1 - 8

"The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. There can't be any large-scale revolution until there's a personal revolution, on an individual level. It's got to happen inside first."

― Jim Morrison

Hey guys! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! I'm really happy with this book so far

Part One - Chapter Eight

"The Wanting Little Chapter"

The coven eats together every single night—probably because they're weird.

Athanasius or Ras are typically the ones who either make or bring the food into the den. The witch doesn't because, for all his talents, 'cooking' is apparently not one of them.

Stray thinks it's because he can get burned, unlike the big dragon and the phoenix.

He likes to imagine that Oziamon is a bit scared of the fire, of getting hurt by it, sometimes. It's nice to imagine that he's not the only one who gets scared.

He eats with them and has learned a lot by doing so.

There is a difference between he and him but only because of something called grammar—that he hasn't quite figured out—and learned because the witch was talking about one of his friends that uses every 'pronoun'.

All the covenmates use he and him and his, just like Stray! Ras uses she sometimes, too, though.

He doesn't know how someone can use all, like she or him and they, but it sounds interesting. He'd probably avoid seeing them, though, if given the chance. Mostly because people are scary and also because he really wouldn't mess up.

'Pronouns' are a rule he's never broken, he doesn't want to start.

Oziamon plays the guitar but only sometimes and he sings a lot—sometimes he doesn't even realize he's doing it! The hatchling thinks it's really funny, hearing the hums and words and humming back, startling the witch.

The witch is jumpy, sometimes.

He has scars, too, ones like his. Stray's not sure what made them.

He knows a lot about other stuff, though.

He knows that Ozzy's favorite color is green, hates mangoes, and has a lot of money that doesn't get used. He likes working in the shop but does it for too long, so Ras or the big dragon have to drag him back to the den for a break.

Athanasius doesn't like people too much, he has something called 'social anxiety'.

The phoenix does like people, since she doesn't have the anxiety thing, and is really good at making small talk. Or just talking in general—she makes more sense than the others do in common.

All three of them, though, have so many friends! They talk about them constantly over dinner, while eating. The hatchlings never really understood that, why people get together and just talk —his old catchers used to do that, minus the food.

But now, he knew.

"You and your damn potatoes," Ras mutters, his feathers ruffling as she passes the dish of the baked vegetables around.

The swearing used to scare the little dragon, but now he knows it's in all play.

"Please expand your taste buds," Ozzy joins in. He leans back in his seat, a mischievous smile barely touching his lips as he dramatically shakes the bowl at his familiar. "After a couple decades, you should've gotten tired of them."

"Please expand your intellect," Athanasius retorts, snatching the potatoes and putting one on Stray's plate. "After a couple decades, you should've figured out how t'get your brain to work."

"Boys," the phoenix sighs, amused eyes taking in the bickering.

It was actually quite nice, sitting with them, being a part of the conversation even when only one of them could really understand him. In this form, anyways.

He's scared to shift.

Athanasius stays with him most days. He's taken to shifting into his big, red dragon and curling around the baby come nightfall. He keeps the little dragon warm and he stays on guard—though Stray doubts anything could get into the shop, let alone the den, without the wards telling them or anyone noticing.

He got in, though... so maybe not.

The big dragon's still nice.

He talks with the hatchling, always makes sure he doesn't lose too much heat when outside of the nest, and his touch never hurts. He cuddles him, even, when memories darken his dreams.

He'll hold the little dragon until he's asleep or until the trembling stops.

Stray thinks that Athanasius is the best ever.

Better than Oziamon, even when he plays music for the baby; better than Ras, even when the phoenix lets him play with the feathers that fall from his wings. Just, better.

He's the protector that he has gone for so long without.

The hatchling never wants to lose him, never wants to leave here—it's a very different type of fear than from when he first got caught, when he wanted nothing more than to escape.

He doesn't know if that makes him weak, if that changes things.

Stray doesn't care about that, about how the want makes him greedy, selfish. As long as he's with Athanasius, he doesn't care about how his thoughts would get him punished, if they knew.

How he would've been already, if he had been with the last catchers.

He doesn't care because he wants to stay with Atlas—so he will, no matter what.

-——-——-

"So," Ras says—staring at him. Stray stares back.

They're at a stalemate at the moment.

The phoenix wants him to get out of the nest so he can feed the both of them but the hatchling wants to stay in the nest because outside of it is cold and scary. He's gone without food before, waiting an hour or so for the big dragon to come back from whatever the market is shouldn't be a big deal.

Even if he notices when he's hungry more and his stomach gets rumbly now with the regular feedings, he can wait. He's not so skinny anymore, his ribs don't stick out.

Even if he didn't eat for a solid week, he'd be fine.

Ras, however, disagrees.

He thinks it's important for them to stick to a schedule, to always eat at the same time. But eating is boring, and hungry or not, he's comfortable.

"Atlas is stubborn too," the phoenix tsks, sighing as he sits down at the edge of the nest. Stray blows some hot air towards her, a squeaky laugh in his throat. "Yeah, yeah, you won, for now."

The hatchling wiggled himself further into his blanket-cave, coming to the edge to sit down, too.

He doesn't venture to the floor because that's one of the rules he's figured out—in the nest, no one is allowed to grab or touch him besides Athanasius, and only when he's okay with it. So no matter how much Ras wants him to do something, as long as he's in the nest, the other familiar cannot make him do it.

The baby dragon is content to just sit there and watch sparks work their way around the phoenix's wings.

Unlike the big dragon's fire which is white and other fire, which is typically reddish, Ras's fire is just like his eyes; blue and bright and wonderful. It was really cool.

Stray, on most days since his leg has healed, has wanted to shift to ask so many questions. He wanted to talk to them—really talk to them. Tell jokes with Oziamon, read stories alongside Atlas as he's taught different letters and their sounds, talk to Ras about magical things and flying and everything in between.

He wants, wants, wants.

But they haven't told him he can, yet.

"Five minutes of patience are up," the phoenix informs him after a while, back creaking lightly as he stands. Old man. Woman? Old person! "Food time, ya little shit."

The hatchling narrows his eyes, flashing his fangs.

Despite not wanting to move, and being called a little shit, he knows that the way Ras says it isn't mean—she calls his witch the same thing and it's always paired with hair ruffling or a light tap to the shoulder.

Playful, fond. Kind.

"Atty's not going to be happy if you haven't eaten by the time he gets back, mate," Ras sighs. That, honestly, does not sound like Stray's problem.

The little dragon didn't want to leave the nest, it was safe there.

Ras is safe too, for the most part, but the baby still didn't know the rules.

What's going to happen when he breaks one and the familiar gets angry? There's no one else around to stop the touch from turning painful. There's no one to dictate punishments.

Even with the old catchers, being alone with someone else was always so, so much worse when there was no one around to see the anger.

It's like until there are eyes watching, cruelty has no boundaries.

And this coven, well, they have boundaries.

Stray doesn't want to see what happens if those were to be broken.

"How about this," the phoenix says. "If you come out to eat, I'll give you something pretty to keep."

Something pretty...

Oh! Stray perks up. Like something for his hoard, right? Something to keep?

That sounds—fair, he guesses. Time for treasure, comfort for cooked food. Trading.

He's always been good about trading.

Hesitating, the little dragon gives the familiar a slow nod that has the other's wings sagging slightly with what he guesses is relief.

Ras pushes himself to stand, easily taking a couple steps away from the nest while the baby crawls out of it.

Once he's out and the weight of soft things have fallen off of him, Stray shakes out his wings and stares up at the phoenix, waiting for a sign on what to do now. He gets an arm lightly held out to him and he tilts his head for a second, confused, before understanding.

The hatchling slinks over to the couch and climbs it, wings hooking into the folds of the soft leather. He sits on it for a moment before climbing onto the arm and then the back of it—Ras' already standing there, waiting for him, her own wings folded neatly onto his back.

He grabs the other's shirt with his front legs, both of them because neither hurts, and boosts himself to Ras' shoulder with a single flap of his wings.

The little dragon perches there, hooking his claws into the fabric. He growls as a hand comes up to steady him and it quickly moves away; he doesn't like to be touched, especially by hands, when the big dragon isn't around to watch.

"So," Ras says as he begins to walk. "Do you like gold like Atlas, or just shiny things?"

Stray just gives him a look, and baps him twice on the cheek.

The phoenix blinks at him. He blinks back.

"Both?" She guesses after a moment, turning back with a hum once the little dragon nods. "You like rocks, yeah?"

Yes, he squeaks, bopping his head.

"Alright," Ras says and that's that—they go to the kitchen, he eats wildberries and a single piece of chunky meat. His appetite has, strangely enough, grown even though he's getting a whole lot more food than he has before.

Atlas thinks it's because he's growing. Stray isn't sure what to think.

The phoenix gives him a bowl of water to clean the stick berry juice off of himself and a fluffy towel. It cools him down enough, though, that he ends up shivering.

This makes the familiar return him to the nest, which is warm and dark and a great place to take a nap, before excusing himself to go grab something.

Stray is hopeful enough that it will be something shiny that, while he buries himself into a thick blanket, he leaves his head poking out and doesn't immediately fall asleep even though his eyes are drooping a bit.

He doesn't like sleeping so much, especially after eating, but the big dragon has told him that it's normal and healthy for him to do.

Being healthy takes a lot of work, he's getting increasingly frustrated with it.

The hatchling has the delight of watching Ras stumble in through the door, pausing, and spending at least three minutes squinting at the nest before getting spotted among the mass of soft things.

Being white and gold would usually get him picked out a whole lot sooner.

It must be Ras' old age catching up to her—he's heard Oziamon talk about how eyesight gets worse the older someone gets and this familiar seems ancient.

"Oh! There you are," the phoenix smiles at him, easily folding his wings behind herself as he sits back at the edge of the nest like before. "I have the pretty thing I agreed to give you."

Stray just blinks at him, waiting.

He can't make out what the familiar has in his hands, which makes him a bit wary.

"Do you want me to put it into the nest?"

The hatchling nods, scurrying away when Ras reaches across the space to set something heavy down, it sinks among the soft things—edging forward once his brain stops screaming about predators to see what it is.

Stray, in one swift move, grabs the 'pretty thing' in his front paws and dives underneath the nest's surface, burrowing until he's in the middle and at the bottom, where his true nest of sorts is.

Here, he has some odd things already given to him and the softest blanket ever.

There's some shiny pieces of metal he's seen the coven use to keep papers together, some pale rocks he found, a bottle cap that is a really pretty red, three of the big dragon's scales, a guitar pick from the witch, and one of the phoenix's feathers—his hoard.

Once he's down and settled, the baby dragon takes to looking at his newfound object.

Ras was right, it is pretty.

The outside is a bit bumpy and round, it's a rock.

But when he moves it a bit, it separates into two pieces. It's the same rock but split right down the middle. On the inside, it's blue and green and a bit of yellow, swirling and smooth, a bit of what he knows is crystal clear in the center, spreading out like a flower. Shiny.

It's about the same size as his head and it's absolutely lovely.

Stray doesn't deserve something like this, it's too nice. But... it was a deal, a gift. It'd be rude not to keep it.

Setting it down between a scale and the guitar pick, he wiggles it into place, cradled into the hold of a less soft blanket and slowly works his way back to the edge. Through the thin cover of a beach sarong, he sees Ras where he had been, sitting silently while flipping through a small book.

Slowly, he sticks his head out from his hidey hole and gives a small squeak—it startles the phoenix, wings puffing up and sparks floating through the air as he whips his head down to face where the little dragon is peeking out.

"Hell, mate, don't do that," Ras swears, hand over his heart, but she's laughing. "I take it that you like it, then?"

Stray really, really liked it.

A bit shy, the hatchling slowly climbs out of the nest and onto the familiar's leg.

He watches for any bad reaction but when he doesn't get one, the baby dragon curls up onto the phoenix's thigh. He wraps his wings and tail around himself, still scared and still wary, but lets himself relax otherwise, a thankful purr lodging into his throat.

"Aw," Ras coos. "You're such a sweetheart."

Stray would bite him for that comment but, well—it's nice to be talked to like that, sometimes. Soft and without expectations.

After a couple moments of him laying there with his eyes closed, the sound of papers getting moved caused him to peek up. Blue eyes meet his own and he gives a low grumble, curious.

"Sorry, love," Ras whispers, setting the book down. "Could I—would it be already if I rested my hand on you?"

The hesitation, like the phoenix is somehow afraid of what would happen if he upset Stray, somehow made him feel a lot better.

The hatchling purrs louder and hands his head, nudging the other lightly with his snout and butting his little horns into the thigh below him. Ras lets out a small breath and relaxes slightly, Stray can feel the tension draining from him inch by inch.

Slowly, as to not spook him, a hand rests over the little dragon's back, thumb brushing slightly over his wing.

This familiar isn't as warm as Athanasius, but he's still warm.

The heat and the comfort of touch is enough to lull him to sleep quicker than a full belly and the joy of getting a new treasure ever could.

-——-——-

Stray, as he stares at the laughing coven, thinks that this could be his.

His den, his hoard.

Not to take it away from the big dragon, not to be cruel—but to share. To have this with them. To be theirs, too.

He wants, wants, wants. He doesn't think he'll ever not want them.

It's scary.