Either way, I am not mad at the delay. It provided more stories, so it's worth it. After more than a month of waiting, here are the three entries!
[quote]Story 1:
Heat. Darkness. Eternal damning darkness. Dryness. His mouth was beyond parched. His entire body was devoid of even a droplet of water, and he was as a dried up fruit. Nothing else greeted him but the insufferable dryness and the endless dark. Blackness fading in and out, throbbing, pounding, and then there was nothing at all.
Taka was laughing, running about as he frolicked in the grassland with his older half-brother, Mufasa. The duo had been eagerly playing, practicing their fighting skills and trying to best one another in friendly sport. At first they did not notice the heavy form of the king, a bundle of fur gripped tightly in his jaws, bounding over the top of a grassy knoll towards them. As he drew near, however, the boys took note of him and their lively frolicking ceased.
“Aw, looks like play time is over,” Taka mewled sorrowfully. It was in that moment that Ahadi, son of the great Mohatu and king of the Pride Lands, became near enough to them for his purposes and stopped, dropping the squirming fur ball he had carried here onto the earth before his sons. It was a female cub, one that looked somewhat worse for the wear.
“Only for Mufasa. Zira has been moping—I had thought it best you try cheering her up Taka. You are the only one she really responds to,” the king explained.
“Alright, dad! Come on little sister!” Taka practically chirped. Zira dragged her feet as she crawled over to her only blood relative present. The largest cub, so full in his adolescence that he was on the very verge of adulthood, Mufasa, pranced over to his father gleefully. Ahadi smiled generously at his boys, so proud of them both.
“I’ll see you two later, alright? Have fun!” Mufasa cried to his younger half-brother and step-sister as the king and his heir took their leave. As soon as they were gone, Taka looked down at his half-sister.
“What’s the matter this time, Zira?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“It doesn’t matter,” she huffed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I’m positive.”
“Well then… why don’t we play a game?” the older cub asked, a mischievous gleam overtaking his features.
“I don’t feel like playing around, Taka.”
Not listening to her protests, the red male hunkered down, the grass tickling his belly, in preparation for a pounce. He tensed his muscles, readied himself, and then launched himself at her, throwing out a paw to swat her on the foreleg.
“Tag you’re it!” he crowed, bounding away as he did so. Zira’s face contorted into a scowl of anger and she sprinted after him, doing her best to catch the larger cub. He deliberately slowed his pace so that she would, in fact, catch him. When she did, he flailed onto his side in mock pain, rolling around in dramatized agony and howling with imaginary pain. At first she rolled her eyes at his antics and started to stalk away, but as she did, a movement out of the corner of her eye sent the cub sprawling to the left to avoid being struck by Taka’s paw as he reached for her again, her collision with the ground throwing up a cloud of sand. She squealed involuntarily before leaping to her feet and dodging away from him.
“Stop! Taka!” she cried, but he just continued to lope along lackadaisically behind her, laughing like a hyena the whole way.
“Stoooooop!” she wailed, bursting into a fit of laughter of her own. The two danced across the prairie, sending birds to the air and other small creatures bounding away in a fright. The duo frolicked, tumbling in the grasses and rolling down the hills as they continued playing their game of tag all throughout the day. It was one of the happiest days of their lives.
It was a memory, distant and passed, of better times. Better times? Was this blackness not death? Shouldn’t he be grateful for it? But something wasn’t right. The dryness returned, heavily, thick, but this time, without the heat. In fact, he felt cold, chilly, especially on his left side. At length, more sensation returned, bringing the lion’s attention to his thirst, to his hunger, to his physical weakness, and to pain. His memory was a bit foggy—he couldn’t remember what had last occurred. Simba had returned to take his place as king, and a battle had ensued, but… more than that, Scar could not recall.
His eyes fluttered open. He looked around. Darkness greeted him as greatly as when his lids had remained lowered. But his body itched, and his throat was sore, and so he did his best to rise on unsteady paws and take a tentative step forward, using his nose and ears as best he could to find the way. He had just begun wondering if he were blind when he began to make out dark outlines, dark silhouettes of… something on either side of him. He pressed on until the light of the moon and stars shone through from outside, and he staggered out of his… sanctuary? Prison?
Termite mounds. He was surrounded by them. He’d been within one. What sort of damnation was this? He cursed his rotten luck and strode forward as best he could on weak knees, until suddenly, an unpleasant and mad cry rent the air. His heart pace quickened as he glanced around, twisting his ears in search of the source of the sound. Then, in the same pitch, a coo of delight, and then, the soft rumbling of a purr.
“Oh Scar, you live, you’re up. I knew you’d be fine.”
He’d know that voice anywhere.
“Zira.”
“What is the matter, dear brother? You don’t sound pleased,” she replied softly.
His vision still fresh in his mind, Scar pondered how to answer. At length he simply replied, “I am in grave need of water—and of food.”
“Ah… but not to worry, my king, we always keep these things on hand, for your awakening, and have done our best to provide you water during your unconsciousness. Please do come with me.”
Zira dropped down from above him and sauntered off towards one of the other mounds. Scar followed her, the ground beneath him a chore to walk on as it was drier even than his cracked paw pads.
“I knew that you wouldn’t die to that creature’s paws; no, Mufasa’s ilk could never best you. I knew you’d rise up from where he threw you from the promontory, escape the flames and come away with me. There really is someone you must meet once you’ve had your fill, Scar,” Zira prattled, setting Scar’s brain into work. He remembered more now—yes, Simba had thrown him from the peak of Pride Rock into the flames below, but…
“What of the hyenas?” he barked, ignoring her comment of someone he must meet. That wasn’t important right now.
“The fire was too hot for them, my dear. They could not stand its wrath to finish you; I withstood the heat, however, Scar. I brought you from the precipice of damnation.” Here she stopped, beside one of the termite mounds, where she indicated a bowl of water and a hunk of barely edible meat—Scar didn’t even hazard a guess as to what beast it had once belonged.
“You should have let me die,” he croaked.
“What?!” she gasped, “Don’t speak such nonsense, how else would you meet and raise our son?”
“Our what?”
Zira cooed and indicated the food and water before him. “Indulge yourself my love, I shall return in a moment. You will be so pleased. Simba has had a daughter, but you—you have been granted a son. An heir,” she purred, stalking away into the night. Though his head was reeling and the lion felt dismayed, he did indulge himself to drink until his thirst was quenched, and then to nibble at the food before him for a moment until his half-sister returned with a dark cub hanging from her maw. She dropped the cub to cracked and dusty earth in front of Scar, a wicked grin evident on her face.
“Mommy…?” the youngster mewled, looking up, searching for her. It was uncanny—the thing looked as if he were Scar’s own clone.
“Zira… this cub is yours?”
“Of course, Scar. He is ours; he bears your name: Kovu,” she purred.
“Zira, this cub is not mine. I never mated you,” Scar replied flatly, pushing the cub back towards her with a paw. She groaned in exacerbation, but when she spoke again, her voice retained that same adoring, soft tone, one that had become rather eerie.
“Don’t be silly, he is your cub. He is our cub. He will rule the Pride Lands in your place, just as soon as we get Simba out of the way, just as soon as your reign meets its true end.”
“No, Zira, what’s happened to you? And what have you done to me! Look at what I have become! I murdered Mufasa… I killed my own brother, because you turned me against him in your jealousy, in your rage against mother and your desperate bid to be in the center of attention! Why couldn’t I see it then? You didn’t want me to be king because it was my birthright, you merely wanted to wed me and become the queen you never could have been otherwise! You’re sick! I’ve nearly died, Zira, I won’t kill anymore family members,” he replied, distressed, unable to recall what exactly had prompted him to do as she’d wanted—he had chosen his actions, of that he was sure. He had done it because of the way life had been unfair to his little half-sister, and, by extension, to himself. But now that she was presenting her cub as theirs, and speaking utter lunacy, now he could see just how far gone she was.
“Now Scar, I don’t like that tone. I’ve done nothing but help you. I have always helped you. I have always loved you. My king, I only mean for us to take back what is rightfully yours.”
He didn’t like the way she said “my king;” it was the way Sarabi had spoken to Mufasa. It was romantic in nature, it was not right, considering that they were so closely related.
“Zira, I am old, and I am tired, and I shall not be a part of your schemes any longer. I meant it that you should have let me die in the fire.”
“Oh Scar… it’s cute how you think you have a choice. You are MINE. MY king, MY mate, MINE,” as she spoke, lionesses began to emerge from the darkness all around them. A low and malicious chuckled rolled out of Zira’s mouth from her stomach as they drew too close for Scar to ever dream of escaping. Her laughter grew louder and heightened in pitch, as the lionesses joined in. The cub at her paws cried out in fear and distress of some kind, and Scar felt oddly akin to the youngster. Zira’s obsession had led her to unholy lengths, and there was nothing Scar could do about it except play along and pray to the Great Kings that they saw fit to put an end to his misery soon.
story 2:
How could this day have possibly turn out to be like this? This and other such similar thoughts crossed Simba's mind yet again as he lay on the mossy log, staring down at his own reflection, feeling depressed. The events that had just transpired were still flying through his head, leaving him feeling very much confused on top of the depression that came out today, after he had lived so long running away from it.
The day had started out just as any other with Timon and Pumbaa, and for the most part, it was exactly that – just another day with his two friends and caretakers. There was no reason for him to have thought that this day would have turned out so differently, not even after he heard Pumbaa screaming for his life.
And then she came in. His best friend back from... his old life. One of the many things that would tug at his mind and heart lat at night when Simba would be the most vulnerable, and as much as he would struggle not to, he would start to remember...
So when Nala had to show up and tell him that he needed to go back – he couldn't! The nerve of her to even bring it up! Along with that story about Scar and the hyenas. All the more reason for him not to go. There was already a king in the Pride Lands. What good would he do except to bring up bad memories, especially for... his mother. No, it's best that he doesn't go back, Nala should understand. Except that he couldn't exactly get himself to tell her why he couldn't go back. So they argued, causing him to walk away from her, ruining whatever positive feelings he got at being reuinted with his cubhood friend. And now found himself on this mossy old log, staring at his own reflection and wondering just what in the world was going on.
Simba let out a sigh as he slowly lay down, feeling both physically and emotionally drained. He would have stayed here too, lost in his thoughts, if it wasn't for some rude monkey that decided to have some fun and annoy the lion, starting by flinging a rock strait at the point where Simba was staring at the water.
Now annoyed as well, the young lion got up to walk away from the interloper, hardly paying attention to what even he was saying in answer to the other creature's attempts at having a conversation. He would have continued on as well, eventually leaving the annoyance behind and be free to wallow in his depression once more until it would eventually go away as it always does...
Except for that one reply the monkey said in retort to some snarky comment Simba made in an effort to get the creature to go away.
“Sure do! You're Mufasa's boy!”
Paying as little attention to their banter as he was, Simba had almost missed the comment entirely. He would have too, if it wasn't for the fact that this monkey spoke the one name that would instantly get his attention, for better or worse.
He wha- How does he-Freezing in place from the shock as he began to properly comprehend what he had just heard, the lion turned towards the monkey, who with a smile took off running in the opposite direction. “Hey! Wait!”
It really should have been easy to chase down this monkey. He was a lion after all, but after all the emotions had taken their toll on him, Simba found himself gasping for breath as he finally caught up, the monkey calmly sitting on a rock in meditation, waiting for him.
“You knew my father?”
Maybe it was just this particular monkey, or perhaps they are all like this, but instead of answering him, the monkey said some crazy thing about how he 'knows' Mufasa before running off again, although this time motioning for Simba to follow him into the thick shrub.
The lion hesitated at a gab in the thick undergrowth, unsure if he should follow or not. He glanced back nervously, as if hoping to see someone who would decide for him. Instead, he simply saw the empty savanna, devoid of even the smallest bird or critter.
But this monkey clearly knows something that he wasn't letting in on, that much Simba was certain of. And if he said that he 'knows' Mufasa, could it mean -? Surely not! He had seen his father's dead body down at the bottom of that gorge. The image of the mighty king lying broken and covered in dust haunted him almost every night. There was no way Mufasa could still be alive! ...Could there?
Simba chased after the fast moving shadow of the monkey, who seemed to be delighting himself in swinging about from branch to branch, while the lion had to struggle to negotiate the dense floor all while keeping his eyes on where he had last seen the monkey in an almost useless attempt to keep up.
“Stop!”
The lion froze, almost plowing straight into this creature who thought it a good idea to lead a grown lion on a chase, only to pop up right in front of him. That was when he realized that the dense shrub had ended, and there was more grass in front of them. The monkey motioned for him to be silent as he gently parted a clearing in the grass.
A lump formed in Simba's throat as he cautiously approached the clearing, not knowing what to expect. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, and there certainly didn't seem to be any sort of sign of other lions, alive or dead.
Stopping next to the monkey, Simba didn't know if he should proceed onwards or not. There was a rock in front of him and below that what looked to be a waterhole. But no Mufasa. But if his father was waiting for him down there...? Simba glanced at the monkey, who motioned with his head for the lion to continue.
Walking slowly, Simba glanced down nervously at what lay below the water...
...Only to be greeted by more water and his own image on it.
Simba let out a sigh, disappointment and resentment rising up in him. “That's not my father. It's just my reflection.”
Of course he had been a fool to even dare to think that Mufasa might still be alive. No matter what the monkey had told him moments ago, Simba was the one who found his father's body. He was the one who had curled up underneath his father's paw, devoid of any heartbeat or other signs of life. Mufasa was dead. He had killed him and there was no changing it.
Rising back up, Simba was about to walk away and possibly not hurt this monkey who thought to play such a trick on him when he felt the creature's hand on his head, guiding him back towards the water.
“No! Look... harder.”
His gaze following the monkey's hand towards the still water, Simba simply watched as the monkey prodded the surface, distorting the reflection into a blurry mess.
Eyes narrowing as he tried to see past all the distortion, Simba couldn't help but wonder what the monkey was getting at and what the entire deal here was.
Unusually for him, the monkey spoke calmly and without any hints of sarcasm or double meaning. “You see? He lives in you” As he spoke, the distortions on the water began to calm down and reveal a reflection once more.
Except that it wasn't of Simba, or even of the monkey. The young lion stared in amazement and awe at this new refection of... of Mufasa. And it was a perfect image too, there was no mistaking the face that was staring back at Simba...
But how could that be?
Simba's eyes widened in disbelief, almost as though he wished that he wasn't seeing what he was seeing. To look at Mufasa again... It was both what he had always yearned for, but at the same time, it was hurting so much! Looking at his father's image had just undone everything Timon and Pumbaa had worked so hard for. All those defenses he developed to stay sane even at the dead of night when his memories would attack him in full force – everything – instantly crumbled away helpless before this sight.
He could almost hear Mufasa's voice again. Gentle and soothing as his father spoke his name:
“Simba...”
Wait- that wasn't a memory. The lion knew when he was recalling a sound, and when he was actually hearing it. His ears were not deceiving him: Somewhere above him, he had just heard Mufasa say his name just as he had many times way long ago...
Slowly peeling his gaze away from the image below him, Simba allowed his eyes to pan skywards, looking for the source of that voice, somewhere in the stars above, and the slowly moving cloud formation below them.
“Father?”
Story 3:
It took everything Simba had to tear his gaze away from his new-born daughter. He couldn’t get over how tiny she was, how minute the whiskers that poked out of her muzzle were, how her little paws already had miniature pads on the bottom… she lay sleeping in Nala’s embrace, no doubt exhausted from the excitement that had only just ended. The proud parents had watched as the mandrill Rafiki raised her into the sky, in front of the entire kingdom, as equally delighted to display the product of their love to the Pride Lands as they were secretly terrified that the aging shaman would drop her.
And yet, Simba was not happy. He knew that he should have been, laying quietly with his little family in a rare moment of isolation and peace, but the thought of what he had to do next was troubling him greatly. Sighing, knowing that there was no way he could get out of it, he stood up.
“I’ll be back later,” he muttered.
Nala watched him as he got up and left, quizzically, but didn’t speak. She had no idea where he was off to, but she knew better than to ask: Simba’s mood often took unexpected dives like this. Trying not to worry about it too much, she turned her attention back to her cub.
Simba walked briskly, ignoring the multiple congratulations that were shot his way as he descended the stone steps and made his way down the side of Pride Rock. He turned his thoughts over and over in his head as to how he would handle the situation he was about to put himself in. He was equally stressed about it as he was angry that he even had to be doing it. His well-wishers, slightly miffed to have been ignored, could do nothing but continue on their way. Simba had been a godsend to them, yet now they were unsure as to whether their new King was up to the job. During his public appearances he always seemed so… distant, like something was always on his mind, diverting his attention.
“Good morning, Sire!” came a shrill call, causing Simba to cringe slightly. He was not in the mood for this.
Zazu came soaring down in front of him, his chest puffed, positively beaming.
“My, isn't this just marvellous?” He cried, Simba shutting his eyes even tighter, “the entire Kingdom, united by such royal-”
“Not now, Zazu,” Simba groaned, not even trying to disguise his annoyance, “I’ve got things to do.”
Zazu looked indignant, and was confused. Presentation of an heir was a huge deal in a King’s life. Why on Earth was Simba not brimming over with joy like everyone else?
“But, sire, we had such an excellent turn-out! And to see so many after so much hard-ship is almost un-”
“I’m going to see my Uncle,” the lion interrupted.
The hornbill shut-up almost immediately, quite taken aback. He was going where?
“Your… your what?” Zazu stammered, unsure if he had actually heard correctly.
“My Uncle,” Simba repeated, “to deliver the news. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
"But... you haven't seen him since-"
"I'm well aware of that, Zazu, thanks."
He set off walking again, intent on reaching his goal as quickly as possible. He had to supress an audible sigh as his major-domo began flying alongside him, still talking.
“Shall I go with you?” he asked, “I think it would be for the best, seeing as-”
“No, I’m going alone. I have to go alone.”
“… seeing as I went when your father-”
“What ABOUT my father?” Simba snapped, suddenly, unable to control his temper any more.
Zazu was so shocked he had flapped backwards in the air, withering under Simba’s now deeply-etched glare.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled, hovering just in front of him, “I… I’ll come back later.”
Simba watched him fly away, anything to put off his visit, feeling slightly guilty for what he had just done. He couldn’t help it though, the mention of his father while he was on his way to visit his Uncle had just caused him to snap from the anxiety and uncontrollable rage he still felt. He would apologise to Zazu later. For now, he still had his grim task to perform.
The short trip didn’t take long enough, in Simba’s opinion. It was less than a couple of minutes before he found himself standing in front of the den Scar now called home, peering into its dark entrance. He had never been here before, and he had not seen or talked to the ex-king since the night he had overthrown him. He had absolutely no desire to, and had deemed this tiny cave at the back-side of Pride Rock the only place suitable for a lion of Scar’s calibre.
The night of Simba’s return, Scar had been found where he had fallen, mauled almost to death by hyenas and severely burned by the flames that had engulfed Pride Rock (and that were perhaps the only reason the hyenas had retreated before they could eat him alive completely). Simba, having been informed of this by Zazu and some of the other lionesses, had refused to go and look at him, instead banishing the now-crippled lion to a small crevice at the rear of Pride Rock that he remembered from his childhood. Quite some time had passed since then, and quite a lot had happened that Simba’s “prisoner” needed to be informed of. That, and Simba had decided now was the time to finally confront him. After all, he was still the source of much trauma that continued to plague him. Vivid nightmares occurred almost nightly, and any recollection or mention of him still sent the King into an angered frenzy. He couldn’t go on like this.
Simba stood in front of the den, willing his legs to move and carry him inside, but they stayed put. He was feeling particularly anxious right now, he could feel his heart beating hard against his rib cage, and his mouth was dry. He knew the lion he would find within posed no physical threat to him, but still he was… scared. Almost as if Scar’s mere existence were enough to cause him panic. He took a deep breath, and purposefully strode forwards, entering into the dark cave.
The stench was the first thing that hit him, and it almost caused him to reel backwards. He peered through the darkness, before spotting the hunched silhouette of his uncle against the back wall. He stood in silence for a moment, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His mouth, still dry, struggled to form words.
“Scar,” he finally said, trying to sound commanding, but ultimately failing.
The figure in the corner turned its head towards him, and it was so shocking that Simba couldn’t suppress his gasp in time. Scar’s face was completely disfigured. His fur was gone: what was left was shiny pink skin, several chunks of which were missing. The once-green orbs that would have penetrated the darkness that separated them were either gouged out or permanently seared shut. Despite this, his namesake gash was still plainly visible across where his left eye would have once been. As for the rest of his body, it too was devoid of fur in many places, instead replaced by more burns from the flames. Cuts, scratches and wounds of various states of repair were littered all over him, and his sleek black mane, the only sleek thing about him, was no more. He looked completely pathetic, not even a shadow of his former self. A smear would have been a more appropriate term. The former dictator, the most infamous and at one time feared lion in all the Pride Lands, was now blind, deaf in one ear, unable to stand up without severe pain and living surrounded by his own waste. Simba knew he had been in a bad way, but he had not expected anything like this. And yet, he didn’t feel any sympathy for him.
“Simba,” Scar finally said, “my, my… what a pleasure it is to finally be in your majestic presence.”
His voice, deep and scratchy sounding, was dripping with sarcasm. Simba just continued to stare at him, not saying anything.
“Allow me to take this opportunity to thank you for such luxurious living quarters. Really… I couldn’t have asked for better,” he muttered.
“Drop the victim act, Scar,” Simba growled, “you know as well as anyone that you deserve this.”
“Instead of death? How noble you are, Simba. Mufasa would be so proud of you.”
Simba felt the rage boiling inside of him flare once more.
“Don’t you dare mention him!” he seethed, “how dare you speak of him like that? How dare you speak of him at all? After everything you’ve done?”
Simba was even more incensed to hear his uncle quietly laughing to himself, raspingly. Although he wouldn’t have been able to see it, he was baring his teeth, and his claws were out, signs of the anger swirling around inside of him.
“Like father, like son,” he said, quietly, “he could never control his emotions, either.”
“Stop it, Scar.”
“Oh, how angry he was when I didn’t attend his precious son’s presentation,” the older lion continued, ignoring him, “I doubt I ever saw him angrier…”
A deep growl rumbled in Simba’s throat. He didn’t like where this was going at all.
“And then – oh! – I remember it so well. The night that same son disobeyed him, went to the Elephant Graveyard, of all places… he poured his heart out to me after it happened: “oh, Scar. Am I a good father? Why would he disobey me, Scar? I nearly lost him tonight, Scar… Scar, whatever shall I do?””
“I’m warning you,” Simba breathed, trembling with so much anger he could barely speak, “don’t say another word.”
“Of course, it only made killing him all the more satisfying – seeing the fear in his eyes, watching him fall-”
He could not finish: with a mighty roar that echoed around the walls of the tiny den, Simba leapt on him, striking him multiple times with both sets of claws, raking them across his exposed skin.
“DAMN YOU!” Simba bellowed, unable to stop, “DAMN YOU TO HELL!”
He jumped off the other lion, who did not fight back, and began angrily swatting at the ground, sending several small, decaying skeletons from various small animals clattering away across the filthy floor. He could not believe it. How on earth had Scar, the crippled, pathetic scrap of bones lying on the floor amongst his own dung, managed to get the upper hand, yet again? How was he still so manipulative? How? Simba could not understand it.
Simba was now furiously pacing back and forth within the tiny cave, taking great, ragged breaths as he did so. Scar, bleeding afresh, continued speaking.
“Nicely done, Simba. Daddy would be so happy to know that you're upholding the circle of life so well. What was it he said, "respect all the creatures"?”
“What makes you think you can still manipulate me, Scar?” Simba said, the anger still present in his voice, “I’m not a cub anymore. You can’t just say anything you want and expect me to just take it in.”
“You’re right, you aren’t a cub anymore. And if I had only had the sense to kill you myself when you were, and I had the chance, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. I wouldn’t be lying here in my own filth, waiting for the moment in each wretched day that I’m granted some miserable scraps of food, whilst you’re at Pride Rock sprawled out, eating the best meat, making love to every lioness, all while I’m expected to be grateful to you for the fact that I’m not dead.”
“You got what you deserved!” Simba exploded, “don’t even pretend that you don’t know that!”
Simba could tell by the furrow in Scar’s raw face that he was glaring up at him, and his eyes, had they not been so damaged, would have been boring into him, like they had always done.
There was a sustained silence between them. It could only have been less than a minute, but each second dragged by for what felt like an hour. Simba’s pacing was slowly becoming less agitated, but he still felt a terrible rage within. It wouldn’t go away, and when the other lion finally broke the silence it only began to stir up again.
“Well, Simba,” Scar said, his voice full of malice once more,” I doubt you came here just to talk to your dear old Uncle. To what do I owe the honour?”
Simba, now sitting near one of the cave walls, continued to glare at him, but finally spoke the first of the news he had come to break.
“Nala gave birth three days ago,” he said, quietly, yet still purposefully, “I have an heir. Your hold on the Pride Lands is finished for good.”
Scar looked up, with what could only be a mock grin spread across his face.
“Well, well… you have been busy, Simba,” he crooned, “three moons into the job and you have a child already…You have my utmost congratulations.”
“Save me your scorn, Scar,” Simba spat back at him, “it’s not as if your opinion matters to me anyway.”
“A word of advice, then,” the dark lion continued, unfaltered, “cubs are easy to lose, I’d be very careful, if I were you. Why, just ask Sarabi-”
“Well for a start you won’t be allowed anywhere near her,” Simba snapped, the mention of his mother making his hackles rise even further, “I’ll never let anyone do to her what you did to me.”
Scar’s grin only widened at this.
“Oh… I see,” he lilted, “a girl.”
“And your point would be?”
“Come, come now, Simba, I thought you were smarter than that. A female will never be fit to rule.”
“What’s it to you?” Simba muttered, “With any luck you’ll be food for vultures by the time Kiara becomes Queen.”
“If she becomes Queen. Who knows? You and Nala may decide to have more cubs… you may see sense and have a son. Surely even you have enough self-respect for that? ”
Simba did not reply. He dug his claws into the earth below his feet, in an attempt to dissipate some of the tension he was feeling. What did Scar care of any cub of his?
“How is she? Nala?” Scar asked, a bit too intently for Simba’s comfort.
“None of your concern,” he retorted, darkly.
“She always was my favourite,” Scar sighed, “though, of course, no one could beat your mother…”
“You’re disgusting,” Simba whispered, his voice quivering with rage. He was so incensed and angry that he was rooted to the spot, unable to spring on his uncle again and inflict more injuries. Thought what would that gain? Scar was as low as he would get: there was no way Simba could demean him any further. The same could not be said the opposite way around, though.
“I suppose Zira is a fine lioness, too,” Scar continued, “strong, determined, at the very least used to be beautiful…”
He looked back up at Simba again, though of course without being able to see him.
“Defiant.”
Simba took a deep breath, ready to finally deliver the second piece of news. The sooner he could get out of here, the better.
“Scar-”
“I wasn’t lying when I told you to be careful,” he said, voice oozing with danger, “not everyone is so happy with this new regime. They have a variety of tactics already planned out.”
“Zira is gone, Scar,” Simba finally said, as authoritatively as he possibly could, “They all are.”
The lion on the floor froze. Simba had a feeling his eyes would have been widening in disbelief, had they been there.
“...what did you just say?"
Simba didn't reply straight away. Before he could say anything, Scar spoke again.
"Did I stutter, Simba? What did you just say?!"
Scar’s voice reached an unprecedented volume, for having such a mangled voice-box. Simba took a slight step back.
“I took your advice early,” he continued, “you’re right: cubs are easy to lose; so are titles, in fact. I’m not taking any chances, not after everything that's happened. Anyone who still had any loyalty to you was exiled.”
Scar's entire body was heaving as he took great, ragged breaths, partially from shock, but mostly from anger. The final few tendrils of his support system had just been vanquished, and by his oh-so-loathed nephew, of all people.
"Where are they now?!" he seethed, "where did you send them?!"
The dark lion began a pathetic attempt to launch an assault on his oppressor: unable to stand or walk, he was reduced to dragging himself slowly across the floor.
"WHERE ARE THEY?!" he roared again, attempting a swipe, though of course missing in his blindness. Simba was on the complete opposite side of the den from him.
"The only place for lions who think like you," Simba said, "the Outlands."
Hearing the sound of Simba's voice, Scar whipped around and continued to crawl as fast as his old, destroyed body was able to. His claws left great score marks in the earth as his rage spurred him on.
"Get back, Scar," Simba warned, avoiding his uncle with great ease.
Scar's frenzied "attack" took a lot out of him: he collapsed where he was, wheezing in his weakened state.
"Her cubs..." he rasped, "where are Zira's cubs?"
"She took them with her."
The old lion's head shot up from the ground at these words.
"...what?!"
His yellowed fangs were out now - his only hope of potential heirs were gone too. He couldn't see Simba, but just feeling his presence in the room was making the hatred course through his veins even faster. Since birth he had been the bane of Scar's life, and now, despite all his best efforts, he had won. An everlasting reminder of his brother's superiority was now standing over him, victorious, and there was nothing he could do about it.
"You... you sent them to die! You SWINE!"
"If it means stamping out your influence forever then it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make!"
Scar made a last-ditch attempt to attack him, of course with zero effect.
"This is the price to be paid for your evil!"
Simba hated how cold he sounded, but he was speaking the truth. He almost thought he felt a pang of pity, watching as his Uncle blindly dragged himself through the fecal matter that covered the floor, snorting and growling and roaring in his frustration and anger. No, he couldn't sympathise with him. Not after everything that he had done. This was the least of what he deserved... wasn't it?
"I hope you're happy," Scar finally spat, breathing heavily, "I hope seeing me like this is worth it."
"Believe me," Simba muttered, darkly, "it is."
The lion on the floor gave another snort, his head dropping to the floor.
"You've taken everything from me..."
Simba stared for a second, before the hatred inside him erupted anew. He launched himself towards the other lion, putting his face low so that it was mere inches from Scar's.
"You took everything from me," Simba whispered, his anger boiling within him to the point he could not muster anything louder, "or did you forget?"
"Don't act like that was the same."
"You're right, it wasn't the same, it was worse!"
Dozens and dozens of painful memories came flooding back to him at that point. He almost felt he was on the brink of an all-out breakdown, but he fought back the angry tears. He would not give Scar the satisfaction. Not again; not now.
"You killed my father," he continued, enraged, "then you tried to kill me! You ran me out of my home, separated me from my family, stole my title... you manipulated me, Scar! Don't you dare try to make me the villain! Don't you dare!"
Scar didn't reply, seemingly beyond words. Simba stood back up to full height once more. He had no desire to stay here any longer.
"You're pathetic," he whispered, "all this, just because you couldn't handle the fact they chose him over you."
"You poor, naive boy," Scar said, in mock sympathy, "You think my parents chose Mufasa because he was a particularly good choice? Your father was always their favourite! Don't think for one second you're standing there now because he was wise or strong or particularly good, Simba. It was sheer, dumb luck."
"My father was a great lion, Scar," Simba said, his voice trembling once more, "greater than you could ever be. Get over yourself."
Scar chuckled to himself once more.
"...if that's what you want to tell yourself, fine. Who am I to stop you? I'm just your lowly prisoner, after all."
Having given the older lion the opportunity to throw in some last-minute insults, Simba made to leave. His work here was done.
"Don't expect to hear from me again, Scar," he said, emotionlessly, "I'm done with you."
Scar, hearing this, began to slowly drag himself back to his original position against the back wall.
"Very well, your majesty," came the reply, as sarcastic and malicious as ever. He laid himself down, listening to the sound of Simba's retreating pawsteps.
But, he wasn't letting him go without one final word.
"Do me a favour though," he continued, just as the other lion reached the cave entrance, "remember, look out for that baby-girl of yours, won't you?"
A huge, evil grin was plastered all over his mug. Simba, seeing this, merely growled by way of goodbye, as a shiver ran down his spine. With that, he turned and quickly strode out of the darkness of the den and into the sunlight. He didn't look back. Instead, he focused on putting as much distance between him and the miserable excuse for a home as possible. His mind was full and buzzing with static. As hard as he was trying to not let his Uncle's words get to him, it was an impossible fight. In that respect, Scar had succeeded.
The young-king's lasting image of him would be his tattered remnants of a body propped up against the back wall of the cave, doubtless thinking dark, twisted thoughts about his precious daughter. It made him sick just to think about it.
They never spoke again.
I haven't read the stories yet, so I am hoping that the wait was worth it for you guys. As usual, I will be giving a week for the voting round, so I will let it run until Saturday, November 29th.
The usual voting rules apply: Don't vote for yourself, and don't vote for a story that you simply know was written by a friend. Don't ask others to vote for your story either. Read each one carefully and give all the stories the same consideration before you make your decision.
Good luck to the authors!
