A Mirror Darkly

Rating: T (non-explicit sexuality)
Pairing: Bartimaeus/Faquarl
Spoilers: None; pre-series.

Disclaimer: The characters are from the Bartimaeus novels and are the property of Jonathan Stroud.

Notes: So, this pairing. Totally one of my favorites, I'll admit, especially after the additional insight we got into their not-friendship in The Ring of Solomon (although this story contains no spoilers for the book). The four parts are meant to be able to stand alone, but I also intended for them to be read as a single unit and still have a logical progression. At any rate, I really enjoyed writing this – I hope you like reading it as well.

I. The Naming

Which one of them gained their earthbound identity first is a constant point of contention between them, but both recall the moment of rending with perfect clarity: the shock of separation when a realm of defined edges and constraining shapes stabbed into their peaceful chaos and carved their mingled essences apart. It's fitting for two so inextricably bound, mirror images of each other but for one crucial distortion, to share this memory.

They never speak of it, but they know. When they chance to occupy their home dimension at the same time their essences invariably drift together, trying to restore their former unity. But it's like kissing your reflection; the invisible barrier is constant and unyielding, and they will never be truly together again.

It's another thing to hate humans for, the violence and tragedy of the naming.

II. Bartimaeus

We're in Mesopotamia, fighting together for a change. We advance along with the rest of the host toward a city whose tower-spires gleam like beacons in the sunrise. The city is in fact exceedingly fair, even from a distance; even from here I can see the polished stones of the roads, the ornate buildings, the spectacular temples. Probably it took many centuries to build. Within a day or two it'll be nothing but rubble.

As usual, Faquarl's chosen form is a pointed contrast to my unfailing elegance. I've taken the form of a lithe young man, supple of limb, whose silky curls and unblemished complexion belie my indomitable aggression in battle. Faquarl has adopted the body of a dumpy middle-aged soldier, face brutal and pockmarked, shaded with uneven stubble. He squints at the approaching enemy force and bares blocky, yellowed teeth.

"Always the bulky forms with you," I mutter out of the side of my mouth; we're flying alongside each other, borne on immense feathered wings – mine shining white, his a dull, dowdy brown. I ask you. "You do realize all you're doing is presenting a bigger target."

"Not all of us have to rely on our ability to outrun the enemy," Faquarl retorts bluntly, not glancing in my direction. "Be as aerodynamic as you like, Bartimaeus – I at least can fight if I have to."

My reply is succinct: a spectacularly rude noise cuts over the sound of thousands of beating wings and warm-up battle cries. Faquarl gives me a weary sideways look.

"I'm just saying," I continue, "sometimes it's best to disguise your supposed brawn. Look at me – in a pinch I could uproot one of those towers and use it to brain any foe who underestimates me in battle, and they'd never expect it. Element of surprise."

"Element of vanity, more like," Faquarl grunts.

"More like some element of taste," I shoot back, "which you clearly lack, or you might do something about that paunch."

"Oh, I have taste," Faquarl says dismissively. "But I choose to temper my eye for aesthetics with practicality. Battle is ugly, Bartimaeus – spirits will die. At least I won't be mincing around like a pretty cupbearer when I run my enemies of circumstance through."

"I don't mince, what are you–?"

"I suppose," he says over me, sarcasm building in his previously unruffled tone, "that if I looked like this, I'd wear the bloodstains with more aplomb."

I look to the side and almost fall out of the air; the paunchy soldier has been replaced by a surpassingly handsome man, his muscled torso oiled and gleaming in the morning light, his wings sleek and silvery. White-blond hair streams back from his aquiline profile; his golden eyes narrow again at the dark shapes amassing before the city.

I regain my altitude, if not my dignity, and stare deliberately ahead.

"Oh, change back, why don't you," I say gruffly. "You're trying so hard it's embarrassing."

A short laugh, a shift in the air; I don't have to look to know Faquarl's resumed his ugly form. Well, let it be, if it pleases him. He's just the type to become an insufferable peacock if he doesn't check himself a bit, anyway.

III. Faquarl

Faquarl prides himself on his restraint, but now, as he sifts unproductively through one of millions of dunes in the desert, he curses Bartimaeus' name at a volume that shakes the very air.

"Feeble-minded coward!" he roars, raking the sand with his claws. "Arrogant, thoughtless jackal!"

He slips between languages and dialects without realizing it as he continues to rant, scoring great lines in the surface of the desert, occasionally recovering a coin or gem. After one particularly nasty Greek oath he rocks back on his heels and turns his face to the scorching sun. The task – recovering every last bit of treasure that had been scattered to the farthest reaches of the desert – is nearly insurmountable, the strain of mucking around in what constitutes as weak earth ever-present and aggravating. What had prompted Bartimaeus to descend on him in a devastating whirl of air, to disrupt Faquarl's charge and consign him to awful punishment and what was sure to be years of menial labor, was beyond him.

As if Bartimaeus needed a reason anyway. The djinni tended to act on whatever wicked impulse drifted into his seed-sized mind, heedless of consequences, delighting in thoughtless capering and destruction. As a senior djinni, "born" into selfhood before Bartimaeus no matter what the overblown twit claimed, Faquarl was disgusted – Bartimaeus' mere existence was an insult to the nobility of his kind.

So flashy, always preening in his pretty forms, boasting and dancing around fights without ever pulling his weight. If Faquarl didn't know better he'd think Bartimaeus almost liked his time on earth, when not worn down by continuous hard labor – he'd always had a weakness for beauty, even the fleshy, transient human kind, and seemed to revel in incorporating it into his earthly shapes.

Faquarl growls and blasts apart a dune with a Detonation, sending a plume of sand hundreds of feet high into the sky.

A delicate cough behind him, a slight metallic plink. Faquarl turns slowly, dark energy already swirling around one hand; the nimbus swells ominously when his eyes land on the intruder.

Bartimaeus smiles cheekily, in an attractive form as usual; slender fingers flick a coin into the air and catch it with a maddening rhythm.

"Hello there," he greets Faquarl with oily insincerity. "I found this for you."

Plink. The coin spins upward again; Faquarl darts out a hand and snatches it in midair.

"I do hope you didn't exert yourself," he says coolly.

"Nah," Bartimaeus says expansively, rolling his shoulders back. "What would be the point of that? It's not my charge."

"No," Faquarl agrees, forcing himself to keep his tone even. "That would be mine, of course – as you know well. Quite a costly little prank, wouldn't you say?"

"Not for me."

"I don't suppose you'd care to enlighten me as to why…?"

Bartimaeus shrugs. "I'm sure you had it coming. We tend to be thrown together so much these days it's hard to keep track of who's done what."

"This is a grievous offense, Bartimeaus," Faquarl says quietly. "You've greatly prolonged my captivity, put me at the further mercy of a human without reasonable cause – one might call such behavior traitorous."

"Now, there's no need to get all dramatic," Bartimaeus says blithely enough, but Faquarl thinks he can detect a faint strain of worry in his voice. As there should be – all at once the swirling energy around Faquarl's hand crackles to life and darts in a bolt toward Bartimaeus' chest. The other djinni doesn't quite manage to block it, and goes tumbling a good distance across the sand. Faquarl advances with deliberate slowness, seething.

"Well then, Bartimaeus," he calls, "aren't you going to run?"

In answer, a red Spasm erupts from Bartimaeus' fingers and makes the air hiss. Faquarl deflects it with irritation. There's a reason Bartimaeus sticks to wiles and cheap shots – of the two of them, Faquarl is stronger, and they both know it.

"Oh, I'm going," Bartimaeus snarls, eyes glowing yellow. They're facing each other in a kind of standoff, the initial stages of attacks glowing around their hands. Faquarl considers striking again, but just as quickly discards the idea. Let him go, then. The grasping ambition of magicians will draw them together again before long.

"Oh, nearly forgot," Bartimaeus says, rising into the air; he slides a satchel off his shoulders and throws it down at Faquarl's feet. It lands with a series of promising-sounding clinks. "Much good may it do you."

He whirls into the air, with just enough wind to blow Faquarl's tunic and hair sharply back. Faquarl pushes back the flap of the satchel; a respectable assortment of coins, jewelry, and a sizable golden bull figurine sparkle up at him. The last of Faquarl's anger drains sharply away. As apologies go, this is as close as Bartimaeus is likely to get.

IV. Tangled

"Keep your tentacles out of this, would you? You'll put an eye out."

"I – oh – forgive me if I find it a bit – nngh – difficult to concentrate on one form when you're…"

There's hardly a word for it, this…this very un-spiritlike activity. The suggestion itself had initially seemed ludicrous – still did, as a matter of fact – but curiosity had won out and now they're a tangle of occasionally shifting limbs in the cavern where they're keeping night watch. If they wished, they could no doubt produce other mouths with which to bicker, but as it turns out things go more smoothly when their lips are otherwise engaged. Their increasingly desperate, inelegant movements take place in heavy, intimate silence, broken by the occasional gasp or muffled groan.

"Quite obliging of you to be the blond one again, really."

"As if you would have stopped complaining if I hadn't. Your sensibilities are so delicate."

A sharp nip answers this remark, followed a soothing swipe of tongue. They move insistently together, at last finding a rhythm.

"You – realize this – this changes nothing." The words are strained, punctuated by a thin cry.

The response, softer: "Heaven forbid."

The fire burns low and then out; morning comes.

End Notes: I hope you liked it – drop me a line if your spirit moves you. Thanks for reading!