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Kustas wakes to a feeling of confusion. He's lying on a harsh, uncomfortable surface thinly padded by a layer of softness that shifts with his stirring.
There are voices, distant and muffled as if underwater.
"— see he's unwell ——— breathing — mist —"
"— waiting —— my associates —"
"—— Master Re—"
It's a struggle, but his eyes slowly open part way to reveal an intimate view of a forest floor, tilted. He's on his side, right hand outstretched on the leaf-litter as if his unconscious mind was reaching to draw a spell. His head rolls down a little and he notices what he first thought was moss is instead the green fabric of a witch cloak.
Tartah…?
He moves to brush his fingers against the fabric - to be certain it's real - but his hand instead twitches. What is wrong with him? His chest feels crushed and his throat feels shredded raw. Has he been screaming?
Then with a flash of deepest, darkest horror that plunges him into an icy cold, he remembers.
He remembers everything.
He remembers a bird of light and wishes it had been the last thing he ever saw. That he had never been saved and instead Dadga was still-
That Dagda-
That-
Everything is white noise. He can't even think about it. Can't acknowledge it.
The music has stopped. There will be no song, no story, no dance. No joy, no laughter, no love.
This is my fault.
He is nothing. Even so he dared to reach out a hand, as if he could ever be someone who helps, and the immutable laws of the heavens punished his defiance by tearing off his wings. Reached into his chest and ripped out the hopeful core of him. Forced him back into his place. Returned to a crawling, bleeding thing.
He stares at his hand limply outstretched on the ground, and wonders how his heart is still beating when he no longer has one. Everything inside has gone cold and smothered. His fire of righteous rage thoroughly doused into ashes and dissolved into tainted water.
He can feel it inside him, that cloying black ink. It's beneath his skin, staining his veins. He will never be clean of it again.
Dagda, why?!
Of the two of them, Dagda should be saved. He has already escaped the Muckpool once. There is no one cleverer, braver, kinder. He is a hero from a Ballad of yore with sword and lute in hand. Steady in both heart and tongue. A man who reaches out and lifts others from the mud and never turns his back on those in need.
Dully, he thinks he can see it now; the shape of their story as penned by the cruel and omnipotent poets of heaven. Dagda will always try to save Kustas - no matter the cost, because that is the golden goodness at his heart - but Kustas can never save nor be saved.
Because Kustas is cursed. Is a curse.
He is fated to never be loved.
And for once, there is no comfort in believing this truth to be ordained by the heavens. No matter how tangible, Kustas will not fight this, will never seek to break his chains of fate. He has already tried and is being punished for his hubris. He reached out, determined to help, to re-write, and because of him he's lost Dag-
Lost Da-
He lost.
Dagda is gone.
The agony is so sudden and deep in the midst of the numbness that he cries out low, like a wounded animal. The distant murmur of voices stops and through the haze he registers a trio of shapes approaching.
He twists, arms straining as he barely manages to lift his head from the ground - he's so sickeningly weak - and collapses again. What happened to Dagda's body? Who will sing his songs at his final rest? Kustas's eyes burn. They're barely open, his vision blurry with tears - but even then he recognises the shade of soft moss green before him. The auburn of a gentle fire. Tartah is here.
"Kustas! Can you hear me? Are you hurt?"
He feels Tartah's fingers brush his hair from his face and a gentle hand on his back.
But the touch brings no comfort. This time Kustas has learnt the lessons of the Muckpool. The grief of it has burrowed into his flesh and soul with a thousand thousand permanent roots; Kustas must never be loved. He is only a source of destruction.
So he forces himself to break contact by clumsily rolling over to face away from Tartah.
Never again.