|
Imagine you are the King of the Gods. You live high on Taniquetil. You are the Lord of the airs. You are both wise and powerful. You have a force of eagles over in Middle-Earth which allow you to intervene practically everywhere you desire in the nick of time. You even have a fancy sceptre. Shouldn't you be loved and praised and be called upon by all free peoples?
Yet...
The only ones who ever called upon you were some retarded* oathtakers and a bad marksman who clearly inhaled too much of the fumes of Thangorodrim. No matter how many people your eagles save, in danger they will call for the help of your wife, who did little more than to kindle some faraway stars. In fact, they will rather cry the name of a former immortal who's dead since millennia to come for their help.
This guy depresses me.
++Manwe
*be assured that, in the future, I will deny to ever have made this statement.
|