Disclaimer: Death Note and recognizable characters belong to Ohba/Obata.

Author's Note: This is for week 60 challenge at dn_contest, and I have no idea where all the angst is coming from. The prompt was self insert, and I'm the narrator of this story. I used the origin of my name as a plot device in this story. For those of you that don't know, my name is Cassandra, a name that my Noni insisted on, after the doomed Trojan prophetess Cassandra of Troy. This story is rather a bit melancholy. Anyway. Hope you guys enjoy!!! PS- Spoilers for L's real name...

"The Last Firstborn"
By C.K. Blake

I've been at Wammy's House for years, I was the first, and I was quickly forgotten when Mr. Wammy discovered the genius that was L. His precious, precocious, unassuming, socially stunted, and yet inquisitive little L Lawliet. I was never bitter though, nor did I find myself falling for the wide-eyed and mischievous L. I was the first, you see, and so it seems that I have now become the last.

I remember the day I found myself in the custody of Quillish Wammy, he'd known my father, and as a favor to my deceased father he took me in. I did not know then how greatly that would alter Mr. Wammy's destiny. I was just another tragedy, poor little orphaned girl with dirty blonde hair and tilted green eyes, freckles dotting my nose, and a little on the chubby side.

You see, everyone always assumed L was the first, simply because he was Mr. Wammy's greatest accomplishment, his greatest hope and achievement. And L was amazing, the concepts that he came up with, the things he could deduce with that vast intellect of his.

I remember the many conversations we would have. Sometimes over things he'd read, sometimes just over random things that entered his mind. He was a few years younger than me, he was seven when Wammy discovered him, and I was ten when I met him a few days later.

I remember the first night that I met him. I'd woken up, screaming from one of my nightmares, those strange dreams that drifted through my mind in color and always came true. I'd nearly choked at the sight of a strange boy crouched at the end of my bed, pale in the moonlight, his hair inky black, and his eyes wide and focused on me.

He leaned forward, one hand held before him for balance as he'd tilted his head at an awkward angle and spoke, "I wonder what is it that could wake you up so violently, when you looked so peaceful a few minutes ago."

He never did talk like a normal kid. Then again, he never was a normal kid, he was L.

I remember when the first of his successors arrived, A and B, or Alternate and Back-up respectively. Alternate couldn't handle the strain of living up to L, known as the original, and Back-up, also known as Beyond Birthday, made the cut too quick and rather than live up to the title he envisioned he set out to spite it. Neither of them saw me, knew me, or remembered me as I watched from the sidelines, as most firstborns do. Only L remembered me, saw me, still sought me out at times, but those times came more rarely with each case he took.

I watched through the years as more children came to the orphanage, three of the most promising since L himself being Mello, Matt, and Near, all bright and like fractured pieces of L, the original. The emotional Mello, the calming Matt, the detached and child-like Near. Such a great responsibility set on shoulders so young.

And like I did for L I cared for these boys, saw them as my family, whether or not they noticed me and my quiet, observant existence.

I remember the night that Near discovered my secret. I should have known he suspected something when I had that feeling of being watched. It was the night I knew that L would die working his latest case, the Kira case. It was the night my dreams flowed in color, and Mr. Wammy fell first, and a heartbroken L soon followed.

I hadn't known Near had entered my room until my eyes flew open and L's real name fell from my lips, a name I hadn't spoken in years. I pulled my legs up to my chest, a mockery of L's usual pose as the tears slid down my face, and there was Near, positioned at the end of my bed, as L had been all those years ago, though the pose was somewhat different, and rather than a thumb pressed at his mouth, his finger curled into his white hair, and that dark gaze locked on my trembling form.

"Who is Lawliet?" he asked in a toneless voice.

I simply shook my head and said, "L is done, and now it falls to you."

Those fateful words, how painful they were rising from my throat. The dreams came three more times, first with Matt in some strange American car, filled with so many holes, then Mello defeated by his real name, and finally came Near's death, so quiet, almost like L's.

Wammy's House has since lapsed into disrepair, most of the children grown and gone from here, and me trapped in this house, in the memories of my family, both my blood and those I took as family in spirit. Closing my eyes I dream in color one final time, and I wonder if anyone remembers me, whether they are living or dead. I was the one never mentioned, I was the first, the one never believed. I was Cassandra, but they knew me only as C.

End.