I may be setting unrealistic expectations for my updating schedule, but I'm told 'tis the season of giving, so here we are again. Hope December's been treating you well and that you get to celebrate with your loved ones.

Many thanks to anjumstar for going through the second section twice. I know it wasn't easy for either of us.

TW: Depiction of a panic attack in the second section.

Chapter Twenty-Three

regrets collect like old friends

Bartimaeus

"Could you please keep to a lane?"

I swerved left as another car flew by in the opposite direction. In the passenger seat, an ashen‑faced Nathaniel held on for dear life to the armrest, audibly relaxing once I had skilfully avoided danger. It was one life-endangering event after another with him around.

We were heading west to Saltford, a village between Bristol and Bath, for a meeting with Brunetti. Naturally, it being both a Friday and the day before New Year's Eve, traffic was chaos. London was far behind us now, and with it the distinct industrial grey of the city. Rolling plains and haphazard, old buildings (1) covered in sheets of white greeted us on each side as the sun winked from behind a spattering of clouds, doing wonders for my mood.

(1) You know the sort—tilted, deteriorating, practically begging for someone to give them the tiniest poke and put them out of their misery. Some humans call these buildings 'charming', like the 'Leaning' Tower of Pisa. To give credit where it's due, however, I will applaud the architect for managing to convince enough people that it was all part of the plan when the bull-sized Jabor rammed into the Tower mid-flight and mid-chase. Makepeace could only dream of such a performance.

But not for long. The car behind us honked and overtook us, the driver shouting obscenities through his open window. (2) Nathaniel slapped my hand before I could make the appropriate gesture in response.

(2) Listen, if you have the time to open your window and stick your head out to scream at another driver in this weather, you deserve it when your nose falls off.

"This was a terrible idea!" he shouted. So I'd turned up the music to colour the deafening silence. What was I supposed to do? Make conversation? Please. Now that it was just the two of us (3), the elephant was very obvious, and I kept wanting to poke it but knew it'd probably explode in our faces, which is just unsanitary.

(3) Piper had to work, of course, and so did Kitty. Constantly being attacked or told terrible news apparently didn't grant you a decent amount of leave. And naturally the bakery had a mountain of orders for New Year's.

"Hey, you're the one who insisted we did this now and gave your driver some time off."

Nathaniel had the gall to turn down the music. "I said I'd find another driver."

"Tomorrow's New Year's Eve. Everyone's booked or on holiday."

"And so you volunteered, so I thought you had it! How can your driving be worse than before? I didn't know spirits could regress in their learning."

I gave him an offended glare, which almost made us collide with a road sign. I yanked on the wheel to straighten the car and ignored his blazing eyes in favour of turning up the volume again. The silence had been anything but peaceful, and his commentary less than helpful. So cheery holiday music it was.

It wasn't easy being around him. Well, it had never been easy, to be fair. But we'd been very good at setting boundaries, particularly Nathaniel. I did the job and he didn't flip my essence. I got under his skin and he sent me away. And then he'd gone and saved my life when I'd been ready to take a final bow after a stellar 5,000-year-old career.

Which didn't change anything, because after years of wanting to strangle him, a single and very final act of kindness wasn't going to change things or my perspective. And I'd love to say that he thought he was doing just that in his almost last moments, but no. Of course not. He'd just thought it would be dumb to lose two lives when one would suffice. As if he were trading. As if his life were something to gamble on.

But wouldn't you know it—the bastard had survived, and from then on, he'd made my life a living hell by trying to be decent. And then by nearly getting killed saving me. Again. Twice, if you counted the cave. Could you believe the nerve of him?

Nathaniel had ruined everything, because of course he had. I didn't know where the line was anymore. And I couldn't call him a cold-hearted magician anymore. And I couldn't say I wasn't invested anymore.

What a bloody nightmare.

Suddenly a pair of hands grabbed the wheel and made a sharp turn to the left. The tyres screeched on the gravel and snow. I nearly dove my foot through the car trying to brake. The engine died, indignant about the forgotten clutch.

I engaged the handbrake and rounded on Nathaniel the moment it was clear we were out of danger. "What the hell?"

Nathaniel didn't even flinch, glaring right back at me. "That's my line! I've been telling you to take a left for the past minute! Where were you?"

"I was thinking how much of a pain you are, if you must know."

"Well, pick a mirror and look at it. And make it quick, because we've arrived."

And here we were again, back to good old wanting-to-strangle-Nathaniel territory. This was good. This was familiar. Luckily for him, he got out of the car just in time, throwing the map onto the backseat, not caring that it would get all wrinkled. And leaving me to deal with the parking, naturally.

I grumbled all the way but managed to find a spot easily enough between two rusty lorries and parked without a scratch, which was more than Nathaniel deserved. I stepped outside onto a bed of snow with a few brave grass blades peeking out. My fake boots sunk uncomfortably as they crunched the way to the pub. Halfway to the entrance, I turned around and walked back to lock the car.

Nathaniel was waiting for me by the entrance, tapping his foot like that had ever hurried anyone along. The building was made of sand-coloured bricks, rusty, ruddy roof tiles, and heavily surrounded by naked trees. It didn't appear to be ready to collapse just yet, but it was definitely not new. It stretched away from the road in its one-floored glory. The windows were covered by dark curtains, so I couldn't see what was happening inside, but there was light filtering out through the gaps. Over the oak door sat a very straightforward name: Paul's.

So, all things considered, this place looked a tad shoddy. Very odd location for a meeting too, but maybe that was the point. Once inside, we were surprised by a lot more people than the cars outside suggested. The ground floor didn't have anything remarkable about it—it was mostly made of wood with granite accents, like the fireplace on the other end of the room. There were a few tables and mismatched stools and armchairs thrown about. To its credit, the pub looked quite clean—not even a single cobweb in sight—even though everyone and their mother seemed to be holding a pint.

"He's probably downstairs," said Nathaniel, ever in need of stating the obvious.

Remember when I said the ground floor didn't have anything remarkable about it? Well, I'd wager this was because the pub was centred around the basement level. There was a big opening in the middle of the ground floor, with one set of spiral stairs snaking downward. The room had clearly been set around the small stage, now occupied by an upright piano, a bass and a microphone, and decorated with as much quirkiness as the room upstairs.

Nathaniel and I approached a muscular man with a scar on his right cheek sitting alone at the bar, nursing what appeared to be a scotch at the very appropriate time of three in the afternoon.

"Mr Brunetti," Nathaniel greeted.

Brunetti turned to look at us, and let me tell you, this man was not doing so well. (4) Nathaniel seemed to realise this too, and took a step back, ready to retreat. But it was too late—Brunetti had recognised him.

(4) It's very easy to tell when a human is unwell. I don't know why healthcare professionals make such a big deal of it. Here: bloodshot eyes with bags underneath, fluffy mop of hair in a disarray, dazed expression. Give me a diploma and call me Dr Bartimaeus, Healer of England.

"Mr Mandrake?" He blinked in confusion, and then tried to cover it up with a genial smile. "Pleasure to see you. Forgive me, I didn't expect to find you all the way out here. Please."

Brunetti gestured to the free stool in front of him, and Nathaniel pulled another stool beside him before sitting. He beckoned me with his head and—more than a little stunned—I sat down beside him.

"I came by the restaurant yesterday, and I believe it was your assistant who told me you'd gone home for the holidays and that I could find you here. He said he'd called to confirm that you could meet?"

"Ah. Yes, it's coming back to me now. Apologies, I've a lot on my mind. How are you doing?"

As they exchanged pleasantries, I let my eyes roam, checking the higher planes for any discrepancies. A stagehand was checking the cabling while an important-looking man oversaw his efforts and scribbled on a notebook. Both were harmless. There was a particularly boisterous table closer to the stage, and by their outfits alone I would bet they were the musicians. The bartender looked bored as she polished a flute.

I was pulled back to the conversation when Nathaniel said, "This is… my friend… Bart." If Brunetti noticed the hesitation, he didn't say, extending his hand to me instead. We shook hands and I tried not to laugh at Nathaniel's comical expression, reminiscent of someone who'd just sucked on a lemon.

"Pleasure. So, what can I do for you?"

Nathaniel scanned the room for a moment before putting a Bulb of Silence around them. Brunetti quirked a brow at him. "Before I say anything, I need you to promise to keep this in the utmost secrecy. A formal statement is bound to come out soon, but until then, it would be best to keep things under wraps. Mr Button speaks highly of you and considers you a friend, which we take as a good recommendation of your character."

"I am humbled. You have my attention, and my silence. There's a small private room behind the bar. I'll just have a word with Paul—hold on a minute."

"We would be very grateful."

"Anything to help our very own hero."

Nathaniel winced slightly at the reference but shook it off fairly quickly. He ordered more scotch for Brunetti and a glass of red for himself while we waited. Brunetti returned shortly and led us into a dusty room where the tables, chairs and sofa were covered by sheets. We chose a table, removed the sheet and sat down. Laughter fluttered in through the shut door, and then the playful plucking of piano keys. More laughter. Someone picked up the bass and joined in.

Nathaniel proceeded to tell a highly edited story about the sword. The room was clear; I'd checked on the way in. So there was nothing for me to do but watch and wait. And for lack of a better thing to do, my eyes wandered over to Nathaniel.

He had his serious face on—focused, clear eyes, slightly creased brow, no tension in his jaw. The cuts from the Pestilence weren't as prominent as before, especially not in this poor lighting. Now it looked like someone had painted him with a brush and you could see the strokes. The tiny cut on his eyebrow, the nearly imperceptible half-crescent moons under his eyes, the curve of his lips.

My mind fed me an image from our last training session—Nathaniel all over me, flustered and triumphant. A foreign feeling spreading through my essence…

I swallowed and pushed the image to the far recesses of my mind, where it belonged, tuning into the conversation once more.

"We've heard that you're quite well-read in magic history, so I was wondering if you had any book recommendations about the sword. The books I've come across all seem to resort more to legend than fact, you see."

Brunetti nodded silently as he digested the information, rotating his tumbler of scotch on the table with the tips of two fingers. "Well, it's just as you say. Most of English literature on the subject seems more interested in legend than fact. You can find other kinds of answers in Latin texts, however, which is natural, since the sword was forged in Rome."

Nathaniel's eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

"Like I said, Latin texts are more informative. Plus, a proper analysis of the sword by a specialist will probably tell you that too." Brunetti eyed Nathaniel, as if expecting him to produce the sword from thin air.

"I thought the legends had been first written in Latin and that that was why they'd spread so quickly throughout Europe," Nathaniel said, expertly avoiding Brunetti's silent prodding. "But never mind that, maybe I just haven't found the right texts. So, how did they forge the sword?"

"I expect with great skill, if legends are correct. But if you mean the magic part… Some theories suggest that it was purely accidental that it worked, but I doubt you could be anything but intentional in creating artefacts. There are also theories that suggest this type of sword would have been replicated for the Roman army in case of success, but that Arthur stole the prototype, killed the blacksmith and burned his notes."

I watched out the corner of my eye as Nathaniel fought with himself, clearly wanting to protest. He was buzzing in his seat and it nearly stole a smile from my lips. My memories of the cave were hazy at best, but I seemed to recall that Nimue had a lot of nice things to say about Merlin. I assumed those would extend to Arthur as well, but Nathaniel apparently didn't.

"Maybe he felt that more magic swords would mean more bloodshed. Or it could simply be that they realized magic swords would be complicated to use without proper training."

This was what he'd concluded in Pinn's shop too, and it was valid. But if the sword was as intuitive as Pinn believed—and Nathaniel's little experiment had done nothing to contradict this—then maybe Brunetti was right in that Arthur and friends had preferred to keep the power to themselves.

Brunetti raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his scotch. "It would mean more bloodshed for his side, maybe. So let us agree to disagree."

Nathaniel pursed his lips. I discreetly touched his wrist under the table to discourage him and his eyes darted to mine for a second. Nathaniel didn't pull away. In fact, he turned his wrist towards my hand as if he was about to take it in his. Then he cleared his throat and grabbed his wine. I scratched at an itch in the back of my neck.

"So the sword was a prototype… If that's the case, how would it be so powerful? You'd think they'd start small and then choose more powerful entities as the experiments progressed."

"Ah, I've read two interesting theories about that. The first says that it wasn't a prototype, but one of many attempts and that the other attempts had failed because the demon or demons weren't strong enough. The second hypothesises is that Merlin and the Knights further developed the sword, basing this idea on the fact that if it worked in principle and the sword's craftmanship was of high quality, it'd be able to handle more power."

Both theories sounded plausible to me. You'd need entities of considerable power to endure being trapped in iron. Then again, if no similar swords had been forged back then, it made more sense to believe that Arthur & co. had found the one person who'd managed to create such a sword, and then trapped some more spirits inside. Pinn had also suggested that Merlin and the Knights had worked on it, and that would mean the sword would be tailored to Arthur. But why Arthur, then? Was it simply because he was the most skilled fighter? Or was the worthiness nonsense in place before they got their hands on it?

I glanced at Nathaniel, trying to determine what he was thinking. But apparently he'd moved on, because next he asked, "What about the location of the cave? And why would the sword be hidden like that? I'd assume that either Arthur had descendants or that one of the Knights would inherit it."

"Well, I'm not sure even the best historians could know what our ancestors were thinking, but I recall reading about Arthur leading the Brythonic people's resistance to the West Saxon advance somewhere near the Thames. And the legends speak of a lady of the lake, which now I believe would be the demon you mentioned. It's fascinating how things get muddled with time and a lot of impressionable, creative minds. Like a centuries-old game of telephone."

Nathaniel furrowed his brow. "Yes, I suppose."

"As for not handing down the sword, maybe Arthur died before making arrangements, maybe the Knights or Merlin thought it best to hide away the power, maybe the sword wouldn't work for anybody else, or anybody they trusted. It is remarkable that you not only found it, but also pulled it out. Then again, you are the Hero of London." Brunetti grinned at him, an amused twinkle in his eye, not noticing how Nathaniel recoiled from the title. "You've more than proven your worth, Mr Mandrake. I'm sure even demons can sense that."

I'd been used to not hearing the word 'demon' for quite a bit now, since Nathaniel, Kitty and even Piper had stopped using it. Yesterday Pinn had thrown it around often enough to grate on my nerves, and now Brunetti was rubbing it in further.

I caught Nathaniel's quick glance my way and my indignation deflated a little. There was no point arguing with idiots and I wasn't about to waste my superior essence on their ignorance.

"Thank you for answering our questions, Mr Brunetti," Nathaniel said finally. Best words I'd heard all afternoon—we were about to leave. "Are you here for the concert?"

"Oh yes, I'm here to scout the band for the restaurant. My work makes me stay in London for long periods of time, but what kind of man would I be, leaving my wife all alone during the holidays? Especially now that…" He shook his head as if catching himself. "Two birds, one stone!"

"I didn't know you had a wife."

"Oh yes. Vera and I have been happily married for over thirty years." And wouldn't you know it, he sounded genuine about it too. Like spending over thirty human eternities with another being and not murdering each other was the most normal thing in the world, especially if he was a magician, which was still unclear. He just reeked of whiskey and expensive suit right now. It was most puzzling.

"Any children?" Nathaniel asked, clearly out of politeness. Or he was being clever, using his nonchalance to figure out if Brunetti was a magician. Children were rarely ever in their plans, after all.

Brunetti's eyes grew misty as his face fell. He looked at his nearly empty tumbler and took a deep, shuddering breath. The pleasant, charismatic mask was gone, replaced by a deeply sad and defeated human. This must have been what we'd interrupted earlier.

Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably next to me and I saw a bit of panic in his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"That's quite alright. I—My son, he…" Mr Brunetti blinked in rapid succession, letting out a heavy sigh. "Andrea died in the war. In North America. He was such a bright boy, always ready to fight for his beliefs and defend those who couldn't defend themselves. We got the news that he had passed just this week. His sister, Gabriella, was always against this. She walked away after deciding it was my fault Andrea had left for war. We haven't seen or heard from Gabriella since. It's been years and now we've lost both of them, and I—" Brunetti choked on his words. He looked away and took a deep breath, trying to gather himself.

"I'm so sorry," Nathaniel said softly. I could tell he meant it not only from his voice but also from the pain etched in his features. "And I'm sorry for bothering you at such a time. Can I do anything? Would you rather be left alone?"

"You couldn't have known. And you didn't start this war." Brunetti's smile was wan and shaky. "Please be careful with the sword, Mr Mandrake. There isn't a lot of information on what it is exactly capable of or how to handle it. I'd hate to see you get hurt because of it. I'll see what else I can find and have it sent your way."

"Right. Thank you. I really am sorry."

Brunetti nodded, his gaze distant. "I'll see you back in London."

"Yes." Nathaniel clenched and unclenched his hands and then got up and walked to the door. I took one last look at Brunetti, watching as he began to tame his expression again, and then followed after Nathaniel.

In the time that'd passed since we'd walked in, all the tables had been occupied and the crowd had increased considerably. It was now impossible to move without bumping into someone. Nathaniel was trying to squeeze past a group of smokers to no avail, his face pale and contorted in a grimace.

I approached him, took his hand, and forced the group to part for us thanks to the power of elbows, earning a few nasty looks and rude comments. If only they knew who they were addressing. I almost went back to politely introduce myself, but Nathaniel looked like he was about ready to hurl, so I powered on.

We made it outside to an orange sky and a piercing cold. Nathaniel shivered and scooted closer, reminding me of our adventure up on his roof. I squeezed his hand, remembering Hyde Park. Nathaniel looked at me like he'd done in the cave's chamber, his eyes soft and tender, like I wasn't a disgusting demon he hated anymore. My essence swirled and stretched at its guise's confines, wanting him closer.

Where was the line, really?

"Thanks," Nathaniel said, squeezing my hand once and then letting go.

I blinked at him, unsure of what had just transpired, and followed. "Do you need—"

"Let's just go."

Nathaniel

The inside of the car was warm, but his insides were stone cold.

Brunetti's son had died in the war. He'd probably enlisted because of the propaganda Nathaniel had created and approved. And his parents had just learned about it after being in the dark for who knew how long, and probably because now that there was a treaty, information was coming faster and more easily.

How many more parents and siblings had had to hear this news? How many spouses and partners? How many children?

Nathaniel sucked in a shaky breath down a tight throat, gaze unfocused on the view outside. First Adamastor, now Andrea… And Brunetti had even said Nathaniel hadn't started the war… God, if he only knew—

"Nat?" Bartimaeus called, taking his eyes off the road to look at him.

Nathaniel almost laughed. And there was the little matter of his birth name, of course. "Pull over," he croaked. "Please."

Bartimaeus did as he was asked, stopping the car in the middle of virtually nowhere.

The remaining rays of sunlight clung to the horizon as the first stars blinked awake to chase them away. Blue met white and white and white, the lampposts doing a poor job of lighting the way. Warm laughter flowed from windows—families coming together for early dinners and preparation for the festivities.

Nathaniel stumbled out into the bitter cold, and Bartimaeus killed the engine to follow. He didn't know where he was going, he just needed to go away. His clammy, frozen hands trembled as he moved a branch out of his way. He kept walking, squeezing between quaint houses and more trees. He couldn't breathe, he—

Nathaniel threw his coat and scarf onto the ground, swallowing mouthfuls of burning cold air. His heart sped up at the frost growing in his lungs. He paced and paced and paced until the snow crunching under his feet became muddied. He could see Bartimaeus's blurry, plain-looking guise out the corner of his eye. He'd chosen it not to draw attention and so that Brunetti wouldn't recognise him later…

Oh God, Brunetti's son—

"What can I do?" Bartimaeus finally asked.

This time the laughter came out, bitter and forceful. "Can you turn back time?"

"…No."

"Then you can't help."

"Nat—"

"Don't. Don't say my name. I can't believe I've been so lenient! I just let you use it and didn't say anything. Might as well shout it from the rooftops now!" He sounded close to hysterical, but his head was spinning and he couldn't breathe and he didn't care. What was the point what was the point what was the point?

"What is that supposed to mean?" Nathaniel didn't miss the edge in Bartimaeus's voice or the flash of resentment in his eyes as he drew closer. "I'm the only one who found out on my own. You're the one who decided to tell Kitty and Piper, and use it as leverage with Nimue—"

"I had to get us out!"

"Yeah? By once again putting your life on the line? Is this what you do now?"

Nathaniel opened and closed his mouth several times, his indignation rendering him speechless for a moment. "I did it to save your life! You'd think you'd be more grateful, you arse!"

Bartimaeus's eyebrows shot up. "Just like you did when we faced Nouda?"

Nathaniel winced and gasped. His stomach clenched at the memory. "Shut up," he croaked. "You don't know anything. I—I had to get us out. There was no—no other way. I didn't have a choice!"

He sucked in some more oxygen. The edges of his vision were blurry and it was suddenly too hot. Desperately, Nathaniel plunged his hands in the snow and pressed it to his face.

"Nat—"

"Shut up!" he snapped, making Bartimaeus flinch. "None of this would've happened if you and Kitty weren't there!"

"What—"

"And now I have six—six months to solve yet another mystery on top of the big failure that was that—that excuse for an overruling pentacle! And-And-And all of this information we've been gathering about the sword? Useless. Completely useless. I have more questions than answers. There's no way I-I'm going to be able to solve anything."

He was full on screaming now, stuttering through hiccups, muddling his words. Half of it was incomprehensible. And the cherry atop this rubbish cake was that Bartimaeus was looking at him with what could only be described as pity.

But he deserved nothing more from Bartimaeus, did he?

"You don't have to do any of it alone, you know?" Bartimaeus said softly. "And you have six whole months. You've done a lot more with less time."

But Nathaniel was shaking his head. Bartimaeus didn't understand what it was like to have all this pressure to succeed. He had lives depending on him. Who knew what Nimue would do to the city if Nathaniel didn't deliver on his promise? He couldn't have any more blood in his hands, he couldn't. Every night he saw their faces in his nightmares and woke up screaming their names—screaming Bartimaeus's name, and Kitty's, and Piper's, when he dreamed he'd been too late to save them.

He never won. Not even when he woke up.

Nathaniel paced away from Bartimaeus, grabbing and bunching his coat and scarf in his hands, squeezing them so hard his fingers were cramping.

"Nat, you need to see a specialist," Bartimaeus said decisively, like they'd been discussing it. "Look at you! Look at how you've been avoiding everything, refusing to so much as react to things—Piper's position and your lack thereof, that blasted soirée to celebrate your heroism—you don't even read the papers! Nat, I realise that magicians are emotionally constipated by default, but you've been enduring and repressing so much that there's no other way for this to go down besides you popping like a balloon! Look at what's happening now!"

Nathaniel rubbed his hands over his face—equal measures of exasperation and desperation. He swallowed mouthfuls and mouthfuls of air through them, trying to calm to the incessant heaving. His heart was pulsing into the hollow of his throat, pushing and pushing. Out, out, out.

"Didn't fancy you a doctor," he grumbled, not caring that he sounded flippant. His temples were pulsing with a fast-approaching headache.

"Don't need to be one to see what you've made so blatantly obvious." Bartimaeus came closer but kept out of Nathaniel's personal space. "You need to take care of this, of yourself."

"You sound like Sam, you know?" Nathaniel laughed again, breathless and bitter. "Don't tell me you've been having meetings about me now."

Bartimaeus faltered for a millisecond only, but Nathaniel had caught it.

"Oh, brilliant. What—what is this?! Am I your charity case? Is the great Bartimaeus bored and in need of a project?"

"Dear life." Nathaniel refused to be daunted by Bartimaeus's eye roll. "This is part of your treatment. And I was so fortunate as to get stuck here and take care of you!"

"I never asked you to! I don't need your help!" he roared.

Bartimaeus pinched the bridge of his nose, looking as though he was bodily keeping his own anger inside. "Look, you went through something deeply traumatic—in fact, you went through more than one traumatic event, and I'm surprised it's taken you this long to break down. Probably piled on for all we know.

"The point is your mind is your biggest asset, isn't it? Athletes don't run with injuries, so why should you expect your mind to perform at top capacity while you're refusing to take care of it? You can't take care of others if you don't take care of yourself, Nat. This is basic stuff."

"I'm not going to a therapist so they can spread all my secrets! And stop saying my name!"

"There are confidentiality agreements."

"Like that's ever stopped anyone."

"Nathaniel—" he bristled; Bartimaeus ignored him—"you're going there to talk about past traumatic events. The worst that could happen would be the details leaking, but there's nothing that'd incriminate you. And it's not like you tell them your name! Not this time around, at least. Hopefully."

"Figures you wouldn't understand," Nathaniel said, shaking his head at the night sky. His vision was blurry from trying to keep the tears in. "What do you suppose would hap-happen when I told the therapist about you being literally inside my head when I went to face Nouda? About how you're the—the reason I escaped the fire that took the Underwoods' lives? We lied about that, re-remember? That would be a one-way ticket to the Tower! And—and when I nearly got Kitty killed by luring her to a warehouse surrounded by Greybacks? She went into hiding after that, got her name changed—"

"But those are just details surrounding the major events. It doesn't—"

"Of course it matters!" Nathaniel snapped. "It's the details that make a story. It's the—the details that haunt me. What would it m-matter that you helped me with the Amulet if we hadn't lied? And that was my fault too, wasn't it? You got caught because I was in way—way over my head and then Mrs Underwood—"

He stopped himself, taking a shuddering breath that did nothing to calm him. Bartimaeus remained quiet.

"It wouldn't be enough to walk in there and tell a-an abridged version; that would be pointless. I'd have to talk about all of these feelings, this g-guilt I have about the fire. The guilt I feel whenever I look at Kitty." Nathaniel choked, pressing both palms to his eyebrows to alleviate the pressure. "Whenever I look at you."

Nathaniel refused to look at Bartimaeus now. The fight had left him hollowed. His breaths quivered out of him now. The cold was returning, seeping through his clothes and skin alike. There really was no point to any of this.

"I'm not brave or heroic, Bartimaeus. If I'm traumatised because of what happened, then I probably deserve it. I've ruined so many people's lives, just like you've pointed out more than once, right? Congratulations, you're absolutely right. It'd've been better if I'd died when—"

"Don't say that."

The emotion in those words caught Nathaniel off-guard. He looked at Bartimaeus, finding him looking right back, his expression unreadable.

"Why not? What's even the point of pretending—"

"Because I'm the reason you made it out alive."

Nathaniel was stunned into silence. He studied Bartimaeus, waiting for him to retract his words, but he did no such thing. He seemed to be readying himself for something, but Nathaniel couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"I don't understand—The Shield—You said—"

"I didn't lie about that—I didn't put up the Shield."

"So—"

"I think the spirits in the Staff saved you. It's the only thing that makes sense while accounting for everything we know. I returned to the epicentre when you were at the hospital and confirmed that a massive Shield had been cast from the magic signature that remained. Only the combined efforts of the spirits could have accomplished that. Well, with the exception of Nouda, but I think it's safe to rule him out."

Nathaniel was shaking his head again. "No, that makes no sense. Why would they ever save a magician? It just makes no sense."

Bartimaeus hummed and then chuckled drily. His entire face was drawn like he was in physical pain. Then he let out a great sigh and looked straight at him. "I don't beg, Nathaniel. In 5,000 years, I've begged twice to forces admittedly greater than me. The first time, as you've seen—" Bartimaeus threw him an annoyed look— "I begged anyone who'd listen not to take me away from Ptolemy. And the second time, I begged the spirits of the Staff not to take you from—not to take you."

Nathaniel exhaled forcefully, wanting to expel the tightness in his chest as well. But it had lodged itself there a long time ago, crystallising like a form of twisted armour that kept things in. He threw his coat onto the ground and fell more than sat down on it, holding his knees tightly to his chest to keep all of his broken pieces together. His mind was working double time, playing images from Bartimaeus's memories, followed by the voices he'd heard in his head afterwards, before waking up from the coma.

His head felt like lead, his thoughts muddy. And then a familiar trembling settled in his core, quickly spreading to the rest of his body until he felt like a tiny, contained aftershock, a wrong word—a wrong thought—away from a full-fledged earthquake again. He breathed through it, knowing by now that there was no point trying to stop it. This was what happened after he had one of these episodes, after all.

Bartimaeus settled down beside him and put up a Shield. The temperature around them started rising slightly. "Is that better?"

"I'm not cold, I'm—" Nathaniel took another deep breath, but his lungs didn't seem to want to expand. And his heart felt so small, so shrivelled. "I just need a minute."

And then there was a warm hand on his back, sliding up and down. Nathaniel immediately straightened in surprise and Bartimaeus stopped. "Sorry, I thought it might help, but I'll stop—"

"No, that's fine. It's just… No one's ever done that before." His voice was small and congested, reverberating in his brow, and he couldn't hold the weight of Bartimaeus's gaze.

"Well…"

Bartimaeus scooted closer, pressing their knees together, and resumed rubbing Nathaniel's back. The frost inside Nathaniel melted little by little. And he knew Bartimaeus must have been controlling the temperature in his hand as well, because on his birthday it'd been burning cold.

"I think we've established that I'm somewhat… invested."

Nathaniel let out a breathless laugh, releasing a puff of hot air that warmed his nose. "I never thought—" He choked and cleared his throat, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Bartimaeus had saved him. Bartimaeus didn't hate him. Why? How? "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"You didn't want to hear it at the hospital, justifiably so. And you never seemed to want to talk about it. And it was just a theory. And my reputation was on the line."

Nathaniel's lips twitched upwards at the admission. He closed his eyes, allowing his heart to calm down properly. Bartimaeus's motions became lazy and irregular, and Nathaniel wanted to press against him, huddle in his warmth.

This was a common theme as well—he always wanted to be held after… whatever these were. But he didn't dare ask, and he didn't deserve that kindness.

"Bartimaeus…"

"Hm?"

Nathaniel paused, knowing he was about to make himself even more vulnerable than he already was. But Bartimaeus deserved this, and it was a long time coming and just as good a time as any.

"I'm really sorry about everything I've put you through. I've been trying to find the words to express just how sorry I am, and how much it means to me that you've stayed even though you had no reason to. And now, finding out that you saved me despite everything… I haven't found the words yet, maybe I never will, but I'm done waiting. I'm done hiding. You deserve better, and I'm really sorry."

Bartimaeus was silent for a long time. Nathaniel tried to surreptitiously steal glances to gauge his reaction, but Bartimaeus's face was as impenetrable as his silence.

Nathaniel had mentally labelled this guise as somewhat plain compared to the flashier ones Bartimaeus had donned so far, with his faded blonde hair, choppy beard and eyes that were too small for his face. He had prominent eyebrows that cast his eyes in shadow, and an arched nose, both of which Nathaniel wanted to trace with a finger. And he had a darker freckle in the corner of his mouth that Nathaniel really wanted to kiss—

What the hell was he doing? Nathaniel looked away, face burning so brightly he could melt the snow around them. This was a curse. His emotions were running high, all over the place. It was bad enough that he'd nearly kissed Bartimaeus during their last training session. He hadn't been thinking straight then and he wasn't thinking straight now. Plus, it wasn't his fault that Bartimaeus's guises were so impossibly attractive. He had probably figured out Nathaniel's weaknesses and was weaponizing them. Now, why would he do that exactly? This from the sensible bit that had yet failed to surrender to Nathaniel's raging hormones.

"Okay," Bartimaeus whispered, saving him from further embarrassment.

"Okay?" Nathaniel chanced a glance, finding Bartimaeus already looking at him. His chest fluttered at what he found. Bartimaeus's eyes were warm and his face open. It was suddenly hard to breathe again.

"I'll need a bit to process this."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"No, I didn't mean—"

"Were you expecting me just to say I forgave you and move on?"

Nathaniel took a deep breath. Yes, he had partially been expecting that. The first time he'd apologised, it had gone well. By their standards, at least. And in the cave, it had ended up being a mutual affair. So, again, yes. Yes, he had been lulled into a false sense of security. But of course it wouldn't be that simple this time around. He'd known this subconsciously as well, hence the time it had taken him to come out with it.

"I realise now it was foolish of me to think so. This is new for me. I'm sorry for that as well."

Bartimaeus snorted, shaking his head. "At least you're learning." Nathaniel was relieved to hear no contempt in those words. It was progress, however slim. "And it's new for me too."

Nathaniel nodded. This was certainly uncharted territory. Had a magician ever apologised for mistreating a spirit before? Maybe. Different cultures had different ways, as Pinn had said.

"I'm sorry too."

Now this was surprising. Nathaniel was forced to exit his brooding in favour of saying, "Whatever for? Besides being a complete pain in my arse day in and day out, of course."

Bartimaeus rolled his eyes at Nathaniel. "It's cute that you're trying out the snarky thing, really, but I'm not sure you're quite there yet."

Nathaniel flushed at the word 'cute', but he wouldn't be distracted. "You're stalling."

"I'm not." Bartimaeus emphasised the last word by turning his face towards Nathaniel with finality. "I've realised something—something that I should have realised a long time ago. I led you to believe that you were to blame for the death of the Underwoods."

Nathaniel looked away, breathing through the sudden stinging in his eyes. This was turning out to be an emotionally taxing day. "You were right."

"No." Bartimaeus tilted his head so that he was in Nathaniel's field of vision again. "You were twelve, trying to navigate a world of adults who were far too impressed with themselves and their petty little mind games and wars. They dragged you into it, transferring the same resentments and beliefs onto the next generation. And the adult who had the responsibility to protect you didn't. Well, the adults. Your parents, Underwood, Whitwell. You had to grow into an adult far too early.

"You didn't set fire to the house, Nathaniel. You were an utter and complete twit in thinking you could get away with stealing the Amulet, but that doesn't give anyone the right to kill anyone, much less a child. So I'm sorry that I put it into your head or exploited your guilt after you'd lost someone you loved. You'd think I'd know better, having been in the same situation."

Nathaniel hastily dried the tears that had managed to escape him with his sleeves. His throat was too tight, trying to keep it all under control, so he didn't dare open his mouth to speak.

"You must miss her."

Nathaniel nodded. He inhaled deeply, feeling his lungs finally, finally fill up with air, then his belly. When he couldn't hold it in anymore, he let it all out in a great, sudden exhale. "I do," he said quietly, hoarsely.

"I understand."

"I know you do. First… well, you know. And then your djinni friend."

"Hm?"

"The one…" Nathaniel struggled, confused by Bartimaeus's confusion. "The first hybrid."

"Faquarl?" Bartimaeus was incredulous.

"Yes, that's the one. I saw a number of memories of him that night. I know he was important to you. I'm sorry it ended how it did."

"Thank you—no, hold on a minute. I'm not mourning Faquarl! He was my sworn nemesis."

"I thought that was me," Nathaniel said, and it came out a little more cheekily than what he'd expected.

"That's not what you are. You're…" Bartimaeus frowned, struggling with the words, or perhaps the concept. Nathaniel could relate. And he didn't know if he wanted to learn Bartimaeus's label for him. He had a feeling that he would be disappointed.

"That's alright. I believe you. I just assumed you were grieving because you spend so much time in the kitchen and that's what I did when Mrs Underwood passed. I went into the kitchen, imagined her there. I bought the same brands of tea, same brands of cookies. I tried to slice the cucumbers the same way she did for her sandwiches. Every time I cook something—which I admit does not happen often—I think of her and feel closer to her. So I thought you were doing the same to process losing him."

Bartimaeus went very still.

"I mean, I could be utterly wrong, of course. And it's none of my business—"

"No, I... I think you might be onto something. For a change." And he unleashed one of his trademark smirks at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel shook his head, smiling a little too. "Now who's deflecting?"

"You're not allowed to go all wise on me before proper therapy. We're not talking about me."

"We talk about me enough. I'd like to talk about you sometime." Nathaniel blushed. "If you'd want to, that is."

Bartimaeus grinned sheepishly—no, certainly not. This was Bartimaeus. He didn't do sheepish. But lo and behold, Nathaniel had actually managed to throw him off his stride. It made him wonder what else he could do to obtain similar results…

"I've told you a lot already. But I might be inclined to share more if you go to therapy…"

"Are you seriously trying to bribe me with stories?"

Bartimaeus shrugged, batting his eyelashes at him. Ruthless. "If you feel like it's too big of a feat to face alone, I'm sure Kitty would go with you. Piper would probably clear her entire schedule."

"That's fine," Nathaniel said, letting his eyes flutter closed again. Then, because his filter had probably leaked out with the remaining of his dignity that day, he asked, "Would you come?"

The silence stretched between them like an invisible wall. Nathaniel couldn't bring himself to look, sure he'd be rejected. Really, what a fool he was for requesting something of Bartimaeus right after telling him about all the guilt he was carrying for being a complete bastard to him.

Just as Nathaniel rushed out, "Never mind that," Bartimaeus said, "If you want me to."

And that was that. Nathaniel didn't dare say anything else on the matter, afraid he would ruin the moment and make Bartimaeus take it back. He fumbled for something else to say, to get them out of this awkward bubble—

"So, did you really talk with Solomon?"

Bartimaeus looked just as relieved by the change in topic. "Would I lie? But perhaps this is a story best suited for a warmer setting…"

So, now I'll wish you happy holidays. Hopefully we'll still 'see' each other in 2021, but if not, here's to a decent 2022. Please, I just want a decent year, for crying out loud. Don't fail me, universe.

Much love!