Horns ✖

Long-Necks

"Wrecker, is it?"

"So you remember that, eh?" The speckled club-tail blinked, swallowing his share of the lush thickets of a leafy bush, "Good to see that your brain is still intact."

"Slightly," I responded, bending my head low as I examined him, "That is your name, right?"

"They call me Wrecker, yes, even though my real name is Wzelkin."

"I prefer Wrecker," I grunted with a smirk, dipping my head as a gesture of respect, "It kind of fits."

"Because I'm a club-tail?" The herbivore snorted in amusement, "I don't find myself living up to that name three-horn. It's cliche, a derivative to my legacy. In any case I'm the exact opposite."

I took another mouthful of ferns and frowned, "How do you mean?"

"Well, Wrecker sounds more violent," He began, twitching his thickened tail as he approached me, "And destructive to all. How can I be such if my heart demands peace? I am not born solely to live impure or unjust. Though in the heat of battle I shall wreak havoc, if I must, but never forevermore."

I swallowed the tasty greenery, exhaling softly in response to his answer, then met his eyes, "I don't think you'd believe such a name could define so much. Names are just ways to better recognize another. It should not be the defining factor-"

"Aye, you speak correctly three-horn," He rasped, "But that is my belief on the subject, and thus I stand firm."

"Look, I hold no name," I grunted back, twitching my tail, "The past may have given me one, one that I may never know. But I act out of righteousness and kindness, and I speak the truth, all the time. And you trust me for that. Even if my name, whatever it is, may stand otherwise that isn't who I am. Your name shouldn't be defining you, friend. It's nothing more than a word."

The club-tail flared his nostrils, studying my eyes, then sighed. His tail thumped for a moment as he thought, before finally snorting hard.

"Fine. Wrecker. Just this time."

I smiled briefly, shaking my three horns side to side and flickered my tail upward.

"Isn't it fitting?"

"Shut-it three-horn, I said just this time," Wrecker growled, thumping his club into the ground in warning. Even though I respected his sudden outlash, mostly out of fear, I could sense a rising arora of joy and amusement out of this conversation. If anything, I felt proud of it, and smiled under my breath.

Despite our confusing start, we made a rather healthy connection with each other. Oftentimes during the day he'd check in on me, not in the way that was generally through greetings, but with cautious gazes. In some way I felt that he cared, unless it was for the herbs he used on me, for his eyes often fixated on the deep wounds that matted my damaged scales.

I could've been mistaken.

The moment hereafter was peaceful, quiet, and calming. Underneath the radiating white star I became accustomed to the rather actionless herd, watching them eat, sleep, play, and conversate. Nobody fought, nobody argued, nobody was overwhelmed with emotions or deprived of it. And, in some way, most of them cared for me. Some of the club-tails had mocking expressions, curious to know what made me different, why I smelled different, why I looked different. Some would chortle, as if unimpressed with my lack of protection, while others would stare in awe at the weapons upon my frill.

Even I didn't quite understand them.

Horns, as they were called, protruded toward the sky like a beacon of light, threatening to impale, yet silent and so humble. Without them, I was helpless. Without me, they could not function. We were together, one and the same. Yet I felt no life from them. It was as if they were missing something.