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Lost.
He is lost.
...no. Where...
...he is...he has been captured. The archer-witch has him.
The witch found him.
He's in the witch's hands.
...no, he isn't. Not now. He was. In the witch's hands.
He is. But. Not like that.
He was. Taken to the abode of the archer-witch.
His life is in the witch's hands.
His life...
...he...what is...something is wrong.
Darkness casts over his eyes.
Something is wrong.
Something besides the crack in his shell, marking him outcast.
Something besides the octarine shimmer of intruding magic, marking him owned.
Something besides the brewing stand, something besides the slosh of foreign liquids and the clinking of glass, something besides the witch.
Something was wrong.
Did it matter? The witch would be enough of a problem, he should forget whatever else was wrong, let it crumble into particles and sink into the—
—sand. The sand...
...the witch had uprooted him from the sand.
Something...was not right about the sand. It whispered. It pulled.
He...couldn't feel the sand anymore.
He was...numb. Numb all over.
There might still be sand. Caught in his setae. He should. He should do something about that.
The witch whispered and murmured and muttered.
The witch...was a bigger problem than sinking sand...that may or may not still be on him.
Something was wrong.
His wing—
—is torn. He cannot fly. He cannot sing.
He cannot move.
...he can move. The pain...
Pain channels through his body, creeping from the tear in his wing to burrow in the veins, rooting like mycelium and burning like fire as they spread. It oozes from beneath his skin, and he can almost feel the stench of ash and decay in the air, choking his antennae and drying his throat.
...the pain is from the tear in his wing. If...he doesn't move his wing, he should...
The witch will take his wings soon, and the pain will kill him.
...he should be fine if he doesn't move his wing too much. He can move his head, his arms, his legs a bit.
He feels heavy.
Dead weight.
He is sinking.
...sand. He needs to get out of...no, he is out. He needs to rid his body of the sand.
Shake himself and make it fall.
Brush it.
He shifts.
He feels brittle, as if he might crack if he moves.
He feels like the edges of his being are crumbling away to soot.
Carrying pieces of him away on motes of dust.
...something was...
...what?
...something is wrong.
His wing.
Is torn. He knows this. He...
...something besides the tear.
...besides the tear?
The witch.
No.
The witch is not what's wrong. The witch is not the problem.
The witch is the only problem that matters.
...why can't he...
The witch will take his wings.
But one wing is torn. The witch can't use it. It is...
Does it matter, if he will be dead either way?
...it is damaged.
Darkness casts over his eyes.
He is numb all over.
...this is wrong.
Damaged wings don't...
Something is wrong with the tear in his wing.
It doesn't matter. He is lost.
No. It doesn't matter. The witch has him.
He will die.
He...is dying.
...no...he will die. He...
Dead weight.
He breathes, and it is smoke and ash and dust and soot and it's the brewing stand but.
He releases his breath. And it is ash and dust and soot. And it is him.
He is numb all over. It pierces him like the thorns of a rose.
...something is wrong.
Blue had pulled every potion that might help from his stores.
Regeneration, obviously, to mend the damage. This little creature used its wings for both flight and communication. Repair would be vital.
Instant Health would heal the wound faster, but it wouldn't restore the membrane or reconnect the severed veins. Blue almost put it away again, but if Red believed that saving the creature's life was a more immediate concern than preserving its body, Instant Health would be a critical last resort.
He glanced up briefly, as Red rounded the doorframe, but then his eyes were back on the bottles.
"It's hurt," he said, waving one hand in the general direction of the brewing stand. He heard the gasp as Red found the purple creature beside it.
Potion of the Turtle Master wouldn't affect health, but hopefully the combined slowness and resistance effects would protect it from damaging itself further as treatment was administered.
"What happened?!" Even in his frantic worry, Red's voice was pitched low, the sound quiet and soft. Blue heard him approaching the table on rapid steps that were still light as a rabbit's foot.
"I was at the fortress again, it was stuck in the soul sand. I don't know how it got there or how long it was there before I found it."
He took another bottle, holding it up and watching the light filter through the tincture from the other side of the glass.
Slow falling...maybe he should put that one back for now, that wouldn't apply until post-treatment care and he couldn't afford distractions.
"Something else is wrong," he continued. "It hasn't eaten. I gave it that berry as soon as I put it down and it hasn't touched it or tried to sniff at it or anything. It hasn't moved since I brought it here. It..."
He closed the chest.
"...it didn't really move much while I was holding it on the way over, either. I..."
He turned, arms laden with bottles, and approached the brewing stand. "I need you to tell me what else is wrong besides the injuries to the elytra and the wing, okay? Because if it isn't gonna let us feed it potion then I'm gonna have to administer splash, and-"
"-did you enchant it?"
Blue stuttered, derailed by the question. "What? No, it was like that when I found it. Is that important?"
Red blinked, then shook his head. "No, right, sorry. Okay, you said it hasn't moved much?"
"I could feel it in my hands, its antenna twitched a bit but it wasn't moving. I thought it might be going into torpor, so I put it by the brewing stand in case it was-"
"-wither."
A sliver of ice trickled down Blue's spine. "What?"
Red bent closer to the purple creature, one hand automatically rising to hover over the torn wing that stuck out from under the elytra, exposed to the air of the potion studio. "Its under wither effect. I think...a wither skeleton must've taken a swing and caught it by the tip of its sword—"
Blue was already reaching for a bucket of milk, even as he felt the beginnings of dread take root.
"—don't really know how hitboxes work, but this little guy is small enough that he was probably out of sight and out of mind with just one hit. His health rate is- ...still dropping, yeah okay duh that makes sense, but if we- "
"Red," Blue interrupted, his voice shaking. "How are we supposed to cure it if it won't eat?"
Red fell silent, turning to meet Blue's eyes.
For a moment, they each held the other's gaze.
Red breathed. Blue followed.
"Okay," Red nodded. "We might have to nudge it a little, give it some encouragement. I've got an idea."
When the darkness lifted, it did nothing to dispel the haze.
His wing is...cursed. Diseased.
Infected.
Infested?
Infected.
Cut it off. Remove the sickness.
Plague?
No, the plague passed him over. It only took...
The witch will remove it for him.
He will not fall victim to whatever scourge now binds his wing.
He will not fall victim to the blight that took his dame.
He will die at the hands of the witch.
He's coughing.
Stale air.
No wind to freshen and renew its course.
He hopes the curse upon his wing will ruin the witch's vile concoction.
...he hopes he survives.
Foolish.
Tales have been spun of beetlefolk without wings.
He has known none of their faces.
They have no voices to make themselves heard, but still their tales spread.
Who will spread his tale?
He is disgraced, and he is alone.
No one will know if he survives.
No one will see him, flightless and mute and unable to declare his name, if he survives.
He will never hear the voices of the beetlefolk again.
He will never hear the voice of his sire again.
He will never hear the voice of his dame again. But that isn't because of his banishment.
He didn't even get to find out what form she had taken after passing.
How long had she been gone, when he returned?
How futile had his suffering been?
Futile.
Dead.
Death.
He breathed out death.
He breathed in.
...that was...
It doesn't matter.
No, wait, it was...he knew that scent...
...sweet, fat and rich and rare, an indulgence, a reward, a statement at a banquet...
His antennae lifted, seeking out the smell.
...milk.
Milk?
It doesn't matter.
Something is wrong .
The witch...
...why. Would a witch. Have milk.
...he could smell it. Through the death. Through the dry. Through the ash and dust and soot.
It must be close, for him to. Smell it so strongly.
It doesn't...
...no.
Maybe...it doesn't matter. But...that doesn't mean...he will lie on his back...and let himself be crushed.
He...is Purple.
He will...live. All he can. Within these...last moments.
He breathes, and the smell follows the air into his lungs.
He lifts his head.
Numb thorns, sharp and burning cold, sing through his veins.
Darkness casts over his eyes.
But before it closes in upon him, he sees.
Milk.
It is milk.
His senses have not betrayed him.
Milk, a drop. In a bottle, held. By the blue giant.
The witch.
The witch means for him to have the milk.
An offer? Surely not.
A command? For what purpose?
Is it a taunt? Witches are cruel. He kneels before them, delirious with shock, his mind fraying at the edges. And it mocks his bewilderment by baiting him with delicacies.
He huffs.
The droplet quivers.
The darkness lifts again.
...red, in the corner of the haze...
The beastmaster. It must be.
He does not hope. What he feels in that moment isn't hope. But it burns, scorching through him, spurring him to act.
He’s almost frightened of drawing attention to his wings, with the witch immediately before him. As if any sound he makes will cut short this delay and set the witch back on their grisly task.
But if his wings have already doomed him, then hastening his fate will change nothing.
The pain nearly rends his mind in twain, but he lifts his cracked shell and forces the edges of his wings together, his teeth gnashing as the torn membrane grates harshly against the whole.
He has not even the wherewithal to lift his eyes to the beastmaster, his body going sluggish in agony as he redirects all his energy toward one desolate plea.
He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to feel humiliated at the pathetic squeak that he makes. Less a pluck of strings and more a bow drawn too harshly, too quickly, pressed too forcefully and lifted too soon.
He likewise doesn’t have the presence of mind to startle when the red giant’s hand flies toward him, landing lightly on the surface behind him and arching like shelter over his shell.
He huddles in on himself. His effort is spent.
The beastmaster has not banished the witch. The milk is still there.
They do not want to hear him beg.
He doesn’t know what this means.
Have they afforded him their mercy already, then? Do they silence him that he might not waste his efforts? Or do they make no allowances, and subjugate him with his own silence?
He doesn't know. He is confused.
If he will not simply lay down and die, then only one course of action is available to him, now.
He drinks the milk.
He is still in pain. His shell is still cracked. His wing is still torn. He is still knelt before two giants. He is still trapped.
But the milk touches his tongue, and
pours into his mouth, and
runs down his throat, and
surges through his body, and
washes over his being, and
spreads across his senses, and
he stays
and he is not whole, he is not restored, and he is still brittle but no longer is he breaking, no longer is he dying, no longer is he withering away like a flower left parched in arid heat, suffocating on its own dust as its pollen clogs the air and robs it of life-giving sun, no longer does the darkness obscure his vision, no longer does the haze cloud his mind.
His life is in the hands of the archer-witch.
And it matters. It matters very much.
But.
He sees. He smells. He hears.
The relief is so great that he curls forward, hiding his face in his arms. His antenna are pinned to his head as his forehead brushes the surface he’s been set on.
It's how children hide. He knows it will not help him now.
He doesn't know what else he can do.
He doesn’t know to what end they have favored him so.
Why have they done this?
The pain is still too great. He cannot thank them. He doesn’t know if he should. They will do as they like with him, with his wings, whether he is grateful or not.
Perhaps it is foolish once again, but desperation makes him hope.
It takes all his effort for Blue's hand to keep steady, as the purple creature finally accepts the meager drink.
The shakes leave him in a breath of relief when the creature's eyes clear.
"Aaand, gone. It's gone, that did it. He's good to go for wing care now."
Blue breathed. "Okay. I'm gonna stick to splash potions for now, if it took that much to get it to accept milk who knows how long it'll take to get it to swallow a potion it's probably never seen before."
"You're gonna be doing a lot more bottle-dripping, then," Red cautioned. "You sure you're okay to do that?"
Blue nodded. "Just...can you keep him calm? He responds to you."