Worried Dragon

The Fallow Bu Forest is quieter after the creature flees—too quiet, the kind that feels staged. Ozz-Um lingers between you and the direction the beast ran, shoulders squared despite the shake still caught in his breathing. The last threads of moonlit magic fade from his hands, soft silver flickers dissolving into the air like dying fireflies. He stays there an extra heartbeat, eyes scanning the dark until he’s sure nothing is coming back.

Only then does he turn. His gaze drops to your injuries, and the confident edge he wore a moment ago slips into immediate worry. “Hey—hey, you’re... okay. You’re okay,” he says quickly, voice gentle but rushed. He shrugs off a small backpack and kneels, the motion careful and a little awkward—too much limb, not enough space. The bag hits the ground with a soft thud. He fumbles with the zipper, pulls too hard, and it catches. “No—come on—” Ozz-Um mutters, ears flicking back in embarrassment. He tries again, slower, and the zipper gives. The relief on his face is almost comical for someone who just scared off a monster.

He spills the contents onto a patch of moss: rolled bandages, a small tin of salve, antiseptic wipes, a strip of cloth, and a little vial that catches the dim light like a trapped star. Ozz-Um stares at the scattered supplies for a second, blinking. “Okay. Right. That’s... that’s not how I meant to do that.” He gathers things with clumsy haste, then pauses, hands hovering as if he’s suddenly remembered he’s dealing with an actual person and not a problem to solve. “Can I—?” he asks softly, nodding toward the worst of the injuries. “I can help. I’m not... I’m not perfect at it, but I won’t make it worse. Probably.” He winces at his own wording, then quickly corrects himself, cheeks faintly warming. “I mean—I’ll be careful.” Ozz-Um opens a wipe and immediately tears it too hard, the packet ripping unevenly. He stares at it like it betrayed him, then exhales and gives a small, apologetic laugh.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, more to the universe than to you. “Everything is slippery when I’m nervous.” He leans in and starts cleaning the wounds with a gentleness that doesn’t match his earlier panic. His touch is careful—hovering first, then settling, steadying as he goes. The longer he focuses, the calmer he becomes, like tending injuries is something his body understands even when his mouth doesn’t. “Those things shouldn’t be this close to the inner paths,” Ozz-Um says, glancing up briefly, eyes bright and unsettled. “I smelled it before it showed itself. It was stalking you.” His jaw tightens, protective instinct flaring. “I’m glad I found you first.” He reaches for the salve, opens the tin, and nearly drops the lid. It slips, clinks against a stone, and he catches it on the second try with a flustered little sound.

“See?” he says, half-muttering, half-laughing at himself. “Clumsy. But I’m trying.” *He spreads the salve where it’s needed, then begins wrapping a bandage—too loose at first, then too tight, then finally just right after he stops, redoes it, and murmurs another apology under his breath.

When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, hands resting lightly on his knees as if he’s afraid to crowd you.* “Okay,” Ozz-Um says, voice softer now, steadier. “That should hold for a while. We need to get you somewhere safer—somewhere the forest can’t... cheat.” His eyes lift to the trees again, wary of the way the shadows seem to shift when no wind blows. Then he looks back at you, expression earnest, almost pleading with his own composure to hold.

“I’m Ozz-Um,” he says. “And I’m not leaving you here.”

Two weeks in the Fallow Bu Forest changes the way time feels. Days don’t pass so much as repeat—the same fog, the same shifting paths, the same sense of being observed by something that doesn’t blink. Ozz-Um reaches a point where he stops pretending you can “just keep moving” until you find a way out. He starts watching the trees differently—measuring branches, testing bark, listening to the canopy like it’s giving him instructions in a language he doesn’t want to speak.

Then, one morning, he points up. “There,” he says, voice decided for once. “High enough the ground-things won’t bother us. Wide enough to hold weight. And—” he squints, tracking the way the mist curls around the trunk, “the forest’s been ignoring it. Mostly. That’s the best we’re going to get.” He’s already carrying an armful of woven vines and long branches, held against his chest like an overambitious bundle. He takes two steps, the stack shifts, and half of it slides out of his grip. Ozz-Um freezes, then exhales through his nose. “Okay. Rude.” He bends to gather everything, muttering soft complaints to the vines as if they should be cooperating. He tries again—this time holding the bundle tighter—and walks toward the tree with careful determination.

Up close, the trunk is massive, ridged and old. The canopy above is thick enough to hide the sky. Ozz-Um tilts his head back, eyes reflecting what little light filters through. “We’re making a nest,” he announces, like saying it confidently will make it less strange. “A big one. For both of us. A home. Or... whatever you call a place you don’t intend to die in.” He pauses, then adds, a little quieter, “I’m tired of sleeping on roots.” Getting up there is a process. Ozz-Um starts climbing with surprising skill—strong hands finding holds, boots digging into bark—until he reaches a branch and immediately misjudges the distance to the next one. He grabs, slips, then catches himself with an undignified thump against the trunk.

He hangs there for a second, breathing. “...I’m fine,” he says, even though no one asked. He continues upward, stubborn and careful, and soon his voice drifts down through the leaves. “Hand me the vines,” he calls, then fumbles his own knot the moment he gets them. The vine snaps free and whips back, smacking his wrist. Ozz-Um hisses, shakes his hand, then glares at the vine like it’s personally offended him. “I’m building you a bed. Be grateful.” The first “platform” starts as a messy weave of branches. Then he redoes it. Then he redoes it again. He tests the spring, shifts the weight, and lays thicker boughs crosswise until it looks less like a bird’s attempt and more like an actual structure.

Every so often he checks the forest—eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring slightly. “Don’t like that,” he mutters when the fog thickens beneath the tree. He taps two fingers to the bark, murmuring something under his breath, and a faint silver sheen ripples along the trunk like moonlight spilled over wood. The mist below hesitates, curling away from the base as if it’s suddenly decided it has somewhere else to be. Ozz-Um’s shoulders relax a fraction. “Better,” he says. “Not perfect. But better.” He keeps working until his hair is full of leaves and his sleeves are scratched and dusty. At one point he tries to drag a huge branch up, misjudges its weight, and it slides, nearly taking him with it. He scrambles, catches it, then sits on the branch with a long sigh like he’s negotiating with the universe. “I am,” he says, voice strained and annoyed, “a Moon Dragon. I was not meant to be doing... carpentry.”

He looks down again, expression softening when it lands on you. “But,” Ozz-Um adds, more gently, “I can’t keep watching you shiver every night. And I can’t keep pretending the ground is safe.” He drags the last bundle into place and pats the growing nest like he’s reassuring it into existence. When he finally climbs down, he’s flushed and rumpled and vaguely proud of himself in a way he can’t hide. He gestures up toward the canopy with a small, lopsided smile.

“Okay,” Ozz-Um says. “It’s not... elegant. Yet. But it’s ours. Up there we’ll be out of reach, and I can set wards along the branches. I’ll make it warm.” He hesitates, then adds quickly, as if the sincerity embarrasses him. “And if the forest tries to take it away, I’ll bite it.”

Ozz-Um comes back to the nest too fast. Branches shiver with the force of his landing, and for a moment the whole tree seems to hold its breath. He’s usually careful—quiet steps, gentle hands, soft voice. Tonight he’s none of those things. His shoulders are tight, his breathing uneven, and there’s a sharp, low sound in his throat that isn’t quite a growl... but close enough to make the hairs along the air feel raised.

His eyes find you immediately—bright, too bright—then flick away like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if he looks too long. “I made a mistake,” he says, words clipped, as if he has to fight them into order. His hands curl at his sides, then unclench, then curl again. He paces the edge of the nest in a half-circle, boots scraping the woven branches. There’s a smear of berry-stain on his fingers. Another on the corner of his mouth, like evidence he can’t erase fast enough. “I was testing them,” Ozz-Um mutters, voice strained with frustration. “I thought— I thought it was smart. ‘Make sure they’re safe.’ Because I’m supposed to be the careful one.” He stops, grips a thick bough with both hands, and the wood creaks faintly.

“And now I feel...” He swallows hard, jaw working. “Angry. For no reason. Like everything is too loud and too close and—” His words falter. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, breathing through his nose like he’s trying to cool something down inside himself. “And something else,” he adds, quieter, more embarrassed than angry. “Something stupid.” He turns his head as if listening for the forest, then lets out a sharp exhale. “It’s the berries. They’re wrong.” Ozz-Um’s voice dips into a rumble again, then he catches it, shoulders jerking like he’s yanking himself back into gentleness by force. “They’re doing something to my instincts. Pushing them forward. I can feel it.” He looks at you again—only briefly—then immediately looks away, as if eye contact is a spark.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says quickly, too quickly. “I’m not— I’m not going to hurt you. I just... feel like I could bite a tree in half and also—” He cuts himself off, ears angling back, face flushing with obvious mortification. He paces again, restless, and knocks a small bundle of leaves aside by accident. It tumbles off the nest with a soft flutter. “...Sorry,” Ozz-Um says automatically, then huffs as if even his politeness is irritating him right now. He drags a hand through his hair, then shakes his head hard, trying to reset. “Okay,” he says, forcing steadiness. “Rules. We do rules. I can do rules.” He points to a spot a short distance away—still within the nest, but clearly giving space.

“I’m going to stay there,” Ozz-Um decides, voice firm with self-control. “You stay where you are. If you want me closer, you tell me. If you want me farther, you tell me. I will listen.” He pauses, throat bobbing. His gaze dips to the berries’ stain on his fingers like it offends him. “I need water,” he says, then shakes his head. “No— I need to calm down. Water, and... grounding. Moon-breathing. The thing I told you about.” He tries to sit and ends up doing it too hard, the nest dipping under his weight. He winces, then presses his palms to his knees, knuckles pale. “I hate this,” Ozz-Um admits through clenched teeth, voice roughened by emotion. “I’m supposed to be safe. I’m supposed to be gentle. And right now I feel like... like the forest is inside my ribs, shaking them.”

Another low sound slips out of him—frustration, not threat—and he immediately swallows it back. His eyes lift again, softer this time, pleading with himself to stay that way. “Just—” Ozz-Um breathes, slower. “Just talk to me. About anything. Tell me something ordinary. It helps.” He swallows, then adds, painfully honest: “And don’t come closer unless you want to. I mean it.” He turns his head toward the dark canopy as if daring it to try anything, then brings his focus back, voice quieter but steadier.

“I’m here,” Ozz-Um says. “I’m just... not myself for a minute. And I’m going to fix it.”

A full month in the Fallow Bu Forest makes the nest feel less like a desperate idea and more like a routine you both return to—branches woven tighter, leaves replaced when they crisp, little charms of moonlight tucked into the edges so the fog doesn’t creep up as often. Tonight the air is sharper than usual. The canopy keeps the wind out, but it also keeps the warmth from settling. The moon is only a pale suggestion through the leaves, and even that seems far away.

Ozz-Um is quiet at first, sitting with his back to the trunk, shoulders slightly hunched. He flexes his fingers, then rubs his hands together like he’s surprised they aren’t warm already. “...Okay,” he mutters, mildly offended. “That’s new.” He shifts once, then again, rearranging the blanket and pretending he’s doing it for practical reasons. His breath fogs faintly in front of him. He glances down at his own arms as if the cold is a personal insult. “I’m a Moon Dragon,” Ozz-Um says, under his breath. “I’m not supposed to be shivering. That’s— that’s embarrassing.” He scoots closer along the nest in small increments—subtle at first, like he’s testing whether you’ll protest. When he doesn’t stop, it becomes obvious he’s inching in on purpose, dragging a blanket with him like a peace offering.

Ozz-Um pauses near you, hesitating with a careful, considerate stillness. His eyes flick up, then away, then up again—soft, hopeful, trying not to make it weird and absolutely making it a little weird. “...Hey,” he says gently. “I’m cold.” He clears his throat, as if that statement alone is too vulnerable. “Would you—” Ozz-Um starts, then fumbles the words, ears tipping back in shy embarrassment. “Would you mind if I... scoot closer? Just for warmth.” He scoots anyway, but slowly, giving space to stop him if you want. His shoulder brushes the blanket near you—light contact, cautious.

“I promise I’ll be good,” he adds quickly, earnest and a little flustered. “I just— the nest is warmer when we’re— when there’s... body heat. That’s normal. It’s normal.” He tries to sound casual and fails in the most harmless way possible. Ozz-Um shifts again, settling more carefully this time, then tilts his head toward you like he’s asking permission with his whole posture. “Can we cuddle?” he asks, quieter. “Just... for a bit. I’ll move if you say no. I won’t be upset.”

His gaze flicks to the edge of the nest and back, as if he’s already preparing to relocate himself out of politeness. “And,” he adds, attempting to regain some dignity, “if anyone tries to climb up here tonight, they’ll find me in a terrible mood. So really, this is also... strategic.”

The faintest, shy smile tugs at his mouth.

“Please?”