Another one-shot that came to me randomly!

Ooh. Disclaimer; all recognizable material belongs to rightful publishers, authors, etc. :D (Hear that, Harcourt? Don't sue me! And, to the amazing Diane Duane: I'm just one of your many worshipers. :) )

(Extra note of disclaimer: No, the title was NOT based on the movie Gravity, in any way, shape, or form. I only heard about the movie after I came up with this story's title—and after I heard the synopsis of the movie, well, my response was: "There are no coincidences . . .")

G
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They're out there, you know. There are worlds and worlds and worlds, full of life and life and more life. But then, what does that make . . . you? What does that make me?

And They are there, too. The Ones whose existence far outshines yours, the Ones who are beyond time and death and, above all, our understanding. But that didn't prevent us from trying—we tried to explain Them, the Powers That Be. We created gods and myths and legends as we tried to pinpoint exactly what They were.

Yet to Them, our existence was less significant than an ant's, shorter than a mayfly's. We rose and fell and rose from the ashes of the fallen only to collapse again, no matter how long we tried to endure—and yet, to Them, we were simply a blink of Their eyes. Over and over and over and over, all through the endlessness of eternity . . .

Maybe They ignored us. Maybe They saw us, and scorned us. Maybe They didn't see us at all. Maybe They caught sight of us, and admired our resilience and determination.

But nothing can change the fact that we, though small, are something. I believe that:

It's enough to acknowledge our own strength. It's enough for ourselves to know ourselves, to understand that we are the phoenix and that the fire can't touch us because it is our heart. It's enough to know that the spirit of our strength is more important than what our strength can or can't do.

Not fair . . .

She simply didn't understand.

Not fair not fair not fair . . .

Maybe it was the fact that their eyes hadn't fully opened yet, or their awareness hadn't fully developed. Maybe it was because they just didn't know yet, hadn't been exposed to it. Or maybe it was because she had been exposed to it for too long, and too early.

It felt wrong to feel so apart from the others, yet so right that she knew what they didn't seem to. Maybe some of them did—if they were, they weren't telling. But it was almost ridiculous to see how a clique could react to something like a new piece of gossip after seeing how insignificant that was next to—next to—

Nita squeezed her eyes shut and curled up so that her face was pressed against her knees, encased in the safety of darkness. Not fair not fair . . .

It was almost as if Life was making fun of her. It had come up in class, just when she'd finally felt strong enough to return to what was "normal," it had showed up with no warning in a text they were required to read: to know the briefness of life and the sadness of eternity.*

She had felt almost relieved to feel that old grief welling up again, surging, when they had come across the phrase. When she had returned, it was almost as though she was beyond feeling anything. Remorse, sadness, even happiness. Gone. She'd felt empty.

Then, of all things, a short story had appeared and jarred her back to reality—or whatever sidewise shadow of reality this was.

Not fair . . .

How could they not understand? How could they dismiss—everything . . . Just like that? Couldn't they feel that Life itself wasn't what was on the surface, but what lay beneath the lighthearted pretense? Over time even Nita had noticed the change: no one was serious anymore, everyone turning into someone they weren't, for reasons of their own, each more ridiculous than the one before.

But what was that next to—to—

She felt that shuddering feeling rise up again. She still couldn't even think it, let alone say it . . .

Not fair not fair . . . Why me?

She didn't even bother answering that anymore. She knew: Because you chose it. Because you're a wizard. Because you swore the Oath and you can't break away from it and you're bound to protect all other Life, and a million other things . . .

Yeah, all other Life, she thought bitterly, and when the tears came she didn't bother with that either. Other Life, because I couldn't even save my mother . . .

So it's one of those days, she heard the peridexis say faintly. The embodiment of wizardry sounded distant today, as though it were trying to reach Nita by talking across a field.

But it didn't need to tell her; she knew just as well. It was one of those days when the past gave her its own "backlash" like any other wizardry would. The irony of it was that some subconscious part of her had taken the Oath to escape days like these, where all she felt was something not too far from self-pity . . .

It's the others, she grumbled to herself. The way they can't understand the big picture like we do . . . The way they don't get that this is it, that the world and the Universe and Life is a lot more and a lot less then it seems . . .

Or maybe it's just you. It was the peridexis again, calling back to her across that vast distance. Maybe they do "get it," just on a different degree, from a different angle. Maybe some of the non-wizards out there do know how insignificant their existence could be and yet how that very thing is what offers them a chance to be just as significant as the Powers Themselves.

Nita raised her head at that and glared at the wall. Yeah, well, those who serve the Powers become Their tools, and those who refuse Them become the Powers themselves. . . . There's not much of a "Choice" then, is there? A harsh laugh escaped her, mutilated by bitterness. Suddenly overtaken by the strong urge to make fun of something—anything to escape that remorse—she recited: "Beware the Choice! Beware refusing it!"

There was a long silence from the peridexis, a quietness Nita took as a sign that she could catch up on her misery again. She couldn't bring herself to the sobbing anymore; now all that was left were the soundless tears and the inner struggle of dragging herself through every day. Some days it would seem as though it had left her completely; some days she actually felt slightly back to what she considered relatively normal. But other days, like today, were just made up of the cruel, ironic jeering one side of Life sometimes decided to taunt you with.

It's just not fair. It came out as a shadow of a thought-voice, a whisper in the mind that twisted and writhed with silent defeat and despair.

Is anything, really? The peridexis sounded weary as well, as though Nita's statement made the jaded part of wizardry return. If there's one thing you should know by now as a wizard, it's that you're never alone . . . not really. Ordinary humans are not ordinary at all—you should know that. Even between alternate universes, there are those subtle differences that make each and every one of them unique and strange and powerful, in their own mindset. . . .

The field was disappearing slowly but surely; oddly, the peridexis's voice became stronger and surer as it continued, to Nita's confusion and, for some reason, wonderment. . . . But does that make them any less insignificant, or ignorant, or whatever else some of them may seem? No. There are those among them who do share many similarities with wizards—some who know and use the power of language, some who work to preserve Life, some who defy the Lone One with every day of their existence. Don't use your mother's death, or Ed's, or Fred's, as an excuse. Nita chose to overlook that particular odd-sounding fragment; the peridexis's voice was rising in truth and vehemence, sharpening and becoming stronger—

And wizardry itself delivered its final message to Nita:

You can't let them get in your way. They're gone, from this world at least. Timeheart will have to be enough.

Wizardry does not live in the unwilling soul . . .

And sometimes it will speak, as I've learned too well. Sometimes it Whispers, and sometimes it screams to get your attention. It's screamed at me before.

Sometimes, I think even the non-wizards can hear its Whisper. (At least, when it's not a Whisper.) They can feel it, but they can't receive it fully, because they're unwilling . . . To accept . . .

I think I'm over that.

I hope I am, anyway. Over those long days of moping and self-pity and remorse and misery. Over banging my fists uselessly against the wall that separates life and death. Over shouting at air and smoke.

I'll never forget them. They died for me, for us, for everyone.

Who else could?

If we go around mourning them forever, furiously demanding to know why they chose to left us, then I know for a fact that they'll look back from the crystal-fire spires of Timeheart and wonder if they did wrong, when in fact they did so much right.

And, besides:

Who can decide what's fair and what's not?

More and more people are not recognizing what's not there is just as—if not even more—important than what is. More and more people are discouraging and scorning and laughing at the spirit of the sacrifice, saying it was dumb of them to choose to die when they could live.

They're hiding. They're hiding from themselves. They're hiding that there's some part of them that is softer and truer and virtuous, because they think no one cares about virtues and ethics and justice anymore.

But the wizards know. We understand how important it is to know. We understand how important it is to know that, sometimes, the spirit is more than its vessel.

I pity them, and I can only hope that we could save them, when the time comes. They'll need it.

They need to remember, just as I needed to remember.

I've learned, and I will move on. But I'll never, ever forget.

*The author wishes to nod in the direction of Ray Bradbury's "The Fog Horn," from which this quote is taken. (For those of you who can't find said quote, it's: to know the briefness of life and the sadness of eternity.) I highly suggest any YW fan (especially those of The Wizard's Dilemma and A Wizard Alone) to find it and read it. :)

The author would like to mention in passing that this was finished at twelve-thirty in the morning, when she wasn't even supposed to be near the Internet. (Also: This was written on a near-empty stomach. Come on, that at least has got to be something to admire!)

The author wishes to say that, though this fic overall is definitely not her best work, there are some parts that are among her best.

The author would also like to say that a lot of what she believes was poured into this particular piece. It includes quite a few of her own beliefs and her own mourning and worrying . . . And, of course, a message that she sincerely hopes will be heard far and wide.

So! Now snapping out of third-person mode, I'd just like to say that this was a chore to get out, but once it did it all came so naturally that even I'm impressed. :D

As usual: Review! Tell me if it was good, bad, both, none (is that even possible), or absolutely the best ever! (Hah. I amuse myself.) Drop your twopence in the box below, and it can be about anything from a ramble to a comment, to a question or a statement, from praise to critique. I just want to hear from everyone.

But before your review, before you leave: I'd like to ask:

Did you hear my message?