The Fear of A Child / Answers

A Scared Child, among Red Rocks and Thorns:

When he climbed out of the gorge, only to see the wastelands drenched in the setting sun, Simba didn't think twice about throwing himself down and into the thorns. It was where he belonged, some part of his soul knew. He flew like a wingless bird, baked rock ready to catch him. The anger of his father rolled over Simba and made him shudder where he lay, crumbling.

Shame and humiliation hurt him more than the impact ever could. His uncle screamed after him, but Simba tried his best to not listen to any of it.

But he could still hear. Scar was right. Even his father didn't want him anymore. What was there to be proud of, anyway? The King had finally seen through the golden fur to the useless cub underneath. Lucky he was so pathetic, to accept his deserved fate like the excuse he was, because otherwise uncle Scar would have gotten him. The dark lion had screamed and skittered in a halt where he had been seconds before, the tips of his claws had scrapped his back and the rocks Scar scattered in his sudden halt rain down on Simba as he tumbled into the thick, twisted thorns.

No reservation, not even a look back, not even tears to blur his vision.

No one would follow him across the Wastelands. There was no hope in the Wastelands. Simba supposed it suited now, a no hope cub making a no hope journey. No one would bother him if he put an entire Wasteland between them.

The sun set on him leaping, hopeless, into the gigantic thorn wall that crawls up the gorge - they say it's trying to climb out of the Wastelands.

The night is different when you're truly alone. Stinkier, scarier... more hidden.

He ran and ran and ran and tried so hard to focus on his soft black paws striking against the jagged rocks. Sometimes he feels Scar breathing down his bleeding back, but his royal uncle had stopped chasing him long ago.

The sun rose on him limping through sand, trying to run but so exhausted all he managed was a shuffle.

The chill of night, which had stunned and soothed him at the same time, started to be pushed away by hot winds and bitter sunlight. An old stunted tree, haloed by her smaller children, leaned against the side of the gorge.

Unknowingly Simba had been followed the gorge all the way east through the night. In a part of his mind he knew the gorge bended and stretched into the depth of the Wastelands for days.

His dad told him the herds use it as a highway long ago, to find their way into the Pridelands.

But even the gorge was a shadow of itself, just like Simba. Like everything out here.

In the Pridelands it had sheer walls and a deep ancient floor, now it was reduced down to quiet banks, like two gentle waves in the dry savannah.

Simba pushed his small body in among the stunted tree's roots, wrapped around and around her own growth and her children. Further into her twisted undergrowth Simba pushed, creeping along on his belly and wedging himself deeper. The sand underneath was nice and cool, and the ants that ran along the rocks were peaceful.

A long night of running and soundless tears had taken its toll, his paws were raw and bleeding, a claw was half twisted out and hanging on by a thread, his coat was full of so much pale dust that his natural golden was only a glimmer when the sun hit it right. His breathing was laboured even though he had been going slow for a while, his lungs felt like they were full of acid and his brain felt like it was trying to ring itself and lap up the moisture that trickled out. There were still thorns from his fall lodged deep into his skin and two gashes bleed weakly along his shoulder blades from where his uncle was a second too slow.

Where uncle Scar hesitated a second too long.

He was such a disgrace. There was no way he could get more pitiable than this. Always in trouble, always helpless. And now, actively hunted by his own family.

Simba looked back the way he'd come. He felt guilt so hard he couldn't breathe and feared his own family so bad it made him choke...then he looked across the Wastelands, with the little gorge stretching out like a crooked finger, steadily tapering off and disappearing. East. It made him terrified and excited all at once. A new world, a new start, a chance to just be a lion – a ferocious roaring brawling lion – the lion he always wanted to be, rather than a stupid king. No one knew his name or his past out there, beyond the horizon.

East was where the sun rose. When he sat on pride rock and watched the sunrise with his father, he would have laughed if he knew one day he would be running that way, exiled. Shame and fear driving him away, but at the same time, new dreams making his heart race every time he looked up. Hope ran thick in his veins. He got no sleep, he just sat and watched all the horizons and waited for the bite to leave the day.

Soon the coolness of dusk fell, and he ran and ran, all night. He saw nothing but the stars and the barren land, he heard nothing but his pants and the wind flying across the flat like it was bloodthirsty. When the sun rose, the land was alien, and he could see nothing but empty mountains in the distance and flat horizons.

He watched the rising sun. Then he slowly started to chase it.

Everything the light touches is our kingdom.

Then how on earth was he meant to leave it? There was nothing he wanted more than to just forget everything and run away. He wanted to leave his weaknesses behind and just run...

... and run and run...

Away from it all.

When night fell again he took one step and found himself crying so hard he couldn't work out where to put his paws. He wanted to go home. This was all a bad idea, fueled by the hurt from his father's cutting words and uncle Scar's claws, and also, his recent sadness. His mother would still want him to come home. Nala would be angry that he left her.

But by the time he decided to turn home, he was lost.

One day he couldn't find the strength to lift himself up out of a grass thicket he had wedged himself deep among.

Peeking his head out, Simba looked like a cub shaped clog of dirt stuck between the long whispering grass. He looked around with eyes gritty and full of dust, his cheeks patterned by oily tears caused from running against the Wasteland's powerful winds. For miles the land was a sea of weedy grass, it grew tall, with sharp edged stalks instead of leafy blades. Sometimes he thought he could see antelope watching him from among it. But then the air would shimmer some more and distort them back into grass. He was so hungry his stomach felt like a ball of bugs all crawling around each other.

But that had been yesterday. Today his stomach was an empty space, like it walked off while he slept.

One day the wind carried a faint rotting smell. Simba tried to pull himself up, but collapsed down and let it go, slipping back into sleep. His paws burned, and his muscles cramped around his bones so much he was stiff and pained.

In his dream his father watched as he tried to roar, but he could never manage a single sound. He hated sleeping, because each time his father was more angry. Then he would watch on as Scar chased him away, mocking him as he ran but never seemed to move.

Fool for visiting the graveyard. Fool for crying over the dying zebra. Fool for being scared. Fool for running down the gorge instead of hiding in the rocks. Fool for leaving. Fool for getting lost.

The angry squabbling of birds woke him up. Instantly he smelt it. It was a smell that would have made him retch back in the Pridelands, but right now his mouth was filled with droll. Squeezing out of his hide, Simba lifted his nose to the air and breathed deep in pleasure. It was close, very close, dead among these rocks... that close. Simba circled and spun around, calculating ways up the rocks. He could hear birds arguing up the top. Backing up, he took a running leap that got him half as high as he expected.

I really am dying. Simba thought in detached realisation.

His mad clawing got him a few inches higher, but it also earned him some new cuts. Stuffing a paw into a crack, Simba froze and then bunched his hind legs under him, jumping up and reaching out as far as he could, managing to roll over the edge and fall on his side, letting out a laboured groan as the air came alive with squawking, flapping and cursing. Simba inched his eyes open and glared at the three vultures all crowded around a certain deep space between boulders.

A lion.

Alive?

Lion baby!

Instantly they were filtered out, all his attention on where they were gathered. It was down there, and they couldn't reach it. Quickly he stirred and prowled over, they shrieked in rage but fled before him all the same. One did a mock charge, his wings spread wide and head lowered as he hissed and spat, but he froze and fled when Simba locked eyes with him. Hungry red eyes.

Simba poked his head between the boulders and realised...there was nothing dead to eat. Simba looked up from searching the rocks for a mouse or sparrow, to eye the vultures that had started to gather closer to him, their heads dipped and eyes pinning him now. The dead smell was coming from them.

"Little cub looks skinny," one of the vultures whispered in a voice that sounded like sand rubbing together. Simba flicked his ear, angry at being called a little cub.

He hadn't talked to anyone in a long time, and it was obviously taking its toll, his skin prickled from just having them look at him, let alone addressing him. Craning his neck around, Simba glared at the vultures. They had grey necks like snakes and eyes like rats.

Maybe... maybe his skin was prickling because of survival instincts, rather than new found anti-social habits.

The biggest ones beak was opened half way, like she was trying to show her amusement. Simba had only known one other bird, Zazu, but he wasn't anything like this bird. She was of the Wastelands. He didn't know how to read her, or how to respond to her. Her yellow eyes never seemed to blink. Was that normal for vultures?

He must have looked too long, because she stepped closer to the edge and hissed. Did she think he was eyeing her up as a meal? It made his body go rigid in a subconscious predator response.

Simba instantly decided that the best thing to do was to ignore them. With the new height he had a good look of the land ahead. He studied the bleak hills and rock towers that rose bitterly around what remained of the gorge. The landscape was becoming familiar to him the more he wondered in circles, he even had names for a certain few.

The One With The Sideways Cave. Cracked Rocks, and its sister tower Snake Smell. Bruise Rise and The Tree He Had The Nightmare Under.

The gorge these days was less like a deep, carved out river, and more like a valley filled with towers and sometimes even tunnels, with old limestone walls and tiny puddles of water inside. He sat down and groomed his fur as he planned the coming day's trip.

It gave him water, but it did not give him food.

The vulture's eyes were burning holes in him. Sometimes Simba would look up while he was rasping his tongue over his shoulder and every time that one vulture, she was slightly closer.

"Are you lost?" She asked far sweeter than before. Simba had been in the process of running his paw over his cheek, and froze when her words rang though his mind and registered. Slowly he turned to look her in the eyes. There were a hundred flies around, and one landed on his right eye. He closed it and watched her though the other one as the fly bit at his eyelashes in frustration.

She was deflated, all her feathers pressed close to her body. A feverish gash of wounded flesh rode on her shriveled face, her claws were filthy and feathers unkempt. She blinked at him and looked longingly.

Simba got to his feet and walked away, hopping down one ledge at a time and lumbering back out into the endless yellow stalks once more, blending in and becoming nothing. He looked back at the newly named Vulture Rocks only once, and she had been huddled on the edge, watching him go with keen interest.

Some of the flies followed him; he must be smelling rank by now. Maybe the vultures thought he smelt rank too. Maybe they had thought there was something dead down in the rocks too, but it ended up being alive? Flies crawled over his eyes trying to drink from them; they even climbed in his mouth as he panted. But most gathered around his open wounds, lapping at them like a lost herd at a desert oasis. For a long time he fought them and swung at them, but it was like fighting the wind, and he was tired.

He came upon a rise and sat down to study the new view beyond it. He used to sit with perked ears and a tail that never lay still because of so much energy. Now he collapsed in a heap and never moves a muscle other than to pant big large breaths that move his whole ribcage around. He hasn't eaten in a long time.

Are you lost?

She had said it almost hopefully. He looked back as he thought of her and her two companions. The boulders they had met upon were still close enough to be in clear detail. He noticed them flying away, like a few faint strokes upon the sky, and everything was so quite in the Wasteland that he could hear the shrieking that went on as they flew together.

Hungry, desperate, roaming the Wastelands. They had a lot of things in common.

Watching them rise up and soar along, Simba realised the advantage of having wings. He felt jealous of their ability to climb into the clouds and glide above the lands. It would be so much easier to be a bird... he could fly home to his mother.

He walked on, like a damned holy beast. But he kept turning around to watch them fly, until eventually he realised they were trailing him. For two days he traveled with them in the sky above him. Sometimes they would be gone; sometimes they would be right above him, their shadows circling him. At this point in time he was legitimately trying to live off dead grass, but all it did was make him gag and convulse.

One dawn he was sprawled out under a thick layer of dead vines. That was the day they first landed. They had hopped under with him, giving his thin body a once over before joking he looked 'ready to pick apart'.

Get in line, he thought. The flies had already eaten deep into his wounds and ripped at his eyes and lips. His nose was the worst off. So soft and fleshy and blistered from the sun - so sensitive too.

"You've not got long now," she had said suddenly. He frowned and wondered why that made them giggle among themselves.

He struggled to his feet, and the three hopped out from under the shade and into the open, excitedly pumping their wings and telling him to hurry on his journey, though to where even he didn't know.

Hurry!

Keep running!

You're nearly there!

"Are you alright?" She asked in a strange voice, like she was holding back a smirk. He turned to look at her, and she gasped in shock and stepped back.

That bad huh? Spare me the details. Simba thought to himself, too tired to be bitter. It took all his effort he had to lift his head high and squaring his shoulders.

Lately life had been quickly reducing into one painful foggy memory.

That was a very bad sign.

You've not got long now

You're nearly there!

They left for a long time, or maybe he was just failing to notice them? He was getting bad seeing things lately. Noticing anything, really.

When the stars where coming out, the big vulture perched on a termite mound near him and watched him stumble across the sands to her.

"It's not far now, I can see it clearly with my eyes, lost cub."

She was waiting to pick his bones clean. Not like it mattered. He was dying anyway. So what if he had some spectators? At least he wouldn't die alone.

What a true failure he was. Even when there was no one to impress, he still failed. He curled up against the termite mound and closed his eyes.

His father looked more angry than usually.

Simba walked east a few more miles, or at least he thought he was. At one point he felt his mother nuzzle him to wake up, her concerned voice floating over him.

That must have been a memory from long ago, because he had not slept safe in his mother's fur since infancy. A stupid need to be strong and big had made him do that, and he wishes with everything he had,to go back and curl against his mother.

The dream of his mother was interrupted when a shocking heaviness overcame him, and claws sliced along his shoulders. Simba cried out and with a gush of wind the heaviness was gone. Still alive? He thought he heard someone whisper in annoyance. What? You really want to eat him so bad?


An Ugly Vulture, standing over a Dying Cub:

I ain't never tasted lion before!

It's just a cub.

Nice and tender then.

I vote on letting the cursed Soft-Heart try her hand with him.

Why on earth would you say-

Look at him! A golden lion. He should have been dead long ago but the demons don't touch him. What's he out here for? A criminal like us? It's a baby for puss and ooze!

A baby with big parents.

Or no parents.

Or parents that don't want him.

Parents that can eat both of you, mushy brained twits! A few hours and we feast on the king of beasts, it'll be a legend to tell your granchicks.

This aint no king, it's a cub.

But if we were to try and save him, he'll need to be nursed back to health.

Which is Soft-Heart's specialty...

Why you so interested in saving him all a sudden?

He should have died long ago, you said it yourself. Its unholy. A lost lion cub out here, its unholy. It makes my feathers spike nastier than thorns.

Unholy. The other agreed.

The word made the big female shiver as she turned around and looked across the sand to the death marked cub. It's bad for business to be going around saving every dying animal. Meals in the Wasteland were few and far between. Fancy ideas about a better life were not for her. They were made big and ugly so they didn't get any ideas about joining the sweet birds of the forest or the happy flocks that jet-streamed from luscious pond to bustling wateringhole.

The gods made her bigger and uglier than usual for a vulture. She thinks because the beautiful life of a parrot or sparrow tempts her more than the rest. What she would give to be born a beautiful jungle bird, days spent lapping at exotic fruits and gossiping among the fine flowers of the forest.

Life was cruel in the Wastelands, but it's where she is meant to be. The lion was a bit of luxury she had been looking forward to. It annoyed her that the two brothers where suddenly turning tail on the meal just because they were starting to feel funny. But she was outvoted, and she could respect that – besides – if Soft-Heart really did end up saving the cub, then she would have to be a miracle maker. And when the cub died, today, tomorrow, soon... she would have first dibs.

It's not like Soft-Heart and that bat shit crazy kudu where going to gorge down her special meal, now were they?

It took awhile to find Soft-Heart. Usually they spotted her daily, flying the same empty skies lead to a lot of gruff meetings upon the drafts, but today they seemed to be having odd luck (or ill-luck, she supposes).

In fact, it was Soft-Heart who found them. She was nesting among a low tree when she spotted them flying across the clouds. As usual she flew out to greet them and attempted talk on weather and migration and such stupid nonsense.

Most vultures are shocked the first time they meet Soft-Heart. They hear the tales of the crazy vulture who shuns meat and lives off grass, they hear the gossip about her latest attempts at preaching grass and salvation for all. Turn the weak my way, save the innocent, follow a better path. They conjure images of a skinny foolish bird with bright feathers to match those scatter brained finches who hang about sometimes.

In reality, she looks just like her. With bland brown feathers and white skin, angry red around her eyes and across her bald head. Her beak is strong and her claws sharp. Some say that they look awfully similar, though Soft-Heart spends time preening her feathers smooth and has a concerned, steady look in her eyes. Herself on the other hand couldn't be bothered with hygiene and is surrounded in a constant haze of boredom and hunger.

Secretly, she's pretty sure her and Soft-Heart are sisters, just like she's sure that every vulture of her species in the Wasteland is a sibling. Her parents are the only pair in the Wastelands who can keep chicks alive long enough for them to leave the nest. General rule is, if it doesn't have an accent then it's a sibling. If the two brothers she travels with weren't quite so idiotic she might have thought them related too. They are big and strong, a characteristic of her family, but at the same time fearful and their feathers a darker shade. Perhaps nephews, maybe, but not siblings.

Soft-Heart is sickeningly ecstatic that they are helping her save the weak and defend the defenceless... or whatever.

At first when they show her the little lion, they need to go up and stand beside the cub to point him out. He's too slim against the ground, too much the exact same colour as the sand. Soft-Heart couldn't pick him out for the life of her. Some vulture.

She shrieks at them for not moving him into the shade and tells them to go fetch fleshy cactus. The brothers scramble to do her biding but not her. She squats and glares at Soft-Heart as she goes about preening the lion cub. It looks positively unnatural as she runs her beak through the cub's fur and inspects his injuries.

There is a thorn between his shoulders and Soft-Heart pulls it out. Her feathers whiffle and plaster to her sides in disgust as the thorn keeps going and going and going... Her sister inspects his wounds and asks for Grandmother's Spit. She's more than happy to leave and fetch the plant when Soft-Heart starts pulling out another impossible thorn.

The cub has regained consciousness by the time she returns, and Soft-Heart has him chewing the fleshy cactus in a pit of cool sand she scratched up for him. She oozes the Grandmother's Spit over his wounds and asks him when he'll be ready to walk again.

The cub flicks his ears and lies back down; eyes closed in relief as the Spit coats his angry burns.

"Does he usually talk?" Soft-Heart questions. The brothers giggle amongs themselves with no intent to answer, so she looks down from where she rests in the tree to meet her younger sister's eyes.

"He's never said a word, just a lot of stuck up looks when he was more alive."

Soft-heart's eyes are just like her mothers.

"How long have you been trailing him? Where did he come from? Where's he been going? Was he with anyone?"

It's ironic because her mother was more heartless than even herself. If she laid two eyes she threw one from the nest because she couldn't be bothered with twice the work. She told her to do the same if she ever found someone crazy enough to nest with her.

"About five days now. We first met him back near the whistling stones; he was sick and alone even then. He's been following the gorge until recently. He just collapses and wonders aimless now."

She shrugged her wings and turns away, determined that the conversation was at an end. No one liked Soft-Heart, no one actually talked to her. She didn't want to save the cub, it was the brothers and their superstitions, yet they were the ones acting like they hated the entire situation and would sooner fly to the moon then stand another minute in the company of the leaf lover.

"Well thank you for saving him, he owes you his life," Soft-Heart said.

She snorted and turned even further away from her little sister.

"But you don't need to hang around you know. You should leave," for the first time the brothers looked up from their huddle and squawked with their usual hysteria when it came to food.

"What do you mean? He could still die!"

"You want him all to yourself, don't you?"

"He'll live. He's still strong," Soft-Heart said with a cold voice, she regarded the two brothers and their puffed out chests, the way they greedily eyed the cub even though it was them that were too scared to eat it.

They were pathetic. She shifted in her tree and snapped her wings up in a threatening stance.

"Beat it," she snarled at them. They were hungry and turning rabid. When they looked up at her in confusion, she learned over her branch some more and snarled a bit louder, "go fly to the moon."

They knew better than to argue with her. They left.

She hopped down onto the ground and spread her wings as she prepared to leave.

"Good luck," she said grouchily over her shoulder as she took off into the air. Soft-Heart said something filled with surprise and happiness as she flew, but she ignored it and forced herself to brood over the lost meal instead.

This was all very bad for business.


A Cub, somewhere Safe and Dark:

The air was cool and his body felt eased. He smelt the water and lime stench of the gorge's caves, and when he stretched experimentally, he felt a thick bedding of dry grass instead of hard ground.

That crazy bird had been right after all. She had promised him a safe den if he followed her. He couldn't remember much of the journey, just a lot of stops in the shade, and foul sticky meals she kept bringing to him.

She was here. He could hear her, the rustling og her feathers and the thumping of her heart. It was racing. When he lifted his head to look around she jumped to her feet instantly.

"You're awake! That's good. Please have a drink," she said nervously, inclining her head to the blackness of the cave. Was this a trap? A drink of water, just offered up to him? Simba looked deep in the cave and couldn't help think of the cave in the elephant graveyard which spilled out hyenas.

It also made him think of the small tunnels that had saved him on his journey so far, with their small pools of old flood water.

Why was she being so edgy? Was she lying about something? Simba struggle to his feet and his ears twitched back and forth as his muscles screamed. He look a few small steps, eyes narrowed as he tried to search the back of the cave for a –

There was the sound of gentle splashes, and his paws became soaked and cold. Simba looked down and realised the floor was water. He looked up again and realised as his mind adjusted that the entire cave floor was a lake. No wonder it looked so dark and empty.

"When the rains come it fills all the way to the top of the cave, you know," the vulture said from a safe distance as he slowly lowered his head and lapped at the water. It was marvellous, cold and wet, it didn't taste like mud or slime at all, which struck Simba as weird.

All the water he had drunk in his life had come from busy watering holes filled with life and mud. Even the stagnant pools he found in the other caves had tasted stagnant and dirty.

Not able to resist, Simba waded into the water and lay down with a sigh that echoed around the cave. With closed eyes and held breath, he ducked his entire body under the water and rested for a few moments like that. With the water swirling against his wounds and rubbing the grit out of him. He crawled halfway out and rested his head on his paws and lay like that with bliss. Paws that had been hot and blistered for eternity were finally cool and mending.

His eyes were closed when he felt a beak nip at his ear. It made his heart squeeze and adrenaline rush through him, and when he threw his head up and growled the vulture was already halfway out of the cave in a storm of feathers.

"What were you doing?" He asked, eyeing her well executed escape. She was still struggling to slow her heavy breaths down, and like before, her heart was racing.

"Ah, checking for ticks or thorns I might have missed."

"Thorns?" That was weird, missed thorns, he turned his head to the side as he inspected her anew.

"Y-you had..." she stumbled over her words and started again. "You had a lot of thorns stuck in you. Would you like me to check that they're all gone?" Simba thought about it before inching himself out of the water.

"Yes please," he said, shaking himself off like a warthog and grimacing as he thought about how the lionesses would have scolded him for getting wet. It was actual very nice, to have her part his fur and rip a few knots of dried blood and dirt from his coat.

It reminded him of the times when Zazu tried to smooth his hair down and pull out twigs after a day of exploring. He would say that the Queen would eat him if he returned her cub in such a state.

Simba chuckled to himself. Then he nearly cried as he remembered his current situation.

"What's your name?" Simba asked the vulture. She was careful to not put him between her and the exit, and Simba thought she seemed pretty afraid considering it was her ordering him around on the way here.

"Sili Nyama, but just call me Sili," Simba nodded and lay his head back down on his paws.

"What's your name?" She asked lightly when she paused in her inspection. Simba stared into the dark cave.

"I don't care. You choose a new name."

She complained and went on about that not being right. She tried to convince him otherwise. But in the end she preened in silence, and when they were done, she said "Nia," Simba looked at her funny. "It means purpose. Something that you need, little lion." Simba didn't like it, it reminded him too much of Nala. It was a girl's name as well. But true to his words, he didn't care.

"You're too weak to leave the sanctuary, so stay and rest while I go get something."

"I'm not weak," Simba grumbled as she waddled out on her over proportioned talons. He was used to Zazu's small little feet, good for hanging onto twigs and flower stems. This bird's feet were made to tear what others could not.

Simba looked at his own paws. The cuts were oozing and the bruising still made him want to lie down and never walk again. The twisted claw was still hanging loose, the vulture, Sili, had tried to tug it out but he had growled. It was strange, how she was afraid of him. Like she hadn't realised back in the moment that she was saving a lion, and now she was stuck nursing the most dangerous animal she ever could meet back to full health.

No wonder she wants to go fetch me food as soon as possible. Doesn't want me to start consider her.

He lay down and watched the darkness as if it held all the answers. What a mistake he was, how stupid he was. What to do now. What the vulture wanted in return. It was a long time until she came back, but the small dead falcon in her talons was worth it.

He ate it slowly.

And that was how life was for a long time. He slept and drank to his content, and he had three small meals a day delivered into his paws. It made him feel like he was her chick, squawking and needy in the nest. The bedding didn't help, because it really did feel like a big nest, with the grass all bunched and weaved over the sand that had blown in over the seasons. Every day he got stronger, more alive...

More bored.

Eventually it came to the point were when she left he would sneak out and sit just outside the tunnel. The view was bleak, the bottom of a gorge - the same gorge actually – and it made his heart clench, though it looked nothing like that time.

He would sit down and watch the clouds. It still hurt to walk so he never felt strong enough to explore anymore than that. There were plants growing in the cracks, and a colony of ants scurried through them in a line which went up the wall and into the cracks. He watched them a lot too.

From the crawling ant to the leaping antelope, we all play a part.

When he groomed himself, he would always frown at how bony he was and how thin his hair had become. Once his only worry was that his mane wasn't growing in yet.

She would return and complain about him being outside the cave, even though he was hardly out of it. You must rest and stay hidden.

Why?

That would make her complain some more about troublesome cubs.

She wasn't scared of him anymore. Sometimes she would hit him on the head with her wing and insult him with curses he had never heard of before, so he wasn't sure just how rude they really were.

One night she brought back a hare. It was a lot paler than the ones back home and its ears where tipped with black. He licked the blood off it, and then for the first time realised that Sili never ate. Perhaps it was because he was finally healthy enough that the sight of food didn't send him in a desperate spiral of eat,food,eat,eat,food.

Simba looked up. She was preening herself and rubbing the blood from the kill off on the rocks.

"Do you want some?" He asked, trying to remember what politeness was. She coolly regarded him and her kill.

"No. I don't eat meat." That was confusing.

"But... aren't you a vulture?" Simba asked as he tried to put what he saw and what she said together. It was a slow and odd process.

"Yes," she.

"So you're a special fruit eating vulture?"

"No."

"So you eat..."

"Plants, succulents mostly, any nuts that I can find. There is a particular type of grass that has a nice taste to it."

"Then you haven't been the one hunting my food,"

"No." Simba didn't know what to think. She was a herbivore but she knew how to hunt. And was a very good hunter considering how well she was feeding him

"You've been killing them," he said, eyeballing her.

"Yeah."

Simba stared for a long time, and she regarded with a relaxed, undisturbed aloofness that grated harshly against his own very disturbed mood.

"I think you're ready to start moving around. I'll take you on a tour of the area midday when everyones asleep."

"Okay," Simba agreed. Happiness taking over. With one last look at the perplexing bird he crushed the rabbit's skull and started carefully eating ever last morsel.


A Mysterious Friend, outside the Healing Cave:

It was midday when he came by. The cub was asleep in the shade and his breaths seemed to move his bones in and out of his skin.

"He is still weak," the mysterious friend observed, his heavy head bending to get a better look at the king of beasts. There were no lions out here, and no one had ever seen one lion this close in a long time.

And lived to tell about it.

There was nothing terrifying about this cub. He was still small enough to be called defenceless, and the malnutrition will stunt him for years to come. Sili looked as proud as a flamingo when her eyes rested on her project.

"You're too brave, to mother the king of beasts," her friend chastened. "It will not turn out well and I will have no part," he turned and left, hoping to leave before the lion awoke.

"What! Why?" Sili squawked, her noisy wings carrying her from rock to her friend's back. "You can't abandon me!"

The friend understood what that meant. He was infamous throughout the Badlands for his odd ways. He judged no one and helped all. Talked rarely. Sili became inspired by his selflessness and changed her life to one of harmony.

He finds is very strange what she does in his name.

Mothering lions one of them.

"Fools errand!" he hissed. "This is no pinkie or chick, this is a king." Only idiots meddled with kings. "Fly away as fast as you can, and do your best to forget all about him."

Sili gaped open beaked on his back.

"Why are you so scared of him?" she whispered.

He tensed.

"I preach to all, you know this, but I do not, ever, let the lions see me. You Wasteland creatures don't know of lions, but I come from outside, and they are stupid with power."

"But he is not stupid with power, he is weak and helpless. He needs protection. I am a bird, I can't fight the hungry away. Please, help me. Help him. He's still just a small child."

Her friend closed his eyes and sighed. In ancient times king's had wise beasts to aid them. It was said the lions prowled with their prey guider at their shoulder. It was said kings listened, that kings were capable of staying their claws.

But today king's were not like that. Could he really teach this cub humility and wisdom? Teach him of the old ways? He had lived his life till now thinking that there was no way to change the corruption of the kings.

Exile had come as a relief to him, he had embraced the lion-less Wastelands like water.

He looked back at the cub, then walked over and inclined his head different ways and thought... how small he truly was when he came closer. Tiny, insignificant as the dust he lay in.

In ancient times he would be called a wise beast, and this cub would be called a king, and they would have walked together. But today he was a no one and the cub was alone on a cave floor.

"Okay."

Then he thought about it.

"No."

"Nah! Too late, you can't take it back!" Sili cried happily as she jumped down onto the cub, causing him to cry and jump and fall down again with a groan.

Dammit.

"Who in the bashes are you?" The cub said in anger.

The friend despised the tone, though Sili smiled some more. The cub started to struggle to get her talons off his back.

"You're teaching him swear words?" he asked her, ignoring the cub. Sili smirked as she perched on the defeated lion.

"It's not my fault, I said it only once," the cub scoffed. "Besides he only picked up vulture swear words, not any of your special Kudu swear words."

"Kudu do not swear."

"Oh really, well those Kudu ladies out west might have something different to say-"

"Don't swear around me," the Kudu said, speaking over Sili's conniving words. He looked the cub in the eyes, and the sudden attention to him made the cub startle. He looked frightened. The cub's fear tasted sweet to the Kudu.

"This is Upweke, a friend of mine. I've asked him to help you," Sili said to her cub. The child's ears suddenly lay flat against his skull. Interesting. Upweke wonder what emotion that was. He's never really known a lion well enough to observe their own ways.

"Help me?" He sounded offended.


The Cub, somewhere Safe yet Scary:

Simba was terrified. It felt like something had crawled inside him and oozed cold water. Half of the big antelope's face was gone. He could see his teeth through his cheek and down his neck flowed cuts so wide he imagined he could stick his paw inside.

The big antelope scoffed, causing the loose skin that survived the trauma to his face to billow out.

"Tiny king too good for help?"

Everything dropped to his paws as that word flowed over him.

"What- King? I don't know what you mean-" How had they known? His father had told him never to come back, but maybe his mother or Zazu had sent word to the sky. His uncle had wanted him, perhaps Scar had ordered him returned?

The healing claws marks along his spine tingled in thought of his uncle. He had been furious, he wanted Simba to pay for his crimes against the King.

He sighed and hung his head.

"So you know," what were the animals saying? Weak little king who ran off like a fool? Evil prince plotted to kill his father? Spoilt king can't deal with real life?

He had hoped Sili would just think him a normal abandoned cub. He had even been entertaining ideas of growing up here, with Sili to teach him the ways of the Wastelands he could make it. Exploring the caves of the gorge, protecting his territory, standing on top of the rock towers and roaring and hearing the deep sound rumble over the plains forever and ever... his own lion, no rules or manners, no policies or expectations. Just the Wastelands and him.

"Well you don't pass for a cheetah kid, no matter how skinny you seem," Sili chuckled. "It isn't shameful to be a lion, Nia. You're not like the others." She and Upweke shared a glance before she jumped down to the ground and inspected his expression. "I get that you don't want to talk about where you're from and how you ended up here, and that's fine, I get it. But we won't judge you for being a lion. You're safe with us."

Judged for... being a lion? Just a lion? Simba decided to stay silent for awhile.

"Thankyou," he offered up to Sili in a confused whisper. She shuffled away from inspecting his face to stand by the scarred antelope's hooves. She smiled brightly as she looked between the two scowling creatures.

"You ought to be more excited. You've got permission to go out and explore now! And Upweke is far more wise than me. Come on Nia, look alive," she spread her wings and scrambled her way up onto the high shoulders of Upweke. "Shall we show him the mysterious drawings today, or the enchanted tree?" Upweke lost all his anger as he pretended to contemplate his friend's ideas.

"I'm thinking the secret trail," he said as he turned and left the cave. Simba got a distinct impression that the antelope did not like him, and he was back to blatantly being ignored.

"What! But I wanted to go somewhere exciting toda- ah Nia, come on kid!" Sili yelled as she flapped around, getting comfortable on the buck's back. Her large eyes, with the ever present burning stare, followed him as he got to his paws and jogged to keep up with Upweke's long strides. She smiled softly when he looked up at her with an unsure expression racing across his face.

"The secret trail is exciting," Upweke mumbled. He flicked his large ears as a fly came too close. Simba wondered what type of antelope he was. He had never seen one like Upweke before.

"Only for boring people," Sili grumbled out the corner of her beak.

"That's because you fly everywhere."

Time passed as Simba followed close in Upweke's shadow, keeping close as the antelope picked a well practiced route out of the gorge and onto the Wastelands.

"Um, Upweke, sir," Simba said uncertainly, his neck craned painfully as he tried to look up at the large buck's face.

Upweke didn't seem to hear him. Great, I can't even talk loud enough to be heard.

"Upweke," Sili hissed, highly unimpressed.

"What?"

"Answer Nia," she scolded, to which Upweke sighed and groaned before stopping and bringing his horned head down to stare with dead eyes at Simba.

"Um, what sort of antelope are you? I've never seen someone like you before," Upweke's eyes seemed to show some sign of emotion as the question was asked.

"I'm a Kudu,"

"Kudu," Simba echoed, trying to remember if he had ever heard of them. When he was being groomed for king he was expected to know every animal. Upweke nodded his head, making his large spiral horns cut through the hot air.

"Specifically the Mkubwa kind, which is the biggest," he stepped up onto a rock and shuffled his way down a dusty bank. "If you've never seen one like me, then you're not from the east." He stopped and frowned at his own words. "There is nothing to the north but acid water and sand, and west is the Pridelands. So you must be from the south, the ridges?" Simba wasn't good at lying.

"I, ah, don't really want to talk about it."

"Nia, sometimes it helps to talk about it," Sili interrupted from high on the Kudu's back. She was always trying to get him to talk about who he was. Simba frowned. He needed to frame his question right.

"How did you know that I wasn't from the Pridelands?" He had to walk behind Upweke now, because the rocks they were weaving through had started to press close.

"There is only one pride of lions in the west, and someone born to them would not find themselves here. They all think they're so fine. I visited for the birth of the royal son a season back, and the way they act, those lions." He turned his nose to the air and Sili laughed loudly. "From what they say, you would think they own the entire world and everyone should be thankful for it."

Simba expected such words to hurt him but... they seemed to heal. The spiteful feelings that burned in his heart were flooded and eased by Upweke and Sili's words. He was right to think what he did. Why did the Pridelands need a king to lord himself above everyone? He was right. No one needed a king. It was foolish.

"Wait, did you say you where there for the prince's presentation?"

"Um, yes, I believe that's what they call it. Though I didn't go to the actual showing, that was for royal animals only," Upweke said gruffly. When he fell silent and was obviously not going to talk anymore, Sili snapped her wings to her sides and her eyes were wide with wonder when she turned to look at Simba.

"Oh, little cub, this grumpy Kudu does it no justice. I've heard the stories! It's one of the greatest festivals an animal can hope to attend in their lifetime, thousands gather. Plus Prince Simba's ceremony coincided with the returning of the herds. There were millions of creators of all sizes everywhere you looked. The songs and the dances! And you'll never believe the abundance they speak of. Upweke said that where ever he went the grass was soft and grew above his stomach."

Upweke grunted in distracted agreement and Sili's eyes were growing bright.

Simba had never seen grass as tall as that, and everywhere he went? He supposed that must be what his home looks like when the herds are away. He had grown up with the millions a graze, birthing their foals and fussing about. In a few moons they would be on the march, something which he had looked forward to witnessing. A Pridelands with more than half the animals gone would be a strange sight.

"Why didn't you go with him, to the presentation?" He asked Sili, whose wings half raised in an expression Simba had come to learn meant 'hey now!' Upweke turned his head to the side and regarded her casually out of the corner of his eye.

"You were still eating meat back then," Upweke answered for her. "The carcasses would have been too few and far between for her. and the competition for the dead was brutal. Hunting is forbidden during the festival."

"Well next time, I'll have to go," Sili said, then she looked around and declared "we should all go!"

"You're going to be waiting awhile, they say the queen is barren now. Only when the prince has his own children will it happen again." What? Has word not reached here that the prince was gone?

"Barren?" Simba asked, very dizzy from his pride being talked about like this, with even himself being mentioned. This scared Kudu had walked for days to celebrate his birth. It was a strange thought.

"Too old to have children."

What? His mother was not that old... was she? His half-sister was rather old, he supposed, which made his mother pretty old herself. He had never realised.

"Did you hear the word about her?" Upweke said in a strange tone. Sili clicked in interest, urging him to speak on.

"They say the Pridelands King ordered her to him to keep the bloodline strong. She was a warrior queen in her home lands and was capable of slaughtered males twice her size." Sili gasped, but Simba was stunned so much he froze. Lucky he was walking behind them and recovered without being noticed. Sili had been busy complaining loudly to her chaperon anyway.

"I hate lions, how they think they can just order others around. Sorry kid," she said in a very not-sorry way, "and lion royalty, they're the worst. Always making laws and changing rules. You've got to walk a certain path and your species can only visit the watering hole at a certain time." She clicked her tongue and tousled her feathers.

"They take what they want," Upweke's face was one of pain, and his eyes were dark.

The tight path through the rocks opened out onto a view that lasted for miles across the thorny grass. Simba's jaw dropped as he studied the horizon and realised he could see the Prideland's mountains. They were faint floating bumps in the distance, but they were there.

Home. He could see it. He couldn't tear his eyes away, but at the same time he didn't ... ache, like he had before. The previous wish to be welcomed back like it was all a bad dream was gone. He turned and looked at what could very well become his new family.

It was then Simba realised Upweke's scars matched a lion's claws perfectly.