The idea of destiny is such a feeble one in modern society. Most see it as a set of startling and remarkable circumstances foretold by a ranting madwoman, based on visions she’d glimpsed in a bowl or a piece of clear stone.
I’d like to say that the truth is nothing quite so mundane, but it is, strangely, just the opposite. Destiny is in the details: the most inconsequential of moments, the offhand notions, the half-formed ideas that make up the very core of who you are as a person. You will fight, run, help or harm in a given situation; you have no choice. But your call to arms, your fated path, is defined by nothing less than your own identity. There is a reason why you can never fight destiny: because, in the end, you have no reason to want to.