(no subject)

Arda, it seems, is like a Roach Motel. Spirits check in, but they don't check out (the various Ainur had to agree that they'd stay in Arda 'til its ending, and the Elves are bound to it until its end). Or perhaps it is like the Hotel California, in that one may check out any time one likes, but one may never leave. At least, not unless one is mortal and cacks it, hence the Gift of Iluvatar to Men.

... yes, this is relevant. This morning I asked myself how to go about justifying 'Vimes of Numenor' and was rewarded with a flash of Sir Samuel attempting to grab Manwe by the lapels as he bellowed, "What do you MEAN I can't leave? You're a bloody god! You brought me here in the first place! Now send me back!" "Ah- yes- about that- I'd forgotten the part where spirits who enter into Arda must see it through to its end-" "That's kidnapping, that is, and imprisonment under false pretences..."

Puts a bit of a new spin on the Ban of the Valar. "No sailing far enough west that you can't see the shores of your island. This is to keep the Three Houses from getting all weird about immortality, and the Fourth House from coming after Manwe with an axe."

I gotta make myself a Vimes of Numenor icon or something.

Cirion Vimes sighed. "You've been fooling with that thing again, haven't you, sir," he said wearily.

Denethor cast a sharp-eyed glance at him. "What of it?" said he. "It is mine by right, as Lord of the City. Would you have me turn aside so potent a tool for the protection of our people?"

"I'd have you use it a bit less often, for one thing," Cirion snapped. "Seems like you're up in that tower flashing the lights off and on every other night these days. Not what I'd call healthy, that."

The Steward smiled, a thin-lipped, humorless expression. "Your concern is noted, Commander. Though I think, perhaps, misplaced."

"As you like, sir," said Cirion, who had learned long ago that when the Steward was in one of his moods there was no arguing with him. "Only it seems to me that a man who hasn't had a full night's sleep in the better part of twelve weeks might miss a trick or two when it comes to mental wrestling, if you take my meaning."

Denethor said nothing, though his eyes went to the window on the East.

Cirion tucked his hands behind his back and waited. Eventually, Denethor shook his head. "Perhaps," he said. "You may go, Vimes."

"Sir."

The Steward might've meant anything, or he might've meant nothing at all. Cirion didn't know and had long since given up on expecting straight answers from the man. But that night, when he paused in his patrol to look up to the main tower of the Citadel, he saw that Denethor's window was dark. He grunted, nodded to himself, and went back about his business. It would do.