In memory of the fighters, woven and lost in the threads of Fate, and yet made a mark of their own. This memory will fade and be forgotten in the frozen cycle of time, and no one will remember its tale and the mark of its existence.
Are you truly gone?
A statue stood, ten metres tall, dull yet beautiful in the old winter sun. A knobbly staff with a pattern scratched at the top was held high in its hands, positioned diagonally in the air. Clothes that held the echo of grandeur but was torn and ragged hung off the body of a youth.
This depicted youth was strange to see. An intriguing combination of extreme youth – it looked less than eighteen years old – and imperious bearing, it made an impression to even the busiest of passersby. Its head looked up, face set in defiance and determination. If one took a look at this figure, they would have immediately gotten the impression that this youth was determined to fight –
-and die trying.
If one observed closely, they would also have noticed that – as if by magic- the air beside the statue was outlined into the face and figure of an Egyptian boy, or maybe the djinni that took its form. It stood in a strong yet supportive pose, one hand over the youth's own, as though helping him hold the Staff up. One arm was placed around the youth's shoulder: its other hand dissolved into nothingness where it met the youth's skin, meant to signify their unity at the time. Yet if viewed from the front, it would have seemed that the boy was helping the youth stand.
If one had been here sometime earlier – a few days, months, years or maybe more – they would have seen a girl standing there, watching the statue. The girl had rather lined skin and a few gray hairs amidst the black – it seemed a though her body had aged very fast in a very short while. Yet her eyes testified against everything her body made her out to be: it burned with the fiery, passionate spirit of a young rebel.
Yet at the time, as she looked upon the statue, her eyes were filled only by a question and a deep sadness.
She had held a necklace in her hands: a piece of jade that was pressed into beaten gold, hung on a golden chain. No one would have seen the girl bury it in the middle of the night beside the statue, nor would they have seen her return the very next to dig it out again, unable to part with the very object that had led a small boy to grow up, become a corrupted magician and back again.
If someone took a glance at this statue, they would have immediately known what it stood for – a reminder of peace and wrongdoing; a legacy of freedom and respect; a statement for change and revolution; a source for pride and honor.
Yes – they would have known, but they would not have understood.
They wouldn't have understood the value of the sacrifices made, nor the loss it had caused. They wouldn't have understood the pain, the tears and the fears that were faced; nor the determination and willpower needed to survive. They would not have known the promises broken and the lies created in order to achieve what had been achieved.
No one would have known that in reality, a trace of exhaustion had also crossed the depicted youth's face; nor that in his last remaining moments his face had been set, determined; not to finish the task at hand, but to release another life he held. They could not have known that, in the end, the youth's face was set; not in determination, not in defiance…
…but in acceptance.
Almost no one knew that the statue told a lie; and those who knew the truth knew nothing of its existence. One was dead, and the other was freed, never again to exit its world. Trapped yet free.
For they had not been united to their very end. One had not even met its end yet. As kind and merciful as a sacrifice of this sort might have been, it was also cruel. It was also unjust.
Because in the last moments of his life, the youth was alone.
No one would have understood what really happened to the girl, to have lost her youth in such a way. How she had been convinced that her small unorthodox act could have restored a being's trust and faith in her race, and how it had helped create powerful bonds between a magician, a commoner and a spirit.
Most of all, no one would have understood the trust, respect and faith that each of the three shared, nor their bond that was carved not out of what they had, but what they had been destined to lose. No one would have understood their acceptance – and their grief – in losing each other.
None would have understood all this.
The only way one could be clued into the truth – only the barest surface of the truth – was through a small, hardly noticeable plaque set at the feet of the statue, saying:
TOGETHER TO THE END
In memory to the fighters who died, trying to save London from the attacks of hybrids during the Spirit Revolution. The both of them took one step farther than any magician and his spirit had ever done. They worked together ; they were united, in the body and the mind.
They are trapped in the cycle of strife, in a way that is similar to everyone else. Yet they defied it, too, starting from the moment when a twelve-year-old boy's birth name had been uncovered.
They fought, but they did not die trying.
They died WINNING.
Underneath these words were their names.
This plaque was the only way someone could gain insight to the talent, energy and willpower that they shared, ensuring their victory, and two survivals.
But there was something else that the three shared; something that, indirectly or not, had driven them on and further past their limits. Something that, in the end, the three had felt for each other.
That thing was what would have made a mark of their own, though swallowed in history books and hidden in the cycle of strife. That was what would have been the most remarkable thing of all.
That was what would have imprinted them in memory of each other, through life … and through death.
In memory of the magician, returning to innocence; breaking a promise; doing what was right and repeating a final act.
In memory of the spirit, faith restored; trust and respect awakened; destined to exist and be trapped, forever.
In memory of the commoner, idealisms reawakened; justice preserved and destined to wander – and wonder.
In memory of the strong bond of existence between three, with an echo of a fourth.
In memory of a sacrifice.
A/N: Before you say anything, let me make my point clear:Bartimaeus might or might not be summoned again, that much is all honesty, I really don't one hand, when he was with Ptolemy his fate was unknown but he still gets summoned again long,LONG after the other hand,Kitty would be sure to mark him as in this fanfiction I'm taking it as the former.
My first fanfiction, so please R&R (read and review) if you have the I miss any words in this fanfiction please inform me, because I'd like it to be perfect.
Thanks to Tane for the review and the correction!