A/N: And so begins my career in The Bartimaeus Trilogy; how you folks doing out there? Honestly, I'm rather surprised at the lack of slash fiction in this section, there's like, two. Well, okay, this one's only, like, half-slash, so I'm not really upping the factor any. But I will with the next fic I post, the one before this.
Anyway, this one's set just before and during the beginning of Chapter 32 of Ptolemy's Gate, page 423 if you care. SPOILERSPOILER This is after Kitty goes through Ptolemy's Gate, and while Nathaniel is summoning Bart so he can fuse with him and go beat the crap out of Nouda.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Bartimaeus Trilogy, which is good, because then nobody'd like it. Also, anything in italics is pulled from the actual chapter itself, and I don't own that either.
(I like big pork and I cannot lie... this is my little divider thing)
I could barely see. All around me, dim, earthy colours blended together like splotches of paint in a Monet painting. Ahead of me, a particularly light blob of pale yellow was situated, tall and skinny compared to the other blobs.
I focused as hard as I could on this particular substance. Something about it was comfortably familiar, giving me a feeling of irritation masking affection.
I was vaguely aware of my essence forming an easy shape: a column of smoke. However, I was so weak, the smoke was nearly transparent, and I couldn't keep it into any sort of form whatsoever; I was spread out through my limited space like sugar-water.
Because of this, I focused harder than ever on the stick figure in front of me. The dark hair was slightly disheveled, flecked with bits of chock and rubble, and it looked like it could do with a bit of washing. An ovular face formed; it was a near-blank canvas, and a bit blurry around the edges, I'll admit. The eyes were dark and round; dark purple shadows rested under them like sacks of dyed flour. The only other bit of colour I could find was on his chin, an angry red than stood out from the yellow like hot pink on camouflage.
I knew that scar. Unconsciously, I tried to reach up and touch my own, but my shapelessness betrayed me; I had no face to touch, and no hands to touch it with.
"Ptolemy…." It was an empty echo, not even a whisper. It was nothing but a thought.
"What's that on your chin? Is that a scar?" my attempted speaking was nonexistent, but the joy of once again seeing Ptolemy was speeding my strength back to me.
"An archer…." The figure seemed to say. It fingered the scar, and I could just barely see his smile now. It was the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.
"I had a dream…and you were dead." I mouthed mouthlessly. The dark eyes were glittering; the boy's body was tired, but full of life.
It was my fault, that scar. Time for me to come back, to protect him, keep him safe. I missed him, our petty, heated arguments over mundane subjects, the dangerous, exhilarating events we had been through, the two of us.
My strength was returning rapidly. I was weak, pitiable, but his form was becoming more solid by the second, and I could truly see him now.
And then, just like that, Ptolemy was gone. In his place, a weary, sapped Nathaniel stood, leaning heavily on Gladstone's staff.
It was all there: the red scar on his chin, the dark, silky hair, the twinkling eyes, full of sarcasm and life. But his face was twisted into a boyish scowl, not Ptolemy's loving smile.
For a moment, I had hoped… that…
Ptolemy…
He was gone. Dead and gone, for over 2000 years now. In his place, an insufferable, annoying, pompous, arrogant toothpick of a boy stood, looking at me with no little anger and childish stubbornness.
The sulfur cloud contracted into an ailing column of smoke that slouched in the middle of the pentacle. It dribbled up toward the ceiling with the awesome force of water spurting up from a drinking fountain. Two timorous yellow eyes materialized in the heart of the smoke. They blinked anxiously.
Looking anxiously for a trace of the boy he had served.
The boy he had loved.
He drew himself up as best he could and tried to look imposing.
And suddenly, there he was. He wasn't gentle, composed. He wasn't dark-skinned; his elbows were bony without the slenderness. He wasn't one to argue passionately about books and knowledge, and certainly didn't give a damn about the Otherworld.
He was no Ptolemy.
I loved him all the same, every stubborn, commanding, human piece of him.
"Bartimaeus."
"Nathaniel."
He cleared his throat, gazed at the floor, scratched his head, hummed a few odd notes….
And then, he scowled further, with as much force as a baby monkey. It was the most beautiful scowl I'd ever seen.
He was not Ptolemy, not by a thousand miles. Maybe that was why I could love him.
(And when a sow walks in with an itty-bitty waist and a rump-roast in your face, you get BACON)
A/N: Well? Well? WELL? How was it? I know, I know, no action, so sue me. You'll get it, don't worry. And, by the way, maybe everyone else knows this already and I'm just slow, but the bit about both Nathaniel and Ptolemy getting a scar on there chin is canon. Nathaniel gets cut after the play when Makepeace cuts him (pg. 295, lines 19-20), and Ptolemy's is noticed by Bartimaeus while he is out doing… something. Research or something. Anyway, it's pg 302, lines 4-5. Now, really. Seven pages away? Coincidence? How could you forget you sliced someone in the same damn place just seven pages ago?
Please review, it will make my day better and maybe I'll post my other BT fic a bit sooner, hm? Please? Please? I promise you'll like it! Plleeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaase?