Land of the Deaths
As Lyra's death watched her cross the lake, leaving poor Pan behind, a wretched iron
fist clutched at his heart. Heart was not the right term, it was actually a cluster of durst, and
Lyra's being that he though, moved and sighed with. How many times had he watched his
beloved Lyra, following right behind her, sometimes she slipped, and he would reach out his
arms to catch her. But alas, she could not see him, nor feel his fatherly touch. How many times
had he felt the energy of a living being, so close to him, and yet so far away from his reach? He
knew his job. He was to follow her, and to take her to the Land of the Dead, but she was a
different being. She was Lyra, plain and simple. His Lyra. Oh there had been many before her,
he was forever following beings. But Lyra—she was different. There was something, unique
about Lyra.
On the day she could finally see him, he remembered how he had walked in front of her,
instead of behind. What a feeling that was- to guide a being. He felt insecure, and doubtful.
Horrified at the very thought of his Lyra- His very own, was going to the land of the dead. He
had to vanish; he knew that. But ah how he wanted to help her! Help her in some way,
whatever way. Impossible. She was breaking every law. He must not follow her anymore. He
sank into the mist, first bowing to her. Invisible, he watched as Lyra kissed her Pantalaimon
goodbye, and left him there, crying pitifully. Deaths and Daemons didn't get along well, and he
and Pantalaimon were no exception to the rule. He knew that Pantalaimon had snarled fiercely,
changing, flick-flick, trying to ward him off… but they were bound together. Bound by their love
for Lyra.
As Lyra sailed out of sight, the only thing left was Pan. Still invisible, he glided over to
Pan to comfort him, in any way he could. He brought back memories of Pan and Lyra,
together- and showed them to the crying daemon. Pan changed into the animal he was at the
time, a moth, a wolf, a cat, a bird… but all the visions only made the daemon wail louder. The
Death considered putting the daemon to sleep, for then Lyra would be all his. She would stay in
the land of the dead forever, and he would be with her. He bent down to kiss the daemon, to
kill it, but then stopped. He looked at the pitiful daemon, and unable to control himself, he felt a
coldness drift through his already sub-zero body. Guilt. He couldn't kill the daemon, thereby
killing Lyra just as she was about to gain her destiny, her life, and her dreams. He now knew
why he loved Lyra, because she was The One. The One to deliver the dead from their shadowy
prison. The One to change life, the one to reunite daemon to human after death. Daemons. How
he hated them.
When a child is still developing, a battle rages on, between death and daemon. If the
death wins, the unborn child is delivered to the hands of the death, and then to the land of the
dead. This rarely happens, because of the strength and power of daemons. As it often happens,
the daemon wins, and the child are born. Yet as the child gets older, the power shifts from
daemon to death. The death becomes stronger, and finally overpowers the daemon.
Lyra's death sat on a nearby rock, and watched Pan suffer. "Good. Let him suffer, the
greedy pig." he thought. But then he realized that Pan loved Lyra, and Lyra loved Pan. It would
never change. The daemon would always have power. With a sigh, Lyra's death scooped up
the sleeping Pan in his arms, and carried him safely away. He placed Pan underneath a bush,
and Pan's eyes opened wide. He changed into a Lynx, and took up a defensive stance- but
seeing no one around he chocked back a sob and slept. Lyra's death looked down at his lap,
playing with his hands. What was he to do? His time wasn't up yet- it wasn't time for him to
melt back into the earth, because Lyra was not dead. But he could not follow her. He felt
empty, alone, and worst of all, sympathy for the daemon curled next to him. He sheltered Pan
from the wild, stormy wind, protecting Pan with all the strength he could muster. Because a
death is made not of solid material, but of Dust, and the particles of the being and the beings
before it, Lyra's death was not strong. But he could draw out pictures in the mind, and unite
people, or beings together. Lyra's death watched the daemon sleep, a restless slumber- filled
with moans of Lyra's name. What would the future bring? Was Lyra really going to free the
dead? He really didn't know. While sitting there looking at the daemon, he realized that Lyra
would never love him. He was death, after all. He sighed, looked one last time at Pan, and
melted away, never to be seen again.
As Lyra's death watched her cross the lake, leaving poor Pan behind, a wretched iron
fist clutched at his heart. Heart was not the right term, it was actually a cluster of durst, and
Lyra's being that he though, moved and sighed with. How many times had he watched his
beloved Lyra, following right behind her, sometimes she slipped, and he would reach out his
arms to catch her. But alas, she could not see him, nor feel his fatherly touch. How many times
had he felt the energy of a living being, so close to him, and yet so far away from his reach? He
knew his job. He was to follow her, and to take her to the Land of the Dead, but she was a
different being. She was Lyra, plain and simple. His Lyra. Oh there had been many before her,
he was forever following beings. But Lyra—she was different. There was something, unique
about Lyra.
On the day she could finally see him, he remembered how he had walked in front of her,
instead of behind. What a feeling that was- to guide a being. He felt insecure, and doubtful.
Horrified at the very thought of his Lyra- His very own, was going to the land of the dead. He
had to vanish; he knew that. But ah how he wanted to help her! Help her in some way,
whatever way. Impossible. She was breaking every law. He must not follow her anymore. He
sank into the mist, first bowing to her. Invisible, he watched as Lyra kissed her Pantalaimon
goodbye, and left him there, crying pitifully. Deaths and Daemons didn't get along well, and he
and Pantalaimon were no exception to the rule. He knew that Pantalaimon had snarled fiercely,
changing, flick-flick, trying to ward him off… but they were bound together. Bound by their love
for Lyra.
As Lyra sailed out of sight, the only thing left was Pan. Still invisible, he glided over to
Pan to comfort him, in any way he could. He brought back memories of Pan and Lyra,
together- and showed them to the crying daemon. Pan changed into the animal he was at the
time, a moth, a wolf, a cat, a bird… but all the visions only made the daemon wail louder. The
Death considered putting the daemon to sleep, for then Lyra would be all his. She would stay in
the land of the dead forever, and he would be with her. He bent down to kiss the daemon, to
kill it, but then stopped. He looked at the pitiful daemon, and unable to control himself, he felt a
coldness drift through his already sub-zero body. Guilt. He couldn't kill the daemon, thereby
killing Lyra just as she was about to gain her destiny, her life, and her dreams. He now knew
why he loved Lyra, because she was The One. The One to deliver the dead from their shadowy
prison. The One to change life, the one to reunite daemon to human after death. Daemons. How
he hated them.
When a child is still developing, a battle rages on, between death and daemon. If the
death wins, the unborn child is delivered to the hands of the death, and then to the land of the
dead. This rarely happens, because of the strength and power of daemons. As it often happens,
the daemon wins, and the child are born. Yet as the child gets older, the power shifts from
daemon to death. The death becomes stronger, and finally overpowers the daemon.
Lyra's death sat on a nearby rock, and watched Pan suffer. "Good. Let him suffer, the
greedy pig." he thought. But then he realized that Pan loved Lyra, and Lyra loved Pan. It would
never change. The daemon would always have power. With a sigh, Lyra's death scooped up
the sleeping Pan in his arms, and carried him safely away. He placed Pan underneath a bush,
and Pan's eyes opened wide. He changed into a Lynx, and took up a defensive stance- but
seeing no one around he chocked back a sob and slept. Lyra's death looked down at his lap,
playing with his hands. What was he to do? His time wasn't up yet- it wasn't time for him to
melt back into the earth, because Lyra was not dead. But he could not follow her. He felt
empty, alone, and worst of all, sympathy for the daemon curled next to him. He sheltered Pan
from the wild, stormy wind, protecting Pan with all the strength he could muster. Because a
death is made not of solid material, but of Dust, and the particles of the being and the beings
before it, Lyra's death was not strong. But he could draw out pictures in the mind, and unite
people, or beings together. Lyra's death watched the daemon sleep, a restless slumber- filled
with moans of Lyra's name. What would the future bring? Was Lyra really going to free the
dead? He really didn't know. While sitting there looking at the daemon, he realized that Lyra
would never love him. He was death, after all. He sighed, looked one last time at Pan, and
melted away, never to be seen again.