you. I considered it an affront, considering I was going to be your best man, per our discussions."

Berethor smiled, reminiscing the times they had stayed awake, trying to plan ahead as they traveled Middle Earth in the wake of the Fellowship. Things had seemed so dark and grim that whenever their talks had run dry and they had no more ideas, they often turned to conversations about their futures after the war. During one of those talks, Berethor had indeed promised to make Elegost the best man, along with Hadhod.

"If memory serves, Eaoden was also offered the role of best man," Berethor said.

"Yes, but he turned it down. He did say he would attend the ceremony though," Elegost said, "regardless, I figured the news was false, as I was certain you would have told me personally."

Elegost's tone and his smile remained unchanged, but his eyes seemed a little less friendly, as if he was actually offended by his lack of news.

"There was a wedding," Berethor admitted, "it was barely in its infancy, but in the end…"

"Morwen left you," Elegost asked quietly.

"Yes," Berethor whispered, "she said she could not love a man whose love was already given to another."

Elegost leaned back and crossed his arms, his head hanging over the back of his chair as it all clicked into place.

"Idrial."

Elegost had guessed correctly, for at the very mention of the woman in question Berethor looked both happy and sad, as if he'd eaten the world's most delicious meal, then suddenly become queasy from it. Elegost took another large drink of the cider before wiping his mouth upon his sleeve and resting his elbows on the table.

"Idrial has left for the Grey Havens, she isn't coming back, Berethor. Do you intend to sit about all day doing nothing," Elegost asked, a trace of concern touching his voice.

"Do you think me ignorant as well as stupid? I am well aware that Idrial intends to leave Middle Earth, and as much as I work to keep myself complacent…her face is all I see when I fall asleep, and her wellbeing is the first thing on my mind when I wake the next morning. Elegost, I am aware that she's gone, but the ghost of Idrial haunts me still. And what am I to do, follow her to the Grey Havens? Or perhaps send her a letter? No, Elegost, no one knows better than I that she is gone," Berethor said quietly, draining his cup and standing from his chair.

Elegost stood too, going over to his friend and clapping him upon his shoulder.

"Come now, let's go for a walk, I think I know what will cheer you up!"

Half an hour later, Berethor and Elegost left the estate in the upper ring, headed in the general direction of the palace.

"Where are we going," Berethor asked, unsure of his ally's intentions.

"To the Royal Guest House," Elegost said, "there's someone there that wants to see you."

And so they went, traveling through the white streets of the Gondorian capital, until they finally came to the stairs before the great courtyard, at the peak of the city. They ascended the final stair, and instead of going straight forward, into the chamber housing the throne of Gondor, they marched off to the left, into a grand room that provided foreign dignitaries with plentiful luxuries and a soft place to rest their heads. Elegost lead the way expertly, coming to a stop by a large wooden door with iron fittings. He knocked and then opened the door, completely shattering any preconceptions of respect. Out of the doorway bounced another friend of Berethor's.

"Hadhod!"

"Berethor, my man, how are you? Still taller than me, anyway! And I see you have that rascal, Elegost, with you!"

Hadhod was dressed in a fine, sleeveless chainmail of silvery mithril, and at his hip was a war axe that also gleamed with silvery light. His breeches were clean and unstained and his boots were just as fine, and gleaming with polish. There were a few new lines about the dwarf's eyes, but other than that he seemed as incorrigible as the day Berethor had met him.

Hadhod stepped forward and grasped Berethor about the waist, lifting him as if he were weightless and squeezing the breath from his lungs.

"Ah, it's good to see you, lad. I was hoping you'd visit," the dwarf said happily.

"It's good to see you, too. What brings you to Minas Tirith," Berethor asked.

"Oh, just business," Hadhod said, waving a hand dismissively and looking rather bored at the notion of said business.

"I thought you were a guard from Erebor," Berethor stated, "and now you are a visiting dignitary?"

"Things change," Hadhod grunted, "look at you, lad, you were merely a guard when we started upon our journey. Now you're the Captain of the Guard, and a nobleman. Aye, our lots in life have certainly changed."

"How go things in the Mountain Halls of Erebor," Elegost asked, taking a seat upon the bench used to entertain guests.

Hadhod took a seat in the large, throne like chair opposite, albeit with a little difficulty. Once he'd gotten himself into the chair, he gripped the arms with his strong hands and sighed.

"Honestly, things are not going as well as they should be," Hadhod said, "the fall of Sauron has taken the world by storm, and now that things are changing, many people are looking to make those changes, according to their own ambitions. As a nobleman, I can understand why they seek to change things, but it's all so stifling."

Hadhod, whose dwarven features kept him from reaching the knee high table set before his chair, had to climb down in order to pour and serve the brandy he had set upon the table.

"I really shouldn't," Berethor said as Hadhod held out a glass to him.

"Do you remember what happened the last time you refused a drink from me," Hadhod asked, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

Elegost burst out laughing and Berethor's face grew stony as he recalled it. They had been in Moria, settled about a campfire, when Hadhod took out a bottle of old mead he'd found tucked away in the ruins of the once-great mountain halls. The bottle was passed around the fire, finally coming to Berethor, who refused.

"Either you drink with the warriors," Hadhod said, "or I'll take to calling you as I would a housewife."

"That's unfair," Berethor said, "plenty of housewives are warriors without peer."

"True enough," Hadhod said with a bark of laughter, "but they do not have so much at stake as we do, lass."

Back in the present, Elegost positively howled with laughter, with Hadhod joining in as well.

"You called me 'lass' until I finally took a drink," Berethor said, taking the glass extended to him.

"That I did," Hadhod noted, nodding at his guest before taking a drink straight from the bottle.

A peaceful silence fell across the men as they thought about their pasts together, and even as Berethor sat in Gondor, the world changing rapidly around him, he felt a ghost of the past creep up on him, crippling him with nostalgia.

"This almost feels like déjà vu," he said quietly.

"Agreed," Hadhod said, smiling as he swilled the contents of the bottle.

Another silence fell, but as Hadhod drank more and more, he seemed more and more inquisitive about Berethor and Elegost.

"So, how are you two holding up out on the field, eh," he asked with a minor slur, "the ladies of this kingdom are likely fighting over you, I imagine!"

"I've not found the time to entertain women," Berethor said with a small smile, doing his best to hide his feelings.

"I may not have seen you for a few months, but I still know when you're lying to me, lad…what happened with the fiery, axe wielding redhead? I liked her," Hadhod said, wiggling his bushy eyebrows.

"We had a falling out," Berethor explained shortly.

"He's pining," Elegost explained further.

"For the elf," Hadhod guessed, "Idrial."

"Not that I mind the idle chat about my failed attempts at romance," Berethor said firmly, "but could we please refrain from discussing such topics?"

"Of course, but take it from someone with a bit more life experience, if you don't actively work to change your fate, then are condemned to repeat it indefinitely," Hadhod said sagely.

"Life experience? Tell us, Hadhod, how much life experience do you have, exactly," Elegost asked, slouching back onto the bench, swilling the last dregs of his brandy and casting a mischievous eye at his dwarven ally.

Hadhod huffed and set the bottle of brandy down with a thump before he crossed his arms and upturned his chin. He fingered his beard for a moment before responding in a reserved tone.

"I'm well-traveled, to say the least," Hadhod said, "besides, why should I tell you my age, hmm? You are but a child to my people."

"I thought only women were sensitive about their age! Quickly, Berethor, this is your chance to mock him in retaliation."

"What other advice could you give, oh wise sage of the mountains," Berethor asked jokingly.

"Well, a few pieces of good, general advice never go amiss. Now, most of what I'm about to tell you comes from a mixture of berating from mine own father, and mine own experiences," Hadhod said, pulling out a pipe and lighting it by striking a match against his boot. He drew deeply from the long stem of the pipe before he exhaled through his nostrils, looking like an old bearded dragon spewing fire.

"The first piece, I have already given you," Hadhod said, "you must actively work to change your fate, you cannot sit idly by. Even though you are working to maintain your position, what have you done to better yourself of late?"

"I…"

Berethor was at a loss for words. True enough, he had worked to make up for his banishment from Gondor and he found that his daily physical training was simply keeping him in the same fighting condition he'd been in on the road, but he felt as if he had levelled out, like he had stopped climbing and his power had peaked.

"I haven't," he admitted.

"As I thought," Hadhod said, leaning forward, a knowing light in his eyes, "you will soon feel the lust for adventure. It's only a matter of time."

"I already feel it," Berethor said, "I've felt it since all of us simply splintered off and vanished to our own corners of the world. It seems like forever ago that we were on the road."

"That it does, lad," Hadhod said, "and that ache, that longing, will soon grow and overtake you. Before you know it, you'll be stuck in an emissary's position, traveling between kingdoms and dining with royalty, reveling in your past because it was the best time of your life and it's now gone forever."

"That sound like more a personal problem, my stocky fellow," Elegost said with a smile.

"Stocky as I am, I can still take you down, ranger," Hadhod said, stroking his beard, "or did you forget the last time I decided to teach you a lesson? Anyway, the next piece of general advice is that nothing of value comes easy. Now, this ties in closely to the first bit of advice, but if you have to choose between two paths, always choose the hardest, for that is where the most gain is found."

"And your final piece of advice?"

"Stick to your convictions. A man that is true to himself, through and through, is a man that has nothing to fear and nothing to hide. He lives a life with his heart on his sleeve and does his best in any task he is presented with," Hadhod said, his eyes now distant as he took another deep draw from his pipe.

"All sound and solid advice," Elegost said, no trace of mischievous intent hidden in his solemn gaze.

"And all easier said than done," said Hadhod in hushed tones.

Berethor grunted and leaned forward, his elbows upon his knees as he thought about Hadhod's guiding words. He took a large gulp of his drink before swilling the remaining contents and holding the drink up to the light of the fire crackling in the grate. As the wine in his glass swirled like a hurricane, his thoughts did the same in his head.

The next day, Elegost awoke in his own comfortable estate, dressed in plain breeches with a finely stitched tunic of emerald and gold. His name and lineage were of minor nobility before the war, which was why he had chosen to become a ranger, but after his part in the war, his status had skyrocketed. First off, he had been sworn in as the new leader of the Dunedain, in place of Faramir, who'd retired after finding love in the beautiful and fair Eowyn of Rohan. A few short days after the victory of Men, he was among the company that had been invited to the topmost level of the White City, so as to be rewarded for his role in ending the war. Everyone had been there to celebrate and receive personal thanks from King Aragorn and his fiancé, the soon to be Queen, Arwen Evenstar.

Many people had been there, some old friends, and some new, all of whom played large parts in the end of the Dark Lord. There was obviously the Fellowship, chief among them being the Ring Bearer, Frodo Baggins and his gardener, Samwise Gamgee. There was Berethor and his company of warriors and friends, whom had trailed the Fellowship and fought many battles so as to further the war efforts against Sauron, and there was even a group from the North, a trio comprised of a man, an elf and a dwarf, who spun quite the incredible tale of adventure involving rescuing a Great Eagle, blowing up a mountain and slaying a powerful sorcerer in service to Sauron.

Much to Elegost's surprise and pleasure, the food, drink, and company couldn't have been better. Stories of brave heroes and selfless acts were told, shared experiences from different perspectives were celebrated; and the kingdom was at peace. Aragorn, the King of Gondor, and Mithrandir, the White Wizard, had worked together to concoct a desperate attempt at ending Sauron's reign of terror, and while many had fought and died, Elegost got to survive and enjoy the company of people whose war stories rivaled his own. But that was some time ago, or at least it felt like it.

"My, how time makes fools of us all," Elegost said, stretching and thinking on the aches and pains of his body. He was by no means an old man, but for all his "youth" he still felt as if the war had left him old and tired… well, aside from his vibrant attitude, perhaps.

He had planned on exercising down in the fields by helping the people of Gondor dispose of the few remaining signs that a great battle had been fought upon Minas Tirith's doorstep, such as the Mumakil corpses, trebuchet ammo and, of course, the remains of the Witch King's body. They had actually begun to sink in and corrode the land, and now the area surrounding the Witch King of Angmar's corpse, and the carcass of his Fell Beast, was stained black as if one of the Valar had spilled a godly ink-bottle upon the field. Little enough grew upon the field as it was, but the blight of the Witch King's rotting remains left the land dead and fetid smelling. The thought of the scene sent a chill through Elegost as if he'd been doused in the icy waters of the Anduin. A knock upon his doorframe made him jump and spin about.

"Elegost!"

It was Berethor, looking strangely excited about something. What was more, he was dressed in his armor, a fine set of dark Numenorian steel plate from the second age. He also sported a navy cloak and upon his waist hung a fine sword that, according to Mithrandir himself, was a relic of the first age. He carried his helmet in the crook on his arm and his chest rose and fell as if he'd run there.

"Great Glorfindel's Gonads! You scared me to death," Elegost shouted, throwing the stone goblet he'd been about to drink from at Berethor, who shut the heavy wooden door to block the attack. He reopened it slowly, peaking his head around it to find Elegost clutching his chest and gripping a chair for support.

"Once more, Elegost. One more strike, and I'll have you in irons. There's a pattern of attempted assault and I won't stand for it," Berethor said with a grin, looking nervous as he slowly approached his friend.

"What do you want, Berethor," Elegost asked, "I was about to begin exercising!"

"Belay that action," Berethor said, "I have a proposition for you."

Berethor and Elegost took seats upon opposite sides of a fine oak table that gleamed brightly, no scuffs or dents to be found in the polished hardwood. The Captain of the Guard explained his scheme to the Captain of the Dunedain, and with each word Berethor spoke, Elegost grew more convinced his predetermined response was justified.

"Preposterous," Elegost said, his chin sitting in the palm of his hand, his elbow upon the table, "absolutely outlandish."

"I thought the exact same thing," Berethor said, that same excitably nervous energy still coursing through him like electricity, "but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense…."

Berethor's mind floated back to last night, where he'd laid awake in his chambers, staring at the moon through the bedroom window on the second floor of his estate. One of the perks of being nobility was that he could still look outside at night and see the stars and the moon, but on that night, they gave him little comfort.

"I was awake for hours," Berethor said, "nothing could still my thoughts, and Hadhod's words seemed to rattle around in my skull every time I looked up at the moon."

And so they had, in fact, Berethor had only gotten an hour or two of sleep, the dark circles under his eyes made him look slightly deranged when coupled with his excited antics.

"Finally, I decided that hell or high water, this was something that needed doing, or else sleep would never again come my way."

With that firmly instilled in his sleep deprived brain, Berethor had made for the very top of Minas Tirith, so that he might meet with the King. In the wee hours of the morn, he'd climbed the cold white stair to the summit of the city, but his way had been barred by a pair of halberd wielding guards.

"I thought I would have to wait until the sun rose for an audience, but it seems luck was on my side," Berethor said to Elegost with a satisfied smile.

The King, dressed not in splendid robes, but in a simple tunic and breeches, had been standing next to the White Tree of Gondor, the symbol of the Kingdom, and there upon its branches, small white buds were growing. Life had returned to the tree at long last.

"He had heard my attempts to meet with him and so he stepped out of the shadows and settled my dispute with those loathsome guards before asking me to join him for a stroll."

Berethor and the King walked, side by side, silence the only sound in the twilight before the dawn.

"What troubles you to seek me out at such an hour, Berethor," Aragorn had asked.

"My lord, Aragorn, I have favor to ask of you, and a large one at that," Berethor said, his voice loud against the sound of silence.

"Please," Aragorn asked, "you need not be so formal. A King I may be, but I am a man all the same."

Indeed, Aragorn looked less like a King now than he had before. His clothes were rather plain, likely the same one's he'd worn when traveling with the Fellowship, and his feet were bare. But for his simple fashion, it seemed to make his noble features stick out more, and he appeared almost to be as a wise, powerful immortal as he strolled leisurely around the grassy lawn atop the White City.

"All the same, sire, you are the only one who can grant my request," Berethor said quietly as he scanned the horizon for the rising sun.

"No," Aragorn said, "I cannot."

Berethor stopped, his pace dying as his heartbeat quickened. Could the King know of his plans, of the reason for his request? A series of harsh words came to the forefront of Berethor's mind, but before any could fly from his tongue, Aragorn had stopped and turned to face Berethor.

"You mistake my words for my stake in the matter," Aragorn said with a small sigh, "however, it is not my intention that you should not depart, what I mean to say is that it is not in my power to grant your request. You must decide whether or not it is worth it for yourself."

"You are saying that I must choose? But what of my stature, my duties," Berethor asked, "will they be here when I return?"

"Most definitely," Aragorn said, smiling, "I cannot Captain the Guard myself, so you will have to hurry back."

"But sire-"

"How do I know of your intentions to find the elven maiden you'd travelled with," Aragorn asked, raising an eyebrow and turning to survey the sun, which was beginning to paint the sky with brilliant hues of pink and purple, "well, I have been using much of my free time to recalibrate the Palantir that was left unfocused due to the previous Steward's poor mental state."

"The Palantir," Berethor whispered, watching the King's back as he stared into the distance, "you have Seen with it, lord? You know of my plans?"

"I know a great many things."

"My King, I would ask you-"

"You wish for me to tell you whether or not this journey will be worth it, if you decide to go," Aragorn said wearily, "but I cannot do that either. All I can safely say is this: if you truly care for someone, you should strive to let them know you care. No one, be it a King with a Palantir, nor the Dark Lord himself, can accurately predict the full power of love, nor can they restrain it. All we can do is follow the river, and paddle our boats when all currents have faded. If your love is not worth pursuing, consequences or no, then chances are it was not meant to be in the first place. With that said… I wish you a safe journey. I know you have a few friends here in the city as well, you should take them along with you."

"But that would leave the Dunedain, the City Guard, and the Emissaries of Erebor leaderless," Berethor objected, wondering how the King could remain so calm at the prospect.

"So it would… but I have used the Palantir to see more than just the current state of things. The future we will build will be a bright one, and you need not worry about an attack. Your company will be missed after a time, but I will play my part to make sure your absence is unnoticed," Aragorn said, turning to look at Berethor with a very serious look.

For a moment, the Captain of the Guard questioned his King, but something kept him from speaking his mind. As soon as his doubts appeared, they were struck down by the noble and wise presence of Aragorn.

"Thank you my King," Berethor said, holding a fist to his chest before turning and walking away quickly. Before he reached the stairs, however, he was already sprinting as fast as he could, his mind working furiously as he thought of the provisions he would need for his journey.

"You let him go," Arwen asked, stepping from the shadows of the palace and coming to a halt next to her husband.

"Of course," Aragorn said, "I know all too well the pain of not being able to be with the one you love. I wouldn't wish that horrid ache on my worst enemy… no, one way or another, I feel this will give him the closure he so desires."

Hello all, I recently finished my umpteenth playthrough of The Lord of the Rings: The Third Age, and I was stunned by the ending, particularly in regards to the Idrial/Berethor romance not taking place. As such I'll just remedy that via fanfiction. Now, I drew from the games, books and movies to write this fic, so you'll notice the reference Elegost makes when he recalled a company from the North (Lord of the Rings: War in the North), and you'll notice the Palantir, or seeing stone once more being used. You'll also notice that I referenced Aragorn as a wise and noble king, like the books, rather than a dashing ranger/warrior like the movies. You're welcome, I guess.