AN: Yet another one-shot AU spawned by my discussions with Katari. Why, yes, we do talk TLK a lot. Why do you ask?
I know the ending to this gives the impression that there could be more to follow but, seriously, this is just a one-shot. I don't really have any plans to make this into a multi-chapter fic or otherwise write a sequel/continuation. Sorry, but it is what it is.
And, of course, the title is pulled from "Circle of Life" as sung by Elton John.
Some of Us Fall by the Wayside
Fire and smoke was everywhere. Perhaps even Pride Rock itself was burning, the great kopje fueling the flames that rose like vengeful spirits into the sky. A firestorm on earth, a thunderstorm above, and each sharing strength with the other, whipping the winds into a fury matched only by the rage within the advancing lion's eyes.
"Murderer."
"Simba, please, have mercy. I beg you."
And so it went: the returned savior and the old despot, high on Pride Rock, each trying to topple the other, to send him on the long fall from the throne.
x x x X x x x
Zira spat. There was blood in the spit, but she doubted it was hers. She and her lionesses were fairing well—better than Sarabi's lazy beasts, she noticed with smug satisfaction. The hyenas were fleeing en mass, now, the killing easy. Oh, and kill them she would—the dead hyena at her feet was testimony to that, its throat torn open in a single, effortless motion. They were vermin, the entire clan, and how good it was to finally have the land free of them. Why Scar hadn't allowed her to do this sooner, she couldn't fathom. Her lionesses were stronger, fiercer, smarter, and much better groomed than any number of hyenas; they would have made a
far more fitting army for such a king as Scar than those filthy mongrels could have ever hoped to be.
Some hyenas ran past her, Zazu dive-bombing them and a warthog with a—was that a meerkat on its head?—in hot pursuit. Zira blinked, dumbfounded, turning to watch the unorthodox chase descend down Pride Rock and out onto the savanna. And just when she had thought the natural order was reasserting itself….
She huffed and looked to see if there were any more hyenas that needed removing, but there were none. The lionesses—hers and Sarabi's alike—were slowly gathering near the base of the promontory, regrouping, assessing the extent of their injuries, reassuring one another as only pride sisters can.
Something small and chill struck Zira on the back of the neck. She whirled, a snarl at the ready, but there was nothing there. She was struck again. And again. And it was not until she was hit in the face that she realized what her assailant was: rain. Rain had returned to the Pride Lands.
Behind her, the lionesses looked up at the sky in wonder. The fire faltered, guttered—died—taking the last of the hard, lean dry season with it. From here, everything for the better.
Except…. Zira turned back towards the unyielding face of Pride Rock. Except, where was her beloved? Where was Scar? High above, the kopje's summit was lost in mist and steam.
"I saw another lion," one of her lionesses said, coming to stand beside her. It was one of the twins, the ones with spots under their eyes; Zira didn't spare her enough attention to see which of the two it was.
"So did I," Zira muttered back. He had chased Scar up there. And that's what worried her. Her beloved was brilliant beyond measure, but he was no heavyweight bruiser. If there was a fight…. A movement below the trail caught her eye. Rafiki. Well, at least the shaman would be close at hand, in case Scar was injured. Odd, that. She'd never known the infernal monkey to be concerned for his king.
Something squealed nearby, the panicked scream of captured prey. The warthog! Hunger and all the hunting instincts behind it spun Zira and she charged toward the sound, intent upon claiming her share of the meager kill.
"No!"
Nala barreled into the lioness that had pinned the pig down, making her lose her hold. The warthog bolted back to his hooves, scrambling to get behind his rescuer. The meerkat joined him and together the two chattered comfort and distress. Zira ignored their words, but watched their every move, waiting for her chance to strike. To her right, her pride sister circled, intent upon her stolen meal. Nala remained stolidly in the way.
"They're Simba's friends," she said.
Zira narrowed her eyes. That…didn't make sense. What would any friends of Simba being doing here now? "Simba's dead," she growled. "Now, out of the way."
Nala backed up a step, the warthog and meerkat beneath her, as if they were cubs needing her protection. "Simba's not dead, Zira. He didn't die in the stampede like Scar said he did." Nala squared herself, looked Zira straight in the eyes, and said, "Simba is the rightful king."
There was a roar of anger, a rush of motion. Snapping teeth and flashing claws. Snarling and shouts and confusion as the pride pulled the two lionesses apart. Most of the force was needed to restrain Zira, who rumbled a promise of future retribution from beneath the two—three—lionesses sitting on her. Nala stood a ways back, her mother and Sarabi prepared to defend her if Zira lashed out again. Zira was glad to see that the insolent little harlot was bleeding.
"Thank you, Nala," purred a rich, wonderful, dangerous voice, "for making your motives so clear."
Attention shifted to the trail leading down from the top of Pride Rock. Scar stood there, glowering, green eyes focused on Nala with an unflinching intensity. There was blood in his fur and, from the tense way he was standing, Zira guessed at least some of it was his. She squirmed underneath her captors; they let her up, knowing that she had all but forgotten Nala, if only for the moment.
She rushed to Scar, pressing against him and rubbing her head in his mane. He shifted his weight; almost imperceptibly, he let her support him.
In her haste and devotion, Zira missed the scowls and growing, horrified comprehension rippling through the ranks of Sarabi's lionesses and echoed in the eyes of the assembled non-lions. The old queen recovered herself first, her expression hardening.
"Where's Simba?" The constrained loathing in her voice was different from what Zira had heard before. It was deeper, fresher, more challenging. And Zira hated the other lioness all the more for it.
"That wasn't Simba," Scar said, matter-of-fact and daring—indeed, probably expecting—anyone to question him.
Sarabi's expression darkened, a match for the angry storm clouds churning in the sky above. But it was Nala who spoke: "Liar!"
Zira bristled, growling. How dare she!
Scar shook his head, though whether it was for her—Zira—or the pride, Zira couldn't tell. "It was a pretty trick, Nala, but that wasn't Simba," he said, "just some trumped-up rogue willing to play the part."
Nala's eyes went wide. The pride turned its collective focus on her: Zira's lionesses wore their accusations openly; even some of Sarabi's lionesses looked on with doubt and suspicion. "You lying—" Nala spat. "I would never!"
"He admitted it, you know," Scar said. Zira felt the growl lurking below his veneer of pity and contempt. "A shame there wasn't an audience for his confession."
Nala was trembling where she stood, her outrage and indignation all but robbing her of speech. Zira fancied that perhaps the traitor even felt a moment's sorrow for the young lion she had lured to Pride Rock.
"That's not true." It was a little voice, at once timid and bold. The meerkat, and the warthog with him. Zira had lost track of them when she had gone after Nala, but here they were, thrusting their noses back where they didn't belong. The meerkat continued, clearly uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny of so many predators, but trying his best to hide it, "I don't know what happened up there"—he gestured towards the top of Pride Rock—"but I know that that was Simba and no one but."
The warthog nodded vigorously. "That's right," he said. "He's our friend."
One of Zira's lionesses—Scruffy, so called for the ruff of longer fur on the back of her neck—snorted in derision. "Sure," she said with a grimace, "and as long as you're Simba's friends, you're off the menu." She licked her lips; several of the other lionesses were licking
their own, as well, eyeing meerkat and warthog as befit their status as prey species. The two backed up, the meerkat retreating to the relative safety of the warthog's head.
Scar sat down and slowly began to clean his injuries. "Cute," he muttered, discrediting the two lesser creatures with that one word.
"You gotta be kidding me," the meerkat said, his voice rising shrilly as Scruffy and a second lioness began to circle towards him and the warthog. "We raised Simba. We found him in the desert and took him in."
Zira laughed. How preposterous! Some of the other lionesses guffawed in disbelief; even Sarabi looked doubtful. And a rising sense of urgency finally returned Nala's voice to her. "They're telling the truth," she said, again placing herself between the pride and its prey.
Scruffy advanced at a low stalk. Nala braced herself for the inevitable clash.
CRACK!
Scruffy backed up, shaking her head; her hunting partner held her position, suddenly cautious. Rafiki stood in the way, stick raised for another blow. When neither lioness made a move, he lowered it, but no one would question the speed with which he could use it to strike. "They are telling the truth," the shaman said.
So, Zira thought, that's why the monkey was at Pride Rock: he was part of Nala's schemes. She should have known.
"Another conspirator?" Scar asked, feigning sorrow. "I'm disappointed in you, Rafiki. Not once do you offer help, and now this."
Rafiki rattled his stick at Scar. "You never wanted help," he said.
"I see," Scar said, his voice low and level. "A king must come crawling on his belly or not at all. Is that how my brother did it?"
Rafiki opened his mouth to answer, but Sarabi cut him off.
"You killed your brother," she snarled with such furious passion as to hold everyone's attention in awe. Except, perhaps, for Scar's. "You admitted it; we all heard."
Well, no, not all. Zira and her lionesses had missed that part, but Zira could well believe it of her beloved. He was clever and ruthless and had hated that oaf Mufasa for as far back as Zira could remember. Oh, yes, she could believe that the stampede had been a perfect, glorious "accident." She nuzzled Scar, pleased to be his mate.
"Of course I admitted it," he said, reasonable despite his anger. "That rogue would have killed me otherwise."
Sarabi didn't like the answer, that much was clear from the way her claws flexed, but she had no retort. Whatever had led to the confession—Zira hadn't been there, so she couldn't know for certain—it sounded like it had been extracted under duress. Small wonder Scar would have admitted to murdering Mufasa.
"And what about when Simba said he was responsible?" Nala demanded into the silence. "Why would a rogue do that?"
"Why would Simba?" Scar countered. "Anyone who saw the stampede—my nephew included, thank you—would know that he was blameless."
Nala, again, defiant as always: "But then why would a rogue claim to be responsible?"
"I would imagine," Scar said, muzzle wrinkling to expose his fangs, "because it makes for a tidy excuse for why he didn't return to the pride until now." His eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Nala: was that his idea, or yours?"
She snarled wordlessly and her tail lashed behind her. "That wasn't just some rogue I found," she said. "That was Simba."
Scar lowered his head in order to lick at his foreleg, taking his time and quite nonchalant in the face of Nala's fury. He paused and looked up, studying the rebellious young lioness. "Why did you leave?"
The sudden change of topic rocked Nala and defused some of the mounting tension within the pride. Even Rafiki looked a bit baffled, but he had the presence of mind to be suspicious of this new tactic.
Nala blinked, gathered herself, and stared balefully at Scar. "The Pride Lands were dying—we all were—and you weren't doing a damned thing about it," she said. "I left to find help."
Only Zira was close enough to see Scar's smile as he licked again at his foreleg. "I thought so," he said, as if Nala had just confessed to everything. And so she had, if only indirectly.
More of Sarabi's lionesses were looking uncertain, withdrawing from Nala, and gazing at her with the sadness reserved for those who betray their pride sisters. It was a delicious sight to see, and Zira wanted to remember every detail of it. Only Sarabi, Sarafina, and a couple of Nala's cubhood friends remained by her side, along with Rafiki, the meerkat, and the warthog.
Desperately, Nala turned to the lionesses that had left her, pleading with them and berating them all at once. "You're going to believe him? Just like that? After everything that's happened? I didn't bring back some rogue; I brought back Simba."
"Enough!" Scar snapped, putting an end to whatever speech she had sought to give. "I won't have my nephew's memory soiled like this." And the pain in his voice was real enough that even Zira almost believed it.
Nala faltered and Sarabi wavered. The former queen looked towards Rafiki as if seeking reassurance. The shaman crossed his arms and shook his head. One of the lionesses made as if to drift back, trusting in Rafiki's word, but she stopped, reconsidered, and rejoined the majority of the pride. Zira made a mental note to keep a close watch on her from now on.
"You've made it quite clear, Nala," Scar said, and the entire pride recognized the tone of a king passing judgment, "that you are against my rule and left with every intention of ending it. You are a traitor and, worse, you raised false hopes that Simba might have survived the stampede."
"They weren't—" Nala began.
"Silence!" The force of the command snapped Nala's mouth shut. Scar waited a moment, just staring savagely at her. At last, he looked away, fangs bared. "Get out of my sight," he said, the words thick and snarled. He got up and limped towards the main cavern, pausing as he passed Zira. "See her to the border," he told his mate. He turned to cast a disgusted, disappointed look upon the knot of resilience gathered below. "Anyone who defends her can join her."
x x x X x x x
"It can't end like this, can it?" Kula asked, gazing longingly over her shoulder at the lands that used to be their home.
"Well, you can always come live in the jungle," Pumbaa said. "Right, Timon?"
Timon laughed nervously. "Yeah, sure. I mean, having some lionesses around wouldn't be such a bad idea. And Mr. Monkey can stick it to anyone who gives us trouble. Get it? Stick it to anyone?" He whooped at his own joke. "Ah, I kill me," he sighed, laying back against Pumbaa's neck and dramatically wiping a tear from his eye.
"Thanks, guys," Nala said, "but no. And speaking of Rafiki"—she looked around—"where did he go?"
"Back to his baobab, I would think," said Sarabi, pacing alongside her. "Zazu went with him."
Nala smiled, the first time she had since the battle on Pride Rock. "Good," she said. "We'll have someone waiting for us when we come back."
"We're going to come back?" Tama asked, frustration and the events of the past hours wearing on her. "Why? They chose their fates the same way we chose ours."
It was Sarafina who answered her, eyes downcast. "Because they're still our pride and we can't just abandon them like that."
Tama stared at the older lioness, then nodded. They would return—with help, with numbers, and, above all, with a vengeance. Together, the band of refugees left the Pride Lands and vanished into the falling rain.