You are the night-time fear
Something's very, very wrong. It's in the way she's moving, a restless anger coiled about her limbs: it's in the way she looks at him. Defiant. He still doesn't know her age, but with the body she's wearing, the fragility she seems to carry locked behind her feral demeanor, the tilt of her jaw... She seems a child to him still, and he hates the world for how it has hurt her. Hurt him.He remembers things he'd rather not. He remembers Oheň, twelve years old and sweet as can be, and then he doesn't remember anything else.
He didn't get to see her grow up. Didn't get to watch her grow into a defiant teenager, standing in front of him with that look in her eye. Didn't—
It doesn't matter. His free hand clenches, hard, pressing nails into his palm. Oheň's long gone. Mabel's here now, and she needs someone—maybe not him, but he's what's here, isn't he?
(Still fucking hurts tho)
Aamu ignores her outstretched hand for the time being, just listening: to her words, to her wounded growl, and there it is—
Dead. Murdered. Time and time and time again. The fucking Order, who else? He opens his mouth to speak, to say he's sorry, to.. offer his help again, anything, wants to pull her into a hug and hold her until the world gets its shit back in order, but—
He doesn't dare to. Doesn't want her to break, not right now, doesn't think she'd want to, anyway. There's too much frustration. He fears it would be like hugging an angry cat, and the last thing he wants to do is scare her off.
Instead, he gives the stiletto a cursory glance, vowing silently to filch it later and give it some love after its rough adventures, before holding it in the vicinity of her hand. With his other hand he places her fingers near the tip of the blade, showing her how to hold it for a proper throw. "You don't throw so much with your wrist," he murmurs, bending her wrist back very slightly and raising her arm, elbow to the front, knife-hand slightly above her head. "The bend controls how much it rotates in the air. Keep your elbow in a little, it helps the aim keep true. You throw by unfolding your arm-" and he slowly guides her hand down, keeping her elbow up "-and release, about here," he says right before her arm is entirely straightened out.
"But this knife is not ideal for throwing," at least not according to him. "It's perfectly throwable but not made for it, and I'd advise finding a better target. Like.. a wide tree."
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
