All the little angels
Vimes had mixed feelings about May twenty-fifth. He always would, he guessed. It was his son's birthday, and that alone would have made it remarkable under any circumstances. But it had been etched into his memory long before that as a day when a handful of hopeful coppers, led by a tired but determined sergeant, and including a younger and stupider Sam Vimes, had tried--- well, something. All these years later Vimes wasn't even sure what. They had tried to change things for the better. Most of them hadn't survived.
Funny, he thought, how the same day could be remembered for both life and death. He remembered Constable Visit once quoting something or other about the god Om giving and taking away, but Vimes was pretty sure that if any gods were involved they were having a right laugh about it. Irony, hah. Never trust it.
Here he was. It was the morning of his second Glorious Twenty-Fifth on the island and Vimes was sitting on the Compound roof, legs dangling off the side, smoking a cigar. It was a common enough image, even if the choice of location was a little odd and the Commander looked even more lost in thought than usual. Weren't many people on the island who would have known what he was thinking about, not even that many who would have understood if he told them. But that was all right. Vimes had always remembered best alone.
And that's what he was doing as he sat up there in the early morning light. He was remembering. He remembered a failed revolution, and a stupid idealistic kid he had once been. He remembered a sergeant, and he remembered a hard boiled egg.
He remembered the day of his son's birth.
The sun began to rise.
[Timed for dawn of the 25th]
Funny, he thought, how the same day could be remembered for both life and death. He remembered Constable Visit once quoting something or other about the god Om giving and taking away, but Vimes was pretty sure that if any gods were involved they were having a right laugh about it. Irony, hah. Never trust it.
Here he was. It was the morning of his second Glorious Twenty-Fifth on the island and Vimes was sitting on the Compound roof, legs dangling off the side, smoking a cigar. It was a common enough image, even if the choice of location was a little odd and the Commander looked even more lost in thought than usual. Weren't many people on the island who would have known what he was thinking about, not even that many who would have understood if he told them. But that was all right. Vimes had always remembered best alone.
And that's what he was doing as he sat up there in the early morning light. He was remembering. He remembered a failed revolution, and a stupid idealistic kid he had once been. He remembered a sergeant, and he remembered a hard boiled egg.
He remembered the day of his son's birth.
The sun began to rise.
[Timed for dawn of the 25th]