This is the first and probably only Bartimaeus Trilogy fanfic that I'm going to do. (But we'll see about that soon, won't we?)

Ah, yes. Please note that it's quite a bit jumbled up and tends to go off into tangents. I wasn't really intending it to be in normal story form in the first place; it's more of a pure thought stream type of thing. Most of what I write is like this before I fix it up. Anyway, enjoy.

Was it for him or for me?

Why did I save him, not exploit his flaws...? Was it because of the tin?

Of course. His saftey was mine. I was saving my own skin.

Of course.

I could've killed him. His threats are as empty as his heart. He can't hurt me. I know... know his secret weakness. If I can't kill him, someone else can.

I don't even need to know. I've gained his trust so many times... And I've lost it time and time again, not by my own fault, I asure you. I've done nothing worse than get in his face- almost literally, at times.

But do I want to? Do I want to bump off this kid- this magician child...?

Which brings me to a less desireable question. Does he have it in for me? No doubt. His face, the way it screws up in fear and anger! No fault of mine. And why in the world would this idiot summon me up again? I know his greatest weakness! Me existing is his flaw!

He knows that. I know he knows that. Too cold and calculated not to. Yet, oximoronically, when he could have any number of beings not only more powerfull but also of less threat, he once again chooses me as his main weapon.

Come on.

Then again. I suppose it's not every day that a power-hungry, vengeful megalomaniac acctualy bothers to get to know his 'demon'.

An odd thought: I was the result of his first summoning. Secluded as he was, who's to say I wasn't his first friend? I use the term loosley; I obeyed his every whim, but not as robotically as someone like him would expect a servant to. A friend-like quality in his eyes? What about poking fun at him, holding serious discusions, saving him from fires? I would imagine so.

That could be the problem right there, too; my imagination. I could very well have imagined that little boy crying over the loss of a loved one, risking his life to save an inadaquite imp, working with me, not a word out of place for days at a time. Making a consious effort not to insult me.

And what of my actions? Once in a while I find myself trying to be friendly. Trying to- help him out, give him hints... Just talk. Am I that lonley? What is there to miss, in all my thousands of years, to try to get out of a magician?

Well, I don't really want to admit it, but of course there's Ptolemy. And, he, I know for a fact, was one of a kind. Nobody could ever be like he was. That's what I say to myself, over and over.

Oh, but how the world would be a better place if that wasn't true! I'm too hopeful. That's it. I- it pains me to say it- thought that the boy could turn out like he did.

Once, I suppose, I thought that he could, that he had some sort of heart in his scrawny chest. Not anymore. I can hardly see any of his old self. The little magician boy grew up, as all of them do.

Still, I almost wish...

It's no good. I can't help it. I wish... we could've been friends.

Can you even belive how sappy that sounds? Can you belive that I, Bartimaeus, Serpent of Siver Plumes, would seek to be the compainion of a lowly magician?

I can't. I really can't. It's amazing how I almost think it could've happened.

Whatever it is I wish, anyway, I'll never get; he could care less. It's almost sad how evil he turned out. I'll never be free of him, not even after his bones are just dust in whatever crypt they throw him in.

He's probably setting up some sort of eleborate spell right now, to bind me to him after he's gone, like his horrible power hungry idol had done.

Like blood and melted cheese! He make sure I'd go insane, too. Revenge was nothing new to him.

Even so, with everything he's done and is sure to do, the fact remains that, somewhere in my head, lurks the little boy who summoned me, and the distinct impression of the abilitly to break molds.

Hey, I never claimed to be good at psycology, but after five thousand and twelve years, you can't help but wonder.

Owari

"There were rooms of forgiveness in the halls that we shared, but the space has been emptied of whatever was there. There were cupbords of patience, there were shelf loads of care, but whoever came calling found nobody there. After today, after today, consider me gone... Clouds and eclipes stain the moon and the sun, and history reeks with the wrongs we have done. I've been to many years at war with myself. My doctor has told me it's not good for my health. To search for perfection is all very well, but to look for heaven is to live here in hell. After today... consider me gone." -Sting, Consider Me Gone