Chapter Text
Wemmbu's hair has been long and healthy as long as Egg has known him.
When they first crossed paths, Eggchan, an angel so young he hadn't yet gained a humanoid form, and Wemmbu, an unfledged dragon hybrid wandering the overworld, rich purple hair already fell to his shoulders. Back then, when they were just young orphans surviving as nomads, the ends were split, and dirt always found its place in the strands.
The purple boy has always done his best to keep his hair somewhat clean, and refused to cut it.
The first time he asks for Egg's help with his hair, they're ten. Egg had finally grown into his humanoid form and, much to the annoyance of the other, had outgrown Wemmbu by a few inches. Wemmbu, having just returned from a short, unsuccessful resource-gathering trip, puts his gains (a few seeds he probably doesn't know how to cultivate) away in a chest and grabs a brush.
The boy, not yet a fledgling but old enough to have outgrown the term 'hatchling', drops the brush into the lap of Eggchan and sits cross-legged in front of him. The angel catches the brush with clumsy fingers, untrained and unready, and stares for a moment.
Wemmbu had never asked for help with his hair before, but now here he sits, back turned to his friend with obvious expectation.
He’s not impatient about it, for once, just sitting silently until Eggchan works up the guts to separate a twig-free section of purple hair and gingerly brush it free of knots. It becomes easier quickly, and soon enough, the angel has liberated his friend’s hair of tangles and twigs.
He doesn’t ask why or tell the other boy to do it himself. There is a quiet understanding that this is trust, so Eggchan treats it delicately.
When this supposed one-off becomes a nightly occurrence, the angel becomes comfortable, less hesitant.
He starts running his fingers through purple locks after brushing them, breaking up the last tangles with a practiced tenderness learned from preening his own feathered wings.
He learns to braid. It’s a practical hairstyle for Wemmbu, and though he complains about his friend’s earlier attempts tangling his hair into knots, Egg masters it soon enough. Having his hair back and out of his face makes travelling, hunting, and fighting easier.
It's something small he can do. A favour for Wemmbu's vigilance in keeping them safe and alive.
Egg is practically useless in a fight; a support without the equipment to back it up. So, he stays at the base most days.
He watches over their small farm of fully grown carrots half-stuck into dry soil (Wemmbu hasn’t yet figured out why more carrots haven’t sprouted, and Egg isn’t sure if he should correct him), and busies himself with reading some of the books they managed to get from an abandoned village once. Wemmbu never learned to read and never had the patience to let Egg teach him.
When they go to the market, Egg's literacy becomes a necessary asset. It is there that their roles switch, mostly because of the hunters.
Hunters, who should really be called poachers, pursue rare creatures and hybrids. This illegal practice led to a decline in many already dwindling hybrid populations at its height. The devastation caused by it would lead to more legislation to protect all species server-wide over the next months and years.
Just being an angel already makes him seem more trustworthy to strangers, and hunters don't target him. Unlike Wemmbu.
Being a dragon hybrid means being pursued constantly. Whether it's dragons' breath or scales, people will pay good money for a piece of one. Or, on some occasions, the beings themselves.
An orphaned hatchling is an easy target, grounded and unprotected; he probably wouldn't have even made it this far if not for avoiding civilizations, where there are more hunters, and Egg.
Trailing closely behind his well-read angel friend makes Wemmbu less of a target. He's not just some uneducated orphan; he has connections. Connections that matter. Eggchan is noticeable, notable. Market vendors he engages with every week or so in kind conversation would start to wonder if he went missing. If he came to them for help, they would probably assist, or at least alert the local authorities.
It's not a perfect system. Wemmbu still protects both of them. He’s a fast runner by necessity. A good fighter from repeated confrontation. He engages in combat more often than any child his age should have to — the price he pays to live freely.
When a lock of Wemmbu’s hair is cut off in one of these fights, Egg makes a purple tassel for himself to keep. He gifts his companion a red one, made from the faded crimson hair that grows at the base of the angel’s head. They both keep them as good-luck charms and symbols of one another.
"Ow!" Wemmbu whines, leaning away from where Egg is trying to wrap a bandage around his shoulder.
"Stay still," the angel pulls his friend back towards him, tying off the potion-soaked gauze.
The dragon huffs and flicks his tail, apparently incapable of not moving for two seconds for anything other than hair brushing, proven further when he immediately stands up as Egg pulls away to grab something.
He hobbles over to the designated sleeping area of their cave home, chosen for the bend in the stone that obscures the small space from the open entrance, and flops down onto the soft purple blanket that marks his bed.
It doesn't block the wind very well, but the two wouldn't have decided to live high up on a mountain if they disliked the cold. The mountain air is welcomed when it whistles across stone, ruffling blankets, hair, and feathers in the night.
The injured dragon fiddles with his blankets, pressing down and folding fabric until it creates a sufficient shape and lies down inside, pulling into himself with his wings and tail covering him completely.
"You shouldn't sleep with your hair down," Egg reminds him, hairbrush already in hand as he walks over to where Wemmbu is curled up.
He gets a whine and a grumble from his friend, who ultimately does sit up where the angel can reach his head without intruding on his sleeping area.
Egg brushes the dragon's hair in sections while Wemmbu keeps fussing with the purple blanket, kneading and pulling to make minor adjustments. The angel knows better than to mention it.
Nesting, Egg had called it.
Fidgeting, Wemmbu had insisted.
Whatever, terminology isn't a big deal. He chooses not to mention the soft, rumbling sound that emerges from the dragon's throat when he brushes around his horns.
He finishes braiding purple hair into two sections, tying both off with black ribbon, and nudges his friend forward into his nest.
Egg doesn't often sleep with Wemmbu. They both prefer the cold, and most days, the cave is secure enough for both of them to feel safe sleeping separately.
With his companion curled in his nest for sleep, peaceful despite the arrow wound in his shoulder, Egg climbs into his own bed.
The young ones both drift off, soothed by calm wind and cradled by tranquil night.