"Everything that comes together falls apart. Everything. The chair I'm sitting on. It was built, and so it will fall apart. I'm gonna fall apart, probably before this chair. And you're gonna fall apart. The cells and organs and systems that make you youâthey came together, grew together, and so must fall apart. The Buddha knew one thing science didn't prove for millennia after his death: Entropy increases. Things fall apart."
â John Green
Welcome to the second part of this story! I just want to remind you all that everything you will read within this story is purely platonic! It might seem romantic to some as you continue, but I think that's because intimacy is seen as a romance-based thing rather often and I'm trying to explore options that don't revolve around that.
I'm also going to remind you of their pronouns:
Atlas, Ozzy, and Stray are all he/him/his. Erasmus' are she/him. The lost witch (until they're properly introduced, no name, sorry) are they/them/theirs.
Anyways! I hope you all enjoy, don't be afraid to comment, and stay hydrated!
Part Two - Chapter One
"The Dragon's Lost Witch"
On the edge of a ghost town, across from an abandoned orphanage and a row of burnt, uprooted trees, is a half-collapsed church made refuge by a witch.
It's old but large, with broken windows and fallen pillars half-hidden behind overgrown weeds. Inside, there are hundreds of things someone wants to avoidâholes in the floorboards, nails sticking out of place, glass on the ground. Splintered pews and shards of cement and tripping hazards, there's dirt and dust and cracking sculptures.
There's pots to collect rain and a bird's nest and rocks in every shape and size.
There's a box of matches, a couple torn blankets in a basket, and drawings of old memories: cages and whips and a little golden dragon sketched onto paper. A book to remember and fill with dreams, full of little scribbles and a mess of wild thoughts. Beads to protect against storms, crystals to ward off the dark, and clothes bundled together. Ropes and knives and things to survive tied together next to a to-go bag and an old, worn down grimoire.
Spells left a sharp tang and wards battle the mold in the back. A bed full of soft things and a container of food hidden behind a false door where the altar used to stand.
It's everything someone needs to survive, to stay hidden.
It's everything one lost witch has.
-ââ-ââ-
Stray isn't phased by a lot of things anymoreâhis childhood from when his hoard had yet to find him, or him them, assured that.
Before Athanasius and his red scales, warm hands, and all-encompassing love, there was no care and only hard hits. Before Oziamon with his guitar and gentle, wispy magic, there were empty rooms and cutting spells that dug down to bone. Before Erasmus, with his sparks and blue eyes and crooning voice, there were insults and cold cages and punishments.
There was a time when the clinking of metal chains, bruises, and the snap of a whip was his regular, a time that had too much pain and too little food.
Then he escaped. Then he wasn't the lost little dragon, but a loved one.
His coven didn't let a day go by where Stray doubted that love. The kindness was always a given and never had to be earned. He was welcome here and wanted, never used or hurt or pushed aside.
Ozzy was always there, steady hands over his or ready to bicker, Ras just a step away with a laugh and keeping them on track.
Atlas was his protector and always will be.
But there's only so much that his dad can protect him from; nightmares are not one of them.
They've been strange, recentlyâflashes of the past that don't make sense, things or people he's never seen before, all too real to make up. They stick with him when he wakes, painting his mind into a confusing mess.
Always, he goes to wherever Atlas is sleeping, whether that's their nest or the bigger one used by the whole den, and curls up next to his protector. It's not often that he wakes up and he's alone, most days their scales are pressed together and he's getting woken up before tragedy plays rampant in his mind. He'll then listen to the rumbling chuffs until he falls asleep again or until the sun peeks over the trees, a habit he thinks he'll never quite break even after all these years.
The little dragon isn't so little now, he's grown into his wings.
Nineteen wasn't too old, especially not for a dragon who will live for centuries upon centuries, but it let him grow. Now the size of a big dog when shifted, he can fully tackle Oziamon to the ground when playing and Ras is no longer scared to get too rough while she teaches him to fight.
His wings are the same size as both a human and a dragon, his horns growing by a couple inches, and the spikes of his tail more intimidating than the pinpricks of pine needles they had been before.
He's tall now, taller than Ras and only a couple inches away from Ozzy's heightâthough, no matter what form he's in, Athanasius still dwarfs him.
As big as his dad's paw but still growing into his own, the golden dragon goes on practice flights with him now, soaring up to the clouds but never venturing further than their territory, then the safety their home brings him.
He's still too young to officially leave the nestâwhich won't happen for decades.
That's okay, though, because these are all his favorite people and he loves their little home and the forest and the small shop of beautiful, magical things.
But, the more he has those nightmares... the more he feels like something's missing.
Stray doesn't remember a lot from before. There's years missing, chunks of time that have been lost, time he has no desire to find. The rooms he remembers aren't pleasant, the contact with people even less, their faces are always blurred but their hands are always clear.
This one witch, though, they're kind.
The first time the golden dragon dreams of the child with moonbeams for hair, it's of them laughing together, quietly, on the opposite sides of a cage. Next, he's getting food snuck to him. Then medicine for a particularly unpleasant punishment.
A blanket when a blizzard hit and he'd almost gone blue, unable to shift to scales.
A spell, a blessing, a gentle hand over his wings, never letting them stay hurt for long.
The witch was young, too young to be there, just like he had been. They had gently mixed, starlight eyes and a crooked smile. Tall with broad shoulders, a deeper-toned voice speaking words he can never understand.
Each time, each dream, Stray wakes sweating and shakingâlonging for someone he doesn't even know the name of.
He doesn't understand why he never remembered them until now. He doesn't understand how he could forget someone so intricate to how he used to survive. He doesn't know how he could've gone eight years without a single thought of the star-lite boy with mixed eyes.
He doesn't understand.
-ââ-ââ-
"You can't be here," Stray pleads, pressing as close to the cage's cold metal as he dares. "You're going to get in trouble!"
"Don't yell," they scold, eyeing the door for just a moment. "I'll be fine, star, it's not like I'm the one in the cage."
"Cage or not, they'll still hurt you."
"I'm okay with that. It's been too long since we've seen each other and your hand's still all cut up." They raise the small, red stone in their hand, a grin on their lips. "I'm going to fix you."
"They'll notice," he says, but doesn't pull away when their hands find their way through the top of the cage and wrap lightly around his wrist. The heat of their skin almost always makes him cry.
He winces, staring at the bruised and blooded limb of his.
Slowly, moon-white magic twists around his fingers and palm, cold and soothing.
It takes only a couple seconds before his skin is stitching itself back together, the black and blue bruises fading into a nasty yellow.
"There," they smile, booping him on the nose. Stray tries to bite them. He misses. "All better."
"Thank you," he whispers. "Now go away."
"I'll be back," they promise.
"I know," The dragon rolls his eyes. "You'll always find me, just like I'll always find you."
It's a promise.
When Stray wakes up, shaking and clutching at his own hand, he wonders if the him he used to be knew how much those words would hurt him now. He doesn't remember if he believed those words or not. He doesn't remember if he always thought this little witch of his would come back.
He doesn't know why the possibility that they might not ever find each other again terrified him.
He doesn't know why the thought of a broken promise makes him ache.
But, if there's one thing Stray knows, it's that he's stubborn, a survivor. He's going to find out who that witch was and what they meant to him. He's going to find them again, make sure to never have gone back on his own word.
He'll find his lost witch. He's sure of it.