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Tartah followed Restys through the windowway, not quite apprehensive, but each step felt heavy nonetheless. Every part of Tartah, down to his bones, felt as if it was vibrating — from anger, from anxiety, from a disrupted equilibrium Coco would have balanced had she just followed.
They had traveled to a small clearing in an eerily still wooded area. Coustas laid limp in Restys's arms, and Tartah could only breathe again once they released their long-clawed grip on him. They placed him down against the thick brushes, then turned to Tartah, who lingered to their side with his posture stiff and alert. They smiled at him knowingly; a little mockingly. Tartah scowled and averted his eyes.
He heard a chuckle and then the sound of feet retreating. Tartah looked behind him to see Restys bent down to Ininia's level, speaking low and indistinctly, before making their way into the forest.
Ininia had been carefully cool, almost meek at times, in Restys's presence, but with their departure Tartah could see some sourness leak through.
Part of Tartah wanted to surge forward, grab for Ininia, and pursue his goal already — demand answers about the Brimmed Caps' plans. But he was tired and, though Restys's absence could be a convenient opening, Ininia by herself was far too guarded right now for him to make a proper move.
Tartah looked away from her and tried to shake her out of his mind. His unsteady legs ached. He gave way to their call, sinking to the ground beside Coustas. Tartah scooched just close enough so that their shoulders touched and Coustas had some anchor. Through the patchy grass, pebble-littered dirt dug into him. It probably wasn't worth it trying to get any bit comfortable here.
He sighed. All he could do now, if he was not to make a move on Ininia or Restys yet, was watch over Coustas. In his sleep, his face was slightly screwed up, as if he was in distress. His newly whitened hair fell loosely in front of his shut eyes, obscuring some of the pained expression.
For some time, Tartah kept his eyes trained on Coustas, watching every minute twitch of his face. Not too long ago, he had accepted, albeit with horror, that Coustas was gone — the silverwood had taken proper root inside of him and spread voraciously, consuming its host whole. But there he was, flesh and bone and breathing once again. Of course Tartah was relieved, but suffering from whiplash nonetheless. And, even with the recession of Coustas's roots, there remained the truth of the silverwood trees haunting Tartah's mind.
He saw the grand silverwood cutting through the middle of the Starry Sword behind his eyes each time he blinked. It was nauseating now, thinking back on the harvesting of the woodcruor he and his grandpa had done many times before — the tree's blood. A human's blood. Lining the shelves surrounding him his entire life.
(Grandpa couldn't have known. Most witches didn't. So, of course he didn't. Tartah hoped he didn't.)
In turn, the more he thought about the woodcruor and conjuring ink, the more his arm burned. The metal cuff forced on him that left the casting seal behind had been uncomfortable as it was, and removing it strangely brought no relief. It had helped him extract the truth from Coco, and the sight of it did not plunge him too deep into uneasiness, but it still inexplicability felt like fire was dancing under his skin.
It was no matter. Tartah had made his decision. He would live with this; he had to. At this point, he was distrustful of everyone around him. This would remedy that. It was big and a little ugly, something he was aggressively taught was evil, but it would help him. He could figure out what the Brimmed Caps were planning. He could shine a bright light on the hypocrisies of the Pointed Caps. Coco would soon see he was right and stand by him again. Then, together, they could find a way to save Coustas.
The finer details were yet to be planned out, but Tartah was confident. His restlessness, the relentless burning in him, the race of his pulse — he was raring to go, really. Prepared to do what only he could do.
"You're still wearing that," a voice suddenly broke through his thoughts. It was Ininia from where she was perched a short distance away on a small boulder, voice and face flat and under control once again. Though unspecific, Tartah could follow her downward gaze to the pointed cap on his head. He bristled at the sudden realization; thanks to her, no less. He had not even thought about it until now — being a part of witch society, it quickly became second nature to wear it out in public.
But this wasn't quite witch society, was it.
Their pointed caps were an indicator of their place in witch society, and on a less broad level could be an indicator of who they studied under. For Tartah, it was not quite the latter, in the traditional sense. His grandpa taught him all he knew about his craft, but not magic. They were not true master and apprentice — regardless, he bestowed upon him a matching cap to his own. Practically speaking, it was a necessity for him to get around Kahln, but Tartah chose to in part view it as a symbol of somewhere he belonged.
Somewhere he didn't feel as if he received a death sentence. Though he did not feel the same now, shortly after he reached apprentice age, Tartah had relented to the belief that he could never become a witch; his silverwash would never allow him to do it. Grandpa did not argue with him, but he didn't subject him to those same pitying looks everyone else did, nor did he let Tartah sit in his gloom. He told Tartah there was still life to be lived, he could do great things without casting spells — that, well, look around you lad, I'm a magic stationer! And with those spectactular wands you've already carved…
Tartah reached up to rhythmically drag his fingers against the tough fabric of the cap, traveling down until he was fidgeting with the band. It was Grandpa's. It represented lies and oppression. It was Grandpa's.
He tore his hand away and grit his teeth. "What's it to you?" Tartah asked, annoyance bared.
"You're not one of them anymore," Ininia said. "They would never take you back. Not with that tattoo."
The burning sparked. Tartah's eyes flickered down to his arm briefly, then he returned his glare to Ininia. "I'm not wearing a brim," he snapped. "I don't trust you. What you have done to Coustas…"
"What we have done to Coustas," Ininia mocked under her breath, barely audible but clearly full of fire. Her porcelain face was cracking. She was so easy to enrage, it was curious why she even kept trying to hide it. Louder, she said, "Do you hear yourself? His suffering wouldn't have ever happened if not for your lot."
Tartah resented being lumped in with them. Tartah wore their cap.
Jumping down from her perch, she stood defensively with her feet planted apart on the ground and fists clenched at her side. Ininia was not imposing to him — she was thin and doll-like, not taller than himself, and it was nothing her explosive anger could override. Her magic could easily outclass Tartah's limited defenses, yet he felt little fear looking at her. Dislike, mostly.
"Your sentimentality is pathetic," Ininia spat. "You should hate Coustas, you should hate Coco, you should hate everyone you left behind. You're a coward who can't commit to letting go of anything. Honestly, I'm surprised you followed after us in the first place…" She trailed off faux thoughtfully. "Though, your only other option was Adanlee. Guess you had no choice. Nothing new."
Again, Tartah wanted to lunge at her. He could feel her branches squeezing around his windpipe just contemplating it, but it would be nothing if it meant the discomfort he could cause her: forcing her to admit her own shallow foolishness. However, before Tartah could move, he felt Coustas stir at his side. Unconsciously, he pressed his weight closer to Tartah's, with his head bobbing in the air in a way that undoubtedly strained his neck.
Ininia noticed him freeze and harrumphed. She spun on her heel to leave, making it so that Tartah could only see her side profile. "I didn't think we could convince you to don a brim yet"—Tartah's face wrinkled at the last word—"but consider taking that off. You look stupid."
"It was given to me by my grandpa." The explanation crawled out of his throat unwillingly — the seal on his arm at work. He grimaced and swallowed down the nausea the force left him with.
Her head whipped around to look at him straight-on again, eyes dark. The crooked line of her mouth twitched as if she was about to say something, but ultimately, she stayed silent. Ininia delivered only the harsh glare before near stomping away, disappearing from his view.
Carefully, Tartah shifted, bringing his knees up and close to his chest. He leaned forward and crossed his arms to rest them atop his knees. Coustas still did not wake; instead, his hanging head tilted to rest against his shoulder now. His previously pained face had finally fallen into a calm.
The sky was growing dark, and with it, the air grew cooler too. Despite his and Coustas's proximity, it wasn't nearly warm enough to soothe his shivering. It was a little strange — it wasn't all that cold, really, yet Tartah's teeth chattered and whole body trembled.
He couldn't bear to close his eyes, not here and now, but his stare soon grew vacant and blurry. The unclear image in front of him morphed into something more distinct — a bygone memory. His grandpa. Grandpa sat close to him, hands over his own, guiding them into position around his tools. He let go once Tartah got grip of it, but remained right there with him, watching with glowing eyes and a proud smile. The sun beat in pleasantly through the workshop windows, bathing them in warmth, though it was secondary to the heat lit inside of him by Grandpa's encouragement. In the background, the silverwood loomed.
A gust of wind promptly took him out of the memory. It may have been right to do so. Maybe he really couldn't ever return.
A cold, feverish sweat began to consume Tartah. He pressed his face further into his arms and still did not dare sleep.