Chapter 13: Corollary
Insatiable
Author: Rachel Roth (Nimfalas)
Rated T
Fandom: His Dark Materials (Golden Compass/Northern Lights)
It was horrifying.
She tried to fight, but the frigid water froze her limbs. Numbness seeped into every cell of her body, lulling her into sleep. It wasn't any use fighting anymore as she fell closer and closer to…Death?
The only thing she was sure of was the sudden aching of her heart.
When Lyra woke up, it took an agonizing moment for the fog to clear from her mind. A pronounced stillness occupied the space around her, and she shuddered at the utter quiet. Something brushed against her exposed arm, and she flinched. She wailed and thrashed in protest, trying to fight it away. A drone filled the air, high and shrieking, and her wide eyes took in only blurs of dull color and flashes of white.
Cold, pale white.
The world rocked and shook, and she could feel her hair lash at her shoulders. Her knees and legs ached in protest, but she kicked and kicked. She tried to open her mouth to scream at it. She tried to move her stiff, cold lips to form words, but they were locked in place and her lungs were preoccupied; the horrible shrieking sound was coming from her.
Lyra's "attacker" must have had horrible patience, because the pale figure before her waited tolerantly for the fit to end. Eventually her body tired, and she collapsed in defeat, waiting on the warm ground for death.
Of course, she knew the fact that she was alive—in spite of her attempts—meant that she was almost certainly already technically dead.
She shuddered at the thought of the word and all that it entailed, biting her lips and hugging her arms tighter around her chest.
She was dead.
"Lyra," called a soothing voice. "Are you finished?" The voice was smooth and melodic. Its calming spell washed over her, but she was too spent to feel the relief. The voice was one she could recognize anywhere.
"Serafina Pekkala!" she gasped, her voice breaking wretchedly. It was the first coherent word she'd spoken since regaining consciousness.
Bitter, lonely consciousness.
In response, the pale witch simply nodded her head. Lyra sat up slowly, noticing for the first time the blanket beneath her hips, the spilled flask at her feet, the carefully wrapped bundle at her side that shifted minutely. Lyra paused at the bundle of the woolen blanket, watching the cat-sized lump shift more noticeably. She felt her heart stir with the waking thoughts of her other half, and suddenly the world grew unfocused as a feeling of such pure, miserable respite swept over every one of her human senses. She groped blindly for the form and pulled it to her chest slowly, relaxing into a recumbent posture with her bundle clutched against her breast. She could not even whimper his name, because the moment her mouth opened, she could only utter cracked, broken sobs as her face drained of color.
Fully awake and fully feeling the onslaught of Lyra's thoughts and emotions, Pantalaimon relaxed silently into his human's grasp, whimpering soft purrs of absolute love and affection over her dying sobs.
"Oh, Pan, darling," she muttered in a small, aching voice when at last she could speak. "Oh, Pan…you're here. I love you so much—I love you, I love you—I'm so sorry…"
"I know, Lyra," he whispered back, his tiny voice cracking in the wrong place. "And I'm sorry. I was so worried…Lyra, I love you more than anything…" His frenetic little heartbeat raced faster than her own, which pounded dangerously in her ears. Pantalaimon glanced up into her eyes with an expression that nearly broke her heart.
Serafina Pekkala shifted, watching the reunion and hating to interrupt the beautiful event. At last Lyra's thoughts settled, and Serafina Pekkala didn't need to interrupt.
How was this possible?
Pantalaimon pulled away from her too soon, and immediately she regretted wondering. It didn't matter how—all that mattered was her precious dæmon! But Pan didn't move any further. He simply turned his attention to the witch.
Lyra had forgotten all about Serafina Pekkala, but she turned expectantly to her now as well. Her face flushed hot with embarrassment, realizing how patiently she had waited, and Lyra's glazed eyes searched hers. Serafina Pekkala shifted, not uncomfortably, and stared back.
"Thank you," Lyra murmured, lowering her eyes. "Thank you for saving us. Pantalaimon was…we nearly…" She allowed the words to drift away, unable to continue the thought. How could she possibly think of losing her heart? How could she imagine living without her reason for existing?
"You have lost much of your blood." Serafina Pekkala's voice was calm and even, but almost distant. "Both of you. I understand the choice that you suffered, my dear sister, and I do not count you a coward for your action. No nobility lies in losing one's soul, and none can allay that misery of death through any course but death."
Pan pulled himself closer to Lyra's breast, sharing her uneasy recollections. She stroked his back, memorizing the texture of his fur, the slant of his body. Through the coarse red fur she felt the knobs of scabby wounds, and Lyra's hand clasped around the fur, trembling.
"You may recall," Serafina Pekkala began, her warm eyes fastened on Lyra's shaking, clenched fist, "it was several years ago, now, but I believe you remember every word I spoke to you then"—she had addressed that to Pan—"that I informed you of the consequences of your actions. Your journey to the land of the dead, and your separation from your dæmons—" She eyed Lyra carefully, unsure of the way her face had twisted with pain. Pan licked his cold tongue across her hand, trying to comfort his shaking human. The memories of that day were seared into their minds, as painful as if it had occurred yesterday. But even more painful was the plural Serafina had used, and the obvious allusion to the other human who had joined their quest—Will Parry. Part of Lyra's heart shrieked in misery, but she composed herself desperately, carefully storing that piece of her heart away. Serafina clearly didn't believe the sudden transformation of Lyra's features, but she continued nevertheless.
"I told you that you are—in nearly every way—exactly like witches. You will not live as long as I, and you cannot fly, but in every other way you are a witch. Netopýres have been enemies of our witch clans since the moment they were created. We had thought that most were destroyed, but apparently a few remain beyond the realm of legends. I suppose you already know of their nature." Lyra Silvertongue visibly scowled, and Serafina Pekkala glanced away from her eyes. "Human beings fell victim to netopýres often, once, and they nearly always die by the encounter. Witches, on the other hand, will not die. When the spirit—ghost, as you once called it, my sister—is stretched from its soul in the way that ours are, and especially when that spirit is conscious when the soul dies by a netopýr, the spirit remains alive and undergoes that subtle transformation which fashions a netopýr. For this reason, only witches become netopýres; and for this reason, most netopýres have all the cunning and powers of a witch."
"The sleepwalking, Lyra," Pantalaimon whispered, his red-brown ears twitching upright as understanding lined his lovely features, "And those nightghasts and things."
"I have never encountered a netopýr of the male sex," Serafina Pekkala interrupted quietly, thoughtfully, "though I have heard of some shaman boys succumbing to netopýres in the past. In this case, James must have been the son of a shaman, whose dæmon was devoured as he left her on the brink of the barrens. This is the way most netopýres are formed, because the witch—or shaman—cannot protect her abandoned dæmon as it is taken. Most netopýres, then, are quite young. It is one more misfortune of their existence."
Lyra looked down, focusing on a speck of grass in the dirt. "You saved us." It wasn't a question. Serafina Pekkala looked at them carefully, a crease of worry appearing in her smooth, perfect forehead. She nodded, confirming the statement. Pan glanced up at Lyra before turning back to the witch.
"Will you tell us what happened?" he asked her nervously, almost fearing the response. Lyra felt the dread inside herself as well. Was James gone? Was it over, or was this a mere pause in their enduring torment?
"Perhaps another time." She must have identified the fear in their eyes, because she quickly added, "He is destroyed now. It is difficult to kill a netopýr, but the way has been passed down through generations of witch clans. He will never bother you or anyone else again." Her eyes flashed like a crackling fire. "The danger is never over. It never has been. Do not fool yourself into thinking this may never happen again in your lifetime. A netopýr must have created James, and his mere presence provides enough reason to suspect others. You will always know, however, that my clan will keep you beyond danger. We will always watch for the signs. With a clan of our size, no wise netopýr will consider bothering the college. Our world is large, and there are far easier targets in other reaches of our earth."
Lyra thoughtlessly smoothed her dæmon's fur again with pale, slender fingers, and she grimaced as she grazed the scabby marks on his back.
"Your dæmon will always carry the scar," Serafina Pekkala whispered, her glassy eyes locked on something distant and invisible. Lyra struggled to understand what she was saying, for her lips moved so quickly. The tone of her voice was so low that Lyra's human ears could barely pick it up. Pan heard her words and shivered. "…the mark of another person's touch…"
Lyra felt unconsciousness tug at her eyelids, and she attributed the sudden incoherence of the beautiful witch-lady to her fading brain. Before the blackness covered her, she could make out Serafina Pekkala's lullaby voice sing over the silence, "You have had a long day, Lyra Silvertongue. It is best that you rest now." Her eyes were liquid again, flowing with love and adoration. "You are my sister now more than ever. Sleep well, Lyra. You have had a long day."
The girl couldn't resist the lull of her voice. She was pulled fast into a listless sleep.
Lyra couldn't tell how long she'd slept, but when she opened her eyes, she found herself in a familiar bed, staring at a familiar wall. It was her dorm room.
Lyra bolted up—throwing a disgruntled Pan halfway across the bed—and scoured the room, looking for netopýres and witches or… They were very alone in the little dungeon.
Pan moaned at her feet and bounded toward her in the dachshund waddle she loved so much. He always made it look so graceful. She apologized fervently, begging him to forgive her and laughing at his playful pout. He couldn't stay mad for long, and he bounded into her lap, cuddling into her arms and playing with her fingers.
"Ah!"—shouted a familiar voice from outside the door—"Lyra's awake!" Lyra and Pantalaimon braced for an impact, but the door calmly unlocked itself and the colorful, crested duck dæmon McCager soared through the room first. Susan and Evelyn followed after—the tarantula dæmon resting quietly on Evelyn's head, waving her foremost pedipalps in the air in excitement—and Dame Hannah was last to enter. The elderly woman closed the door behind her, and Lyra could just make out the faces of other interested students behind the frame.
"Lyra, we were worried," Susan said, her heart-shaped face appearing in Lyra's vision. The blonde girl scooted over and allowed her two friends to share the bed on either side. Dame Hannah moved toward her charge and touched Lyra's cheek with a few ringed fingers.
"My dear girl, you are something," the Dame patronized, patting her shoulder with a matronly warmth. The marmoset dæmon clung to her blouse and rolled his eyes with a glowering smile.
"Evelyn, your arm!" Lyra exclaimed, noticing her sling.
"Just the arrow," the girl answered, setting her dæmon on the sheets. "I'm alright."
"Susan?" Lyra wondered hesitantly, turning to her other side.
"Well, I suppose I'm worse for wear," she smiled. "And yourself?"
"Just perfect," Lyra answered, releasing Pantalaimon from her shaky grasp. "Though I haven't the foggiest idea how."
The girls chuckled nervously, exchanging meek glances. Dame Hannah watched them from the side, her marmoset surveying the dæmons as they slid onto the floor, speaking lightly to each other and smiling wearily. The girls themselves began to open, and their faces grew warmer as they spoke, a real friendship sparking its way through the pieces of shared experiences and twists of fate. Seeing the color in Lyra's face and the bright shine in her eyes, Dame Hannah quietly retired from the dorm room, pushing past nosy girls on her way out. Along the corridor and down a flight of scarlet stairs, the silk-clad form of Serafina Pekkala met the elderly woman. She nodded her head in recognition.
"Serafina Pekkala," the Dame said, her peppered dæmon climbing to her shoulder, "you can trust Lyra to be well with us. She's found friends, and she will always have my support."
"I am glad to hear it," the witch responded in a smooth, musical voice. Then, "I am sorry for your losses. Had we known sooner what haunted your wood—"
"Do not apologize, my friend," the Dame cut in. "I speak for the entire college when I say that we are forever indebted to you and your clan. Our sorrow could have been greater." The elderly woman took a sure breath. "No thanks could suffice."
"No thanks are necessary."
"They looked like a great cloud," sang a voice through an open window above them. "And then they dove on the forest…"
Serafina Pekkala looked Dame Hannah long in the face, uncertainty lining her ancient eyes. "Should you ever need me—should Lyra ever need me—you know how to find me."
The two nodded in farewell, and then Serafina Pekkala, swathed in black like a fire of darkness flickering through the sky, clutched her cloudpine in one hand, and took to the sky in flight. Her dark form joined the many others hanging over the college like watchful stars, and from the open window, Pantalaimon and the other dæmons watched them streak away, like shooting stars of night.
Lyra turned to see them leave, but her heart—at last—felt contented to stay. What use was dreaming of flying away with her sisters, of escaping the campus to other worlds, when she was finally beginning to feel at home—as though she actually belonged in this world? The battle hadn't ended, but she had won two friends already. Pantalaimon sighed happily as he thought the same thoughts, watching the last witches vanish into the distance.
St. Sophia's might make a lovely home after all.
The End
Did you enjoy Insatiable? Hate the end? Drop a review, and be on the look-out for The Post-Lyra Chronicles (a story of Will's struggles in his own world and the discovery of a sinister stratagem that could throw more than one world into disarray...).