THE SCARRED KING AND QUEEN NALA - Ch XII

Last Time -

Our cub is currently sitting alone in the desert, and Simba is in boredom and sorrow.

Notes -

Heloo! How are you? I'm wonderful, thanks for asking! Bah, have nothing to say.

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Driven out by boredom and an inability to sleep, Simba wandered the desert. Several fathoms from the jungle he had come to call his own, he was no more satisfied than deep in his own home. Off far in distant sight, not far from the sun, could be seen the promontory that would be his if not for his flee from the Pridelands. Lowering haunches, he gazed in the direction of his former residence.

He recalled with clarity the day of his flee. At the time, he'd been but a small cub, lighter in color and with paler eyes. His only sign of mane had been a tuft of fur the same hue as that of his pelt atop his head. However, the date was unforgettable.

Though the lion had been mostly brainwashed by his worriless friends Timon and Pumbaa, such a memory would never perish. One moment, he had been frustratedly practicing his roar — and the next struggling to hold on to life. Whereas he had succeeded in such an attempt, his father had not been so fortunate. With exceeding bravery he had dashed after his young son, soon placing him upon a high rock; safe from the stampeding gnu.

Frantically, Simba had climbed as high as he could muster, never stopping for rest until he could see the tip of his father's pluming tassle, swishing as though nothing were wrong. For several moments, nothing had happened. His father had simply scrabbled at the surface of the rock with hind paws, never making any progress. And then, he failed to save himself. Suddenly, the image clouding Simba's field of vision turned to that of his father plummeting toward a stampede of monsters.

And in seconds, he was brought back to reality. Giving a shout, immediately followed by a gasp of desperation and horror, the emotionally overcome beast collapsed. His breathing was faint, his face screwed. Short though suffering moans of terror came from him momentarily, and then he became limp.

It wasn't long before Simba awoke to the light of the sun. Groaning slightly, he let orbs slip open. Blinking in the blinding glow, he mounted paws, slowly, cautiously.

"My god," he said, "what's got into me..." He coutinued to walk from the jungle, optics sealed and face screwed, crania pointed toward terra.

However, it wasn't long before tentative step brought him to a fur-coated mass. A small whine could be heard. Letting orbs slip apart, he looked upon a small cat. ... Cat ... cub. Lion cub. His features lit up, and he brushed the bundle of fur with maw, turning it over. To this it hardly protested, to which Simba was glad, and he grabbed it by scruff of its neck.

"C'mon, Timon!" Simba pleaded. "Can we keep her?"

"HER!" Timon echoed, suddenly outraged. "A GIRL!"

"Yes," chuckled Simba, "we could use one around here! Everyone's male!" He outstretched a paw, with which he easily knocked Timon to the floor.

"Well, Pumbaa and I are PERFECTLY HAPPY without a girl around! Aren't we?" He waited for a response from his companion.

Pumbaa, seated beneath Timon's small frame, for Timon had made perch atop the warthog's head, only shrugged. "Actually, uh, I think Simba's got a point there."

"WHAT!" Timon screeched. "Let a GIRL into our Hakuna Matata and you think it's a GOOD THING!"

"But Timon!" protested the young lion several feet from the others, "she's way younger than me! It's not like we would, you know, love each other or anything! I mean, I would be like her father!"

"Her FATHER!" Timon laughed off the suggestion. Suddenly realizing his foster son's brilliance, he continued, "WAIT! I've got an idea!"

"What?" Simba asked.

"What if you're like her father?" Timon proudly announced, feeling quite proud of himself to have thought of such a brilliant idea.

Simba put on a half-hearted smile and rolled orbs about. "If you say so," he said, then mockingly, "DAD."

Suddenly Timon felt offended. Simba had never addressed him by a fatherly name before, and the one time now he finally did, it had been meant in a 'teasing' sort of manner. Folding arms and wearing a pissed expression, he looked after the lion he and his warthog companion had raised from depressing cub-hood. Was that all that he meant to dear Simba! A punchbag-ish... picked-on... bullied friend?

His foster son, however, stood far from them, a wide grin plastered to his maw, fanning the tiny cub with a carpet of pink. As he licked his new daughter, he thought of how proud Nala would be if she were to see him now, nuzzling a tiny cub he had decided to raise into adulthood. At this thought, his grin grew even wider.

"That's what I shall call you," he said, looking tenderly at his new daughter, "Maelekeo Sawadi, after Nala — my fondest love."