A/N: A few months ago, we were reading fairytales in creative writing class, and we had to write our own. And then I thought wow, I could adapt Death Note to a fairytale! (This fic is not actually what I wrote for class. If I had, everyone would have stared at me worriedly, even more than they did when I read my fairytale about a vampire hummingbird). So this is my first ever DN fic. I think it will be split into two chappies.

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note, Disney, or the Brothers Grimm.

Cinderella

His name was L. L can stand for any number of things, from love to life to lust to lachrymal gland inactivity. But in this case, it was just L.

L's parents were quite well off; their family bakery earned them the steady business of everyone in the village. So they were rich, for bakers. And until L was nine years old, his life was actually reasonably full of cotton candy. Then his father was killed, flattened under a grindstone at the village mill, where he was purchasing flour ground from wheat.

L was astute for his age, and he wondered why his father had been near the grindstone at the time of his death. Accusations of foul play and police investigations did not really exist in this day and age, and L could only ponder this quandary as he watched his widowed mother accept an unnecessarily gaudy, large ruby ring from the owner of the mill, whose name was B. L's stepfather had two daughters, Misa and Takada. Something else did not quite line up in L's mind at this union; perhaps it was the fact that B licked his lips far too often when he was with L's mother, or that his eyes seemed to reflect the color of her ring. But L was only nine years old.

A few months after her remarriage, L's mother died while cutting a cake. B had been in the room with her, and he claimed that she had been quartering the cake for a customer when the knife slipped from her hands and the handle wedged itself between two sacks of flour. She went tripping over her own feet to retrieve it, fell towards the sacks to break her fall, and the knife conveniently slipped between her ribs. So B said. Only L noticed how B's teeth seemed rather pink the next morning, how his fingernails were rimmed with red, how his hair smelled of rusted iron and stale water. He also knew that cakes were rather soft and did not require sharp knives for cutting. L's mind was better at putting the pieces together now. But he was still only nine years old.

Extreme lachrymal gland inactivitymarked the next nine years of L's life. He never cried once as he assumed the role of unpaid and overworked house servant, cleaning, cooking, sewing, and of course, sweeping the cinders on the floor. Yet not a tear slipped from his impossibly round, blank, bagged eyes. He rarely slept, which might have been due to his recurring nightmare of his mother weeping blood as her fingers curled limply around a rusted, needle-sharp knife.

Anyone would call his a miserable existence, but to L, it was just existence. He was neither happy nor sad. The time came when Misa and Takada (ah, remember them?) were old enough to attend the annual royal ball, which lasted three days. B put the definition of doting father to shame as he flitted about readying his daughters for the fete. No man should be so skilled at braiding hair, lacing corsets, or dabbing rouge, L mused, but neither should he be able to wield steel between steady fingers and live to put the knife away for another day.

L watched the carriage trundle away, bearing his stepfamily, and decided he would make some apple pie to comfort himself. Food no longer held any interest for him unless it contained ten times the sugar content of an average person's diet.

He had peeled two apples when he felt a draft of wind lifting his uncombed hair. He looked up: before him stood a bizarre creature. Structurally, it was humanoid, but it was dressed all in black, with demonic wings extending seven feet wide on either side of it. Its face was white, masklike, and bony, and it stood about ten feet tall. It was, plainly put, a monster. To top it all off, it spoke to L.

"Mind if I have some apples?"

It snatched up one of said fruit, dangling it by its stem and twirling it perilously near its mouth. Its teeth were rather comically sharp.

L blinked once. It's hard to be fazed when your parents are dead and your life hardly qualifies. L said, "You may have one. However, I shall need the rest for making apple pie, which you are welcome to share."

The creature blinked several times. "That's the most amiable response I've ever gotten," it said. "Most people run away screaming about demons and bogeymen upon seeing me."

"Appropriate, given your somewhat terrifying appearance." L began peeling more apples as if there wasn't a monster in the room.

"That's flattering," the creature grumbled around a mouthful of apple. "The name's Ryuk, by the way."

"L."

"How long does it take to bake an apple pie, L?"

"About two hours."

"How perfectly lovely. I do hate waiting. It's so boring." Ryuk tossed his apple core out the window and seated himself on the windowsill like a ridiculously oversized bird. "A lot of things are boring, actually. Humans often are; in fact, you're the least boring I've met."

L, who was now mixing the ingredients for the batter, glanced at the creature. "Thanks… I think?"

"Definitely. If I can't scare you, I'm interested to find out what can. Maybe that man in the carriage that left here a while ago. His eyes were very red for a human. Your father?"

"Stepfather, actually."

"Sounds like a long story. An interesting one, too, I'll bet."

"You bet well, but it's not a story I'll tell in a rush," L said guardedly. He was starting on the crust now, and he really didn't need to remember.

"I don't rush much, either, though your stepsisters don't subscribe to that, judging from what I've just seen. Of course," Ryuk continued, unheeding of his listener's lack of interest, "those poor misguided girls—no fashion sense at all! Those frills were in about a century ago; I was around to take note. In case you were wondering, I'm a god of death. I'm basically immortal. But that's beside the point. My point is that if those girls had me as their fashion advisors, they would never have to worry about another dress again…"

Ryuk launched into a very detailed rant discussing the potentialities of Misa and Takada's wardrobes; during this time, L finished crusting and returned to stirring the batter, offhandedly adding some more ingredients. He finally placed it all in the oven and settled down to wait. Ryuk noticed that he did not sit properly, but rather crouched, hunched over, on the floor.

"Why do you sit like that?" Ryuk wondered.

"It's easier to deal with people when they don't notice you because you're on the same level as their knees," L answered circuitously. "It's also warmer down here."

Ryuk observed that L wore only a thin shirt and faded trousers that were fraying at the hem and knee. There goes another fashion ignoramus, he sighed inwardly.

XXX

Ryuk's eyes were possibly wider than L's as L withdrew the pie from the oven. As soon as L cut out a slice, Ryuk seized it and gobbled it up. As he started on a second slice, he paused to watch L, who once again was being an un-boring human, but also a very strange one, because he was not eating any of the delicious pie.

"Don't you want some?" the god of death inquired.

"I actually don't. You can have it all," L offered generously. Ryuk thought he saw a literal tongue-in-cheek and wondered why L was doing that and if it was meant figuratively.

Halfway through his sixth slice (there were eight total), Ryuk's head started to ache. It felt as if his brain were twisting into knots. Although the anatomy of gods of death is not well known, this is still presumably an unusual and unhealthy symptom.

"My head really hurts," Ryuk grumbled. "Ugh. Ow. And now I feel dizzy. What is wrong with me? This is the worst time to have a headache, while I'm eating wonderful pie. And it seems to be awfully hot in here. Is the fire still going in the oven?"

L just gave him a kind of flat smile. As in his lips were like a horizontal line. Ryuk decided that didn't qualify as a smile. Then the meaning of L's previous generosity struck him.

"You did something to that pie," he huffed.

"That's right," L replied. His voice oozed placidity and satisfaction. "I poisoned you."

"Oh dear," was all Ryuk could think of to say at first. "But. Gods of death can't die."

"Correct. So sadly, you can't die of the pain or the fever. You can, however, feel this way for the rest of your existence, unless I give you the antidote."

Antidote, the magic word. Like please, it preceded a request.

L continued: "I will only do that if you can prove yourself as a fashionista by constructing a presentable outfit for me to wear to the ball."

"Done," Ryuk spat as he reeled from the pain. He tumbled off the windowsill and flapped his wings, to no avail as they were rather too large for the confined kitchen space.

"Please desist, you are disturbing my cooking ingredients," L said as he withdrew a packet of white powder from his pocket. He cut open an apple and sprinkled some powder on top. Ryuk almost bit off his hand in his eagerness to consume the antidote. As the god of death swallowed, he visibly relaxed, no longer trembling. L watched him detachedly as he struggled for words.

Finally, Ryuk straightened up and said, "Well, let's do this."

XXX

"It would have turned out better if you hadn't poisoned me."

"I am sufficiently pleased with the result, Ryuk."

"You could have just asked instead of poisoning me."

"If you'd refused, I might look suspicious immediately offering you pie. Although it was suspicious enough that I refused to eat any myself. You would not make a good detective, Ryuk."

"There's a reason I make clothes, instead," the god of death countered with finality. L was nestled atop his shoulders, and they were flying high above the land, the evening fog kissing L's skin. As a god of death, Ryuk could make himself and L invisible.

L could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. Perhaps he just never had the chance to practice with his stepfamily around. He had convinced Ryuk to construct a stunning ensemble of clothes for the night, which the god of death had done using some feathers from the ruff of his own costume and his deathly godly magical powers. Ironically, Ryuk had begun to imitate B in his attentions to L's appearance. He stubbornly combed L's hair using a custom-made brush of animal bones, dabbed flour under his eyes to hide the bags, and held a broom handle under L's shirt until L swore he would stand up straight. Yes, Ryuk was quite the combination of makeup artist, valet, and etiquette teacher. Any fawning queen mother would have swooped to have him serve as her son's butler. Additionally, Ryuk had agreed, in return for more (unpoisoned) apple pie, to give L a ride and continue serving as L's tailor for the next two days of the ball. Heaven forbid L should have to wear the same thing twice.

"Look at it this way," L had suggested upon Ryuk whining that he was getting the short end of the straw. "You get plenty of apple pie, and more entertainment from me, the most interesting human you've ever met."

Ryuk could not argue with that. And so his mood improved by the time they reached the palace. Ryuk flew in through the open doors and glided around the high vaulted ceiling. They alighted in the corner of the hall farthest from the door, and as he descended from Ryuk's shoulders, L flickered into visibility.

Ryuk looked on in amazement that night as L flitted through the crowd, the quintessential eligible bachelor of the aristocracy. No one who saw him could have guessed that he had spent the past nine years sweeping cinders, nor could those who spoke with him fail to marvel at his flawless grace. He did, however, decline to dance, preferring to instead converse with anyone who struck his fancy, lords and ladies alike.

They had arrived about halfway through the ball, which was due to close at midnight. The hour was near, and L stood at the balcony of the hall, awaiting Ryuk's return from his apple-hunting expedition. A stirring in the shadows caught his eye, and he turned to look.

XXX

It is not as wonderful as you would think, being a prince. Light Yagami would tell you so. He was intelligent, beautiful, and commanding, everything expected of a prince, but he often found himself bored of the company of average minds. He recognized that his duty as a prince and future king was to give himself to the people, which was plausibly very easy, as they all loved him mindlessly, but he just couldn't bring himself to cater to their babble. Thus by the end of the ball, he had hidden himself away in an alcove by the balcony. No one was supposed to find him here, so he was very displeased when someone bumbled along.

"Excuse me, sire, but I'm afraid the balcony is reserved for…" Light broke off as he met the stranger's eyes. They looked as if they had been dead a long time, yet had recently relit their fires to produce a chilling gaze.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice coming out less strong than he would have liked.

The stranger hesitated a moment, then introduced himself simply as, "Lawliet."

Light wondered if he should give his own name, but was spared the trouble when Lawliet added, "Your Highness." The silver circlet atop his hair might have given it away.

"I do not recognize your surname," Light replied, and mentally smacked himself. In his childhood etiquette lessons, the proper response was, "Would you do me the favor of reminding me of your family tree?"

"I'm foreign," Lawliet explained. He seemed to be gently chewing the ball of his thumb. Perhaps that was a gesture of respect in his native country. Under Light's gaze, he replaced a supple, white glove over his hand and removed his thumb from his teeth. Then he said, "Perhaps you sometimes feel that way as well."

Light gaped at him before remembering that that was another unprincely thing to do. Somehow, Lawliet knew exactly how he felt. Just then, a voice from the interior of the hall called, "Your Highness! The guests are leaving!"

Swearing silently at his royal constraints, he stormed away without a glance at Lawliet.

XXX

"You know, with your mind and your poison, you could probably get away with anything you wanted, L."

L was again peeling apples in the kitchen, and Ryuk was again sitting on the windowsill. When L did not reply for a full minute, Ryuk wondered if peeling apples was harder than it looked. Finally L said, "Then I suppose I would get away with nothing."

"What? But I said you could get anything… so are you saying you want nothing?"

"Exactly," L said in his quiet, leaf-rustle voice. "Well, there is one thing," he amended. "But it's not something I can get away with: the death of my stepfather. And no, I can't just poison him. No one fights fire with fire. I learned the poison and its antidote from him."

"He… he taught you that?"

"No. I taught myself." L picked up an unpeeled apple and placed it in a basin full of cloudy water. "But he found out. I suppose my current posture is a retainer of that little 'gift' of a spine fracture I got from B that day. And I can't poison him because he won't eat anything I cook anymore. Homicidal tendencies are always coupled with paranoia."

Ryuk frowned deeply, not least because he could not understand why L was washing an apple in water that would only make it dirtier. "You speak as if none of this happened to you. As if you don't feel any of it."

"The real L died years ago, Ryuk." L fixed the god of death with his blank eyes. "All you see now is what's left of his body and soul. Dead people don't want anything. They can't." He retrieved the apple and placed it in his pocket.

And so Ryuk was treated to a very gloomy slice of apple pie.