79 Ymiden, 724
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Kotton scraped a brush through Spirit's matted fur. Once. Twice. Three times before she let out a pained yelp.
"I'm sorry girl, your hair is just so tangled." He tried using one hand to hold the roots in place so it wouldn't be as if he were ripping her hair out of her skin, but this only lasted for a minute before she yelped again.
"Maybe you're due for a haircut." His fringe suddenly fell into his eyes, obstructing his gaze of her beautifully coloured fur. Was that ironic or wasn't it? He chuckled before saying, "Maybe I'm due for one too."
The brush traded places with a sharp pair of scissors, though they were more similar to shears than scissors given their mighty size. He found an actual pair of scissors to use for himself since he was doubtful he would be able to manage more detailed trimming.
Shears in hand, he began trimming away at the spots of Spirit's fur that posed the most challenge. Matted, clumped, tangled and knotted, he worked at every trouble area. He was less interested in making her look good than he was about making sure she wasn't overheated in this weather, what with the mane she had grown over the course of the colder seasons.
Hair fell to the kitchen floor. He wasn't without thanks that he had chosen this room to cut hair rather than the living room. It would have taken twice as long to clean up the carpet of all the bits and pieces of fur than the smooth tile of his kitchen.
Once he had cut away the most troublesome parts, he found he had the time and the patience to pay more attention to the rest of her body. He cut a little here and there, used the other scissors to trim around her mouth, nose and eyes. He gave pause when starting his trimming of her eyes though not out of fear of poking them, but because they were such a glorious shade of robin's egg blue they almost seemed to glow like blue lightning. One of her eyebrows drew up as if questioning why he was staring at him instead of getting on with the rest of the grooming.
He scoffed at his mistake and gave a tiny smirk. "Sorry, girl. I was just admiring your eyes. You're such a pretty girl." He paused to see what her response would be. It was as energetic and jovial as he had predicted. "Yes you are!" he added using a high pitched tone.
That got Spirit's tail wagging with such ferocity that Kotton had to set down the scissors to make sure she didn't accidentally strike herself against them. She loved being called a pretty girl. It was analogous to the likes of a male dog being called a good boy. Whenever he called her a good girl, he always made sure to raise his voice a little, the way pet owners did when they found their animal companions so cute they just couldn't help but sound silly. Kotton didn't care if he sounded silly. All he cared about was whether his companions saw him as a good caretaker and if that meant him raising his voice so high it made him sound like a woman, then so be it.
"You are such a pretty girl!"
The two tangled limbs until they both went to perform a makeshift wrestle. For a few moments they grappled, Spirit snapped, Kotton fisted and both tumbled until Imogen announced her presence with a loud hiss and a bat of her paw.
"Apparently someone's a little jealous," Kotton jested, pulling away from Spirit and making a move to stroke his feline friend's head. She resisted at first, obviously vexed enough to want nothing to do with him. But after a time she eventually gave in and brushed her side against his outstretched arm. He scratched behind her ears until she mewed.
"You don't look to be in need of a haircut," he judged her. "But..." he paused for effect. "Do you need... a bath?" Imogen's hair stood on end in an instant, her eyes narrowed and she let out another hiss of displeasure. Whether she had actually understood him or not was up for debate, but what wasn't was the fact that she was very much against whatever Kotton wanted to do next. Although, did he really want to give her a bath or was he just testing her?
"I'm kidding!" He raised his hands in a universal gesture of surrender. He knew it was a cruel joke to pull, but couldn't help it. Most cats hated water and Imogen was no different. After her intense response, he knew he would have to wait a few hours before reaching to stroke her again. Animals, like people, needed their space once they had been offended.
Since he was still very much in a caring and friendly mood, and he could have sworn he felt Spirit's stomach grumbling during their tussle, it was only natural he finish the care of his companions and that meant feeding them. The cabinet opened and out came two bags of kibble, one meant for canines and one meant for felines. He filled their bowls respectively before checking their water bowls. They looked full enough and clean enough to not need any additional attention, but he topped them off just in case.
Now that his list of chores had been cleared, there wasn’t anything left for him to do. So he settled himself into the throes of the cushions of the couch and its respective throw pillows and uttered a sigh of relief. His mind was only blank for so long, his thoughts gradually coming to light. He already knew what he was in for, so he naturally resisted their upheaval. He took his hand and caressed against the fabric of the pillows. His fingertips quivered in delight from the sensation- so soft, so smooth, so warm. He wormed his way further underneath the weight of the comfort of the couch, probing ever so gently against the cushion itself. He wanted to cocoon himself in this comfort for as long as possible. The outside world was sad and mean and anxiety-inducing anyway, so why couldn’t he be like a caterpillar. Well, because that would mean he would eventually need to exit the realm of comfort and transition into the likes of a butterfly. But maybe butterflies were the better version of the insect. Caterpillars were obviously squishy, soft, slow, and naturally disliked. Butterflies on the other hand were beautiful, adventurous, carefree, and they could fly anywhere they wanted to. Was he in the transitional stage of being a caterpillar? Was there another version of himself that needed to be awakened? He felt sluggish, ugly, soft and easily hated. Maybe if he hibernated for a season or two he would wake up to find himself to be something more beautiful, more charismatic, more indifferent and carefree, maybe even with the ability to do as he pleased with invisible wings that would take him anywhere he pleased.
He scoffed at the thought. Philosophize as he might, his present world would remain the same no matter how he perceived it to be. He drew a pillow closer to him and hugged it with such strength he subconsciously feared it may burst into a pillar of faux feathers. He swallowed several gulps heavy with phlegm and fought to focus his attention on an unmoving object, hoping its stillness would still the rampant beating of his heart. Then he rose from his place amidst the comfort of pillows and couch cushions and forced himself into action.
He walked across the living room, into the hallway and past his bedroom until he was standing at the far side of his bathroom. He examined himself in the mirror that was there, taking careful consideration as to his appearance. His face was long, eyes weary, not with age but with experience. His mouth was sloped downward, a natural frown- when had that happened? His hair was too long, reaching past his ears and almost touching his shoulders. Was that a strand of grey in the mirror? His chin was covered in dark hairs; he hadn’t shaved in a week at least, but the motivation to do so just wasn’t there and the time to do so wasn't there also. Only this very trial had he been able to explore what it was like to have free time. And for all the immortals, he spent it looking at himself in the mirror and judging his appearance?
He scratched the side of his face before drawing his hand down to its length. Maybe he should do something about this. Maybe he should cut his hair, trim his beard, maybe apply something to his face so as to prevent wrinkles from forming. Maybe he should smile more, lift his eyebrows, raise his eyes to appear happier, more jocular. Maybe he should do this… maybe he should do that… maybe… just maybe...
There were always so many 'maybes' just as there were always so many 'what ifs'. With every 'maybe' there was the proposition of a ‘what if’ and Kotton wanted to remain as far removed from the ‘what ifs’ for as long as possible. He didn't want to think about what could become of the 'maybes' and the 'what ifs' because what came of them was nothing more than a natural reaction of 'I don't know'. He didn’t want to think about 'what could have been' if he didn't know 'what should have been'. That was thinking about a future that was no longer, a future that existed in a different realm when he had made an ultimately different decision and had done something entirely different.
He looked at his arm. The first thing he saw was not the long scar that transected the majority of his flesh, but the new improvement he had made during a spontaneous moment. He had gotten a tattoo and it was as beautiful as he had first gotten it. The pain he had to endure to receive it was necessary. But this pain actually promised something more physically appealing than the likes of a nasty scar.
His eyes ignited with inspiration as he gazed at his tattoo. It was such a lovely piece of work, though incredibly basic. Perhaps he could make it even better with a sprinkling of… magic.
He focused on the thin, blue line against his arm and employed a smattering of ether directed toward the exact location where it embellished his skin. He fabricated the physical dimensions of the line by enhancing its saturation. He concentrated on the shading, the shadow and brought forth the colouring so it seemed more vibrant than it actually was. Then, he toyed with the idea of perspective by heightening the radiance of the cool hue. As if by magic, his tattoo started to glow.
Kotton had to keep himself from bursting out in ecstasy with how perfect his experimentation had become. The view was glorious and he hyper-fixated on it as long as he was able to muster the energy to keep it glowing. Unfortunately, as with anything, there came a time for the beauty to end. Still, the image had been burned into his retinas. He would think about this, dream about this, and theorise more about the usages of Glamour based on this experience alone.
He turned to share his findings with someone, but… there was no one there. At least no one he could talk to. He tried not to let this loneliness get the better of him.
He rose only to bathe himself, to ensure he had properly cleaned his teeth, and to fall gracefully into his bed. The comfort of being like a cocooned caterpillar in the couch was lost on him now. That being said, he struggled to befriend a restful sleep that night.
"I'm sorry girl, your hair is just so tangled." He tried using one hand to hold the roots in place so it wouldn't be as if he were ripping her hair out of her skin, but this only lasted for a minute before she yelped again.
"Maybe you're due for a haircut." His fringe suddenly fell into his eyes, obstructing his gaze of her beautifully coloured fur. Was that ironic or wasn't it? He chuckled before saying, "Maybe I'm due for one too."
The brush traded places with a sharp pair of scissors, though they were more similar to shears than scissors given their mighty size. He found an actual pair of scissors to use for himself since he was doubtful he would be able to manage more detailed trimming.
Shears in hand, he began trimming away at the spots of Spirit's fur that posed the most challenge. Matted, clumped, tangled and knotted, he worked at every trouble area. He was less interested in making her look good than he was about making sure she wasn't overheated in this weather, what with the mane she had grown over the course of the colder seasons.
Hair fell to the kitchen floor. He wasn't without thanks that he had chosen this room to cut hair rather than the living room. It would have taken twice as long to clean up the carpet of all the bits and pieces of fur than the smooth tile of his kitchen.
Once he had cut away the most troublesome parts, he found he had the time and the patience to pay more attention to the rest of her body. He cut a little here and there, used the other scissors to trim around her mouth, nose and eyes. He gave pause when starting his trimming of her eyes though not out of fear of poking them, but because they were such a glorious shade of robin's egg blue they almost seemed to glow like blue lightning. One of her eyebrows drew up as if questioning why he was staring at him instead of getting on with the rest of the grooming.
He scoffed at his mistake and gave a tiny smirk. "Sorry, girl. I was just admiring your eyes. You're such a pretty girl." He paused to see what her response would be. It was as energetic and jovial as he had predicted. "Yes you are!" he added using a high pitched tone.
That got Spirit's tail wagging with such ferocity that Kotton had to set down the scissors to make sure she didn't accidentally strike herself against them. She loved being called a pretty girl. It was analogous to the likes of a male dog being called a good boy. Whenever he called her a good girl, he always made sure to raise his voice a little, the way pet owners did when they found their animal companions so cute they just couldn't help but sound silly. Kotton didn't care if he sounded silly. All he cared about was whether his companions saw him as a good caretaker and if that meant him raising his voice so high it made him sound like a woman, then so be it.
"You are such a pretty girl!"
The two tangled limbs until they both went to perform a makeshift wrestle. For a few moments they grappled, Spirit snapped, Kotton fisted and both tumbled until Imogen announced her presence with a loud hiss and a bat of her paw.
"Apparently someone's a little jealous," Kotton jested, pulling away from Spirit and making a move to stroke his feline friend's head. She resisted at first, obviously vexed enough to want nothing to do with him. But after a time she eventually gave in and brushed her side against his outstretched arm. He scratched behind her ears until she mewed.
"You don't look to be in need of a haircut," he judged her. "But..." he paused for effect. "Do you need... a bath?" Imogen's hair stood on end in an instant, her eyes narrowed and she let out another hiss of displeasure. Whether she had actually understood him or not was up for debate, but what wasn't was the fact that she was very much against whatever Kotton wanted to do next. Although, did he really want to give her a bath or was he just testing her?
"I'm kidding!" He raised his hands in a universal gesture of surrender. He knew it was a cruel joke to pull, but couldn't help it. Most cats hated water and Imogen was no different. After her intense response, he knew he would have to wait a few hours before reaching to stroke her again. Animals, like people, needed their space once they had been offended.
Since he was still very much in a caring and friendly mood, and he could have sworn he felt Spirit's stomach grumbling during their tussle, it was only natural he finish the care of his companions and that meant feeding them. The cabinet opened and out came two bags of kibble, one meant for canines and one meant for felines. He filled their bowls respectively before checking their water bowls. They looked full enough and clean enough to not need any additional attention, but he topped them off just in case.
Now that his list of chores had been cleared, there wasn’t anything left for him to do. So he settled himself into the throes of the cushions of the couch and its respective throw pillows and uttered a sigh of relief. His mind was only blank for so long, his thoughts gradually coming to light. He already knew what he was in for, so he naturally resisted their upheaval. He took his hand and caressed against the fabric of the pillows. His fingertips quivered in delight from the sensation- so soft, so smooth, so warm. He wormed his way further underneath the weight of the comfort of the couch, probing ever so gently against the cushion itself. He wanted to cocoon himself in this comfort for as long as possible. The outside world was sad and mean and anxiety-inducing anyway, so why couldn’t he be like a caterpillar. Well, because that would mean he would eventually need to exit the realm of comfort and transition into the likes of a butterfly. But maybe butterflies were the better version of the insect. Caterpillars were obviously squishy, soft, slow, and naturally disliked. Butterflies on the other hand were beautiful, adventurous, carefree, and they could fly anywhere they wanted to. Was he in the transitional stage of being a caterpillar? Was there another version of himself that needed to be awakened? He felt sluggish, ugly, soft and easily hated. Maybe if he hibernated for a season or two he would wake up to find himself to be something more beautiful, more charismatic, more indifferent and carefree, maybe even with the ability to do as he pleased with invisible wings that would take him anywhere he pleased.
He scoffed at the thought. Philosophize as he might, his present world would remain the same no matter how he perceived it to be. He drew a pillow closer to him and hugged it with such strength he subconsciously feared it may burst into a pillar of faux feathers. He swallowed several gulps heavy with phlegm and fought to focus his attention on an unmoving object, hoping its stillness would still the rampant beating of his heart. Then he rose from his place amidst the comfort of pillows and couch cushions and forced himself into action.
He walked across the living room, into the hallway and past his bedroom until he was standing at the far side of his bathroom. He examined himself in the mirror that was there, taking careful consideration as to his appearance. His face was long, eyes weary, not with age but with experience. His mouth was sloped downward, a natural frown- when had that happened? His hair was too long, reaching past his ears and almost touching his shoulders. Was that a strand of grey in the mirror? His chin was covered in dark hairs; he hadn’t shaved in a week at least, but the motivation to do so just wasn’t there and the time to do so wasn't there also. Only this very trial had he been able to explore what it was like to have free time. And for all the immortals, he spent it looking at himself in the mirror and judging his appearance?
He scratched the side of his face before drawing his hand down to its length. Maybe he should do something about this. Maybe he should cut his hair, trim his beard, maybe apply something to his face so as to prevent wrinkles from forming. Maybe he should smile more, lift his eyebrows, raise his eyes to appear happier, more jocular. Maybe he should do this… maybe he should do that… maybe… just maybe...
There were always so many 'maybes' just as there were always so many 'what ifs'. With every 'maybe' there was the proposition of a ‘what if’ and Kotton wanted to remain as far removed from the ‘what ifs’ for as long as possible. He didn't want to think about what could become of the 'maybes' and the 'what ifs' because what came of them was nothing more than a natural reaction of 'I don't know'. He didn’t want to think about 'what could have been' if he didn't know 'what should have been'. That was thinking about a future that was no longer, a future that existed in a different realm when he had made an ultimately different decision and had done something entirely different.
He looked at his arm. The first thing he saw was not the long scar that transected the majority of his flesh, but the new improvement he had made during a spontaneous moment. He had gotten a tattoo and it was as beautiful as he had first gotten it. The pain he had to endure to receive it was necessary. But this pain actually promised something more physically appealing than the likes of a nasty scar.
His eyes ignited with inspiration as he gazed at his tattoo. It was such a lovely piece of work, though incredibly basic. Perhaps he could make it even better with a sprinkling of… magic.
He focused on the thin, blue line against his arm and employed a smattering of ether directed toward the exact location where it embellished his skin. He fabricated the physical dimensions of the line by enhancing its saturation. He concentrated on the shading, the shadow and brought forth the colouring so it seemed more vibrant than it actually was. Then, he toyed with the idea of perspective by heightening the radiance of the cool hue. As if by magic, his tattoo started to glow.
Kotton had to keep himself from bursting out in ecstasy with how perfect his experimentation had become. The view was glorious and he hyper-fixated on it as long as he was able to muster the energy to keep it glowing. Unfortunately, as with anything, there came a time for the beauty to end. Still, the image had been burned into his retinas. He would think about this, dream about this, and theorise more about the usages of Glamour based on this experience alone.
He turned to share his findings with someone, but… there was no one there. At least no one he could talk to. He tried not to let this loneliness get the better of him.
He rose only to bathe himself, to ensure he had properly cleaned his teeth, and to fall gracefully into his bed. The comfort of being like a cocooned caterpillar in the couch was lost on him now. That being said, he struggled to befriend a restful sleep that night.