Cum Angelus Mentior

("When Angels Lie", to the best of my Latin abilities, please correct me if I said it wrong.)

Well, never thought I'd be back in always thought about writing a bit more for it, never got around to it, never could find the inspiration to continue writing The Dust Master, so I decided to start fresh. Not a very long chapter and I don't know if there will be any more to come but we'll see how things go from here.

I always thought it would be interesting if the Angels had only lied to prevent Will and Lyra from ever seeing each other again, and it almost reads that way if you're thinking about it while you're reading the end of the Amber Spyglass. So; here it is, hopefully my skills will seem a bit more refined since my last entries.

I do apologize for anything overly-childish I may've said or written during the time I was absorbed with The Dust Master, I'm cured now, I swear. ; )

And I'd like to thank anyone who's ever written me a review, it's really what I live for.

Chapter 1:

"It had to be done."

"There was no reason for it, they will not focus apart, wallowing in their sorrow..."

"You speak of it so highly, Logic tells you that it was no more than a fanciful attraction."

"Logic speaks lies."

"Fate does not."

"Fate tells no lies, aye, but she makes her own truths. A lier with far more power than any should hold."

"You speak heresy! Without Lady Fate we would have nothing, we would be alone in the world."

"Would you rather be enslaved?"

"I would."

"You're a madman."

"Your point of view."

And on two beings' words minced, escalating, consumed by the fury with which they were spoken until the first of the two made a horrible mistake, he challenged the Republic of Heaven, the remnants of the Empire, and even Fate herself. But before all of that, a girl woke up, drenched in cold sweat, disturbed more than frightened by what she had seen - an all-too-real dream. Unfortunately, her premonition was lost in the hard, cold reality of her day-to-day life and it was soon forgotten, as nonsensical imagery of the night always is.

Her name, if you have not realized by this point, is Lyra, but not as you may have remembered her. For a woman of her age she had seen too much, understood too little, and suffered beyond a layman's comprehension. As is such, she had ascended. She grew hardened by her sorrow, aged beyond her years, and wizened beyond the whimsical thoughts of her peers. But for all her wisdom and strength a curse she bore, for she now understood how short-lived earthly pleasures were, and in her understanding she would allow herself no happiness, she ascended as before said, from passionate sorrow into apathy, if ascension that is. She moved about her life with machine-like regularity. But she never once thought her life no longer worth living, for she still held onto a single hope, hating herself for it bitterly and fighting it tooth and claw when it arose; the hope that she could be reunited with her beloved. Logic would not deter it, no amount of hopelessness could kill the spirit, so she was made to believe it could still happen. Only then; she felt, could she ever believe that happiness is solid enough to throw all caution to the wind and live happily and strong.

Through all this, while stronger men and women have given in to sorrow, allowing self-pity to take control and through their anger committing acts of murder on themselves or others, losing the will to live, she sustained, her logical reasoning at this point would never allow it. With her wild youth behind her, she could concentrate on things she compelled herself to consider more important, marks in her boarding school, the behavior of a proper woman, things she would abandon without a thought in her youth.

And so she lived, but her life after she woke up is a tale for another day.