A.N. - This is rather AU. Essentially, Roger escapes from Bolvangar before Lyra comes to get him, and, well, bad things happen. Just a bit of a jog in the world of alternate universes, which seems appropriate for His Dark Materials. And, by the way, in case there was any doubt, I'm not Philip Pullman, nor am I New Line Cinema. Thus I don't own anything. Just in case you were wondering.
It had never been cold like this before, at least as far as Roger could remember. Salcilia was cuddled against his neck beneath the coal-silk anorak he was still wearing, but she was too worn out to change into anything larger than a sick-looking weasel. Roger himself was not much better off.
"Cilia?"
His daemon made a pathetic mewing sound, before turning her ears slightly toward his mouth so that she could hear the weak words he was trying to speak.
"Why did we have to leave in the first place?"
She failed to answer for a few minutes, but finally she managed to squeak, "Because they were gonna cut us apart."
He sighed and brought his mittens to his face in an attempt to warm it. But it was hard to ignore the bites on his leg from where one of the Tartar's daemons had caught it as he slipped through the wire fence. The feel of her jaws touching him, a human not her own, still made him shiver and want to retch.
"Lyra was s'posed to come. She was always s'posed to rescue me when I got in trouble, same as I always done 'er. I'll bet right now she's warm in Jordan College, sipping a mug of chocolatl by the fire in the stewards' common room. I'll bet she's forgotten about me, her ol' Roger, always her pal, no matter what, no matter whether she got caught by the brickburners or what."
He raised a mitten hand at the murky sky, his face reddened and chapped by the Lapland winter. High above, where the clouds had no influence, no power, perhaps in another world, electric currents were playing across the sky in brilliant shades of red, green, and blue. Roger saw nothing of it; all he saw were clouds and darkness.
As the wind whipped down on him, chilling his insides, he heard something else. Almost a scream. Was that Lyra? Had he really heard her, out on the tundra, hundreds of miles away from where she was surely safe in Jordan College? No. No, it was only his imagination, playing tricks on him again.
But a thought took hold of him. She had abandoned him, betrayed him, and now he was freezing and lost while she sat in comfort, slowly forgetting that he had even existed. That was how much he meant to her, just another kitchen boy to entertain her.
He raised his head again. "I hate you!" he shouted, his voice gaining strength, "I hate you, Lyra! I wish we had never been born! I wish…" he paused. "I wish that you would die, right now, an' pay you back for betraying your friend."
As he said it, the pounding in his ears turned to roaring, and he heard screaming again, high and panicked, full of pain. It was Lyra. He knew it. It was real this time, but he could not say out what direction it had come from. It was coming from all around him.
The sky broke open. The clouds cleared, and for a moment he could see the Aurora, stalled and glistening, before it shattered, and a dark man strode out, hands held high in the midst of his masterpiece. There was a girl beneath him, blond hair falling limply into her pale, dead face. The man did not bother to look at her.
But Roger turned away, and it vanished. The sky was cloudy as ever; she was gone. It was probably just his imaginiation. But she had paid her price, and that was enough for him. Salcilia gave one final mew, and floated away.