Author's note: This one-shot gives an epilogue to what may have happened in His Dark Materials if Lyra and Will had not been told that d¾mons cannot survive in a foreign world for more than 10 years or so. As such, they have moved to Will's England-- but from Oxford to London. It's my second fic, first His Dark Materials. Hope y'all enjoy!
The flat was in an old, slightly shabby section of Camden Lock. A couple blocks to the west was the canal, with the houseboats and bicyclists who stayed on their bikes when they went under the underpasses, a few low-hanging electrical wires, and a man, looking to be in his mid twenties, striding parallel to the canal, face drawn. The building itself was low-slung, three story brick, a burnt sienna from the red of the bricks and a hundred years of dust and dirt and coal smoke. A navy blue door labeled 816 Richton Street was set into the left hand corner, with five windows spaced 7 feet apart every floor.
The flat had an air of being inhabited by a comfortably shabby person, like a poor artist or scholar. Former occupants had painted it a lovely shade of spring green, but the result had been unsucessful, though not for lack of enthusiasm; they'd obviously taken time and precision, but had used rather inxpensive paint, and some orange, the shade of which is generally only seen at a construction site, was peeking out underneath. An iron balcony, leading off of the sitting room, was twined about with a myriad of vined plants until the entire thing was really a gorgeous, messy mass of matted plants, hanging from the next balcony up or resting on the ground in pots. The low, smouldering sunlights of evening in late summer passed, dappled by the plants, through the open glass door off the balcony and the white muslin curtain that hung in front of it. It was hot, and breezeless, except for a rickety fan by the unused fireplace. One-roomed, the kitchenette and dining room were raised; the kitchenette was enclosed by a half-wall, and opened out onto a small table and two chairs, then down two steps into the living room and bedroom. A small, not-totally-safe fireplace sat in the corner, flanked by a sofa and bookcase, and across the room was a double bed made up in a down comforter and crazy quilt. A young woman lay in the bed, looking pale, wan and ill even as she was sleeping. Her golden hair streamed wildly around her head and onto the pillow case. A gigantic book, maybe five inches thick, lay open with an instrument, a golden compass, placed upon it. The girl was petite, wasted, had a nose sprinkled with freckles, and if you didn't know she was just turned twenty-five you might mistake her for eighteen. In her arms nestled a red-gold pine marten, neither a pet nor, obviously, a wild animal. Their breaths were shallow and sychronized. In-out. In-out. Her name was Lyra, and the ermine, her d¾mon, was Pantalaimon.
Lyra and Pantalaimon's breaths, once shallow, now barely there, began to ebb altogether. Their limbs made no movement, and the girl's face looked as though it were carved of wax. The plastic clock on the wall ticked.
And then, finally, the breaths stopped.
A rogue breeze stirred from the dead inside air and wended out of the window. The muslin curtain blew out, out, and into the dusk. --
Ten minutes later, the man who had been walking by the canal, Will, came in through the door. Will called "Lyra? Lyra?" in a tenor's voice, and walked to the bedroom. He set his hand on her tiny wrist, feeling for a pulse. He found none and didn't need to check again. He walked out onto the flora-buried balcony. His claves tensed, he stood on the balls of his feet, and his fingers gripped the rail. But instead, he turned around, shoulders slumped, and did something far more painful. He walked back to the bed, lay down beside Lyra, and held her hand.
The flat was in an old, slightly shabby section of Camden Lock. A couple blocks to the west was the canal, with the houseboats and bicyclists who stayed on their bikes when they went under the underpasses, a few low-hanging electrical wires, and a man, looking to be in his mid twenties, striding parallel to the canal, face drawn. The building itself was low-slung, three story brick, a burnt sienna from the red of the bricks and a hundred years of dust and dirt and coal smoke. A navy blue door labeled 816 Richton Street was set into the left hand corner, with five windows spaced 7 feet apart every floor.
The flat had an air of being inhabited by a comfortably shabby person, like a poor artist or scholar. Former occupants had painted it a lovely shade of spring green, but the result had been unsucessful, though not for lack of enthusiasm; they'd obviously taken time and precision, but had used rather inxpensive paint, and some orange, the shade of which is generally only seen at a construction site, was peeking out underneath. An iron balcony, leading off of the sitting room, was twined about with a myriad of vined plants until the entire thing was really a gorgeous, messy mass of matted plants, hanging from the next balcony up or resting on the ground in pots. The low, smouldering sunlights of evening in late summer passed, dappled by the plants, through the open glass door off the balcony and the white muslin curtain that hung in front of it. It was hot, and breezeless, except for a rickety fan by the unused fireplace. One-roomed, the kitchenette and dining room were raised; the kitchenette was enclosed by a half-wall, and opened out onto a small table and two chairs, then down two steps into the living room and bedroom. A small, not-totally-safe fireplace sat in the corner, flanked by a sofa and bookcase, and across the room was a double bed made up in a down comforter and crazy quilt. A young woman lay in the bed, looking pale, wan and ill even as she was sleeping. Her golden hair streamed wildly around her head and onto the pillow case. A gigantic book, maybe five inches thick, lay open with an instrument, a golden compass, placed upon it. The girl was petite, wasted, had a nose sprinkled with freckles, and if you didn't know she was just turned twenty-five you might mistake her for eighteen. In her arms nestled a red-gold pine marten, neither a pet nor, obviously, a wild animal. Their breaths were shallow and sychronized. In-out. In-out. Her name was Lyra, and the ermine, her d¾mon, was Pantalaimon.
Lyra and Pantalaimon's breaths, once shallow, now barely there, began to ebb altogether. Their limbs made no movement, and the girl's face looked as though it were carved of wax. The plastic clock on the wall ticked.
And then, finally, the breaths stopped.
A rogue breeze stirred from the dead inside air and wended out of the window. The muslin curtain blew out, out, and into the dusk. --
Ten minutes later, the man who had been walking by the canal, Will, came in through the door. Will called "Lyra? Lyra?" in a tenor's voice, and walked to the bedroom. He set his hand on her tiny wrist, feeling for a pulse. He found none and didn't need to check again. He walked out onto the flora-buried balcony. His claves tensed, he stood on the balls of his feet, and his fingers gripped the rail. But instead, he turned around, shoulders slumped, and did something far more painful. He walked back to the bed, lay down beside Lyra, and held her hand.