The Longing of the Dead

by islandofhopex

When Roger saw Lyra in the land of the dead, he felt something almost akin to jealousy. But could he really feel something like that when he'd died before he could grow up? Roger/Lyra, with references to Will/Lyra.

Roger Parslow never understood that romance junk his superiors were into.

When those ruddy teenagers in town would spew mushy words that seemed to belong in the fairytales Lyra so liked to make fun of, Roger would wince, and the teenagers would laugh, tell him he'd understand when his dæmon settled. He would look from the odd pair to his tail-wagging Salcilia, and be unable to imagine such a time.

He always took comfort in the fact that Lyra felt the same way. In fact, she was even more against the idea, sometimes daring to spit at the caretaker who spoke of her settling down with a nice, calming man.

So when Roger saw her enter the land of the dead with that look directed at that Will boy, something stirred inside him. He wasn't sure if it was jealousy—how could it be when he hadn't even lived long enough to desire such things?

Maybe it was a different kind of longing. Maybe Roger just longed to know if he would feel any sort of jealousy. He longed to see Lyra look at Will through the eyes of his living self, the one who had grown up alongside her as he should have.

There was no use in longing anymore. But still, as he prepared to become one with the world, Roger thought he would've liked to discover that romance junk, rather than die as his best friend learned it without him.