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CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF DEATH
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ALL HER LIFE, Lyra has been told that she's a little bit dreamy.
Head in the clouds, no weight on her shoulders. Skipping through the motions, a careless confidence centering her to the corridors of the Ark instead of the artificial gravity. Starry-eyed in every sense of the word. Experiencing everything in her own universe. Feeling alone. Feeling connected. Feeling longing. Feeling nothing. Feeling everything.
All her life, Lyra has been told that she's a little dreamy. But she likes the idea of that.
Of being somewhere else.
Especially right now.
Because newsflash! Reality sucks.
Unconsciousness refuses to claim her. She cannot sleep. It's been hours since she watched the Exodus ship crash, the vessel engulfed by swirling scarlet flames as fire devoured it whole. Sitting there with Bellamy in the freezing shadows, she hardly felt him. She was anesthetized to his touch. And then, when her eyes were sore, when her tears became sticky against her skin, when she couldn't take it anymore, she took off. If she'd stayed still any longer, she knew she would explode.
It's brought her here. To the crash site.
(Fate is cruel.)
A metal skeleton scrapes the skies. Haloed in wisps of smoke. Bursting with dying flames.
"In peace may you leave the shore," she whispers in a terrible, ragged, small voice. "In love may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels until our final journey to the ground. May we meet again"
Even the skies above are mourning.
Pale, sickly sunlight filters through ashen clouds that fog all the way to the horizon. Winds snarl with bitter frost, sending sleets of rain drizzling against Lyra's skin like a blanket of damp steel the moment she'd stepped foot from the cover of the forest to the ring of destruction and ash the crash had caused. Sinking to the earth, gravitating towards her sallow cheeks.
Dead eyed and empty and alone, she walks slowly and agonizingly through the graveyard.
A charred skeleton snaps beneath her feet. Smoke burns at her raw eyes. Hiking up the steep slope of the massacre, a white dwarfs aching where her heart should be, she reaches the blackened RCS thrusters. Unhinged from the rest of the ship that's in tatters around the morgue. Dark pink trickles from thrusters and pools on the bloodied stones. Hydrazine. Leftover fuel.
Fuel that should have been burned in the atmosphere. But. . . but then that would mean the RCS thrusters had never pitched the orbiter. There must have been a crew from the monitoring station on the Ark to fire the RCS thrusters as soon as it reached the upper atmosphere, to prepare the ship for landing, and yet that had never happened.
Why?
She stands completely still on the crust of the tombstone-grey sky for one moment.
And then the chasm within her erupts and Lyra starts to run.
Every last nail of energy she has is hammered into one final cause: finding out what happened. Every last shred of despair is thrust into her ambition, the need to know why, to figure out how the Ark had let a ship of three hundred citizens ━━ her dad ━━ die.
Something ensnares her foot. She slams into stones, brambles clawing at her skin. Annoyed, she scrambles to her feet, and then she freezes.
It's her mom's Nasa jacket.
Charred along the edges, frayed, with the logo half burnt off. But it's her moms old Nasa jacket all the same. Peppered with dirt and suffused with the stench of burnt gasoline and death, and yet its here and it's all she has left of her parents now.
Grabbing it, she squeezes it so tightly in her hands that she thinks it might burst into ash.
Under a bleak sky, she races back to the camp.
When she gets there, she bursts straight through the gates, ignoring Harper's shouts from her perch at the gunners position. Lyra hurtles into the communications tent without wasting another moment. There stands Raven, her back completely to her as she fiddles with the shoddy radio.
"I need the radio," Lyra says, skidding to a halt. "Raven, I need it now."
"Lyra? Where the hell have you been? Bellamy's turned the camp upside down looking for you and — " Raven pivots to face her and then her eyebrows contort. "Oh my God... what happened to you?"
"Doesn't matter." Lyra bounces her fingers against her thigh restlessly. "The radio — "
" — is useless. There's nothing but static from the Ark's end."
Lips clamping shut, Lyra falls into a broken silence. Unconsciously, she begins to shiver.
Raven notices instantly. She steps towards her like she's magnetized to the broken girl shaking in front of her and carefully her fingers lift to Lyra's face, brushing dark fizzles from her cheeks. Lyra's eyes are dark and huge in the obsidian shadows and she quivers like a leaf beneath Raven's burning touch.
"Christ, Jupiter," Raven murmurs. "You're covered in Hydrazine."
Grabbing a damp cloth, Raven gently begins to cleanse the rocket fuel from Lyra's marred skin. Her touch is featherweight as she washes away the harsh cruelties splattering Lyra's skin and the smaller girls eyes flutter as she's doused in something so comforting. When Raven briefly pauses at the edge of raw skin slashed apart like lightning down the side of her cheek, Lyra gives her the tiniest of nods. With her permission, Raven washes away the blood of the sinful scar the Grounder had left her.
It's over too soon. When Raven draws away from her, Lyra feels the absence of warmth.
"Bellamy and Clarke are taking a team to investigate the crash-site," Raven tells her quietly. "I'm going with them."
"Right," says Lyra. "Um, OK."
Lyra feels like an absolute mess. Unsure of how much longer she can stand there before she breaks down (seconds, probably) she gives Raven a shaky nod before brushing past the canvas and back into the open air. The camp is unusually quiet. Kids walk back and forth somberly, shoulders shrugged over, heads hanging low. Like phantoms in the silver mist spiraling across the earth.
Monty ambles towards her, shaking his dark hair from his eyes.
"Are you OK?"
The child grimaces, all bleak eyes and hollow cheeks. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry about your dad."
He offers her a melancholy smile of comfort, but Lyra cannot bring herself to smile in return. She's burning in the cold, charred remnants of a universe fizzling out, and can only observe him with eyes like tombstones. She appreciates his presence. Of course she does. But his words are hollow, the empathy fragile and plastic to her ears. Because what do you say to a girl who's lost the last of her family, who watched her dad fall from the sky in a spacecraft ten-thousand stars away?
There are no words at all.
"Yeah." She's dizzy with exhaustion. "I need to get some sleep."
"Wait!" He grabs her by the sleeve of her jacket. "Jasper's a folk-hero now, and they even gave us a bigger tent. You can sleep in there."
"I — "
"Come on." The smile he gives her is so genuine that she feels her resolve start to fizzle out. "We even have extra blankets now. And... and I don't think you should be alone right now."
Her voice trembles, clogged with gratitude. "OK."
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DREAMS EVADE Lyra Jupiter's grasp.
Perhaps it's for the better. Lyra cannot imagine what sort of darkness would bleed into her thoughts after the mind-numbing horrors of the past day. The shadows around her are suffocating as she twists and turns, drenched in sweat. Somewhere, a small corner of the universe weeps.
A long, long while later, the tent unzips.
She groggily hauls herself into a sitting position at the edge of the cot. Body aching, she huddles the tangerine blanket closer to her skin as she sucks in slow, easy breaths.
Monty pops his head inside. "Oh, thank God. Dude, you've been asleep for, like, ever. We all thought you were dead after you slept through the gunshots last night."
"Gunshots?" Lyra shoots up in alarm.
"Yeah. Wells went to wake you up when they got back from the crash site last night, but Bellamy pretty much ordered everyone to stay away from you or face his wrath. Octavia was sorta pissed, but Bellamy said you needed sleep."
"Can we go back to the whole gunshots thing?" She asks.
"Sure. You missed a lot while you were out, actually, you'll never believe what happened — " voices from outside the tent become clearer and Monty's mouth snaps shut in alarm. "Quick, get under the blanket and pretend you're asleep!"
"Wait, what?" She asks, but Monty's already diving beneath his own blanket.
"It's Jasper," he hisses, voice muffled. "He's gone mad with power. Hide."
Gaping at him, she finally does what he says and pulls the blanket over her face, holding her breath and going as still as possible. She hears the flap of the canvas tent move as someone ━━ probably Jasper ━━ steps inside. Metal grinds against metal and there's a shink sound, like a magazine clip being reloaded.
Footsteps thud against the dirt outside and then the zipper jostles. Someone else comes in.
"Hey, Jasper, um, you're on in fifteen. In case your hungry."
Harper?
"Thanks," he replies. "Be right out."
"I like your tent. Maybe I could, um, come by your shift, hear about the bridge again?"
Wait. Since when did Harper have a thing for Jasper?
"Um... actually I'm busy later."
"Oh. Yeah. OK." Harper sounds disappointed and rather embarrassed, which is weird. Lyra's always known her to be confident and cool. "Some other time, then. See you."
The tent entrance rustles. Harper leaves.
"Are you kidding me?" There's a jostling noise and Lyra assumes Monty's thrown the blanket off his head because now he's talking. "That was there for the taking."
"Harper?" Jasper scoffs. "She's low-hanging fruit."
Lyra gasps.
"What was that?" Jasper asks suspiciously. "Did that blanket just gasp?"
"Dude, it's a blanket," Monty deadpans.
"Yeah, but it's suspiciously Lyra shaped."
"No, it's not. Lyra's taller than that," Monty defends and Lyra thinks um, offensive. He elbows her in warning before sitting on top of her and coughing loudly when she lets out an audible Oof! "See?"
Lyra decides she very much does not want to be included in this narrative anymore.
"Besides," Monty drawls casually, elbowing Lyra sharply in the ribs again. "Don't tell me you're still holding out for Octavia."
Wait — what? Since when did Jasper have a thing for Octavia?
"I've gotta go."
"Jasper, Octavia is not gonna happen. She likes her Grounders alive."
Ooh. That's a low blow.
This is kinda entertaining, though. Does thinking that make her a horrible person?
"Go float yourself, Monty."
Lyra's brows raise.
"I'm just telling you the truth."
"No. You're telling me your truth. I'm not like you anymore."
What is that supposed to mean?
Monty seems to be thinking the same question. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means you're jealous, and people think I'm cool, and that upsets you."
Wow.
"I think you're cool, only no one had to die for me to see it."
She bites her mouth to keep from gasping. Wowwww. . .
"You know what? This is my tent, OK? Bellamy gave it to me, and if you have a problem with that, maybe you should find somewhere else to sleep."
"Maybe I should."
"Then do it."
"I will."
"Good."
And with that, Jasper disappears from the tent.
Lyra almost erupts with shock. Pushing herself upwards, she emerges from the depths of the blanket and sucks in a deep gulp of the fresh air feverishly. Monty topples off of her. Chestnut hair fizzling around her cheeks, she gapes, staring dumbfounded at him.
"I don't understand — what was — you and Jasper — you guys can't — "
"I know," grumbles Monty. "I told you he's gone mad with power."
But his quick-witted sarcastic comments lack the usual strength. His shoulders sag even further. She stands and sidles closer to him, offering him a hand to help him up.
"Well, it looks like you need a new tent to sleep in. Lucky for you, I know just the place!"
He gratefully takes the hand before grousing, "I guess I have no other choice."
"That's the spirit!"
Any sleepiness shoved aside, she grabs her shoes, fumbling only briefly with the laces. She makes two bunny ears just like her mom and dad taught her so long ago ━━ and for a super-genius, Lyra had taken an embarrassingly long time to learn how to tie her shoes ━━ before briefly debating whether she should discard the blanket or not. Ultimately she decides against it. Dicks don't deserve extra blankets and while Jasper might not be a dick, he's certainly acting like one.
"Finally you can teach me that cool high-five thing you guys do," she continues. "Also, I'm stealing this blanket — bye!"
She hurries out of the tent before he can stop her.
A deluge of golden light, warm and sweet as honey, dapples the earth, welcoming her. She clutches the blanket closer to her. Smushed beside it is the Nasa jacket. All that's left of her family. A wave of emptiness crashes over her, and not even the sun-drenched planet is enough to cheer her. She wants to get over it. She wants to get over it. Really, she does.
"You good?"
Miller. His voice is soft as the September air from the first day they landed. He'd been walking by, beanie shrugged low over his forehead, but he pauses to look at her.
"Of course!"
He doesn't look convinced. "Whatever you say. But, uh... it's OK to not be OK."
She looks at Miller. Like, she really looks at Miller. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes inky. He wipes at his nose furiously, as if somehow he can hide his distress.
"I think my dad might've been on the ship," he admits in a small voice. "After Shumway, he's the highest ranking officer."
She should probably be saying something like I'm sorry, but at this point she knows that it doesn't mean shit. Shifting on her feet, she toys with the hem of her jacket, waiting to see if Miller will open up any further.
"Clarke's mom was on it, too. But, uh, she's being very Clarke about it."
"So she's pushing down all her emotions and then ignoring them?" Lyra asks and Miller nods. The dark-skinned boys eyes are still noticeably rimmed red, so she lifts the blanket it in her arms higher. "I stole this blanket."
"Crime?" He sniffles, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
"Crime."
He fist bumps her. "That's what I like to hear — oh, and cool jacket."
Then Conner's shouting Miller! sharply from one of the gunners posts and he's leaving. She bows her head and grits her teeth. Fate is cruel. Like a dagger of molten lava buried deep in her soul.
The pain is swelling and she grits her teeth harder and goes towards her tent.
Staggering into the sun-dappled tent, she has never felt so lost. Tear-shaken eyes, abandoned in a tar-dipped universe. She wants to crawl inside and drape herself in the stolen blanket and the tattered Nasa jacket and sleep for one-hundred years, a corpse Sleeping Beauty, but Octavia's inside and there's no time for any of that.
Life on the ground moves fast and there's only so long to focus on yesterday's nightmares.
"Morning," she announces in what she hopes is a cheerful tone.
"Lyra!" Octavia, whose laying flat on her stomach, rolls over in surprise. "You know you were asleep for, like, sixteen hours."
"Oops?" Her fingers toy awkwardly with her sleeves. "It was a, uh, rough day."
She raises her chin and looks at Octavia. Octavia, whose suffered endlessly in comparison to her. Octavia who is a dazzling blue bolt of light across an inky sky, a shooting star embodied, a goddess of fire and flame.
Born second, a child that should have never lived. And yet, against all odds, she survived. A newborn star spending fifteen years seething beneath floorboards. Never knowing her father. Losing her mother too soon. Everything Octavia Blake does is a magnificent act of defiance against those who locked her up just for having the audacity to take a breath. She hasn't just survived ━━ she lives. She fought and raged against the death sentence the Ark gave her and then exploded onto this blue lump of a planet like a grenade. She is a warrior, a wildfire, and everything Lyra wants to be.
Lyra can feel Octavia's blistering sapphire eyes drilling into her. Looking for despair. Any sign of sorrow. But she won't show it. She can channel her best friends prowess and might today.
(She's never thought of herself as brave.)
"It's going to be all right," Octavia murmurs. "It'll get better."
Lyra looks at her feet. "I know."
Lyra sinks quietly down onto Octavia's cot and then collapses to her stomach so that they're laying side-by-side. Octavia's hand twitches briefly on the slope of her shoulders before brushing her curtain of raven hair back, revealing a strange, leather bound book spread before her.
"Can you read?"
Octavia whips her head around at the question and Lyra's cheeks burn red. "I mean, like, you didn't go to school. Obviously. Except for Earth Skills."
"The good ol' days, when we were all waiting to get floated instead of death via Grounders," says Octavia with a snort. "And obviously I can read. Bellamy used The Iliad to teach me."
"Guess it doesn't matter," says Lyra absent-mindedly, thumbing the cream pages. "This is basically a picture book."
"Lincoln drew them," confides Octavia.
"No way! Really?" Lyra shoves away the hollow ache inside her, focusing on the fine details in the charcoal sketches. "I didn't know the Grounders took art classes."
The flap closing the tent starts to jostle.
"Oh, now what?" Octavia mutters.
"Probably Monty," says Lyra, propping her chin on her hands as she shifts so that she's facing the entrance. "He's our new roommate — surprise!"
But it's not Monty, it's Bellamy. His features are contorted as his dark eyes flicker over the both of them, lingering upon Lyra for a painfully long time.
"How are you feeling?"
"We're both fine," grumbles Octavia, not looking up from Lincoln's journal. "Get out."
"You touch Murphy yesterday?"
His sister looks annoyed. "What?"
"Wait... " Lyra's eyes dart between the two Blake's. "What do you mean Murphy? He isn't dead?"
"You missed a lot while you were out," says Bellamy, not unkindly, before his eyes fix on Octavia. He repeats his question, only it sounds more like a command this time. "Did you touch Murphy yesterday?"
"I dunno. I guess so." Octavia shrugs, looking at him in irritation. "Why?"
"The Grounders sent him here with a virus to infect us. Derek just died from it, another mark for your boyfriend's book."
Lyra's mouth drops. Another death. Another death. She never knew Derek, but he must have had friends, family, he had people. People that will mourn him, cry for him, people that will die with him.
"And you two are both touching." It's now that Lyra realizes Bellamy's frustrations aren't from anger with Octavia; he's scared. "Come on. Clarke needs to examine you both."
Shoving Lincoln's journal under her pillow, Octavia makes a big show of standing up dramatically.
Lyra stands up, too. She pushes the orange blanket into the corner with her foot, hoping Bellamy won't pull any of his leadership status and confiscate it from her.
Then, at the last minute, she grabs the Nasa jacket and shrugs it over her shoulders. It's oversized and hangs loosely off her body. The cotton is scratchy. It smells like death.
"So... " she says, walking out of the tent. "Murphy?"
"Said he was being tortured by Grounders," Bellamy says sharply, rifle in hand as the three make their way to the dropship. "He's a threat. I don't want anyone going near him."
Something about him has become so easy for her to read, as if his emotions are drawn out for her in charcoal like Lincoln's journal for Octavia. It's probably because she's spent so much time with him by now. It's why when she looks at him, his thoughts are easy to discern, even despite the tight angle of his jaw and the way his eyes are set dead ahead as if waiting for Murphy to jump out of the shadows and attack them.
"You can't blame Charlotte on Murphy," she says. "It's not fair."
"I can blame this on him," he retorts sharply, coming to a halt in front of the canvas strips above the overhang. "O, you go in first."
"But what about — " Octavia begins, then huffs when a scowl crawls across Bellamy's features. "OK. Fine. Whatever."
She stomps into the dropship.
All day, Lyra has been struggling and failing to reign in her emotions, the ones that creep through her bones like black poison. Festering in her veins, devouring her heart and soul. Whatever dark and dreadful crusade Bellamy had been on when he'd shot the Grounders at the peace talk is long over, the firefight gone, violet-veined thunder seeped from his trigger-happy thumbs. The fight is over. And when he opens his mouth to speak, his features hard, she talks first.
"If you're going to yell at me for the peace talk, don't bother." Her eyes burn. "That was our best chance at staying alive. Without the Ark, there is no one to protect us from the Grounders."
His fist clenches around the gun, shoulders stiff, eyes dark with remembrance.
"Listen. You don't know what it was like, following you guys in the middle of the night, not knowing whether you were going to live or die — watching Octavia hug him, watching you go up to them, to a fully-grown woman with armed guards flanking her."
She starts to grin. "So you do care about me."
"Is that all you got from that?"
"You're not denying it!" She sings, entering the dropship.
It's a different world. Kids stagger back and forth, smeared with dull brown filth and crimson blood, some propped up by steel walls as they don't have even enough strength to hold themselves. Pallid, hollow-cheeked, eyes like gravestones in their heads. Monroe is curled into the corner. Blood trickles out of her nose, crawls down her chin, blooming ruby across her clothed chest. Another boy, Del, is laying so still he looks more ghost than boy.
There, right by the entrance, is a completely still lump. A blood-coloured jacket lays on top of it. At once Lyra knows who it must be ━━ Derek.
"In peace may you leave the shore," she whispers, teeth catching the edge of her lip. "In love may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels until our finally journey to the ground. May we meet again."
How many more times will she be forced to say those words?
Cloth jammed over her mouth, blood crusting her eyelids, Clarke's arm quakes with effort as she shines a light towards Octavia. "We're done. No visible signs of swelling or bleeding."
"So you're saying she doesn't have it?" Bellamy asks gruffly.
"I'm saying she doesn't have symptoms, but that could change," Clarke responds, hardly able to hold her head up. "Lyra, have you had any general weakness at all? Dehydration, sweating, headache, bleeding?"
Those just sound like period symptoms to Lyra, but whatever.
"I don't think so."
Clarke heaves a sigh, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like, Whatever, good enough for me. "I need to keep them both here just in case."
"No way," Bellamy says at once, looking horrified by the suggestion. "Look at this place. Anyone could get sick just by being in here."
"Do you want to stop the spread or not?" Clarke demands. Then she sniffles, nostrils, lips, teeth sticky with hideous scarlet. "Look. They'll both go to the third level with the people who aren't symptomatic yet. Wells is up there. Think of it as a way to stop Octavia from sneaking out again."
Lyra laughs.
Octavia's eyes narrow. "Screw you, Clarke."
"You're included in that," Bellamy says flatly to Lyra, looking painfully unconvinced by Clarke's words. "Octavia's not the only one whose been sneaking around."
Octavia coughs, but it sounds suspiciously like, Ha!
"I'll let you know if Octavia's condition changes," says Clarke, and by now any life in her tone is gone. The blonde is crowned with dried blood, looking like a corpse-princess.
Disconcertment darkening his features, Bellamy finally nods sharply in defeat and goes to leave. Before he can, though, Lyra's fingers curl around his wrist.
"Hey, could you do me a favour?" When he looks back, she continues hurriedly. "Check on Miller."
His mouth purses, then, with a quick nod, he leaves.
"Maybe only virgins can get this shit," says a disgruntled Octavia as she grabs the ladder. "That might be why I'm safe."
"Wait... " Lyra's eyes widen. "I'm a virgin."
"We should probably change that," says Octavia.
"Oh my gosh, you would do that for me?" Lyra asks. "That's actually really nice of you — "
"Not me!" Octavia exclaims. "I'm a taken woman!"
Clarke gives a short huff, something that sounds suspiciously like, Why me? "Sexual experience literally has nothing to do with this disease, Lyra. Take a deep breath."
"But are you sure — ?"
"Yes, I'm sure!"
"OK, OK!" Lyra, intimidated by Clarke's stern glare, forces herself to exhale through her mouth. "Taking a deep breath."
In the meanwhile, Clarke exhaustedly shuffles towards Octavia. "Octavia, wait. I need you to sneak out again."
Footsteps crescendo down the ladder, a few shouts incoherent rising from the above floors. Wells' fingers are slick with sweat as he sways, tumbling down the last few rungs and thudding to the floor. At once, Lyra is hurrying to his side. Gently, steadily, she starts to help him to his feet. He teeters violently, a hacking cough erupting from his lungs and spraying a horrifying crimson across his dark fingers.
Dragging his sleeve across his blood-stained nose, he sucks ruby from his teeth. He blinks unseeingly at Lyra, patting her arm weakly in thanks. The whites of his eyes are stained with hideous red, fogged with feverish glaze.
He gives her a weak, bloody smile. "Welcome to quarantine."
"Holy shit," Lyra murmurs, slinging his arm around her to help him towards a shoddy cot smashed against the wall. "You look like you're dying."
"I am dying."
Wells collapses onto the makeshift bed with a wheeze, an inviolable black haze draping him as if the grim reaper had shed a curse onto him. His fingers are clammy, his skin slick with sweat.
Her lips press together. "I'm gonna ask Clarke for some medicine. You stay right here and focus really, really hard on not dying."
"I don't control those circumstances!"
Hurrying towards Clarke, Lyra's eyes widen in alarm as the blonde leader stumbles and then starts to fall. She swoops in hurriedly, grabbing her under the arms and steadying her.
"Thanks," mumbles Clarke hoarsely.
"Please tell me you have medicine, or something to fix this."
"If I did, Derek wouldn't be dead right now," responds Clarke, gasping for breath as she teeters. Lyra helps her, but this time Clarke falls to the ground and doesn't make any effort to stand back up. "I sent Octavia to look Lincoln for a cure. But if he doesn't have one... "
She trails off, looking around the dropship. The sick are uncountable. They fill every inch of space in the metal chamber, some desperately scrabbling for flasks of water, some curled on iron floors, others retching blood. Monroe. Del. Jones. Sterling. Myles. Wells. Fox's eyes are empty and dark as she stares ahead blankly, as if seeing ghosts invisible to the rest of them.
If fate is cruel, than humankind is crueler.
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Hey, guys! If you understand what happened in this chapter, please tell me, because I have no idea :))))
And was that scene w/ Miller completely unnecessary? Yes! But you know what? I fucking love Miller and Jarod deserved so much better. I'm pretty sure he has a ton of deleted scenes and I believe Jarod has come out about his personal wishes that he got more lines n' stuff and since this is basically turning into a fix-it fic, I'm gonna fix that! He's 100% going to get more lines and probably even a subplot in this book, though it will not be in s1 :/.
ANYWAYS, SHOUT OUT @gamingwritergirl FOR THIS WONDERFUL EDIT, I ESPECIALLY LOVED SEEING WELLS & NOAH ON HERE ALONGSIDE LYRA
THAMKS FOR READING, MUCH LOVE TO U ALL
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