An Opus Alchymicum Vol 1: The Experimental Theologian's Apprentice

Bluebell Flames

The fox-fur flap opened slowly and Lyra chanced a look inside the ice-yurt. A single candle flickered at the heart of the round space, barely illuminating the rickety pine table, the bed in the far corner, or the girl huddled and whimpering under a mound of blankets atop it.

A girl very much alone.

For Hermione was in a state of shock, had not even yet taken the first tiny step on the long path towards recovery. She was still gripped by the marrow-deep pain, the soul-pinching cold that the act of separation had wrought upon her. She was beyond tears now, didn't feel corporeal enough to shriek and cry and wail. She was still struggling to even process what had happened, to define in logical terms this thing that she had suffered ... and to remember why she had agreed to undertake it so willingly.

And Pap had not yet returned to help her understand. He was not there to console her, to ache and mourn with her, to bring back that warmth, that their parting had ripped away like a crusty scab over a still-raw wound. For the first time in eleven years, Hermione felt the jagged cut of true solitude as it scythed into her being. She was truly alone for the first time, without even her dæmon ... and she was convinced that it was a sorrow from which she'd never, ever heal.

It was a pain Lyra knew intimately well. So she had come to see Hermione, to see what she could do, even though she knew in her heart that the answer was nothing. There was no way to soothe that searing scorch of loneliness, the abrupt and breathtaking trauma of separation. Lyra massaged her chest as she remembered her own suffering experience, on the shores of the World of the Dead with Will all those years ago. The excruciating pain, the guilt ... and that abhorrent sense of desolate solitude.

But, at least she'd had Will. Poor Hermione had only a promise of her love ... and a whole world and more still existed between them.

So Lyra had come to try and do what she could in Mr Potter's stead. Pantalaimon had remained in their own ice-yurt out of modesty and respect, knowing that to share such intimate consolation would be awkward without Papageno there to be a proxy. When he returned, Pan would spring to life, and do for the newly-independent dæmon exactly that which Lyra was attempting to do for his sorrowful human.

Though Pantalaimon was jaded enough by life to know that his efforts would be just as futile as Lyra's promised to be.

But Lyra tried anyway. For in Hermione she saw, more and more each day, the daughter she'd always wished she'd had. A brave, clever girl perturbed by nothing, who took to her tasks with unshirking courage and forthrightness. Lyra was world-renowned for such strength herself, but these days she thought mostly that her decisions had been forced on her by extreme circumstance. Had she faced them in advance, and in the cold light of day, she questioned if she would have had the fortitude to go along with them.

And the courage that she saw Hermione employing to do just that, melted her heart with profound pity, while at the same time stirring her spirits with the fiercest sense of pride Lyra felt capable of producing.

So she had to help now, even if that help was unwelcomed or, ultimately, unsuccessful. She approached Hermione's shivering form and tucked the fur blankets tighter around her skinny shoulders. Then, as Hermione looked up in wide-eyed confusion at the movement, Lyra offered the mug of hot chocolatyl she had brought for her.

"Here, take this," Lyra whispered softly, brushing an errant lock of hair from between Hermione's eyebrows. "It will help, I promise."

Such an oath was not something a body wracked by deep need could ignore, so Hermione pulled herself into a huddled sitting position and accepted the steaming mug.