He catches her blade as she knew he would, the sound of metal meeting metal a ringing, haunting tone. It reverberates unpleasantly through her ears, a laughing and callous reminder of what she's doing, why she's doing it, how the world has come to represent so much more and so much less than what the girl grew up with. It has always been dangerous, always been frightening- there have always been monsters, darkness, loss.
But the demons they faced were always demons, faceless and monstrous, unknowing and unknown. Now, though? Now the demons wear faces: friends and neighbors, new and old, and that is more terrifying to the girl than any invisible beast.
Disarming is better than disemboweling, and Amalia's look speaks of relief as she shifts to reflect his stance. Still pale, still brittle, she listens intently, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes hard. Can he see the weakness that rests within her, the barely held together pieces trembling, fit to break? Her arm arcs down compliantly, slower this time, though the action is steadier than before. If she has to practice this - if the time comes when she needs to fight - will she be able to hold so steady, to act with the cool precision he embodies, to make anyone (to make him) proud? He raises his hand, the cool metal ghosting lightly over her skin; for a moment she considers pressing into it, seeing if she can make the knife draw blood, because then at least she will have something else to think on, outside her thoughts.
What would her grandmother say, to see her practicing violence and bloodshed in the garden she maintained?
He disappears behind her, and for a moment the mask breaks, despair and fear and anger and self-loathing dancing vibrantly across her face. By the time he returns, though, she is composed- or as composed as she can ever be, the edges still blurry, the remnants still there. Try, he says, and she nods, and swallows, waiting for him to slash at her (how many people has he killed this way, how much violence has he reveled in, does he imagine her fallen and bleeding on the grass, her fire both mercilessly and mercifully put out?) before raising her arm in turn, the blade a healthy distance from his wrist but the idea of it there.
But the demons they faced were always demons, faceless and monstrous, unknowing and unknown. Now, though? Now the demons wear faces: friends and neighbors, new and old, and that is more terrifying to the girl than any invisible beast.
Disarming is better than disemboweling, and Amalia's look speaks of relief as she shifts to reflect his stance. Still pale, still brittle, she listens intently, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes hard. Can he see the weakness that rests within her, the barely held together pieces trembling, fit to break? Her arm arcs down compliantly, slower this time, though the action is steadier than before. If she has to practice this - if the time comes when she needs to fight - will she be able to hold so steady, to act with the cool precision he embodies, to make anyone (to make him) proud? He raises his hand, the cool metal ghosting lightly over her skin; for a moment she considers pressing into it, seeing if she can make the knife draw blood, because then at least she will have something else to think on, outside her thoughts.
What would her grandmother say, to see her practicing violence and bloodshed in the garden she maintained?
He disappears behind her, and for a moment the mask breaks, despair and fear and anger and self-loathing dancing vibrantly across her face. By the time he returns, though, she is composed- or as composed as she can ever be, the edges still blurry, the remnants still there. Try, he says, and she nods, and swallows, waiting for him to slash at her (how many people has he killed this way, how much violence has he reveled in, does he imagine her fallen and bleeding on the grass, her fire both mercilessly and mercifully put out?) before raising her arm in turn, the blade a healthy distance from his wrist but the idea of it there.
