Author's Note: This fic will be split up and mixed up (ala Pulp Fiction), and sometimes certain occurrences will be re-written from a different perspective. Rather than to confuse the reader, this is simply to give a broader understanding of the story.
I found this chapter very difficult to write, as whenever Bartimaeus is angry the story is being told from another perspective. Therefore, constructive criticism would be thoroughly appreciated.
Also, I know that this is pathetically short but it is just supposed to give an introduction to the story, the next chapters will be longer.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bartimaeus, he belongs to the legendary Jonathan Stroud.
Prologue
I couldn't look at her; couldn't bare to see what colour that light of hers had turned. I already knew that she was lying, I didn't need to see any proof.
She whispered my name somewhere at the back of the room, so quietly I was the only one who could hear. "…please, at least say something!"
"Get out." Harsh, cruel, and deserved. I stole a glance at the floor behind me. Her feet were shuffling in what I can only assume was restlessness. I couldn't understand why she still hadn't left the room.
She was saying something again, murmuring, pointless. I heard her take a step closer to me. Her feet were still shuffling, as though all she wanted to do was run away. I wished she would.
This was too painful for Ptolemy's form - within seconds I was the gargoyle, talon-like claws scraping at the window ledge, stone eyes casting a thoughtless stare over the mist-covered gardens outside. The change was drawing on the last of my energy; I'd already been in this wretched place for too long and I didn't need this to make it worse.
Another step. From somewhere in the grounds came the sound of hooves on gravel. "That'll be your carriage, dear."
She exhaled an ironic laugh. "Fine…" she whispered, then, "I'm going. That's it - gone." She was speaking with the kind of confidence that expects a reaction. I wasn't going to give her one. "I'm not coming back!"
Good.
I still couldn't look at her. My mind seemed to battling against itself - I wanted to say something terrible, the kind of words that would make her scream, but a shrinking part of me was holding me back. I ignored it.
The venom was already bubbling in my granite throat. "Enjoy your new husband."
I was right, it did make her scream. Almost. She was certainly yelling enough to induce some kind of bitter amusement on my part. I could practically see the tears of injustice burning in the corners of her eyes, her twisted countenance of mingled disbelief and disappointment. Her poor little scheme gone to ruin.
A sort of reckless abandon took hold of me - I didn't care how she felt anymore and I'd had enough of being tangled up in human affairs. I wanted her out of here, now, and I didn't care what she thought of me when she left.
"…Don't you dare give me that, Bartimaeus!" she was shouting at me, her voice hoarse with false lament. The nerve of it, after all those lies she'd heard herself say I don't know how she could accuse me of offending her. "You - you -"
I knew the perfect word, and I had her to thank for it. "- creature?"
That shut her up.
