So I decided to post this fic I've been working on. It's been ongoing on FFn since... well, the last February 29th that we had. That's right, back in 2012. It's now over two years later and it's my most popular fanfic story to date by far, with a hundred faves and counting. Since some of the people here don't seem to be on FFn, I decided to share it with everyone on MLK. Some of you I know are already readers, but those of you who have never seen this before will hopefully get some enjoyment out of it. It's quite a bit of reading now, with almost 200,000 words and nearly 50 chapters, but don't worry, I'll try and upload slowly.
For those that don't know, the premise is this: what if Simba died in the stampede, and not Mufasa? Well, as it happens, where the fic turns after that may just surprise you.
That said, if you want to see a trailer for this fanfic, made by one of my Fanfiction readers, then click here.
Lastly, keep in mind that earlier chapters do not reflect my current writing style, as I was 13 then. They get significantly better as they go on. (I may make minor edits to this MLK version of the story to make it a bit better, but as a whole the first parts simply will not be as good as later).
Anyways, without further ado, here is the first part:
Chapter 1 - Long Live the King
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"Long live the king…"
It was only a sentence, and rather a small one at that, but for Scar—oh, it was so much more than that. The dark lion laid coolly across the rocky edge of the gorge, his hated older brother hanging precariously in his clutches, over the dark swarm of panicked wildebeests, watching his face contort with fear as he uttered those words.
He won't make it out alive, Scar mused, looking at the ragtag band of sweaty, terrified gnu which had acted as living bulldozers, trampling everything that dared to come into their paths. It wasn't malice that would cause them to trample their king, only flighty and uncontrolled instincts. Every animal had them, after all. Especially prey animals. Scar felt the need to mentally prepare himself for what he was about to do; for the murder he was about to commit. It wasn't hard. In fact, it was harder for him to keep the giddy tone out of his voice. He felt like a small child getting just what he wanted. Finally. It had taken long enough as it was.
But Mufasa was stupid. He couldn't have seen this coming a million miles away. The dark lion indifferently flicked his tail. After all these years, Scar had thought he'd made himself clear. He wanted the throne. And yet it was all too easy to get his thick brother to the precipitous point of falling, both literally and figuratively, out of power. And yet the soon-to-be-murderer waited, listening for something. There was more than one piece to this puzzle. Because, of course, Mufasa had a son.
That was when he heard the scream.
"Dad! Dad! Help me! Please!"
The cub. He was still alive, fighting his way through the bands of sharp hooves and kicking, crazed animals. He wouldn't last long; not on his own. Scar watched as the son of his enemy zigzagged across the gorge, trying to scrabble up the edge of the cliff and take shelter behind rocks and trees, failing miserably each and every time.
"No, Scar. Don't do this. You have to let me save him. You have to let me save my son."
He could actually hear a pleading tone in his brother's voice, which was odd. Normally, if someone had something he wanted, he just beat the crap out of them. It was easy for him, with those thick, rippling muscles and solid form. But when he looked at his brother, he could almost see an expression he had seen a million times before. The hysterical countenance of a helpless prey animal, when it knew that it was about to lose its life.
For some strange reason, it had the opposite effect on Scar. It provoked something deep in his blood; a side of him that wanted to kill and maim and torture for his revenge. Sweet payback. The captor lion threw his head up, only a sadistic laugh answering his brother's desperate pleas. He almost couldn't control himself, nearly beginning to roll around with an undoubtedly sick, but pleasurable, feeling of joy coursing through his lithe body. He would watch his brother suffer. And enjoy every moment of it.
And so he held him there, the claws he had so painstakingly sharpened day after day serving perfectly to pin Mufasa, a lion easily twice as big, in place as the chaos in the gorge reached its rather bloody climax.
"Dad, they're getting closer!"
Mufasa watched with horror as his little son tried to escape the inevitable. Finally it seemed to have worked, the cub's small body being kicked halfway across the gorge by a particularly frightened wildebeest.
It's about time, Scar thought pessimistically. Once the cub was dead, he could throw in Mufasa and be done with all of them for good. The train of wildebeest streaming down the gorge was long, but it wasn't endless. Mufasa might survive an ordinary fall from this height, and if he dropped him now, he would no doubt go to save his son. In either case, one of them would probably live. Battered and bruised, yes, but dead, no. And dead was what Scar wanted. There were less loose ends that way.
He almost threw up his paws then and there, but something golden flickered out of the corner of his eye, causing him to turn and look with a certain air of curiosity.
"Dad, dad! Help!"
Curses. The stupid cub wasn't dead yet.
"Simba, I'll save you! I'm coming!" The older lion yelled desperately as he gazed upon his struggling son, trying in a frenzied panic to free his sweat-caked paws. Simba had seconds, perhaps a minute, to live at this rate. And Scar knew it.
"Temper, temper," Scar started with a gentle tsk of his tongue, his voice dangerously calm, "why don't you just stay here and watch the show, hmm, brother? I believe we are getting to the good part."
"No, little brother, please. Don't do this. You're not a murderer."
Scar turned his head away from him indifferently, lazily scratching a particularly itchy spot on his neck with his clawed hind foot. Just waiting for his chance to toss his brother away from his presence.
"And how do you know I'm not, Mufasa?"
The older lion looked disgusted at his brother's indifference.
"My son, YOUR NEPHEW, is down there. Just think of what could happen. Just think of what you're doing. You're murdering an innocent…" Mufasa continued, his voice slowly being lathered into a rage. That's what Scar had been waiting for. The self-righteous, arrogant rage that always hid under his brother's seemingly benevolent presence. Oh, of course none of his subjects saw it, only ever seeing the polished, happy, false image of him on those rare occasions when the whole kingdom had to gather below Pride Rock. And of course he usually kept his cool around the lionesses, trying to impress them with how strong and awesome he was. But that never fooled Scar, who sat patiently, bearing the brunt of his brother's outraged and somewhat repetitive discourse.
"…LET ME GO! SIMBA! SIMBA! I WILL SAVE YOU! SCAR, LET ME G—"
"DAD! HELP ME! I CAN'T RUN MUCH LONGE—"
That was it. A slight snap and the screaming stopped. Scar looked into the gorge, distantly checking to make sure the cub was dead. He was. Unless, of course, he could miraculously survive after his neck had been crushed like a twig by the full force of a half-ton wildebeest.
The dark younger lion took a final look down at Mufasa before he threw him off, smirking as he contemplated his brother, whose emotions were obviously in a matted, fiery tangle. Sad. Outraged. And, most of all, appalled. Once more, he began to struggle, trying to loosen Scar's grip.
If he freed himself from Scar's grasp and found his way onto the ledge, then he would be in a world of hurt. After all, he had just killed his only son. But he wouldn't let him get that far. It was over. Time to murder the father.
"Ahhhh, brother. I'd love to keep chatting, but I've got a kingdom to rule. Your kingdom. And so now I bid you… adieu."
And there it was. The moment he'd been waiting for all his life. He felt his brother's paws fall away from his as he flung him across the air, splaying his toes and sheathing his claws to allow Mufasa to slip out from under him. No part of him felt guilty or sympathetic as the hated being gradually plummeted into seeming oblivion, clawing at the air, looking for a safe refuge that didn't exist as he tumbled backwards into the gorge, looking up at Scar with sad, broken eyes as he descended towards death.
But there was a problem. The large herd of wildebeests had, like his worst fears had predicted, approached its end more quickly than he thought. Scar looked out across the herd of animals, then back, all the way to the end of the gorge. He could just spot the handful of quick wildebeests at the front of the stampede, who were a long ways down the canyon and were already beginning to slow down.
No. NO. NO!
The herd is supposed to be larger than that! Why isn't it? Where are the other animals?
Scar began to panic, his usual cool composure and relaxed, indifferent attitude being assaulted upon by the tendrils of a thick, distracting aura of alarm. Mufasa could not live.
And yet, there they were. The wildebeests. Running up at the lip of the cliff like total imbeciles. Instead of joining the bandwagon like they should have, when the wildebeests had run off the grassy plain that they had started from and down into the ravine, they had run off to either side of it. The sound of thundering hooves was now apparent above Scar and across the other side of the chasm as more and more of them streamed by.
He had chosen the largest herd in the area for the very event the day before, but now a significant portion of it wasn't even in the same place as Mufasa was. And that portion, Scar could now see with dismay, would probably end up being the difference between Mufasa's life and Mufasa's death.
In the end, the lion fell all the way to the ground, a sickening thud reverberating throughout the gulch as he impacted with the dusty ground. Perhaps he had broken a few bones, but there didn't appear to be any serious injury to his brother's body. A somewhat sharp cry was heard, and a few moans and groans followed, but he wasn't subsequently destroyed and mowed over by the wildebeests like he should have been. In fact, only about ten or so of the animals actually reached Mufasa's injured figure, most of them nimble enough to dodge their fallen king.
Scar watched in sweaty, heart-pounding horror as his plan flopped over on its face. His scraggly form quickly hid behind a rock, trying to get out of view of his brother, who was already rolling over on the ground in an attempt to get to his feet.
Oh god, Scar thought, visibly quavering in fear, he's going to kill me. And… what if the lionesses find out? I'm dead. Irreversibly, irreparably dead.
For several moments he was paralyzed with fear as Mufasa tiredly got to his feet, half-walking and half-crawling over towards his son. The lion looked at the cub's chest, searching for the rising and falling of breathing as he listened for a heartbeat.
No sign of either. He unsheathed his claws, and Scar watched in terror as he began batting the ground angrily and with all of the strength he possessed. Which was a lot. The dark lion again crawled behind a jagged-edged boulder.
I'm next.
Mufasa roared, effectively terrorizing his hidden brother, who keeled over from the ear-splitting noise, trying desperately to cover his ears, crawling blindly away from the din. Eventually Mufasa stopped, slumping over onto his side weakly, still somewhat injured from the fall. He held his son's small form in his paw, talking to it as—wait, what? Was Mufasa… crying?
It was then that Scar relapsed into his usual pragmatic sense of logic. Every problem had a solution, whether he wanted to face it or not. And if he didn't have the guts to kill a sniveling, injured, crying lion, then he truly was a coward. He had hoped that he wouldn't have to actually, literally get Mufasa's blood on his paws—despite his somewhat violent nature, he hated having to fight himself, preferring to do everything sneakily and with wit.
But, Scar thought as he unsheathed his claws once more, every problem does have a solution. I just have to kill him myself. That throne will only be mine after my brother's death.
Slowly, and trying to stay out of Mufasa's field of view, he crept down the steep side of the ravine and towards the center of the ravine which hung in between the walls. Closer and closer…
"Brother, I know you're there. If you want that throne, just… go ahead and kill me. You've already taken my son," Mufasa sobbed dramatically.
"Oh, of course. Whatever makes you happy, Mufasa."
Scar's tail flickered with malicious arrogance. His brother was going to let him kill him. If that wasn't just the most adorable thing he'd ever heard, the dark lion sneered to himself. He brought up his paw, prepared to bring it down on his brother, who sat still, ready to take the blow as his head hung in shame.
"Oh no! King Mufasa, Scar, what's wrong with Simba? He isn't moving!"
A creamy lioness cub appeared from somewhere across the gorge, the two lions, in unison, being scared witless.
"Uh, nothing Nala," Mufasa started, voice cracking slightly.
"Yes, yes, just nothing. He's sleeping. We two adults here are trying to have a conversation," Scar continued with a deep growl directed at Mufasa. Since Nala, who was Simba's best friend at the time, was still quite young and gullible, she hardly asked any questions. She must have just arrived at the scene, not seeing Simba get trampled to death or getting killed herself.
But that was, of course, a problem. He couldn't kill Mufasa now; not with the cub. And while he could physically kill the cub with ease, he knew immediately that it wasn't a good idea. Her mother, Sarafina, would no doubt be following close behind to find her. No one just let cubs that young wander into a dangerous gorge by themselves. Taking a quick sniff of the air, he confirmed his worst suspicions. He was too late. If he killed Mufasa now, there would be witnesses, and being known as a murderer would not get him the throne. In fact, it would only get him his throat ripped out by an angry lioness.
Run.
That was the only thought that filled Scar's mind now. Mufasa would tell them what had happened, of course, and then the whole pride would be hot on his trail. He could find refuge in the elephant graveyard, with the hyenas. He knew them personally, though he doubted they would be happy with him. But none of that mattered now. Looking at Mufasa, then back at Nala, he turned tail and ran, without another word, out of the chasm, an angry chorus of roars sounding behind him.
Mufasa still lives.
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I know, it seems kind of cliche, but blame 13-year-old-me, I promise it does get better. As for right now, I'm off to work on Chapter 48 for my FFn audience. I'll soon come back with Chapter 2, but in the meantime, feel free to leave a comment below. I'd really appreciate it.