AN: Just a short one-shot courtesy of some engaging discussion with another TLK fan. Obligatory shout out: Hello, Katari!
AU because that's how the inspiration went. The same goes for why it's so depressing.
The title, for those who don't know, is from the Bible. Specifically, it's Proverbs 11:29. "He who troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart."
All else aside, enjoy.
He Who Troubleth His Own House
It had started when Nala left.
Or, at least, that's what Scar told himself.
Her disappearance had reinvigorated the pride; given them hope. They had been almost defiant, then. Especially Sarabi. The former queen had always managed to scrape just enough of her dignity together to be irritating at the best of times. But once Nala had gone, Sarabi had become more demanding—more insubordinate—than Scar had seen her in a long time.
It hadn't lasted.
Nala never came back.
The fire she had inspired dimmed; Scar could almost watch it dying in their eyes. It had been a fascinating process, not entirely unlike seeing the sheer, horrifying realization finally dawning upon Mufasa as he had hung above the stampede-filled gorge. Utterly fascinating.
Sarabi had still argued that the pride should move, should find better hunting grounds. She hadn't understood, had never understood: these lands were his and he was not going to give them up for anything. Come hell or high water.
And hell had come. Oh, how it had come. Admitting it, even in silence, even only to himself, did not make it any more palatable.
It had started when Nala left.
The herds had still been there; Scar was sure of it. The pride just hadn't been looking hard enough. And the clan had always been too lazy to be trusted with such things. (And, really, who could expect a hyena to count beyond the number of his own legs, anyway?) No, the herds had still been there, whatever Sarabi had claimed.
Then the hyenas had started dying. It hadn't been noticeable at first—the clan had simply been too large. But the numbers had continued to decrease, and some of the survivors had become noticeably better fed.
Cannibals.
Had they all really been that desperate?
And the lionesses, they had started to fill out again, fed by some unreported food source. Had they been feasting on hyena, too? Had he been unwittingly eating his own army, as the lionesses snickered behind his back?
It had started when Nala left.
Zazu had died. Scar should have expected it, really: he had seldom let the hornbill out to forage. The carcass had been more feather, bone, and bill than meat, but the hyenas had been glad enough for it, anyway. Oh well, it had been one less nagging voice.
The clan had shrunk further, hyenas defecting instead of just dying. Scar knew they had been leaving, just like Nala had left. And just like with Nala, there had been nothing he could do to stop them.
The pride, unwilling to scavenge, had begun to actively hunt them. Or, maybe, they had always hunted them, just never quite so openly.
Scar hadn't complained. The clan had broken down, had become utterly useless. If the pride had given the hyenas new purpose as a prey beast, then so be it. It wasn't quite the "great and glorious future" he had envisioned, but lion and hyena had come together, after a fashion. And, really, sustaining king and pride with their lives was more than the mongrels had deserved.
They had tasted terrible, once he had known what he was eating. But, it had been the lionesses' job to hunt, and Scar hadn't been about to do it for them, even if they had been neglecting all the proper prey that he knew had been out there. Somewhere. If only they had looked.
It had started when Nala left.
The clan's numbers had ultimately faltered. Too many had died, too many had left. Too many had been too concerned with eating their fellow clan members, instead of producing more young so the clan could persist, feeding Scar and the lionesses as it did so.
In the end, the Pride Lands were as empty of hyenas as ever they had been while Mufasa was king.
It had started when Nala left.
And Sarabi's arguing had turned at last to pleading, to begging. Please was not a word he had heard often from her, not when she was speaking with him, anyway. And, yet, suddenly it had been all she was able to say: "Please, Scar, we have to leave." "Please, we'll die if we don't." "Please, can't you understand? It's not a kingdom if we're all dead." "Please, it's not even our home, anymore."
Please.
Please.
Please.
It had started when Nala left, and not a moment before. Not when the herds had left. Not when the rains had stopped.
Not when he had become king.
Please.
And the rub—the real rub—was that Sarabi had been right. It wasn't a kingdom, not anymore. It wasn't even the Pride Lands. It was just a stretch of broken, barren ground with some large rock sticking out of the middle of it like so many exposed bones. A fitting grave marker, really, not that anyone would know.
With no one left to see, Scar turned and walked away. Finally and too late, he was admitting defeat.