.

.

Asriel doesn't expect any form of revelry as soon as he lands.

(Naturally there wouldn't be.)

His presence in London often comes as a tactic. To use mutual favours owned and entrusted with his noteworthy colleagues or to use his influence.

Coming to Oxford presumably means Asriel lacks research funds, for his equipment and generators and other necessities such as provisions for himself and his men. He needs all of this as soon as humanly possible. As a member of the Cabinet Counsel, he can be afforded a significant amount of what he needs. A number of Scholars and eminent professors fearfully respect him. Most doubt him. Asriel cannot waste his time on small minds.

The heat of spring, slow and mindful like a lover's touch, washes over the greenery. Oaks and beeches and elms sprout with flowering buds. Mightier than them are the foundations of stony, historic towers of Jordan College. Their spires coloured in a peach-apricot-cream glow.

Asriel strides through the colossal, iron entrance-gates, following his snow leopard daemon.

Down by the footpath leading to northernmost quadrangle of buildings, he notices the emptiness of the surrounding area.

An unusual and frantic hush carries in, threatening to meld with the faintest ringing of Asriel's eardrums. There's nervous, and deeply discomforted, faces of those who hasten past him. He knows very well the estrangement between himself and those who live on Jordan College's grounds, despite having a legal residency twenty two weeks out of the fifty or so needed. The Master takes great personal pleasure in reminding him of this.

Even so, Asriel finds himself irritated. Stelmaria eyes one of the servant's collie daemons, growling deep in her throat.

.

.

He hasn't seen Lyra.

The hour descends. She should have been been made aware of her uncle's arrival by now.

Lyra doesn't waste her time acquiring the knowledge of his infrequent and highly sought after visits. She bounces on her heels eagerly, trailing after him, badgering Asriel about his journey and how many men he killed and what he brought her from the North.

He may not know her favourite colour, or which game she enjoys playing the most, or what Lyra thinks about the recent political state of their world, but Asriel remembers her demanding a willow ptarmigan's feather when next he returned to Jordan College. The rarest sighted bird among the tundra. She insisted that her uncle couldn't bring back something from any old bird, to his humour — and that she would surely know if Asriel would try to trick her. Of all of her lies that ever spilled from her lips, he knows this is truth.

Asriel finds himself seeking her out, peering up towards the rooftops and into his office where the Master granted him stay. Lyra could be discovered there sometimes, fingering the records of borrowed philosophical instruments, or lounging herself in Asriel's mahogany chair. She sat herself like a queen does upon a gilded throne, awaiting patiently for her faithful, loving audience.

"You're worried…" Stelmaria murmurs, rumble-purring as Asriel's hand caresses over her sleek, silvery head.

"Hm."

.

.

The willow ptarmigan's feather, enveloped in a piece of black, gossamer silk, remains hidden in his pocket.

Asriel heads upstairs for his floor, after checking Lyra's own lofted attic-room for her. She isn't there. She isn't anywhere, it seems.

"Your Lordship," a man greets him, standing in Asriel's room as if instructed. "I'll only be a moment."

He finds himself halting for a split-second, observing as the younger man tidies up. Stelmaria's ears flick.

The rag swabs over the immaculate, maplewood table, grasped in the younger man's fingers. Dusting over the snifter and glassware. Asriel leaves the chamber-door open, stepping in. The younger man has a reedy voice. Ginger hair. His face blotchy-red from the sun. A big, white-spotted rodent daemon peeks to Stelmaria regarding her with mild disdain, cowering up the younger man's arm.

"Ah, yes, this is quite a splendid—"

"Lyra Belacqua," Asriel says loudly, tonelessly and without a further explanation. He doesn't look away from his newspaper unfolding. Stelmaria watches for them as the pink-reddened quality of the man's face drains. "Have you seen my daughter?"

When there's further silence, Asriel looks up expressionlessly from his lounging position on the wooden, oak bench.

The ginger-haired man lets out a humiliated chuckle. "I'm n-not sure I'm—"

'"Your lack of formality gives you away. Don't expect to fool me."

"Sir, I-I," he chuckles again, and then immediately backs up, smile vanishing without a trace as Asriel rises to his feet. Though he may not appear to be a physically large man, there's no mistaking the dominance behind his actions. Resilience. The power of a man who does not give a mere inch to his enemies. There's an unmistakable glint of hardened ice within the blue of Asriel's eyes.

As he draws closer, the younger man backs a little more until he's cornered. "I don't believe you've been hired here… but someone did send for you, didn't they…?" Asriel realises this as he speaks, his voice guttural. "Who was it…?"

The young man gulps. He presses himself to the flagstone wall, clutching the rag.

"She… shuh-she says to come alone or the girl dies."

A shocked spasm of fury ripples through Asriel.

He's able to hide it, but Stelmaria arches. Her huge, sharp fangs out as she snarls thunderously beside Asriel's lower leg. That's when the Dean of Jordan College and several of others, like the Chaplain — a good friend to Asriel — walk in, quarreling to themselves. They had been rushing to inform him about Lyra.

They cannot find her. They have not been able to for half a day. This wouldn't be unusual, seeing as Lyra often vanishes to play, but one of the kitchen boys claims to have seen a man with red hair and a daemon shaped like a big rat looking suspicious. He grabbed Lyra from behind, cramming a hand tightly over her mouth and nose until she went limp, dragging her into an alleyway. He tossed away a linen cloth from his grip.

(The kitchen boy took it when he could, describing the soft linen smelling of very bad medicine.)

Asriel half-listens, glimpsing a knife being jerkily unsheathed in the corner of his eye.

Stelmaria attacks the rodent daemon, expertly catching her between her jaws. The man weakens, making a shrill, helpless noise. Asriel yanks him forward, turning round and getting behind him, twisting one of the younger man's arms and then holding his own knife-hand to the man's throat.

He growls out, real and savage and deep in Asriel's own throat, resembling his daemon's true form.

"What do you know of the General Oblation Board—?"

"I-I dunno what that is!"

"The Magisterium—"

"Dunno! I dunno! I didn't talk to none of 'em!"

If it's not either of them, Asriel wonders if Marisa herself finally caught up to him. To Lyra. She wouldn't harm her. As far as he knew, Marisa only cared for killing all of the other nameless children put into her experiments. But that didn't mean Lyra would be entirely safe.

Asriel's fingers squeeze around the man's fingers on the knife. "Tell Mrs. Coulter," he mutters darkly, "that if she doesn't release her—"

"I dunno a Mrs. Coulter, sir! I'm loyal! Loyal to my true love! A witch!"

(Well, certainly that he did not anticipate.)

"It would serve you well to understand I do not take threats lightly," Asriel says, his lips peeling back from his teeth and sneering. "I espeically do not take them from witches or their craven lovers… now… I will say this only once: Where is my daughter?"

The younger man startles, yelling as Asriel's hand on his presses the blade into his flesh. It's not enough to cut, but pain him. Someone calls out, perhaps the Dean scowling, to Asriel in warning. "Jericho!" A fearful yell. "Jericho! Right on Juxon Street! Where the old alchemist used to live!" In the background, the Chaplain sighs with relief as Asriel drops their arms.

"Come alone," the witch's lover repeats, shaking, like it's meant to be a defense against Asriel's mounting wrath.

Stelmaria bites down on the rodent daemon, as if somehow reading Asriel's thoughts, making her squeal. The man squeals too, dropping onto the wood-panel floor. She releases the other daemon, staring down haughtily at the twitching, swooning rat.

.

.

The Master of Jordan College orders a full search of the grounds. Top to bottom.

He knows it's no use. The man was telling the truth, no matter the consequences, and Asriel knows exactly where to go.

Under the night-shadows, there's a lane separating Jordan from Brasenose. Stelmaria lurks between the chestnut trees hanging low, narrowly together. Broad Street, and all of its stillness, turns to St. Ann Magdalen. A tiny oratory prides themselves on their splendid rose gardens during the warmer seasons. To Cornmarket, and to St. Giles' where it is busiest.

Asriel disappears with his snow leopard daemon into the maze of little back streets, avoiding the Grey Friars' Oratory.

He remembers Juxon Street. Terraced brick houses in straight, squalid rows to the canal. Decent and hardworking people. Watermen and their families. Labourers. The hard-bitten men working from the Eagle Ironworks or the Press.

There's an area without gaslamps, and all of the windows curtained. Asriel strains his eyes. No moonlight.

"Asriel, this way," Stelmaria hisses, bounding across pavement. She's as soundless as smoke. He locates the far end house with her. Low walls covered by unkempt, dusty grass and weeds. A chained front door. Dim, reddish light floods through a grubby window. Not much to see. "Here," Stelmaria tells him, prowling down a set of concrete stairs leading to basement-doors.

He's quiet as the night-shadows, unlatching and slipping in.

Dark, musty floors never swept. Partial lighting.

Lyra.

Lyra hunches herself by the furnace, seemingly free of ropes and woozy.

She has on a blue cashmere dress. The fabric of her hose ruined by ashen, grainy dirt. Her thin arms visibly swollen by hand-prints. Bright red fluid trickles down, glaring, staining the cotton-white of her shirt and her dress's front. It's all over her hands and fingers. Lyra's face remains blank, as she ruthlessly and sluggishly digs her fingernails into her own throat. He's right there, for her, and she takes no notice in her hypnotised condition.

Asriel's heart clenches. He nearly staggers to put a hand to the basement wall. Stelmaria mewls out, dismayed. She must sense Pantalaimon because Asriel cannot see him where he is. Lyra's daemon would be hidden on her as a flea or some small insect.

Before he can even move, the witch springs out of nowhere.

Matted, auburn hair. Blazing green eyes. She screeches, jumping onto Asriel and wringing her strong hands to his neck. Her young face a mask of hatred and frenzy. Stelmaria howls out as the witch's daemon swoops down on her, wrestling and rolling over Stelmaria, fluttering angrily. Bird-like squawking.

An elbow jams into the witch's stomach, and then her mouth, hitting until Asriel feels her let go and crying out breathlessly.

He knocks her flat, pinning her by the neck with his forearm. She doesn't resist, cackling manically. Blood gleams on her upper lip. "Take it off her!" Asriel roars out, his blue eyes widening. "Take your curse off her or I will TAKE YOUR HEAD—!"

"Do it," she whispers, grinning contemptuously. "Lyra Belacqua will be no more. I only wanted you to stand witness."

"What has she done? She's a child." Asriel heaves out. The noise mingles torment and internal pain and struggling to restrain himself. "Mine," he confesses. Within full view of Lyra. Knowing she may hear regardless. "My own, you damned wretch."

"She's your blood. And your filthy… traitorous blood… it will flow until this grieves and pains you as losing a child did me."

Asriel listens to the lithe tremour in her words. Those greenspring eyes. He fought with the Tartars who accepted Grumman, and aided a battle against enemy Tartars. She must have been a clan witch who birthed a son from their ranks. Bestowing him a dead man's eyes he knows.

He listens and he understands.

"Forgive me," Asriel mumbles, pulling out the witch-lover's knife from his belt. He plunges it right into her heart.

She moans, stretching out her arms to the nothingness, dying with that bloody, maniac grin on her lips. Her bird daemon swirls and dissolves into glittering particles. Stelmaria chuffs in annoyance, familiar with the sight, getting up and shaking herself off.

Asriel goes to Lyra.

She pays him no mind, continuing to gore herself without the slightest flinch. He pries her hands away, hearing a whimper of astonishment. Lyra still tries, her brows creasing, exhaling and inhaling and lastly struggling clumsily against Asriel's scarlet-smeared hands.

Her injuries may look horrific but she's breathing, and has the energy to fight him.

He holds Lyra's fingers in his, doing nothing as she thrashes, her back cradled and thumping against Asriel's front. Lyra's name drifts from his mouth. Over and over, and over. Asriel murmurs against her head tearfully, waiting it out.

.

.

The witch's lover, upon hearing of her death, bites his tongue while captive. He welcomes death, choking on his own blood.

Lyra has been examined, given a sedative to no avail, and then restrained to one of the cots.

She screeches wordlessly at the top of her lungs, forced to lie down to pillows and blankets. Her wrists strain, twisting ferociously to the knotted scarves. Her dark hair plasters to Lyra's skull, moistened by washcloths and sweat. Lyra collapses and bucks and gags violently during her screeches. She's been trying to claw her neck again. They sterilise her wounds, bandaging her without cutting off her already erratic, high-pitched breathing. Lyra will have rivets of deep, permanent scares, but there's no infection — or so the Master of Jordan College informs him grimly.

It is said a witch's curse fades after her death. No-one has ever put that to the test.

Asriel composes himself, entering the Infirmary Hall. His snow leopard daemon roams about, passing by the other cots, keeping an eye on trespassers from every direction. The only other person there is the Housekeeper, dismissed from her usual tasks to watch over Lyra. She looks up from from her needlework.

A soft gasp.

Mrs. Lonsdale places down her item, rushing over.

"Any improvement?" he asks quietly, eyeing Lyra waking from her fretful, moaning sleep.

"She's not bleeding through her dressings. That's… that's good for now." Mrs. Lonsdale's plump hands wring together. For a brief instant, Asriel pictures her at the tender age of sixteen. When they first met. How she wrung her hands and gnashed her teeth and hollered at a dumbfounded Asriel about his selfishness. "I'll leave her in your care, Lord Asriel… if that's what you want…"

"Sir," Asriel corrects her, gently. "You may refer to me as sir. I told you and that boy during the floods."

Mrs. Lonsdale — Alice — sends him a withering stare. "You told Malcolm, not me."

His lips tick up.

"Of course. You may also call me sir."

She mocks a harrummph! sound, raising her chin high and smoothing her apron. "Thank you for extending your courtesy…" Mrs. Lonsdale adds, a shadow of teenage mischief in her expression. "… … Lord Asriel."

A breathy, stifled moan. They whirl around to Lyra, growing red in her cheeks, beginning to thresh.

"I'll take care of it," Asriel tells her, walking to the cot and overhearing Mrs. Lonsdale make a protest, dismissing her once more.

Somehow seeing him makes his daughter howl out, gaining strength against her bindings. He sees that Pantalaimon, as a long white snake, coiled himself to Lyra's neck, oddly inactive. His long, snake tongue flickers out stiffly.

Astiel crouches down beside her, pulling out the mound of gossamer-black silk.

"Lyra," he says.

There's no change at first, but Lyra tosses her head sideways, grimacing directly at him. The whites of her eyes bloodshot. Her lips quiver, falling open.

"This is yours."

Asriel shows her the willow ptarmigan's feather. Russet and snowy white. Lyra's mouth shuts, falling open. Her pupils dilate. She ceases her struggle, wrists falling, focusing on him. "Lyra," he repeats lowly, tenderly, running his forefinger and thumb over Lyra's nose, her brow, picking away the dark, wet strands.

She shudders at that light touch, nearly convulsing. Hot tears roll down her face.

"Father… father…"

Lyra's voice cracks. Asriel undoes one of the restraints, letting her curl herself into him and kneeling to her. She hugs him, bawling, frightened by the confusion and the pain returning into her senses. He holds her, rubbing her back, tucking Lyra's head under his chin..

"S'alright, Lyra…"

"Nnn…"

"It will be," Asriel insists, feeling her girlish fingers knuckling hard into the fleece of his sweater. "It will be soon."

He'll make sure of it.

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