2 - 6

"One man's inconvenience is another's joy.”

-NF

So sorry this was late! My dad had to go to the ER ://

Part Two - Chapter Six

"The Dragon's Lonely Witch"

“We’re leavin’ tomorrow, runt,” Athanasius reminds him, red eyes pinned onto his frame as he hugs his dad’s leg to his chest. “Ras told us to be productive.”

“This is productive,” Stray said.

Sitting on the floor in front of where his protector is perched on the couch and basically latched onto him like a leech, the youngling looks up to meet his eyes, red to blue.

Keeping to the eye contact, he wiggled his wings until they weren’t squished against the front of the couch and until his tail was around Atlas’s foot, too.

“Heh?” His dad frowns, reaching down to pat him on the head. “How?”

“I’m recharging my mental health, it was low as fuck.” Then, he growled softly, tired-safe-love.

Loved-loved-safe, is what’s rumbled back at him.

“Rough night?” Atlas hummed, running his fingers through golden locks, careful not to let his rings catch on anything. He nods. “Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head, snickering when his horn knocks into the other’s knuckles.

“Alright, do ya want me t’read you a story, then?”

“Oo,” Stray pulled himself closer, eyes widening. “Yes, please.”

“Okay,” his protector chuckled softly and reached over to grab one of the books on the table. The golden dragon poked his cheek as he got closer, smiling when he got a raised eyebrow in return.

The big dragon leans back in his seat, checks the cover, and looks back down to the youngling. “Do y’want to hear about ancient mermaids or the fae?”

“Mermaids,” Stray rests his head onto his dad’s knee.

“Hm, alright,” Athanasius ruffles his hair before clearing his throat. “Once, before the great mountains were formed ‘n all the giant oceans had yet to fall, there was an ancient race…”

Falling asleep to his dad’s voice was a lot easier than he thought it would be.

-——-——-

“It should feel like a… tugging, of sorts,” the phoenix stands in front of him, smiling softly but nervously, feathers fluffing up before settling back down repeatedly.

“I know, Ras,” Stray sighs, having been told three times now.

Athanasius was shifted, red scales gleaming as he laid in the field for them to finish.

His dad’s snout was between him and Oziamon, so he could barely see the witch besides a fluff of brown locks and slightly smudged glasses. Their bags were packed and tied together, stuffed into a small, ‘endless’ bag Ozzy had enchanted earlier that week.

They had just completed the spell, the one used to track the voidwalker.

It made Stray nervous to have magic used on him, even if he was used to his coven’s magic. He had shifted reflexively, his body apparently not convinced it’s okay even after all these years.

It was bullshit, if you asked him, that the past made him all huffy and panicky around people he felt completely safe around.

Regardless of the small flashback and how the big dragon had circled around him and growled at anything that came close until he calmed down, the spell went well. Oziamon’s proficient at casting and pairing it was Ras’ abilities, the tracking will be fairly easy, supposedly.

Now they’re just waiting for it to link up with the voidwalker.

Who, they assure him, won’t be able to tell they’re being tracked, as they already have a line of magic between them—what is getting tapped into via the prehnite and sodalite charm around his neck.

“Is it happening?” Ozzy asks, peering around Atlas’ snout to look at him.

Ras hits his arm lightly. “Don’t pressure him, mate!”

“Says you,” the witch wrinkles his nose at the familiar. “You’ve been staring at Aster for like, five fucking minutes, man.”

“Have I really?” Ras, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed as he turns back to the youngling with wide eyes.

Atlas snorts in amusement. “Sorry about that, I’m just…”

“Worried? A mother hen?” Ozzy supplies. “A wee bit of an old man?”

“Shut,” the phoenix points a finger at her son’s face.

Red eyes turn to him and Stray blinks up at the big dragon, breathing deeply as he leans against the other’s scales. He’s warm, like always, and the youngling can’t help but to relax slightly.

There’s a pressure forming in the back of his head, insistent and pushing.

It’s not the coven bond, it’s—

“Oh,” the golden dragon says. “I think it’s working.”

Nothin’ hurts? Athanasius growls out immediately, lowering himself further to the ground to get closer. Safe-steady, yes?

Yes, he snuffles, hand moving up to hold his own forehead. “Fuck, that’s weird.”

It’ll ease soon, treasure, his protector noses his legs. You okay? Runt?

“I’m fine,” Stray clenches his jaw, trying to sort everything out.

“Is it too strong?” Oziamon comes to his side, a frown on his face as he lowers them to be face-level with each other. “I can weaken the magic a bit, I think.”

“No, it’s just—I’m not used to having spells on me, anymore."

The magic is pressed right against his own, not suffocating but hovering in a way he’s not really sure if it’s meant to be or not. Every other spell used on him was pushing, ripping; it constantly tore at him.

This doesn’t hurt, it’s just… there.

It builds up, shoving him gently, swaying towards something no one but him can feel. On the other end, a light wispy thread leads back to the witch.

“Oh,” Oz gently rests a hand on his shoulder. “Are you still comfortable with it?”

“Yeah,” the youngling says but grimaces right after. “It’s reminding me of before, that’s all. It doesn’t hurt, none of that shit.”

“Like we’d ever make you do a spell that hurt you,” the witch snorts.

Stray’s lips quirk up, a curl of relief flaring in his chest.

He knows they wouldn’t hurt him.

“Well,” Ras says, creeping over to them too. “Can you tell which way you want to go?”

“Yep,” he nods, putting his hand back down. “Very clearly too. Clearly? Clear? Whatever.”

“Good,” the phoenix smiles—laughing when Atlas nudges the youngling more forcibly than before and he almost folds in half. “I think he wants you to shift, mate.”

Correct, Atlas growls, looking far too smug.

Can I be with you, Stray asks. Or should I sit with the hoard?

Your choice, just be careful, his dad rumbled. Safe-loved-loved. Comfortable-good?

Good-safe-comfortable, yes-good, he replied, clearing his throat as he looked up at the rest of their coven, who was waiting patiently for the verdict. “We’re leaving now.”

“Fuck yeah,” Oziamon said, grabbing the endless bag and quickly walking over to his familiar’s side.

The big dragon snorted a laugh before bending his wing down to let the witch climb up it and to the small soft space between his neck and back—they all knew how much Oz liked flying with them.

Stray couldn’t wait to get older, bigger—to be able to carry Oziamon high into the skies, too.

Both the youngling and the phoenix shifted but from where he easily hooked himself onto one of Atlas’s horns, letting himself hang by his wings to rest against the other’s jaw, Ras took to the sky’s with a sharp caw, wanting to start the long flight with his own wings.

Athanasius growled after the familiar, the trees echoing it and leaves shaking.

Stray squeaked, cheering. He always loved it when his protector was in this form, loved seeing him take flight.

Long, ruby wings spread wide, wide, wide; they took up the entire space of the field, long hooks brushing against leaves as they raised. The big dragon’s head rose high above the oaks and pines, the mountains in the distance seem to be smaller, somehow, in comparison.

Legs tensing, body lowering slightly, wings coming down in a sharp, powerful burst and—Atlas’ in the air, hundreds of feet up within seconds.

Oziamon screams in delight and Stray garbles out a laugh, content to feel the wind on his face and the sun as it pours unfiltered onto his scales.

Once they’re above the clouds, Athanasius evens out, tail coming behind him for balance, giant wings remaining stretched out wide, not needing to flap nearly as often as the golden dragon would if he were the one flying.

The sun rains its light down on them, the horizon stretching before them like an endless road.

Ras flutters around the big dragon’s head, going in circles to swoop down towards their witch or to land by the youngling for just a moment.

They move like this for a while, Stray directing his dad and going between staring at the earth below them or talking softly with the other dragon. It’s amazing how long Atlas can stay in the air, currents don’t even bother him and other winged beings avoid him.

It’s amusing, too, to see creatures on the ground pause whatever they’re doing as the large shadows pass over them.

There’s no humans that he could see, so far, they are pretty far out into the wilderness and the mountains they’re going towards are even more remote.

Stray’s heart feels like a lump in his throat the whole time, beating oddly and sending a pulse of anxiety through him.

He wonders how long it’ll take to find his voidwalker.

He wonders if they’ll be mad, if they’ll understand his desperation. He wonders if he could convince them to actually come back with him.

They go for hours, stopping once to relieve themselves and to eat before going again. Ras, at some point, shifts back to sit with the witch, tired with trying to keep up.

The sun starts to dip lower in the sky, colors bleeding out the blue from its depths.

He watches it set with slow blinks, warm wind against his scales and the gentle rock of his dad’s flight underneath him.

At some point, Stray must’ve fallen asleep—the next thing he knows, he’s waking up cuddled with his dad.

The golden dragon is completely covered by Atlas, curled in between two massive paws and the rest of the big dragon’s body around him. From what he can tell, Athanasius basically fell asleep into a giant ball around him, protective and warm.

The usual, for a protector towards their clutch.

His head’s barely peeking through past his talons, red eyes shut and a rumbly purr in both of their chests, facing the youngling from where they’re hidden underneath the other’s wings.

Stray yawns, stretching his wings slightly as he shifts back to two legs. His protector stirs, big eyes squinting open at him.

“Did we—camp for the night?” He asks, rubbing his face.

Yes, Atlas growls. Hoard’s safe, they’re in their not-den.

Ah, Oziamon finally figured out how to set up a tent.

“How long was I asleep for?”

Three hours, I believe, Athanasius moves slightly, untwisting from his position slowly. Spells like that take a lot of energy to create, surprised me you didn’t sleep sooner.

Surprise-tired, he snuffles lightly. “I’m just that amazing, big man.”

His dad rolls his eyes and then his head is moving back, cool night air replacing the space as Atlas gently sets him down, grass soft as it tickles his legs.

He shifts back, so Stray takes the opportunity to tackle his protector in a hug.

“I love you,” he says—tired still and feeling all warm.

He woke up without a doubt that he’d be safe, that his dad and coven would take care of him. With the past being brought up so often, it’s easy to see the parallels between now and when he used to be too scared to close his eyes for even a moment.

He’s grateful, more than he could ever properly express.

“Love you too, treasure,” the big dragon’s arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Everythin’ okay?”

“I think so,” he shrugs. “I just don’t know what to expect.”

“The unknown is scary,” Atlas says. “But you have us, it’ll be alright. No matter what happens, we’ll help you through it. You think they won’t be happy t’see you?”

“I think they’ll be scared, I think they won’t know what to do.” Stray sighs. “But no, I… I think they want to see me. I think they’re just so used to being alone that they don’t know that the rest of the world’s still waiting for them to get out there and find it.”

“That’s what you’re here for,” his protector hums, holding him closer. “They’ve obviously just got lost—imagin’ being so cringe—and we’re goin’ to find them.”

“They said they don’t want to be found, though.”

“No one deserves to be alone, ‘specially not some kid terrified to lose more people.”

Stray frowns and says nothing, letting Athanasius rub soothing circles into his back as he’s guided to the tent.

They curl up between Oziamon and Ras, his dad’s body heat making the tent twice as warm as before.

Their witch will probably wake up sweaty, but it’s a small price to pay for cuddles.

“Go t’sleep, love,” his protector pushes his knuckles into the youngling’s head lightly. “Nerd.”

“Dickhead,” he yawns, curling up with one wing over the witch and the other over his dad. “You’ll be there when I wake up?”

“Always.” It’s a promise—and he believes it.