Well, I'm new to this area of Fanfiction, but even I notice a great abundance of Nathaniel-is-really-alive fics, and a sad lack of drabbles. No offense to anyone, they are all fine and dandy in moderation, but a little variety is much appreciated. So here is my hand at a Bartimaeus drabble collection! It'll grow whenever I get inspiration. Just to let you know, I'm a supporter of BartimaeusxKitty, but there probably won't be much romance in this at all. Just reflections. Well, enjoy my first try! It's basically a reflection on the way the human world works. Bartimaeus P.O.V.
Disclaimer: I in no way own the idea of the Bartimaeus Trilogy. I wish I did, but I don't.
Everyone knows that history repeats itself. But still, we cycle along, each believing that they made a difference. When you look at the big picture, it's pathetic.
The common soldier gazed with fixed resignation. The enemy lines advanced calmly across the scorching sands; they knew that they had all the time in the world. The warriors were demons with ghastly animal heads, while the real head of Rome sat comfortably in his tent, drinking wine and playing with his multitudes of wives.
All of the Egyptian magicians were cowards. There were no demons higher than a djinni on their side. But against his mounting sense of dread, the common soldier gripped his sword hilt with renewed vigor. If he was to die, he might as well make a difference. He tenderly fingered his wife's pendant. Its smooth contours soothed him.
The soldier killed more demons than anyone that day, but Egypt still fell to Rome. No one recorded the identities of the men fighting. They died unnamed and forgotten.
When you live long enough to see history play itself out, little things scantly make a difference. The sense of horrid déjà vu is to strong. What were humans but insignificant mites crawling on the earth, making the same mistakes over and over again?
The old man walked through the thin snow on the sidewalk with stiffness new to him. He walked away from the funeral home. He walked away from his wife. Now alone. She was with her Father, they told him. The pastor wasn't a magician's choice, of course. Magicians were strictly atheist. No afterlife for them. To bad, sometimes it was quite comforting to know that no matter what happed, you would see your loved ones again. Please God, he prayed, keep her with you until I get there too. Allow me to be with her again. And he knew that God answered.
Joints creaking, he shuffled forwards, away from his past. A new life now, new adventures to be had. He almost didn't notice a small sprig of violet a bit off the walk. Almost, but not quite. The vibrant purple caught his eye against the crisp white of the frost. Violets were her favorite.
We wonder how the humans manage to stay on this earth, how they manage to like it. It is unfathomable to us.
What they don't realize is that the little things are what make this messed up world worth living in. Being is just not as important as being loved.