A/N: Greeting to all the awesome people at this community. ^_^ I have been lurking around recently, and have found so much talent to spare. :D This is my first shot into the world of Death Note. I'm really awkward when it comes to introductions, but basically, if anybody is confused, this is an original character I am talking about. She's supposed to be alive during the time L was in the Wammy's House. So they would be around the same age range in this universe.
Hope you enjoy and comments are always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I DON'T own Death Note in any way, shape, or form.
The air smelled of smoke.
I had never been to a place like this before, but much of what my eyes had told me was unclear. I was weary, sick and faint from the long trip.
His hands were cold, and I complained as he pulled me a little closer to his side. But my words were irrelevant; it seemed everything I spoke was a riddle, or some secret code that was foreign to him. Nevertheless, I had obeyed numbly, as they had asked me to do, while he led me through the streets of this strange new city.
I had difficulty, trying to understand what he said as well. His words were different, his vowels closed and quick, not emphasized.
"Careful," he said and I understood. "Don't lose sight," he repeated again and I nodded. Syestra had learned some English words while she was away at school and I had done well to pay attention. I soon moved to reading their language in books, secluding myself into a little hole in my wooden room, and filled my head with their thoughts. Enchanting stories of love between princesses and princes, devoting friendships torn by cruel warfare, ancient English spirits that haunted their vast western corridors.
I looked away, and bit my lip. The water ran through my coat and it was making me shiver. The rain hadn't stopped since we crossed into the harbor. It was difficult to see any coloring at all in this grey city. The image of reality struck me a little.
The buildings around me looked unfriendly. Not like the dachas in the countryside I remembered. These were much bigger, and with bleak unlighted windows. Not like Boleslava's house down by the creek where Mama would take me on the holidays. I missed the warm samovar and kartoshkas.
But Mama had always told me that God had picked me for a special purpose. It was why Syestra had been chosen to work every morning until she wed, and I had not. Why Papa had left, and not hurt us when I was a baby. At my birth, an angel had been present and his light shone down upon me to fight. I was chosen to be a warrior, gifted by the grace of my own wits as my weapon.
This was why I am here, taken from my own homeland, after Mama died. And why, instead of my own older sister, I knew this would serve to my own advancement and favor. That, as far as I was from my country, I would be taken care of.
And one day, when it was God's will, I would come back to my family as Papa had never done. I would let them know that I fought for my place in this world, and Mama would be proud of me in the heavens.
But for now, I must be strong, and patient. I must let this strange foreign man take me to his country. This is me, this little eight-year-old girl, wrapping my hands around me with a face as white as marble and blue eyes wide with fear, refusing to tremble, biting my lips so I don't cry out again.
My name is Vivianna Mihailov. And I am an orphan in London.
The night continued to carry on a little longer than expected.
The rain made it difficult to drive through the streets, even more to see outside the drizzled windows. April nights in England. It was much more than normal. They would have been lucky to see the sun once that month.
The screeching of the wipescontinued repeatedly. Inside a corner of the leather seat she stared blankly outside, as her little fingers crawled and drew images on the mist of her own breath. She had been especially careful to be quiet all afternoon, the older man noticed. Not one single word. He was impressed at the girl's ability to restrain herself, despite her age. Most children would have already despaired.
"You haven't eaten anything since we arrived," the man kindly noticed.
She looked up. "I am fine. Just a little cold." Her small feet swung back and forth, soaking with water.
"In that case," the man replied and took off his own coat. The girl stared back as he carefully wrapped it around her shoulders. She froze, wondering if this was customary of English people. They seemed indifferent to her, at least the ones the ones she had met before the harbor. They had pointed her orders and directions, all in their perfect arrangement of things. Perhaps the smoke and mist reflected their ways.
But the man beside her was kind, and exceptionally polite. He had been careful of her, and spoke quietly, as if to a child and not a burden.
She leaned back comfortably against the leather seats, wrapping it around her arms like a blanket.
"Thank you." She whispered meekly.
He smiled back, being handed a small tray from the chauffeur's seat. The waft of a warm drink soothed her. Maybe he had been remembered Sbiten, as her mother prepared it for her. But this was different. She looked over, and noticed a large white pot along with several different treats in compartments. She was unfamiliar with most of them, of course, but all of them seemed inviting and specially prepared.
He handed the tray to her, delighted at her own quiet acceptance. Taking a small nibble of a meat patty was invigorating. It was better than anything she had eaten in the past week and the warm milky drink only warmed her spirits more.
She threw a questioned look to him for a second and returned her eyes to the creamy liquid in the cup.
"It's tea." He informed her. "We put warm milk in it, and sugar. Black tea."
"Black tea," she repeated confidently.
"Correct." The older man smiled.
A few quiet seconds passed and the child continued to stare at the windows and the new sights.
"You may be wondering where we are going." The man interrupted.
She shook her head quickly. His words were too quick for her to grasp.
"I understand," he apologized. "Do you know where we are?" he rephrased.
"London, England." She mentioned the words slowly. "We are going to Winchester."
"Correct." He answered her.
"Where are you taking me?"
He cleared his throat. "I had promised you," he said slowly, making hand gestures for her understanding. "I had promised your mother that you would be safe under my care ."
She smiled weakly, looking attentively.
"The institution, excuse me, the building…"
"I know what an institution is." She interrupted.
"Pardon me. The institution I am taking you to is the Wammy's House." He noticed her young gaze widen with curiosity. "Do you know of the Wammy's House?"
"No. That is your last name, though" She responded.
"Yes. I will be taking care of you there, along with my other students."
Her eyes drifted to the front view window, as she struggled to find the words. "There are others?" she asked.
"Yes. They are all children like you. I hope that you will find them easy to get along with."
She nodded politely, her head busy in thought. She knew she must prepare herself for this moment, and not seem vulnerable. They were all strangers, marked by the cruel fate of abandoned childhood. Their glances would be unsympathetic, if not hostile. She must not give in and keep focused. If anything, she must act cold.
Yes, that would be her role. However new and inexperienced she felt, it was imperative to be careful and distant.
"I am ready." She breathed in softly, so only her own conscious would be clear of it.