Chapter Text
MinuteTech expected a lot of what would come from freeing the End dimension.
Having grown up under its rule for a time, he understands the weight of the End's crown. The Void itself calls its children to lay claim to the main island and protect the dimension from offending outsiders. A line of dragons has long defended the island, and for now, MinuteTech waits for another to feel the pull.
Any day now, a dragon suitable to defend will come to take the place Jean held for over a century.
A new line will start, and MinuteTech will return to the Overworld.
There is movement behind the pillars.
Minute noticed it earlier, during a routine check of the obsidian platform where new arrivals drop. Something has been stumbling around, keeping deliberately out of sight. It's not an enderman; it doesn't move like one. He's kept an eye on it, on the pillars where end crystals are placed for summoning, on the portals to the Overworld and the outer islands. It hasn't moved toward either.
Currently, it's stationary. It sits behind the shortest of the obsidian pillars, blissfully unaware of the defender sneaking up behind it. It looks out over the Void and at passing endermen with wide, curious eyes. It's a little bigger than a human toddler, lanky in the way end-born creatures tend to be.
It screams and struggles when Minute grabs it from behind and tugs it close to his chest, only to be smacked when its wings flap in panic.
He drops the unwelcome interruption, and it hits the endstone with a thud. The impact only makes it cry louder. Minute winces and resists the urge to cover his ears at the distressed wails. It's still a flurry of panic even now that it's free, wiggling and kicking and flapping its wings and whipping its tail.
Minute tries to pick it up again, much to its objection. It hisses and spits and growls, flopping down onto the endstone again, and Minute straightens to take a proper look at what he's dealing with.
It's purple, with horns and a tail, and wings, and scales, and it's very small for a–
Dragon.
The same kind of dragon Minute has been waiting for, though this one is much smaller than what he expected, and clearly mixed with something else. A hybrid, one that retained all the major dragon features. Quite rare.
He catches kicking feet and pulls the dragon back toward himself when it starts dragging itself across the stone. It screams at the intervention between sobs and growls, and every sound is a tug on the elder's heart.
He pulls the little thing up by its shoulders, grimacing at more shrill shrieks that are surely tearing up the thing's throat. It's small enough that Minute can pin it against his chest, flailing legs pointed away from him, and the thing's own wings pinned around its arms and torso.
It wriggles and keeps growling while Minute pieces together exactly what he's dealing with.
Little black horns protrude from its forehead, stubby and not yet grown into points. Its wings and tail are big compared to its body, but the little rounded fins on its lashing tail tell him it hasn't fledged, and probably won't for a while. It's a hatchling—a very upset one, at that.
That explains its clumsiness earlier. Dragons don't usually allow pups so young to leave the nest. Its parents are either neglectful, worried about their missing baby elsewhere, or... a secret third option. One that Minute doesn't want to consider.
Eventually, when the little one has tired itself out enough that growling fades and sobs quiet down to hiccuping breaths, Minute shifts his hold and stands.
The hatchling whines, tucking its head against him to hide. He ignores the poke of stubby horns into his shoulder and carries the hatchling into his base. It's too young to be outside alone, especially around portals and endermen.
So, he takes it into his base. It clings to him, afraid of being dropped, which makes it easier to carry up stairs and through the halls. Its little sounds of distress continue, echoing off the stone walls of the cold base, lit only by heatless soul lanterns and torches that bathe rooms in cool-toned light.
He sets the little one down on a bed in one of the guest rooms to get a better look at it.
It's obviously scared, shaking and whimpering between hitching breath. Thank the Void it doesn't decide to bolt. Minute doesn't want to have to wrangle it inside again.
Its knees are scratched from the endstone, and purple blood leaks slowly from the scrapes. The struggle has also covered the dragon in dust, giving its purple skin a yellow tinge that makes it look sick. Its shoulder-length hair, also purple, has some tangles that look uncomfortable. It needs a bath.
That can wait for a bit while he makes a place for it to rest.
The hatchling doesn't move from its spot near the foot of the bed while Minute grabs blankets and pillows fit for nesting. He's seen enough dragon nests to understand their basic shape, and the kid can make adjustments once it's clean.
After arranging something he deems acceptable for nesting, Minute scoops the child up into his arms again.
The child whines and wiggles a bit, but seems too tired to properly struggle. Minute takes it to the bathroom closest to the room with the nest, setting it down on a stone countertop.
Its skin feels a bit cold, even for the End, so Minute heats buckets of water before pouring them into the tub. The child watches, a curious gaze fixated on the bright coals of the furnace Minute uses to heat the water.
Despite its calm observations, the hatchling still kicks and growls when Minute undresses it, revealing the exposed and glowing diamond-shaped core on its chest, and lowers it into warm water.
The little one wordlessly complains while Minute scrubs it clean of dust, blood, and dirt, nearly launching itself from the tub when Minute works near its core, only to be caught and lowered back into the bath.
After extracting the child from the bath and draining the water, Minute wraps it in a towel and sets it back onto the counter to inspect its core.
With the dirt removed, the crystal protrusion glows a bright, healthy purple that matches the little dragon's brightest scales. The hatchling hisses and swats when he lingers over it for too long, so he moves his attention to the rest of its body.
Its wounds are superficial, minor scratches and the occasional bruise, nothing a diluted regeneration potion and a night's sleep won't fix.
Minute dresses the dragon in something of his, comfortable and big enough to accommodate its wings. The clothes smell like him, which should help the hatchling adjust a little better, and keep in the heat still clinging to its skin from the water.
It tries to throw itself off the counter when Minute reaches for its hair to brush through it, so he decides to wait until later. He's already pushed it enough.
The child growls again when he picks it up, an empty threat. It doesn't even have enough energy for its tail to lash, only swing lazily where it hangs. He shushes it anyway, a little fed up with its fussing, and carries it back to the guest bed.
He tucks the young one into the nest he made to free up his hands, and it curls up under the safe edge, covered almost entirely in blankets. He lays another over top for good measure, fine with the hatchling hiding if that makes it more comfortable.
With the little dragon safely tucked away, Minute makes a quick trip down to his storage area. He grabs a regeneration potion and some chorus fruit for it to snack on.
A relieved sigh escapes him when he ventures back to the room to find the blankets undisturbed from how he left them. The relief is immediately overshadowed by annoyance when he lifts the blanket and is greeted with a hiss and growl. He climbs into the nest anyway, pulling the grumpy child into his lap.
The hatchling is obviously overtired, so Minute makes quick work of pouring a quarter of the regeneration into its mouth, tilting its head back and holding its jaw shut to force it to swallow. It screams when its jaw is released, seemingly endless cries starting again. The more concentrated potion should tire it out if its crying doesn't. Maybe it's a good thing Minute didn't have time to dilute it.
He keeps the young dragon pressed against his chest. Even with his annoyance, he knows the child is too small to understand that he's helping it. He sets the chorus fruit to the side for now, promising himself to get the little one to eat after it sleeps for a bit.
It falls asleep eventually, exhausted from a complicated day of struggle and newfound experiences.
Minute puts the child back where it snuggled up before, completely obscured by blankets and pillows, and returns to his duties.
The portals are quiet as always, the spawn platform vacant, and his traps untouched.
It's monotonous, the work he's dedicated himself to. Today has been different. He hasn't decided if that's a good thing.
He returns to his base anyway to organize.
The base is quiet, only interrupted by small clinks and thuds as he organizes the items he left on the child's bedside: leftover potion, chorus fruit, and a few books on dragons, and takes the child's old clothes to be cleaned later. He notices stitching on the inside of the collar. Purple, like the hatchling itself.
∴ ᒷ ᒲ ᒲ ʖ ⚍
He stares at the letters for a moment, something written in the same language as enchantments and old texts.
It's not a word, at least not one he's familiar with.
A name, perhaps?
He adds the clothes to the small, folded pile that still needs to be washed.
His footsteps echo through the stairwell on the way back up to the room with the nest. The walls and floor are, like the rest of the base, made of stone in shades of dark grey to black. Some wood might be nice, to break out of the monochrome and bring some warmth against the stone.
The door to Minute's bedroom is heavier than normal.
The chamber is a quaint space, kept tidy and only used for rest. His bed is perfectly made, a dark red duvet pulled to the corners and pillows set up in a way no person would actually have them for sleep. Black curtains are pulled to the sides of the only window, beneath which a barely-used desk is collecting dust.
He shuts the door.
The carpets that run down the halls are undisturbed by footsteps other than his own. Tapestries hang perfectly straight with the End's lack of wind.
He opens the door to the dragon's room slowly, taking the same amount of care to close it behind himself.
His footsteps are careful and quiet as he makes his way over to the nest and climbs in next to the child. Uncovering the blankets that cover them, Minute gingerly pulls the hatchling back to his chest. He can sleep here tonight, next to warmth and gentle breathing.
He keeps the child against him while he settles in, closing his eyes.
The Void lets him sleep, lets him dream.
It's a little sound that wakes MinuteTech the next morning.
There is no light to tell that it truly is morning, and such a thing doesn't truly exist in the End, but Minute keeps his own day/night cycle from his body's natural rhythm.
It feels a bit early for Minute to be waking up, and a small mewl brings his attention to what must be the offender.
The hatchling pressed up against his chest, whining, little wings shaking where they wrap around their body.
He sits up, pushing the young one's hair back to get a look at their face.
He hisses through his teeth when pain shoots up his hand, and a glance down finds it trapped in the jaws of a groggy dragon.
Attempting to pry the child off only brings more pitiful sounds, so he tries to get its attention some other way.
"Let go," He tries, scratching at their horns and tugging his hand away.
They lean into the scratches and whine, their hold still firm.
Minute sighs and grabs a chorus fruit from the nightstand, then remembers something.
"Wemmbu," He pronounces the word from the little one's clothes phonetically.
That garners attention, big eyes look up at him, and a little tail sweeps across the blankets.
He tugs his hand away again, holding the chorus fruit within the hatchling's line of sight. The child latches onto that instead, while Minute inspects the teeth marks on his hand.
The indentations are flat and shallow from dull teeth. Some baby dragons are herbivores until they get their second set of teeth. So, they're probably one of those.
He grabs a book, one about dragon breeds, from the nightstand while the hatchling in his lap nibbles on the offered fruit, unaffected by its magic and teleportation ability. Another hint.
Minute looks from the book to the little one as he flips through slightly yellowed pages, one hand carding through tangled purple strands. A dichotomous key to End-born species leads him to a conclusion he already assumed.
They– he, upon closer inspection of the fins at the base of his tail, two, not four, is a baby Ender Dragon. Belonging to the same longstanding line of defenders.
It explains his scale patterns, wing and tail shape, ability to eat raw chorus fruit without being teleported, and how it may have ended up on the island. The pull.
Minute had assumed that only an older dragon, fit to defend against outsiders and wrangle the endermen of the island, could feel the call of the vacant position.
And yet, a child is here now. Healthy, though much too young for the position, and a hybrid, nonetheless, the hatchling must've felt that compulsive tug and made his way here.
He looks down at the boy in his lap, Wemmbu, when he squeaks, apparently finished with his snack and looking to him with big eyes, bright with childish curiosity.
He rubs the dragon's spine, receiving a deep purr in response. He croons in return and starts twisting the hatchling's hair into two braids while the boy cuddles into his chest, pressed against him without a growl or hiss to be heard.
...
Minute can wait a little longer for another defender to take his place, he supposes, taking a ring from his hand and using it to secure the end of a braid.
Even with some chaos added to his schedule.
The interruption is welcome.