26 Saun, 723
.
The dining table was set. Kotton had a plate placed in front of him and another on the floor for Imogen. In addition, he made sure an extra plate had been positioned across the table for the spirit he hoped would come.
Kotton had been caught off guard upon learning what the date was and what that meant for the locals of Scalvoris. Even though he had seen bulletins with posts announcing the tradition, his eyes had wandered, much like his mind, to other things. If it wasn’t insecurity about the way he spoke or his inability to hear, it was his deep, un-deterring fixation on the tasks he had given himself to complete. And this often made it difficult for him to recognise other, important factors. But he remembered now, already halfway through a fifth of tequila, that today was the annual day to consider setting an empty place at the dining table for which the dead could sit.
He wasn’t necessarily a superstitious man, but his unbreakable link to psychology and philosophy endowed him with a unique sense of acknowledging the various pockets of the unknown. It was commonplace for locals of Scalvoris to accept this annual tradition, regardless of their spirituality. And knowing Kotton, he did not want to offend; he didn’t want to oppose the beliefs of another. And maybe, even partially, he believed that the afterlife did offered some semblance of peace that necessitated affirmation and acceptance.
He knew his father wasn’t setting an empty place at his dining table tonight. His belief was monotheistic. Even propitiating a god or goddess outside his realm of belief was inconceivable. Knowing this, Kotton wondered what his father was doing right now- if he had remembered the meaning of the date of the cycle, if he cared, or if he was oblivious to it altogether.
Kotton on the other hand was a little worrisome of the consequential events that could unfold if he were not to partake in this tradition. He didn’t know if the immortals could read his mind or decipher his hidden intentions, if they could see through the facade he portrayed about believing in something simply for the sake of good fortune. But he knew that he had a solid and sound heart- he loved learning about and partaking in new rituals and customs. So far, he only believed in one pair of immortals and they had gifted him with their mark. If that wasn’t evidence enough of their existence, he didn’t know what was. He prayed to them every other day. But everything else? He wanted to believe in things, but he didn’t know how to. There was much he had yet to learn, so there were likely to be other immortals and religious belief systems he could follow, but for now, his heart was enraptured only by two.
He scoffed at his musings and looked down at his tabby cat. “What do you have to say about this?”
Imogen gave a hearty meow before licking the bottom of her right paw.
“Exactly.”
Going back to the whole “afraid to not believe for fear of repercussions so I might as well believe” notion, Kotton knew of the punishment that could occur if he did not set a place for the dead at his table. This spirit may stay all arc if neglected. Kotton didn’t want that; he already had enough hauntings in his mind to last him two lifetimes. So after decorating the dining table with napkins, silverware and a few candles, after setting down many pre-cooked meals (because he was a terrible cook), he twiddled his thumbs before gaining the courage to softly speak a dedication to Vri.
From the little that Kotton knew of him, and from what he had gathered eavesdropping via his ability to read lips, Vri was the immortal of death and sadness, but also of remembrance and love. Recalling these tidbits of information jostled a knot in his gut. With the way his brain was, and the morbid curiosity given to him since birth, he was astonished that he didn’t already know about Vri. He was even more astonished that he wasn’t actively worshipping him. And it wasn’t until just this afternoon that he had found out that Vri was currently alive and travelling alongside Pier and Pre- the goddesses he worshipped and had been blessed by. And now, on the bulletin board in his mind, he marked a section with a red tack and traced a long piece of string from the immortals of justice and equality, truth and deceit to Vri. He was most definitely going to learn more about this guy after tonight.
Kotton understood the path of life. After being greeted by the first impression of life- chaotic order- and for the first decade or so, he understood that a new fleshling grows, develops, and learns about both themselves and their environment. But there is a time when all that slows until eventually stopping completely. At this point life offers an unsophisticated decline. The once infant has stopped its developmental climb amidst the world, and whilst they might still learn new things, there is an invisible instilling of limitation. Death is merely an essential component to life. With every new creation comes destruction. With birth comes death, as is the cycle of life. Immortals, however, didn’t have the alleged “luxury” of this mortal wheel. They are exempt from experiencing the eventual nonexistence of what had once been an occupied space in time. What had been a moving piece in the grandiose scheme of things had become dirty and dusty, gradually resulting in an irreparable cog in the machine.
“Vri, if you can hear me, I apologise for my lack of awareness of your existence. I have met Pier and Pre, and they have blessed me with a wondrous ability. I now would like to introduce myself to you, for you have already made an impact in my life… simply from rumour,” he added last minute.
Kotton sat at the table, fingers interlaced, his elbows gently resting against the hard wooden surface. He was inseparably engaged with the empty plate in front of him, as though he were envisioning the immortal sitting right there in front of him, their hands gingerly extending toward the silverware.
Kotton expended a sign of complacency even if his imaginative thinking was merely wishful. He looked down at his empty plate- oh how clean it was! It was devoid of any stains, sauces, or disturbed remnants of disliked food. He straightened his posture and leant forward to grab the ladle associated with the mashed potatoes. He didn’t hold back on yielding a mountain of spuds onto his plate. He did the very same with the green beans. He also partook in a generous helping of the salad to his left.
After he had made his plate, he casually glanced down at his cat, Imogen. He offered her a spoonful of gravy to which she licked graciously. Kotton gave her a solemn smile before returning to his own meal. He began to dig in, feeling a mixture of emotions building up in his body. He was lonely. He was bored of feeling this intense loneliness and he was incredibly frustrated with himself and his inability at satiating those adverse emotions. He wanted them gone. Once and for all.
He pounded a fist on the table before peering through his bangs at the still vacant seat across him. He suddenly no longer felt the pangs of hunger.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he declared to no one in particular before scraping his chair back against the linoleum floor. He hated when his brain did this. It was always making a move against him, like it was his enemy. His jaw slackened from tense gritting. The edges of his mouth reflected his melancholy, sending themselves straight towards the floor. What had begun as a peaceful, celebratory night had turned into a sombre reminiscence of a piece of him he wished would just… disappear.
But was this an inconvenient coincidence? Vri was the immortal who represented sadness and remembrance, after all. Although, he wasn’t feeling a lot of the aforementioned love at the moment. Just a whole bunch of hate. Did he allow himself to be so vulnerable as to invite a sense of forlorning into his night? He shook his head, before reaching above so as to place his palm against the hallway wall in order to stabilise himself in case he were to fall.
Certain situations and events had an uncanny way of unearthing their despondent, hidden desires. Had the setting of the table provoked some residual pain, some deeply buried and supposedly long forgotten need that had never come true? Did the hypothetical conversation with an immortal he could not see spark some latent sense of belonging that had yet to be fulfilled?
His head began to throb as his mind and soul quickly became one, so as to sing truths worthy of deliberation. He honestly didn’t want to think tonight. He just wanted to stuff his mouth of comfort food and recognise a tradition that had the potential to inspire new curiosities. But instead, his thoughts trudged straight into hostile territory.
In order to calm and distract himself, he spoke aloud, “I understand you.” He was trying so hard to salvage that last glimmering piece of happiness before it was permanently snuffed out. “I understand more than you know about despair, love and recollection.”
He thumbed his temples, trying to massage out the knots that pulsed sparks of pain across his forehead. “I just don’t understand why. Why do I have to be subjected to these feelings? Is there some greater plan that I’m unaware of?”
Kotton’s eyes drooped; he felt utterly exhausted. His pessimism had quickly taken centre stage, the spotlight illuminating every corner and crevice of cynicism he had to offer. Yet, a feeble fluorescence illuminated his path. Down the hall. To the right. Toward his bedroom. Sleep had been the only impartial, genuine and nonjudgmental activity for him during the last few days. He made one last glance over his shoulder before calling it a night.
“Thank you for your company," he murmured with great despondence.
Kotton had been caught off guard upon learning what the date was and what that meant for the locals of Scalvoris. Even though he had seen bulletins with posts announcing the tradition, his eyes had wandered, much like his mind, to other things. If it wasn’t insecurity about the way he spoke or his inability to hear, it was his deep, un-deterring fixation on the tasks he had given himself to complete. And this often made it difficult for him to recognise other, important factors. But he remembered now, already halfway through a fifth of tequila, that today was the annual day to consider setting an empty place at the dining table for which the dead could sit.
He wasn’t necessarily a superstitious man, but his unbreakable link to psychology and philosophy endowed him with a unique sense of acknowledging the various pockets of the unknown. It was commonplace for locals of Scalvoris to accept this annual tradition, regardless of their spirituality. And knowing Kotton, he did not want to offend; he didn’t want to oppose the beliefs of another. And maybe, even partially, he believed that the afterlife did offered some semblance of peace that necessitated affirmation and acceptance.
He knew his father wasn’t setting an empty place at his dining table tonight. His belief was monotheistic. Even propitiating a god or goddess outside his realm of belief was inconceivable. Knowing this, Kotton wondered what his father was doing right now- if he had remembered the meaning of the date of the cycle, if he cared, or if he was oblivious to it altogether.
Kotton on the other hand was a little worrisome of the consequential events that could unfold if he were not to partake in this tradition. He didn’t know if the immortals could read his mind or decipher his hidden intentions, if they could see through the facade he portrayed about believing in something simply for the sake of good fortune. But he knew that he had a solid and sound heart- he loved learning about and partaking in new rituals and customs. So far, he only believed in one pair of immortals and they had gifted him with their mark. If that wasn’t evidence enough of their existence, he didn’t know what was. He prayed to them every other day. But everything else? He wanted to believe in things, but he didn’t know how to. There was much he had yet to learn, so there were likely to be other immortals and religious belief systems he could follow, but for now, his heart was enraptured only by two.
He scoffed at his musings and looked down at his tabby cat. “What do you have to say about this?”
Imogen gave a hearty meow before licking the bottom of her right paw.
“Exactly.”
Going back to the whole “afraid to not believe for fear of repercussions so I might as well believe” notion, Kotton knew of the punishment that could occur if he did not set a place for the dead at his table. This spirit may stay all arc if neglected. Kotton didn’t want that; he already had enough hauntings in his mind to last him two lifetimes. So after decorating the dining table with napkins, silverware and a few candles, after setting down many pre-cooked meals (because he was a terrible cook), he twiddled his thumbs before gaining the courage to softly speak a dedication to Vri.
From the little that Kotton knew of him, and from what he had gathered eavesdropping via his ability to read lips, Vri was the immortal of death and sadness, but also of remembrance and love. Recalling these tidbits of information jostled a knot in his gut. With the way his brain was, and the morbid curiosity given to him since birth, he was astonished that he didn’t already know about Vri. He was even more astonished that he wasn’t actively worshipping him. And it wasn’t until just this afternoon that he had found out that Vri was currently alive and travelling alongside Pier and Pre- the goddesses he worshipped and had been blessed by. And now, on the bulletin board in his mind, he marked a section with a red tack and traced a long piece of string from the immortals of justice and equality, truth and deceit to Vri. He was most definitely going to learn more about this guy after tonight.
Kotton understood the path of life. After being greeted by the first impression of life- chaotic order- and for the first decade or so, he understood that a new fleshling grows, develops, and learns about both themselves and their environment. But there is a time when all that slows until eventually stopping completely. At this point life offers an unsophisticated decline. The once infant has stopped its developmental climb amidst the world, and whilst they might still learn new things, there is an invisible instilling of limitation. Death is merely an essential component to life. With every new creation comes destruction. With birth comes death, as is the cycle of life. Immortals, however, didn’t have the alleged “luxury” of this mortal wheel. They are exempt from experiencing the eventual nonexistence of what had once been an occupied space in time. What had been a moving piece in the grandiose scheme of things had become dirty and dusty, gradually resulting in an irreparable cog in the machine.
“Vri, if you can hear me, I apologise for my lack of awareness of your existence. I have met Pier and Pre, and they have blessed me with a wondrous ability. I now would like to introduce myself to you, for you have already made an impact in my life… simply from rumour,” he added last minute.
Kotton sat at the table, fingers interlaced, his elbows gently resting against the hard wooden surface. He was inseparably engaged with the empty plate in front of him, as though he were envisioning the immortal sitting right there in front of him, their hands gingerly extending toward the silverware.
Kotton expended a sign of complacency even if his imaginative thinking was merely wishful. He looked down at his empty plate- oh how clean it was! It was devoid of any stains, sauces, or disturbed remnants of disliked food. He straightened his posture and leant forward to grab the ladle associated with the mashed potatoes. He didn’t hold back on yielding a mountain of spuds onto his plate. He did the very same with the green beans. He also partook in a generous helping of the salad to his left.
After he had made his plate, he casually glanced down at his cat, Imogen. He offered her a spoonful of gravy to which she licked graciously. Kotton gave her a solemn smile before returning to his own meal. He began to dig in, feeling a mixture of emotions building up in his body. He was lonely. He was bored of feeling this intense loneliness and he was incredibly frustrated with himself and his inability at satiating those adverse emotions. He wanted them gone. Once and for all.
He pounded a fist on the table before peering through his bangs at the still vacant seat across him. He suddenly no longer felt the pangs of hunger.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he declared to no one in particular before scraping his chair back against the linoleum floor. He hated when his brain did this. It was always making a move against him, like it was his enemy. His jaw slackened from tense gritting. The edges of his mouth reflected his melancholy, sending themselves straight towards the floor. What had begun as a peaceful, celebratory night had turned into a sombre reminiscence of a piece of him he wished would just… disappear.
But was this an inconvenient coincidence? Vri was the immortal who represented sadness and remembrance, after all. Although, he wasn’t feeling a lot of the aforementioned love at the moment. Just a whole bunch of hate. Did he allow himself to be so vulnerable as to invite a sense of forlorning into his night? He shook his head, before reaching above so as to place his palm against the hallway wall in order to stabilise himself in case he were to fall.
Certain situations and events had an uncanny way of unearthing their despondent, hidden desires. Had the setting of the table provoked some residual pain, some deeply buried and supposedly long forgotten need that had never come true? Did the hypothetical conversation with an immortal he could not see spark some latent sense of belonging that had yet to be fulfilled?
His head began to throb as his mind and soul quickly became one, so as to sing truths worthy of deliberation. He honestly didn’t want to think tonight. He just wanted to stuff his mouth of comfort food and recognise a tradition that had the potential to inspire new curiosities. But instead, his thoughts trudged straight into hostile territory.
In order to calm and distract himself, he spoke aloud, “I understand you.” He was trying so hard to salvage that last glimmering piece of happiness before it was permanently snuffed out. “I understand more than you know about despair, love and recollection.”
He thumbed his temples, trying to massage out the knots that pulsed sparks of pain across his forehead. “I just don’t understand why. Why do I have to be subjected to these feelings? Is there some greater plan that I’m unaware of?”
Kotton’s eyes drooped; he felt utterly exhausted. His pessimism had quickly taken centre stage, the spotlight illuminating every corner and crevice of cynicism he had to offer. Yet, a feeble fluorescence illuminated his path. Down the hall. To the right. Toward his bedroom. Sleep had been the only impartial, genuine and nonjudgmental activity for him during the last few days. He made one last glance over his shoulder before calling it a night.
“Thank you for your company," he murmured with great despondence.