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Touch the sky and tell me... ━━━━
LYRA REED IS VENGEANCE.
And hell hath no fury like vengeance scorned. She is hot blade and dripping venom, thunderstorm and bruised knuckles, coming for this world and its next. With no mortal or divinity to stand in her way. Knife pressed against a throat, blood on hands that are not her own. Retribution, the words fall out of her mouth like they were made to be said only by her. Retribution, she says without having to ask. Yet still, you give give give even when there is nothing left to give. Even after you've sold your soul to the devil. Yet still, it comes back demanding for more more more. What else is left for me to give? you weep and it wipes away your tears, staining your face in red. You will know when the time comes, it reveals teeth smeared in gold oozing of honey and ichor. Tell me my dear, its claws graze your cheek and suddenly you are bleeding bleeding bleeding out but you do not know if it is yours or hers or theirs. Who are you when no one is watching? Get out of my head. I asked you a question: who are you when the Gods close their eyes, when they go to sleep? Stop, I am begging you, please—please, just leave. When the world goes dark, who do you become? Who do you choose to be, who do you want to be? Are you menace. Fury. Wrath. Vengeance. Killer? I am danger, a voice echoes as if thunder had spoken with a head held high to match the weight of her words. You should beware. There are no devils and no hell. There is only me, and now there is only you. Just us, and no one here to save you. Not even the God you pray to or sin for. Because he sees what he wants to, and he sees when he wants to. The pretty flowers and blue rivers will be his, but the wars waged and the suffering that entails are not of his doing. These atrocities, he blames only on man. Could you hold it against him, could you ever hold him accountable? Perhaps. But then how do you subpoena a God? They know nothing of justice, of fairness. These do not exist in the worlds beyond mortals. They know only of vengeance and retribution—this is what Lyra is made of, this is what they made Lyra of. So, march to Olympus and deliver justice yourself. Teach them what it feels like to live only to die. An eye for an eye, a soul for a soul. A heart for a heart, and a life for a life. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And to them, you frail divinity, you shall return and never come back. Let me show you what it feels like to be a mortal, to live and to die as one. Is this how you kill a God, Lyra? Of course not. This is how I kill all Gods.
There's something dangerous in Lyra's head. A profound conflict and incessant turmoil that racks against the cages of her being. A seed waiting to be unleashed into the world and eat it raw. A permanent state of war. A brain made of wires that tick, twist and turn like machinery, in constant conspiracy and calculations. A brain that never apprehends the world as it appears to be, that always digs beneath the surface to find the implicit and hidden. And if a wire were to go astray, it would slice the world into pieces. No prayer or whisper would ever put the broken parts back together. This is the only way Lyra could ever be fragile. Fragile like a bomb that would consume the world inside out and turn it to embers and memory. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and to them you shall return and never come back, foolish God did I not warn you? It's not my fault you chose to ignore the prophecy in my veins. It's not my fault you are dead at my feet tonight. It's not my fault what I've made of you.
