Why hello there.

It is time to unveil my newest Leviathan piece!

As you might of figured out by now, I like writing about 'neglected' characters in this fandom. I love Lilit. She's just so classy, and a total badass, at the same time. She does not get the credit she deserves- she's so awesome and I wanted to write something representing that properly.

This will be a five chapter fanfiction (I think) focusing on different sections of her life. Chapter one is pre-Behemoth, two, three, and four are during, and five will be post. I'll be uploading those... sometime.

This didn't require a third as much research as Prague did (which is really good, because WHY IS IT SO HARD TO FIND OTTOMAN OUTFITS CIRCA 1914. GUH.) and I mostly got to cruise along what Scott already gave us, adding detail and backstories to lines.

To all of you who read or reviewed Prague: I love you, and you are way too nice.

Also, I emailed the mods to add a Lilit character tag weeks ago and they still haven't done it. GET ON IT, MODS.

It was a day of learning in her mother's bedroom today, Lilit decided. It didn't seem to be like her normal lessons, manners and grammar and the like. She hoped it'd be more along the lines of the slow afternoons her father would pick her up and plop her in front of a walker, and let her stomp around the training grounds as his students gaped at the ten year old walking clumsy circles around them.

Unfortunately, this did not seem to be the case. Her mother was standing in the center of the room, and her mother's maid (the last one, Lilit thought glumly) shaking what looked like a torture device out of a box.

It took Lilit a second to realize what it actually was.

"You can't be…" she trailed off, gaping in horror at the corset. Her own mother had been the one to insist that Lilit, now of corset-wearing age, would never, ever, wear one, refusing to let her daughter be a slave to European fashion.

"We can't always dress the way we want to, sweetheart," she said calmly, holding out her arms stiffly. "So we make the best of it."

Lilit grimaced as she watched the maid pull the garment around her mother's waist, then turning to her back and pulling on the laces. The ten year old winced deeply.

"Not too tight. I know you must be very confused, dear, but," she inhaled sharply, "That should be fine, Talya. Not exactly up to European standards, but it should do. As I was saying," the woman addressed her daughter, pushing a black curl away from her face, "Sometimes disguise is necessary."

There was the noise of a drawer scraping open; Lilit looked up to see Talya pulling a thin knife from a dressing table. "Here, my lady." She handed the knife, hilt first, to Lilit's mother. Talya was one of the rare, remarkable women who would let their employers walk around completely armed without blinking twice.

It made Lilit wonder what she was doing before Nene had hired her, deciding she was an excellent character from her long, calloused hands.

"Thank you. Are you watching, Lilit?"

She looked up. Her mother was slipping the knife into the front of the corset, leaving just a hint of the hilt from the top.

"See? You can't see at all, with all the other ridiculous layers piled over it. A perfect hiding place for a weapon. No man would dare look here, either." She beamed. "Now get this terrible thing off me, Talya. Hopefully you'll never have to wear one of these abominations," she told Lilit, shuddering.

Lilit laughed, still perched on the footstool. "That's much better then hiding them in the sleeves."

"Exactly!" Her mother responded, free of the garment. She walked over to Lilit, kissing the top of her head.

This is how they always were, lace and daggers for lessons, discussions in English, German, and whatever other languages Lilit had been roped into learning during tea.

It was during the Young Turk uprising that her mother was taken away from her. Shot in cold blood while Lilit, eleven, stayed at home with Nene.

She could only recall flickers of feelings and moments, laid out in fading photographs across her memories. She remembered being told to stay in her room, peeking out the door to find her father carrying a heavy shape she didn't recognize, covered in a blood splattered sheet. It was bad enough to bring home news of a failed revolution, but to carry along the corpse of your wife along with it…

"Too young," Nene kept saying, shaking her head. For the longest time, Lilit thought she was referring to her daughter in law, still in her thirties, beautiful and fresh and so alive.

Eventually, the curtain fell and she realized her grandmother was referring to her. Too young for revolution, too young to lose a parent, too young for her life to shatter into tiny pieces.

But Lilit disagreed.

Eleven was old enough to be able to realize your mother was never coming back. Old enough to hold your head high and take the responsibility with steady hands. But it didn't make anything easier.

The old woman's hands quickly and delicately split her grandchild's hair into braids, propped up on a pillow in her magnificent bed.

"Such pretty hair," She said softly. "Your mother used to wear it like this when she was your age, you know."

"It's the most practical way to wear it." Lilit's voice was hardened, too harsh for a child. She hated talking about her, hearing the stories of how Zaven met his future wife when they were still children. Nene knew it was meant to be right away.

Can't stand it, not anymore.

"Lilit." She put the brush down, using a tone that makes her granddaughter turn around to face her. "You can't act like this. These things happen. Revolution breaks family apart." Nene's expression softened. "You know I won't be here much longer,"

"Don't say that." Desperation crept into her voice, and she swallowed back tears. Close to six months since her mother died, and she hadn't cried once since the night Nene told her.

"My girl, I'm just worried about you." She sighed, sounding dangerously old. Lilit tried not to wince.

"I'll be fine." She said, staring at her with a fierce, determined look, conquering the threat of tears.

It might not be strictly true, but all that mattered was she kept on going.

Lilit staggered into the warehouse, hands pressed tightly against her side, palms coming away bloody. Of all the nights…

She had left streaks of blood on the levers, grinding her teeth as she tried to find strength under aches and exhaustion. She stumbled up the stairs now, gripping the rails with both hands, bags suspended on her elbow, until she finally, finally reached the kitchen.

She dropped the bags on the ground, stumbling around, looking for the bandages. If they had any hired help in the household, they could of brought them to Lilit, letting her bleed in peace on the floor instead of being forced to grit her teeth and wobble around. But even Talya had left years ago, shortly after her mother's death, apologetic but unable to survive on the family's increasingly lower and lower pay.

There they were. She reached for them, leaving trails of red on everything she touched. Why was blood so messy?

She was wrapping the bandages around her waist, dress thrown onto the floor and left to rot with the groceries, when her father stepped into the room.

"You're normally much quieter when you come in, Lilit, I'm sur-" his voice gave out as he surveyed the room.

"Would you like help with that?" He asked softly.

"Not bleeding to death would be nice, thank you," his daughter scowled. She was never this sharp with him, but there was something about gaping wounds that tended to speed up her temper.

He pushed away her hands, softly, and began dressing the wound. Lilit exhaled shakily, running her hands over her face as the blood dried on her hands.

"I hate to see what the other person looks like," he joked softly, smiling despite the grim situation.

Lilit recalled them, two men who thought they could corner a fourteen-year-old getting food for her family without issue.

That had changed very suddenly when she had pulled out a long curved knife in response to their teases and suggestions.

But she had been too slow to act- the knife had been a warning, not a movement, and they soon realized she was something to be stabbed, not played with. It was a shallow cut, but it had took her ten more minutes to walk home, using all her focus to remember the route to get there. But for all her worth, she kept her head raised high and eyes fierce, not letting the slightest bit of pain come through. They hadn't dared follow her.

Lilit had given them long scars across their faces in payment, but it wasn't enough.

It would have been so easy to cut their throats, leave two vile members of society dead without regrets, save countless future victims.

But she didn't.

She couldn't. Her hands had shook and her stomach heaved and something deep inside her protested heavily at the thought of killing them. It was madness, pure madness- how was she supposed to survive in this city, if she was too scared to kill, too reluctant to take someone's life?

She was only a scared little girl who couldn't do anything.

"Is Nene asleep?" She said softly, sometime later, after the jagged agony had softened to a dull ache. She wore her nightgown, curled in her bed.

"Yes. She'll be upset with you, you know." Her father sat at the edge of the bed, reading a book in English.

She sighed. "I was being stupid. I'm sorry, father." She leaned into her pillow, long black hair still damp and falling in long strands, out of their usual plaits.

"I can't lose you." Zaven said, eyes flickering down. "I can't, Lilit."

She swallowed, waiting for the words to come. Waiting for him to tell her there will be no more excursions at night, no more fights with men twice her age. Waiting for the end of her independence.

He sighed. "Just be careful."

Lilit watched him leave the room, turning off her lights one by one, and wondered if she'd always feel this alone in the world.

The next time, she would leave no one standing, no proof of her failure.