She looked all around, at the lake, at the jetty, at the rough path, the stagnant puddles, the dead and sodden bushes… Her Pan, alone here: how could he live without her? He was shaking inside her shirt, against her bare flesh, his fur needing her warmth…
No, Lyra thought, and Pantalaimon thought with her… how will we ever find each other again?
And she looked back again at the foul and dismal shore, so bleak and blasted with disease and poison, and thought of her dear Pan waiting there alone, her heart’s companion, watching her disappear into the mist, and she fell into a storm of weeping…. There were so many vivid currents of feeling between them that the very air felt electric.
— The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman, 281-288