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Scylla tries not to think about the fact that she just burned yet another safe house by instructing Abigail to take them here as she carries Raelle’s limp body through the door. Really, she tries not to think about much, but still overwhelming thoughts pass through her brain. She can’t get over all the red. So much blood saturates Raelle’s shirt that it seems impossible she didn’t notice right away.
It might as well have been hours of driving away from that cursed place before Scylla’s heartbeat stopped pounding through her entire body, before her vision cleared its somehow hyper-focused haze from Raelle’s face and took in the collar of her shirt. Before the panic renewed and she yelled for Abigail as her hands slid through a haunting mixture of dried and fresh blood, getting coated in her quest to find what surely must be an open wound, only to come up empty.
Abigail had taken in the girl’s panic and for the first time regarded Scylla with a softness before telling her, so quietly, about Raelle’s strange new power, about her death at the hands of the Camarilla… Or of her first death… There was a moment of quiet between them as they stared at Raelle, both grappling with the knowledge.
And now here they are together, once again sharing Raelle’s weight slung between them, as they carefully jostle her into the bedroom of the safe house. Scylla can just make out the quiet and comforting murmurings of the man that Abigail had taken on the compound with, Adil, as he settles the kids in elsewhere in the home.
They lack grace as they deposit Raelle on the bed, Scylla holding Raelle in an awkward hunched forward position as Abigail grabs a towel from the bathroom to lay down beneath her, to prevent the blood from staining the bedding. By the time Raelle is settled back in the bed, Scylla is covered in red.
“Please go get yourself cleaned up. I can’t keep looking at you like that.” Abigail’s voice is still too soft. They should be hostile, distrusting, concerned, and an undercurrent of it still lingers, but in this moment only Raelle matters. Scylla tenses, the thought of leaving Raelle disconcerting, but as she stares down at her front, at her hands, she nods.
“I’ll bring back fresh clothes. And more towels. I can’t keep looking at her like that either.” Scylla moves toward the doorway and just stops herself from resting a bloodied palm on the frame as she looks back, her teeth nearly cutting through the inside of her cheek.
“Please— please stay with her.”
“I will.”
Scylla moves mechanically through the motions of washing her hands, red staining the sink, staining the towel, staining her mind as she closes her eyes and can’t escape it. Breaths come faster and tears slide down her cheeks as she can’t help but relive the horror of seeing Raelle bound and dying of a plague, of the loss of Willa, oh goddess, Willa.
When Scylla finally gives up on scrubbing her hands, she trails through the safe house to her own room. She changes quickly and grabs a spare change of clothes for Abigail and begins to assemble more for Raelle when she pauses. On her way back to Raelle, Scylla passes through Willa’s room, picking up a pink sweater and sweatpants.
When she returns to the room, Abigail has stayed, as promised, right by Raelle’s side and has dragged a chair beside the bed. Abigail stands and places an awkward kiss on her sister’s forehead before turning.
Scylla hands Abigail her change of clothes without a word.
“Thanks. I’m going to go help Adil with the kids. See if I can find some food." Abigail hesitates, looking Scylla up and down. "You got her, Necro?”
Scylla casts her gaze at the floor, overwhelmed somehow by this small moment, by Abigail entrusting Raelle to her.
“I got her.”
“Shout if you need anything.”
Scylla settles herself beside Raelle, and places the clothes and a bowl of warm water on the side table. She grabs a cloth and begins to wipe the blood from Raelle’s throat. Again, the water and the towel stains red and Scylla notices that her hands are turning that horrid pink again as well. Cleansing herself had been premature. She wonders idly if she’ll always feel Raelle’s blood on her hands.
Scylla focuses on Raelle’s face, on the crinkle between the girl’s eyebrows showcasing the distress that lingers just beneath her unconsciousness. She focuses there until the edge of her vision is no longer marred with red. She longs to see those wonderful blue eyes open and alert as she pulls the bloodstained clothes from Raelle’s body and replaces them with her mother’s clothes. With her now truly dead mother’s clothes.
When there’s nothing left to do, when Raelle is outwardly cleaned of the ordeal, Scylla falls apart. Sobs wrack her body, forcing her to double over in her chair, as she latches on to Raelle’s hand, as she can’t shake the vision of Raelle taken over by the plague, and then of Willa. Goddess, how much loss, how much trauma could one girl take? How much could any of them really take?
It isn’t until she quiets and stills that a timid knock echoes on the door frame and Abigail steps in again.
“Do you want to lift her or get the blankets?”
“I’ve got her.” Scylla’s answer is short, bordering on possessive, and she takes a moment to breathe. Scylla gently wraps an arm behind Raelle’s shoulders and the crook of her knees and lifts the girl, softly repeating her words. “I’ve got you, Raelle.”
Abigail pulls the blankets of the bed down and Scylla settles her. Together the two girls pull the blankets around Raelle.
Scylla settles back in the chair and Abigail leaves again as the awkwardness of them sharing the space returns. Eventually Scylla’s eyes drift closed and when they open again, it’s to Abigail tucking a blanket over her.
“Thanks.”
“When she wakes up, I’ll back whatever she wants. If she wants you gone, I’ll windstrike your ass right out that window.”
“Whatever she wants.” Scylla nods. And once again, Scylla is left alone with Raelle, entrusted with Raelle. A tightness wraps its way around her lungs as she keeps watch. She knows it won’t unwind until she sees clear blue eyes looking back at her.
Minutes pass like hours and hours pass like minutes. Scylla shifts and shifts and finally rests her head in her hand, but her eyes stay on Raelle, watching her chest rise and fall, trying to memorize every visible inch of Raelle’s form now that it's free from the blood, tries to replace the horrid memories of the girl’s torture from her mind. She sits and sits and sits at Raelle’s side. She takes Raelle’s hand and sets it down and takes it and sets it down whenever the doubt of overstepping overpowers the need for contact, for being sure that Raelle is there and real.
And eventually, just as her eyes begin to flutter closed, a shifting catches her attention.
Blue eyes meet blue eyes.
“It’s okay.” Nothing is okay. Scylla reaches her hand out, touches Raelle’s, and tries to believe the words. “You’re safe now.”