You are the night-time fear
Once she's taken the knife again he folds his arms behind his back, holding his elbows and waiting. Watching. Breathing. She positions herself, raises her chosen weapon again, aims, throws—and the dagger quivers in the tree, higher this time. A better throw, a better aim, a better boost to her confidence, surely. Why make things more difficult than they have to be? "Good," he says when she looks at him, that thing (grief; pride) in his chest still aching.It's not that he regrets teaching a young woman to throw knives, it's the fact she has need of it at all.
Aamu swallows a frustrated growl and cocks his head to the side, contemplating the tree. "From here on it's just practice, practice, practice," he muses quietly. "Find out what works, what doesn't. Get the feel for the rotations, the aiming, different knives, different distances. Remember the form, your elbow, and you'll be able to figure most things out."
He glances down at the knife she's holding. It's nothing fancy, nothing special, but it's a tool: for cutting leathers and threads, skin and arteries. Neither more nor less than the weight of the heart holding it.
The intent it is wielded with.
He reaches out in the moonless dark, placing the tip of a finger against the cold and lifeless metal. "This is a good enough blade for stabbing, too. Want me to show you?"
Oh, Aamu. Teaching murder to little girls.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
