Chapter Text
Home
“Home is the place where you are allowed to fall apart.”
Washington, D.C. smelled like rain.
Lyra noticed it before she saw the house.
She had forgotten how different the city felt after Camp. There were cars. Sirens. People arguing on pavements. The distant sound of music from an open window. Ordinary things. Mortal things.
Her mother was waiting.
Béatrice barely let Lyra put her bag down before she pulled her into a hug.
Lyra held on.
For several seconds, neither of them said anything.
Then Béatrice pulled back.
Her eyes went to Lyra's face.
She stopped.
The reaction was immediate and impossible to hide. Her breath caught. Her eyes widened. One hand rose towards her mouth.
Lyra's stomach dropped.
“Mama...”
Béatrice blinked rapidly and lowered her hand.
“Oh, Petite rêveuse.”
She didn't ask whether it hurt.
She could see that it had.
She touched Lyra's hair carefully, brushing it away from the bandage without touching the wound itself.
“Come inside,” She said in French.
And Lyra did.
* * *
She told her everything.
Not all at once.
It took hours.
She talked about Percy and the quest. About Kronos. About the visions. About the Golden Door. About Apollo, once she finally understood who Sun had been.
And then she told her about Luke.
Béatrice cried.
Not loudly.
She simply sat very still with tears running down her face.
“Luke?”
Lyra nodded.
“He did this.”
Her hand moved towards the scar.
“Not on purpose.”
Béatrice closed her eyes.
“I know.”
That was the worst part.
Béatrice had loved Luke.
He had come to this house so often that it had stopped feeling like a visit. He knew where the plates were kept. He knew which cupboard contained the good biscuits. He had practically had his own bedroom, even if Ethan had accidentally been forced to share it with him often enough to complain about the injustice of it.
There were memories everywhere.
Luke sitting at the kitchen table.
Luke arguing with Ethan.
Luke stealing food.
Luke laughing with Lyra.
Luke asleep on the sofa after travelling.
Béatrice looked towards the hallway.
“I don't understand.”
Lyra shook her head.
“Neither do I.”
“He loved you.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Bearice asked in English.
Lyra's eyes filled again.
“I don't know.”
Béatrice reached across the sofa and took her hand.
“I don't understand his anger.”
“Neither do I.”
“But what he did was wrong.”
Lyra nodded.
“I know.”
They sat in silence.
Béatrice squeezed her hand.
“You can love someone and still know they hurt you.”
Lyra looked at her.
“That's what I told Percy.”
“Then perhaps you already knew.”
Lyra leaned against her mother's shoulder.
“I still want him to come back.”
Béatrice kissed the top of her head.
“I know.”
She did not tell Lyra that she shouldn't.
She did not tell her to forgive him.
She simply held her.
* * *
For the first time in months, Lyra slept in her own bed.
The ridiculous Disney blanket was still there. The hanging chair was still overflowing with stuffed animals. Books still covered the shelves. Everything looked exactly as she had left it.
Home.
She fell asleep listening to the familiar sounds of the city outside.
Darkness.
A boy.
Ethan.
His face.
One eye.
Pain.
Blood.
A ship.
Water.
Too much water.
A sea that did not feel safe.
Percy.
Annabeth.
A monster beneath the waves.
The Sea of Monsters.
Lyra tried to understand.
Was this tomorrow?
Next summer?
Already happening?
She did not know.
The vision dissolved.
The Golden Door appeared.
Lyra knew it immediately.
Warm gold spilled beneath it.
The sea waited beyond.
The lyre.
The sunlight.
Apollo.
For a moment, Lyra stood there.
She could open it.
She could ask questions.
She could finally tell him that she knew.
But she didn't.
Lyra stepped back.
Not because she was afraid of him.
Because she was tired.
She had lost Luke.
She had learned she was a Seer.
Or going to be one.
She had learned Fate had plans for her.
She had learned that the mysterious person she had been talking to was a god who had apparently known her long before she knew him.
She needed time.
The Golden Door remained open.
Lyra turned away.
The gold faded behind her.
She did not look back.
For tonight, at least, she chose herself.