1 - 2

"No dragon can resist the fascination of riddling talk and of wasting time trying to understand it."

― J.R.R. Tolkien

Hi to everyone who has come back! I appreciate that you're giving this story a try and welcome any feedback you have to give me! Have a good day :D))

Part One - Chapter Two

"The Trapped Little Dragon"

Perched on top of a little ledge—the farthest corner inside of the shop—sits the little dragon, snout barely over the edge as he stares out into the darkness. His golden-white scales stand out against the shadows but he knows he won't be seen.

The shop's quiet and Stray's done this hundreds of times before.

Regardless, his heart still pounds heavy in his chest.

There's always a fear of getting caught, a fear that the witch and their two familiars are going to get him and not let him go. A fear of cages and chains and burning ropes, of cold and dark places that are far too empty. A fear of being used like so many of his ancestors have, like he has too.

But surviving is scary and he's lived through worse so he has to do what he must.

Besides, he knows that the witch isn't even here right now.

Even with the storm raging outside, Stray had seen them leave with both of their familiars following right at their heel. They're tall, a brunet with curly hair and a silver tongue. A weird one to the townsfolk; known for being kind for the sake of kindness and nothing more.

The little dragon doesn't understand it and he doesn't trust it.

He trusts the other's familiars even less.

One, at first glance, is a giant raven—older than the witch in appearance but shorter with blond hair cut to the chin and a laugh almost always ready on their lips—but at the second, after spotting the sparks at the edge of feathers and the flaming blue eyes, is a phoenix with a potent air around him.

Death and resurrection in a swirling mix; creation magic is a little less rare than dragons like him are.

The second, and by far the one who scares the hatchling the most, is a familiar taller than their own witch and built like a warrior. Strong, fast, with sharp crimson eyes and a frown always marring their face. Long red hair, almost always braided, and covered in jewels.

The little dragon doesn't know what type of familiar they are, but whatever type they are, it's a powerful one.

While the phoenix has creation magic and the witch they serve seems to have a strong connection to nature and light, this familiar has thick and clingy magic—protection and healing and, oddly enough, smelling of iron.

Stray doesn't know what to make of it, what kind of magic they could have, but if there's one thing that makes him hesitate to steal, it's this creature. Unknown but lethal.

After the hesitation, though, there's the desperation and that pushes him forward.

The witch and their familiars are out, Stray thinks he heard them talking about finding someone right before he crawled through the unlocked window (which is right next to his little corner), and it provides the perfect opportunity to steal some food.

With his white scales, he blended in perfectly with the raging storm and snow-dotted land that surrounded the shop. It makes it easy to sneak into.

Easy to sneak past them as they were heading out, too.

Past the erratic sound of his heartbeat, all that can be heard is the rain pelting against the roof and the wispy roaring of water from the floors above him—where he believes the tiny coven actually lives—creaking with every gust of wind.

After shaking the water off his wings, Astraeus glides down from the little ledge and tries not to focus on the way his whole body shivers. The rain was not only harsh but it's cold, too cold.

His scales can only protect him so much; his heartfire isn't enough to keep him warm.

Stumbling to a stop on top of a shelf, he rights himself onto three legs. His hurt one gets held up to his chest, away from the dangers of putting too much weight on it—he's not sure it isn't still broken, as there's an almost constant ache to it even after months of no use.

But he can't focus on that now.

Can't focus on the way his instincts cry for somewhere warm and for someone to protect him from the scariness of the world. Somewhere away from the pain of an injured limb and from the chill of damp scales.

The little dragon has a job to do, and he begins the journey to do it.

Climbing down the shelf is always a bit tricky. With wings that can hook onto the edges at the tops, he's able to drag himself from level to level even with a lame leg, but his tail and small horns often catch onto something.

He has to get them unstuck and has to do it slowly because otherwise he risks knocking something—or himself—off and he's not looking to get caught or injured further.

On a level parallel to the shop's counter, Stray drags himself to stand on the edge. He's always been grateful that this shelf has little trinkets pushed to the back, they're easy to maneuver and they rarely make loud noises when he does knock into them on accident.

It makes this next move—which he had to relearn after two legs became four and when four became three—of jumping from the shelf to the top of the cash register much easier.

Easier but still a bit hard.

The little dragon barely catches himself from toppling right over the edge, a small squeal escaping from between his teeth as he pulls himself onto the counter. He huffs at it as soon as he's up, tail lashing behind him as he gives a small growl to the register.

Stupid metal hunk of caged coins, it's too slippery.

But he bested it, he did!

After the hatchling caught his breath and his scales stopped hurting from trading out the freezing storm for the warmth of the shop, he made his way over to the chest.

Opening it was always a pain in the ass, his paws might be like little hands but his claws aren't nearly as useful as human fingers are, so it takes multiple tries.

It takes a couple minutes to get the damned thing unlatched and open and by the end of it, Stray's puffing out big breaths of air.

But it is, nonetheless, open.

With wings spread behind him as he wobbles into the small opening, he uses his tail to drag out a small bag of dried meat and puts it in between his jaws. With a sharp jerk of his head, he flings it onto the counter where it hits with a thunk!

Returning to face the chest after giving a small squeak from the success, he brings up a small thing of berries and repeats the process.

Once he's done, as he always does, he puts some little rocks that he collected in their place. It'd be rude to leave the witch with nothing, after all, and this witch already has plenty of rocks in their hoard.

Stray's sure they'll appreciate these rocks, too.

They're shiny and small enough to play with! Which are the best type of rocks.

Jumping on top of the chest, it snaps closed and Stray delights in the sharp sound that it makes. He's rarely able to be loud, to be present, to exist outside of precautions.

It's nice to be able to hear something other than his own heartbeat.

He churrs lightly in the back of his throat, happy with himself—

Then the door is slamming open and all that joy disappears in a blink.

Astraeus doesn't hesitate and throws himself under the counter just as a large body stumbles through, clunky feet scraping against the stone floor—the witch. It's the witch coming in through the door and Stray's underneath the counter.

The witch is right there and Stray's underneath the counter. The counter can't protect him, it can't protect him at all.

The counter is a horrible hiding spot.

His heart is pounding so hard, so fast, inside his chest that it hurts.

He doesn't notice as his wings flare out before it's too late. The edge sends a flare of pain through him as it scarps against the counter wall harshly, and he quickly snaps them shut, barely stopping the whimper from sounding out loud.

He has to be silent, he has to be still and silent.

The witch is here, grumbling to themself as they stomp their boots onto the rug, and Stray can see them from the gap at the bottom of the counter.

They look angry.

The hatchling doesn't like angry people and angry people don't like him.

And—he's not supposed to be here. He's not supposed to be here, so they'll be angry, so he has to stay hidden and silent, he's trapped but they don't know he's trapped.

The witch is angry. He can't get caught by another angry witch.

The shaking that's taken over the little dragon's body is almost violent. He'd rather be freezing again, he'd rather be shivery and out in the rain and the snow—he'd rather be anywhere but this.

The door's still open, the storm still raging, but if it wasn't Stray's certain that the way his claws are digging into the floor below him and the harsh way his heart's thudding in his chest would be audible even to the dull hearing that witches have.

But it's not just the witch.

It's not just the witch because there's their familiars coming in through to door, there they are—the phoenix and the mystery—they're not even damp from the rain—

The witch wasn't grumbling to themself, they were talking to them—

Astraeus struggles to breath but all that leaves his chest is pathetic little wheezes. In his ears they're too loud past the rushing of blood. He holds his breath.

He'd rather not be breathing than be caught.

He can't go through that again, he can't.

"We should've stayed out longer," the witch complains as soon as the scary familiar closes the door. Their hair is all over, curling in front of their wet glasses and sticking up from under their beanie. "We didn't see him once." The witch rips off their hat and Stray wants to cry as it's whipped to the side, a frustrated hand dragging through brown hair. "Not a single fucking time and we searched everywhere!"

Stray's been on the other side of a witch's frustration before, of their violent outbursts. He has the scars from it and he doesn't want more; he can't handle getting more.

He doesn't know the boundaries, the rules, how far is far enough for this witch.

The last one barely had limits. Would this one be the same?

"Calm down, Ozzy," the phoenix orders and isn't that strange? A familiar having the gulls to order a witch around? "We don't need to see him to know that he's okay."

"Just because he isn't hurt yet doesn't mean he won't be!" The witch—Ozzy—sneers as they cup the back of their neck with shaky hands. They look somewhere between furious and scared.

The hatchling hates it, hates how the sight of a furrowed brow can make him feel like he's dying all over again.

"Will or won't, there's not much we can do. I'm sorry."

"He could be stuck out there, Ras," Ozzy whispers, tension flooding from the air as their hands drop from their neck. "It's too cold for him to, to..."

"Hey, it's okay," the phoenix, Ras apparently, places a hand on Ozzy's shoulder as the other familiar stands there, silent but watching. "He'll make it. The little guy's tough."

Their hand squeezes twice but the witch doesn't seem to be in any distress from it.

That's always been such a curious thing to the little dragon, how their touch doesn't seem to hurt one another. He wonders, even now as fear shakes him down to his bones, if it's magic—maybe a spell they use to make the sharp stings of contact hurt less.

Could he get the same magic? Could he find a way to make touch that doesn't hurt?

"Oziamon," the scary one sighs out and Stray has to force down the whine that wants to slip from his throat. His claws dig into the floor harder, his bad leg throbbing with pain as it takes the brunt of his weight.

This familiar sends his instincts into a frenzy and he doesn't know why.

Ignorant to this, they continue. "None of us had a premonition of him bein' hurt and we found nothin' that suggested that he failed to find a good shelter for the night."

"Atlas," the witch, Ozzy or Ozaimon, faces the familiar—Atlas, what an odd name—with an unreadable look in their eyes. "We don't even know what he is, just that he's a clever little fucker and a sweetheart, always leaving things for what he takes, that he's young. What if he's not... what if he's not the type that can stand this kind of weather?"

Who are they talking about? Stray wonders.

Did he miss another familiar, another witch? Is there a fourth to their coven?

"Like you said," Atlas replied. "He's clever. Hardy type or not, he'll make it."

"The best we can do tonight is wait it out," the phoenix joins back into the conversation, gentle but stern. "We can't risk one of us getting hurt searching for him, not in a storm this bad."

The witch tugs at their hair and hangs their head. "But—"

"Tomorrow," the scary familiar says, nodding solemnly.

The familiar looks angry but Stray knows, despite what his screaming anxiety is telling him, that they always kinda looks like that. It mustn't be fun, having a face that says I'm mad.

"Tomorrow?" Oziamon sniffles as Ras takes their glasses off to clean them. It's weird how they interact with one another. They're treating each other the same, like they're equals.

Stray knows they're not.

Familiars are never on the same level, never allowed the same things, as witches.

It's why he's under the counter, it's why he's hiding. It's why he needs to stay hidden because he's not only a familiar but he's a dragon. He's young and powerless.

These are the worst things to be and he's all of them.

There's ugliness in the world, he had been told. And you're most of it, Stray.

"We'll go searchin' for him tomorrow, just to be sure," Atlas promises. The tense way they're holding their shoulders relaxes just a smidge as their witch nods and leans against the phoenix. "Tonight, we rest."

The way they seem to be calming down foolishly gives the little dragon hope.

Maybe he'll be able to escape, maybe they'll go upstairs and fall asleep and he'll go. Maybe they won't catch him, maybe they won't even see him.

He'll have to abandon the food he snatched to get out quickly but surviving another night, avoiding another cage, is worth going hungry for another day.

An empty stomach is better than a grave.

As the small coven devolves into another conversation, Stray creeps out of his hiding place and slowly rounds the edge of the counter while they make their way through the start of the shop.

The scary familiar is looking around and the little dragon doesn't dare to take another step as red eyes sweep the shelves and even the door to see outside, but never onto him.

Once they focus back onto their witch and although the scary familiar's face is to the side of where Stray is pressed into the wood, there's a dip in their brow that wasn't there before, so the little dragon quickly skitters across the floor to hide again.

He has to be quick. Quick and silent.

The phoenix laughs—it sounds a bit like cawing—and the little dragon uses the opportunity to climb up the shelf he's now against. Going up is always easier than coming down and the adrenaline helps him ignore the aching limbs.

Being tense for so long always leaves him shaky and weak.

He can't be weak, though, he needs to get out, he needs to leave.

Stray can't go back to the cold metal bars, the cage, the taunting and the rough magic scratching against his scales like knives. He refuses to. He would rather die than go back.

As he's trying to pull himself onto the top of the shelf, the phoenix asks, "Which one of you left the food out? I told you to pick up after yourselves, mates."

"Neither of us," the witch answers, sounding confused. "It wasn't there when we left."

"Check the chest," the scary familiar orders.

A pause, the sound of the latch opening, a sharp breath in.

"Rocks."

Stray's frozen in place, half hanging over the edge of the aisle, muscles and wings straining with the effort to keep him in place. The coven isn't in view but they're only a couple feet away from him, it would be easy for one of them to round the corner, to grab him—

Footsteps, the flick of a switch, light eating out the darkness of the shop—

The hatchling heaves himself to the top as a boom of thunder shatters the silence, a sharp fear tearing through his heart as he squints through the brightness traveling down to him. The darkness was better, kinder. It hid him, it allowed him hope.

There's nothing hopeful about the light, about how it shows every ugly truth.

And the truth is—as the little dragon peers over the ledge and sees red eyes peering up at him—that he's not getting out of this one.

Too scared to move, Astraeus is paralyzed by an instinctual need to stay still.

He's looking into the eyes of a predator and although he's one himself, this one is so much bigger. A coyote pup staring into the eyes of a wolf. One move and he's dead.

The pupils turn into pinpricks as they stare at him and the little dragon lets out a long, drawn out whine. He's scared. He's so scared.

There's more eyes on him and if he were in his human form, he'd be close to sobbing.

The witch and the phoenix are there, flanking Atlas on either side. Wolves travel in packs and this hunter isn't without one.

Stray's alone, though. There's no one who's going to help him.

He's trapped in their den, trapped by eyes as sharp as claws.

They're staring and Stray doesn't know where to go.

He doesn't know what to do, where to run—does he run? Does he try to make it to that corner before they can make it to him?

What if he fails? What if they catch him? If he gets caught—

Will they lock him up, chain him, choke him?

They'll hurt him, they'll hurt him just like he got hurt before—like how he hurt Stray.

Stupid baby dragon, stupid worthless boy, thinking that they wouldn't, thinking it was safe to take, take, take and never give. Thinking they won't break bones, create more wounds.

The hatchling has to get out, he has to run and escape before they give him more scars.

Another lightning strike, a loud clap of thunder following that makes the little dragon twists around. Running but limping as he flings himself off the edge, he whimpers as surprised—or angry, he can't tell with the blood rushing in his ears—shouts follow the move.

He has to—he needs to leave, he—

With a single, wobbly flap, he's boosted towards the edge.

It hurts, especially with how he hit the edge of his wing earlier, but he makes it. He's only a small leap away from his little corner—from safety.

He crashes into the other shelf, the one right below it, and doesn't bother to register the pain in his leg or the buzzing ache traveling up his side before he's moving to get up there.

The little dragon bends his back legs and jumps—

Only to be caught by strong, gentle hands.

No! Astraeus cries out and they wrap around his torso, holding tight but being mindful of his frantically flapping wings.

He's dragged backwards, off the shelf that he desperately clings to, it hurts with how he uses his lame leg to latch on.

Being hurt is better than being caught.

The hatchling cries out again and again—scared, scared, scared—and forces his claws to dig in harder and harder into the wood but the wards are too strong, they won't fail, they won't give—

Help! The baby dragon screeches, a pained whimper spilling out of his jaw as the fingers brush against his broken leg, detaching it from the shelf. Hurt, scared-scared, help!

"Shh, sh, little one," a rumble of safe-safe-safe catches his attention and makes the sharp whines grow a little quieter. It makes the anxiety smaller but he knows better, he knows he should be scared.

He knows better than to let go of the terror.

"It's okay, hatchling, it's alright." A short but firm huff, let go. "You're alright."

Scared! Astraeus wails as he's forced fully off of the shelf, his squirming not making a single difference in the hold they have on him. Help, help! Scared-hurt-scared, help!

Safe, a chuff answers, deep and certain. Safe-safe, protected.

The hands shift on him, a thumb brushing against his neck, against the thick scar twisting up his scales. His instincts scream, memories crashing against his mind.

He stalls—he knows better. He knows better than to fight, than to—

Sorry-sorry-sorry, the little dragon whimpers, flattening his wings to hide his head as the hands draw him towards a chest that's, somehow, warmer than the hands are. Sorry-sorry, hurt, scared-sorry. Sorry!

Calm down, runt, a hand settles over the hatchling's wings, gently stroking down his spine as his claws hook into their shirt—they're too dull to break the fabric. Calm, safe-safe-safe.

The rumble switches, then, to something smoother.

It's almost like a purr, echoing chuffs that fill his ears, and it settles the raging panic that encases his system, pulling stuttering breaths from his unworking lungs.

He hears a heart underneath his ear, steady and strong.

"That's it, little one." The chuffs shake with the voice and Astraeus wails again, softer than before but no less terrified. "You're alright, hatchling, I'm not going to let anythin' hurt you."

Scared, a hiccupped breath shakes his already trembling frame. Hurt-hurt, scared. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

It's alright. You're protected, a short growl answered. Safe-safe-safe.

His head leans unwillingly against the other's chest, instincts desperate for the noises telling him he's safe but mind unyielding in the belief that he's not.

He can't be safe, not when he's just been caught.

The stupid baby dragon in his mind doesn't know that, though, and Astraeus struggles to fight against the way he clings to the person's shirt, the rumbly purr telling him to settle. Telling him there's no danger, telling him that nothing can hurt him.

It's not true but slowly, his breath starts to even out.

The panic eases and air fills his lungs in something more than little gasps. The trembling hasn't let up but his spikes have flattened down, tail curled around the hand that holds up his bottom half.

They're so much bigger than him.

The hatchling never stood a chance.

He digs his nails into their shirt tighter, wings wrapped as tightly around himself as he can get them—they're the only barrier between him and the giant hand that's cupping his upper body.

The hand is warm and the hold is protective but Astraeus's still terrified.

He doesn't understand what's going on. He doesn't know what will happen.

His body aches, it hurts, but he can't figure out if it hurts the same way as before or if the one holding him has a touch that hurts. They aren't holding him tightly, it's not even restrictive, just enough that he won't be able to escape.

Scared, the hatchling whines, choking back the pathetic squeaks that want to get out.

He can't give them reasons to get angry, he can't make noise. Be silent, be still, be good.

That's how he survives.

"Shh, sh, young one," the chest vibrates underneath him as they speak and shakes further as a rumble soothes, safe-safe, protected. Hurt?

Hurt, scared-scared, the little dragon answers before he can think about it. Hurt-hurt, sorry, sorry, sorry!

A chuff starts up and the hand strokes a small course down his wings, reassuring him that it's okay—but it's not okay! Astraeus has been bad and he knows what happens to bad dragons.

Sorry! The wail is quieter than he wanted it to be. Sorry!

Safe, a growl promises, deeper than he's ever heard. Safe, protected, nothing will hurt you. Safe-calm-safe. As he starts to panic again, heart fluttering rapidly in his chest, the hands press down a little more, flattening out against him.

They're warm, almost burning as they press into the little dragon's scales but it seems to be what he needed to settle down.

After a couple moments with nothing more than his heartbeat and a chuff in his ears, the silence and fragile calm that's gathered around them breaks.

"Is he okay?" Someone asks—the witch, he thinks it's the witch—and Astraeus flinches, burrowing himself closer to the warmth. "Hell... he sounded terrified."

The words run like water through the baby dragon's mind, instincts diluting his thoughts until they don't make sense. He's hearing it but he doesn't understand.

He does, however, understand the rumble underneath his chest.

The constant promise of safe-safe-safe and the warmth makes the exhaustion that's seeping in during his adrenaline crash seem like a good thing.

He knows he can't sleep, though.

"He is," the one holding him answers, thumbs brushing down his spikes. "I think he got overwhelmed and the hatchling's hurt, Oziamon."

"Hatchling?" The phoenix, he thinks, asks. They sound funny. Surprised, scared almost.

"Hatchling, a baby," the scary familiar—because if the witch and phoenix weren't the ones holding him, that only left the mystery—reaffirms as they gives another short growl of protection. "He's barely old enough to be out of the nest, let alone livin' on his own. Just a youngling."

Two sharp intakes of breaths makes Stray jerk, his wings hooking onto the shirt now too. The witch steps closer and he freezes.

Predator! He whines, hiding his head further against the chest, little horns butting the other's collar bone. Scared-scared-scared, predator!

"Back up," the familiar snarls, hands shielding him further as their body twists to hide the little dragon from view. "He doesn't understand, you're just scarin' him more. Right now, you and Ras are just predators."

Scared-scared, the little dragon whines.

Safe, you're okay, runt, is answered as soon as the predator steps away. Safe-safe.

"He's hurt," Oziamon replies after a pause, voice strained. "We need to heal him."

"Let 'im calm down further," Atlas says, patting his wing gently. "He's tired himself out, I think. It'll be easier to take care of any injuries when he's asleep."

"Will your instincts allow us near him?" Ras questions, the phoenix sounding a weird mix between amused and concerned. "You're all keyed up, mate."

"I'm fine," the scary familiar huffs. "He's just so... he's so little, man."

"He's the size of a kitten," the witch muses. "I think, anyway. Hard to see the baby when you're smothering him."

"Heat helps," Atlas informs, the chuffing rolling his words as the man stands. Stray trembles harder with the movement but doesn't peek out. "The runt was far too cold. Hatchlings aren't supposed to be away from warmth for long periods of time."

They're swaying from side to side now, the voices moving as if they're getting further away. The little dragon's too tired to try and figure out what's happening.

With drooping eyes, he pulls himself closer to the chest.

"Yeah," the phoenix sighs. "Being cold is never good for young ones."

"You think he'll be alright, Atty?" The witch asks, the creak of a door opening following the words. "Looked like he was limping, earlier."

"His leg's hurt." The scary familiar agrees, humming softly as his voice goes quieter. "We'll know more when he get the chance to look at 'im." A pause. "I think the hatchling's fallin' asleep."

"Good," Ras hummed, too. Stray barely heard it. "Little one probably needs it."

"Mm. Probably been a while since he got good sleep."

It's the last thing that—even when fighting against it—the hatchling hears before he's falling asleep.