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The first time he bit was quickly forgotten, what with everything that came after.
The second time he bit, he was surrounded by paper and leather and lantern light, sat upon the polished wooden surface that held the whole mess up. The acrid smell of ink overwhelmed his antennae, and the scratching of a quill feather drowned out the absent mutterings of the King.
He had been brought to this…room some time ago, and yet the King had not demanded his song. In fact, the giant figure almost seemed to have forgotten Purple was there.
He had worked up the nerve to look away from the giant, and was just deciding whether he dared to try and move, perhaps get up and walk around to explore the surface (he wouldn’t leave the King’s peripheral, he wasn’t prepared to chance his anger at thinking Purple had disappeared on purpose), when suddenly something made contact with his head.
Something moving, something alive.
He didn’t think; he didn’t have to, it was instinct. He turned, and his needle-like teeth pierced into the threat.
He didn’t even see what he’d bitten until his jaw released, and only then did he register the hiss as the King drew his hand away, shaking it out and glaring at Purple with- oh no-
He’d barely fled two steps before the King’s hand was upon him again, this time pressing him into the wooden surface.
In the claustrophobic darkness, in the looming pressure, the reprimanding voice of the King rumbled, underscored with a tempered sort of rage. Purple didn’t understand his words, but his message was clear: he had messed up.
Purple trembled.
Then, wondrously, the hand lifted, ever so slightly. It still prevented him from standing, but now he had room to raise his shell, his wings giving a pitiful shriek.
For a moment, nothing, just the reflecting enchantment.
And then the hand lifted completely.
Purple was allowed to right himself, sitting up and shaking out his wings and combing his antennae.
He wasn’t made to turn and face the King. It was alright. He didn’t have the courage to do it himself.
The next time the giant hand reached out to stroke his head, he held still as a statue.
The third time he bit, the blue witch had been trying to coax him out of his hiding place. Some hiding place, if they knew he was there, but maybe they weren’t tall enough, or their hand wouldn’t fit. He’d snarled, turning up his nose (or, well, retracting his antennae) at the cookie they waved about. He wouldn’t fall for their tricks.
The green bard had entered the room, and began conversing with the blue witch, who gestured in the direction of Purple’s hiding place. So now the bard knew where he was, too. Great.
Purple had only looked away for a second. When he looked back, his field of vision was entirely taken up by a reaching green hand.
It was instinct. He lunged away. He twisted. He felt skin break between his teeth. He heard a sharp cry.
The hand withdrew.
It was only then that he realized what he’d just done.
No. No. What had he done?
He retreated farther into his hiding place, watching as the blue witch examined the green bard’s wound. The bard stuck their finger in their mouth in an attempt to soothe the injury, casting a baleful look in Purple’s direction.
Their eyes met.
Purple hid completely.
He huddled and he shook.
What had he done. He’d been doing well here. He hadn’t been shut in a lantern every time he was left alone. He’d been offered more than just mushrooms to eat. He hadn’t even been forced to sing, while his wing healed. And it was evident by this point that the others weren’t going to simply let the witch cram him into a bottle, or tug his wings from his back.
But now he’d bitten. Worse, he’d bitten the bard, on the finger. The bard needed his fingers, to sing.
Surely no good would come of this.
And so Purple sat and despaired, until a different voice was heard.
Tentatively, he peered out.
The red beastmaster had arrived, and the witch and the bard were nowhere in sight.
Purple let the warm, gentle tone wash over him, shivering slightly as if the sensation were physical.
The beastmaster would understand, wouldn’t they?
Reluctantly, Purple crawled from his hiding place, a picture of contrition.
The beastmaster spotted him immediately, but did not move to pick Purple up. They weren’t even holding the cookie, but rather had left it sitting in front of them.
Cautiously, Purple approached.
The beastmaster did not reach for him as soon as he was within range. Their tone did not dip into admonishment. They did not take the cookie away.
They did call back the witch, while Purple was eating, and while he didn’t like it, he knew the witch wouldn’t dare to try anything with him while the beastmaster was nearby. So he let them prod at his shell with a twig until he lifted his elytra, he let them drip their mysterious brews onto the veins of his wing, he let them scratch their quill against their paper, without protest.
When he had finished the cookie, the beastmaster offered their hand.
It was a command, that was clear. It was always a command. The giants were commanding creatures, Purple had learned. But at least the beastmaster let him go at his own pace, never rushing Purple, instead waiting patiently for the little beetle-stick to convince himself he had the chutzpah to literally put his life in the beastmaster’s hand of his own accord.
Purple was carried from the room, through the strange mansion, and then they were outside. The breeze threaded through his antennae, and he lifted his shell to let it cool his wings.
The bard was there. Purple cowered in the beastmaster’s palm.
But the red giant did not approached the green one. They paused, an announcement ringing from their voice, and watched as the bard crept closer.
The green giant only closed half the distance, before stopping. They still couldn’t reach Purple, from where they stood.
Purple recognized a bandage, wound around their finger.
Purple thought he understood. He’d been brought out here to express his remorse to the bard, but as long as he had the granted protection of the beastmaster, the bard would not be punishing him.
He couldn’t waste the opportunity.
Lowering himself to his belly, he raised his wings and strained out his apology.
He was startled to hear twin cries of distress, from both the beastmaster and…the bard?
The bard was much closer now, but still their hands did not reach for Purple. They looked…
The expression in their eyes was…
Purple did not understand. The green giant had been the one wronged. Why did they look so…anxious, when they met his gaze with theirs?
Leaning over the edge of the beastmaster’s hand, Purple reached.
The bard understood, and brought up their injured hand.
Delicately, Purple took the finger in both his own hands.
He observed the bandage, antennae playing about its surface.
The wound wasn’t dire. It would heal in little time.
The bard did not yank their hand back, out of Purple’s light grasp, seemingly heedless of Purple’s teeth being so near the injury once more.
Hesitantly, Purple rested his forehead against their fingertip. He closed his eyes, and waited.
…nothing.
He raised his head, and opened his eyes.
The bard…was smiling.
It was a light, fragile thing, but it was peaceful.
They wiggled their finger gently, until Purple got the hint and let go. Only then did they withdraw.