.

.

She's hurt.

(It must be bad with the way her pulse thins, weakens, making Lyra struggle for the next breath.)

There's no time for worrying about that, she insists sternly to herself. Iorek needed to be reclaim his throne, and Lyra needed to help him by tricking Iofur Raknison. Needed to take care of Roger. Needed to reach Lord Asriel and give him the alethiometer—

Lyra blinks, jolting upright from her consciousness greying out. She's inside a new towering laboratory on the cliffside, pulling off her burgundy cap, standing on the ground floor with her father and his snow leopard daemon speaking to the others. Pantalaimon hisses in Lyra's ear, slithering as a tiny, reddish serpent down her neck, asking if she's okay, Lyra, are you okay, as the slow-sluggish flux of pain increases.

Colours — turquoise fading into lilacs — flicker past each other, dimming through the windows. Lyra always wanted to see the Aurora. She wanted to stand in the bright and ever-changing glow with Lord Asriel, basking in his approval and gladness and wonder—

"Lyra?" Roger calls out, his brows furrowing.

Stelmaria whips around, her tawny eyes alert. "Asriel," she huffs in growing concern, getting his attention as Lyra half-swoons.

"Lyra—" Lord Asriel hurries in, catching her by the shoulders. She's still standing. His very blue eyes peer over her grimacing expression. Lyra wonders vaguely why she never got his eyes or her mother's. The color of Mrs. Coulter's expensive, silken dresses. "What's happened? What is it?"

"My side—" Lyra groans, clutching her middle. Pantalaimon scurries up her arm sleeve as a gerbil. "Unnh—"

Her breathing sounds louder, harsher. Lord Asriel pulls off her beaver-fur lined jacket, grim-faced.

"Which one? Left?"

She shakes her head furiously, gritting her teeth.

Lord Asriel unbuttons the top portion of her overalls, letting them fall. His hands ruck up her multi-coloured, striped jumper, along with the white undershirt.

They both glimpse what appears to be a dark, huge bruise on her lower right rib-cage. A noticeable protrusion of flesh, swollen out and trickling a run of blood. Dark crimson stains the underside of Lyra's white and rumpled-up shirt. She witnesses a kind of dismayed apprehension pass over Lord Asriel's face.

It's making sense now to Lyra.

Her tumble out of Lee Scoresby's hot air balloon, landing hard enough in the snow to pass out — walking for hours in her capture — being knocked during a king's battle and flinging herself aside — riding on Iorek who told her he was not gentle—

"THOROLD!" Lord Asriel roars, letting her go.

He looks scared, but not as scared as before. Not like when she entered this building with Roger in tow. Lyra cannot guess as to why he was so scared at the sight of his own daughter. Looking at her like she was damned.

"Help me—" her father orders when Thorold lumbers down the side-steps, joining them. "Help me with her—"

"Lyra! Wait!" Roger yells, panicking.

She wants to tell him it's okay, and he shouldn't be scared like everyone else, but feels herself lifted up, head dangling back. Her tongue useless in her mouth. Lord Asriel carries her upstairs by himself, panting, with Stelmaria close at his heels.

"I need the medical kit!" Lord Asriel shouts to Thorold ahead of him. Thorold's pinscher dog daemon yaps. "Hot water! Quickly!"

"There's an assistant's table in the Northern laboratory, sir!"

No visible corridors, but two metal-welded doorways. She's shifted through the one ahead.

Lord Asriel wordlessly elbow-shoves what remains on the table, lying her down. It's a long steel table by the feel of it underneath the surface of Lyra's hands. He yanks off his brown, leathered apron. "Good girl" Lord Asriel whispers, cradling up her head and nudging the folded material to pillow her. Lyra whimpers, shuddering through the twisted, hot agony intensifying. "There we are. Don't move."

He thumbs the side of Lyra's sweat-sticky, flushed face, directing more orders to Thorold.

Thorold yells to Roger to stay below.

Pantalaimon murmurs Lyra's name, nuzzling her hand stretched out and turning to him. He's only a little fluffy bunny cupped in Lyra's palm. She wishes she could hold Pantalaimon tighter, nearer to her heart. Let him know how much she adores and loves him. How much Lyra feels helpless. A droplet of warm tear escapes from the corner of Lyra's eye.

Lord Asriel retrieves a pair of large medical shears. He cuts apart the woolen and colour-striped fabric and Lyra's undershirt, easing them off. She's freezing-bare to the lamplight. The examination by his sterile gloves, as gentle as it is, makes her flinch.

"She'll need to be under for this," he mutters, gesturing to one of the cold-boxes.

"Yes, sir."

Thorold gives her a draught of something that tastes pasty and chilled and sour like wine. Lyra finishes and gags softly. Within moments, she's lighter than before. Held down to the world by a mere invisible string. Her muscles slackening.

"Father…"

Lyra sounds drowsy in her own ears, dulled.

He hesitates. Lord Asriel's blue eyes so wide and vulnerable.

"Sir," Thorold barks out, cleaning one of the surgical instruments. "Sir—we cannot wait any longer—!"

Asriel's voice hoarse.

"Lyra—"

Blackness swallows her down, like deep, relaxing waters.

.

.

In the next moment, she awakens to the glow of the Aurora streaming in high above. A creamy, light rose melding into golden lavender.

Pantalaimon, fast asleep as an arctic fox, presses completely up against her hip. His wet nose ticklish. His head remains tucked in the long, satiny shirt worn by Lyra. It's not hers. Far too big. Shapeless. It must belong to—

Lord Asriel watches her solemnly from the table's side, his arms crossed and enveloped by green-knit.

"One of your ribs were broken," he declares. "I'm not sure how you managed that, but we couldn't risk it puncturing your skin any further or your organs. So we had to remove the fragment." Lyra attempts to lift her head, but finds it too heavy. Her vision spins. "Internal bleeding was manageable, but I won't have you risk tearing your stitches. You need to heal—is that understood?"

"Yes…" she finally croaks. Lyra would say she was mildly irritated — if her body and thoughts would cooperate.

He nods, seeming satisfied with her answer. There's a bowl of ice chunks Lord Asriel grasps onto, taking one out between his fingers. It feels like sweet relief pressing to Lyra's dry, chapped lips. "Suck on this for now. Too much water will make you ill."

Lyra opens her mouth. His fingertips brush against her skin, hot-heat in contrast. Lord Asriel's other hand smooths away dark, moist hairs out of Lyra's face. She's reminded of about Mrs. Coulter — her mother — and all of her affections, but this is different. Much different. While Lord Asriel she can accept as father, she never imagined her as mother. His hand feels rough in sensation and callused. He smells faintly like ink. Old, dusty paper. Soap.

The ice settles on her tongue. She's still in her overalls and boots. Lord Asriel vanishes from her view, and Lyra can hear what sounds like wheels squeaking and thin metal trays rattling. Dizziness strikes her, making her groan and gurgle on the ice.

As if sensing what's wrong, her father reappears, holding a hand under her chin. "Spit." Lyra does as he bids, grateful. But she eventually squirms, narrowing her eyes as the ceiling above wobbles and moves on its own. Lord Asriel pushes down her left shoulder as the young girl almost rolls herself off the steel table and onto Stelmaria retreating. "Lyra, don't—look at me, focus here—"

"Father…"

He moves around her, facing Lyra's crown instead of her profile. Lord Asriel's hands clasp onto the sides of her head, flattening down, applying light pressure over her ears and temples and jaw. Lyra tries to concentrate on him instead of the dizziness. "Breathe deeply. Slowly," he rumbles. Encouraging her. "Deeply in, slowly out. It'll pass."

She obeys reluctantly, too weak to feel protest. And this does help her focus. Lyra covers her hands over his, bracing herself, until the dizziness lessens. The edges of Lord Asriel's blunt nails scrape gently up, traveling towards her scalp, calming her further.

"That's better?"

Lyra squints, frowning. "Mhm…"

"Good." He sounds curt and expressionless, but maybe it's all a dream.

Yes. It must be. Lyra can hardly recognise Lord Asriel Belacqua — her own father — like this, paying her any mind at all, touching her like his heart was soft and sound. He drops his forehead to Lyra's hairline briefly, giving a stiff inhale. As if forcing back a familiar, unwanted emotion.

"John Faa… did he tell you?" Lord Asriel asks, his voice oddly tight. She thinks he means who told Lyra about her parentage.

"Mother… she did…"

It's the truth. Lord Asriel's face strains, but smiles.

"Of course."

Lyra's nostrils flare. "You lied…" she grumbles.

"I did." Him admitting this, even with this show of unusual kindness, does nothing to quell the fever-heat of rage blooming in her. "There's no undoing that. I knew what I was doing what was right. To keep you safe. I told you I trusted no one, but I trusted the Master with you. I did all of it for you."

"No…" Lyra says, crying and trembling fiercely. Her hands slip off his. No, you're a liar. No, I don't want to listen. No, no, no.

Blue, blue eyes spill their waters. Lord Asriel glances up, slipping away too, dragging the heel of his palm to his cheek. "Try to sleep, Lyra. I'll have Thorold make you something as soon as you're ready to eat."

And just like that… he's gone.

(He's always gone.)

.

.