The Golden Dragon's Hoard

1 - 12

"Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free."
― Jim Morrison

I really like this chapter, so I hope you do too!

Part One - Chapter Twelve
"The Nervous Little Dragon"

Stray's alone again when Erasmus comes home from running errands.

Athanasius went off to clean the kitchen and Oziamon's closing down the shop even though it hasn't technically been open all day. He's sitting in the nest, fiddling with long and thin pieces of metal that his protector said he could make into anything.

Ras comes in and he stills, not yet spotted by the phoenix carrying a couple books.

The other blond hums as he walks over to one of the shelves and starts filing the books away, wings lax and smooth behind her, little sparks flickering off of the feathers.

The hatchling is a bit nervous but, shouldered with the confidence that Oziamon's and his protector's actions created, he's not really scared. Besides, he's in the nest. Nothing can hurt him in the nest.

He hesitates, takes a deep breath. "Ras?"

The phoenix jumps, wings flaring out on either side of him, one smacking the shelf as she whirls around. The little dragon winces in sync with the familiar, knowing how that had to hurt.

Blazing blue eyes are wide and pinned onto him, mouth shaped into an 'o'.

"Ras?" Stray sits up, wings twitching behind him as his tail wraps tight around his own waist. He raises a shaky hand, pointing. "Ras?"

"That's me," Ras says, voice all scratchy and tight. "You're..."

"Stray." He twists the metal in his hands. "I'm Atlas'."

"You're his little dragon," the phoenix breathes out, wings folding in on either side of him, though his eyes don't leave the small boy's frame. "You shifted."

The hatchling nods, a whine crawling up his throat.

"Oh, it's okay, I'm sorry," he rushes to apologize as she sees Stray's wobbling lip. "It's okay, I'm not angry. Just—surprised. I'm not mad, mate. You're safe with me, I'm not going to hurt you."

Stray rushes to nod, fingers abandoning the metal to grip onto a pillow instead.

Words are—difficult. He doesn't know what to say.

"Hey, little one," Ras croons softly. "Can you take a deep breath for me?"

Registering the burn of his lungs, the little dragon takes a gasping breath in, curling around the pillow. He squishes his face into the fabric, wings coming up to wrap around his frame, tail tightening in its place.

He breathes in pace with the phoenix until his heart calms down.

Without the blood rushing through his ears and the curl of panic in his chest that likes to twist things up, he can smell the phoenix's scent—worried, relieved. No anger.

Peeking out of his self-made hidey hole, Stray finds himself blinking slowly at Ras who's at the edge of the nest and giving him a patient smile.

"You with me, sweetheart?" He gives the hatchling a slow blink back.

Stray snuffles a yes, extending a hand over the edge of the nest.

Moving slowly, the phoenix leans closer and holds onto it, warm fingers slightly calloused as they brush over his knuckles.

"You're doing great, little one," Ras says softly. "Are you feeling better?"

The little dragon gives him a thumbs up with his free hand.

The phoenix laughs, pulling back a bit in surprise. Her hand tightens softly before relaxing, not enough to hurt but just enough to send a flare of heat down his arm.

The contact still does not hurt, it's as nice as it's always been.

Stray loosens his grip on the pillow, edging his wings back as he leans towards the older.

"Ras?" He says again.

The phoenix's eyes light up. "Yes?"

The hatchling sticks out his hand, not letting go of the one he's already holding.

Ras laughs softly and reaches out, clasping their palms together, fingers overlapping. He happily shakes their hands together, up and down like Atlas had done so to him earlier.

"Stray," the little one says once their hands drop.

"Stray? Is that your name?" She asks. The hatchling nods and gets a bright smile in return. "I'm glad to know, calling you 'dragon' in my head was getting a little weird."

The baby dragon laughs, palms coming down to squeeze Ras's hand, merrily kicking his feet against the blankets. He lets himself tumble forward, clumsily falling into the hug that the phoenix is quick to wrap him up into.

A hand gently combs through his hair, a hum following the action.

Stray huddles closer, a happy purr in his chest.

There's no anger here, either, there's just a solid acceptance and a welcoming embrace.

It's nice to be wanted, no matter if he's wearing his scales or his skin.

-——-——-

Ras and Athanasius are tending to the garden in front of the shop, the phoenix humming as he lets his wings spread slightly to catch onto the sunlight as his protector sits on his knees, elbow-deep into dirt.

Oziamon's sitting behind the little dragon, softly singing under his breath in tune to his familiar's humming, hand threading through Stray's golden curls.

There's no magic being used, no spell or wards etched into any of the coven's skin.

"Ozzy?" The hatchling says, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?" The witch turns to him, warm brown eyes squinting open. "What's up?"

"Question," he says, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"Answer," the other playfully replies, nudging their heads together.

"Touch... there's no hurt," Stray awkwardly waves his hands around for a second before resting them over one of the witch's. "See? No hurt. Why?"

Oziamon stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly agape. "You're—asking why touch doesn't hurt?"

"S'meant to," he explains. Just like magic is meant to.

"No, it's not." Something angry, then, flashes through those brown eyes. Stray shrinks back but doesn't run away. Anger's terrifying but he's safe here. "It's never supposed to hurt, no matter what. Hurting someone when you touch them is a choice and whoever hurt you, sunshine, chose wrong."

He pulls back slightly, looking up at the witch incredulously. It feels like everything's just shifted slightly, it's off.

Touch isn't supposed to hurt?

"Oh," the hatchling whispers, turning back to look at the two familiars.

Something aching and sad twists up into his chest. It's cold, heavy.

He wraps his arms around his knees, pulling them close as he rests his back against the witch. An arm gets lightly placed around his shoulders—no pain comes with it.

Oziamon says nothing more and neither does he.

Touch isn't supposed to hurt but for a long, long time, it did.

Stray didn't deserve that.