Icarus is, to be fair, a man of many talents. You wouldn't know that to look at him, but it was true - and where he lacked talents, he made up for it in knowing those who possessed where he fell short.

That was why one bright and shiny, pretty morning, a delivery had been made to many a Granger - though certainly not all of them. There was one in particular - read Junior - that had not received a letter for a specific reason, which would have become very obvious had he been in possession of one.

Let us not digress.

Said letters had been delivered by any means necessary - whether shoved in a mailbox, slipped under a door, and one or two had delivered, but the messenger had been so nondescript and unimportant that chances are, recalling their faces later would've been like discussing any other person, any other stranger, tall, dark hair, blue eyes, just your average joe.

The letters were all hand written, and obviously by the same hand - neat slanting print that seemed more masculine than feminine, to be fair. It was rather simple, straight to the point, and unassuming.

I am sure by now several of you have started to wonder where Lola is.

First, let me say that this is no letter of ransom or threat. A handful of you may have heard through the grapevine that Lola is missing - this is not entirely true.

A few weeks ago, an event took place - an event that I am not at liberty to discuss(as it is Lola's story to tell) - that changed Lola's life like no other. While she is safe and out of harm's way, she was left very scared and more than a little scarred. However, the last thing she needs is constant questions, pity, and the overbearing presence and persistence that a family would, at this time, lavish upon her. She understands that it would all be well-meant, but right now, she needs quiet, privacy, and time to think. As I found her immediately after the incident, she has been taken into my care, in a place that would be nigh-on impossible for her to be found, which is, right now, for the best.

I assure you that she is being given the best of care and is of sound body, though she is still very mentally fatigued and distraught. I will do my best to keep you all informed of her progress, though please forgive me if my concern is more in regards to Lola above all else.

-I

Lola never would be able to say, then or later, how many days " weeks " (months") it was between that night and the day when she realized she actually wanted to live again. She never did know where exactly Icarus took her, or about the note that he sent her family when he realized she would be staying in hiding for more than those first awful days.

Pain in broken fingers and cracked skull while a shadow loomed and she scrabbled for the handle of the drawer.

The first time she tried to kill herself, she used a jagged length of metal broken free from an abandoned seat. When Icarus pulled it away from her, she screamed and fought him until she went limp in his arms and started to weep inconsolably. The second time (how many days later") she tried to kill herself it was with half a bottle of the painkilling pills he had brought down in one load of supplies. Her own traitorous body rejected the attempt that time. When Icarus came to check on her again, she begged him to drink her blood, to take and just not stop. He denied her that too, and her tears lasted until she fell back into nightmarish sleep.

The surprised look in Connor's blue eyes, the scent of cordite and blood in the air.

Thick, stagnant and bitter. Trickles of water seeped down one slow-decaying wall into a puddle of foulness that suited Lola " oh, so well. She stared at the rivulets without truly seeing them, stared without the energy to stir, to move, to do more than breathe and blink. Everything in the world was grey, painted in shades of dark.

Poor dead Buster, broken little puppy in the middle of a splash of crimson.

Eventually one finger twitched, her hand curled palm up by her face on the twice-folded thin pillow that cushioned her head. Simple pallet, a blanket, that sad pillow " far cry from the rich luxury of her father's house, or even the coziness of her own small home. More than enough for the shadows of retreat. She blinked, and she breathed, and finally she turned her hand and pressed it palm-down. Pushed up, and sat.

So much pain, fingers wrapping around her throat and choking until all she saw were stars.

It was still dark. No sunlight could make it through the levels of basements and tunnels to this shelter. So many layers of RhyDin " surely there was a foundation of solid earth down there, somewhere, but mostly the city had been built on itself. Lola had no idea how far down they'd gone, into the warrens and beneath the surface, but when Icarus had said he'd "take her underground" he'd meant it literally. This place " it might have been a tramway stop, once, or a dwarves" hall long abandoned. Old stone crumbling at the edges, mortar breaking and flaking into dust and rubble. Ollie's painting, ripped and torn to pieces, like her loom and cloth, her diary, the ruins of everything she'd made.

One light flickered, a candle " there was a lamp with a little magical power source, but the lamp wasn't lit and the candle was. She couldn't bear to sleep in the dark, not anymore. One little gold glow bravely tried (and failed) to keep away the nightmares of her own memory. Now it was enough to see by while she found her clothes and pulled them on. While she moved listlessly through the edges of apathy.

Crack-bangs of the little gun, pops that grunted air from Connor's lungs and wiped the madness from his eyes. So surprised, so hurt and betrayed.

Her arms wrapped around her chest and she hunched over suddenly, whooping in a gasp of air as the memory ambushed her. Still, after a moment she straightened and kept moving. Ghosted through the space with steps that actually lifted instead of the shambling, shuffling pretense of before. Her hair fell forward, over her face and into her eyes " she pushed it back impatiently. Then she stared at her own hand, as surprised by the impatience as the motion. The emotion was a strange thread of glinting bright in the gloom of her own depression.

Fear. Pain and fear. Then salvation, in the savage blows her brother had taught her, the pops of a little gun her cousin had given her, and the care of a vampire who drank her blood. Laura never did know exactly how long it was before she wanted to live again, but eventually " the time did come.