A/N: Second Death Note story besides Jasmine Ceracuz one. Damn that one was popular.

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or it's characters, no matter how hard I try. But I do own Lyra.

Chapter 1: Needle and Thread

The girl shivered in the cold winds that blew in the frosty autumn weather, a white dress and long black hair plastered to her body. Her skin no longer was pale, but white blue, the flesh of the dead. Her normal black and white eyes had glazed over. She could taste the copper in the crimson fluid that came from her lips, no sewn shut. Tight thread, originally black, now stained with her blood and well water. Tears and dried blood stained her face. She could see people surrounding her, one's that no one else could see, not even her own parents. If that's they even were anymore.

"Mommy, stop, please!" the little girl sobbed. She couldn't move. She had been forced down into a chair, and tied so she could not move even a muscle. She screamed, begged, pleaded, sobbed, cried, but nothing moved the woman. She was bent over her sewing kit, long black hair sheilding her face from her daughter, digging around for a needle and thread. "It's for your own good, Lyra," the woman said.

"Tim, are you done yet?" she said to the man who had returned to the house. "Everything is ready," he said. "Good, now hold her still." The man, Tim, her father, held their daughters' face still. "Maria, go." Her mother pinched her daughters' lips shut, and stabbed the needle through them. Lyra cried harder, feeling the strong black thread go through her upper lip and pass through. The tears that fell from her eyes stung the wounds on her lips, as her mother weaved the thread and needle in and out, winding it so tightly Lyra could not even twitch her lips without feeling pain.

Once over, she felt her father untie her, and pick her up tightly. maria grabbed her legs, as Lyra tried to kick her away. They moved her from the house, and she saw what her destination was.

The old well in her backyard. The one that still had water in it. The stone cover had been removed, and lay on it's side right next to it. Lyra wanted to scream, but felt the thread yank at her still injured lips. She kicked, punched, scratched, tried everything that she could, but was unable to stop her parents from heaving her over and tossing her into the twenty foot deep well.

Lyra shivered. She couldn't even remeber how she got out. Some of her fingernails were gone, bleeding from whatever stumps she had left. Her 'friends' followed her, ready to do whatever she asked. She was tired, but no matter what they said, she couldn't listen. She felt so cold now, and ready to drop.

She turned to see a large mansion, with many of it's windows unlit. She could see a sign. Wammy's House. She had never heard of this place. If she had, her parents probably would have left her here when she was born. They should have known. She climbed through the gates, thin as she was. She walked around the grounds a bit, looking at whatever was noticible for her to see in the dark. She jumped, hearing a door open, and looked to see someone.

Looking. Straight. At. Her.

Lyra ran, thinking she had been caught. In the light of the doorway, she could only make out some of the features of who her spotter was. He had wild black hair, and extremely dark eyes. She turned and ducked behind a large wooden box, stuck between the wall and the wooden side, hiding within the shadows. She could still hear him, walking closer and closer to her hinding place. She peeked through a tiny crack. He was right there, almost within reaching grasp. She saw a pale hand reach for her, and because she didn't have the ability to bite at the moment, she reached out and punched it as hard as she could. The hand pulled back away from her.

But he still didn't walk away. He stood there, pattiently, as though thinking she was just going to come out of her own accord. Lyra's heart raced. Instead of reaching to try and grab her again, he moved himself so she could see him eye to eye. Upon closer inspection, she saw that his eyes weren't all that dark, just omyx colored with dark shadows underneath them. She could tell he couldn't see her all that well in the dark shadows, but he could tell she was still there.

He reached again, much slower this time, and she shied away, whimpering. "Sh, it's all right," he said in a soft, soothing voice. She could tell that he was trying to calm her, to let her know that she could trust him. "Come on, don't be afraid," he tried again. She only moved closer so that he could see her better, but couldn't make out everything. He smiled, warm and trusting. "There you are. Are you lost?" he asked. Lyra shook her head no. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Okay? She had her lips sewn shut, tossed into a well, had the cover replaced, and left for dead. And by her parents, nonetheless. And he wanted to know if she was okay?! She could feel the burn of tears in her eyes, and fell from her face. She cried, feeling her heart lurch from her chest. Her parents didn't care. They didn't care at all. Never loved her, needed her, or even wanted her. Lyra once again saw him reach for her slowly, and stopped at a certain distance, holding his hand out for her. She also reached out, hesitantly, and put her hand in his. He pulled her gently, as though he was trying to coax a kitten out of hiding. She willingly followed him out, and into the light from the streetlamps.

The kind, gentle look on his face dropped when saw what she looked like in the light. She could feel her heart drop to her stomach, and clenched her eyes shut, waiting for the blows to strike. Instead, she felt a warm hand caress her cheek carefully, watching out for the stitchings. "How cruel. Who would ever do such a thing?" he said. He held his arms out to her. "Come on." Once again, she hesitated. 'Could she truly trust him? What is he was no different than her parents?'. Once again, she was willing to put her odds on someone else.

She wrapped her thin arms around his neck, and felt him put one arms under her legs and back, supporting her. "See? It's okay," he smiled. "Your so cold. My name is L. What about you?" Lyra had to think about how she could tell him. She quickly did for hand signs with her right hand, forming the letters L-Y-R-A. "Lyra, is it?" She nodded. "I like that name. Lyra. Very pretty." For once, as long as she could remember, Lyra felt safe.

Review to all of you who read this story, please.