The Golden Dragon's Hoard

1 - 13

"Now that she had nothing to lose, she was free."
― Paulo Coelho

This one is one of my favorites :D))

Part One - Chapter Thirteen
"The Revenged Little Dragon"

"You up for talkin'?" Atlas asks, hoisting the little dragon off of the kitchen counter and onto his hip, bouncing him lightly to make him laugh. "Or do you just want to go play?"

"Hm," he hums, wrapping his arms around the other's neck. "Both."

His protector has been very patient with him, no matter how many times he freaks out or shifts back into his dragon to hide mid conversation, he never gets angry. He just waits, lets Stray explain anyway he needs to, and moves on.

Talking is still difficult, making any noise past a whisper makes him really antsy.

Everything else that comes with being in his human form is a bit easier.

He's able to get dressed by himself, able to brush his teeth without getting the foam everywhere, and he can use silverware without making a mess.

He still thinks hands are weird, though.

"Alright," Atlas bounces him on his hip. "What are we talkin' about, then?"

That's another thing they're doing—having him make decisions. Something about getting him to be 'independent' and 'comfortable sharing his wants'.

Stray wrinkles his nose, thinking. "Rocks?"

"Sure," the big dragon nods, carrying him towards their destination. "What's your favorite type of rock 'n why?"

Purely because the little dragon knows it will unnerve his protector, he looks him dead in the eye, blue to red, and says: "Crunchy."

Athanasius pauses.

Turns to him.

Takes a deep breath.

"Crunchy," he slowly repeats, eyes closing with a sigh. "You sayin' that 'cause it worried me when Ozzy said he ate sand?"

The hatchling giggles and kicks his legs, laughing louder when Athanasius hoists him up to his chest—lifting him in the air before catching him again.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, ya crazy child."

"No!" The hatchling protested, still smiling all goofy. He kicks his legs again, shrieking as the big dragon tickles him, before falling still. "No child."

"Runt," Atlas says, giving him a doubtful look that he doesn't appreciate. "You are very much a child. My child, no?"

Stray only blinks at him.

He doesn't like it when his age is pointed out. Being young has never been a good thing. It has only served to work against him, to play into his pain.

But now, here, with someone to take care of him...

"Yours?" The baby dragon tilts his head.

"Yes," his protector nods. "My child."

"Oh," Stray says. "Then—dad? You're my dad?"

He is fairly confident that's how it works, to non-dragons, at least.

The moment he was accepted as the hatchling's protector, Atlas was already in charge of him. He'd be a part of the big dragon's clutch, if there had been any more hatchlings.

Now, though, he's the only one in the clutch.

Athanasius's only runt—his only kid.

And well, child is the witch (and human) word for hatchlings. Dad is the human word for protector, he thinks. But then there's also moms or grand-things. He's not sure what all the differences are.

"Yes—yeah," Athanasius clears his throat, hugging him close as he chuffs and growls. Safe-safe-safe, love, mine-mine. "That would make me your dad, treasure. Are you okay with that?"

Safe-loved-yours, the little dragon purrs back, wiggling to be able to hug around his protector's neck, wings over his shoulders. "Mhm! Dad!"

The smile on his face makes his cheeks ache by the time they get outside and to the grass fields. The warmth in his chest rivals the sunlight and the hatchling can't stop giggling everytime he looks over at the familiar.

His dad smiles back at him, all fondness and in that small, shy way he does.

Oziamon thinks they look ridiculous when the witch joins them playing out in the field, but Stray doesn't care.

This is his home, his hoard.

What more could he need?

-——-——-

Athanasius finds his runt's abusers six hours away from their home in a broken-down town half hidden into a mountain side.

The ancient dragon burns it to the ground without hesitation—the witches try to stop him and barely get out with their lives. They have power, yes, but they are not powerful enough to even have hopes of stopping him.

They should've let themselves burn, they should have known being alive means nothing when survival only entails pain.

He's no witch—he cannot use spells or create wards.

But his magic is raw and as angry as he is.

By the time he is done with them, they don't remember who they are.

By the time he has released them to death's hands, he smells of iron and stings of his magic wrap around him in threads.

There is nothing left of them when he flies back home.

The only thing that remains is a burnt husk of a town and charred skeletons.

Ras tilts his head when he walks in, blue eyes blazing as the ancient dragon nods. He grins, sharp and deadly, and watches Atlas wash the blood off.

Later, Oziamon will laugh so hard he cries after hearing of their deaths.

He's a witch but he has no sympathy for those of his kind who choose cruelty, who choose power over compassion.

Athanasius, once he's fully clean, curls around his runt and falls asleep—a rumble in his chest that doesn't fade for days. He takes no satisfaction in gore or inflicting pain but to destroy those that hurt his child...

Well—that's a joy he won't ever forget.