Chapter Text
A high pitched scream startles her awake but a few hours later.
Horribly, gut wrenchingly desperate as it sounds, Marisa’s eyes fly open instantly to assess whatever had caused this sudden disruption of her perfectly good sleep.
She blinks against the darkness that greets her, telling her that it must still be the middle of the night, or at the latest very early morning.
It takes her a moment to be fully aware of her surroundings as her sleep filled eyes take in the sparse room, until she finally recalls that she is, in fact, in company of another person.
The realisation of whom this horrid scream must belong to, for the cry sounded so distinctly human, sends chills down her spine.
Lyra.
She turns, holding herself up on her arms as her gaze settles on the young girl next to her. Undoubtedly awake, Lyra does not seem to register her at all, seemingly much too preoccupied with whatever had caused her such turmoil.
Marisa quickly turns her head left and right, trying to determine whatever may have made Lyra scream out, only to come to the conclusion that there isn’t anybody else here. No intruder, no physical threat.
Lyra must have had a nightmare. Although she’d dealt with her daughter being upset before, she’d never so far witnessed her having a nightmare.
Marisa hates how clueless she feels, not quite sure what best to do in this situation.
“Lyra?” she asks tentatively.
She looks pale, Marisa can deceiver as much despite the only light source being the faint glow of crescent moonlight.
Lyra’s breaths come in short huffs and her blue eyes are blown wide when they meet hers. Yet somehow, though Marisa isn’t quite sure whether that was physically possible, they widen further once they settle on her.
The pair keeps staring at each other for what feels like an eternity, not saying a single word, until Marisa finally gives into the itching urge to reach for her daughter. “Shh, it’s alright—“
But Lyra bends backwards the very second she tries to move her hand. “Don’t touch me.” she mumbles hoarsely.
Marisa stills, her hand but a few inches away from the girl’s face. She can see the unsettlement in those blue eyes, and not solely because of the nightmare. “I am not going to hurt you.” she assures. “Nothing will hurt you, Lyra. It was only a bad dream.”
She tries again, to gently touch Lyra’s cheek, but the moment her fingers brush her daughter’s skin, she pulls away. “No,” Lyra croaks. “Stay away .”
With an exasperating sense of defeat, Marisa drops her hand. Her every fiber now strains to remain patient, for she knows well that one wrong move could completely ruin any chance she might have.
“Tell me.” she prompts instead, using her kindest, well practiced, voice — the same one she’s used countless times to persuade children into joining her on an adventure .
She feels slightly guilty to try and persuade her own child with this tactic, but finds herself devoid of any better ideas.
But of course, Lyra, never failing to prove just how stubborn she can be, remains stoically quiet. Her expression on the other hand gives her away all the same, revealing just how much this dream of hers had managed to shake her up.
Never having been a very patient woman, Marisa can feel her nerves straining desperately, just seconds away from snapping like a twig.
Deep breaths . She knows it is vital to remain calm, or else her daughter would never give in. “Keeping it bottled up won’t help,” she insists. “It will only make you fear it more, dear, trust me.”
Honest words, for once, though she expects them to fall on deaf ears. She knows Lyra doesn’t trust her anymore. She hasn’t ever since she’s ran away the first time back in London.
Perhaps even before that.
Either way, Marisa hopes she’d at least get something out of the girl.
“I’m not scared.” protests Lyra courtly.
Of course not . Marisa refrains from rolling her eyes. “I’m only trying to help you, Lyra.” she insists tightly.
With narrowed eyes, her daughter bites back; “I don’t want your help.”
“And yet here we are,” Marisa retorts. “Both awake due to your nightmare. The very least you can do is let me in on exactly why we’ve woken up.”
She knows she should not bait to Lyra’s provocation, but thus is a phenomenon between the two of them, that neither seems able to control their emotions in the company of the other.
Marisa certainly can’t.
“I don’t have to tell you anythin’.” remarks Lyra. “I didn’t want to share a room. And neither do you.”
Marisa narrows her eyes as she watches Lyra move to get off their bed, Pan securely seated on her shoulder. “I’ll sleep somewhere else.” she mumbles.
She watches the scene long enough for Lyra to scurry out from under the covers, long enough even for her to grab herself one of the cushions as well as the fur coat she’d left hanging from the headboard, contemplating all the while whether to just let her do as she wishes.
But really, she knows she doesn’t actually want Lyra to leave.
At the last second, she reaches out to take a firm hold of Lyra’s wrist, just before she could walk off. “If you think I will let you leave like this to find yourself on the roof or wherever else you might think would be a decent enough place to spend the night,” she warns. “Then you are widely mistaken.”
Lyra struggles to free herself, but to no avail. “Let go of me!” she huffs.
“I’m afraid I can’t.” replies Marisa calmly. “I won’t force you to tell me, Lyra. I will however have to insist you stayed here .”
With me .
“You don’t have to.” Lyra bites out, not stopping her squirming. “Just let me go!”
“I said no , Lyra.” Marisa replies sharply.
Although she’s still a far way from screaming, the room stills instantly and for a moment, nobody, neither them nor their dæmons, move.
With a heavy sigh, Marisa finally lets go of her daughter to fall back first against the headboard. “I’m sorry.” she sighs. “I did not intend to be sharp with you.”
Lyra gently touches her wrist where she’d held onto, watching her almost like one would watch a wild animal. As though she were to attack .
In fairness, Marisa had lost her temper once before, when she’d commanded her dæmon to squabble with Pantalaimon, but she deeply regrets ever having done so now.
If she could only turn back time. Maybe that moment was where everything fell into chaos.
Really, all of it, ever since she’d went to Oxford to meet Lyra, has turned out exactly the opposite way of what Marisa had intended.
Despite herself, she chuckles, though it tastes more bitter than anything else.
“Why is it that we cannot seem to have any sort of normal interaction these days?” she asks, although she is all too aware of the reason. The many reasons. “Why does it always end like this? With you…running away from me.”
She can barely stomach the look of conflict her daughter spares her in return.
“Because you hurt me.” Lyra whispers.
Those few barely audible words, they stab her chest better than any knife could have. Worse still; she knows Lyra is right. It is all she has done. Hurt her.
What sort of a mother would hurt their child? Yet for some reason Marisa cannot seem to forgo doing so, despite her intentions being purely to protect Lyra.
What sort of a mother would send her child away? She would, or rather she had. Would she do so again, if given the opportunity to turn back time?
Part of her would still like to believe she could, that not even Lyra had such a strong grip on her, but as she does, that would just be another lie. One not even she could force onto herself, let alone her daughter.
No, truth is…if she could go back in time, knowing what she knows now, she would do anything to keep Lyra. Anything .
Tears pool in her eyes so suddenly that she cannot stop them, blurring her vision enough within a few seconds, until she can hardly see more than Lyra’s blurred features.
“You lied to me.” Lyra continues quietly. “About Roger, the Obligation board…” she averts her gaze towards the floor, her fingers tangled tightly into the fabric of her nightshirt. “And about being my…my mother. You lied .”
Marisa’s heart constricts painfully at that word. Mother . Although the circumstances in which Lyra’s said it are dire, hearing her daughter refer to her as such sends waves of warmth through her, like a bolt of ambarical energy.
“I should not have,” she admits regretfully. “I should have told you.”
“Why didn’t you?” Lyra wants to know. “Why bother making me your assistant if you were never gonna tell me—“
“Because I was worried the Oblation board would take you.” Marisa interjects, allowing herself to be honest for once. “When they started looking for children outside of London— in Oxford, I worried they would get to you.” she looks to her dæmon shortly. “I knew the only way to prevent it was to take you in myself. It was the only way to be sure you were safe.”
Lyra shakes her head. “I ain’t safe with you.” she responds.
Marisa closes her eyes in an attempt to center herself against the building argument her daughter so clearly wants to provoke. “I would never harm you that way, darling, you must know I—“
“Yes, but you harmed others!” Lyra interrupts her loudly. Were she not so preoccupied with their discussion, Marisa would have winced thinking they would surely wake the people closest to their room. As it is though, she has more important matters to devote her attention to.
“Lyra, what I did at Bolvanger; I believed it to be a path to a life without sin. For you, for everyone .” she replies. “It should have been revolutionary.”
“You cut them from their dæmons!” Lyra protests, averting her eyes to look out the window. Marisa can still see them though, the tears, and she hates that they are there. “You turned them into ghosts! That’s not worth some chance. Nobody should ever have died!”
“I know,” Marisa relents, holding out her hands before her in an attempt to calm Lyra down. “And I am sorry . I am. What I did, it was… terrible . I’ll never forgive myself.” she searches Lyra’s tear filled eyes carefully. “And I am sorry your friends have had to face the consequences.”
Lyra reaches up in a rather futile attempt to dry her tears. “Would you have gone on experimenting if I’d never gone there?”
Most likely. But that would undoubtedly be the wrong thing to say.
Marisa glances to the golden monkey, perched on the floor just inches from Lyra, and wonders if there could ever be a right answer. Would Lyra ever care to listen to her again? Truly listen, without that look of distrust, without hate .
“Well, you did come,” she sidesteps cleverly. “And you made perfectly sure to disable the entire station in the wake of your little riot.” she chuckles, not quite sure whether to feel angered or proud. “Not to mention; you got all the children out. There is nobody left to do any experiments with.”
Lyra narrows her eyes. “That ain’t what I asked, though.”
“It is the only answer I can give you.” Marisa shrugs. “I am glad you came, Lyra. To Bolvanger, I mean. And here. I was…worried about you.”
Worried would be the understatement of the year, Marisa reckons, but Lyra doesn’t need to know just how devastated she’d been during the few hours she’d thought she’d lost her only child forever.
Lyra remains silent, watching her curiously for a while, before she sighs; “I dunno what to think anymore.” she admits tiredly.
Marisa watches her daughter sit down on the bed next to her, though she is explicitly careful to leave enough of a gap between them. She looks so confused, and so young, it hurts Marisa in the strangest way.
She slowly stretches her hand out to brush a lock of hair behind Lyra’s ear. “Let’s go back to sleep,” she whispers. “You’re exhausted, darling.”
And so am I . Exhausted and overwhelmed with a sense of guilt too intense to ignore.
To her relief, Lyra nods, before she takes Pan from her shoulder into her arms to lie back down. Marisa waits, unsure of what to do — should she dare to tuck her in? — until she notices Lyra reaching down to pull back the covers.
She doesn’t say anything, but it is clearly an invitation to join her, and so Marisa does, her heart leaping into her throat.
Another beat of silence follows, this one heavier somehow; with the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
Marisa wonders whether they’d ever get the chance to say the words they can’t voice right now.
After a while, with neither breaking the silence, she is convinced Lyra must have fallen asleep, but just as she closes her eyes, the faintest of whispers proves her wrong; “…good night.” Lyra mumbles, turning her back towards Marisa at the same time.
Marisa glances at the back of Lyra’s head, a silent tear sliding down her cheek onto the cheap pillowcase.
“Good night, my darling.” she whispers back.