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[reshapes]

action + written + crystal

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[reshapes]

Nothing. Everything. I wasn't a you or an I then. I just was.

[rathercommon]

Is that...what it's like when you're back there now?

[reshapes]

[You know, he'd been having fun with this a few seconds ago. But now-- the patter of his feet has slowed. The background noise across the sending crystal has faded to an inconsequential murmur. He's breathing harder than he'd like and he has a stitch in his side and a cut on his arm (copper; nothing to worry about), and the whole thing seems a little...

Lightly, all good temper and cheer:]

That's right. Technically I still have a name there. Or rather, there are pieces of Essence that are are still bound to that like a fish on a hook. But in the Other Place, it's so much less clear which parts it actually belongs to. It's all rather liberating really. Literally and figuratively, as it just so happens.

[rathercommon]

Mm.

[ It's all so weird and foreign. ]

Could you ever just - change your name?

[ She feels silly as soon as she asks the question, like it's something that's obviously stupid, and she just doesn't get that it's obviously stupid. But - she's Kitty and not Kathleen any longer; why can't he change his name, too? Make it so he doesn't have to answer any longer? ]

[reshapes]

[It's so stupid a question that it gives him actual pause.]

It's not something I choise, Kitty. I can't just say Actually, it's Albert now and put my fingers in my ears whenever a summoning comes looking for some chap called Bartimaeus.

[Or its variations. But that's clearly a complication that Kitty isn't ready to juggle yet.]

[rathercommon]

Well -

[ She feels very silly. ]

Why not?

[reshapes]

Because when I say it's my name, I mean that I belong to it and not the other way around. Mind you, there are worse options. I knew a djinni in Samaria whose name sounded an awful lot like--

[A very rude word here, but let's not record that. There might be children reading.]

I don't know if you've noticed, but what I want doesn't have much to do with my existence in worlds like yours. I can't just pick and choose. But honestly, neither can you. Your birth name has power. It's why you shouldn't just go around telling it to everyone.

[rathercommon]

What d'you mean, power? What sort of power?

[reshapes]

[Of for the love of--]

I could show you, but I don't think you'd like it. Just trust me when I say that it makes you vulnerable and that you can't just wriggle out of it by sheer force of will.

[rathercommon]

Or you could tell me. No need to show anything.

[reshapes]

Or you could just trust me. [He'll admit to being a little peevish on the delivery there. But who could blame him?] Anyway, you're not a magician. It matters less if you're not having magic slung at you or trying to poke spirits in sensitive places.

[rathercommon]

I have magic flung at me plenty.

[reshapes]

Then I suppose it's a good thing you've such a sporty nickname, eh?

[An exaggerated huff.]

Your birth name is like a magnet. Magic is drawn to it. Invoking it makes an attack that much more potent. The semantics of it would all be far too complicated for someone like yourself, but the long and the short of it is that anyone who knows it can beat your more easily and can defend themselves from anything you can do more handily. It's why magicians go to such pains to hide theirs. It's why they can bind spirits whose names they know, and why we're compelled to follow their charge.

[rathercommon]

But I know -

[ Oh. ]

Fake names. The names of magicians - Mandrake and Makepeace and Tallow and all them - they're made up. Is that it?

[reshapes]

[He pants out an appalled sound.] Of course they are. So feel free to judge any one of them who's name is especially absurd. Makepeace! What a load of--

[A clattering noise pierces through the sending crystal. It's followed immediately by...

Well, by nothing at all.]

[rathercommon]

[ At first she thinks he's censored himself. But then, after a moment, she remembers: Bartimaeus is foul-mouthed and smutty-minded. He'd never censor himself. ]

Hullo?

[ With growing worry - ]

Are you all right?

[reshapes]

[No answer.

Maybe he's ignoring her in the most aggravating method possible?]

[rathercommon]

Bartimaeus? [ Torn between being anxious and furious: ]

Say something, won't you!

[reshapes]

[A resounding silence answers, punctuated only by the ring of some distant bell marking the evening hour. Closer: a swelling of laughter, an indistinguishable bark of conversation underscored by the muffled sound of a fiddle. Then that too is muffled. A door opening and shutting. The sound of footsteps growing closer, then fading again.]

[rathercommon]

[ She lets loose a noise of frustration. He's screwing with her. He's obviously screwing with her. He's obviously not dead. But -

But. Why wouldn't he let her come and help? Why didn't she pester him till she knew where he was? He might be dead now. Or something. And she has no idea where he is.

So she gnaws on her knuckle, waiting, hoping he'll say something. And if not... ]

[reshapes]

[Lucky for both of them that it doesn't come to that then.

All at once, there is the sound of something slapping against the ground very near by. A scraping. A jostling. Breathlessly and rather irritated:]

--there you are. How you people remember to hold on to anything while you're walking around is beyond me. Do you realize how useless it is being stuck with two hands? Are you still there, Kitty?

[rathercommon]

[ She all but shrieks when he starts speaking again. In her mind, she'd resigned herself to the thought that something truly dire and awful had occurred; this, therefore, constitutes a very unexpected resurrection. ]

What - What is wrong with you?

[reshapes]

[Somewhere in Kirkwall, a young man is standing in an alley at the bottom of a rickety ladder leading up on to a series of sketchy rooftops, across which he's just double backed across and descended from when he'd noticed the little string about his neck had lost the crystal at the end of it, thanks - he's certain - in part to the desperate tug it'd recieved from a certain determined Lowtown mugger immediately prior to him being stabbed by own knife. This young man makes a distinctly flabbergasted noise.]

What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me! After all the effort I've put into carrying on this conversation while I've been busy, and this is the thanks I get?

[rathercommon]

[ Not that much effort. ]

You were quiet for - You'd just been in a fight, and then you went completely silent. What was I to think?

[reshapes]

[Oh please, he could have ignored her from the start.]

That some Kirkwall hooligan managed to do more than scratch me? Don't insult me, Miss Jones!