Chapter Text
Tartah awoke to a dancing light above him: it bounced like a cotton ball gusted past an open window sill moments before grand-dad shouted, “Oh! Where’d I put it now?”
On instinct, Tartah raised in hand to grasp it, but it dipped from the spaces between his fingers, the fuzzy light brightening as if it were an amused fairy, some trick of the light— He sat up abruptly, breath catching in his throat though he managed to utter out a call, “C– Coco?”
The light dissipated in front of him and he felt a feather brush the back of his neck like the sly tongue of a lounging liongoat, alert yet at ease. Startled, he glanced up to find Coustas leaning from the tree branch he sat upon, smiling down with his light, silver eyes closed.
“What?” He said, amusement lingering in his tune. “Is Coco the only one who can have a little fun with magic?”
Tartah’s lips pressed together, his shoulders falling a hair as he realized the situation. Sitting up fully, he drew his knees up, resting his forearms on either cap. “... Sorry. I must have had a strange dream. Have you been awake long?”
Coustas rarely slept for as long as he ought to. Ever since the events of Silver Eve, he’s developed a dark stain under his eyes from the restless nights he’d spend either tossing and turning, drawing and experimenting, or waking in a fit of screams. To see him smiling was both a gift and a curse: Tartah didn’t know what there was worth smiling about, not when Dagda was still fresh on his mind, his corpse enacting as the antidote to the silverwood overtaking him. But then again, Coustas smiling at all couldn’t be viewed as a bad thing. In fact, Tartah was starting to miss it dearly.
“... Yes. I was trying something new.” Coustas climbed down, his awful branch tendrils creaking like a rotted tree rocked by a storm, and he settled on the ground beside Tartah before revealing a handful of seals without the circle completely connected. He laid them out, spreading them across the dirt with his trembling fingers: it was another sign of his lack of rest. Or maybe his newfound tremors were a result from Silver Eve as well. “That light spell– I saw one where it looked almost like a bunnat with a little face and everything! I thought I could do that too with a bit of work…”
Tartah spared him a tired smile. At least it was a change of pace: it was far from any reversal spells or necromancy Coustas mentioned in the past weeks since Dagda’s death. Even with his own life being the ultimate price, he wanted to stop at nothing to bring back the man who he knew as his father. Tartah couldn’t blame him: he too would take cumbersome burdens or set his own life to the side if it meant the ones he loved would be alright.
Slowly, he tucked his chin down against his shoulder and scooted his knees in closer. The ones he loved… where were they? What were they doing? Didn’t they know this was wrong? How can they turn a blind eye to magic that can help everyone– why would they still insist some people should deserve less, be less than others? Why– He closed his eyes tightly to block off the onslaught. No. That’s not how he has to think. There’s never just black and white even if that’s how his world is painted in his condition: Coco knows that siding with the brim hats… she believes in what he’s doing to an extent. He’ll figure out the details of that later.
“It’s a good start to the spell, I think,” Tartah offered weakly though his heart wasn’t in it. Based on the narrowing of Coustas’ once friendly, excitable eyes, he detected the shift. With a quiet scoff, Coustas leaned back, his hands around his ankles as he lamented with a snide tone, “Oh, I’m sorry, I guess Coco is the only one who can do fun magic, is that right? I must have forgotten— Let me just stick with counterclock because that’s done me so, so well!”
Tartah shook his head, offering a placating wave, but it did little to stop Coustas. Beyond the nightmares and obsessing over the events of Silver Eve, how to fix it and how to live with himself, another unfortunate trait Coustas managed to pick up was a deep-rooted insecurity of himself. It only really came out when they were alone: Coustas rarely spoke much when Ininia was around– or, a better way of saying it was that he spoke and behaved differently. Tartah couldn’t piece it together, there were too many fragments of Coustas’ trust to scramble and collect all of them, but if there was anyone in the Brimmed Caps he wanted to believe in more than anyone, Tartah selfishly would assume it was him given his behaviors, however more childish than usual they may present, giving him the impression of a scared kid clinging to coattails to not be dragged in the mud again. Tartah wasn’t as powerful as Coustas was currently. He didn’t know what he deserved to be selected as a lifeboat to him after his perceived betrayal.
“Why do you care about what Coco is doing or where she’s at? If she doesn’t side with us, she’s against us. I’m right here.” Coustas knows better than to actually believe all that. Tartah can see the conflict in his silvery eyes as clear as a sunny day, but Coustas won’t admit to not being right easily, nor will he give grace in his current state. “Do you have a crush on her?”
Tartah’s eyes widened considerably, his face warming as lips flew a mile a minute to defend himself. “What? Do you hear yourself? Of– No, I don’t. She’s our friend.”
Coustas scrutinized him, his nose scrunching as if determining an unpleasant spell before he announced with a jabbing finger in Tartah’s direction. “Don’t lie to me; you do.” Then, smirking while looking down his nose at Tartah, he mused, “I bet you haven’t even said anything too. Haven’t even kissed yet and you act like she could part the sea for you. Hopeless!”
Tartah’s blush thickened as he batted Coustas’ accusing finger from his face. He buried his nose deeper into his knee, grumbling with a sigh, “It’s not like that, really. Anyone would be nervous around her.”
“I’m not,” Coustas claimed and Tartah begrudgingly had to agree that Coustas didn’t seem nervous at all around girls. All Qifrey’s apprentices were pretty! Tartah’s not blind, and it’s not like he spends time with people his age often… but the morality arguments, good and bad, are enough to sour any budding romance from a convicted boy. “Coco doesn’t make me nervous because I know if we kissed, she’d like it.”
Tartah threw him a look. “Like you’ve kissed anyone before. What gives you that impression?”
“Because I have kissed someone before.” Tartah’s head whipped up, blinking up incredulously at the boy beside him as Coustas mused, “Probably a dozen people, I think.”
He looked too smug to be lying, but Tartah still floundered. “What? You are hardly much older than I am! How have you kissed anyone?”
“People have wanted to kiss me,” Coustas replied with a chirp of satisfaction at Tartah’s dropped jaw. He kicked his wooden legs like a cat would bat its tail in play. “And more. I’ve got lots and lots of experience. Coco would want someone who knows what they are doing~”
Tartah groaned into his hands while Coustas laughed openly at him, delighted by every ounce of visible embarrassment he managed to wring out of him. When he managed to calm his racing heart and the cotton building in his throat, Tartah accused through a weak voice, “You’re lying. There’s no way twelve people have kissed you.”
“At least twelve,” Coustas corrected, tapping his finger on his chin. “Probably more now that I think about it.”
Excusing himself wordlessly, Tartah stood and began to head for the nearby creek they set up their tiny makeshift camp beside. No one else was there, so he stooped down and splashed cold water on his face, hoping that’d be enough to remove some of the heat. However, despite his efforts, he could hear Coustas scramble from his relaxed perch, tripping over his own legs in his haste to tail behind, laughing bright enough that it seemed to summon the light through the tree leaves dancing with the wind.
“Coco probably likes more confident people.”
Tartah refused to rise to the bait. He gave a noncommittal hum as he washed his hands. “Good for Coco.”
“And people who kiss really well; in fact, I think anyone who wanted to kiss you would be unimpressed with you as you are now…” Coustas continued, and skies above— Tartah was almost relieved Coustas was behaving like his old self, but why did his old self always have to tease Tartah like this? He never acted this way with Coco, yet here he was, fantasizing about kissing her at Tartah’s expense, even if he didn’t care to do such a thing with her, at least not in the near future. Especially since she went back to Qifrey. Coustas bumped his shoulder as Tartah rose, brushing the dust from his knees, then hummed casually, “If you are so insecure about not having kissed anyone, I could kiss you.”
Tartah stumbled, one foot inches from dropping into the water. If his face was cooled a second ago, it was blazing hot now– stronger than before. “D– You can’t just offer things like that!”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Coustas argued, but just as he was about to spew out some ridiculous notation, Tartah pressed his feet together and connected his sylph shoes. With a burst of energy, he darted into the sky, hiding his reddening face with his sleeve as he worked to create some distance from both the conversation and Coustas. His luck was not the best as Coustas gasped, appalled, then spread his flight cloak to follow after.
Tartah didn’t know where it came from, but Coustas reminded him of a vultugle in the air. He flew with purpose and determination as thick as anger, like a bird of prey hunting him down and trying to pluck him from the sky, purposefully gusting wind at him or scraping Tartah’s arm with his fingers as if hinting a take down where talons would burrow into his skin and pin him to the ground, tendrils building a wooden cage around him— but Coustas was only playing. Tartah knew that from his breathless giggles as he swooped around in the air, thoughts of kissing Tartah far from his mind. And so was Dagda. Tartah’s lips pressed into a frown.
When Tartah grew too tired of playing keep-away with his own body, he settled on the ground once more, disconnecting his shoes once it was safe. Coustas continued to circle overhead as Tartah shielding his eyes, staring up into the sky where his friend glided carelessly until something caught Coustas’ attention and suddenly he shot down, his landing only made due to his legs instinctively bracing his fall. In the second Tartah was trying to gather a question as to what happened, Coustas shoved past him.
“Ininia!” Coustas greeted. Tartah turned, coiling back as he now noticed the poised brimmed hat witch approaching them, steps mute in comparison to the grand outside. She held her staff close, bundled in the mess of her billowy sleeves as she came to a stop before them, her long ribbons grazing past them as they were carried in the breeze like a cocoon.
Her light gaze slid to Coustas before roaming back to Tartah’s. Then, after effectively ignoring Coustas with more efficiency and cruelty than Tartah could muster even on his worst days, said, “I will be leaving to meet with my master. Stay out of sight of wanderers, and remain here until I come back.”
“Would you like me to practice any particular spell while you are gone?” Coustas interrupted, his shining eyes wide as he awaited instruction. It dug into a deep upset within Tartah when he acted like this. Does he not realize how shady she is? How they aren’t all good people, let alone decent ones?
“Do as you like,” Ininia muttered with a sigh before excusing herself, her message delivered. Tartah watched as she began to make her way through the pasture, then was jarred out of his thoughts when Coustas grabbed his arm. He glanced up to see his silver-haired friend already smiling down at him instead, but his focused eyes quickly set upon the strain at the corner of Coustas’ smile.
“Come on, we should eat first, don’t you think?” Coustas asked– given he was already tugging Tartah in the opposite direction as his master and would not relent in his firm grip. Tartah was still pondering the interaction when Coustas thrust half a mountain apple into his hand much later after locating some together on a hillside. It was as Coustas was chattering about finding a spell to turn fruit into meat that Tartah interrupted, “Do you… like Ininia? Like… do you have a crush on her?”
Coustas had juices dribbling down his chin, mouth opened as he chewed, but he swallowed the half grinded down food immediately to spit out, “Absolutely not. No.”
Tartah frowned, his brow furrowing. “That’s… good. She doesn’t seem too kindly, but you always push me to the side when she’s trying to talk.” A little smirk made its way to his lips as he leaned forward, slyly glancing up through his lashes. “Like someone who is a bit jealous.”
“Sure,” Coustas said, rolling his eyes as he took another bite of his half of the apple. “It’s hard to like the woman who put a tree inside of you.”
Tartah fell silent, but Coustas kept eating as though he said nothing at all. After a long moment, Tartah turned his untouched fruit over in his hand. The silence must have proven to be too much for his companion as after a few seconds longer of Coustas having finished his treat, he said, “She’s also the only one willing to actually help me with magic. If implanting silverwood in me was the only option, fine, but as long as she finds a solution…”
He did still put faith in her. After everything she has done. Tartah let his hand droop to his lap, but Coustas urged it up. “Eat.”
Coustas went back to drawing soon after that. His smile from earlier, the small delight in his light orb was diminished to a cold, blank expression as he tried to work on seals Tartah couldn’t understand the majority of. Hints were laden within, but the actual creation it’d manifest was anyone’s guess. Some looked like more adjustments to counterclock and Tartah knew his friend wouldn’t be back for a while.
Left to his own devices, he sat around, pondering if he too should begin scribbling, but he had hardly the training Coustas had. Ininia taught him quite a bit, but she held only disdain for him since Tartah arrived, and since Coustas wouldn’t let Tartah and her converse without butting in incessantly, Tartah didn’t have a clue as to what resulted in their awkward relationship.
As the sun gained leverage over the rest of the sky, Tartah fetched his knife and some drift wood. It wasn’t long before Coustas glanced over, momentarily pulled from his fixation. “What-cha doing?”
“Widdling,” Tartah replied. He made his first stroke going with the wood grain. “Even if I don’t have to produce anything for the shop now, it keeps my skills sharp. Maintains some normalcy before whatever comes next. I guess it’s soothing.”
Coustas’ pen stilled along his palm quire, eyes following the swipe of the blade. He turned back to his work, waving his wand over the page before stilling again. His shoulder drooped a fraction. “Did you make wands before?”
“Plenty. It was my specialty.” Tartah raised the wood in his hand. “This is just for myself though. I can’t make a wand without the proper material.”
Coustas huffed. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”
Tartah paused his knife before finishing swiping it across a layer of grain. He eyed the truth seal on his forearm, exposed from his stationers cloak. That's not enough, is it? “... I’m not lying. I cant. Wands need to be carved from a specific wood. They also need a special ink: Normal ink won’t work for our seals.”
He guided the knife cleanly along the driftwood in his hands, peeling away another pale curl and letting it flutter to the ground. Coustas’ eyes drifted toward the movement despite himself then darted back to his page. Tartah paid him no mind, bowing his head to watch his work, but he kept noticing Coustas picking up his head, feeling his stare on his neck.
Finally, Tartah mumbled, “You can come look if you want. I don’t mind.”
“I’m not interested,” Coustas shot back. Tartah raised his eyebrows, but didn’t bother further. After another moment of pretending not to care, Coustas finally scooted closer, his wooden legs dragging through the grass until he could peer over Tartah’s shoulder properly. The scent of apples and sun-warmed fabric followed him as he leaned in, eyes tracing the blade’s path through the wood.
His breath tickled Tartah’s ear. “…What’s it supposed to be then?”
“I don’t know yet.” Tartah rotated the piece in his hand thoughtfully, checking it in the sun for its natural spots and blemishes. “Sometimes you just start to carve first and figure it out later.”
“That sounds backwards.” Like you ever think too much through. Coustas rested his chin on Tartah’s shoulder, staring openly now. From the corner of his vision, Tartah could see that same exhaustion in his eyes that had become more commonplace over the weeks. Another ribbon of wood fell away. “... You like making things?”
Tartah nodded. “I think I do. Granddad appreciated my work, and others liked it too. It’s easier to bring yourself to do things when you know it makes others smile, I guess.” He glanced sideways toward him. “What about you? What do you like doing?”
Coustas shrugged as if his body was simply too heavy. “I don’t know”
Tartah laughed quietly beneath his breath. “Weren’t you a wandering minstrel?”
“Back then.” The wording caught oddly in Tartah’s chest. Back then. Like that occupation, that life belonged to another person entirely.
“Oh.” Tartah hesitated before trying again. “Did you like playing music then? I wish I knew how to play something. I might be good with my hands, but instruments–”
Coustas’ expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t make music,” he cut in. “Dagda did.”
Tartah stilled at the mention of his father. As if the air was sucked from the space between them, he became acutely aware of how fragile the conversation topic was, like stepping out onto a frozen lake without realizing it until the ice began to creak underfoot. His knife slowed in his hand.
Dagda was not a good subject to linger on. It’s a surprise Coustas is as calm as he is. He should be lucky to have a chance to divert attention away from the recent death, the one that still clearly haunted him and his dreams. He cleared his throat. “Oh, so you must like dancing then?”
Coustas’ blinked. He tilted his head, his temple pressing against Tartah’s cheek, his silver hair tickling him.
“... Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I did.”
Tartah smiled a little, setting his knife down against his leg to keep it out of their way. “Do you still?”
Coustas barked out a short laugh through his nose, though there was very little humor in it. He stretched one wooden leg stiffly outward, dropping it and allowing the hollowness to bring out from the clash against the caked dirt. “With these? Can’t really dance anymore.”
Tartah glanced down at the unfinished carving in his hands. “…I think you probably still could. It maybe feels different, but–”
“I can’t, so just drop it,” Coustas spat. Tartah fell quiet as Coustas remained laying against his shoulder. After another minute, the boy got to his feet and walked back to his palm quire and wand. He turned so his back faced Tartah, then loomed over his sheets, beginning to work once more. Tartah resumed his whittling with a sigh, keeping his eye on his work even when Coustas eventually adjusted to keep him in his sight as though he feared he’d be taken away by the breeze alone.