❛ Ah… Ah-h-h-h-h…? AH!! ❜ Every uttered noise was punctuated with confused, wild gestures of his hands. He wanted a clip of hair, the littlest braid. Even a snip from the ends would have sufficed. But she lopped off the entire braid with as much pity as a headsman had to attached necks. Cúchulainn raked his calloused fingers where her mahogany hair had once been on her head and then stared down at what she happily – HAPPILY? – handed him. Snatching the massive braid and short blade, he held it up like a noose. ❛ Morrígan’s great arse, why’d you do that? What–what am I to do with this? Make me a wig? ❜
He grabbed all his hair in the back, nowhere near as impressive, and struck the entire hair-tail off too and thrust his black tresses shining cobalt at her with the gold hair piece, too. ( Fair is fair and he sported this look in his boyhood. )
❛ ––– HERE. Take it and not another word, what ever–no protest.
Really… the whole damn thing. ❜ After shoving it firmly in her hands, Cúchulainn wrapped her braid like a scarf ‘round his neck and sighed, sorry for the waste.
To his medley of protesting cries, she has not a reply aside from the insistent offering of her chopped braid — going so far as to shake it a few times. She saw no problem with the trade as proposed; there was no shorn pride in the action, all pride had long since been ripped from her breast, leaving behind naught but a vacuous silence unbroken and unsullied by sentiment of any variety ( did she even feel? ) — seizing even words from her tongue and choking her of a truer means for existence than Death. So what was the cutting of her braids to her more than a symbolic shearing of whatever left she had to claim as valuable about herself? ( As if she were more human than a sheep in the first place; she had no right to that. )
But this Vagrant had not anticipated him doing just the same as she.
If there there were a sound it would have been thunderous and strangled, the depths of her despair communicated through dint of slack-of-jaw, widened eyne ( typically bearing nothing less than inscrutable indifference ), flashing teeth and fumbling hands that quake as she receives the tail of hair which, heretofore, had been attached to his head. The gold piece flashes at her — an accusation. No protest? Aye, she durst not protest verbally; but such does not slow the sudden, firm hold of his head ( fingers slinking into his hair nigh apologetically despite the gruffness ), jerking it downwards and — rather feebly, pitifully, even — attempting to re-attach the beautiful length of hair he had just cut from his head. Pushing the golden hair-piece and the pony-tail against the back of his neck a few times, and still a few times more.
❛ HOW COULD YOU?! ❜ she seems to say, oblivious to the fact that she had done something similar, her bob cut fraying upwards and mocking the ruffled feathers of a distressed bird.
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