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Mieko Belle Disclaimer: Characters belong to Philip Pullman. A/n: My first foray out of the Harry Potter fandom... I know I haven't managed to do Pullman's tremendous work justice, but I thought I'd take a crack at it all the same. I've never read a realistic fic where Lyra and Will meet again, and as much as I can't stand the ending of The Amber Spyglass, it also makes a weird and perfect sort of sense and I adore it. It touched me somehow, far more than any other book has got to me in a very long time, and I was crying and crying all night... books rarely make me cry, so when one manages it I'm really impressed, and the author is instantly elevated to deity status. This is slightly weird... it’s set after that goodbye, but it’s not soppy, drippy, fluffy Will. It’s... angry Will. I’ve based it on what I felt after someone very close to me died. I thought the Will/Lyra thing was similar to that because they’ll never be together until they’re both dead. I don’t know how well this is going to be received... but here it is. For Andrew. I Hate Her I'll never be free of her. She haunts my dreams, a beautiful ghost that no number of exorcisms could ever rid me of... a phantom with dark blonde hair, and the sweetest smile I've ever seen, and breasts and hips just beginning to swell her skin in soft curves. It's cruel enough that I can never see her again... why am I still cursed with dreams of her? Waking breaks me in two. Closing that window for the last time tore away something that was as much a part of me as my dæmon. With every Lyra-less day that passes, I'm becoming more and more sure that there's another part to a person, another part similar to a dæmon. Lyra has always been a part of me, just like Kirjava -- I know now I’ve always known it, even before I met them both -- and now she's gone I'm living an incomplete life, a life in which nothing can fill the ragged hole she slashed into me with that last glance through the tear in the fabric of existence. I know now there's truth to the notion of soulmates. All I have to say on that subject is that I think whomever it is that organises these things has a sick sense of humour. Maybe I'm dwelling on her, like Mary dwelled on thoughts of her first boyfriend... but I know what I feel, and I know what I feel is love. I love Lyra, and I hate her for it. It’s physical. As the window grew smaller, the bond between us seemed to fray and I thought my chest would cave in. She is my heart, my life... without her, I’m empty. Ripping myself from Kirjava in the land of the dead ended up being for the better. Ripping myself from my heart is, in effect, glorified suicide. I thrash about in bed while I dream. Sometimes it's so violent that I wake my mother, but she doesn't understand. I stay with Mary a lot, and she does understand. She sits on my bed and hugs me tight and brushes my hair away from my sweaty forehead and listens to me crying. At first I asked her why, between my tears, but I don't any more. There's no point. Yes, I dream of Lyra. Lyra Belacqua, Lyra Silvertongue. Lyra. My Lyra. My precious... Grown-ups think kids like me are incapable of love. Grown-ups think life for boys my age is all football and pop music and lightheartedness. Well... I've seen things that would make a grown man cower with fear, and I've known a love that would satisfy even the oldest, most implacable heart. I've loved before, it's true. I love my Mum dearly, and I love cats, and I love Mars bars... I love lots of things, but Lyra overshadows everything. The moon and sun take silver and bronze place when I compare those radiant celestial illuminations to her golden hair. Picturing her sets my heart pounding, and I hate her for it. It's not her fault. I love her... but why? Why can't I get her out of my head? Breathing hurts because I know she'll never be there to perfume my air with her scent. It hurts to stay in bed because she's not there, but it hurts to get up because I'll never find her. It hurts to drink Coke, because it reminds me of the way she looked when I showed her how to open the ring-pull for the first time. I can't even smell omelettes any more without feeling nauseous. It hurts to think, hurts to dream... but it hurts not to think and not to dream, because that's all I have left. I don't even have a photograph of her. Memories suffice, but they leave deep, burning scars. Memories of Lyra are tearing me apart. I love her so much it makes breathing difficult. I love her so much that the mere thought of her name sets my heart pounding so hard I can almost see my chest heaving under my t-shirt. It's deafeningly loud, like a drum roll. How dramatic. I don't feel dramatic. I feel... tired. No, weary. What I feel is beyond unhappiness, although I am unhappy, and beyond pain, although it does hurt. It's beyond comprehension, because everything I think and feel is sullied by confusion. I want her, but I know I can't have her. I want to think about her, but it's so unbearably painful. I want to see her again, but we’d both have to die. Maybe I could... It's an idea. Not a very good one, but suicide is a definite option. I know what happens now. To be nothing and everything all at once would be such a blessed relief for me... only even the kingdom of heaven would be hellish for me if she wasn't there. How can I go on for the rest of my years like this? She’s ruining my life. And I hate her. And I love her. |
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