Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dying, Ptolemy reflected, was quite an interesting experience. A shame he'd never be able to write it down for posterity. A special shame, because he was about to experience something quite possibly unique in all the history of the world.

There had been pain, briefly, as the the afrits finally bore down. But then the pain, like his body itself, was simply -- gone. Or he gone from it.

Ptolemy's soul remained for only a fraction of a second afterwards. Without a body, there was nothing to protect it, no barrier to define his soul as a distinct entity separate from the surrounding pulse of ether.  And yet, like a drop of ink retaining its shape for a mere moment after dropping into a glass of water, Ptolemy remained.

In that last moment, his thoughts were of Rekhyt. Of Affa and and Penrenutet, fallen to to protect him, and -- Rekhyt. The wordless hope that his friend had gotten safely home. And coherent thought, memory, all began to slip away.

Ptolemy !

And then -- a call. Faint, so faint, and yet, as his soul began to lose its coherence, Ptolemy was faint too. Alive, he never could have sensed it. But in this barely defined state, it was just on the edges of perception.

Ptolemy.

He was dissolving faster now, becoming one with the ether, and yet the call was becoming clearer. It was -- a word. A name. His name?

Ptolemy !

His last, eroding wisps of identity coalesced around the word. Yes, he had a name, there was enough of him left to still have a name, and the name was -- Ptolemy. And the word was coming from somewhere. Somewhere ... very far away ...

Without intent, indeed, without the capacity for intent, the wispy remnants of a soul began drifting towards that singular anchor. Towards sound which was coming from -- another place. The other place.

Four great elemental walls blocked the way. Once, the power of a pentacle had pushed through those implacable obstacles. Now, there was nothing of the sort. But what was making the journey now was practically nothing. Tethered to neither the spirit world or the human one, guided only by a name, it passed through the four elements as incorporeal as smoke.

And then the world around the dying mind was different, ever-changing. The scattered soul had been shedding fragments of itself all journey, with nothing left to hold itself together. But nothing in this world held itself together, for this was a place without barriers or differentiation of any sort. Fragments of Ptolemy tumbled apart, and then back together, and it was no more fatal than any other change that occurred here.

And then -- warmth. Something -- someone --  had enveloped him, encased his final remnants within a cocoon of their own freewheeling essence.

Ptolemy !

The voice was so loud now. So close, coming from every direction. It sounded like ... like ...

Rekhyt?

The warmth flared up around him, and with an indescribable sensation, the surrounding essence began to meld with his own, giving of itself to replace the precious life force he'd already lost.

Ptolemy.

The voice. The call that had drawn him here. It came from the essence that surrounded him, the presence that was shielding and sheltering him, mending the very essence of his soul. He knew that presence. Trusted it. Loved it.

Rekhyt

The response that came was less words than emotion. Love. Relief. Awe. The cry of one who has born witness to a miracle.

Ptolemy. My Ptolemy. I've got you. You're safe.

Chapter Text

Now, you humans may find it difficult to understand this, but spirits don’t tend to do things in the Other Place. For all our stellar accomplishments and spectacular guises in your world, no spirit molds their essence into particular forms or feats while we’re home. There’s no point; it’s not like we’re really separate here anyways.

Ptolemy, as in everything, was the exception. He needed me. I was there.

I had concentrated my essence in a way I’d never done before in this world. The sensation was odd, both like and unlike compressing myself into a physical form on Earth. There was no pain, but a certain concentration was required, like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time ¹. I wasn’t actually taking on a form, just condensing my essence vaguely around Ptolemy’s. It helped to not have to concentrate on a particular shape, only holding within myself the singular urge: protect.

Protect. The thought thundered through me, where I would usually not be thinking at all. And like minnows in a shark’s wake, it left room for other thoughts to follow ². And the biggest of these, repeating again and again and again: How? How? How?

Ptolemy had followed me home. Again. But there hadn’t been time to draw a pentacle! And I hadn’t felt that odd tug of a reverse summons, let alone reciprocated it. I’d just … called. Called and called and called, knowing there was nothing I could do. And the state he’d arrived in, a teaspoon from death – he couldn’t possibly have the strength to use his gate like that. A djinni in a state like that would be able to return home, but never make it the far more difficult route to Earth. Ptolemy was human, much as he didn’t always act like it. His home world was Earth, and I remembered how difficult it had been to pull him here the first time, versus the ease of returning. Whichever way I looked at it, it was impossible, utterly impossible, for Ptolemy to be here.

And yet here he was. The proof was nestled softly within all the protection I could provide, undeniable ³. And as much as the questions, the impossibility of it all occupied my mind, it was ultimately nothing compared to Ptolemy’s miraculous presence. Genius though I may be, the metaphysics of travel between worlds was Ptolemy’s bailiwick, not mine. He could explain later. There would be a later.

I think humans have a saying about gift horses and mouths? Well, I could count on one hoof the number of people who’ve given me gifts in my life. But if the universe, after three thousand years of blatant unfairness and cruelty, had finally decided to gift-wrap me a blessing? Then I’d just settle myself a little more snugly around a recovering Ptolemy and make no complaints.

1. Look, I’m trying, I really am. I don’t actually have the slightest clue which simple tasks are inexplicably difficult for you lot. ^{[ ▲ ]}
2. Like these ones, for example. I’m not in the habit of narrating my experience while I’m home, because a) I’m not beholden to anyone here, and b) I’m not doing anything to narrate. Ptolemy’s arrival changed both of those things. ^{[ ▲ ]}
3. On Earth, everything is much more confusing and things such as mistaken identity are possible. That is simply not possible here. Not only is identity mostly a non-issue, the direct sensing of one’s fundamental essence doesn’t exactly allow for humorous misunderstandings involving new haircuts and false noses. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

Rekhyt?

I startled when I heard him (1). I hadn’t really been paying attention, you see. Content in the knowledge of Ptolemy’s safety, I’d let the rest of my consciousness drift aimlessly through the Other Place (2).

I’m here, I sent back gently. Glad to know you still remember my name.

Rekhyt … you’re here … I’m here? … I’m … in the Other Place? A jolt of awareness seemed to zip across his essence. I’m- I died. I died!

Ah. I was hoping you’d avoided that bit, I replied without much hope.

We both knew I was going to die. It’s why I dismissed you. I just didn’t expect … how did I get here? It shouldn’t be possible.

I gave a confused shrug (3). I was hoping you’d know, you’re the one who studies the borders between worlds. I don’t suppose you used your Gate to get here?

No, definitely not. Wait … could that have worked? My body was dying the whole last time I came here. Would it matter if someone killed it in the meantime? Obviously it would depend on how – if someone cut my throat I’d still bleed out on return. But if someone just suffocated me? I should have asked someone to watch and see if my body was still breathing while I was here. Although this is pretty definitive proof that a human soul can exist in the Other Place with no living body on Earth. Does that mean my original Gate is truly analogous to death in some way? What do you think, Rekhyt? Rekhyt?

I didn’t respond. I was busy laughing, projecting helpless amusement at my dear, absurd master (4). So sorry, don’t let me interrupt. Please resume your metaphysical speculation about the particulars of your own death. Do you need a do-over so that you can have a proper controlled experiment?

At that, Ptolemy sent me a remarkably good impression of a dramatic pout and folded arms. Why yes, that would be quite useful. Achieving unprecedented feats of longevity is really quite inconvenient when it comes to sufficient sample sizes. 

I suppose we’ll just have to perform more miracles, then? For the sample size.

That’s the plan as always, Rekhyt. Though I’m quite sure I could spend the rest of my life studying this one- Oh. Ptolemy stopped suddenly, essence slowing from frenetic excitement to slow uncertainty.

Oh. I … I suppose I’m not exactly alive anymore. 

Well, no, maybe not. But chin up! You’re a lot more talkative than any other dead people I’ve known (5).

Do you still have a way to send me back? Last time you described it as releasing a taut string; I do hope I’m not about to be slingshotted back to a likely fatal lack of living body. Likely more fatal, I mean.

Yes and I’m not exactly roaring to try, Ptolemy. You just got here, I’m not about to fling you into oblivion. (6) Nevertheless, I did my best. I had a remarkably good sense of Ptolemy’s presence, even stronger than on his last visit when I’d been actively anchoring him to the Other Place, and did my best to feel his connection to Earth.

Nothing, I sent to him, passing along the impressions I had got. Last time, it had felt like he was tethered to two ropes, one connected to me, and the second stretching back to Earth. It had taken the barest effort to release him back. You don’t seem to be connected to anything right now. You’re free, like the rest of us.

But I can’t go back. I wonder if I’ll live a human lifespan, or just … exist here, forever. I suppose we’ll find out.

I said nothing. To me, of course, it was an impossible dream: getting to stay in the Other Place, unmolested by travel between worlds. But this place was not Ptolemy’s home, and he had no way back. He was thinking now, processing it all, keeping his thoughts to himself, and I did not pry.

But it was never in Ptolemy’s nature to stay melancholy for long. Soon enough, I could sense within him that lightning whip of excitement, the one I associated with a bright, clever smile and quick fingers reaching for a stylus. It darted amidst his closed-off contemplation like a watersnake through reeds.

Well, if I’m going to be staying here for a while, then I can ask you all my questions, can’t I? And get a proper tour? And find out just a few more particulars.

Oh no, I’m going to be your sounding board for all eternity, aren’t I? You’re lucky I don’t have a way to send you back anymore . I sent a very long telepathic sigh. Come on then, I’ll show you the big wide world.

With a properly dramatic flair of essence (7), I dissolved the protective sphere I had been keeping around Ptolemy.

He was an excellent audience. He had seen my home before, of course, but still sent me memories of an open plaza full of raucous applause. Then his concentration was elsewhere, darting amongst the dazzling infinities of the Other Place. As for me, I let myself drift gently within his excitement. I could watch him like this forever. 

You don’t need a solid form anymore? I sent, once I started getting bored. Last time you couldn’t do without one.

Oh, I hadn’t even thought of it. I just don’t feel lost like I did last time. Instead I’m just here, zipping around like a native. You see how the essence flows here? It’s like a stone in a river, what do you think causes that?

You’re not exactly moving like a native, you know. You’ve got too much focus for that. Spirits don’t have purpose while we’re here, we’re not moving according to curiosity or excitement or any of that stuff you’ve got floating around in your brain. Although, you’re certainly better adapted now … that’s probably thanks to me, I bet.

Oh? And how is that?

In response, I sent Ptolemy the memory of his arrival, trying to edit out his pitiful state the best I could. I focused on my own protection of him, how I’d shared my essence with him and he’d absorbed it for strength and healing. You might have some essence floating around in there now. As I said, all thanks to me.

Ptolemy went from inspecting the memories thoroughly, to suddenly focusing his full attention on me with startling speed. Yes, it is all thanks to you.

Pardon? I’d heard full well, of course, you can’t mishear telepathy. But this was the first time I’d ever had that phrase directed to me without it being a very thinly veiled threat.

It’s thanks to you. I don’t know how I got here, but I remember you calling my name from across the worlds. And what you did with your essence – every hypothesis I can think of says that you saved my life, multiple times. You probably broke all known laws of magic to do it. And most important: you didn’t have to . My being here is entirely thanks to you. So, thank you, Rekhyt. Bartimaeus. I owe you my life.

Now what was I supposed to say to that? One of the great benefits of the Other Place over your world, is that I didn’t have to put it into words. I simply opened some of my feelings to him. And one sentence, layered within it all: I wanted to return the favor.

1. I’m sure the pedants among you will be quick to point out that I wasn’t really “hearing” anything, as sound does not properly exist within the other place. And while certainly “I received the transfer of directed thought patterns as facilitated by the malleable essence interface between us” is more accurate, it doesn’t exactly flow off the page, does it? 
2. This is apparently quite difficult for humans to accomplish. Your little materialist minds can’t go more than a few seconds without a new thing to distract them. Mind you, I’d probably want to distract myself too if I were something so boring as a human.
3. All right, all right, “the mental telepathic equivalent of a confused shrug.” Are you happy?
4. Though I suppose he wasn’t my master anymore. And if he truly had died, he might never be so again.
5. Too true. Honestly, I was now even more disappointed with the lack of conversational prowess displayed by the undead. Though I suppose it was always going to be unfair, comparing other people to Ptolemy’s standard.
6. This was true for many reasons. Beyond the obvious, it would also be intolerably rude.
7. All right, so I did form the shape of a stage curtain pulling aside. I have a sense of presentation, sue me.

Chapter Text

Ptolemy was adjusting well to the Other Place, he thought. To a mind like his, it was rather like living in the greatest library in existence. He did not need to eat or sleep, and his inability to write was made up for by his seemingly perfect memory now. He had an entirely new array of senses with which to observe, and a world so ever-changing and alien that it was very lucky he now had an eternity to study it. The way essence moved, how thoughts and memories flowed through it, how emotions could form eddies that essence seemed to get caught in. Were there prevailing patterns within the ever-changing flow? It was impossible to know, and equally impossible not to try to find out.

Whenever he tired of his study on the nature of the world itself, he switched to learning about its denizens, and particularly their relationship with Earth. It was as Rekhyt had always said; only spirits who had been summoned were actually distinct in any way from the infinitudes of this place. And yet they minimized this to as great an extent as possible, being only differentiable at the times of summoning and return. The rest of the time they drifted amidst the rest, like an instrument harmonizing with the orchestra, scarcely differentiable from the tide of song.

The only spirit he could sense consistently was Bartimaeus. Unlike the rest of the spirits, Bartimaeus would often differentiate himself willingly, focusing his presence enough to converse with Ptolemy, or else center himself vaguely around an emotional core of care and affection. Even when Rekhyt was drifting with the rest, Ptolemy could always feel him at the periphery of his awareness, and conversation was never more than a flare of telepathic intent away.

Suddenly, a voice appeared in his mind, accompanied by the mental sensation of someone blowing directly into his ear.

You rang?

Oh. Oops. Hello Rekhyt! What are you doing this fine morning?

Hmm … I suppose wondering what miraculous feat of trans-universe timekeeping leads you to think it’s morning, when time doesn’t work that way here?

Ptolemy sent the impression of a haughty reshuffling of papers. Oh, because you’ve never spoken in metaphor before. I’ve heard you say ‘just the other day’ and ‘five more minutes’ plenty of times. This was exactly why he hadn’t been trying to greet Rekhyt. The blatant hypocrisy offended him.

Blasphemy. And now I learn you didn’t even want to greet me! You can’t go two minutes without accidentally broadcasting something.

Now that earned a mock glare, an eyeroll, and a sped up memory of a clock moving forward exactly two minutes. You were saying?

Rekhyt retreated before Ptolemy’s clearly superior arguing skills, and instead treacherously chose another avenue of attack. Only that you still haven’t gotten the hang of this place. You’re busy wondering about things and asking ‘What are you doing,’ but the idea is to not do things. Not think about things either.

And how am I supposed to do that? I can't help being curious. Are you even sure human beings can let go of themselves like that?

It'd hardly be the first impossible thing you've done, Mr. Got Stuck Here Instead of Dying.

And, well, Ptolemy couldn't exactly refute that. Then guide me to another impossibility, oh wise teacher.

I thought you'd never ask! Watch the expert at work.

And, as Ptolemy watched, Bartimaeus's presence began to fade into the background. But like a woodwind among violins, he was still discernable. (Was it just because they knew each other so well that Ptolemy could always sense his friend this way? Or was there a stronger bond there, one forged by the essence they shared, by the way they had pulled each other across worlds?)

Observing the infinities of the Other Place, Ptolemy began to focus on the faint call of Bartimaeus's essence to his own. And as he watched, certain patterns began to stand out to him – a swirl here, a cascade there. Wisping motions of essence that rang out to him with Bartimaeus, Home, Home, Home.

Lost in the soothing patterns, he startled when Bartimaeus's aura suddenly condensed again, blindingly bright and loud. All right, now you go.

Okay. He could do this. Just do what Rekhyt had done. Easy enough. Focus. What had it looked like? A twist here … a swoosh there, into another spin … yes, he was getting the hang of it. Then whirlwind around counterclockwise, and disperse and reform here …

He was interrupted by the sound of vibrant, amused, and definitely mocking laughter being metaphorically lobbed at his head.

Congratulations, Ptolemy! Bartimaeus said in a sickeningly cheerful tone. Excellent try, nice work all around. And despite being the first and only human to try this, you've still managed to do the worst job anyone's ever done!

Ptolemy didn't bother pointing out that that was a logical tautology. There would be no point. I thought I was doing well! And would you stop with the laughter? It's blatantly unfair that telepathy lets you talk and laugh at the same time.

The laughter died down, sounding more cheerful than ever. Don't get me wrong, Ptolemy. What you did was quite impressive, possibly unique. It was just also the exact opposite of the assignment.

If you could quit making fun and tell me what I did wrong, Ptolemy replied petulantly. He could still feel the amusement rolling off of Rekhyt in waves.

You repeated what I did. You repeated what I did! You actively shaped your essence to form the exact patterns I made. I'm not even sure how you did it – by rights you shouldn't be able to differentiate me like that! But purposeful forms like that are about as far as you could possibly get from aimless drifting – while still superficially resembling it.

Well, at least Ptolemy got the joke now. He sent a flare of amusement back at Rekhyt. I suppose I am too human for it, after all. What is it you always say about humans gravitating towards surfaces?

What? No, you're not too human. You're not like other humans! Humans are icky and idiotic, and you aren't at all!

Thank you for the compliment to myself and my species, Ptolemy cut in, deadpan.

I didn't mean- I'm not- Look, even you can't deny you're not like most humans! I mean, what other human can survive dying? I certainly hope no one else can, there's plenty of masters I do not want coming back.

I'm glad to know that my death was my one redeeming trait, Ptolemy replied dryly. I'll be sure to make a habit of it.

Ah, now let's not try that! Bartimaeus sent back quickly. Although – do you think you could? Make a habit of dying, that is.

Hmm … unlikely. It's not like one in a million chances tend to happen twice in a row. Besides, as far as I can tell, the exceptional circumstances happened at the moment my soul – or essence, perhaps – parted company with my body. But I don't have a body anymore, so if my essence were to get destroyed instead, I imagine I'd have no advantage over any other spirit when they die. Add in the impossibility of my getting back to Earth, and I'd call the odds one in impossible.

As he spoke, Ptolemy called up the memories of the moments of his arrival, taking care not to delve too deeply into them.

You know, said Rekhyt, contemplative as he often was when viewing those recollections, you were drifting pretty freely when you first arrived here. It wasn't under the best of circumstances, I'll admit. But it means you can let go of yourself while you're here, we just don't know how.

And that was interesting. Ptolemy had studied those memories in great detail, scouring them for hints at how he'd arrived here, at what that revealed about the boundaries between worlds. But he'd always hesitated to get too close, preferring to stay a dispassionate observer. It made the whole thing easier to manage, somehow. He remembered a brief pain, then a sense of distance, of dissolution … he tried to focus on that feeling, magnify it, experience it again rather than merely observe. No body, no borders, barely any him , just seeping, spreading formlessness …

Then he jerked back into himself, sudden terror impelling him to create a solid form and cling to it, for what was he? Who was he? Only this frail form keeping him from eternal chaos-

Hey, you're starting to- Ptolemy? Are you alright?

The name echoed through him like a bell, as he concentrated on maintaining the simple essence sphere he'd made. Yes, that was who he was. He was Ptolemy.

I'm … yes, fine. Just … overwhelmed … I could try again if-

That's a no, Ptolemy. No more self destructive experiments, all right? A wave of protective feeling swept around Ptolemy's little solid form.

…Could you just keep saying my name like that?

What? Oh, uh- Ptolemy. Ptolemy Ptolemy Ptolemy. Ptolemy. Ptol-em-y. Ptooooolemy. Ptolllemnnnny.

That startled a laugh out of him, refocused his attention on his Rekhyt's bright presence. But by bit, the translucent sphere he had been maintaining dissolved back into whirling essence.

Thank you, Rekhyt. Carefully, Ptolemy sent back an impression of all the warm, grounding comfort that Bartimaeus was providing him. A not-quite-verbal impression of this is what it feels like, to hear my name, when you say it.

For a moment, he heard Bartimaeus's stunned silence, felt from him something deeper than naming, and then-

Bartimaeus startled, his whole essence rearranging in an instant, aura flooding with a cocktail of pain-rage-dread-anger , before that too was washed away in a tide of resigned acceptance.

What-

Magician, Bartimaeus sent back succinctly. They always have the worst timing. It seems I'm due an unplanned appointment on Earth. Already, Ptolemy could feel the strain as Bartimaeus fought against the summons. I'll be back, Ptolemy. Ptolemy-

And then he was gone, summoned into a fresh bout of enslavement, to his first human master since Ptolemy.

Chapter Text

There was, by definition, no such thing as a good time to be summoned. It’s not as though I whirl around the Other Place thinking ‘Oh gee, it sure would be nice to be bound to a magician’s will right about now!’ ¹ But even so, smack dab in the middle of an important personal conversation has to count as an especially bad time for a fresh bout of enslavement. Especially since the conversation I was getting now couldn’t be a further cry from the sort I enjoyed with Ptolemy. 

“From now and henceforth, beginning with the time of this present issuance of commands and terminating under such conditions as are listed henceforth, either a) the formal revoking of such a commandment, as uttered under binding terms by myself your master, b) by the issuance by myself your master of a later command which textually and not subtextually contradicts in true and general meaning the text of the current command. Note that for this and all other purposes, "command" refers only to spoken directives directly referred to as such. For this and all other purposes, informal spoken language may not be misconstrued as binding commands…”

Intolerable, right? Let me summarize. It was all the usual magician spiel, crossed with the language of a lawyer, and an utterly dry and toneless voice to cap it off. I’ve heard more engaging speeches from dusty corpses. ² After about ten minutes, he’d finally gotten around to listing my actual tasks, which ranged from dull (overseeing some sort of festival) to useless (personal protection of my new master from a lengthy list of possible threats). He was just winding down subclause 3) b) iii) of dangers I was bound to shield him from when I decided to liven things up, in my usual helpful and tasteful way.

“Yes yes, and if you stick a broom up my ass, I could probably sweep the floor too.” ³

He responded to my attempt at repartee in the typical magician fashion. “I have listed no reason as yet for you to speak, demon. I will suffer no useless, crude, or frivolous remarks.” This was swiftly followed up with an Essence Lance, which I’ll admit stung. ⁴

But you know me. I can’t be kept down for long. “My apologies, master. I should have known better to make such an insensitive remark on the subject of objects stuck into certain orifices, when you yourself are clearly a long-time sufferer of such a fate. Do you need me to help you pulling anything out? I’m sure it would only take you a few dozen subclauses to phrase the order.”

That earned me another Essence Lance, and this time went so far as to order me to be silent. It only took him two subclauses to do it, too, so he must have been riled. But somehow, that knowledge didn’t feel as good as it usually did. I’d angered my master; I should be pleased. I’d caused him strife, and forced him to view me as a person, in a roundabout sort of way. That was a resounding success as far as conversations with magicians went. It’s not as if I could hope for any better. Unbidden, I thought of talking with Ptolemy, of how keenly he listened, of teasing him and feeling the bubbling warmth of laughter in return… 

But those are useless things to think about, when you’re trapped in a pentacle. I turned my attention back to my master’s droning voice, and my lengthening list of rules and tasks.

***

Two days later, and I was no less bored than before. My master was planning some sort of great feast day to demonstrate his greatness to the townfolk, and I'd hauled more potatoes into that 12-foot soup pot than I cared to remember.⁵ I'd smoothed out gravel paths, because before you can ask, "tripping over a misplaced stone and thereby risking personal injury" was one of the dangers I had to protect my master from.

So I occupied my mind thinking of what I'd show Ptolemy of this little (and I use the term generously) adventure. I'd skip the boring bits, of course, but he could have a nice laugh at my master's verbosity.⁶ It had snowed yesterday, he'd like that. He'd never seen the stuff when he was alive, and memories of it always made him all puffy with excitement. And he'd probably laugh at that time I almost fell in the giant soup pot, as long as I reassured him that I was okay. I could leave out the other bits, though. No need to include the Essence Lances, for example, or Systemic Vise, etcetera etcetera.

It was odd, that. I’d been showing Ptolemy a few more entertaining memories of times I’d outwitted various magicians when it first happened. I hadn’t even realized that one memory included a few instances of the Red-Hot Stipples, but suddenly he was radiating … concern? Anger? It had taken me a moment to parse the emotions to realize that he was feeling protective over me . Which, while flattering, was just so backwards that I felt baffled by it. Pain is a constant for djinni; it is a base condition of our existence on Earth, and a standard punishment from our enslavers. To have someone actually care about it was … fairly disconcerting, actually. And not altogether pleasant. As a general rule, I try to avoid thinking too deeply about the conditions of my enslavement. Better to just avoid making Ptolemy all sad in the first place, really.

I was just assembling a nice little abridged narrative when the first truly interesting thing happened since my summons. Enemy spirits were attacking! Joy! Two middling djinni and a few foliots sneaking up on my master, by the looks of it. After a quick recollection to make he’d named djinni and foliots in his list of threats to defend against, I sprang into action.

A few Infernos here, a Convulsion there, and I’d already spent a foliot spinning and neatly attracted the attention of the others. I swiftly changed to become a swallow, taking to the air above the festival preparations and dodging the return fire at the same time. Soon my opponents were airborne as well, and the area was alight with magic flying in every direction. They should’ve pushed up the festival, I’m sure partygoers would have loved to see the flashing lights. Though the risk of getting vaporized (as some of the tables and chairs and at least one last-minute chef already had been) might be a bit of a deterrent.

But I was in my element ⁷. Dodging and rolling, dealing death and dodging it by wingtip; it was a welcome change to the melancholy introspection I kept falling into. No room for that as I swung around a pole of scaffolding to change direction at breakneck speed, maneuvering my less agile enemies into collision, following up with another Inferno for good measure ⁸. I wondered if Ptolemy would appreciate the pounding life I felt in these moments, the thrill of speed and skill-

It was at that moment that the Detonation hit me. One of the djinni had snuck behind me, hitting a wing and sending me spiraling out of the air. I managed to get her back with a Convulsion, but her companion was bearing down on me-

Last time I’d been in a fight-

Last time I’d taken a hit to the wing-

If something happens to me here, I won’t be able to see Ptolemy.

I dodged the oncoming detonations, operating on instinct and something like desperation. Which was ridiculous, I’ve had three thousand years of evading dangers far greater than this. In between rolls and ducks, I pondered the problem. Why was I, Bartimaeus of Uruk, suddenly intimidated by two cut-price djinni? What had happened to my usual unflappable confidence?

I’ve never had anything to lose before.

I sent a few more Convulsions back at the djinni tailing me, gratified to see at least one hit. I dodged a bit of falling timber-

I said I’d come back. One wrong step and I break my word.

And that was just- ridiculous. The only thing that could kill me in this fight would be if I kept getting distracted by stupid thoughts like that-

So I focused back on the fight, and noticed that while I’d been distracted by the second djinni, djinni number one had managed to grab my master and lift him bodily into the air! Thinking back, I had been hearing his vague screams for the past thirty seconds or so. Ah well.

But I was bound to protect him, so I shot a quick Plasm at the djinni holding him. As expected, my master was safely released … onto open air, two stories up.

It is at times like these that a djinni’s problem solving skills really come into play. With my injured wing, there was no way I could fly up to grab him. And “falling from great heights onto solid surfaces” was included on my list of protection charges, so I couldn’t just let him fall. Although…

I summoned up a few quick gusts of wind. It was nowhere enough to slow my master’s descent, but I could change his trajectory. Technically, I was free to let him land anywhere that wasn’t a solid surface. And, what a coincidence, there happened to be a very large vat of soup just below him. 

My master fell into the simmering soup with a splash ⁹. In a moment, my tether to Earth was gone, and I was free to return home to Ptolemy. In the end, I suppose my little venture had been quite exciting. I wondered, as I passed through the four elements into the embrace of the Other Place, whether Ptolemy had gotten up to anything interesting in the meantime.

1. Strictly speaking, I don’t usually think anything at all while I’m home. Or at least, I didn’t used to. Either way, I’m certainly not thinking that. ^{[ ▲ ]}
2. Not reanimated corpses, who were world-class orators compared to this magician. No, he was less interesting than plain old, wormy, unmagical piles of bones. ^{[ ▲ ]}
3. While this may seem an impractical method for janitorial work, it can be done; I’ve seen it. The rear-end sweepers of Washukanni were a popular tourist attraction, and pretty damn skilled too. Always left the streets sparkling. Mind you, you wouldn’t want to know what happened to them when they missed a spot. ^{[ ▲ ]}
4. Obviously it stung physically; the Essence Lance is deceptively nasty for its simplicity. That wasn’t what I was referring to. Rather, I had gotten used to a certain standard of reciprocal conversation, and it was unpleasant to be jolted back to Earth in such a manner. ^{[ ▲ ]}
5. Really, it was a shame Faquarl wasn’t there. He loved kitchens, he’d be right at home among all those cutting boards and little peeler thingies. ^{[ ▲ ]}
6. Seriously, who needs a full paragraph to explain that I'm bound to protect him from rampaging bulls or cows or heifers or steers or oxen or any other type of bovine? You couldn't just say "don't let me get killed by an animal" and leave it at that? ^{[ ▲ ]}
7. Literally, you know. Being made of air and fire, and all. ^{[ ▲ ]}
8. I have a general policy of taking no responsibility for property damage incurred by my more daring escapades, but for those interested in the tally, this was now the second building we’d set on fire, and the town square looked in pretty poor shape. Although the soup pot was miraculously unscathed, I was pleased to see. I’d put good work into that. Less pleasingly, my master was also unharmed. ^{[ ▲ ]}
9. It was a shame that he’d wreak havoc with the seasoning, but sacrifices had to be made. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

Magician. They always have the worst timing. It seems I'm due an unplanned appointment on Earth. I'll be back, Ptolemy. Ptolemy-

Suddenly, Bartimaeus was gone.

Suddenly, Bartimaeus was gone .

It was a seismic shift, suddenly being in the Other Place without Bartimaeus. No obnoxious jokes, no warm comfort, no ever-present brightness that he hadn’t realized until now had oriented him like the North Star.

Ptolemy formed himself a solid body, hoping in vain for protection against the yawning dizziness which now overwhelmed him. He grasped for memories or companionship around him, but found nothing. That was the way of this place; grasping hands found nothing to hold. The scattering of external memories that Ptolemy had managed to obtain had come from simple, patient projections of curiosity, left out like a loose spider web in the ether. The exception was Bartimaeus, of course, who traded memories freely and often.

Ptolemy’s concentration stuttered, the solid form he’d made dissolving within moments. He needed Bartimaeus, needed to hear his own name, needed to be grounded and centered and Bartimaeus wasn’t there-

Someone. Anyone. If he could talk to someone – there were uncountable millions of spirits here, and yet he was entirely alone, because excepting Bartimaeus, spirits didn’t talk here. But he leafed through memories, searching because he needed someone – someone like Bartimaeus. There!

And Ptolemy broke the great taboo he’d maintained for as long as he’d been in the Other Place, and called a spirit’s name.

Faquarl?

***

The name rang out through the Other Place, and from every direction, like an echo, a presence emerged. It was not separated in any way from the surrounding ether, instead simply coming into focus from within the background hum of this place.

Who are you, and why do you call my name? 

The voice didn’t sound human. Otherworldly and dispassionate with just a hint of danger, it rang with an idle, catlike confidence.

I am Ptolemaeus of Alexandria, Ptolemy replied politely, making sure to give his name in full after he’d been so rude as to use Faquarl’s. Just the fact of conversing, even with an unfamiliar presence, was driving away the dizziness. I’m a friend of Bartimaeus.

Bartimaeus has never mentioned you to me, Faquarl responded. Ptolemy almost laughed; he was sure Faquarl didn’t mean to sound petulant, but he really did remind Ptolemy of a grumpy child, suddenly learning that his favorite playmate had another friend.

Still, Ptolemy kept his thoughts to himself. Keeping all traces of amusement or teasing from his words, he responded.

That would be because I only met him during his last trip to Earth. At the time, I was his master.

The wave of emotion he got back could perhaps best be transcribed as ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Ah. Right. This would probably take some explaining. Ptolemy selected an abridged set of memories, sending them to Faquarl. He waited patiently for Faquarl to process them. It took a while.

You’re a human.

Yes, I was.

A magician.

Yes, I was.

Bartimaeus brought a magician here.

Yes, he did.

Bartimaeus brought a magician here .

If it helps, you can file it under “strange things Bartimaeus does.” That’s what I do.

Oddly, this suggestion did slow the rising tide of confused anger that rolled off of Faquarl.

You’re his master .

I was. Then I released him. Now I can’t even get back to Earth, much less draw a pentacle. There’s no violence or magic here. I’m as harmless as a kitten. 

He practically feel Faquarl processing this information, trying to balance the ideas of ‘human’ and ‘magician’ with the ideas of ‘harmless’ and ‘unable to be harmed.’

… so you’re a human pet that Bartimaeus decided to take home.

I prefer ‘friend’ to ‘pet,’ but you are correct in the generalities. At the very least, this assessment would hopefully keep Faquarl on better terms with both himself and Rekhyt. Best keep things friendly. 

You seem surprised? 

… Not as much as I should be, Faquarl replied with an irritated growl. That idiot has always liked picking up strays, however inadvisable it may be. And he has a habit of shocking me out of my essence at least once a century.

Yes, he does do that sort of thing, Ptolemy agreed amiably. But on the other hand, if Bartimaeus wasn’t so irritating, he wouldn’t be nearly as good of a friend, don’t you think?

This was met with a rather cat-like hiss. He is not my friend, human. Spirits don’t have friends. And if we did, he certainly wouldn’t be mine.

Of course not, of course not. And the reason you got all pissy when I said he had a friend you didn’t know about…?

Faquarl’s aura was that of a narrow-eyed glare. I was simply disappointed by his perpetual lack of common courtesy, that is all. You do know that Bartimaeus and I have tried to kill one another more times than I can count? I would hardly count that as friendly behavior.

At that, Ptolemy copied Bartimaeus’s trick of talking while laughing. You know you sound just like him?

How dare you insult me like that, human! Bartimaeus is a base, uncouth, classless excuse for a djinni-

This time, Ptolemy managed to keep his laughter to himself, if only barely. The two djinni really were exactly alike.

Faquarl, meanwhile, had regained his dignity. Did you have a reason to speak with me, human? Or were you just trying to probe the depths of my relationship with a second-rate spirit.

Now that was an interesting question. He doubted his initial reason – ‘Oh, my friend was gone and I wanted someone to talk to’ – would be taken well. Yet to his surprise, he found that he did have another answer.

Actually, I thought we might have a common interest. I have heard that you’ve long been scheming to end your people’s enslavement?

Faquarl’s aura, which had been gradually losing its tension, suddenly retreated behind icy walls.

And why would you want to know about that, magician ? The words cracked out like a whip.

I have always wanted to end your kind’s suffering. Since before my first summoning-

Spare me your play-acting, Ptolemaeus of Alexandria. You betray your own lie in the telling. A selfless magician? The laughter that rang out had no humor in it. If you cared of our subjugation as you claim, you would never have performed a summoning at all.

I am not lying, Ptolemy said, but for all their truth, the words felt weak in the face of Faquarl’s rage. Of course Rekhyt had said such things, as had Affa and Penrenutet, but never before had Ptolemy been able to feel the essence-deep hatred that overwhelmed him now. He could not face this pain directly.

I do have another reason as well , he said, finding as he said it that it was true. Bartimaeus saved my life. I love him dearly. I … need to protect him. I need to protect him.

Before Faquarl could reply, Ptolemy summoned within himself the truth of that statement. Rekhyt’s panic at being summoned, every memory of pain and helplessness and resigned acceptance, all of it ate through Ptolemy like a parasite, solidifying into a desperate, consuming need to protect . Then he hurled it outward, letting his own feelings flood Faquarl just as Faquarl’s rage was flooding him. The force of it crackled between them like deadly lightning, and then-

There was a moment of stunned silence.

You truly care about Bartimaeus.

I do.

You would end our slavery for him.

I would do it because it is the right thing to do. But yes, he alone would be cause enough for me.

You are a magician.

I was. Which means I know the workings of pentacles, the intricacies of the barriers between worlds, and the mechanics of your bondage.

And you offer, what? Friendship? The word was thick with disdain.

I hope for an alliance. I have expertise that you lack. You have the experience of three thousand years vying for freedom, and the ability to travel to Earth, unwilling though it may be.

Every spirit has that ability, as well as the ‘common interest,’ as you put it. Why ask me? Why not your precious Bartimaeus?

Because Bartimaeus thinks quite highly of you, though he’ll deny it. And from what he’s said, you’re a revolutionary. Not many spirits are. I think we could make a real change.

There was a pause, long even by the mutable standards of Other Place time, as Faquarl considered.

A magician, offering to turn on his fellows for love of a djinni. It sounds like an idiotic theater play.

This is real.

Perhaps so. And yet I wonder… Faquarl’s voice trailed off. Then suddenly, quick as a snake: Would you kill a magician, Ptolemaeus?

What?

Bartimaeus is enslaved right now, is he not? Would you kill his master and free him, if you had the chance?

I … yes. Yes I would.

And other magicians? The ones who had you killed, perhaps?

Ptolemy hesitated. Faquarl did not.

And what of one who you had nothing to gain from? Someone who had never wronged you. A magician you knew nothing of, save their profession. Would you do it? Would you wipe them all out, if it could end our slavery for good?

Ptolemy, dreamer of peace, was silent. It was all the answer Faquarl needed.

As I thought. I will grant that you are unusual, perhaps even unique among humans. You have drive, and have done what no one else ever has. But you are still human, and humans revert to type.

Faquarl flashed memories at him, too quick to follow, but clear in their meaning. A litany of pain-rage-loss-fear -pain, the legacy of three thousand years of enslavement. 

You know what magicians do, to all spirits, including your dear Bartimaeus. But despite your protestations, you are still one of them. You will not truly turn on your own kind, even if you tell yourself otherwise.

Now Faquarl’s presence bore down thick and heavy from all directions, an oppressive mirror to Bartimaeus’s protective cocoon.

We have no alliance, Ptolemaeus. Come back when you are ready to watch the magicians burn .

And with that, he was gone, and Ptolemy was once more alone in the infinitudes of the Other Place.