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This wasn’t the first time Tartah awoke by a slap to the face, and he assumed with the way things were going that this would continue to be his life with the brims. The pillow collided with his face once more, but he no longer sputtered awake in a panicked flourish.
“Stop doing that!” Custas screamed, pelting him with more bedding. Tartah sighed, wiping the sheets from his face as he sat up– only to get hit smack in the nose with another pillow. “Creep! Gross!”
“It’s my own bed,” Tartah argued, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Why are you suspecting this is me?”
“Because I for sure didn’t move to cuddle up with you!”
This case– Tartah deign it the name The Morning Mystery– had been ongoing for a month now. These are the facts of the case. Sometime in the middle of the night, Custas magically teleports from his bed across the room and ends up in Tartah’s. This typically led to one of two positions one of them, usually Custas given he was actually a piss-poor sleeper. One would be Custas would be clutching him tightly like a teddybear, drooling on the front of his shirt and snoring like an actual bear. The other would be Custas would be snug, curled up close and Tartah’s arms would be around him, tucking his nose into Tartah’s neck. The other facts of the case: the door remained closed, locked or not; Custas’ bedding never appeared with him, but on occasion it’d be on the floor; no one else in the atelier heard or saw anything until the morning where Custas would subsequently rage in protest of their predicament.
The case would be cut and dry for most, and Tartah thought he knew what the cause was— but that changed when he held Custas’ hand after the third instance and asked through a dull, exasperated tone, “Okay, did you or did you not join me in my bed in the middle of the night for whatever reason? Even for something as simple as a nightmare?”
“I didn’t!” Custas hissed. “I don’t even want to share— s— s— shut the fuck up!”
Tartah sighed through his nose as Custas tried to tear away from his hand in a franctic fit and replied, “Well, I can’t lie. I didn’t carry you over here or whatever you are envisioning that happened. I went to bed, same time as you, and I didn’t wake up once. Did you get up at all in the middle of the night?”
“I woke up and got water. That’s it. I went back to my own bed. Mine.” Tartah rolled his eyes and let go of Custas’ hand, staring at the boy sat crisscross in front of him on his tossed around bedding.
“And can we rule out sleepwalking? Have you ever done that in the past? Because that’d explain–”
“Sleepwalking is a myth you are making up to cover for your own weirdness!”
Finally, Tartah threw his hands up in surrender.
“Look, I really don’t care if you sleep in my bed with me,” Tartah admitted much to the disgusted snarl on Custas’ curled lips. “I do mind that you wake me up with violence. If you wake before me, can’t you just get up and not bother me? It’s hardly something to fault me for when you are the one appearing in my space.”
“I care because I hate you.”
Tartah’s heard that enough that it no longer carried the same painful blow as the first dozen times. He supposed waking up some mornings to Custas sleepily nuzzling against cheek, a small smile on his lips, was enough for him to know that even if Custas did hate him, he liked him for comfort at least somewhat. He rarely smiled anymore. He always looked either despondent or upset, though the latter was usually directed at Tartah.
He remembered when they used to study, Custas’ back leaning against his front, a book propped up in his lap as he practiced reading out loud as Tartah rested his chin on his shoulder. Or the time the sun filtered in just right as Custas laid his head on his legs, smiling up as he told Tartah he wanted to take a nap and to ‘wake him when you find something cool for once’.
There were a few mornings Tartah basked in the peacefulness of being snug together again. His hands once untangled black locks, now adjusted to Custas’ constantly tied back white strands. Where Custas once slept with a cute, little smile and little sighs, he now would jitter on occasion or grunt. And as he stared at the ceiling, limiting his movements to not disturb his companion, Custas would sometimes take a deep breath, his nose buried in Tartah’s shirt or neck, then relaxed considerably more than before.
Biting the inside of his cheek, Tartah offered a weak, “I don’t. I like being close with you again. I miss–”
“Yeah, well you should have thought about that prior to all of this, huh?” Custas spat, then climbed off the bed, leaving Tartah to figure it out for the both of them. He sighed as he dropped his head into his hands. Yeah, he’d have to figure this mystery out himself— before Custas decides what the conclusion of this is for them with something not as soft as a pillow.
“How is Ininia supposed to know?” Ininia asked, her sleeve up to her mouth as she chewed her breakfast. Tartah hadn’t thought he’d gain much insight from approaching her. As far as things have progressed between him and Custas, it wasn’t much far behind how his relationship with Ininia was. Or so he thought. He really couldn’t tell with her at times, given her aloof attitude now that Silver Eve transpired and she had yet to receive more guidance from Restys’ beyond what to teach them next. She had an almost laidback approach, but her drooping, watchful eyes made him hesitant to let his guard down. “Maybe a magical earthquake that only affects your shared room.”
Interesting theory, but if someone casted an earthquake spell there, he’d expect them to seek out more damage after realizing the fruit it bore. Perhaps they’d try a stronger spell that would be more in order to enact a better plan.
“Is your room not suitable?” Restys’ asked when they were questioned. Despite Tartah’s desire to find the truth, he didn’t dare grab hold of Ininia. He certainly didn’t with her master, who fretfully brought a hand to their chin, a frown painting that usual gentle smile. “I feared that’d be the case, but we haven’t much space outside of what we can alot… Oh, what is there to do…”
“It’s– It’s alright, we aren’t having problems with the room,” Tartah interfered, hoping to quell Restys’ unease before they went and did something… Well, he didn’t know Restys’ well enough to know what they’d do yet, but he still held some trepidation around the forbidden magic they’d use. All he gathered from Restys’ was that they too had an inclination for healing magic. As much as he might one day like to properly learn under him and develop that style of magic… he recalled Qifrey every time he almost gave in. He remembered how he lied so clearly, how he hurt granddad by erasing his memories… and pulled away.
“You aren’t?” Restys’ asked. “But for a moment, it sounded like your problem could be solved with–”
“Well, the actual problem is just some silly old nightmares most likely!” Tartah discovered early on that deception would be achieved even from honest individuals cursed with a sigil like his. He couldn’t say, “There’s no problem at all” because that’d be categorically false: he got bludgeoned each morning; however, hedging with some interlaced epistemic modalities or selective memory statements that weren’t inherently wrong… Those worked.
“What do you know about Coco’s location?”
“I think she lives away from the grand hall.” This is true, she does live in a separate atelier. However, the ‘I think’ prevents the spell from pushing him to give that bonus information. It gives some hesitation to the statement, but it is a true sentence: he thinks it because he knows it.
It’s the same as the fact he can claim, “It might rain” or “It looks likely that it will rain” when the sky is already dark and brewing. It will rain. Tartah knows this. Everyone with good senses knows this— But Tartah’s statement isn’t wrong, it’s just not that instead of logical conclusions and straight-forward prose, he’s been focusing his words on the judgement of his truth in regards to his probability. The sigil demanded truth— clarity? That was the weak-link preventing him from being utter putty to their hands. The truth could be based entirely on his expectations and loose details then.
And while this seemed complicated, this is how most people naturally speak. Most conversations aren’t stacked with facts and sources, but instead rely on assumptions and predictions, and Tartah noticed every one since he began deliberately choosing his words and never volunteering comparisons or hitting too close to something that could be taken as bonafide truth, like medicine written in a book.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I feel a lot better than usual.” Better than what usual? Crying? Beating myself up over how Coco looked at me? Missing my grandpa? I slept through the night, I ate a large breakfast, so what’s to say that isn’t going quite alright?
“Did you touch the book that was right here? I can’t find it.”
“It could have been misplaced.” By who? Himself, that’s who.
But however much this helped him— it could not solve this mystery. As they settled in for bed, Custas sneered from over his blankets. “Are you going to be weird again?”
“No.”
“Good because I don’t want anything to do with you at all. Stay on your own side of the room.”
“Okay.”
“.... Shut up.” Custas rolled over, yanking his blanket higher over one shoulder and muttering something Tartah couldn't make out, and, within minutes, his breathing began to deepen into the uneven rhythm of someone steadily drifting toward sleep. Then he began to snore. Whatever irritation had fueled the exchange seemed to burn itself out as quickly as it had flared. Tartah really didn’t expect anything different. He remained where he was, lying on his back with his hands folded on his stomach.
"...Goodnight," he whispered, but received no response beyond Custas ruffling his blankets as he tossed and turned like usual. The room grew still after a long while, but Tartah didn’t curl up as usual, snuggling until his body heat invaded the blankets and crafted a warm cocoon for himself. Instead, he watched the moonlight shine through the window, painting faint stripes across the rickety floorboards and the opposing wall's towering wardrobe that contained their supplies. He took a deep breath as he adjusted to the darkness.
Well.
If anyone was going to figure out why Custas kept waking in the wrong bed, it was apparently going to have to be him, since the boy certainly wasn't climbing into it willingly. Custas spoke with certain statements, he did Not come into Tartah’s bed. He didn’t ‘think’ or ‘believe he didn’t’. Sighing through his nose, Tartah resolved himself for a sleepless night to discover the truth.
After a moment, he pushed himself up and rested his back against his headboard. To pass the time, he picked his scarred hands and counted the knots in the wood beams on the ceilings. He quietly tapped his feet on the mattress to a tune he made up, then settled back into a nicer slouch to avoid his back from cramping. Occasionally Custas shifted in his sleep, making his little noises before settling again. Twice Tartah caught himself smiling despite the evening's sharp words. He wondered if Custas, when he woke up throughout the night, would notice him lying awake.
With that thought, he brought his pillow up to prop his chin on. His eyes grew heavy. His head dipped, chin digging into the warm, fluffy squish of the feathers inside the–
He jerked awake.
No.
He rubbed at his face with his hands, pulling at his eyelids to try and refresh them without letting them stay closed for long. He renewed his efforts: he counted backward from one hundred, chewed his nails for a moment until that proved too troublesome, drew some spells in the air with his finger—
His chin lowered again.
He shook his head. No. He needs to stay awake. He had a long day, it’s understandable to be exhausted, but he has a mission to accomplish, and that means—
creak
His breath caught, knees drawing up and close to his body. Nothing followed the sudden noise. He waited, then slowly exhaled. He’s tired. He’s feeling really sleepy and misheard what must have been the atelier settling: old timber did that! He wasn’t a fool! He’s heard it all the time back at the Starry Sword, but today he just happens to be more anxious. That’s fine, really, he should–
creeeeaaak
Okay, what the hell? He for sure heard it that time, and it was something in the room! Fearfully, Tartah drew up his blanket and searched the dim room, but their door was closed. It was locked, actually: he made sure to do that before getting into his bed as Custas hung up his cloak and hat. Maybe Restys’ was checking in on them, realized the door was stuck, and was about to go to bed? But then why did it–
crackle
crackle
crackle
Tartah gasped as he whipped his head to the side, eyes wide as he examined Custas’ bed. A shadow was cast, darker than it was before. With trembling lips, Tartah swung his feet over the side of his bed, then remembered to keep on his side. He licked his lips. “Custas…? Are you okay?”
The dark shadow lifted upright suddenly, and then the room was engulfed in darkness. Tartah’s lips parted in a scream, but he was immediately rushed in the gut, all his breath expelling at once as he was forced by some unseen creature, his back and legs now flat against his bed. He tried to scramble free, but the heavy weight settling over him was too much to fight, and he felt large, monstrous hands find his ankles and force him back prone onto his mattress.
“S-Stop!” Tartah yelped, but a hand clamped over his mouth before he could call for help, for Restys’, for Custas–
And then suddenly there was light again. Tartah panted as the grip on his mouth fell away, and he watched the shadowy thing snake back to hover uselessly in the air. White hair rested on his chest. Trembling, Tartah tried to sit up, but the vine– the branch came back down, forcing him by the throat to lay again. It didn’t choke him, but it caged tightly as though to instill the threat within him.
Don’t move. Go to sleep.
After a few minutes, it retreated. All the shadows retreated… disappearing behind Custas somewhere. Tartah rested his hands on his friend, his panic slowly ebbing away to dread.
The silverwood.
He scarcely dared to breathe as the room settled into quiet again. Moonlight spilled through the window exactly as it had before, bathing Custas’ slightly parted lips and thin line of drool as it typically did. The bedroom door remained shut. No one stirred beyond the frantic pacing of Tartah’s heart, painful against his ribs. It was as though nothing had happened.
Slowly, he lifted his head. Custas was still asleep, as he expected. His arms were draped lazily on either side of Tartah, his legs settled right between his friend’s– the pale silverwood writhed as it climbed his calves, but it didn’t seek out further. Tartah swallowed hard. "...Custas?"
He reached out with an unsteady hand, fingertips brushing the sleeve of Custas' nightshirt. He tried to shake him awake once, still hesitant with the speed of the parasite, but Custas only grunted and dug his face deeper into Tartah’s shirt with unquestioning confidence. His nose poked Tartah’s chest, his deep breaths fanning him through the white fabric as he settled further as though finally content.
A strand of white hair had fallen across Custas' face in his adjustments. Still shaking, Tartah gently brushed it aside. "...You really don't know, do you?"
There was no answer, but the sleepy nuzzle he received no long after was enough for Tartah to bury his face in his hands. Carefully, so as not to wake him, Tartah rested one hand against Custas' back. He was warm, and the feeling of his steady, yet faint pulse was enough for Tartah to focus on for the moment.
He doubted sleep would find him that night.
There was a new problem to think about.