Chapter Five

all your love in an old record pile

Nathaniel

He didn't know how he'd got there.

The dunes were endless, the sun harsh and bright, right at its zenith. Rare was the wind, absent the water. His feet burned with every step he took, even as he buried them underneath the sand in hopes of protecting them from the upper layers.

He pushed on.

Sweat dripped from parts of his body he didn't know could actually produce sweat, sticky hair and clothes clinging to him. He had stopped crying what felt like a thousand kilometres ago. He wet his chapped lips in vain, swallowed some more saliva to lubricate his parched throat. The only momentarily relief ensued when he stuck his tongue behind his upper lip. But it never lasted.

There was a castle on the horizon, high-walled and yellow-bricked. It blurred at the edges, but he chalked it up to the sweat burning his eyes. So his feet dragged him there. He couldn't stop moving. If he did, who knew when he'd move again? He had to get to the castle.

He staggered, head fuzzy and his left side a ball of fiery pain. He'd stopped wondering why and how a long time ago. In slow movements, without ever stopping walking, he removed his shirt and tied it around his head, relief washing over him if only for a few seconds. He sighed into it, shoulders sagging down and eyes closing, feet always trudging on.

When he opened them again, the castle seemed to be approaching. He let out a quiet laughter full of self-derision; now he had started hallucinating. Diverting his gaze to the bright blue skies above, he felt the back of his neck give a small, satisfying crack. And then he was falling to the ground. Falling, falling, falling. An abyss swallowed him, his horrified scream and all. He felt the pressure of the air on his back, his arms and legs outstretched to grab onto something—anything. But he just fell into the unrelenting darkness.

And then someone gently pulled his wrist.

"Rekhyt, if you were going to space out like that, I would have asked someone else to walk me to the market."

The voice was playful, lilted with laughter, and oddly familiar. He blinked two, three times to clear away the cobwebs in his eyes, then squinted at the afternoon sun glaring right back at him. He averted his eyes to the boy in front of him, and couldn't help the surprised gasp that left him. Because standing before him, patiently smiling and curiously watching him, was Bartimaeus in his favourite guise of an Egyptian boy. He was wearing nothing but his trusty loincloth, hair slightly tousled by the gentle wind and skin shining under the same harsh sun he had been under for the past eternity.

Except this couldn't be Bartimaeus. There was something off about the way this boy carried himself. He looked down at the hand holding his wrist, noticing that his skin was darker than he expected, and immediately shot his gaze up towards the boy's again.

"Are you alright, Rekhyt?" the boy asked, his smile disappearing in favour of a slight frown. "If you want to go back—"

"Go back?" he heard himself say, only to find that the voice also startled him. It belonged to… Bartimaeus?

It was his turn to frown. Was his name really Rekhyt? He couldn't really remember, but somehow it didn't seem to fit. But why was he so sure that Bartimaeus was the one standing before him? Who was Bartimaeus, anyway? And why did that name fire a cacophony of bells ringing in recognition?

The boy came closer, now clearly worried. "Are you in pain? Should I send you back to the Other Place for a bit?"

He blinked stupidly. "What?"

"That's the name you use the most—the Other Place. Your home, remember?" The boy's face was even closer now, examining his, probably in search of invisible signals of his pain. The headache that had finally begun to dissipate came back to haunt him.

"I'm fine," he said stiffly, taking a few steps back to regain some much-needed personal space. "I'm just dizzy from the sun, that's all."

The boy laughed at him merrily. He frowned back, but that didn't seem to have any effect at all. "Rekhyt, you are a being of fire and air. Of all entities, you couldn't possibly get dizzy from the sun! Maybe you've been having too many roasted imps while I'm not looking."

He grimaced. A being of fire and air? So, a spirit? It surprised him to know this much when he couldn't remember his own name. Rekhyt was a being of fire and air, like Bartimaeus. Suddenly something connected in his mind: Rekhyt was one of Bartimaeus's old names.

But the boy was calling him Rekhyt. If Rekhyt and Bartimaeus were the same being, did this mean he was them? Was he suffering from some sort of personality disorder? Could spirits go through such a thing?

He looked around. They were standing in the middle of a market by the quay, long-bearded merchants loudly negotiating prices with equally loud customers from low, shoddy stalls. The summer air circled his feet, carried cries from seagulls and terns, the smell of fish and spices. Colourful fruits, vegetables and legumes were stacked and spilling over from plaited baskets. There were dates, figs and raisins aplenty, strange-looking cucumbers, bright green lettuce and scallions, fragrant garlic, the odd melon. From smaller baskets sprouted peas, beans, and lentils, set in an appealing rainbow. From even smaller wooden boxes wafted the smells of various spices.

There was something about buying anchovy bread on the back of his mind, so he instinctively turned around and found a small tent with rows of differently sized and shaped bread. There was beer as well, but it didn't look as liquid as it should. That thought doubly surprised him, for he didn't understand why he knew that strange substance was beer, nor why it looked strange to him, if he was a spirit living in that era.

Language was another surprising matter. He reckoned he'd been speaking Ancient Greek thus far, but why would he think of it as ancient? Why did it feel like all his thoughts had to be translated?

Flashes of another time passed before his eyes—a boy and a girl, precise lines on irregular floors, a dusty attic with a sloping ceiling, two smiling women, a fire, marble statues, a round table with seven extravagant chairs. A crushing loneliness.

He deeply inhaled to clear his mind. The boy was staring at him again. The eyes were all wrong, he decided, surprising himself yet again. Bartimaeus's eyes were deeper, nearly bottomless, unnervingly otherworldly. The boy in front of him had the kindest and wisest pair he'd ever seen.

There were so many questions floating around in his brain that he didn't notice the bull until it was nearly too late. Children screaming was what alerted him to it. They were trying to get away from the bull, but their sudden movements must have enraged it. Its eyes zoned in on a girl; she fell.

The Egyptian boy pointed. For the briefest moment, he felt his body draw upon some hidden power and then expel it. Meters away, the bull hit an invisible wall and tumbled to the ground.

A small crowd of gasping merchants and passers-by surrounded them not long after, while attendants took the bull back to its field. There were whispers of wonder, some of fear. No one came too close, but the circle around them thickened with each passing minute. At last someone broke out from the crowd—the girl who'd nearly been headbutted to oblivion—and thanked the boy. They conversed for a while, inquiring about each other's welfare, and he found it cumbersome and tiresome.

That was, until the name Ptolemaeus was uttered.

His head began reeling again. Certainly not the Ptolemaeus of Alexandria? Said Ptolemaeus looked at him over his shoulder and nodded his thanks. His head automatically bowed to accept the recognition of a well-done task.

Oh, you won't have to follow me. Quite the reverse. When I'm ready I'll be following you.

He lifted his head with a start, but the scene before him had changed.

He found himself in some sort of private chambers. Sitting cross-legged by a glassless window was a frail-looking person. The body was too small to belong to an adult, but the hair was too grey to be a child's. As he approached and the features became clearer, he realised that he'd been watching the same boy from before. Ptolemaeus—so be it—no longer had dark hair and young skin. He was thinner—his legs looked especially bony—the lines around his eyes and mouth were harsh. Three prominent waves were delineated on his forehead. Ptolemaeus's fingers were hidden under a tome resting in his lap, but he knew how they looked.

I'm showing him how he was. Before he changed.

The thought came from nowhere and left just as fast as it'd come. Was it another memory he'd lost? He felt something sink within at the realisation that Ptolemaeus had changed this much in the little time he'd known him, but it couldn't be a heart. If he truly were a spirit, he wouldn't have one, would he? If he were a spirit, would he know what a heart felt like?

Ptolemaeus's eyes were lost on the sunset, the book ignored for the moment. It came to him how this was a rare sight, because the boy—if he were truly still a boy—would generally be found nose-deep in a book, ignoring everyone until the reading was completed, notes galore and plenty of questions on the tip of his tongue.

He shook his head, somewhat stunned. He couldn't know these things about this boy he'd never met before.

"Ra is going back to the underworld, Rekhyt."

He furrowed his eyebrows at the mythological reference, but he decided to play along. "So it would seem."

"But he's angry."

He thought for a moment of what to say to this, and then decided to go with, "Care to elaborate on that theory?"

There was a flicker of a smile on Ptolemaeus's lips. "The sky is blood red."

"Well, it is a sunset—"

"Apep has challenged Ra for yet another battle, and this one is tainting the skies blood red. Don't you think that means something?"

He fumbled for a reply. His knowledge of Egyptian mythology didn't seem to be very deep, but he at least knew that Ptolemaeus was referring to the ancient rivalry between the evil serpent Apep and the sun god Ra. Or one of the sun gods; he'd never been able to work that out, it seemed. Maybe he'd never cared enough to. Besides, this sounded so out of character for Ptolemaeus. He frowned at mythology almost as much as he frowned at weapons.

Nonetheless, the boy was speaking in riddles, seemingly reading more into the situation than reason allowed.

"Well, Ra has always prevailed in the end. I see no reason for it to be any different this time around," he supplied at last.

"Maybe he's tired after all this unnecessary fighting," Ptolemaeus muttered. Somehow it struck him that this boy should only ever be mumbling to himself about scientific advances and formulae for new pentacles. Ptolemaeus looked sad—defeated even—and that made his insides clench in anguish.

"Being a god is no easy feat these days," he tried, and then frowned. What sort of cheering up was this? It reminded him of someone he knew—to suck at cheering up, that was. Was it Bartimaeus? The girl who sometimes popped in his mind? His head was aching again at the effort. His side flared up suddenly.

No, it was best not to think about it too hard. He sat down, cross-legged, minding his throbbing side and facing Ptolemaeus. The boy surveyed him closely as he did.

But then Ptolemaeus's lips twitched upwards. "Are you trying to cheer me up, Rekhyt?"

He shrugged noncommittally. "I can't do a proper job if I don't know what's really bothering you."

"I thought you to be a little more perceptive," Ptolemaeus teased good-naturedly.

Ptolemaeus was referring to the prince, of course. A particular memory related to the prince called to him, but he couldn't quite decipher it. Ptolemaeus had been the angriest he'd ever seen him. Never once had he imagined the frail boy would have nearly doubled in size just by his change in posture and attitude. He'd made the taller prince cower. Just to protect him.

Then I must tell you. You will leave him alone.

"I want you to tell them about my pentacle, Rekhyt." Something had shifted in Ptolemaeus's eyes as he spoke.

He blinked. "I'm sorry, you want me to do what exactly?"

"Share my pentacle with the world. You're not bound by time as I am. I can't reach important magicians or teach new ones," Ptolemaeus explained, eyes shifting to the setting sun once more, the light dimming in both. "I want this nonsensical slavery to end. You're not ours to command, just as we aren't yours to eat. This pentacle is a way to end it. The sooner we begin, the faster results will come."

Both sat there very still for a few minutes, eyes locked, as if they were having a telepathic conversation. There was a swirl of emotion, images almost too fast to catch—a king, a prince, assassins, war, an unconventional trip.

He tried to hold on to one of them—any of them, but they all scattered far away. Maybe he was just suffering from amnesia. Could djinn suffer from amnesia? He could hear Bartimaeus scoff at the thought in the back of his mind, and found himself surprised again.

But the pentacle Ptolemaeus was talking about—that at least was tangible. Idealistic. Revolutionary. It seemed to be the most bittersweet set of memories populating his mind, but access wasn't altogether granted. However, he knew how it worked, what it meant. It was the most beautiful, selfless act of love and respect.

If we remain ignorant, and continue to enslave you rather than understand you, trouble will come from it sooner than later. That's my feeling.

The next words came out of him without his permission: "Not everyone is like you, you know? Only a few will be open to the idea of changing our centuries-old relationship."

"Well, Rekhyt, human beings are incredibly versatile—"

"And volatile," he heard himself grumble, felt his eyebrows clenching together into a frown.

"True," Ptolemaeus acquiesced. "But I dare say there's hope for us yet. If you would be willing to take part in it."

"I won't become some sort of demented god for your people, Ptolemaeus, much as I love you."

The Egyptian boy's eyes suddenly lost all distance and worry, becoming soft and open in mere seconds. "And I love you as well, Bartimaeus, but that is beside the point I'm trying to make."

The use of his true name surprised him. He felt his mind splitting, a wall beginning to crumble.

But he wouldn't' stop speaking, saying words that weren't truly his own. "No need to make it sound all corny, Ptolemaeus. I am merely stating the facts."

"You were getting sentimental, nonetheless. Should I be worried?"

The teasing was back. He would have tried to delve deeper into this, but he couldn't. Focusing on the conversation happening through him was proving enough of a task.

Ptolemaeus reached out a hand and squeezed Bartimaeus's gently. "I'm counting on you, my dearest friend."

He felt himself nod once, before the sun glowed for one last second and the world went dark.

When light graced his eyes again, he was running for his life on all fours. There was a steady weight on his back, nestled right between his wings. Four paws hit the dirty, narrow streets, never faltering, never slowing.

The city had barely woken up. The full moon still hung over their heads, and some more stubborn stars had stayed back to watch, but the sky was cloudless and blue. Which meant they were exposed. There was salt in the air, mixed with the spices and the smell of bread from the market. He could still hear the hullabaloo of conversation they'd left behind, the sudden gasps and panicked scattering right before the Roman spirits pounced on them.

Ptolemaeus panted and whimpered right behind his ears, but they couldn't stop. The boy's blood had started seeping onto his fur minutes ago, mixing with the substance leaking from his wing, and they should stop and take a look, but there wasn't a good enough place. There were too many doors, too many windows. He couldn't Seal all of them.

At the sudden sound of yet another Detonation, he jumped away, hissing and flapping his good wing desperately to lessen the impact of the landing so he didn't hurt Ptolemaeus. His side burned with the effort. Affa, Penrenutet and Teti had all given their lives for Ptolemaeus's, so this was not the moment to be feeling weak. However, the path kept getting narrower and narrower, and with it their chances. He kept his wings close to the boy, to act as a secondary shield to the one he'd thrown about them.

Another set of Detonations hit, missing them by millimetres. And then he saw it—an old bronze door nearly consumed by mould. In half a second, he had jumped to the wall for support and turned around. With a mighty roar, he unleashed one Hurricane, sending it whirling down the narrow street and right at the creatures tailing them.

He didn't stay to watch. Rather, he turned again and shoved open the door. It screeched in protest, drowning out Ptolemaeus's groan at the impact. He closed it with a kick and placed a Seal on it for extra security just as the spirits outside reached it. It wouldn't detain them for long, but they just needed a quick breather. Just a minute. Then they'd go. He'd run to the end of the world if he had to.

The air was damp and cold inside, for there were no windows. A forgotten god's temple—the perfect hideout. After casting a Wisp-light to dimly illuminate the inside of the temple, enveloping the room in a pink light, he put down the boy as gently as possible next to the farthest wall from the door. Ptolemaeus was panting and steadily bleeding, drenching his clothes. His wrinkled face was pale.

Leather wings thudded rhythmically against the door. There was shuffling all around the temple. The Roman spirits would find a way in soon, and he'd willingly die defending this boy.

Ptolemaeus tried to sit up. "Steady," he heard himself say. "Save your strength."

"I don't need to, Bartimaeus. Not anymore."

Ptolemaeus had used his real name. Except it wasn't his own. He knew by now that this was a memory. He was trapped inside Bartimaeus's memories of this boy the djinni had loved, but he didn't know how or why. He didn't remember how this had come to be, or who he was, for that matter. Maybe he was dead. Maybe Bartimaeus had finally made good on his promise and put an end to him, swallowing his identity in the process.

"None of that talk," Bartimaeus growled. His side had been throbbing incessantly, but now that they'd finally stopped, it seemed to double in intensity. "This is called tactics. We're having a rest. I'll break us out of here in a minute."

What's the matter with you?

Ptolemaeus coughed up blood. "To be honest, I don't think I could take another of your flights."

Never… never flown before.

There was more to this conversation, but he could barely pay attention. His head was hurting so much, he feared it'd explode. It was like two different memories were trying to overlap, but the result was a mess of images and dialogue. There was a bit about never using manes again, another about waiting for the right moment to strike as not to harm the people inside—inside what? And what people?—and then Ptolemaeus getting upset about dropping his notes on the Other Place back in the market.

The movement around them never ceased—claws and scales dragging against the stone threateningly, whisperings in Latin and quiet giggles. From a faraway place came roars of laughter, humans moving strangely. A dome of glass and iron. A girl cast in mystical light.

"Ptolemy, it doesn't matter," Bartimaeus was saying.

"But it does! This was going to make things different. It was going to change the way magicians worked. It was going to end your slavery."

Bartimaeus… You've been a good servant.

A sudden weariness overtook him. But a strong resolution burned within. This was a goodbye—the last goodbye. No one had ever told him how words fell short in these situations.

"Let's be frank. My slavery—and my life—are going to end in… oh, approximately two minutes."

Well, um, you've been just dandy too.

Ptolemy frowned, making the wrinkles more prominent. "Not so, Bartimaeus."

Maybe if he didn't make it sad, it wouldn't need to be. After all, he'd had most of his life to feel sad. This was the time to be sure, to be bold and let him go, once and for all.

I didn't say you were perfect…

"Yes so."

What?

"I can't get out, but you can."

Far from it. Let's face it, you've generally managed to cock things up.

"With this wing? You must be—Ah… I see. Not a chance."

WHAT? The bloody cheek!

Bartimaeus's anger and indignation were like a balm to his sorrow. There was the spark he needed to finish the mission.

"I'm technically your master, don't forget. I say you can go. I say you will go."

Which is why I'm dismissing you right now.

Bartimaeus rose and let out a terrifying roar of defiance. The temple shook, and activity halted outside, but just for a few seconds. Bartimaeus and Ptolemaeus negotiated this point a bit more, but he knew there was no getting out of this. Not with both alive, anyway. He'd known it for a while. And all the while Bartimaeus's thoughts swarmed with not having the freedom to make his choice even in such a moment.

"Don't ask again. I'm not shifting."

Don't take it the wrong way… It's just that… we've got to break the Staff at the right moment here. You're bound to mess it up somehow. Best thing is… best thing is to dismiss you.

"Oh, I won't ask, Nathaniel."

It was like Ptolemaeus's kind, wise eyes had seen right through him. The boy was grinning lopsidedly at Bartimaeus, or himself—Nathaniel was his name—one hand raised, trembling from the effort.

He could picture the Egyptian boy in their first meeting, younger and golden, always asking questions: What is essence? Your substance? What is it? How does it work? And the Other Place. Tell me of it. Is time there synchronous with ours? Are your powers rooted in Earth's elements as well? Or are they simply derived from your home?

Bartimaeus was already moving towards him, but his side throbbed with white-hot pain.

Ptolemaeus snapped his fingers, spoke the Dismissal words in seven ragged breaths. As the door exploded and chaos broke in, Nathaniel felt a strange pull in his stomach. Bartimaeus desperately fought to remain physical, mentally begging the Other Place not to take him. Ptolemaeus gave them a small salute, then rested his head gently back against the wall, regal and golden still. Fading.

The next thing he knew, they were being dragged away, back to the darkness. For a moment, he wondered if he was back in the hole that had dragged him down to Ptolemaeus, but his body felt oddly ethereal. Nathaniel—yes, he remembered now; that was his name—couldn't tell where his body began and where it ended anymore. Distant images flashed before his eyes, of empires falling and rising, cold imprisonment, slavery and rape, of buildings being built by bleary-eyed beings.

It's two thousand, one hundred and twenty-nine years since Ptolemy died. He was fourteen. Eight world empires have risen up and fallen away since that day, and I still carry his face.

Voices came to him from afar, whispering, hissing his true name. It was akin to being on trial before a great council. Bartimaeus's voice was the loudest. But this dull throbbing he couldn't place distracted him. Nathaniel didn't understand if his heartbreak was making him hurt, or if this physical pain was a separate affair.

Who do you think is the lucky one?

There was a verdict: relief. Surely, he was dying, for his side wasn't hurting as badly as it had. He opened his eyes to see four great barriers around him, extending in all visible directions, pulling at him. He knew they represented the elements—earth, water, air, and fire—but he shouldn't have known, because Nathaniel had never been to this place.

It's not impossible. It's just not done.

Suddenly the barriers receded, and he plummeted down again, through the castle's ruins and frozen humanoid creatures. The whispering never ceased; it came from every direction, enveloping him in a bulb of both madness and relief. Faceless creatures watched him from the darkness. He kept falling, so he couldn't make out a single one, but they exuded power. It made his extremities seem blurrier.

I rather think he knew anyway, someone close-by whispered. It sounded like a repetition, but as with most things, he couldn't place it.

He knows, he knows, the others chorused.

Nathaniel had no idea what they were talking about.

And then, when he'd convinced himself that this was it—that he'd fall forever—he stopped. The multiple voices were reduced to four or five, he couldn't be certain. What he could be certain of, however, was that some of them were familiar. So, Nathaniel pushed forward, curious, tired of the darkness, swatting it away like fine curtains.

Very slowly, an unfocused white claimed his vision. He blinked two, three times to clear the cobwebs from his eyes, but they refused to go. He felt sluggish, heavy, so much so that the effort to move his head seemed to leave him spent. But he was also alarmingly numb, so it took him a while to mentally register that he was whole again, no more a million fragments swirling about in an odd darkness that seemed to suck him in every time.

And then there he was again. The Egyptian boy—Ptolemaeus, his name was, the Ptolemaeus of Alexandria, of all things—blinking down at him, an amused expression on his face. Nathaniel frowned because something was definitely off about this. He couldn't feel anything—his body was completely numb; his side had officially stopped throbbing. His voice didn't seem to want to leave him, hiding inside his chest as if from a real, physical threat. Nathaniel blinked some more and tried to move at least his eyes around a bit, but everything became blurry when he did. The Egyptian boy disappeared from his line of vision, and Nathaniel could feel an itch at the back of his head trying to claim his attention. But he had more important matters at hand, namely regaining his senses fully.

A wave of cold gradually ascended from within, and Nathaniel felt his body shudder in reaction, seemingly unable to stop. Someone yelled something about blankets, followed by a rush of feet. Nathaniel mentally thanked that person. Now there were busy bodies all around him, and Nathaniel allowed confusion to firmly sink in as he searched for the Egyptian boy again. Because he needed to protect him, of course. He'd promised he would.

The boy returned to his side, an amused expression plastered on his face. There was someone behind him, a silver-haired woman. Kitty. He wanted to smile, but his lips refused to cooperate. Nathaniel returned his gaze to the boy. He'd moved closer. As sensation slowly returned to him, he could feel a small pressure on his side, and it alerted him more, just enough to fully make out what the boy said.

"Took you long enough."

He did really take his sweet long time.
Anyway. Hope you're staying safe and not going crazy in quarantine. I'm mostly fine, because my line of work is perfectly suited to working from home, but I'm starting to miss human contact, haha. I do really love hugs, you guys. So I'm sending you some virtual hugs and lots of strength. 3
Lastly, but certainly not least, many, many thanks to anjumstar for being always so generous with her time.