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Marisa Coulter never thought that she’d ever find her Lyra in Bolvangar, in a place that she never wanted the girl to be.
Because if she was separated from her Daemon, there was a higher risk that she would end up like Marisa herself. And she wouldn’t want that for the world. The girl was too good of heart, too… Lyra, to ever be like Marisa Coulter.
However, it’s not like Lyra was like her father either. Marisa wondered whether Asriel ever loved the girl, because the only person he ever seemed to love was himself. He’d lusted after Mrs Coulter of course (how could she have produced their child had he not?) and he’d protected that child out of duty, but had he loved them truly? Now Asriel hated Marisa even if that lust still existed somewhere.
She could vividly remember his hands over her chest, over her thighs, in between her thighs, lips pressing against her own as he made love to her roughly, claiming; like he was her husband. Maybe he had wanted to be at some point, but Marisa heavily doubted it. Asriel wasn’t a one-woman-at-a-time man. Well, unless you counted when he’d stay with her when her husband was away, but even she couldn’t be entirely sure during those times.
Lyra was a representation of the good they had maybe once possessed between them, before the world cruelly snatched it away with hard truths and responsibilities.
So when she had entered the control room out of morbid, devilish interest, all the excitement she had ran cold when she saw it was her baby in there. Her one baby… her only baby.
Her creation.
Her creation wasn’t meant to be the experiment. Her creation was meant to be there for her to nurture and dote upon like mothers allegedly did. Marisa had never been all too keen on the idea of motherhood, and she knew she wasn’t a very good mother too - the incident between her and Lyra’s Daemons was still fresh in her mind - But she loved her daughter even if she wasn’t good for her daughter.
Even if she was bad for her daughter.
Screaming children had never bothered her. A screaming Lyra, did.
It had hurt her more than she would ever be able to admit when her daemon had attacked Pantalaimon. She had hurt her creation.
Maybe that showed that it was a good thing her baby hadn’t been able to stay with her after all. Even if Marisa thought of her every day. Every waking moment. Every second. It consumed her. All of her. So much so that Marisa was sure it would destroy her.
And now Lyra was screaming in the ghastly machine, knuckles probably blooded from bashing them hard against the door, and for some reason Marisa felt her stomach flip. She wished it was her knuckles bloodied instead. It wouldn’t have been the first time. It surely wouldn’t be the last. Why would Marisa risk Lyra turning her pretty skin purple when the woman was so used to the sensation already? Marisa knew things healed one way or the other, but why take the risk with her precious creation? Better it be someone who knew the risks and did it anyway, than a little girl who did it on accident. Metal hurt more than most, Mrs Coulter knew that for a fact.
What really shook Marisa from her reverie was when Lyra started calling out her name, “Mrs Coulter- Mrs Coulter-“ Big eyes pleading, begging for any chance to be set free. Lyra hadn’t seen her yet, and nor had Mrs Coulter seen Lyra. But she would recognise the voice of her daughter anywhere.
“Mother! Mother!” And that was that. They made eye contact; blue eyes fixing on each other. Mother and daughter, finally seeing each other as such.
“Lyra…” How did she know of their connection, Marisa briefly thought to herself. Who had told the girl of her most grievous secret? Was it those wretched Gyptians? How must Lyra feel about her parents now, knowing they had both lied to her for her whole life. Mrs Coulter was different case, she hadn’t been allowed into her life; all because of Asriel.
Asriel.
How she had loved him so. No, not love. If Asriel didn’t love her then she didn’t love Asriel.
Ever.
Marisa Coulter never let herself love anymore. Everyone except Lyra Belacqua. Regardless of whatever she may or may not have felt, she couldn’t let any harm come to her creation.
No, her and Asriel’s creation.
Their creation.
She couldn’t let harm come to the one product that showed for certain that someone had loved her; just as she had loved him in return. In their own ways.
Her senses coming back to her, Marisa heard someone that had her voice cry out for her child. That was her voice. Not that she had time to consider what that meant. All she had to do was focus on switching off all those damn buttons before it was too late.
Lyra was safe. Weak, shaken, but safe. That was all Marisa Coulter cared about. Pressing her fingertips against the glass, Marisa reached for her daughter.
Lyra.
Her daughter, Lyra.