Not Just Rusalka


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Scene Title Not Just Rusalka
Synopsis One of Abigail Beauchamp's keepers is a bit more familiar than she realized — but the intervening time between their prior meeting and now has certainly not improved their relationship any.
Date December 19, 2009

A Cell in Svyato Monastery, Ryazan, Russia

So far, breakfast has routinely arrived around dawn — sometimes a bit later, but not a lot. Thus it's a bit of a surprise when the cell door opens while the sky outside is still shaded in gray. The twilight is such that general profiles are visible. The young woman who walks into the room is very pale in coloring, bits of blonde hair peeking out around the edges of a drawn-up hood; the lower half of her face is mostly covered by a scarf of as-yet indeterminate hue, but nothing masks her reddish eyes.

Yvette carries the now-familiar breakfast tray in her hands, one foot nudging the door back closed behind her. Quick eyes might glimpse an escorting guard in the hall outside before the portal is shut. She sets the tray down on the end of the sleeping platform, tips her head to one side and regards the two who presently occupy it with a thoughtful expression.

Liz is still asleep, which is a surprise to Abigail that she's not awake at the sound of the door. Though in all fairness, the blonde has been watching over Abby. So only one set of blue eyes look to the door when it's opened and breakfast makes it's round at the wee hours instead of lighted dawn.

"Thank you," comes quietly — whispered even — unbidden from Abby, brown hair pulled back and tied with a bit of fabric to keep it off her face. Hands help move her one leg off the platform so she can slide out from under the blanket and reach for the oatmeal. Something about Yvette niggles in the back of her mind, familiarity of some sort. It takes her a moment or two for her mind to chug along to the answer. One of the answers. "Rusalka."

The pale girl looks down at Abby as the former healer emerges in quest for food. She leans one shoulder casually against the wall, indication of an intent to stay a while; inclines her head at Abby's recognition, confirming the label. Inasmuch as it does apply; Yvette is no water sprite. After a moment's quiet, she holds up a hand, her palm upraised in query; the tilt of her head similarly prompts: is that all?

Of course, Yvette has a few advantages over Abby when it comes to recognition; several days' head start and a full name, for one.

Anya's remained behind, Ethan remained behind. So when Yvette doesn't take off and instead remains in her little lean against the wall, fingers tighten around the bowl of oatmeal for a moment or two while the heat seeps in and there's a furrowing downwards of the brunette's brows. "Sorry?"

Forefinger, thumb, middle fingers twiddle with the spoon, regarding Yvette near her. "I don't speak Russian. I'm sorry. Only English." She's still keeping her voice low for the benefit of Liz's sleeping.

The pale woman's expression crinkles faintly with amusement, and she shakes her head, the hood slipping back a bit from her features. Such as aren't covered by the scarf, anyway. A soft sensation gathers itself around Abby's shoulders, as if a blanket, or perhaps someone's arm, were draped there; reassurance. It doesn't last long — certainly not long enough to be an actual comfort.

Yvette steps forward, partway around the side of the platform; to where she can crouch down beside it, her gaze more closely on a level with Abby's. In the slowly accumulating predawn light, it's hard to discern any additional details of her appearance. Her hands remain close, no attempt made to touch the brunette; all the young woman does is look, an intense study of Abby's features and expression.

Liz isn't awake. A glance back shows that and leads to confusion to the sensation before she realizes on some level that the comforting is coming from the mute woman in front of her. The spoon stops being manipulated by Abigail as she focuses on Yvette once more in front of her. "Be stupid to ask if I could see a doctor? The one man, Francois. He's a doctor. Or there's uh.. there was someone else you took. His name is Kozlow. Dr. Kozlow. I need someone to set my ankle. I know that you all probably don't rightly care, but it's hurting a great deal and …"

The spoon is dragged again, scoop up oatmeal then plop it back into the bowl. "Thank you, for the painkillers at least." She can be grateful to them for some things, even if it's them that is the source of all the negative things that have happened. "You seem familiar." Beyond the Rusalka.

Yvette tips her head to one side, then reaches up to brush her fingers against the skin of Abby's face. The set of her eyes and the gesture itself carry a touch of what might be pity — or condescension. The young woman shakes her head slowly, a bit more of her blond hair slipping free of the hood in the process. When Abigail ocntinues, however, Yvette nods — confirming that yes, she is indeed familiar to Abby beyond her role of rusalka. She stands up again, and steps back, glancing towards the window and the lightening eastern sky.

There's a shuttering of her eyes, no recoil, but a certain stiffness that settles into Abigail at the touch, especially in light of the feel that carries through with it. Her own hand reaches up to attempt to rest on Yvette's, fingers twine around her wrist. But she lets go, aborts the attempt at the nod and the backing away.

It's right there. On the tip of her tongue, edge of her mind and the former healer strains to make the connection. Maybe if she's seen the other girl more than just the once, it might come easier instead of having to wade through thick jello and reach for the memory.

"You were with Ewan… The snowball."

The young woman dips her head again, confirming Abby's recollection; she was indeed. She moves to the foot of the bed, letting her pinkish gaze sweep down the brunette's silhouette; with the sun soon to rise, more of their environment becomes clear with each passing minute. Yvette's attention hovers on Abby's damaged ankle, head tilted at an angle that could be termed curious, or perhaps disbelieving; slowly, measure by measure, the pain begins to lighten. She reaches out to set a hand against the wall, as if for support; her head bows, suggesting the pain is not so much removed as taken upon herself. But she continues to watch Abby through pale eyelashes — and for all that the cessation of pain might be construed a kindness, there is no such grace in Yvette's expression.

She's not stupid enough to move her ankle when the sharp ache start to be just a little less sharp and the ache dulls. But there are lines around Abby's eyes that disappear as muscles in her face relax, in her leg relax and she has less of it to focus on. Just left, is the back teeth on her left side. "Sweet merciful lord, thank you." Even breathing is a little easier without the constant weight of the pain. "Thank you."

Red-tinged eyes gaze steadily at Abby. In the absence of pain, other emotions — feelings as incongruous as the earlier sense of an embracing arm — make themselves known to the former healer: warmth, affection, laughter, love. For all that Yvette is their genesis, her expression reflects none of them; she lets them sink into Abby's awareness, her own face a pale mask. Then she lifts her head, despite the double weight of pain the young woman now carries; the warmth dissolves, replaced by a breath of cold and the sour, leaden lump of mourning grief. Tears do well in Yvette's eyes, though they do not fall; only glint in the first true light of day.

Then Yvette turns away from Abigail, letting the brunette's own pain come crashing back down upon her as she steps towards the door.

It's doubly strange to feel that in here, and know that the origin is Yvette. Maybe it's a reflection of that day in the park before Abby came along on her scooter. "Ewan's doing good. He's bee-" Abigail starts to speak but it's cut off when all the positive beautiful emotions are taken away and replaced by what the woman is piling on top of her.

And a few moments later after that, the brunette's eyes are rolling upwards as the absence of pain is met with the full force of it. Bowl of Oatmeal clunks to the floor, spoon clatter and some of it leaks over the tilted edge as Abigail succumbs to the refreshed pain. She wasn't ready for it to be back.

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