The tears come hot and fast for Will in the Botanic Gardens, in his own Oxford, as he and Lyra hatch one last scheme together. He's convinced that they're doing the right thing, the only right thing, because to turn away from this path would eventually mean the utter desolation of each and every world. How could he or Lyra choose themselves and their own happiness now over the very possibility of happiness in the future? The word would have no meaning in a universe without Dust. He clings to the hope that by making this last sacrifice on the altar of freedom - universal freedom - that no more will be asked of him. His maimed hand, his father's life, and indeed his very soul had been taken for the cause; surely the bitter cup could pass from him once and for all?

Will's conviction comforts him, knowing that Lyra shares it - even if she's never going to be within his reach again. For a while, it's enough, and there are no more tears.

It takes the better part of a year after their homecoming for Will and Mary to convince the medical and legal bureaucracies of her fitness to act as Will's guardian and the executor of his father's estate while Elaine voluntarily commits to the hospital for treatment that had been put off for so long. The continuous battles and tail-chasing, as the doctors and lawyers all have their say, demand virtually every minute of the pair's attention that isn't spent eating or sleeping.

But, eventually, the long and rather boring war comes to an end as the authorities find nothing objectionable in Mary's character or her plan to take Will in temporarily. When the last dawdling representative of officialdom gives their approval, Kirjava grouses to Will: "Of course, now they find it in themselves to make a fuss over putting a child in the care of a nun!"

Will snorts and Mary laughs good-naturedly. Having grown up as a devout Catholic in a divided Ireland, she was accustomed to being the butt of the odd joke or two. She tells as many of those jokes as anyone now, which to her are rendered all the funnier by coming at her own expense and by the certain knowledge that Nietzsche was right about God, even if he'd filed the obituary more than a century too early.

Well before noon on that first Midsummer's Day, Will visits his mother at the hospital. She's finally on the upswing after months of trial and error and yet more error in finding her the right course of treatment. It had been hell at times: for Elaine, as various prescriptions wreaked havoc on her moods or failed to have any discernible effect at all, and for Will as he was forced to stand idly by, no longer responsible for her care. Some days were bad enough he itched to wield the knife again, so he could cut an escape hatch into another better world for the both of them - so he could feel in control again. But Elaine possessed a measure of determination to get better, no less than Will's as the Bearer, and he loves her all the more for it. Despite her loneliness, and heartbreak, and fragile state of mind, she has never once let Will forget that she loves him.

There's a small and slightly overgrown courtyard in the hospital which serves as their usual meeting spot and it's there that Will finds his mother, in a plastic lawn chair with her knees up to her chest and her nose buried in a paperback. The scuffle of his shoes on the pavement breaks her concentration, and the immediacy of her smile when she recognizes him makes his heart swell.

"Hey mum," Will says, unslinging his backpack and taking the chair opposite.

"Will, darling, I was just thinking of you, and here you are!" He grins at this, always secretly pleased in a way his contemporaries wouldn't understand to be doted on by his mother.

"Here I am! You look really nice today, mum." Her braids, which had grown to touch her shoulders, are neat and artfully parted; her face shows no clouds of fear nor signs of a sleepless night. She really does look good. She looks like herself.

"You're too kind," she says, glowing.

"What are you reading?" Will asks.

His mother sets the ratty paperback aside. "Just a loaner from the hospital 'library'," she replies dismissively.

Will cocks his head at the evasion and watches his mother closely - she seems to be working up the courage to speak again.

"Will, I want to ask you something, and maybe you can't tell me all of it just yet," she says, hurrying to get the words out.

Without hesitation, Will responds, "You can ask me anything."

"Where did you go? You were gone so long, and you came back missing fingers. I want to say you came back as a man, but that sounds silly, doesn't it?"

Elaine Parry at her best has always had an unassailable intuition when it comes to her son, despite his uncanny ability to disappear into himself. He's both pleased and unsettled by the question - pleased at the fact she felt comfortable and confident enough to ask, slightly unsettled by the directness and that intuitive perception underlying it.

Will weighs his options - surely it won't do to outright lie to his mum, but neither will it do to attempt an explanation of Dust and the infinite number of other worlds that overlapped theirs. He can't tell her yet that it was his flight from the scene of a murder that propelled him through the window into Cittàgazze; she won't understand about the treacherous power of the Subtle Knife; still less would she understand the apocalyptic battle Lord Asriel and his allies waged, unknowingly on Will's behalf. But she deserved to know about her husband, the father who had featured so prominently in Will's dreams. And Lyra.

She belonged only to his memory now, but it felt so wrong to leave her and Pan there. In that shining interval after the Fall but before the return of their dæmons, Will had ached with the desire to bring Lyra home with him again. He wanted to share absolutely everything he knew with her, but what he wanted more than anything in his own world was for her to meet his beloved mother. He was so proud of Lyra, as fiercely proud as Iorek Byrnison, who named her Silvertongue.

So, channeling Lyra, Will weaves through the tale for his mother, skirting the truth where it becomes too strange to explain. He explains that he fled from the mysterious agents that had been stalking and harassing his mother; that the trail he followed out of Oxford led him to his father, whom he had the fortune to meet and embrace before his passing; that he did indeed take up his father's mantle. He explains that he had a companion on that trail, and that she was the only reason he had been able to carry on John Parry's mantle; that she had risked everything for him and he for her.

Quite unnecessarily but wanting to hear the answer in his voice anyway, Elaine asks, "You're in love with this girl, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am," he confirms with his smile as much as his words. "Or... I was. She's gone now."

His smile, as rare and bright as the sun in winter, seems to pass behind a cloud.

"She's not...?"

"No, no. She just had to... go. Home," Will stumbles over the reply, feeling that tenuous connection to Lyra slipping away as easily as he had drawn on it. "We can't see each other again. It's not safe."

"I see." Elaine takes this in, appraising her son and apprehending just how close to the mark she had come when she said he'd come back as a man. She aches for his loss more acutely than her own, which feels old and worn and almost comforting in its familiarity.

Tight-lipped and blinking rapidly, Will nods, feeling like the motion may be the only thing keeping a wave of emotion from cresting over and washing his composure away.

"Tell me about her," his mother says, knowing from experience that it's better to recall the person than their absence - as much as you can hold the latter at bay.

Will's shy smile returns.

"She was wild. I never knew anyone could be so brave. But so kind, you know? Like it was bone-deep. And I knew she was only so tough because she loved and cared so much. You couldn't help but love her back."

"And does she know how you feel about her?"

Will lets out a gust of laughter. "I think she knew before I did."

Smugly and lovingly, Elaine says, "Yes, we usually do."

To that, Will has no rejoinder. Instead, he playfully knocks his knee against his mother's, his boyish grin softening the usually iron-hard set of his dark brows. It's such a relief to speak of Lyra aloud again, recalling without exaggeration her otherworldly grace and courage. In this moment, Will thinks that at last he's tapped into the spirit of unburdened youth which his schoolmates inhabit daily. His mum is okay and he's okay, and really, that's all he's ever wanted. There are no more catastrophes waiting in the wings, and he's ready to start playing his part.

Will starts from his reverie when his mother asks finally, "Well, what's she look like? Have you got any pictures?"

"Yeah, I think I have, actually." Digging into his bag for a few seconds, Will finds the disposable phone he'd picked up on his return to Oxford from that initial foray into Cittàgazze, Lyra in tow. He'd socked the device away with the other mementos from their journeys between the worlds. Out of sight, out of mind, he'd thought; but hardly an hour went by that he didn't think of the scent of honey in her hair or the taste of that sweet and curious fruit on her lips.

It takes a few more seconds to power the phone on, and Will sees his mother chewing her lower lip in anticipation. He'd been excited getting up in the morning to dig the device out of its hiding place in his closet, secretly relishing the idea of indulging himself and studying every detail of Lyra's face caught by the camera's lens. Entertaining the thought of seeing her again, he'd made a sort of game of expectation and self-denial in the past few days. Finally, the loading screen disappears and his thumb dives for the photo folder, ready to scroll up to find the earliest entries, but there's hardly anything in the album, not even enough to necessitate more than a single screen's length. Confused and deflated, he recalls the home screen and tries again, then flips through each sorting option in turn. Bizarrely, Will feels a sort of panic set in and his throat begins to close on itself.

There's nothing for it, though. Of the handful of photos actually present, Will sees that Lyra features in only one. Her back is turned to him, and so is Pan's. In fact, they are tiny and almost forgotten in the foreground, as the subject of the picture had really been the Torre degli Angeli with its twisted spire glinting peculiarly in the sun.

Reality crashes down and to Will it feels like a landslide taking his painstakingly constructed facade of good cheer with it. He's never, ever going to see her face again. He'd been too stupid, too accustomed to being alone to do what came naturally to anyone his age in this world. The thickest and dullest of his classmates would've had enough sense to snap a selfie with the girl they fancied.

Will's face crumples, and he angrily discards the phone to clatter noisily on the concrete under his feet. He grips his knee with his maimed right hand and the left covers his eyes, trying to dam up the tears that still have yet to flow.

He feels his mother's hand close over his knee and hand with with its missing digits, and he hears the alarm in her voice as she soothes, "Will, it's alright love, you're okay."

He swallows over the lump in his throat with tremendous effort and uncovers his eyes. Lying, he says, "I'm fine."

Elaine isn't deceived, and she sighs at her own mistake. Leaning forward, she reaches out and cradles his trembling jaw in her hands as it jolts back and forth. The warmth of her fingers on the back of his neck and the strength in her voice is his undoing as she intones, "I'm sorry. You're not fine. And you don't have to be."

A sob tears its way out of him, and Will sags, his head coming to rest between his mother's neck and shoulder. They stay like that a while.

Will has to sprint across town to make it to the Botanic Gardens on time that day. Kirjava joins his mad dash the moment he's outside the hospital grounds and on the street again. The old, furtive Will would have never let himself be seen red-eyed and panting as he barreled through crowds of pedestrians and dodged traffic. The new Will can't bring himself to care. He makes it with seconds to spare.

He collapses onto the bench and fetches out his water bottle from the side pocket of his pack, swallowing down half its contents at once. Chuckling, he sets the bottle down and slouches wearily. Kirjava, looking slightly rumpled, preens and settles next to him.

He'd risked death, further dismemberment, and possible citation in a frantic race to make an appointment with an empty bench in a nearly deserted park. But Will knows Lyra is waiting for him on the other side, and if he thinks he's already let her down by failing utterly on this day to stay cheerful and be useful, he's all the more resolved to at least keep this promise.

"If only they could see us now," Kirjava sighs.

"If only," Will agrees, burying his hand in her scruff.

Weeks later, Will's eyes flutter open sometime after midnight. He'd been dreaming of a boat, and it takes a moment for his mind to shake off the sensation of floating.

Actually, he'd been dreaming of rather more than a boat. Will's erection presses painfully into the mattress, which he registers with a groan of groggy irritation. It's both a relief and a disappointment when he flips onto his back to relieve the pressure.

The dream is a familiar one; he's back on the Gyptians' boat with Lyra, their cots pushed together at night, whispering and sharing kisses until the moon sets and they can't keep their eyes open any longer. It's a memory as much as a fantasy. In the fantasy, though, sometimes their bodies are entwined and pressed together from thigh to chest; sometimes their hands slip under clothes to touch the bare skin at their waists. It wasn't any sense of propriety that had stopped them from going further, but Will still couldn't quite name a reason other than inexperience. What they had really wanted back then was more time, not greater intimacy.

He still feels uncomfortably restricted, and contemplates kicking off his boxers, but shudders at the thought of being woken up by his mother in the buff and refrains. Will stares listlessly at the ceiling, fully awake now, trying to ward off any thoughts that might prolong his condition. A few more silent minutes pass, and he growls with frustration, scrubbing his face with his hands before sighing and reaching down. Taking himself in hand, eyes closed, he tries a few experimental strokes before settling on a rhythm that feels right.

Will's eyes fly open and he freezes when a small and sleepy female voice quietly asks, "What're you doing?"

"Nothing!" He claims, lamely and too loud, finding a pair of lambent feline eyes staring at him from the foot of the bed.

Kirjava blinks slowly. Will gingerly sneaks his hand out from under the covers and leans up on his elbows.

"Ah," Kirjava says, understanding.

Will purses his lips, ears burning, and says nothing.

Kirjava's wide-eyed and curious gaze softens. "That's nothing to be ashamed of, you know."

"I know. I just… forgot you were there. It used to be it was just my mum I had to watch out for when I did… that. I didn't try it much."

"I may not always be underfoot like other dæmons, but that's no excuse to forget about me," Kirjava huffs, half playful and half serious. "You don't have to hide anything from me," she admonishes.

Will acknowledges the justice of this, still remembering the remorse and searing pain he felt at leaving her behind on the way to the land of the dead.

"You're right. I still think I'd like to keep this private, though."

Flicking her tail, Kirjava jumps down off the bed and saunters off through the door, cracked open just wide enough for her to pass. "Have it your way," she calls over her shoulder, sotto voce, not unkindly.

Will flops onto his back. The seemingly indefatigable state of arousal he'd awoken in had passed without resolution, but sleep nonetheless eludes him for a little while longer.

A year passes. It's a day in springtime like any other when one particularly thick-necked and stupid classmate aims a kick at Kirjava as she joins Will on his way off the school grounds. She'd been the subject of some chatter in classes for a while. Will's strange relationship with the ostensibly stray cat was one of the many ways in which he stood out for ridicule in the minds of the sportocratic group of boys which had marked him for a target long ago.

The kick catches her in the ribs, and it's just hard enough to cause her to yelp and bolt away and for Will to double over in shock. Quickly regaining the upright, he spins on his heel to lay eyes on the culprit. The boy, whose name Will can't recall, smirks triumphantly, as if he'd just scored a point on the football pitch. Unthinking and blind with fury, Will plants his fist in that smirking face. Then all bets are off, and the bully's friends are rushing to his defense. The fight lasts only seconds before some teacher or assistant storms outside to break up the melee.

An hour or so later Mary picks him up at the curb, along with Kirjava, in her aging sedan. The school authorities called her once Will informed them his mother was away on an extended weekend trip. Will's hackles are raised almost immediately, seeing the vaguely harried and disapproving look in her eyes when he rips open the passenger side door. Kirjava jumps up and lays sullenly in his lap, then sets to grooming the spot where the ruffian's expensive trainers made contact. Will wrenches the door closed and waits for Mary to get the car moving.

"Hello, Will," she greets mildly.

Seething but still at least partially mindful of his manners, Will says, "Thanks for the ride, Mary."

He stares forward obstinately, and Mary sighs before engaging the shifter and merging into traffic.

Mary had never quite felt that it was her place to do any parenting of Will, despite her status as one of his legal guardians. Still, she does claim to be a responsible adult and resigns herself to the fact that she can't say nothing.

"I hadn't thought you were the brawling type, Will," she quips a few minutes later.

Will can't help but roll his eyes. Mary is brilliant and kind, but she isn't subtle, and the reproach in her observation is as obvious as the black eye beginning to show on his face.

"I'm not. Did they even tell you what happened?"

"They told me you'd been fighting with several boys, one of whom stands to lose a tooth. They at least didn't seem to think you started it."

Will laughs bitterly. "One of those morons kicked Kirjava. Like a fucking football."

Mary abhors cruelty of any kind, against animals and humans alike, and she knows enough to understand that this is an entirely different kind of violation.

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine how that must have felt."

Will hums in response, staring pointedly out the window.

Silence stretches out between them as Mary drives on. She can practically hear Will's teeth grinding, but she can't seem find the right words to set either of them at ease.

Knowing that sometimes the only way out is through, Mary says, "Tell me what you're thinking about."

To her surprise, Will has an answer ready.

"My father."

"Yeah? What about him?"

She glances over and catches Will's eyes before training her own back on the road.

"My father said we were fighting to end tyranny," he grits out, "but this doesn't feel much like freedom to me."

Mary scoffs at this. "You can't think he meant you're free to just haul off and hit people as you please, can you?"

"All of this," Will asserts, "is what I mean," giving her pause.

"I don't understand."

Will scoffs in turn. "No, I don't suppose you would."

They've arrived at Will's house. Mary places the car in park and turns to face him, not liking the path of the conversation or the deep well of bitterness in his tone. At least he's not making any move to flee - yet.

"So tell me," Mary insists. Whatever else may be, they are friends, and they both know they share a connection that is absolutely unique in this world.

"I thought I would be free to choose the life I want, but I'm not," Will barks.

"How free am I if I'm the only one is this world who has a soul you can literally step on? How free am I if there's only one person in this world who I can talk to about where I've been? How free am I if I can't choose to live my life with the person I love?" Near to shouting now, Will takes a breath before continuing.

"I'm so much worse off than I was before all this happened. I lost Lyra, I lost my father again, I lost my fingers, and for what? So the angels can have things their own way? Oh no, that's right, we had to save Dust. That's no choice at all. So what does freedom have to do with it? Fuck all, that's what."

Mary's taken aback, but she knows she probably ought not to be. It'd be more surprising if a healthy teenage boy didn't hold some resentments after seeing and doing what he'd seen and done. Mary reaches across the console to lay her hand on Will's shoulder, and he lets her. He starts up again, quietly, and Mary can't mistake the note of abject shame in his voice.

"I envy her sometimes," he confesses. "Lyra. She got to go home to a world full of people like her. She has Iorek, and Serafina Pekkala, and Farder Coram and John Faa and all the rest. She has Jordan College. I'm just as alone as I ever was."

"Except for me," Mary says with a wry and sad smile.

"Except for you," Will allows, covering her hand with his for a moment before letting go.

He still doesn't make any move to leave, so Mary shuts off the engine and leans her temple against the headrest, watching him and gathering her thoughts.

"Will, I'm not a philosopher, so maybe I shouldn't opine on things like free will and all that. But I've been around a while, and I've seen some things. Do you want to know what I think?"

Will nods. His eyes are hard to look into for long, especially in this moment as they seem to be searching her for an answer she feels wholly unqualified to offer. She offers it anyway.

"I think freedom isn't about getting the things you want. It's the right to pursue those things. Think of a person who could choose and have whatever they wanted. What kind of person are they? What happens to the people around them? I think we've seen plenty of people like that here on our Earth, and you met people like that from Lyra's world, like her parents. Would we be better off if we all acted like them, free to take whatever we pleased and hurt whomever we pleased?"

"I think if freedom doesn't belong to all of us, it belongs to none of us," Mary concludes.

Will's eyes are downcast, but when he finally looks up, there's a familiar stubborn set to his brow that Mary thrills to see. He smiles tightly, then opens his door and steps out once Kirjava leaps from his lap. Without another word, Will stalks up the walkway to the front door.

Kirjava lingers, then says, "Thanks again, Mary," and hastens after Will.