I See You in Everything.

A/N: A letter from Will to Lyra asking for her permission to free himself from her. Please review.

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I crossed out the heading to this letter a few times. Dear Lyra seemed too redundant; I could write that to my boss, my great aunt. To: Lyra was too childish, a thing for a seven-year-old to write on a valentine. Just to put your name, the delicious, sweet Lyra, was too cold, even though those two, short syllables hold more than I can even grasp in one thought. So I left it blank, and you'll never see it. But it still needs to be perfect; it needs to be flawless to contain your name in it.

I still love you, Lyra. I still dream of your hair, like dark honey-gold, your skin so pale it shone like moonlight, your wide cerulean eyes, framed with lashes dipped in ink, your cerise lips, oh, your mouth, stained the colour of the little red fruit forever. You are unbearably beautiful standing still, but, if possible, you are even more beautiful when you are moving, crouched to spring, Pantalaimon in his wildcat form, a bruise on your cheek and fire in your eyes. You are even beautiful when you are being torn away from Pantalaimon, you are even beautiful as your very soul is ripped out of your grasp. And besides your physical beauty, there is beauty in your movements, the way you brush your hair out of your eyes in one swift movement, the way the symbol-reader takes over your face.

I can't stand it anymore. I can't stand how I see you in the hair of a girl at the coffee shop, in the eyes of a child I see clutching a stuffed animal, in the stance of the sculptures at the art museum. I can't stand how I avoid the mythology lectures at the college, afraid they might mention a Lyre, how the sight of a Coca-Cola makes me feel like my heart is being ripped from my chest, how the smell of an omelette makes me bite back tears. I can't stand it anymore, I can't stand my life, pining for something I am never to get.

So I am getting married. Her name is Kamara, and she could not be less like you. I am marrying her because there is no way I can make comparisons between you two, because you are so different. Do I love her? Maybe. She is sweet and kind, joyful and shy. The ironic thing is, I think you two would have gotten along. There is nothing wrong with her. But how can I love her with a heart so dedicated to another? You have me bound in your grasp, and I love you. I'll never stop.

I wonder how you are getting along? Do you have a husband? Does he love you as much as I do? No, that's impossible. But I hope he loves you, gives you the worship you deserve. I hope he thinks the world revolves around you, the sun rises and sets over your tawny hair.

I need permission, Lyra. I need a sign from you that it is alright for me to love again. I need you to release me from your grasp, I need to release myself. I need permission to give my heart away again. I can't always live halfway between this world and yours.

Love,

Will