People float in and out of our lives. But there are those selected few that stay in our hearts forever. We can't try to forget them, for fear of insulting fate. Fate is conscious, as Lyra was soon to find out. She loved Will more than life its self, literally. And the thought of him was killing her. This story begins in the most logical place; the longest day of the year on that special bench in the botanic garden in oxford.
Lyra lay with her head pressed against the smoothed wood waiting. She was waiting for the strike of twelve when she would be as close to will as she could ever be again. Pantalaimon was curled up near her chest, their hearts beating together. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek and made a perfect heart shaped stain on the wood. The clocks rang out and Lyra's heart rang with them. The pain and suffering she was going through was almost unbearable. A life without love is never worth living, especially when you've already had a taste of that sweet syrup. As she watched the stain seep into her beloved wood, she noticed something pale on the bench getting gradually defined. They were letters. She watched them closely rubbing them with such delicacy, and where she put her hand she felt warmth unlike anything else she had ever felt. It was like the feeling of soft glowing warmth of a fire in winter on your bare skin, or the rays of a spring sun after the rain. She knew it was him. About an hour passed in this ecstasy when the lines finally made themselves out. "I'm here". With that she started weeping, and as she wept soft summer rain kissed her cheeks and wrapped her up in a sympathetic blanket.
The sun was dipping into the ground when Will looked up. It was raining and his hair was pressed against his forehead with moisture. He was lying down on that same bench in the botanic garden remembering all that had happened. He sat smiling to himself in remembrance of those precious days they spent together in love. He loved her more than life its self, literally. He wished and prayed for there to be a way for them to at least talk to each other. Suddenly, as if someone had heard his call and decided to be kind to him for once, a hooded figure walked into the garden. She, for it was evidently a woman by the shape of her body, walked with such delicacy and finesse that it appeared as if she was truly floating over the ground towards him. He felt no apprehension of this woman, instead he felt strangely drawn towards her. She reminded him of something but he could not put his finger on it. As the woman sat down on the bench she slipped her feet under the bench and gracefully sat down with a splendour that compared herself with the angels he had encountered throughout his travels with lyra, namely balthamos and baruch. He could tell however that she was no witch. He had always felt that certain "vibe" when he was near the witches; a type of extended life. This woman, on the contrary, had a sense of deadness around her. She was slender in figure and dressed in black from head to toe. Her hear was perfectly straight, as if every strand was touched by the softest hands and pressed together with that same warmth that lyra had felt. She wore a hood and cloak of the softest and lightest material, though it was the deepest black will had ever seen, like the night sky, except silk. Not velvet as most people assume it to be. She was as pale as a stricken person held in a cell without sunlight for years. He was immediately reminded of the vampire wives, those elegant figures that could kill with such seduction.
She took her hand from beneath her cloak and stroked Will's still moist cheek. As she did this the notorious golden monkey flashed across the garden and ducked into a bush with a slight rustle of the breeze. She looked into his eyes and said in a voice as soft as the feel of his demons fur against his chest,
"There is a way"