Lyra hesitated. She knew the answer, of course — they both did — but she wasn't sure of the best way to say it, and she had the feeling that this would be a moment she looked back on many times in the coming days (or weeks, or months, or years). She wanted to find the right words.
"I can't stay," she eventually said quietly. They both knew it was true, of course. There had never been a future in which Lyra had imagined herself staying here and playing mother to their child, not really, and the simple logistics of trying to stay were staggeringly difficult. Truth be told, she had never allowed herself to imagine a future with a child in it at all. When she had been pregnant before, she had spent long nights with her hands stretched out on her rounded belly, staring up at the stars and wishing the world for the little girl inside of her, but her little Estella had never drawn breath. Even the idea of imagining that this child of hers and August's might live had been too painful to seriously contemplate. Now that it was here — now that he was here — she had no idea what to do.
Could she even be a mother to a child, in the state that she was in? Her body wasn't warm, the way it ought to be. If she tried to hold him, would the child recognize her as the woman who had given him life, or squirm and shy away from her like the dead thing that she was? Would her body even produce milk if she wanted to nurse him? If she stayed that would be the only possible cover for her to interact with the child, and she wasn't sure she was even physically capable of it.
With some difficulty, she managed to squeeze out from under the drained corpse of the midwife and get to her feet. The nightgown she was wearing was stained with blood. Some was dabbled on her chest, but most was lower, from the birth. Lyra didn't like to waste blood, and even in her nearly delirious frenzy she had 'spilled' very little of her latest meal. Her head spun when she stood and her legs felt weak from disuse. How long had she been in labor? She had no notion of time. It was dark outside now, but she didn't know how much longer it would remain so. "I'll need a clean dress," she said distantly.
"I can't stay," she eventually said quietly. They both knew it was true, of course. There had never been a future in which Lyra had imagined herself staying here and playing mother to their child, not really, and the simple logistics of trying to stay were staggeringly difficult. Truth be told, she had never allowed herself to imagine a future with a child in it at all. When she had been pregnant before, she had spent long nights with her hands stretched out on her rounded belly, staring up at the stars and wishing the world for the little girl inside of her, but her little Estella had never drawn breath. Even the idea of imagining that this child of hers and August's might live had been too painful to seriously contemplate. Now that it was here — now that he was here — she had no idea what to do.
Could she even be a mother to a child, in the state that she was in? Her body wasn't warm, the way it ought to be. If she tried to hold him, would the child recognize her as the woman who had given him life, or squirm and shy away from her like the dead thing that she was? Would her body even produce milk if she wanted to nurse him? If she stayed that would be the only possible cover for her to interact with the child, and she wasn't sure she was even physically capable of it.
With some difficulty, she managed to squeeze out from under the drained corpse of the midwife and get to her feet. The nightgown she was wearing was stained with blood. Some was dabbled on her chest, but most was lower, from the birth. Lyra didn't like to waste blood, and even in her nearly delirious frenzy she had 'spilled' very little of her latest meal. Her head spun when she stood and her legs felt weak from disuse. How long had she been in labor? She had no notion of time. It was dark outside now, but she didn't know how much longer it would remain so. "I'll need a clean dress," she said distantly.