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In the heart of a blazing, vicious storm, a war was raging on.
Lyra thought she'd known the worst pain imaginable when she'd forced Pan's desperate claws from her clothes, abandoned him on the pier and drifted further from her daemon than she ever thought possible. The hurt had been akin to ripping a limb from her body, and it had been all she could do to scream, the tortured sound tearing from her lungs. The girl had believed there was no worse feeling than having a part of you so far away, holding on by an invisible link, until the translucent, shadowed forms of spectres swarmed around her, becoming visible to her eyes for the first time. The choking, paralising fear and agony all but suffocated her, engulfing her screams before they escaped her lungs.
In her peripheral, Will was bent double, clearly experiencing the same horrors the pair could no longer hide from. The gravity of the danger settled wordlessly between them. Not even the knife could suppress the sheer, countless number of spectres. They appeared to darken, their smoky forms becoming bolder and deeper, smothering the two teens from the fighting beyond.
For a moment, Lyra wondered whether they would become like Tullio, emotionless and unresponsive, and, through her pain, she clung to thoughts of the ghosts she had freed and the knowledge that no one would be trapped in the Land of the Dead ever again.
It was then, as the child sent a silent, comforting thought to her daemon, hoping he might hear her, that the spectres screeched. The shrill sound tore through Lyra's thoughts, shocking her firmly to the present and she watched, fumbling though the dark, avoiding touching any fog-like forms, as they moved back, retreated, parting on either side of the pair as though commanded to hold back.
"Will!" Clutching the boy's shoulder as he recovered, his knife-wielding arm held outstretched to ward off the last remaining spectres, Lyra felt a rush of relief that he was safe and unharmed, and her own body felt only a dull ache of exhaustion.
Feeling the intensity of a gaze, and satisfied Will was safe and able to ward off any lingering spectres, Lyra turned in the direction of the source of their escape, her breath catching as she knew whatever or whomever she saw held a power over spectres that not even Will's knife could combat.
All of the breath left her in a rush, lips mouthing words that were too slow and uncertain to form.
Her mother. Since Lyra had left the woman behind, fled from her for the countless time, she appeared changed. Pale blue eyes no longer held the untrustworthy, obsessive glint, demanding control. Instead, they were heavy with exhaustion, haunted almost, yet there was a vulnerability and softness Lyra only remembered seeing hints of the last time she had left Mrs. Coulter behind.
Gaze dropping to the golden-furred daemon, Lyra was stunned to see his arm lifted, paw softly held within the palm of his human, who had never before treated him with such gentle kindness in Lyra's presence. The sight made Lyra's heart ache for Pan, and for something else. Something that was awfully difficult to repress without the security and love of her own daemon in her arms. The golden monkey let go of the woman's hand, his black glaze wider than the child could remember as he searched for something by her own feet that Lyra knew he wouldn't find.
Her blurred gaze returning to the woman, Lyra watched as the other's arms lifted, opened, and the corners of her thin lips tilted upwards before she hesitated, palms curling in on themselves.
Unable to hold herself back any longer, Lyra found her tired legs moving, stumbling the few steps towards the dejected woman, who seemed as genuinely shocked as she was that for the first time, Lyra ran towards her mother.
It was the warmest she'd felt in days, wrapped in the familiar embrace, though her body had begun to adjust to the everlasting cold. "Thank you." Lyra's voice sounded strange to her own ears, and not only because it was muffled by the taller woman's brown leather jacket.
Breaking apart at the blinding flash of lightning and the sudden downpour of rain, the whole exchange only having lasted mere seconds, Lyra recovered from her bought of complicated emotions and reached back for Will's arm, finding him beside her. The storm had reached them. Far away in the distance, where the wind carried noise of battle, the spectres, witches, ghosts and people fought, closer than they had been before the initial swarm of spectres had attacked them.
"Quickly, in here," Mrs Coulter pointed towards one of the makeshift tents that littered the plain, dimly lit and offering some shelter. Lyra tugged Will along and followed her mother without question, seeing no other choice.
Once they were inside, Will crouched in the corner of the tent, eyes half on the battle and half searching for the return of any spectres, knife clutched tightly in his palms. In the centre of the shelter, Lyra felt her mother's eyes on her at the same time that the woman's fingers threaded through her tangled, dirty hair. "We don't have much time." There was a sad acceptance lacing Mrs. Coulter's tone, so jarring that the girl tore her worried gaze from the boy she cared for up to the woman she had long-since sworn to feel nothing but hatred towards.
"We don't?" It had meant to be a statement, a confirmation that they would be going their separate ways, that Lyra didn't need nor want her mother's protection, but the lift of her voice betrayed a deep-rooted, buried longing. A disappointment Lyra feared her mother to hear, and she lowered her gaze.
"Oh, Lyra..." Feeling her chin lifted by a cool, slender finger, the daughter clenched her jaw, eyes stinging from more than the dusty air. Her mother's eyes mirrored her own, watery, regretful, and a part of the girl felt a pang as a thought echoed menacingly in her mind, mimicking the voice of the harpies before they had softened towards her
'She doesn't want you anymore. You run and run, face none of your shared problems and she's grown tired of it. Tired of you. You wanted to hate her, blame her for all she did and more and now there's no room for reconciliation. You can't hate her and have her love.'
"Stop... Please." Once the voice faded, Lyra blinked open dark eyes she'd squeezed tightly closed and realised her mother had taken a step back and was looking at her with the most genuine yet sorrowful smile she had ever seen upon her too-perfect face.
"I'm sorry, Lyra. I won't touch you--"
"That's not what I..." Lyra interrupted, desperate to iron out the misunderstanding but unsure how to explain, and no longer willing to lie.
"Contrary to what you must believe, I didn't expect you to be here. I am not here to capture you or force you to stray from your own path. I'm letting you go..." Mrs. Coulter nodded as she spoke, as though she were trying to convince herself of a horrible truth, a tear trailing down her pale cheek.
"Why are you here? Where are you going?" Lyra asked, for she was disturbed by the differences in the woman before her. She had become so used to their manipulation games, their battle for control, each fighting for the upper hand, that it sent an icy shudder through her slim form to hear her mother speak in such a way. To be set free from her mother's control was all she had ever wanted, but, like a bird held in a captivity, now that she was free, she hesitated.
"That doesn't matter," her mother replied, though Lyra had not missed her glance up at the silvery palace in the sky, "All that matters is you will be safe. You'll have the time you need. Time to find your daemon. Time to follow... your path."
"You could come with us." Lyra spoke without a second thought, glancing back towards Will who was giving them the space and time to talk, "Will won't mind. I won't mind. We might need each other now."
"Darling..." A hesitant hand came up to hover by Lyra's cheek and, when she did not flinch away, softly cupped it, warming her skin. "I would love nothing more."
Lyra smiled and felt some of the swirling pit of emotions in her stomach clear. Before she could allow herself to imagine a future where she had the family she craved, she noticed something off about her mother's gaze. Whereas her own was filled with pure happiness, a short restbite from all else that was transpiring, Mrs. Coulter's was edged with that sad acceptance Lyra had noticed earlier, but had not yet questioned, and before Lyra could accuse her mother of lying, she realised she had never truly accepted her offer. "Where are you going? What are you going to do?" she asked again, voice as firm as she could muster.
"What I have to, for the good of all. For the good of you." The woman's hand clasped over thin air as Lyra stepped back abruptly. "I promise you - and you can ask your alethiometer, if you don't believe me - this is not like before."
Lyra, for once, did not feel a need to consult her alethiometer. Her mother was, regrettably, so like herself that she could feel when she was telling the truth and how much of the truth. The swirling, sickening feeling was back and for the first time in her life, Lyra felt herself worry for her mother. "You're gonna do something bad. I know it. Not bad like before, but different. Please don't. If you ever loved me, even just a little, you won't do it. You won't go there." Lyra knew she was acting as her mother used to, as she herself had vowed not to after the Land of the Dead, but if she could stop her mother from whatever it was she was planning, she would.
"You just don't understand, Lyra. I'm doing this because I love you. It's the only way." Mrs. Coulter had no sooner spoken than another flash of lightening hit closer, striking near to the tent and causing the girl to automatically turn and flinch against the light as the wind picked up, almost toppling the tent over with it.
"Wait!" It was then Lyra realised the distraction was all her mother had needed, and she noticed the bug-like form of an aircraft, perhaps the same one that had flown above her and Will's heads moments before the spectre attack. Her mother was nowhere to be seen.
Moving close to Will's side, bending to shield it from the rain streaming through rips in the tent's material, Lyra finally consulted her alethiometer, asking it the most desperate, fearful question she had in months, both afraid and anxious for the answer.
Sacrifice. The alethiometer never lied.
Dread. Finally, Lyra had a name for the growing being swarming deep in her stomach and her heart hammered in her chest as she searched wildly for the six-legged aircraft, gasping as she turned and saw it hovering, without a sound, a metre away, her mother in the cockpit with an expression matching Lyra's own before she was gone, soaring up, up, up towards the translucent edges of the clouded mountain.
Clutching Wills' shoulder for comfort and stability, unable to process his words and encouragements in her hear as he guided her across the muddy land, a silent scream contorted her lips. For the second time since she was born, Lyra watched her mother leave.