2 - 9

"Hurricanes couldn't remove you from my mind. You're my world and I'm incapable of not loving you."

― Billie-Jo Williams

Finally!! The proper reunion!! Hope I didn't leave you guys on too big of a cliff-hanger.

Part 2 - Chapter Nine

"The Dragon's Named Witch"

Everyone's silent as the ropes are taken off of him and pulled away.

He spreads his wings once they're free, snuffling in thanks to his dad, who runs a comforting hand over his side, gentle and warm.

His voidwalker makes an upset noise in the back of his throat, arms tightening a bit over his throat and pulling him away—Athanasius's eyes flash to the witch in a second, hardening at the protective look on their face.

"I appreciate the concern, kid," he says, tone flat. "And I know that you're freakin' out right now, but I'm not goin' to hurt either of you. However, if you don't allow me to check on my son, I will separate you two."

Upset, upset, mine-mine, Stray rumbles, flexing his wings a bit unhappily. No away.

"Nah, you don't get to argue," Atlas shakes his head at him, hands keeping his wings open to make sure nothing was bruised or bleeding. "I know you guys just reunited but I refuse t'let anythin' compromise your health. I told ya this when we first came out here. You're the priority."

The golden dragon only dunks his head back down and lashes his tail, upset because it's true. His dad, no matter what, would always put him first.

"Star," his witch said, shaky.

Stray looks down at his witch, leaning his head towards theirs, facing them. He wonders now, looking at them, why he's the one called starlight when their eyes are the ones that look like the galaxy has been painted across the night sky.

They're frowning but their eyes are blown wide from fear, mouth slightly open but no words coming out.

As his dad inspects him for injuries, the golden dragon rumbles down at his voidwalker, nuzzling his snout into the edge of their jaw. It's okay, it's okay. Mine-mine-mine.

They slowly reposition their hold on him, one hand resting against his side—still shaking—and the other pressed lightly against the skin of his neck. Stray takes a deep breath and they follow.

He does this until they seem steady, a bit coherent past the panic, and gives the witch a light croon.

The big dragon makes a noise from where he's crouched by Stray's side and nervously, his voidwalker licks their lips and dares to look over to him.

"Is—is he um, he's okay?" They choke out, voice terribly wobbly.

"Looks like the ropes just scraped against his scales," Atlas tells them and Stray watches his dad frown, red eyes briefly going to the other. "Easy to heal but uncomfortable. What were your ropes made outta, somethin' with silver?"

"Yeah—yes." The witch nods. Stray can feel their heart getting faster in their chest and settles his head above in, breathing in deeply until they match his pace again.

"Smart." Athanasius looks back at the scraped raw marks along his scales and sighs. "We gotta go back to our camp so we can treat this properly. I'd say you're welcome t'join, but I don't think you're gettin' much of a choice." He gestures to where Stray's clinging to their chest.

His witch nods, eyeing his dad warily when the other stands and stretches his massive wings behind him. Years ago, he was just as intimidated by the familiar before them, but not anymore.

He wonders how long it will take his witch to adjust, to accept that they're safe.

With you? The youngling squeaks out when his dad gestures to get up. Or walking?

You're hurt. Worried-upset-loved, Atlas growls lowly. You'll be carried.

He grumbles but doesn't argue—just folds his wings in as the last of the rope is dragged away from the ground and tossed to the side—it'd be a losing battle and at this point, he knows when to let go. Knows what to push and what not to.

His family never compromises on anything when it comes to his well-being.

"Okay, kid," Athanasius turns to the voidwalker pinned underneath his youngling. "Pack what ya want, we're goin' back to the camp after yer done."

"You're... letting me keep my things?" The witch blinks up at him.

"Yes." He frowns, moving to crouch next to them, hands hovering over the golden dragon's wings. "They're your things, I don't have any right to be takin' them away from you."

"Right," the voidwalker swallows heavily and Stray hears it when their heart starts to go faster—but he can't really do anything about it, because his dad is nudging the other's hands away and picking him up.

It almost hurts to be taken away from his voidwalker so soon—hurts because finally, finally, he can touch them. Hold them.

In the dreams, everything is cold, their touch an almost. Now, they're warm. Real.

Instead of being able to be reassured of that, though, he's cradled gently in Atlas's arms. His upper body gets curled around one of his large shoulders and his tail winds around one arm, wings relaxed but held close, snout pressed against the big dragon's cheek.

They watch as the witch shakily gets to their feet, stumbling as they put things into a bag that never seems to get full. Food, clothes, a pendant, bottles of water, a couple objects he doesn't know what to call.

Everything seems to get packed in less than ten minutes.

It aches to think that this is how they had been getting by.

All these years spent living in a hollowed out version of a town, in the corpse of church never to be worshiped in again. Alone, without proper help, stuck in the aftermath of a coven who never cared.

Stray found his salvation all those years ago in the heart of a dragon's hoard.

His witch never did, his witch never found a sanctuary.

And that—that hurts.

The voidwalker turns back to them, bag slung over their back, straps pulled close to their chest with white knuckles. They meet Stray's eyes, so he croons lowly at them, and their gaze moves up to Atlas'.

His dad raises an eyebrow. "Ready?"

His witch nods, and then they're on their way.

The walk back to the camp goes like this: Athanasius carries Stray, his voidwalker right by their sides, and anything that makes a 'suspicious noise' gets either investigated or roared at to make sure it's no longer a 'threat'. Then, after, they continue moving.

Every couple of minutes, though, his dad asks how he is or will try to start small talk with the witch.

Stray learns that both the big dragon and his voidwalker are awkward to the same degree: severe. Meaning, they have no idea how to communicate with each other properly.

It'd be amusing if he could talk with them, to make proper conversation, or if he wasn't so worried.

He wishes he remembered if his witch was always like this or if it was something that developed after they got separated. A byproduct of isolation, of their childhood, of pain.

Stray's trauma made him clingy, made him terrified of gentleness. It made him have one foot in the door, never sure of what way he'll go. Even with all the love and care, it made him wary; it brought nightmares and insecurities and doubt.

What did it do to the witch?

The witch who's lived alone for years, who trembles at the sight of magic?

Because it wasn't like this in the dreams, they weren't like this in the dreams.

But that's when they were alone. That's when they could be themselves, could be an us instead of an I and a you.

Who are they outside of that, who are they really—and why does Stray still love them when he can't even remember the answer to that?

Their camp comes into view after they round a big willow tree—Oziamon's pacing along the edges, face twisted up like he's in pain. Ras is sitting in his bird form on a log, a med-kit open next to her and what he thinks is a bowl of clean water boiling over the firepit.

The closer they get, the tenser his voidwalker appears, so Stray wiggles free a bit (earning a grunt of disapproval from his dad) and wraps his tail around one of their wrists.

They meet his eyes, blue to the night sky, and give him a small smile.

Protected-mine-mine, Stray snuffles softly, a light squeak following. Loved.

He gets an almost-smile and it's enough to have a flare of warmth burst in his chest.

"Your witch," they start, hesitant but shuffling closer to Athanasius, eyes moving from Stray's to him. "He's uh, he's okay with me coming, right?"

"Yes," Atlas nods, body getting warmer as a particularly big gust of wind causes Stray to shiver. "Him and our phoenix are very supportive of Aster—and worried, apparently. Look." He jerks his chin towards the camp, where neither of their covenmates has yet to spot them.

He wishes he wasn't trapped in one form again, he has so much he wants to say.

"Your phoenix?" The witch's voice trembles a bit, wincing a moment later. "Sorry, I know I shouldn't um, shouldn't be curious. I was just—yeah."

"S'not like curiosity is goin' t'get you killed," Atlas snorts, shaking his head. "You can ask any question you want to, no one here is goin' to punish you for it. And yes, our phoenix."

When his witch turns to him, a furrow between their brows, he nods.

His voidwalker isn't as... scared as he imagined they'd be, excluding when they thought they were going to get mauled by a giant dragon. It's not like how he was—not skittish, not like they're one second from running or cowering or begging.

They're more worried, uncertain.

Over the years, they must've gotten stronger, assured they could protect themself.

It helps how much Stray's talked about them, how his voidwalker knows that even if they believe they can't protect Stray from themself, that Stray's coven will protect him from them.

Maybe they believed him when the youngling told them they were kind.

He wishes he knew what the other was thinking. Wishes he could remember how to do so, how to press their minds together until they were one.

Across the clearing from them, there's a shout—it's Oziamon, he's spotted them—and all their attention snaps to it, looking back towards the camp.

"They're back!" He's saying. "They're back with the voidwalker!"

Ras' shifting forms, rising to her more human feet, wings all fluffed up with worry. Oz starts to run towards them, almost tripping over his own feet, dark eyes going from his familiar, to the marks going across the youngling's wings, to the other witch trailing behind them.

Stray puts his nose to the air, scenting it.

It smells overwhelmingly like dust and his two loved ones' worry, their protectiveness. It also, past the rotten scent of the church that carried with them, stinks of magic. Oziamon never was good with keeping his energy to himself when he's worried; Stray can see the imprint his magic made on the earth from where he had been pacing.

Athanasius, in turn, was never good about feeling calm towards bursts of magic.

Hoard, ours-ours, Stray growls, reminding his dad who had been getting more upset the closer they got—hostile to even one of their own, instincts running wild. Love-hoard-yours?

Mine, mine-runt-mine, Atlas lets out a rather angry grunt, jaw unhinging as sparks start to spill between his fangs, a warning and nothing more as Ozzy comes closer. Mine.

Athanasius accidentally hurt Oziamon before, protecting him.

He'd do it again. He'd do anything to keep his youngling safe.

Stray knows this and it's terrifying.

So it's no surprise that when the witch spots his familiar's territorial gesture, he skids roughly to a stop, arms pinwheeling as he wobbles on his feet, a frown sprouting at them from a good ten feet away.

Ras, at the action, grabs his son's shoulder to keep him steady. Both know that Athanasius would hurt them for Stray, too.

"We heard you roar from here, mate," Ras calls over, slowly stepping closer, pausing when the big dragon hisses aggressively towards him, red wings spreading wide on his back, one mantling and the other hovering over the voidwalker—who flinches at the movement, edging back slightly. "Is Stray okay?

"He's hurt," Atlas forces out, fangs flashing their threat as he stalks closer, fighting the instincts that the youngling knows can be overwhelming. His dad's tail lashes behind them, not veering from his predetermined path, but not attacking anyone.

Ras, foolishly, takes that as the go-ahead to move closer and gets a large set of jaws snapped at him, promptly throws herself backwards, wings boosting him as she squawks.

That's... not ideal.

Stray feels the way his dad snarls with his whole body, shaking him slightly as he's lifted closer to the other's chest when Oziamon's energy twists sharply in response. He croons towards the witch and the phoenix as he's taken towards the med-kit, hoping to be reassuring.

Gods, if only he could speak.

They're giving them a wide berth but the voidwalker is keeping up, at least, his tail is still wrapped around their wrist.

Then, because his dad's overprotective—but also because he trusts their covenmates—he gently sits down at the base of a log and turns towards them, one hind raising to wave them over after a good couple moments of deep breathing while he holds his son steady.

His voidwalker sits next to them, face all twisted up, awkward, and hands twitching in their lap like they want to reach out but doesn't think they're allowed to.

It's a good decision not to, honestly.

Oziamon instantly starts to jog over, Ras flapping his wings to get to them quicker.

Stray wishes he could speak—he'd tease Oz about how dorky he looks running.

"Don't touch 'im, don't know if I'll be able to control my instincts." Athanasius instructs as relief pours over both their faces once their covenmates are crouched next to them, able to see that the damage isn't too bad.

"What happened?" Ras asked, words quick but soft, eyeing the youngling's wings.

"Aster got caught in some silver ropes. Hurt his wings 'n got some scraps."

Stray doesn't miss how Atlas pointedly leaves out that the ropes were part of a trap that the voidwalker created—probably because of their witch's habit of overreacting.

Overprotective bastards, the lot of 'em.

"We thought you got attacked," Oziamon said, sitting a foot or two away, not caring that the pants he's wearing is going to get grass stains. "Ras made me stay here, he thought that if someone was stupid enough to go after the gremlin that you'd be full fucking dad mode and kill us on sight, or something."

Atlas makes a face, seeming offended. "I wouldn't kill you, you're mine."

"For Stray?" Ozzy raises an eyebrow. "Yes you would."

Thinking about that for a moment, all Athanasius does is shrug.

Upset-bad-no, Stray harrumphs, scolding as he butts his horns into his protector's shoulder. Then he remembers something rather important. Title, meeting-new, title-meeting. Good, mine-protected-ours?

Sorry, no bad. Protected-ours-yes, the big dragon growls, eyes sliding over to the voidwalker. "Stray wants me t'introduce ya, but you can do that yourself since I'm goin' to get his injuries takin' care of with Ras."

This makes the phoenix sigh, almost sounding disappointed in how Atlas said that.

"Oh, that's—okay. No, yeah, that's okay." Their eyes go wide as they lean back, gaze darting between Oziamon and the phoenix, settling after a tense moment on the other witch. They stick their hand out, reaching out over the log. "I've uh, heard a lot about you from St—er, from Stray. It's... nice to meet you?"

"We've heard a lot about you too," he says, shaking his hand. "My name's Oziamon, I'm an element-based witch but I can do pretty much everything and tend to do a lot with meta-physical material reconstruction. Uh, fuck—that's like, changing one object into another or it's size, in case you don't know."

Stray moves, letting his dad shift his position until he's laying on his stomach, wings half-spread to let him work, and faces the two witches.

He watches as they talk, content to just listen but longing to join in.

"I didn't, but that sounds cool, I guess? And uh, my magic focuses on the Void. I draw power from the space between everything. Oh, right! My, uh, my name's Kaigon," the voidwalker answers and Stray lifts his head, crooning happily at them.

Kaigon, Kaigon, Kaigon. His voidwalker's name is Kaigon.

He hates that this is something he ever forgot. Purposeful or not, he had lost this knowledge. He hadn't known what they looked like before, what their name was.

But now he does.

He does, and he's never losing it again.

"You have an interesting name, Kaigon," Ozzy offers a smile before gesturing towards where the phoenix was getting out some burn ointment to hand to Atlas. "That's Ras, he's my familiar and my mom, kinda. Not by blood, obviously."

"Athanasius is yours, too, right?" Kaigon asks, sitting up just a bit taller.

"Yes," Oziamon confirms.

"And—and Stray?" This is said with fear, like the answer is something so wretched they shouldn't have asked in the first place. "He's yours too?"

The tone makes his purr stutter slightly and he nudges his snout into the other's knee, the only part of Kaigon that he could really reach from this position.

He wants to comfort the other, to have reassuring words or arms to hold them.

But he doesn't, all he has are these small touches.

"He's not my familiar," Ozzy says, slow and sounding a little funny—there's an understanding in his eyes that Stray can't place. "But he is part of my coven, he's Atty's youngling. Athanasius' mine, so technically Toms is mine too, from the written standpoint."

"Oh," Kaigon says. Stray looks up at them, tilting his head and trying to process the relief he sees painted across their expression. "So he's—"

"Not bonded to anyone," Oziamon says.

He hums a bit as Athanasius rubs the magic-imbued ointment onto his scraps, distracting him with a charm tune from the icy sting that made him wince.

His dad rumbles down at him, gentle hands running over his sides, calming.

"Just to be clear," Oz starts. "You don't have a familiar besides Stray, correct?"

"Uh, we're not—I mean, we don't have a familiar bond?" Kaigon's voice goes higher, a little confused and a little defensive. "We've never, we weren't allowed to have an official bond when we were with, with them. So no. Nope."

"Sorry for the assumption, mate," Ras joins in, coming to stand behind Oziamon. "We thought that maybe you half-bonded Stray as your familiar, but we weren't sure."

Before they started on this journey, the possibility of a half-bond was briefly brought up, but he hadn't known that they gave it any more consideration once he denied its existence.

He didn't know they thought that this is what their relationship is.

It's not that Stray's opposed to the idea, or even upset about them thinking this, it's just confusing—a half-bond is something that only happens when one of the pairing connects their energy to the other's magic core without it being reciprocated.

Most often, the half-bond gets returned and turned into a full familiar one.

It can be removed but it's rare, it damages both of the sides' magic and affects their core energy. It affects their health, their very nature.

And to have that and not realize is such a little possibility—

"A... half bond?" Kaigon looks uncomfortable.

"Do you know what that is?" Ras asks, no judgment. When the voidwalker shakes their head, the phoenix calmly explains what it is. It takes a little bit to process, a little extra to fully share than what it took with the youngling, but they get there.

"Oh." They look greatly uncomfortable now but worse of all, they don't deny it. "I-I didn't know that that's what it's called."

Oziamon looks concerned by this. "You were never taught about the different bonds?"

"No," Kaigon winces, looking away, hands twisting together in front of them. "Our coven wasn't—they weren't very big on teaching."

The rest went unsaid, the demands and punishments and horrors not needing to be voiced. The voidwalker is the only one who knows all of it, the only one who remembers, but the rest of them know pieces.

They have enough to read between the lines.

Stray has enough nightmares to stitch the pieces together.

"I get that," Oz nods slowly, carrying on the conversation. "If you'd like, I could teach you about it all."

"About the bonds?"

"No—well, yes, but I meant magic. I could teach you real magic, raw energy, the magic that's kind and how to use your power without hurting yourself or others. Good magic."

"I-I'd like that, I think," Kaigon gives a hesitant nod, looking more than surprised at the offer. "Good magic. Yeah, I'd like to learn, please."

"Cool," Oziamon smiles. "We'll start once Stray can shift back."

Annoyance-curiosity, ask about the bond, the youngling interjects, twisting to growl this at his dad, who raises an eyebrow in response. Please-curious, I'm anxious, wonder-please?

"What'd he say?" Ras questions, pausing from organizing the med-kit to give the two dragons his attention—the witches do the same.

"He wants Oz 'n Kaigon to go back to talkin' about the bond," Athanasius says, voice a slow drawl as he finishes setting healing magic into the marks. "I think he wants to know if you have the bond or not."

As soon as those words leave the big dragon's mouth, the sour scent of the voidwalker's panic and shame slams into his senses, making him whine.

Atlas rumbles at him, soothing the dread in his heart that's weighing it down.

But it's not him who needs the comfort—

Why can he never be there for his voidwalker when he needs to be? Why must there always be a barrier, always something that separates them?

"It's okay, no one's upset," Oziamon gives him a worried look but turns to Kaigon, whose face is a little pale. His brown eyes widen slightly and he raises his hands a little, placating the younger witch a bit. "You're not in trouble, Kaigon, it's okay. We wanted to know, that's it. It's okay if you have a half-bond, bud, we don't have the authority to get you in trouble and even if we did, no one would be upset, okay?"

The nod Kaigon gives is jerky and quick, followed by a sharp inhale.

It's okay, Stray nudges his snout closer, touching, and gives a soft snuffle.

The voidwalker places a hand on his head, right below the base of his horns, and it says a lot that Athanasius doesn't immediately snap at them.

"It's okay if you need a minute," Ras says, patiently. "Do you want a distraction?"

When they get another nod, Oziamon is quick to jump into a dramatic retelling of something that happened when he was a teenager.

The story is full of twisted descriptions and weird conversations and nights spent on cold streets but mornings spent in a warm building surrounded by laughter. Of moonlit midnights curled under the stars and afternoons playing guitar on a busy street corner.

There's an old friend—a shark familiar—who left him heartbroken.

There's an old man, hints towards a bad coven life in the 'before meeting Atlas and Ras' phase of his life, a deep creek with weird crystals at the bottom, and a large willow tree he broke his arm falling out of.

By the time Kaigon calmed down, they looked exhausted.

They're trying to pay attention to the story as much as they can, but their eyes keep wanting to close, and they've curled themselves around Stray's head. Panic attacks are exhausting, and they've had two and a major anxiety-inducing surprise.

He's careful not to move, lying comfortably squished between his dad and his witch.

His eyes, too, start to close on their own accord.

Stray's warm and safe, surrounded by his hoard. There's no reason not to relax.

"—then, I got kicked out of this pub! It was bullshit!" Oz swears, tone contradicting the words with its softness, voice barely above a whisper.

When the voidwalker doesn't open their eyes, the older witch pauses.

"Let 'em sleep," Athanasius instructs, big wings shifting to cover the two youngling's forms. The golden dragon sighs slightly, sinking into the warmth. "It's been a long day."

"Little gremlin's taking a nap, too," Oziamon notes.

Stray wishes he could flip him off but, as it is, he can't shift and is way too comfortable to do so even if he had hands.

Through half-closed eyes, he sees as Ozzy shuffles over to lean against the big dragon's side. Ras shifts and perches on her witch's knee—the familiar trilling quietly when pale fingers brush over the feathers on his neck.

"Eh," his dad deadpans, letting them stay close. "Both of 'em deserve the rest."

"Mm, they do," he agrees, reaching up to fix his skewed glasses. "Think Kaigon will adjust easily? Well, as easy as Aster did?"

The youngling lets the noise fade into the background, starting to drift off.

"I'm not sure," Athanasius starts, sighing—he doesn't hear, or doesn't remember, what the other says before he's asleep.