Backdated to Wednesday, September 17th
Lyra liked the caves. There were no rhododendrons shading any of the entrances and lending their sweet smells to the drafts, and the nearby streams weren't milky with meltwater. But most importantly, the caves didn't make her feel hot and sticky, and the only gun in the vicinity was owned and protected by the man called James Bond.
Whenever she slept there she slept soundly, dreaming not of misty, transparent souls, but of Jordan College, of St. Sophia's and of the large boarding house in North Oxford where she often sat curled up with piles of books, poring over the alethiometer. She dreamt of schoolgirls clumped in clusters around mirrors in the girl's loo, mysterious creatures that she still did not understand with names like Ruth and Ava and Genevieve. She dreamt of the Claybeds where she sometimes walked but no longer sparked her need for war.
And come morning Lyra and Pan woke without struggle, always to the sound of father preparing to do whatever he planned to do during the day, always with a mildly perplexed smile on her face as she yawned, rubbed exhaustion from her eyes, cleared the hair from her face.
But this morning was different, frantic. This morning didn't allow for slow stretching or the sleepy rub of her knuckles into her eyelids. This morning she woke with a start and a reluctantly squeaked laugh, Pan's whiskers tickling her face, his paws batting her back into consciousness.
"Lyra, Lyra, come on, get up!" her daemon croaked, his voice cracking ecstatically as he scampered all around her.
"Oh will you give it a minute, Pan?" she grumbled, blinking the sleet from her eyes until, quite suddenly, it hit her. "Pan?! You're - you're - oh, you're you again!" she cried out, sitting up just as he leaped and catching him in her arms.
"What do you mean again? I've always been me!" he protested, his little pine marten face scrunched indignantly, "but if you mean I can talk again then yeah, I can! What was all that about anyway?" Pan grumbled, cuddling up close and nuzzling her relentlessly.
But Lyra was speechless, overwhelmed by the thick flood of warmth surging through her veins. She knew it was from her daemon, and it was so wonderful, so beautiful, that she felt completely drunk on the overload of emotion, so much so that she could only slump back against the mattress. On the island she could still feel him, but it wasn't as powerful, and so having gone without it for this long she could barely pull herself together long enough to formulate sentences.
Whenever she slept there she slept soundly, dreaming not of misty, transparent souls, but of Jordan College, of St. Sophia's and of the large boarding house in North Oxford where she often sat curled up with piles of books, poring over the alethiometer. She dreamt of schoolgirls clumped in clusters around mirrors in the girl's loo, mysterious creatures that she still did not understand with names like Ruth and Ava and Genevieve. She dreamt of the Claybeds where she sometimes walked but no longer sparked her need for war.
And come morning Lyra and Pan woke without struggle, always to the sound of father preparing to do whatever he planned to do during the day, always with a mildly perplexed smile on her face as she yawned, rubbed exhaustion from her eyes, cleared the hair from her face.
But this morning was different, frantic. This morning didn't allow for slow stretching or the sleepy rub of her knuckles into her eyelids. This morning she woke with a start and a reluctantly squeaked laugh, Pan's whiskers tickling her face, his paws batting her back into consciousness.
"Lyra, Lyra, come on, get up!" her daemon croaked, his voice cracking ecstatically as he scampered all around her.
"Oh will you give it a minute, Pan?" she grumbled, blinking the sleet from her eyes until, quite suddenly, it hit her. "Pan?! You're - you're - oh, you're you again!" she cried out, sitting up just as he leaped and catching him in her arms.
"What do you mean again? I've always been me!" he protested, his little pine marten face scrunched indignantly, "but if you mean I can talk again then yeah, I can! What was all that about anyway?" Pan grumbled, cuddling up close and nuzzling her relentlessly.
But Lyra was speechless, overwhelmed by the thick flood of warmth surging through her veins. She knew it was from her daemon, and it was so wonderful, so beautiful, that she felt completely drunk on the overload of emotion, so much so that she could only slump back against the mattress. On the island she could still feel him, but it wasn't as powerful, and so having gone without it for this long she could barely pull herself together long enough to formulate sentences.