You are the night-time fear
It lifts him, even as he can't stop the tears. They keep on spilling, oil-slick stains falling among the apples and hay as he lets Azrael and Mabel spin him through the snow. The night is too quiet and empty around them, but it doesn't matter to him: there is more than enough warmth and life here, in Azrael's eyes, in Mabel's song. His fingers squeeze the child's in return, silent gratitude, his own song (archaic versions of what they know now) carrying their endeavor when Mabel breaks off to laugh.He wants to join her, to hug her, delighted beyond words at this simple display of life and lightness and joy. There has been too much darkness, too much grief, too much death and fighting (and more will come), but he sings on as he becomes more than just driftwood bobbed by their waves: there's strength in his arms as he helps tug their haphazard dance around.
Mabel's right, but it doesn't matter. He's just sorry Azrael won't get to see them now, won't get the chance to come close and perhaps even pet their fluffy necks. Slowly Aamu's song winds down to silence, but the brightness remains in his cloudy eyes. "Maybe not," he says quietly, tugging Azrael closer by the hand before trying to wrap his arm around them. "Maybe they'll find the apples and hay when we're not looking for them anymore. How about we leave a trail back to the Sanctuary, and then go to Mabel's house for some tea?"
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
