#grlmissing

It was not the jostling that woke her up, nor the quiet chatter of nearby voices, nor the soft breeze that blew over her bare skin and chilled her to the bone.

It was the pain. 

The thud of pain, rising into a sharp lick across her ankle, and then a fire in her veins. Slowly, she became aware of each of these sensations, and as her drowsy mind became clouded further by them, she hissed and contorted, and faintly felt the scrape of hardened soil beneath her elbows. Frantically, she tried to recall just what was causing such pain, and in a moment of stupendous clarity, it all flooded back into her brain in sharp and blinding images.

The cave. The spies. The knife. Will. Lyra---

“Lyra.” The name became caught in her throat, half a groan, half a bark, bitten off as another wave of pain seized her. The poison was leaving her system, but it would be another few hours at least before the effects totally subsided. 

Grimacing as she attempted to uncurl herself, she felt that her limbs were in fact not just bound by the contraction of her muscles, but by tightened knots of rope that scraped against her wrists. She was tied, but by who? Had Asriel found her in the cave? Had the Magisterium come to collect her? She was loathe to open her eyes, but she knew she had to confront what fate had befell her. 

With a slow exhale, Mrs. Coulter tentatively cracked open her eyes, wincing at the light of the sun, her mind attempting to fight past the throbs that racked her body in order to comprehend what she was seeing.

Was that...?

No....

Mrs. Coulter’s bottom lip nearly trembled as her vision came into stunning focus.

That had to be her. No, no, her mind was playing tricks on her. Her daughter had run, had left the cave, had left her behind--- she twisted her head about to take in her surroundings slowly, so as not to disturb her captors, or alert to them that she was indeed awake. There was a great white bear alarmingly close by, and ---yes, she could see that indeed, there was Will, and---

           The girl had hardly stepped beyond the threshold of the front doorway before Mrs. Coulter’s melodic voice rang out, as clear as church chimes, from down the hall.

“Boots off first, Lyra.”

It was a rainy, chilly day. The roads were slush from the snow they had received two nights ago, which had then melted under the rain and road salt. She knew Lyra’s boots would be caked in muck, and she would not be cleaning it up. At the end of the hallway, Mrs. Coulter appeared, with two mugs of hot chocolatl in her hands. 

“Lyra,” she started, tone still as sweet as ever, if a little more... forceful, “We have a very busy day ahead, and it won’t be very much fun at all if you’re tired during all of it.”

Bending down, she cupped the side of the girl’s cheek, cool blue gaze trying to catch the sleepy sunken eyes of her daughter assistant. You’re not my mother. She didn’t refute the statement, though something in her twisted at the words. Her face betrayed nothing of the inner conflict playing just beyond that dazzlingly warm and comforting smile, those entrancing cyan hues.

this is a mood !! i loved the cold, emotionally controlled feeling of the book scene. it wasn’t sadistic like that, she was just really angry and upset with lyra. but the film version wasn’t right either so i’m just hoping they redeem it in other areas

‘  Of course  I'm  scared .  I thought  you  of  all  people  could  understand  that .  ’ from grlmissing

          That coy, small smile falls, concern coming to replace her once doting expression. Eyebrows knit together, and the blue hues of her eyes seem to become almost watery, an ocean of beauty and depth turning dark with the storm brewing overhead. A breath catches in her throat. The golden monkey slinks up to the top of the bed, but keeps his head down, his tail tucked, his fingers curled so those sharp little nails vanish into his palms. Is this all for show? Or, is there a truth behind the slow fall of her shoulders and the shake of her head, bouncing those soft dark curls this way and that? Did she actually feel remorse?

‘  you  say  everything  happens  for  a  reason .  i  can’t  find  a  reason  for  this .  ’ 

“Neither can I.” 

The statement is blunt, more honest than she had ever been with Lyra before. She stares back at Lyra, both their faces flush with exhaustion, emotion, confusion. Why was she still alive? Why was she still one whole person? She looked down to the golden monkey, a deep frown marring the beautiful features of her face, a crease coming to the front of her forehead. In turn, the golden monkey looked back up –those beady black eyes were as unreadable and fathomless as they had been in all the years of her life. She, of course, knew exactly what he was thinking, feeling, trying to express to her in their own confidential way. Marisa gives a nearly imperceptible nod to him, and looks back to Lyra. The hand she lifts to touch her daughter’s face is hesitant, and had Lyra not been her own daughter and known Mrs. Coulter’s tricks so well, then she might have missed the small shake there, the tremor that Marisa tries to steady almost immediately. She drops the hand, thinking better of it. There is much to discuss, and to resolve, before she believes Lyra would let her hold her again.

|| @grlmissing said:  [ embrace ]  for your muse to hold mine  ( x )

       The stinging around her wrists had ceased some time ago, but she still sometimes found herself touching the spots where the ropes had slid and scraped, feeling them there like a phantom clinging to her skin. But they were gone, and had been now for a few nights. However, just because she was unbound, did not mean that Lyra or Will felt a need to suddenly be near to her. Not at all. Rather, she was left under the watchful eye of Iorek, who said nothing, but exuded a quiet intimidation that certainly anchored her in place. He was no Iofur --she knew her lies would do no good. A true panserbjorne could not be tricked, and if she attempted to run, she would be swatted down in an instant.

She didn’t want to run, though. Not really. Not just now. It seemed she had made some progress with her young daughter. At the very least Lyra had deemed it quite alright to let her mother sit freely among them. Their talks had become a bit more frequent, a little less stilted and suspicious. There was of course still a tremendous amount of bitterness in her daughter’s voice when they spoke together, and yes, sometimes there was even hatred. Most often their conversations might plateau as Lyra found little else to say to Marisa. Sometimes, though, they would argue. Marisa did her best not to become too heated, but there were tears shed from time to time, and then a long silence would fall, and Lyra would not speak to her for the rest of the evening.

It hurt, and sometimes she found it near unbearable to watch her daughter turn away in disgust and loathing, and know there was nothing she could say just in that moment to make it right. It was best to let it be, to let Lyra simmer, and not shout or argue or become angry or indignant. She would simply watch as Lyra stormed back off to Will, feeling her heart turn to lead and sink far into her stomach.

Even so, there were some good moments. She had managed to make Lyra laugh recently, and that had been quite a treat for her. Lyra had sat close to her a few times while they ate around the fire. Pan still remained away from the golden monkey, but he hadn’t hissed or growled in a few days, and that felt like a small victory for them.

Now, it was the end of a long, arduous day of travel. She had heard them talking about where to go, and had been worrying herself to death at the idea of it. The Land of the Dead. To let all the ghosts free. To save Roger, Lyra had thrown in her face, and Mrs. Coulter had lowered her head in acknowledgment and guilt. But she could not stop thinking about it. Her daughter, her dearest, her heart’s treasure, planning to walk into the Land of the Dead. What would such a journey take? She couldn’t bear the thought of it, not really. Oh, it was too terrible! And nothing she said could dissuade Lyra from her mission. Now it was a wonder if she would be coming along or not. She desperately wished to go, to keep her child safe, to pull her from the fire she was throwing herself into. And Lyra had been tossing in her sleep the last few nights. If only she could reach in and pull the fear away, so that her little girl’s face wasn’t so scrunched and furrowed in her rest.

She was tossing now. Marisa heard the sound before she saw Lyra tossing this way and that, lips parting to mumble something, her eyes searching behind their lids. Of course, Marisa knew what she was looking for, or rather who. The golden monkey slunk nearer, now that Iorek had gone to bed, and hovered near Pantalaimon. He did not touch, though he longed to pick up the little daemon and hold it close to his chest. Marisa watched, lips pursed, and was about to stand when she heard a shift in Lyra’s breath. A gasp of air.

The golden monkey darted away at once, back to Marisa’s side, as Lyra sat bolt upright and searched the darkness around her. Seeing nothing, she sank back into herself slightly, gathering Pan up into her arms and holding him. Then, slowly, her gaze swung to Mrs. Coulter, who met her gaze with a look of concern. The two remained quiet for a moment, just watching, an unspoken invitation waiting to be aired before either moved. So, Mrs. Coulter gave in. Unfolding her arms from her lap, she made a small motion for Lyra to come closer.

As if there were lead in her feet, Lyra pulled herself up and tiptoed across the ground to where Mrs. Coulter sat against a nearby tree. She remained standing, clearly unsure, as Pan’s eyes followed the golden monkey closely.

“It’s alright,” Mrs. Coulter assured in a hushed voice. Lyra swayed, bit her bottom lip, then slowly sank down to the ground beside her mother and tucked herself into Mrs. Coulter’s side. Gently, Mrs. Coulter’s arms came to encircle her daughter, holding her close, half in her lap and half out of it. She smoothed the girl’s hair from her face, her smile warm and loving. “It’s alright,” she repeated, “to want a hug. Really.” A pause, and then, quietly, she murmured, “You know, I held you all through that first night. You cried and cried until I started rocking you. And then you were so quiet, a little giggly. We made faces at each other, and then you were sound asleep. Nothing could have disturbed you then, laying in my arms.”

She leaned down, and placed a kiss to the top of Lyra’s head. Silence enveloped them, but it was a contented sort of quiet. Serene. The golden monkey stepped between them and curled up on the dusty ground, and watched as Pan very cautiously came to sleep just nearby. Soon, Lyra’s breathing had changed, slowing and relaxing, her arms going slack, her head falling a little heavier against Marisa’s shoulder. Marisa continued to lightly stroke her daughter’s head until she was sure the girl was sound asleep.

she  had  a  similar  look  mothers  sometimes  get  when  they  look  at  their  unruly  children.   anger,   only  mixed  with  fear.   never  disappointment.  however,   she  was  not  a  mother.   nor  has  she  ever  been.    it  was  a  soft  look,   with  hard  edges.  tight  lips,  jaw  set.   she  tried  to  smile  but  it  doesn’t  reach  the  shelf  of  her  lips.      ❛  ----  𝒂𝒓𝒆  𝒚𝒐𝒖  𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚 ?    i  have  change  for  the  vending  machine . ❜