It happens often that Mírëala of Nùmenor will look around, slightly dumbfounded, and realise that this is not where she intended to go. By that, she does not mean simply walking into her room when she intended for her father's office. Though that was her room she was aiming for ...

How she found herself on a boat, well, she could not tell you.

The boat had long sailed, too. The daughter of a captain and being rescued in these very waters when she was nothing more than just a baby, Mírëala knows the sea and its feelings, knows when she is still in a harbour, and sailing in the middle of the ocean.

As said, this is not, by any means, an isolated incident. Mírëala has the tendency to walk into situations whether they welcome her or not. Most often than not, they don't. What she always knows, and what really matters in the end, is that it is always where she is supposed to be.

She has to say, the middle of the sea was still quite a surprise. Usually, the boat was docked already, and her gift had only meant to tell her that her father had come home. This was different. But she could make do. Even if hiding in the hold is not ideal at all, the deep blue of the waves had always been more welcoming than Nùmenor. Home is so rarely what you make it out to be.

All this to say; Mírëala is not all that phased when she blinks the daze out of her eyes and sees the wooden planks of the ship. A little inconvenienced, considering she had other plans; eating, for instance, which she had forgotten to do all day.

Of course, on the second day, this grows worse. Hunger tugs at her stomach harshly, claws gripping it tightly. But she knows she will not starve. It does come in handy, doesn't it? This is bad, but it will not be her end.

Mírëala of Nùmenor does not die today, but maybe that is where it starts.

She cowers away a few seconds before the hatch opens, hiding from the light. Men come in, carrying a woman – fair of face, long blonde hair dangling and shining in the light of the sun. She tilts her head, tries to get a better look when they lay her on a hammock, waiting for the men to leave.

She should not be seen. Not yet. The reasons evade her – but she knows it as fact. She will be revealed to them later ... and she predicts many unpleasantries, especially when, straining herself ever so slightly, she recognises her father's face in her future. Always his boat. Being a Seer did not mean being lucky.

The door is shut. With the sun gone – so is the Elf. Elf? Was she an Elf? She wasn't sure, now that she has faded. But she will be here soon. She has been here. But she will again, in reality. Oh, this all gets so confusing, does it not?

Galadriel. The name sounds in her head like a bell. The Elf is named Galadriel, and her pride shines twice as much as her light.

Mírëala has never met an Elf before. One day, she'll see their city – she will be surrounded with them and won't have seen a Man in months. The thought makes her tilt her head back and forth. What an odd thing. She had not realised she would leave Nùmenor.

When the hatch opens again, she knows that it is not a vision.

So Mírëala sits in eager silence at the back of the hold, away from the light of the open hatch. She is now confident in not getting caught – not yet, at least. This doesn't come until a few minutes, she knows it. And it will be of her own free will.

Just like she knows that Galadriel is not just any Elf – an Eldar. A Ñoldor. How she got here, this escapes her still, no matter how much she tries. Knowing the future only works when understanding where people come from. Mírëala was never good at seeing the past. She is not sure why it evaded her so; the future was kind enough to show itself, even when she did not want it. The past, well. She had to dig through graves to catch a glimpse of it.

Maybe that was why people thought she was cursed. A gift is only one if you know how to use it.

But for now, Mírëala watches excitedly as the Elf is lowered on a hammock, again. She was not sure as to why she felt like she, herself, had to be on that boat, still, but she trusted that in the grand scheme of things, this was to be her place, right at that time. It was usually how it worked. Mírëala let herself be carried by the tides, and trusted whoever thrusted her in the sea that she'll reach the shore. Sometimes, it does not look so hopeful.

Sometimes, a man in rags climbs down the ladder, and Mírëala, for the first time in her twenty seven years of life, is deeply and truly confused.

She has seen this scene. She had seen it a few minutes before it happened, she had been in it. This man decidedly had not. One does not surprise a Seer. Not easily. She may surprise herself, walking on boats when trying to find her bed, but this is different. Mírëala never would have known he would be here. She knew of the Elf, she knows of the forecast, her father scolding her when she climbs out right before they reach Nùmenor, Queen Mìriel's fear that has not even started to rear its ugly head.

Mírëala does not know the man in front of her. Not even in the slightest.

It has happened before – a few times she can count on one hand. Newborns' futures tend to get all muddled up with possibilities, leaving a blank page with scribbles for Mírëala to gaze at. Other times, when someone had changed so drastically their past didn't coincide with their futures anymore, it takes some time for her own sixth sense to adjust to it.

In each of these occasions, Mírëala somehow knew, to an extent, that it would happen. For babies, it simply made sense. Predictions are an extended cycle; seeing the future works with knowing the past. After a traumatic event too – her sister had become a blindspot for days, but Mírëala had known, too. Ëarien was different. She had never quite managed to befriend this new version of her.

All this to say, this stranger has caught her off guard. Of all the things these days had brought her; this had been the oddest. And she walked onto a boat without realising it until she was halfway into the ocean.

Many would call her brazen, and that would be the nicest thing said about her behind her back. But it was as simple as that – she knew death would come for her. She also knew that it would not be today. She told herself this fact often. And often, the day did not end well, and a new grey hair sprouted on her father's head.

But Mírëala is not scared in the slightest when she bolts forward.

"Who are you?"

She is not the only one surprised, and she is pleased by that fact. She is not afraid to stare at the man, head tilted. She has done much weirder things, and even if despite her best efforts, she cannot predict his reactions, she knows staring is not the oddest thing she will do today.

She finds green eyes staring back, equally as unabashedly. Something tugs in her chest, making her blink softly. The man is, by all accounts, in a poor state. Sea salt has eaten at the skin of his bruised cheekbone, half of his face hidden by a stubble that matches the brunette of his hair. Still, there is something to him. She is not quite sure what. And she hates to add it to the growing list of things she does not know.

He arches a brow back at her. "Who are you?"

"I asked first."

He looks like he wants to laugh, but Mírëala is ever serious. By all accounts, this man was carried into the hold for reasons unknown, he could be a pirate. He could be worse. He could be many things, and Mírëala wants to know which.

The first thing she learns is that he is smart. "Well," his mouth twists into a smirk. "You were also hiding in here, and I'd infer that only one of us was invited on board–"

"Invited, is that really the word?" she cuts in, eyes growing distant. "Were you not stranded at sea with the Elf? At the Wyrm's mercy, and oh, he was not merciful to the rest of your crew. Neither was the storm that broke your raft. Rescued by the Captain would be more like it."

Smart, is also the first thing he learns of her. Not odd. Not weird. Intelligent. Calculated.

Mírëala only knows of this because it is a part of the Elf's journey – the place of that man in it is like a glaring, dark spot that blots over the page. But at least, in saying that, she has caught him off guard, if only for a moment.

"Rescued or not," he says, a little tighter, "the Captain is aware of my presence on his ship and has welcomed us in. Is he aware of yours?"

Reaching a stalemate, she simply stares at him. She feels herself strain the limits of her predictions as far as she can, trying to grapple anything from the man in front of her. She must look positively insane, eyes screwed shut, lips pressed together in a tight line. She prays that her nose does not start to bleed. When nothing comes, she gives up.

She will not learn anything of that man, not like this.

"Fine," she nearly spits out, frustrated. "I am Mírëala."

He grins. "Halbrand." Then, he tilts his head back at her. "Are you a Seer of some kind?"

Lot of good this does her. People hate her for a blessing that she cannot even use to serve herself now. "Would a Seer ignore your name?" she retorts.

He leans against the wooden beam, perfectly at ease with the entire situation. "Would the average person know of mine and the Elf's fate?"

Mírëala sits down opposite him, mirroring his stance. "Suppose not. Suppose I am a Seer. How come I do not know of your past?"

He hums. "Wouldn't my future be the object of your visions?"

"Your past is the key to your future. Future is uncertain – visions can't occur on shaky grounds. Past is key." She narrows her eyes at him. "Yours is locked away. Is that key in the sea you've just come out of?"

His smile turns amused. "Do you expect me to tell you the answers you cannot see? Perhaps they evade you for a reason."

This discussion feels more like a sparring match than an exchange of information.

Her answer comes sardonic; "Believe me, the future spares me no horror." She stares at the floor, deep in thought. "Suppose a fractured past could explain my sudden blindness. What has happened to you that is so horrible you became an entirely new person?"

Halbrand's gaze darkens. "Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions, Mírëala?"

She laughs. Of all things, she finds this funny. "If anything, people have told me I ask too little. Or that I should not speak at all." She turns her head to the Elf, who still has not moved. He sees the way her eyes get lost into nothing, before she opens her mouth again. "She looks dead, but she is not. Death does not come for the Lady of Light." Then, she turns back to him as abruptly as she had said those words, like they've escaped her, without realising. Not quite coming from her, really. "Keep your secrets if you must, Halbrand. It is more entertaining to me than knowing the outcome of things."

She is not sure she is even telling the truth, with how unnerved she is. But knowing has always been something of a curse. At least, to people around her, they'd agree surely. 'Weird Mírëala's tongue has been caught, let's hope they rip it out,' they'd say, and laugh like it was the funniest thing.

He seems reassured at the fact that she won't pry, but that will not stop Mírëala from wondering. Even the word tastes foreign in her mouth. It had been so long since she had wondered anything.

Before more can be said, he watches as Mírëala flees from her place in front of him, and back behind the ladder. In front of his stare, she simply raises her finger to her lips, asking him to remain silent.

Mere seconds later, a guard comes down, offering him soup. She only comes out of hiding once the man is gone, sitting back in front of him. There is not much else she can do, and being curious is a concept she'd missed.

Halbrand seems hesitant, staring at his plate. "Is it poisoned?"

Mírëala's lip tugs slightly upwards. "I have not confirmed if I am a Seer."

He seems unamused, but in the same way her brother looks when she jests with him, and the concept of someone else finding her funny is odd. "I should like you to, anytime soon."

She sniffs. "The Elf's portion is not. Do they have a reason to poison yours specifically?"

Admittedly a little unsure, which makes her smile broaden, he starts eating his bowl, before fully giving into the hunger that had been gnawing at him all that time on the raft. He is halfway through it when he notices Mírëala's stare on him, the telltale sound of a stomach rumbling.

She shies a little away from his glare, readjusting her blue dress, that's grown dusty and creased.

"Have you not been feeding yourself?" he asks, an edge of amusement in his voice.

She is much less amused than she was. "I knew I would not die of starvation," she answers.

"That does not answer my question."

"Does it not?" she hums, licking her lips, eyes fixated on the bowl. "Perhaps you are not as clever as you sound."

He exhales a laugh, and takes another spoonful. Then, he extends the bowl to her, and she blinks at it. She is not used to those kinds of gestures, either.

"It's not poisoned," he confirms. "Now, I would not go as far as to say that it's good, but–"

She has taken and downed the bowl before he can even think of his next words. This time, his laugh reverberates on the wooden hold.

"You are quite odd," he tells her, in a way that she could trick herself into believing is fond. But she does not – Mírëala knows she tends to confuse it with interest. That is what happens when everyone dismisses you.

She swallows her mouthful. "There are worse things to be called."

He half-shrugs, as if to say, 'I suppose so,' but doesn't press, which she appreciates. Sometimes, her words go quicker than her thoughts, but Mírëala really does not want to talk about what people call her. He will learn soon enough. It is not a prophecy, but a fact.

People always talk, when she so much as walks down the streets. So when she speaks, oh ...

"Why are you here, then?" he asks. "I gather this time you won't answer my question with another, seeing as you already know why I am?"

Mírëala simply keeps eating, for a few seconds, thinking. "I know how you're here, not why." She looks to the side. "Galadriel's heroic hubris pushed her off her vessel to Heaven, if such a thing should exist..." She blinks. "Why were you on that raft with her?"

"Well, it was my raft first," he answers, and earns himself a glare at his non-answer.

"Were you, perchance, thrown overboard of a previous ship?"

"Not quite," he says lightly in comparison to her tone growing in harshness. There is still a slight edge to his tone, like barely contained nostalgia... or revenge simmering. "My home was burned down and I was driven out of my lands."

When the bowl is empty and almost licked clean, Mírëala sets it down, her interest piqued. Maybe if she learns more about his past, he won't remain a mystery for long, still. "By who?"

He grows impatient again. "What's it matter? It's gone now."

"Not gone," she corrects, and the words are half reassurement, half prophecy. "Not really. Nothing ever is. It all just changes shape."

Halbrand seems surprised by her words, and she tries not to be offended by it. She wonders if it is, like the men of Nùmenor, a simple tell-tale sign that he has underestimated her. Or if, maybe, the words strike a little too true.

"It was Orcs," he finally says, looking away.

"Oh," Mírëala lets out. "I am sorry."

She has not heard of Orcs in so long, she near thought they were gone altogether. Now, the word rang like a song, a tune you had forgotten had plagued you. But it had come back. It will, come back.

Oh, it will come back, much, much worse.

The thought is gone as quickly as it wormed its way into her brain.

She sees something glint around his neck – the metal cap of a pouch, with the sigil of a bird. A fisher king, she thinks. "Is it your King's mark?"

"No," he shakes his head. "My people have no King."

Mírëala hums. "Mine do not either. Not for much longer, at least."

His smile is back on his face at that, tilting his head at her again. "Have you gotten in trouble for this little gift? Because sometimes, your prophecies sound a lot like threats."

She laughs, because in his mouth, it does not seem like the crime her people make it out to be. "Well. It is never on purpose." Not really ... She does play with it, sometimes, but she thinks it is an honest retribution for how people treat her.

It gets a laugh out of him, too. "That would be unwise. But you haven't told me – why are you here?"

Mírëala hums softly for herself, trying to remember what led her here in the first place. "Well, I was going to fetch a book from my room."

"... Yes?"

"And I opened my eyes on this boat." He looks confused, staring at her still. "It happens more often than you'd think."

She ducks a little to the right, just as Galadriel wakes up with a start, flinging her arm around. She's disoriented, far from her home, and even further from the quest she had vowed to complete.

But when Mírëala looks at her, she sees her with a crown on her head, a gentle frown of her brow.

Not as she is – but as she could be. As she will be.

"The Lady of Light," she breathes out, voice barely over a whisper.

Galadriel, who does not know who the woman in front of her is but has the pride of a war general, merely tilts her head, long blonde hair falling from where they were stuck behind her pointy ear.

The suspicion is evident on her face, despite the agreeable surprise, and Mírëala is not a fool enough to ignore it.

"I am Mírëala," she tells her when she remains silent. Galadriel is, after all, on a foreign boat, and was not conscious like Halbrand was when they were rescued. But Mírëala smiles. There is a nice familiarity about her. Or, there will be.

Galadriel does not know that, but she has ties to the Unseen World that Mírëala shares. It is explained by poets a little something like that; her heart sings when she sees her.

Halbrand's eyes fly between the two. "You should consider yourself lucky, Elf, I had to pry that information out."

She is too busy patting her side, and closing her eyes tightly at the emptiness. Words sprout in Mírëala's mouth, and she has to bite down her tongue to stop them from coming out. They still swirl around – Brother, Dagger, Death, Brother–Finrod! – Finrod's Dagger, the Captain.

Mírëala does not know Galadriel yet, but she knows the sourness that comes with mentioning the dead. "The Captain," she says. "He has it."

Galadriel narrows her eyes at her, for good measure. "How do you know what I am searching for?"

"I am a Seer," she answers simply, handing her the untouched bowl of soup. "Here. You're hungry."

Halbrand relents a second time at how easily Galadriel gets information out of Mírëala, head hitting the wooden beam. The Elf raises the spoon to her mouth, and stops, hesitating.

"Our hosts. Saviours or captors?"

"It's not poisoned," Halbrand answers before Mírëala can. "If that's your concern." He waits for Galadriel to start eating, and then smiles. "Not for humans anyway."

She looks unamused, and not in the same way as he did. Mírëala sighs, deep. "It won't kill you," she confirms. "Though his humour very well might."

"Ha," he sighs. "You'll get used to it."

Mírëala does not move when footsteps are heard overhead, neither does she when the latch opens. Halbrand watches in slight surprise yet again – she had cowered both times. But she knows now is the time to be caught, and to face a very scary thing.

And, she has to admit, no amount of foresight can ease her nerves at the thought. Even the Sea Guard who catches sight of her sighs a little.

When Mírëala walks into a place she did not aim for, it is most often a boat. She is known by the Guard. She does not dare to ask in which way.

She steps out, last one in the line, and feels as much an outsider as Halbrand and Galadriel do. They are not on the way to her home. Nùmenor is not her home. She is not quite sure where her home is, really.

The Sea Guards' eyes go from disappointment – Mírëala – to amazement at the sight of Galadriel. She does not blame them. Her wretched part envies her, perhaps. She had never been regarded with wonder.

But then again, does it matter if the woman is a mystery lusted after or adored? Men still consider them objects at the end of the day.

"Mírëala."

She winces as if it was an insult, but she knows that the man who just called her would never. He chose this name for her. Bestowed it as a gift; you are mine. Not ownership, but someone to belong to, lovingly.

Elendil, Captain of the Sea Guard, disregards the Elf and Halbrand entirely, eyes focused on Mírëala, who wishes, for the umpteenth time, that she wouldn't be seen.

"Captain," she lets out.

He looks unimpressed. "Have you lost yourself on my ship again?"

Halbrand knows better than to interfere, but if he could, he would say something along the lines of 'oh, so it has happened before.'

Mírëala feels like a child under his gaze. "It was not on purpose," she repeats.

"No, but staying hidden was," he says, and this argument has happened before. Mírëala stayed hidden because she knew it was the smartest thing to do, what her curse told her to do.

Elendil knows that hiding behind that fact does not deprive her of choice, and wants her to learn it, too.

But Mírëala raises her chin at him. "Would I have stayed there if it was dangerous?"

He scoffs a little, but it's playful, like the storm has passed, because she is alive and well. "Do you wish for me to answer?"

There is no need to be a Seer to see that both of their new guests are growing confused of this interaction. The rest of the ship, on the other hand, looks tired.

"You are coddling me," she says, and she is right, too. Mírëala has never been outside of Nùmenor, rarely even away from the Queen's side, and always with a Guard nearby.

"And you are running fast and blind," he tells her with obvious fondness. "A feat even your siblings have not achieved yet."

"I was walking, actually."

"Mírëala..."

"Father," she answers in the same tone, and here's a quiet sigh of understanding to her right.

It brings her back to reality for a split second, and Mírëala wonders if she has imagined this conversation like she did Galadriel's arrival, but no. Her father is still standing in front of her, and Halbrand and the Elf are waiting at her side for their spat to be over, the latter the tiniest bit unnerved that she had to witness it in the first place. Sometimes, it gets hard to tell reality from prediction until it happens twice.

She clears her throat, and takes on her role like second nature. In the Queen's court, Mírëala can speak freely, more often than not. And when she cannot, she gives herself that right for all the times she is asked to remain silent.

"This is Galadriel of the Ñoldor, daughter of the Golden House of Finarfin, Commander of the Northern Armies of High King Gil-galad."

It sounds like she is reciting a poem which, in some way, she is. Galadriel will introduce herself like so, to the Queen, later. In a bit. Mírëala only repeated what she heard. Will hear. One or the other.

Halbrand clears his throat, slightly. She blinks back at him. No cliff notes to read from, this time.

"This is Halbrand," she says, silence stretching. "Of... the Southlands?"

"Yes," he confirms.

"Well, there you are."

Her smile is amused, and he would look the tiniest bit offended if he didn't find her funny. Not odd, not weird, which, really, made it both.

Elendil narrows his eyes at Galadriel. Not in fear, like most of Nùmenor will. Elendil is not as full of resentment and prejudice towards Elf Kind like his peers are. Mírëala knows her father is simply trying to hide his own surprise at her presence here. She does not blame him.

"One of the Eldar," he says. "Onboard my ship? Strange tides indeed."

Galadriel, who likes being regarded with envy but has been looked at as a piece of meat for too long already, cuts in with her answer; "What vessel is this?"

"Be at ease. I'm obliged to deliver you safely to my betters," he tells her evenly, ever the wise man. "They will answer your questions, not I."

"To what port do we sail?" she still asks.

"See for yourself. We're nearly there."

"Nearly where?" Halbrand tries, but receives no answer either.

It does not really matter if either of them do; already the gates of Nùmenor are in sight, and Galadriel will realise where they are, and a sense of nostalgia mixed with grief will seize her. The Men inside the city are not her allies anymore. The Men there, never were.

Mírëala also sees the ghost of who they had been, who they could have been. But her people chose to regard gifts and aid as patronising, and have not looked back since. It only takes a few centuries for men to forget their debt and start disrespecting the people who once helped them so. Who gifted them their home.

She was not as surprised by that fact as she used to be.

Mírëala watches with the same dread, on the row boat that gets them to landfall. For a few days, in that hold, she had not been looked at, screamed at, spat at. She will miss it. She always does, when she wanders into a freedom she never fully touches.

It's in the way she walks down the streets, Galadriel and Halbrand in front of her, her father even further from her. Shoulders in, gaze down. She hears the whispers, even those left unsaid.

Galadriel sometimes turns to look at her, and she knows that with her Elf ears, she hears words Mírëala knows. Disgust is clear on her face. "Nùmenor has fallen quite low," she tells her in passing, and she nods politely.

Those Men may have sided with the Elves instead of Morgoth when the Evil came, but this did not absolve them of all crimes, not for Mírëala, and not for her.

Busy ignoring the sounds around her, she does not notice Halbrand waiting to catch up with her.

"I'm undecided," he tells her.

She looks up at him, and the words effectively fade out now that she isn't concentrated on tuning them out. "Undecided?" she repeats. "On what?"

"Who, of the Elf or the Seer, gets the most attention in the streets?"

She huffs, and they start walking again when Elendil urges them to. "Galadriel is new here. I'm afraid they will regard as something of a fair beast until they can view her as anything else."

"The fact that it's spoken from experience tells me that you both are the objects of those looks," he says, and there is the hint of something there, the same as when he spoke of his homeland.

"Objects is the right word," is the only thing she retorts.

She does not look at him as she answers, only presses forward. The streets are busy, too. It's the morning, everyone is out enjoying the sun, trying to catch a glimpse of the sea. The only thing they see is two women being escorted by the Sea Guard.

Halbrand is still catching glances from the people around them when he speaks again, "What have you done to make them fear you so?"

"You asked me if I had gotten in trouble for my gifts," Mírëala recalls. "Does it not seem as funny now? I think the people of Nùmenor simply hate to be told the truth if it comes from my mouth."

He does not insult her by asking why, merely pondering what she is unwilling to say. "Are you some terrible foe that I am unaware of? An Orc in disguise?"

She manages to crack a smile, even if it is a little one. "An Orc?" she repeats. "Not excessive at all."

"Well, you never know," he answers lightly. "Perhaps it is the only explanation I've found for people hating you so much."

Mírëala exhales a laugh. "Be happy that I get to ask you questions to get to know you, Halbrand," she says. "Perhaps you wouldn't have liked me announcing your death on a bright morning like this one."

He opens his mouth, then smiles back at her, easing the conversation into something less heavy again. "Perhaps I wouldn't have hated you for it."

"You may be smart after all."

"Mírëala."

She stops when her father calls for her, and hurries the pace to meet him, leaving Halbrand behind. Elendil looks the slightest bit weary, to his daughter's eyes. She catches him looking like that often, and wonders if he had the same look when he rescued her from the sea and decided to take her in.

She always pictures him like this.

"The Queen is probably waiting for you," he tells her, and she nods. As the Kingdom's Seer, Mírëala has a duty to her Queen, and being present, at her side in public is one of the ways she can uphold it. "Do you want me to send someone with you?"

She shakes her head. Mírëala has never been assaulted in public, and the worst that can happen are a few mean comments thrown her way. She has learned to live with them, as much as her visions.

"I'll be fine," she assures. "I'll meet you there."

He nods, barely even reassured, and she knows that in a few minutes, a Sea Guard will be sent after her to escort her, silently. She does not mind. But it so rarely discourages people.

She walks back, the way to the Queen's quarter different from the main entry of the Palace. She wonders if she will have time to wash her hair as Halbrand and Galadriel wait for the Queen to receive them, but finds that she will stand with wet hair in the hall, deepening the colour of a green dress.

And, still, no sign of Halbrand, no matter how much she tries.

It's the physical version of him, the only one she can see, that tilts his head when she walks past him. "You're not coming with us?"

She mirrors his stance with a half smile. "I have a feeling we'll meet again," she states, because if he goes where Galadriel does, it's only logical. And maybe, a little bit hopeful.

"Is that a prophecy?" he only half-jokes.

Mírëala shrugs, turning away. "If you want it to be."

She has to admit, even if it's only to herself, in thought, that Mírëala has not found someone interesting as much as she did Halbrand – or Galadriel. The latter, because she knows they will be dear friends, someday, and Mírëala has never felt such a prediction for anyone.

The former, because Mírëala had forgotten what it was to be curious. She is about to be reminded of it.

Amidst the sea of eyes judging her, as angry as the waves on a stormy night, Mírëala catches a glimpse of her for the first time.

Her back is turned to her, long brown hair floating in the wind. Her teal dress does not resemble Nùmenor's fashion – and there, when the wind blows her hair away, she sees a crimson stain on the dress. Blood is pooling out of a wound as the woman keeps walking, unaware of it.

Mírëala has half a mind to catch up to her, wondering if she sees the living corpse of a person that is, in fact, not dead yet. She vanishes in the crowd before she can reach her.

Mírëala blinks once, then twice. She tries as much as she can, but she cannot call the woman back – she does not know who's future she just saw. Or their past. Trying to perceive it in a crowd is fruitless, and she could very well exhaust herself to the point of passing out, weaving through countless possibilities.

The only thing she can really do is press forward. Isn't that always how it goes? Keep going until you cannot see what you are trying to leave behind. Not for her, though. Mírëala sees both the outcome and the beginning. It is hard to distinguish both, sometimes. Is this the start, or the end?

Perhaps it is both. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Haha ... World exposition ...!!! Sure happy it's not a reality right now ...

AND WE DONT EVEN HAVE MIRALBRAND FLIRTING IRL .