Lyra had, over time, accepted that Sarge was trapped in some horrific accidental fae bargain which... presumably included unnaturally captivating sex, or some other mind-numbing joy. And maybe the children, too. Even though she couldn't quite decide whether he seemed happy to be a father.

Regardless, favours both fulfilling and less-so clearly came at the cost of a rather hectic cycle of death and reincarnation — all at the whims of supernatural forces. While terrifying, his bouts of falling through the sky and then the occasional discarded husk to bury had become at least familiar. Some nights, she could even joke about it.

When it was clear he'd be succumbing to his wounds after the shitshow of bloody near-murder, Lyra had expected to be woken at by his ass crashing through the roof. Or his ungainly German ranting at the door.

And then... hadn't been. Only thing more unnatural than unnatural reincarnation was.... unnatural non-reincarnation. Something else at work.

Scared the Wisp, too.

As days went on, Lyra found it in her to hope that maybe the grizzled old curse-wridden gobshite had just... managed to move on. Finagled his way out of the bargain. Found peace of spirit after dying, which, was generally the best you could hope for after making deals with fae.

Kids were upset. Missed him. She didn't worry overmuch — they were kids. They'd grow out of it.

But the fuckin' Wisp. Hell. Wandered around like a cat lost its kittens, bawling into the night. Lyra didn't really know what to do with that. Fae weren't supposed to be loyal to mortal men.

Since Mal was laid up in bed on account of the mauling business, it fell to Lyra to be the... wrangler. In this particular situation. For the sake of everyone trying to get some sleep tonight. The Wisp probably needed to sleep, too, though achieving that felt ambitious even to the Calico Cur.

So she followed lonely cries into snowladen dark like the world's stupidest mortal, and called out, Ye keep cryin' out 'ere an yer snot's like t'freeze all te way int'yer brain.

What doesn't stir te wee ones? Lyra lamented rolling her eyes. But look, yer man's liable t'get lost wanderin' out in weather like tis.

Despite an impressive fae resume, the Wisp was more... mortal-like, here. Couldn't do all the things she ought to, Lyra was coming to realize. Which meant mortal advice might actually do her some good, right about now:

If 'e's out tere, best 'e stays 'unkered down 'till it passes. Big strong survivalist fella, he is, so that's prob'ly what 'e's doin'. An' best you be tucked up safe in a predictable place fer 'im t'find when 'e comes back around, aye?

Lyra wasn't convinced Sarge was really coming back, but nothing in her tone particularly betrayed it. The advice was sound, exactly what she'd say if she felt there was hope. And the encouragement practiced. How many vulnerable destitute and desperate had she coaxed into the ruin of a slaving ship, or a pleasure house, or some rich man's private rooms?

Strange to be doing it for someone's own genuine good, this time around. For a fae.

Lyra shook her head, No point in both of ye bein' lost in opposite directions. If 'e could 'ear ye wailin', he'd be close enough t'know te way 'ome. Trust 'im t'do so.