1 - 6

"But these weren't the kind of monsters that had tentacles and rotting skin, the kind a seven-year-old might be able to wrap his mind around--they were monsters with human faces, in crisp uniforms, marching in lockstep, so banal you don't recognize them for what they are until it's too late."

― Ransom Riggs

Hey guys! I hope you are enjoying this so far and that you like this chapter! We are fully into the plot, now, so buckle up. (I'd love to hear what you guys think about this so far!)

Part One - Chapter Six

"The Confused Little Dragon"

Despite being in the same position he fell asleep in, being cradled to the big dragon's chest, when the little dragon wakes up he finds that they're no longer alone.

The witch, only a couple feet away, is sitting on the ground with their back to the leather couch from before, facing him.

Like the last time Stray saw them, their curly brown hair was a mess as it peaked out of a beanie. Unlike last time, they were completely dry and had no coat on. Instead, a soft pink sweater covers their upper body and they're wearing fuzzy looking black pants.

Their eyes are dark and no longer upset, and they're laughing lightly while talking to the big dragon—who's sitting at the edge of the nest, not in it, and talking.

Despite being half-asleep, the hatchling still thinks it's a bit odd how they treat each other. It's like they're two witches or two familiars; one in the same instead of enemies.

Stray's never met a witch who acted like this before.

But then again, he's never really met a lot of witches.

Chuckling lightly at something the other says, the big dragon brings the hatchling closer to them, one hand easily holding him to their body and the other gently stroking down the spikes on his tail which was wrapped around their forearm.

The movement draws the witch's eyes down to him and the hatchling's brain is still trying to be awake, leaving him blinking up slowly as the other's words get stuttered off into silence.

If the little dragon was better, maybe he would've instantly jumped into action, maybe he would've snarled and glared at the witch to make them look away—maybe the fear filling his system would've made him do anything but go stock still, the purr he hadn't noticed coming from his own chest cutting off.

But it didn't and he's left staring at them—in his defense, though, the witch seems to freeze too, body locking up and eyes widening.

This, of course, makes the big dragon pause and for their hands to tense slightly around the hatchling. No one says anything, the air twisting into something tense.

The witch is the first one to break eye contact, wincing as they look up to their familiar.

"Atlas?" They call, and Stray watches with bated breath as their hands twitch in their lap. Are they getting ready for a spell? Are they— "Your hatchling awake. He's uh, staring at me."

Atlas? What's—oh... that's their name. The mystery's name. The hatchling frowns, memories of the night he got caught filtering in past the sound of his pounding heart.

The dragon's Atlas. Atlas the big dragon.

The phoenix is Ras, such a mundane name for a creature so powerful and the witch—

"Hm," the big dragon hums, chuff echoing louder every second and it makes the little dragon unwillingly relax. "It's okay, it's okay. He's just wakin' up. Give him a moment."

The witch—Ozzy, Oziamon, that's the witch's name—nods, silently taking in the hatchling.

Stray watches him right back, keeping his focus on them, not daring to blink.

He doesn't—understand.

Squirming, the familiar lets the hatchling curl up tighter, pulling himself up against the other's neck. Wings hooked around their neck, tail staying around the hand that they use to keep his bottom half up, he tucks his head against his lame leg and goes back to staring.

He doesn't really know what to expect at this point. It's never really gotten this far if he doesn't have the lack of things—the lack of warmth, the care, the things that make sense.

This, this doesn't make sense.

They don't make sense, not at all.

When they first caught him, there were no cold hands, no metal cages or ropes or new scars. There was a conversation he didn't understand, a promise he couldn't trust, and creatures he knew better than to let go of his fear around.

He expected the pain to come later, for the touch to sting like it usually does. But it didn't and the little dragon isn't really sure what they're waiting for.

It would be easy, almost too easy, to hurt him how he is now. It would be easy to chain him up, lock him away, steal his magic. It would be easy to take and to make him regret taking, too.

There doesn't need to be a nest, the heat of the big dragon's heartfire. There doesn't need to be the promise, the safety, the gentle rumbles. There doesn't need to be anyone helping him, let alone fixing a leg that will help him escape easier.

It doesn't make sense—because here's this witch and their familiars and then there's Stray.

He knows what he's worth and it's not this. It's not this.

It's okay, the big dragon rumbles down to him as soon as Stray's shaking starts up. It's okay, runt, no one's going to hurt you.

Scared, scared-uncertain, the hatchling whines, feeling like a broken record.

Safe-safe-safe, they promise, a deep growl shaking the baby. Protected-care. You're alright, nothing will happen to you.

Predator? The little dragon questions, so very confused. He doesn't understand the boundaries of this place, he doesn't understand how they treat each other. He doesn't understand how they treat him. Safe-uncertain? Predator-predator.

Atlas gently pulls him up until Stray's head is level with their chin. The big dragon nuzzles their nose gently against the side of his head, a level purr directed at him.

Safe, no predator. A growl quickly follows the comforting gesture—making sure that the hatchling understood that how they brought him further out into the room was a show of trust. Not predator, hoard. Mine-mine. Love-family-mine.

Oh... the witch was part of their hoard.

The hatchling didn't know what to make of that.

Witches owned their familiars—witches were cruel —but there's nothing more important to the hoard than the dragon and to the dragon than the hoard.

There was no being in a hoard without getting what Stray's always wanted: warmth, love, someone to care no matter what. It's not something that a witch just stumbles into. It's not something a dragon would just give to someone.

And Atlas, for as powerful as a familiar as he seems, wouldn't just give that title to a witch that hurts him. So does Oziamon not hurt him?

Is that not how things work in this coven—why is it different here?

Is that why their touches don't hurt?

Runt? The big dragon bounces him lightly, the rumble in his throat shifting slightly as Stray sees the witch throw them a confused look. "You okay?"

The little dragon butts his head into their chin and squeaks out a yes before eyeing the uncomfortable looking Oziamon and confirming, no predator? Bad-bad?

"Mhm," Atlas hums again, a short growl encompassing his throat. No predator. Safe. You're safe with me, runt. I promise.

Stray wants to tell him that he shouldn't make promises like that. Nowhere and no one is safe—it's a matter of safer or not. And the big dragon might be safer but still. Still.

"You're alright," they switch to common. Then, they direct their attention to the witch. "He's okay, just a bit shaken with you bein' here."

"Ah," Oziamon's expression falls into one of understanding. The little dragon wished he understood, too. "Sorry, I should've thought about that before coming in." Those dark eyes fall to meet his and, going to simply snap his jaws at the other, the hatchling ends up jumping at the way his own stomach grumbles.

The witch laughs—it reminds the baby of water against rocks—and glances back up to their familiar. "I think that he's a bit hungry, Atty. Do you want something to eat, little one?"

Embarrassingly, it takes Stray a moment to realize that the witch is talking to him. Not really knowing the correct answer, he just tucks his face away and doesn't answer.

"I'm takin' that as a yes," the big dragon says even though they shouldn't. "Let's get some food for the runt. S'Ras still out?"

"Yeah," Oziamon answers, dusting themselves down as they stand. "I'm sure he won't mind us eating without him, though."

The witch doesn't begin to walk until Atlas is up and standing—the little dragon barely gets jostled by the movement even when keeping their cheeks pressed together, determined not to move.

Seeing them, the witch grins. "Are you going to properly introduce the baby to us at any point, you softie?"

"I am not soft," Athanasius gruffs out.

The hatchling doesn't really know what that means but he has to disagree, the other's scales are really soft and a great place to take a nap—like many soft things are.

"Sure, sure," Oziamon begins to walk out of the room, their familiar close behind.

Moving away from the nest makes the hatchling a bit nervous but he doesn't dare to voice that or make another noise.

Besides his throat already being sore from all the growls and squeaks, he hasn't been told the rules.

He doesn't want to break them before he even knows what they are.

As the two start to talk, the hatchling takes the time to look at the witch who stares back whenever the little dragon's caught doing so. It's not a mean look so, for now, he's okay with the eyes on him.

A witch being in a dragon's hoard is weird.

He's still not really sure what to make of it, not sure how to organize it all in his mind.

He knows witches. He knows how cruel they are. He knows how the magic hurts. He knows, he experienced it, he's met plenty of witches who've never strayed from this. He's never met a kind one, one who doesn't take and take and take until there's nothing left to give.

Until now—this witch hasn't hurt him and their magic hasn't either.

Is it because of the big dragon that he hasn't been? Is it just because of what Stray is? Or is this witch kind regardless of that, will their touch still hurt even without the scales?

Have they been kind before the big dragon considered them theirs?

Where are the cold hands, the pushing magic, the cutting spells that dip like ice into his bones? Where is all of that? If they don't have it, if this witch is kind—can all witches be kind?

And if so, if witches can be kind...

Why hadn't they been to him?

There is no cage here. There are no metal chains. There are no hard hits and sharp scratches. There's none of that, in place if it is warmth and a steady presence of safety.

So why is that here, but not there? What's so different?

Stray isn't sure what has changed. He's as he's always been, so why did everything become so different? Why did the rules have to flip on him?

Is it because he escaped?

"You're alright, runt." The hatchling flinched as a large hand pet down his side, heat seeping into him. Safe-safe-safe. "It's okay, there's nothin' to be afraid of. You're alright."

Realizing he'd been making a low churring noise, a grumbling fear-filled growl cuts off the pathetic sound and the baby dragon hides himself away as best he can.

He's not supposed to be noisy.

He's not supposed to be seen.

Always there but never visible; a silent, breathing statue. That's what the last catchers wanted him to be. These catchers, though, are very different. They have their own dragon, their own nest.

He doesn't know what these ones want.

Sorry! The hatchling whines, pressing his little horns underneath their jaw. Sorry-sorry-sorry.

Safe-mine-mine, they rumble back, pressing him closer. "Nothin' will hurt you. You don't have to apologize for bein' scared. You're alright, runt, you're alright."

Shakily, the little dragon gives the best purr he can while his heart's still pounding hard in his chest. It's a sad attempt to let the other know that he's alright but it's all he can do.

The other chuffs back, low and steady.

Slowly, Stray's muscles relax, little claws unhooking from their shirt and getting replaced by his wings. They unfurl to hug around the others neck, pushing them throat to throat—he almost can't hear anything besides the big dragon's heart beating under his ear.

After a couple minutes, the witch stops in front of big, oak doors and spares them a glance before opening them.

"Food time!" Oziamon cheerfully announces, cutting through the silence like a soundless room was never meant to hold someone like him in it. "What will it be?"

Only a step behind, Athanasius enters and Stray's hit with a bunch of different scents—spices but not like the ones from the room with big windows, dried meats and bread and the tang of wildberries. There's a bowl of fruit sitting on a counter, a small table pushed underneath a window with four chairs, and a line of cupboards with little carving on them.

It's a weird room, one he's never been in before or seen anything like.

It kind of reminds him of what a bakery smells like; warm and a little sweet.

"Some meat and berries, maybe an apple?" Atlas suggests. "That's what he's used to eatin', or at least what he takes from the shop."

At the reminder of being a thief, the hatchling curls his tail up and away from their hand, not wanting it to be yanked if they suddenly get mad.

No one likes a greedy dragon. This he knows all too well.

"Good idea," the witch hums as he sorts through something on a shelf. The house, he feels, hums with the witch—the wards responding to the call of magic. It leaves Stray a bit uneasy. "Apple slices and some chicken, do you think?"

"Yeah, that should be good," the familiar nods, moving from their spot at the door once they deemed the hatchling used to the scents enough to venture further into the room. "Grab me some potatoes too."

"You and your potatoes." Oziamon scoffs but turns to grab them anyway.

The baby dragon feels very out of place as the big dragon sits down at the table, their lumbering body dwarfing everything in the room. Without any fanfare, the cushion from the chair next to them gets moved onto the table and he gets moved onto that.

This room, unlike the other one they visited, wasn't very cold.

He missed the other's heat but it wasn't enough to make him shiver or for his scales to ache, so he doesn't mind too much.

With a hesitant look and a head tilt that Stray accidentally copies when he sees it, the witch comes over to the table with an arms full of things and an almost sheepish smile.

They sit down across from the hatchling with permission from Athanasius—he doesn't understand why a witch would need to ask their familiar permission for anything but maybe that's just being a part of a hoard—but set everything else to the side.

"Thanks," Atlas says, pulling something in a jar close to them.

"Yep," Oziamon nods, their own jar in their hands. They're holding a fork and Stray's a bit miffed that they seem to plan to eat it out of its spot just like that.

"Here, runt," the big dragon's putting something down in front of him—one sniff determines that it's some kind of meat—and begins to cut up a red fruit. "Eat slowly, you don't want to get sick."

Stray stares at the meat, a bit upset.

Is it a trick? It didn't smell like anything that would make him feel weird and the witch is reaching out to grab their own piece from the bigger chunk Atlas got it from, eating it as well. No poison, none that could hurt a dragon if it doesn't kill a witch.

So he's just.... at the table with them and was freely given food?

He can feel their eyes on him but it doesn't feel like they're judging, or waiting for him to eat just a bit of it only to take it away. It felt—genuine. It's weird.

It has to be a trick, it has to be one. But it doesn't feel like one.

He doesn't know, he's not sure, how it feels like at all. How it's supposed to feel.

They're just handing over something he usually has to steal or hunt for and, before that, had to work to earn. But here there is no sneaking around, no digging for plant roots or big bugs, there are no trials and questions and magic digging into him to take before someone can give.

There is nothing to earn here. It is all just freely given.

So, Stray has to wonder, what do they want with him? What benefit could they get from doing all this, especially to a useless little dragon such as he?

As they eat, the witch and their familiar carry on a rather quiet conversation, eyes occasionally flickering over to him with the smallest of frowns. The hatchling's a bit too anxious to pay attention to their words, to anything but the tone.

They're not angry, they don't sound anything but a little concerned and their scents betray that worry openly. He doesn't understand it but he doesn't think it'll hurt him.

He continues staring at the meat, feeling a bit lost.

He doesn't like new places. He doesn't like witches.

But they've been nice to him. Atlas's touch and Oziamon's magic doesn't hurt. The wards don't make his bones ache. There are no chains or harsh hands. There is no pain.

He's scared and it's frustrating because they haven't given him a reason to be; he's scared regardless of the promises, of the purrs.

He's scared and he doesn't know how to stop the fear from eating away at his insides, rotting the hope before it can even begin to grow, to become something durable.

Flinching when a gentle finger rests between his horns, the baby dragon whimpers quietly as he huddles down, away from the meat. It strokes down his back, flattening against his raised spikes, soothing the anxious part bit by bit.

Stray wheezes as he squeezes his eyes shut, tucking into himself until everything is hidden under his wings—a breathless growl warning as those warm hands try to pick him up.

He doesn't want to move from where he's clinging onto the cushion.

He doesn't want comfort, right now.

He wants to stay here, he wants his scales to be pet, and nothing more. He just wants to wait out the panic, to convince his mind that panicking is okay, if only for a moment.

Tiny, gasping breaths leave his little chest as a rumbling growl responds, the big dragon hiding him further under his heated palms; darkness surrounds him, warm and secure. The baby dragon settles slightly but the pain of the past still manages to work its way into his imagination.

The chuff grows, louder and lower, shaking his body.

A cold, dark room flashes into his mind, the memory of clinking metal and the crack of a whip echoing around him. He jerks in response but the flare of pain never comes.

The hands above him flatten, palms gentle over his shaking frame.

The hatchling's claws dig into the cushion further, a sharp whine forcing itself out. He's not there, he's not there. He's not, he won't be—never again.

He got out; he escaped.

He did, he left that—place.

No more cage. A broken leg, a broken lock but no more cage.

The hatchling got out and he's not there. Magic is magic but these wards hum a tune not potent to him. They're nice, here, but he's still scared and—

He doesn't want to be scared but he doesn't know how to stop—

The little dragon takes a sharp breath in as large hands pull him off of the cushion, no longer giving him the option of hiding as he starts to hyperventilate. They pull him up to a now familiar chest, the rumble echoing underneath him as he clings to their shirt.

Athanasius's speaking but he can't make out what it is past the rushing of his own heart. The baby isn't sure if it's supposed to be going so fast.

"Shh, sh, you're okay, runt," the big dragon says. They're here. He's not getting hurt, he's— "Safe, you're safe." The chest below him rises and the hatchling wheezes as he tries to match pace. His lungs feel too tiny, too sore.

Stray slowly moves his wings and shakes them out, ignoring the way they tremble.

He's safe. He's fine. Nothing will touch him here.

Safe-safe-protected, Atlas rumbles. Mine-mine, safe.

He's with the big dragon. He's here—not back there, never back there—being held and it doesn't hurt. There's no too small cage or sharp metal bars or witches without care and insults that echo too loudly in an empty room.

There's no chilly, concrete floor, no cold that makes the darkness so scary—no scary man or, or—

It's okay, the familiar repeats. You're okay, hatchling. You're safe. Safe-safe-safe. I'm here, you're okay. Mine-protected-mine.

He shouldn't believe him. He shouldn't.

"C'mon, little fire," they pair a growl with the words, low and soothing. "You need to breathe, you can do it. Come on, runt."

Slowly, as the big dragon instructs him, Stray begins to calm down, his breathing evening out. He's still trembling horribly but it's not violent and air is able to actually make its way into his lungs.

The hatchling doesn't loosen his hold on the other and, in return, their hold doesn't loosen on him. He doesn't ever want to move, he doesn't want to leave this safety.

After a couple minutes, the rumbles turn into words, speaking to him softly until the trembling eases. Athanasius and the witch slowly return to their conversation but he stays in place, refusing to move from the other.

With the panic having worn him down, the baby dragon closes his eyes and lets his weight fall completely onto the other.

He wants to sleep but, apparently, he can't yet.

"Bruh," Athanasius mutters, running a hand over one of the hatchling's wings. "You can't fall asleep yet, runt. You haven't eaten."

Stray mrrups? unhappily at the big dragon and tucks his face away into the others neck. He wasn't good, he panicked. He was bad, he growled the first time they tried to pick him up.

So he doesn't deserve the food.

Truly, by now, this little coven has to understand that he doesn't deserve any of this.

"This is one thing I will not back down on, runt," the big dragon declares, gently pulling him back until Stray had been begrudgingly moved to rest over their arm. His lame leg was held to his chest but the other hung over the familiar's forearm, tail wrapped around it too.

No, the hatchling refused to open his mouth as Atlas grabbed some of the meat, tearing it up into smaller pieces so he could eat it. Bad-bad, no. Bad.

The big dragon pauses. "The food is bad?"

Stray shakes his head quickly.

Not for the first time, he wishes he could shift—wishes for his other form, wishes he wasn't broken and wrong, wishes he could go back to having a voice everyone could understand.

"Heh?" They bend down, head twisting until red eyes could meet his own. "Then what's wrong?"

The hatchling wiggled his wing until he could tap his own head with it. Me.

The big dragon's expression goes blank, uncomprehending. Their eyes swirl, crimson and dark; magic twisting the emotions up. It smells like iron.

"You think," they start—tone upset in a way that even the witch stops their chewing, "that you've been bad? That you don't deserve the food?"

Finally, finally, they're understanding!

It's not good, he knows, but Stray would rather them know from the beginning than be far angrier in the future when they realize. That way, the punishment won't hurt so bad.

They'll know, they'll get that he didn't try to lie to them or trick them.

He's been bad but... he's not as bad as he could have been.

It's something his old catchers would've praised him for; him snitching on himself made their jobs easier, after all.

The hatchling nods, squeaking out a confirmation.

"No," the big dragon says—simple, as if it makes any sense.

The baby dragon snorts his confusion, squirming as he's moved to face the other. Not liking that his back is exposed to the witch, he quickly places himself underneath the familiar's hand.

His scales get stroked lightly, it's soothing but the anger in the air coming from the coven's scents are not.

Had the realization really upset them so much? Surely it wasn't surprising.

They've seen his scars—the proof of the pain he's earned.

"No, you don't deserve that," Atlas repeats. Stray just watches him, frozen by the tone. "You haven't been bad. You haven't done anythin' to deserve gettin' starved. What you do deserve, runt, is safety and warmth. You deserve to eat when you're hungry and be loud and a nest full of the softest 'n shiniest of things. Do you understand what I'm sayin'? That you're allowed to eat, that ya don't have to earn it?"

The hatchling just blinks up at them because yes, he understands what they're saying but no, it doesn't make sense.

That breaks the rules. That breaks everything he's been taught. If there is nothing to earn, why would he get food? If he hasn't been bad, why had he been hurt acting this way before?

Confused-scared, the baby dragon curls up, growling. Bad-bad, no. No food. Bad?

No bad, good-good, treasure, the big dragon lightly traces his horns, softly but firmly showing what they're trying to communicate. You are good. You are mine, runt. Safe-safe-mine. No bad.

Stray repeats his uncertainty, though his heart hammers in his chest with how much it swells at being called something like treasure.

He's never been anything but bad before, never really called something so nice.

"I promise you," Athanasius says, that rumble in their throat, "you will not get in trouble for eating. Nothing you do will get food taken away from you, nothing."

Stray wants to believe him, desperately so.

To him something as important as food never being taken away from him, used against him, it seems—impossible. Seems to break every standard he has, all the boundaries previously put into place.

But the look in the big dragon's eyes, the angry indignation on his behalf...

The hatchling doesn't know what to do with it all.

So he nods and the other's gaze softens. Atlas takes a deep breath when their witch murmurs softly at them to calm down.

When he opens his eyes, he moves Stray to a better position and offers him some food.

He reluctantly eats the small piece of meat given to him and a couple apple slices before he's full—anxiety makes his heart pound and makes him feel sick, guilt heavy and sticky in his veins.

He doesn't deserve this.

He doesn't deserve any of this; Atlas says he does but it's hard to believe, to accept.

"We'll work on it," they promise, stroking a warm finger down his spikes.

Stray doesn't want to work on it.

He just wants to understand.