!Motus Animi Event!

!Motus Animi Event!

Every evening, in some cramped little inn or a chilly stream in the middle of the forest, Saltmoss would take a ritualistic bath— dunking their head under the water, shaking their head just the right way, so that when they came back to the surface, the leafy tendrils were draped over their face in familiarity. The bath itself was out of necessity, that excess water was needed to live. But the way they took that bath? It was the same. Every single time.

When they pushed the seaweed out of their eyes, they liked to pretend it wasn't their own hands affectionately combing through thick algae. They'd ruffle the patch that was ungracefully hacked off at the top of their head, and everytime they heard the same thing reverberate in the back of their mind: "The mullet's not the best, but you kinda rock it, little guy."

That same point, every single time, ushers Saltmoss nearly to eye level with the water— closing his eyes and basking in the memory of when someone else took care of him. The phantom hands always disappear too quickly, but if they listen hard enough, look hard enough— they were back in the cramped studio bathtub again, watching her pluck off the tacky yellow dishwashing gloves and toss them into the sink. Her hair was still wild and that eerie black and white clown makeup was half smudged off, but she was still smiling at him with so much warmth in her eyes, that he regretted not smiling back at her.

It was the first 'bath' Saltmoss ever had, and ever since he'd been torn from his troupe, he couldn't help but desperately attempt to mimic it. Why? He couldn't tell you. To honor his family, maybe. To never forget what they gave him, even if no one else wanted him to have it again. It was such a long and drawn out chore when he'd been dragged into the tub, but now that this person— someone he'd consider an older sister— was gone… reliving it over again was his only way to show Blythe any kind of love or appreciation from the distance they’ve been forcibly dragged into. It took everything in them to not sour the moment with feeling undeserving and guilty in their past weakness and frailty. 

'How dare you love me so much. How am I supposed to ever repay you? You were too kind to me for no reason.'

And right before they could picture that angry affectionate expression, Saltmoss would haul themself out of the water and hang up the memory telephone as the replayed conversation turned disquieting. Always tauntingly reminded in the back of their head that her love was unconditional… but, in hindsight was it honestly? Had they forgotten about him? Were they still even looking for him? A harrowing reconciliation they’d come to a long, long time ago was that he could never bring himself to hate them, and this was still true. Whether they found him, forgot about him— it didn’t matter. Of all the Tania Traveling Troupe, Blythe held an important spot in his heart. If she wasn’t in it, he wouldn’t be who he was today.

Every evening, somewhere alone, Saltmoss takes a bath to remember where he came from. He needed it to live, more than anything else in the world.

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