Lyra was pretty sure she'd merged with the blanket at that point. It's been eight days since she got out of bed, or had seen the sunlight, or ate more than a few bites. Everything was too much on weeks like that: the faintest glimmer was too bright, the quietest whisper too loud, even the simple action of reaching the bedside table with her hand too tiring. Like her body was one of those cranky 'websites' on Aunt Ashley's 'computer' (Lyra's mother's side of the family came from another world. Usually she wouldn't believe that nonsense, but there was no other explanation for the artifacts they brought with them.) that got stuck saying 'the user sent too many requests' even if you only pressed one button. So while the other kids debated whether to go to the Nocturne party in the town hall or celebrate with their families, Lyra was could only choose between lying on her back or on the side.
It won't be like that forever, she reminded herself. She had flares like this before. They passed after a week or two. Most of the time she wasn't
that frail. Needing a cane at the age of fifteen wasn't a walk in the park (though frankly, she rarely had the energy for one of those), but she was making the best out of it. She was doing fine. But then, once in a while, she'd start getting the impression she actually is fine, thinking herself mighty enough to try running or dancing or staying outside all day - only to wake up the next morning back as a little ball of pain and fatigue. She couldn't escape the feeling it's her fault somehow, like she should've known better than trying to have fun - which was strengthened by the fact none of the doctors her father called could find a physical cause to her ailment. Few could resist the mysogynistic temptation to suggest she's simply being hysterical. Van Richten seemed to finally form a hypothesis last time he examined her, but then shook his head, saying 'One who has a hammer in hand thinks every problem a nail'. She'd strangle the bloody man with her bare hands if she had the strength to.
More than anything, she hated how bitter this situation made her. She wasn't the type that wants to strangle people who are just trying to help, not normally. But if she spends another day stuck in this darkness, with no one but the pain and shadows for company, she'd go mad.
Except that one of the shadows was... Moving?
A black blur emerged from beyond the curtains, hovering under the ceiling, drawing nearer and nearer to her. Lyra wanted to scream, but the voice wouldn't come out. The thing loomed over her, sending smoky hands toward her throat. There was nothing she could do, except -
Lyra let herself fade.
Her body was already falling apart, so why not let it? She felt her limbs dissolving into puffs of smoke, until she was not unlike the shadow itself. The world whitened around her, and she let herself fall
into the mattress, hiding inside the straw.
How did I do that?
Her relief was short-lived, as the darkness followed her in.
Are you Death? Did you finally come to get me? The inevitable thought popped in her mind. That would explain everything.
Or am I simply going mad?
The shadow seemed a little more solid on this side of reality, and Lyra could see the silhuette of a head over a shapeless body. It shook its head, nodded, and shook again.
No, yes, no.
Lyra was suprisingly relieved it's not Death. After all this time in agony, she started thinking she might welcome the Reaper when it comes. Her will was far stronger than she believed, apparently. Which was good. She'd need that strength right now, for the spirit
was coming to get her.
She couldn't stay any longer in this form. Not knowing how, she fell further through the bed, materialising just as she landed on the floor. She felt like there was a joke about the monster under the bed to be made, but there was no time.
Now, what do I know about ghosts? Her solid-once-more muscles strained as she crawled, but she pushed through.
How is it, that in all those appointments with Van RIchten, we only ever talked about medical stuff? I don't need tips about pacing now, I need to know what to do when there's a ghost in my bedroom!
She could try to reach the door. If someone sees her, they can pull her out, and then then ghost would be someone else's problem. Someone who can actually do something.
She forced herself to move, elbow after elbow, then the torso, with some help from the legs. Elbows, torso, legs, repeat. It shouldn't be that hard, right? She just needs to make it to the door... Just one more foot -
But the thing was already diving toward her, and the dead ride fast.
The smoke wrapped around her, blinding her to whatever little light remained in the room. She tried to stretch toward the door, but her hand wouldn't obey. She was tired beyond any normal human limit.
Lyra gasped, preparing for the end, but it never came
.
No point in draining you. She thought she heard the shadow whispering. She felt hatred from the thing - creature - that was all around her. Unadulterated loathing for everything and anything alive. If one could make ink out of it and write with it the word 'hatred' over and over again over a thousand papers, it would still not fully convey the way every little thing we do, however small, made its incorporeal equivalent of skin begin to crawl.
It'd be like scraping oatmeal leftovers from the bottom of a bowl, when there are so many full ones on the table, up for grabs, fresh and hot...
Right! Lyra thought, encouraged.
You don't want to eat me! I'm not tasty at all! I'm all skin and bones, and I'm on, like, five different medicines by now...
Then she realised what 'so many full bowls' had to mean.
Stay away from my family! She gritted her teeth.
How will you force me, when you don't have even the energy to make a sound?
With the power of love? IDK, but I'll come up with something.
She concentrated on the thought of her little siblings. Imagined Ginny's face, Ben's laughter - it gave her the willpower to move one more inch, than another one.
Why are you even trying? The shadow mocked her.
They weren't there for you in your darkest hour. Why would you be in theirs?
They weren't because they couldn't. They'd only make it worse. As much as I hated the soltitude, conversation would be using reserves I didn't have. She explained. She was almost there.
It's stupid, how the things that make you happy are suddenly the ones that hurt most. Even seeing the sunlight would be a torture to me right now.
And all at once, she felt something new from the ghost. The hatred was still there, but there was also... Understanding?
Of course, dumbass! It's an undead, they're sensitive to sunlight!
But what could she do? She was almost near the door - start crawling to the window on the other side of the room now? She had a knack for illusions, but she never managed to create light itself.
Ezra, she really did have to do this with the power of love.
I know what it's like, She said mentally.
to spend your days alone in the dark, feeling like the world itself is set against you, starting to think of life as of something that happens to other people. I know it's the worst nightmare we don't even realise we have. I know how easy it is for this situation to turn you bitter and hopeless and hateful, eaten by envy of all the people who still walk in the light. But I also know we can rise above it. Fate can take away our health, beauty, intelligence - life, in your case - but it can never take away our kindness. And it matters, even if it doesn't seem like you can do much with it.
The shadow swirled. Reconsidering, perhaps?
I see your pain. I share your pain. But this is excactly why I beg you: do not inflict it on others today.
Lyra thought she'd seen the air clearing before she fell asleep.
"Lyra? Are you alright? Why are you on the floor?" Her father loomed over her.
"I didn't have the energy to get up..." She murmured. "Is it gone? The shadow? Is everything okay?"
"Shadow? What in the mists are you talking about, child? Why were you on the floor to begin with? Did you fall? Did anything break?"
"Ugh... Sort of? Long story, don't ask."
And suddenly Lyra realised she
had a long story to tell. She spoke to a ghost. Saved her family from a ghost. Turned into a ghost, for a moment.
She probwbly had a more interesting Nocturne than anyone else in town.
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This fic was inspired by the 'Fetch' (half-ghost) species, by the 'research' (if watching a few videos on the topic can be called that) I did a while ago about the lives of people with severe chronic illnesses for a different project, and a little bit by Michael Jendalis' backstory.
I'm not sure if Lyra is having a telepathic conversation with the shadow in a medium-y way or just rolling a nat 20 on a few insight checks, nor how exactly her familiy came to ravenloft or where did her ghost side came from. Do you have an idea?
To me, the story really just bloomed from this single moment of a girl and a ghost bonding over the shared sorrow of watching life from the side as it happens to other people.