It had begun as an itch.An itch, not terribly unlike the one that drew him to the MotherFather's embrace, in the Swamp. An itch not unlike the one that had brought him to the Crescent bay, to Brother Shark.
This one, however, drew him back, back and away, to the Obelisk. To the mountains, to his birthplace. He had left Brother Shark and their half-grown children with a promise to return, with stories and, perhaps, gifts, if he could bear them back. Hoof in front of hoof, ruminating on the Itch.
Why had Abandon begun to feel so restless? When had the roots drawn back up and away from such fertile soil, a welcoming home? Perhaps it was because of that self-same welcome. His eyes half-closed as he gazed up at the obelisk. His name, his form, it felt... unfamiliar the more comfortable he became. Dissonant.
So here he was. Stepping up to the Obelisk and closing his eyes. And then- he was Elsewhere. Following his urges- until the world reaffirmed itself around him.
The cold was such bliss. The song of the wind through stone. Familiar. But no longer home, he found as he peered about quietly. He slowly began to pick his way away from the Obelisk. When had this place stopped being home? His goal for years had been to come back here, to find himself a territory and to settle. Now, though, he found himself missing the scent of the salt on the wind, the song of the waves against the cliffs. He looked down at his hooves, his forelegs. The bloodmarks that had stained his hide from birth. He'd always taken pride in their boldness, the fierce look they lent, especially after his... naming.
They didn't fit anymore. Not with his name. He settled onto a flat stone, and ate quietly, thoughtfully.
Abandons Fear.
He had been abandoned for his fears, his inability, and, in return, he had abandoned his own fears in return. Abandons Fear.
It had been a one off, wholly defining event, something worthy of Totoma.
Would it be better to rename himself, he wondered. Could they do that? He had not heard of that, so- he considered, with his cud, the exact nature of his Itch.
His name had been a dark mark on his life.
His jaw stopped moving as the wind whistled, whispered.
His name had been a dark mark, but he was not dark anymore. He was lighter, brighter. He wanted to be that, without leaving behind his roots, his bones.
Satisfied, he rose, and moved, slowly, into a small den, and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, his head resting against a glimmering purple stone. It fit so nicely in his horn, propped his head comfortably.
With slumber, he found himself in a beautiful cavern. The walls were lined with shattered crystals, tall and broad for the buck to peer at himself. Here, he saw himself as he was- and wasn't.
Slender, small, tall, lank. As a zikwa, a kiokote. He snorted, and he fixated on them until, one by one, they slid away. Here, brighter, there, blank.
As he circled the room, his reflection walked the opposite direction, shifting and warping, until, at last, he stopped.
Bones, yes, pale and sharp against his hide, the blood rendered a distant echo, his eyes softened and his hide- there, there was the most beautiful contrast. A marriage of mountain and sea, of the giddy embrace of the new instead of the terror of the unknown. Hidden depths from the safety of the abyss.
Oh- there I am. There I am.
He slowly stepped towards it, and then through, through the crystal.
And he opened new eyes, took a deep breath, and went home.