He followed her at a leisurely pace. He wasn't worried about losing her in the dense forest. She was a noisy creature. She was easy to find. For her sake, he hoped he was the only one looking for her. He silently leaped from tree to tree, stealthily staying in the shadows.
This was not a trail he'd seen her use yet. Slowly, the meandering trail began to climb. She took the inclines with grace. She was red-faced but smiling, seeming to enjoy the exercise. They continued to follow the trail until he couldn't follow her anymore. The trees thinned as the trail climbed to a rocky ledge. He watched her finish the hike up to the ledge and drop herself onto the ground. Wren climbed up the tree he was perched on. His kind was gifted with enhanced senses. He could easily see her lying in the dirt. He assumed she was taking a break. That last stretch of the trail seemed to tire her out.
He made himself comfortable on his branch. After her break, she got up and stretched. Then she started…to collect rocks? Was this a witch thing? He leaned forward and watched her intently. She was rather nimble as she navigated the rocks, even jumping from rock to rock. She would pick up a rock and turn it around in her hands. She would feel the sides of it. Some she put back down, others she put in her pack.
He knew what it looked like. It looked like she was collecting, like she was hoarding, which was something he was very familiar with. All dragons felt the urge to collect, or hoard. Dragons with a sense of stability could hoard all sorts of things. Gold, clothes, art, and decapitated heads of enemies. It was a biological urge shared by his kind. Dragons without a sense of stability, like himself, had to suffer. It was an ache that never went away. An itch he couldn't scratch. To surround yourself with things that bring you joy is to have joy. To surround yourself with things you love is to feel love. He hasn't felt those things in a long time. All he had was a small pouch on his hip that he could put small trinkets that caught his eye.
He watched the witch as she collected. He watched her pick up promising rocks and measure their worth. He watched the bright smile that broke out on her face each time she put one in her pack. He felt a deep pull at his core. The deep impulse to find somewhere safe and settle. To surround himself with treasures that brought love and joy. Dragons were not meant to be solitary animals, but he had been alone for too long. Maybe he could join the little witch. He hadn't seen any indicators that she was dangerous. He could help her collect. He bet she would let him put some rocks in her pack, too.
Wren shifted his weight on the branch he was perched on. A loud 'CRACK' echoed through the forest as the branch snapped. He fell down to the forest floor, smacking harshly into branches on his way down. He landed in an undignified lump. He hasn't fallen out of a tree since he was a hatchling. How embarrassing. He checked his wings to make sure he didn't make the wounds worse.
He quickly scaled a nearby tree. He scanned the rocky cliff but didn't see the witch. Wren leaped through the tree line. He scanned the ledge and found the witch. She was sitting on the ground, shoving at something with a stick. He hopped a few trees closer, stopping at the last line of trees. Her face was red, and she was sweating. She had the stick wedge under a large rock and was using her whole upper body to push on it.
In the last few days of watching her, he'd seen her do some pretty idiotic things, but this might be the worst. There was no way she was going to be able to lift that rock off herself. He grinned while he watched her struggle. He wondered how long it would take before she gave up and used magic. Witches were always so dependent on their magic. The branch snapped, and the witch threw herself back with a visible groan, then immediately rubbed the back of her head where it had hit the rocks. She would have to use her magic now that her pathetic attempt failed, but she didn't. The witch lay back on the rock and appeared to give up on life altogether. He stayed perched in the tree, waiting for her to give up and use magic. He waited and waited and watched the most pathetic witch in existence stay stuck under a rock.
He felt irrationally angry at the situation. How was this the witch he was worried about? This sad little thing didn't have the willpower to lift a rock, never mind trap and torture him. He was silent and nimble as he climbed and crossed the distance between them. He observed her for a few seconds right out of her eye line. He watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her face was set in a grimace from the pain. His eyes scanned her body lying on top of the rocks. He noticed the divots where the sharp edges pushed into her skin. Her ankle disappeared under the rock with a little line of blood serving as the divider from the skin to the stone.
He moved to the left and cast his shadow over her. Her whole body jerked in shock, then she immediately hissed out in pain. She stared up at him like a dumb little bunny caught in a snare. He stood up straighter and preened slightly. He rather liked the feeling of standing over the helpless, stupefied little witch.
"Are you an idiot?" He asked her.
She still looked bewildered as she shrugged.
It was exactly like bullying a dumb little bunny. "Why don't you use, I don't know, your magic to get the rock off you?"
"I didn't want to scare you."
"Why the hell would that scare me?"
"You said my magic scared you!" She sputtered out, waving her hand at him.
He gave her a hard look. "I never said I was scared of your magic, you pathetic little witch.'
"You said you felt hunted when I used my magic." She argued.
He snarled at her, making sure to clank his incisors at her. "I felt hunted because you were hunting me!"
"I wasn't hunting you, I was checking on you!" She insisted.
He stomped over to the rock that was trapping her foot. His wings were twitching angrily. "Shut up, I'm not getting into this with you again."
She wisely did as she was told and kept her mouth shut. She watched him with open curiosity. Not an inkling of suspicion or weariness. She was trapped, so much smaller and weaker than he was. He could easily kill her where she lay. He was a fierce and terrible being. He has caused all kinds of harm to others, but this little weed looked at him in wonder.
He was careful as he lifted the stone. The weight of it was of no consequence to him. He didn't want to rip and tear her foot more than it already was. For all their magic that blessed them with extended life spans and increased healing, witches are very much human in nature. Many wore spells and sigils that enhanced them, but their skin was still as thin as a baseline human, and their bones were still fragile.
Her foot was looking a little bit smashed. Her ankle was twisted in a way that most definitely suggested it was broken. The top of her foot was bleedingly sluggishly from where the flesh was scraped off. The witch had her eyes tightly clenched shut as she took measured breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth. He sat back on his heels and watched her. She didn't appear to be a witch with any battle experience. She looked green around the edges from a broken ankle; he didn't know how she could handle the gaping wounds that came from a fight. She was weak. It disgusted him.
She dug in her pack and pulled out a thin rectangular box. She slowly peeled off the sock-like shoe she had on her injured foot. She unscrewed the lid of a tin from the box. The tin was filled with a yellow cream. It had a strong citrus smell that pleasantly tickled his nose. Unconsciously, he leaned forward for a better smell. She smiled softly and offered him the tin.
"It's a healing ointment with verbena and aloe."
The cream inside the tin was thick. Now that he was holding it, he could pick up the light scent of aloe, powered by the lemony scent. He looked at her for permission before sticking his finger in the balm. She nodded her consent. He swiped the pad of his index finger across the top of the ointment. The skin of his finger cooled and tingled pleasantly. He rubbed the cream over a scrape on the back of his hand. He could feel the effects immediately. A refreshing coolness settled on the cut, and the redness disappeared from the edges.
"This is a potion." He stated, knowing without a doubt that there was spellwork woven into the cream.
She gave a little shrug. "It's a magically infused healing ointment."
"It's a potion." He gave her a flat look.
"Well, I am a witch." She said with a little too much spark for someone who was just stuck under a rock.
"I prefer not to use the term potion. It has some negative connotations to it."
He searched her face for the truth. Potion-making was integral to witchcraft. It was also a slippery slope that sent many witches into a spiral of black magic. Spellwork was hardly good or evil. Spells took on the intent of their creator, but for the most part, they were neutral, impartial to moral dilemmas. Potions were where the nefarious ways of witches bloomed. Witches quickly learned that they could get powerful results by using morally dark ingredients. Once they get a taste, most witches continue to spiral down the slope of depravity. He gave the ointment another sniff before handing it back to her. She thickly spread it over her foot. She hadn't taken the time to clean off the blood or brush off the dirt, and it smeared across her skin. She unraveled a linen bandage from the box. The bandage was covered in evenly placed spellwork. He assumed the spell work was for healing. She carefully but tightly wound it around and over her ankle and foot.
"I can't do anything about the break until I get home." She said while she worked. "This will have to do for now."
When she was done, she pinned the bandage down and packed her supplies back in her pack. He stood up to his full height and watched her awkwardly try to get off the ground without putting weight on her foot. She failed. She looked up at him sheepishly with her hands out, asking for help. He rolled his eyes at her. She was the most pathetic witch he'd ever have the displeasure of meeting. He grabbed her hands, keeping in mind how easily his talons could flay her skin. He gently pulled her to her feet, and without waiting for her to get her bearings, he swiftly tucked an arm behind her legs and scooped her into his. He tried to hide his grin at her indignant squawk. Her face was strawberry red as she held tightly to the fabric of his tunic like she was afraid he was going to drop her. Humans have always been so obsessed with their weight. The weight of her warm body was hardly noticeable. He made sure to grab her pack filled with her hoard and headed back down the trail.
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Wren's previous assessment of the witch's lack of self-preservation skills was proved accurate. He wasn't sure if it was the pain, exhaustion, or awkwardness at being carried that caused her to be blessedly quiet on their trip downhill. At the twenty-minute mark, her body slowly relaxed into a limp, dead weight in his arms. The witch fell asleep. Her head rested against his collarbone, her features smoothed out in sleep. He was shocked still at the show of trust. He stood frozen in the middle of the trail. She was completely vulnerable while she slept. Was she not aware of the danger?
Falling asleep around someone was a great show of trust. It was nearly impossible to protect oneself in sleep. Wren remembers the last coven that held him. They had him chained to a wall, arms and feet shackled, but it was hard to contain an angry dragon fully. The witches couldn't get close enough to pin his wings. They would pelt him with their magic, spelling him with unbelievable pain, but he wouldn't break. So they waited. Eventually, he would succumb to the call of sleep. He did everything he could to stay awake, but his body was beaten down, he was starved, and finally, his body shut down and slipped into sleep.
He woke up in pain. Fiery, hot pain ravaged his wings. In his sleep, they were able to get close enough to keep him unconscious while they hammered thick nails through the bones in his wings. He was broken and pinned like a beautiful butterfly framed behind glass. But it wasn't beautiful or delicate. They tore through the thick skin and muscle of his wing. The nails didn't just pierce his wing's bone; they crushed it. His feathers were torn out without mercy, leaving him a pathetic, broken thing.
This witch was asleep in his arms. He tried to imagine her pinned and broken, bleeding and bruised. He knew how easy it would be to break her bones, to kill her before she had a chance to awaken. It made him sick and uneasy. Was she even aware of the gift she was giving him? This tiny witch sleeps in his arms, unaware of the danger. Who sleeps unconcerned and unprotected in the forest. It would be so easy for something to take her, break her, kill her. Not him. His instincts raged inside him. Dragons have always been protectors. In days past, they would align themselves with Kings and protect their lands and people with fierce resolve. Dragons fought to defend their nests and their hoard. They were creatures that thrived among others.
The rational side of him knew that those days were past. His nestmates were all dead or hiding. He had no hoard to protect. He was an angry, solitary creature always skulking around in the darkness, licking his wounds. The only thing he protected was himself.
He looked down at the little witch. The sunlight filtered through the trees, highlighting her face. He tightened his grip on her. A long-forgotten feeling built up behind his chest. He could be true to his kind.
He would protect and guard this witch.
He would defend her lands and safeguard her hoard.
He swore it.