Saving the ANs for the end today. Enjoy.
He stayed low. He always stayed low. Keep your head down, he told himself, keep your head down and maybe they won't see you. Maybe they won't notice. Maybe they'll forget.
What it was they wouldn't notice, he himself didn't know anymore. Was it the mark, or was it something bigger, deeper? There was something underneath the layers—that much was for certain—and it was also certain that he couldn't describe that ineffable something, at least as anything other than a burning, pernicious rage.
And that was something he could not hide. Not completely. Not now, not ever. It showed through the skin at gaps, his skin so holey and hollow, a patchwork of stitches where he'd tried to sew himself back together, but failed. The mottled pelt draped over him like a useless, ragged blanket, and underneath it was rotten, it was roiling and bubbling and bursting forth with a flurry of ravaging emotions.
So why bother to conceal at all?
He pulled his lips taut into a stout grimace, slinking out of the cave and into the sun. Automatically, he squinted. He hated the light. Best to be left in darkness.
The lion, dark and shadowy, crept down the promontory, his paws padding, his claws clicking, a virulent swarm of dozens of reminders in the soft timbres of his own footsteps. A reminder of so many times strolling down the slope, with a smile on his face as wide and toothy as a crocodile's, instead of the thick frown he usually wore.
It was a long time ago, of course, and no matter how much he tried to recall those days, he found their remembrance difficult. After all, they felt like they were a thousand miles away.
And then the voice of the shaman, haunting him, as it tended to do. From that moment when he thought he was slipping away, just on the edge of consciousness.
… Ah, de wound on de eye shall heal in time, but de wounds on de heart… ahhh, I fear dat he is already gone, my king…
Already gone? Already gone to what? Who were they to say, to judge him incessantly? His lips crinkled again in a vaguely contemptuous expression as he kicked a rock sullenly with his foot. It clattered to the base of the walkway, thudding as it fell and impacted the dusty earth. His eyes narrowed again in that same infectious anger, though as to what it was directed at, not even he knew…
His mind had grown for those many moons of cubhood, being nourished until it grew up relatively healthy and strong. Rooted. Awkward, although somewhat well-adjusted. But now the thunderous times of adolescence were weighing heavy on his soul, the sonorous strikes and the abrupt flashes bending, twisting, warping, burning… burning with an ardent, passionate fire that was kindled up at all hours, any hours, and was never extinguished.
It just burned. And burned. And burned.
There was nothing to suppress the inevitable growl growing strong and heavy in his parched, raspy throat. A disquieting sound that was all he could do to release some of the anger growing hot in his taut chest.
As it turned out, perhaps it wasn't completely uncalled for. He wasn't alone, no matter how much he wanted it—because, of course, they never gave a damn about what he thought, he was just another object, another thing to manipulate.
Help me, he thought, help me... or hate me. Choose one or the other. At the very least, stop these silly games. There's no more time for them…
"Hey, look…" a voice rasped, derisive, from behind him, "… it's Scarface!"
He felt the words more than he heard them: a note of inevitable surprise as he was suddenly addressed, which quickly melted into an indignant prick of irritation. His own slick pelt bristled. The brute should have known better by now, but again, they never seemed to grow tired of their endless games, of their petty rivalries. He'd been at it with them since they were cubs, battling it out with a latent fervor, but now it was simply tiresome.
Too bad their type didn't have brains nearly as big as their mouths.
"Stay out of my way."
He attempted to walk onwards, lowering the marred side of his face in shame and attempting to shroud it in the shadows. The long cuts were relatively fresh yet. They'd scabbed over, they'd struggled to heal in a disjointed embrace, but still there were the cakes of dark, clotted blood that clung, hot and sticky, to his eyelid.
There was a soft bump, however, as his forehead collided with the lion's shoulder—thus forcing, him, against his will, to see the handsome, unmarred face of his aggressor taunting him.
"Oh, where are you off to in such a hurry? Such big talk for such a scrawny lion, now."
He whirled around to find the lion behind him and tried to sidestep, but the larger male kept circling, a strange grin peeling across his lips, budding mane covering his undulating shoulder blades as he surrounded his prey, like a shark.
The darker, younger lion tried to keep his cool. He remembered, with some sense of urgency, what his older brother had always told him, time and time again. The golden brother, the future king, the gifted diplomat.
Violence isn't the answer. This can be solved peacefully…
His green eyes scanned the hostile figure, and still he wasn't certain if it was some antiquated sense of nobility or merely the shot of fear flowing through his veins that was talking to him. For, as always, this brute had friends. Friends who followed like a mindless horde, a collective consciousness of likeminded, backwards fiends who derived pleasure from pain, strength from their numbers, conviction from their adherence.
Weak, spineless scoundrels. And yet they crept up from the darkness, always following, always circling.
The first lion brushed up against him, an insidious grin cracking his face, a wicked glint surfacing in his eye, as he returned to face his victim.
"What do you want?" The disgruntled adolescent growled, his voice harsh and raspy, as though the inward tension contained in his head, the mental hurricane he was constantly enduring, had physically eroded away at his disused vocal cords. For even though he tried to remain dispassionate, and calm, and dignified, that alone was enough to betray many moons of pointless suffering.
It was a weakness. And they, in their similar weaknesses, had banded together to make his worse. It was a pointless, yet interminable, battle, which had worn both down to the bone. But he lacked numbers, followers… he lacked the spark of ambition. And, most of all, he lacked the desire to live off of others' misfortune.
A passive soul in an active, lion-eat-lion world. He cursed them, those brutes, but the words never left the space between his ears, they never came to be, never vibrated the air around him with the sharp message of a pained, tainted soul. Forever it remained locked within, deep and dark… and they would never know. Such a pity.
He hated them. But it was with a cooled, latent hatred, whilst they were already ignited.
The first one struck the ground with the foreboding tap-tap of eight sharp claws, a sound that bounced, that bounded off the tall rock walls that set the stage for their crimes, the vindictive acts of several bloody playwrights in a world where violence was a reward and an end unto itself. They smiled, they laughed, but nobody heard, nobody cared.
Tap-tap, tap-tap… Takatakaka, tap-tap…
The clicks continued, they uttered his name with intent as a chill crawled ferociously up his spine, noticeably bristling his hackles. But still he tried to hide. Just keep your head down, he kept telling himself, then maybe they won't notice you…
Just keep your head down, damn you… you're provoking them, damn you… stop that…
"You know what this is about, Taka, you little stain. Payback." And then, with a visible note of expectation breaking through his characteristically smug tone, "… Don't even think of running. The lionesses are out. Nobody'll even know what happened."
A sick laugh. And a weak, pleading reply.
"They'll find out." He backed physically, mentally, into a corner, feeling the coldness of the impassive stone against his hindquarters as the darkness enveloped him. The last remnants of light glimmered, faintly, off the blood on his face, the evidence of a terrible mistake, an irredeemable deed… "Stay back."
They looked angry as they approached. There were no friendly eyes in the crowd.
Oh, gods… they hate me, they all hate me… they hate me…
It was the paranoia always mixed with his conscious thoughts… and a harbinger of the darker emotions to come. Guilt. Jealousy. And, inevitably, anger…
Why was he always the one to deal with this? His brother never had to deal with this, deal with these problems, deal with these intolerable idiots, these ubiquitous dimwits. Oh, no, everybody loved him, everybody adored him. Why should he ever have to face any of his problems?
His claws unsheathed subtly, though he wasn't sure why. Mufasa, the perfect one, had everything… who was he to say that there weren't other ways to deal with conflict? Who was he, to deign to tell him how to live his life? Who was he, part-brute himself, to tell him these things, to tell him to smile as he continued with his lies?
Life wasn't happy. Life wasn't good.
And life wasn't fair.
On that note, they went for him, vicious and haggard faces consumed by the wicked shadows carved permanently into every wall.
The first of the lions led with a swipe towards his already-wounded face, etching three gruesome red lines into his cheek as he sputtered and fell over, stunned by the blow. He could feel the pain throbbing from a newly-cracked tooth, mixing with the acrid, metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, and he winced in pain, cringing before his attackers.
All he was aware of was his own body curled on the ground, as it had been before, as it would be again, bested under the brunt of his foes. And then the distinct sound of laughter. They knew, or at least assumed, that he was finished. Dominated. His weak supplications were unheard, and the only opposition, the only dissent, to contrast their grinning maws was the sharp prick of humiliation stabbing him hard in the chest.
He gasped. He groped. He reached for the nearest hold he could find, the small burst of emotion that enabled him to rise…
And found his anger. Burning. Virulent. Something inside snapped, something within him visibly gave away... and it was the last of his fetters holding him to the ground.
He stood with a painful slowness, his cold eyes glaring daggers as they locked into a rigid, fearsome expression. With a lean, efficient ruthlessness, he turned for a split moment, spitting a gobbet of blood onto the ground along with the shard of his broken tooth.
It would be the last thing they took from him.
The followers knew. Their laughter ceased. But still their leader, in his infinite short-sightedness, his arrogance, continued his little charade. Too bad he hadn't realized that his own invincibility was only an illusion, and in this particular play, he was not the only one with the power to create destinies…
Or to destroy them.
"How do you like that, Scarface?" He snickered and snorted in a manner reminiscent of a wild boar, his slightly piggish nose reflecting his crude, porcine nature. His former victim dangerously wiped away the blood on his face with a paw. The laughter stopped suddenly.
"I asked you once, and I will not ask again," his claws clicked against the stone as he put his paw down, gently tapping out the rhythm of his subversive rage. "Get out of my way, punda."
One word. His followers gaped in shock like fish, wriggling in surprise, as though unable to breathe. Such a simple thing… it went to their weak-minded little heads like an electric jolt, until their leader motioned them to quiet themselves. The smaller lion couldn't help but smirk, momentarily breaking his frigid visage, as the bigger and yet dumber male struggled to comprehend his challenge.
"What did you call me?" He blubbered, flabbergasted. His companions murmured congruently, not pleased nor amused. They drew closer, eyes glinting threateningly, their muscles precariously taut in preparation.
Inwardly he shrunk. Was he really ready for this? To challenge… them? Never before had he considered it. Still he heard the voice of his brother deep within his mind, telling him that it wasn't too late… wasn't too late to stop this senseless violence before it had begun. No, it wasn't too late… wasn't too late to undo this…
Undo this and do what? He thought bitterly. They are not my friends, they never were my friends.
From day one, all they'd ever been was a horde of his enemies. Even if he turned back, he would still find himself beaten and cowering, shrunken under the weight of their feet crushing him to the floor. He'd been suppressed, floored, bled for all he was worth. But now it was their fall, and his time.
Time to make them bleed.
He gained the inward strength he needed, the conviction he desired, from thought of revenge. Again he heard his name in the scraping of his claws against the stone, though now it was not the name of his birth, nor a nickname lovingly dubbed upon him… but an alias. A shroud. An alternate identity taken for one sole purpose only…
To wreak vengeance upon those who had wronged him.
Sccccrrrtch… sccrrr… scarrrrrrtcchhhhh… sssscarrrr.
One last smile, like the grin of a serpent before it struck…
"You heard me…" he slithered closer, the roles of predator and prey reversed, "… now get out of my way… you ass!"
He leapt in a simple, ferocious move. None of them had time to react properly, having been unable to expect it. The element of surprise was in his favor, and as he promptly moved past the leader of their sordid little gang, their awkward group of adolescents playing at being lions, he wasn't thinking of his perfect, do-good brother. All that rang in his mind were the words of his recently-deceased father—the last conversation they'd had before the elder king had fought to the death against an ambush of angry hyenas…
…Go for the biggest one first… then the others will fall to your feet like blades of grass before a summer gale…
He found him, easily. A large hunk of sentient muscle with no brains of his own. Figured, or he would never have pandered to the likes of such a foolish loudmouth as the punda at their head. With a harsh smack, he hit him square in the jaw, reveling in the sound of bone cracking behind the force of his weighted, clawed paw. The great brute's face was quashed painfully, his eyes scrunched shut. His pals leapt for their sudden aggressor, but unfortunately for them, many long months of wrestling with a domineering older brother had toughened him somewhat.
"Stay back!"
They were the same words as before, but this time they quavered in sudden surprise as he snarled, as he backed up his threats with the force of a pent-up, developing roar behind them. For a lion his size, it was a frightening sound, and they were jolted in surprise as they found the bigger male pinned to the ground, coiling and lashing out like a serpent pressed firmly under a boot, hissing and sputtering in outrage as he struggled against the dark lion's hold on his throat.
He could see the hate burning in his captive's eyes, irrational and yet manifested plainly for all to see. The narrowed, bloodshot gaze as he flopped about uselessly, his holder not daring to let go for all the world. For the first time, he had found the smallest shred of a foothold, and he was going to exploit it for all it was worth…
You damn fools… you shall suffer… you all shall suffer!
He watched their sudden changes in expression. Some of them—the zealots—looked bloodthirsty, angry, while others—the more reasonable, perhaps, or the cowardly—suddenly looked diffident. And then, with a sudden pang of emotion, locked somewhere between pleasure and pain, thrill and regret, there came the stunning realization.
He'd said those words aloud.
They knew. They all knew.
It could have been dangerous.
But to hell with it. About time they figured it out, and saw him for what he was: a beaten, broken individual who could not physically, nor mentally, take any more of their senseless abuse.
They would know. Or he would die trying.
And thus he squeezed; he pressured, harder, on the other lion's gorge, enjoying, with a flare of self-satisfaction, the feel of his sharp claws kneading into the flesh above his would-be attacker's windpipe, abrading away the coarse mane struggling to grow there… He watched, with a note of smug pride, as the indignant, angry expression of his opponent melted away, gradually replaced by a look of visceral terror as his struggling slowed and his eyes opened wide in a fresh sense of fright. The others had been frozen in a state of inaction, but now they approached, bristling, ready to jump him again. They regrouped, like a group of briefly diverged dewdrops again conjoining into a raging river, a separated pack of wolves again honing in for the kill, now more virulent than ever. For one last time they prepared themselves to leap, to overtake the one who had dared to tackle their support.
But he held fast. With a grimace spread, gruesome with blood and fiercely determined, across a toothy maw, the smaller lion gripped his victim's head by a scruff of mane, lifting it ever so slightly off the bloody stone floor that served as a stage for their needless antagonism… and with another paw coming round, struck him with a savage blow across the face, one quick strike followed by a barrage of others, all connecting with a merciless precision. He reveled, tired and bloodied himself, at the feel of his paws as they dabbled in the older, stronger lion's blood, as they tore and ripped through his skin, as they cracked and crashed against his bone-crushing jaws with a fearsome sound.
And lo, the great brute, once so big and so tough, was felled before his grasp, becoming the bloody mess of a lion lying, barely conscious and weakly groaning through gritted teeth, in his roughened scarlet embrace. He could hardly move, he could only just struggle to breathe… the will to fight was all but taken out of him. Yet still his captor doled out his vicious blows, unknowing and unable to do otherwise.
For deep inside, he, too, was afraid. Just like the coward he always had been, the deepest, most private sanctuary within was yowling and mewling like a wet kitten; it was trembling, weak and defeated, in the rain. He knew no better. And he feared—very rightfully so—the retribution that was sure to come.
He stopped and took a breath. His rage had subsided somewhat, allowing him to see, with some lucidity, the scene before him. The bloodied, unconscious victim, and the horde of his friends, all standing agog with some sense of latent surprise.
"… You all had best leave… or one day, you shall share the same fate…"
With one last show of waning aggression, he displayed his bloody fangs, a clear way of bidding them goodbye. Only this time they listened, disgruntled and unwillingly compliant. A shame they hadn't done so to begin with, but now it was too much of a risk to run—given his position, he could hurt their comrade further if provoked, and now more than ever they believed what he meant through his words. As thick as they had been, his tacit threat had not gone beyond them.
Stupid brutes. They deserved this. In fact, it was long overdue.
He rolled his eyes, again barely able to suppress the growl that rose in his parched throat. Once the last of them had departed, he released his victim, who had not the strength to do anything but lie, limp and helpless, on the ground. For the first time since their encounter, he moved away from the shadows, allowing a drop of warm sunbeam to willingly penetrate, for once, into the cut, marred surface of his face.
… Stupid, stupid brutes…
Today it was they who were running, not him: a reversal of the usual order. That in itself was enough, and it brought him pleasure to know that, in this little battle at least, he had won. Fighting back was rash, but it had been even more successful than he would have predicted; today he was not the one lying, crumpled and bruised, in the mud and grime.
He knew they would be leaving to fetch his brother. Fair enough, there was little he could do about that. But still… the encounter, for him, had been a victory. Energizing. Invigorating. Like a refreshing gust of wind, it had disrupted and broken up the heavy thoughts lying in his pensive mind, showing him the light of his capricious, ever-cycling mental sun. For once, his thoughts were helpful… albeit in a dark, vengeful way.
Alas, he had found his purpose. Perhaps the pointless war was not so pointless… and it could be won yet…
His head jerked upwards at the sound of paw-steps, realizing his reverie had gone on perhaps a bit too long, though there was still no real impulse for him to flee the scene. May as well make a statement. The older lion moaned from his place on the ground, as though he were some form of condemning evidence.
"Taka, what in spirits' name happened?!"
His ever-fiery brother bounded upwards, unable, as usual, to suppress his vast concern, the bleeding-heart emotion that spewed forth from every vein, the idealistic sentimentalism and moral self-righteousness that his very taut, upright figure always exuded. With this lion, there was no semblance of reticence, only an edginess that never seemed to go away and a litigious sense of pride.
Normally this shunted the younger brother's spirit, as he had always learned to veil himself and keep careful, cautious control. But not now. Not today. The subconscious whirlwind was too strong, the disdain and the animus and the pent-up frustration too great.
The damned brute. He had best listen, too—or he would end up like the bloodied lion beneath his paws. They all would. And why stop there?
"They attacked me, Mufasa, and suffered the due consequences."
His voice was calm, even… not without a hint of satisfaction in its tone.
"You did this?" The older lion, his golden coat gradually becoming tinged with red as he stood in the other lion's blood, narrowed his eyes, his harsh and castigating gaze visibly snapping onto the perpetrator with a frigid resilience.
He replied, just as tetchily: "Of course I did."
Mufasa, so used to being dominant, visibly bristled, unused to the unprecedented nerve his younger sibling was so unexpectedly showing towards him. It made him uncomfortable, to a degree, to see himself challenged so—even now, few dared to question the future king so boldly. He wasn't sure what to make of it.
For a moment, he ignored it, turning towards the rumpled figure of the lion on the ground, one of his friends, with an expression of sympathy dawning his shifting features.
"Oh… Dhuluma…"
"Sure. Take pity on him."
"Be quiet, Taka!" He whirled around. "I don't know what happened, but you've admitted to this, the guilt for this is on your shoulders. Look how badly you've injured him!"
The younger lion snorted, finding it somewhat backwards how his own brother would take sides against him, although it didn't surprise him. Brutes of a feather would flock together, after all… and Mufasa was just that sort, whether he knew it or not. All of his kingly pretensions would get him nowhere, for the dark lion saw who he truly was.
That impostor… When he takes the throne, I shall take pity on those poor subjects he likewise abuses…
"He would have done worse to me. This is merely what happens when one decides to deign to oppress me…" he dug his claws, coarsely and cacophonously, into the ground, reveling in the harsh scraping of his sharp points against the frigid veneer of the rocky, shadowed floor.
Mufasa chortled darkly, looking disgusted.
"… And this is exactly why you shall never be king, Taka. Violence like this is never justified…"
"Says you," his tail lashed in vehement vexation, terrible rage barely concealed behind the frigid dam he'd built over the moons, in the futile hopes that the coldness would numb himself, from the sting of their words… but all that was over. "Tell me, Mufasa… how much you liked hurting me."
The older lion tried to block out his words as he stroked a paw across the wounded lion's face, witnessing with shock how deep some of the wounds were as they traversed the side of his head, crossing over his eye and cutting several deep scratches along his snout. He noted, with a visible spark of apprehension in his eyes, that this lion would be scarred, likely for life, as his brother had been only weeks prior…
"What's gotten into you? I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bull carcass," he seethed. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."
And alas, he did. Remembrance of another male, once crumpled up in pain as this lion was, with similar marks upon his eye, with a similar burden, a bitterness, weighing heavy upon his soul. Reminiscence of the time that passed, far too recent, when he himself had been the one doling out the blows, and his younger brother was the one curled up and receiving them.
A cycle of violence had been started, its ripples already affecting his younger sibling. There was no telling who would be next, who its next victim would be… as the darkness consumed all that it came across. Now he finally understood, and feared that he was already gone.
But he did nothing, for there was nothing that he thought he could do to help his wretched kin.
The golden lion sighed, and his younger, leaner, darker brother could see a note of regret in his face… there was a prick in him, a desire to forgive… but it was quickly negated.
He just wants to use you… to abuse you… like the others. But now they're all your enemies. Every last one.
He watched as Mufasa, in a bout of indecisiveness, left his stubborn self behind once again, carrying the victim sprawled across his shoulders. He was alone, left to be dealt with later, and thus his mind turned to its introspective ways, deep and dark and disturbed, secretly.
Now, however, something was different. There was a shred of passion, a shred of ambition, a spark of a soul animating his dispassionate spirit. Now was the time for his course in life to be changed, for his destiny to be rectified, wherever that may lead him. For the first time in weeks, he held up his head, no longer ashamed, no longer willing to hide.
And thus it was forever changed.
You'd best call me Scar… and you'd best not turn your back on me.
I haven't posted a one-shot for a long while, so it's about time I break that. xD Regarding this one... I actually started it a month or two ago, unintentionally, as a sort of blurb I spitballed. I was angry and feeling moody for one reason or another, as occasionally happens, and thus the first part just kind of... came out. I put it aside, never intending to publish it, but as time went by I found the idea rather interesting and decided to continue, even if only because the idea of writing angst for Scar really appealed to me and seemed like something right up my alley given previous personal experience.
Now, before you ask, yes, I did say personal experience, and before you ask again, no, that does not mean I've been in this situation. I mean this merely in a general sense, as I drew from some of my own past emotions before extending them and transposing them onto Scar to make a sensible story... which I think I did reasonably well (especially considering that the only reason I started writing this at the beginning was because I wanted to write some good angst... xP). So, yeah.
Ideally, I should have posted this on Saturday, the 17th, which was my birthday, though I didn't because... well... just because I was tardy for that deadline. Whoops. Px But anyways, given that I turned 16(!) on that day, and that Scar is turning 20 this year, it seems fitting that my 'unintentional birthday fic' should be an origin story for Scar as we know him, and one that highlights some of our common points. :P
I guess the moral of this fic is... ermm... that people change. Some by a lot, some hardly at all. Whether it's for better or for worse, it does impact who we are, and how we perceive ourselves and our identities.
As always, leave all of your lovely reviews and comments! (Or just fave it if you're the quiet type, it's okay ;)). I'd love to hear what you all think.
Have a good night... or morning... or whatever it is... lol I should really stop staying up until midnight and later on school nights... ;p
Twin :)