Gold Dust

Ozymandias



Disclaimer: Everyone is Pullman's except for David Coulter and the story, which are MINE!

***

The gold dust shines like my daemon's fur.

I remember how I never used to want Ozymandias to settle. He would stop me from lying, that I could do so well; that I thought was my one talent. His favourite shape was always a bird, I remember: a sparrow that would twitter incessantly and then look at me with adorable eyes and maybe peck my ear, so I couldn't be annoyed with him. He could never stop talking when I was young, like me, I suppose. When I was just a girl, like my Lyra, I would boast of having achieved my fantasies: of fighting a cliff-ghast; of capturing a lonely castle that was only inhabited by ghosts. But as I grew up, when I became a woman, I talked less and less, except on social occasions, when it was my duty to perform. The reason? I had really begun to fulfil my dreams, but not by means I really approved of. Ozy grew quieter as well, from shame of himself, but never of me. I think he always felt that, as the embodiment of my soul, my crimes were his fault. In truth I wished I could be more like him - loving, obedient, with some sort of conscience.

Then one morning, I woke up after the most wonderful dream, and he wasn't there. I sat up so suddenly I suppose I couldn't hear his moans from under the bed. And I panicked; where was he? My soul? My other half? My good half? I thought perhaps those who were truly evil lost their daemons, as a warning to others: do not touch this girl-woman. Then he spoke from under my bed: "I can't come out. I can't be with you."

"Why not?" I strained to see under the bed, but it was too dark.

"I can't... I can't change anymore Mary."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've settled! I can't change shape. Whatever will you do?"

"What... what are you?" I said tremblingly.

Then he crawled out, his eyes for all the world like that sparrow's. And something burst inside of me: "You're beautiful" I whispered, and his poor miserable, gorgeous golden face grew into a smile, and the smile spread to my heart, and he crawled into my arms again and we were one.

"I didn't know someone like me could have such a beautiful daemon."

"That's because I'm your soul." Then he added ruefully, "I'm not your mind."

Then we understood the passion burning inside us and the conflict we faced: he would always turn to the good, but he so wished to please me. I would always turn to evil, but all I wanted was to be as beautiful as he was. Yet my mind ruled my heart: I had the stronger will, and so we begun our more dreadful career.

Then, one early morning, a Gallivespian stung me on the ankle and my little girl walked over my anguished body and away with a boy called Will. It was only then, after twenty three years of battling with my own soul, I realised that I was that beautiful inside, for I had felt love.