We'll create a host of little Scars!'
~ 'The Madness of King Scar', Broadway musical
Spring was in the air. Everywhere Simba looked, his lands were bursting with new life. The grass grew long and lush, concealing the young fawns from predators' eyes and providing their mothers with the substance to produce nourishing milk. Birds flew low over the lion's head, carrying worms and grubs to the ever-open mouths back in the nest. The river was swollen with the rains, and a baby hippo stood waist-deep beside his mother in the pool while two giraffe led their wobbly new children along the bank. The great Circle of Life was beginning its cycle anew.
As Simba rounded Pride Rock he almost fell over one of his Pride, Namani, who was curled up in the shade. She was an attractive lioness with a deep, husky voice.
"Look what the stork brought," she murmured, arching her neck to look up at him. Nestled against her, suckling busily, was a newborn infant. Its claws were out and its fur was dark, almost cinnamon in tone. The colour brought a bad memory back to Simba, and he gasped involuntarily.
"What's the matter, Simba? Don't you like my baby? Doesn't he look fit to be a king, with his green eyes and his little tummy the colour of an apricot?"
Simba took a faltering step back.
A lioness trotted proudly past, three cubs waddling along behind her with the cute, rolling gait of the young. "Hi, Simba!" they chorused, winking at him with green eyes that glowed from a circle of darker fur. The king shuddered and gave them a sickly smile.
"Simba! Come and meet your new little half-brother," Sarabi purred, moving her forepaws apart to reveal a tiny tan cub with a tuft of black mane already growing between his ears. "Isn't he adorable? He looks just like you!"
"Mother! Not you, too?" Simba whispered.
Suddenly Rafiki rushed past him, waving his staff.
"It is time! It is time! A future king of the Pridelands has been born!"
"What? Nala? Rafiki, wait - "
Simba raced after the old mandrill, who was bounding up the path to the top of Pride Rock. By the time the king reached him Rafiki was already cradling the newborn in his arms, preparing to present him to the kingdom. Animals from every corner of the kingdom were clustered around the rock's base in expectation of the ceremony - mammals, reptiles, birds and bugs.
"Wait! Let me see him!" called Simba.
Nala sat at the tip of Pride Rock, gazing at the scene below and at her baby in Rafiki's hands. She ignored her mate. Simba shouldered roughly past her and took his first look at his son and heir.
The cub, lifted high above the kingdom he would one day rule, was as dark as the rest of the pride's children. Although he was but a few hours old, his eyes glittered green and a livid pink scar ran up the left side of his brow.
Simba gasped and tried to snatch him from Rafiki's hands, but the cub lashed out with a small forepaw and suddenly Simba was teetering on the edge of the rock - losing his balance - falling!
His front feet clung on desperately as he struggled. Rafiki brought the cub to him, so the two lions were nose to nose. "Long live the King!" whispered the child, grinning and narrowing the green slits of his eyes. His sharp claws pressed down on his father's paws, and Simba lost his grip.
"Long live the King!" the crowd of animals roared, hooted, screeched and barked as he plummeted.
Lions do not sweat, but Simba woke up hot and shaking as if in a fever. His claws had carved deep runnels in the earth beneath him. He blinked hard and shook his head to dispel the horrors of his nightmare. The cave, warmed by the breath and bodies of the pride, seemed stifling. He walked stiffly past the sleeping lionesses and into the open air.
It was almost dawn. The dark sky was lightening to turquoise on the horizon, and the morning star stood low and bright above the distant hills. Simba opened his mouth and panted gently, feeling the clean, moist air on his tongue.
Scar was gone. The Pride was his. Why could he not forget? Why this constant terror of his uncle, and the legacy he might have left behind?
He glanced fearfully over his shoulder, almost expecting to see Scar standing there. Instead Rafiki was loping purposefully towards him, using his stick to aid his jumps. Even the old mandrill had been touched by the magic of the season, and the blue ridges on his face were brighter than usual.
When he reached his friend he bowed formally, then plunged both hands and his muzzle into the soft, auburn mane with its musky scent of lion. This was a privilege not afforded to many, and the primate gave a smile as cheerful and innocent as a child's at the sensual pleasure of it. When he looked up into Simba's face, however, his expression changed to one of concern.
"Simba, you are troubled."
No secret could remain hidden from Rafiki. "I had that dream again," Simba said. "About...him." His skin twitched.
Rafiki's bony arm reached around Simba's shoulders in a hug. "You dream because your spirit is anxious," he said. "But now your fear is at an end. Come with me."
Wondering, Simba followed his friend and mentor's steps. As they walked around the Rock, he realised where their path led: to the birthing den. And he remembered that Nala had not been among the sleeping lionesses in the cave the Pride shared. His heart began to beat faster, and he quickened his pace.
"When?" was all he asked.
"The second hour after midnight. All is well," Rafiki told him. Simba opened his mouth to ask more questions, but the mandrill held up his hand. "You will see soon enough that all is well."
Green eyes shone in the darkness of the den.
"Nala?" her mate called softly.
"Simba!"
Nala's voice had never sounded so warm and so full of joy, even on the night she rediscovered the friend she had thought dead. But still Simba's paws trembled on the threshold before he made his way in, his pupils expanding in the gloom.
The lioness was holding something close to her, snuggled between her paws and chin. She lifted her head to reach up and kiss her mate, and the tiny cub stirred.
Even in the half-light, Simba saw at once that this cub was not the dark abomination of his dream. Its fur was soft and yellow, flecked with spots of pale brown, and its eyes, as was proper and natural, were tightly closed. This is my child! he thought, and he swished his tail proudly.
"A girl," Nala said. "Our daughter. Our little princess."
"I love you," the king murmured to his mate. He nuzzled their baby and gently touched her with his chin, marking her with her father's scent. The tiny nose wrinkled at the new smell and a pink mouth opened to mew. She was like a patch of golden sunlight in the dark of the den.
Nala pushed her forehead into Simba's chest, and he licked the top of her head.
"She needs a name," said the queen.
"She's like light..." Simba murmured, entranced.
"Light?" Nala looked down at her baby. "Yes. She needs a light name. A bright name. Kiara. Her name is Kiara."
Simba tried out the name. It was perfect; it lilted like birdsong off the tongue. It was impossible to speak the word without his mouth forming the shape of a smile.
"Kiara," he rumbled. The cub smiled - Kiara smiled - at the sound of her father's voice. And the last shades of darkness fell away from Simba's heart.