Nobody Knows My Sorrow
Simba, as the Days Slip By:
The cub liked to fight. It was no secret, and caused no end of bemoaning from Timon and Pumbaa. He liked to ambush and wrestle, to roll and feel defeat as much as he liked the rush of winning. With the water up, and the flocks coming in, he liked to prowl slowly amongst the reeds, waiting for the perfect chance before leaping. A seemly million birds screaming and taking off, water flying off them and raining down onto him as he bunched his muscles and surged through the shallows, his eyes trying to pick the slower ones from the chaos.
He liked to charge from concealment, and laugh as Timon screamed and tripped over his own feet. He liked to throw himself at Pumbaa, and try to use everything he had to wrap his arms around the warthog and spear him into the ground.
He liked to run, his paws striking the wet bank softly, and to leap over sleeping crocodiles as they sun bathed on mass. He especially liked to randomly go running, and see what startled and charged out from the forest as he skimmed along the tree line.
The animals were happy again, times were at their very best, water flowed, the sun was pleasant and the grass was growing lushly.
Translation: he could literally get away with murder.
One of the most dominate bucks on the lowlands, an Impala with a streaked coat, had been on the receiving end of Simba's pranks one too many times by the week's end. He was the first to snap. As his wives flew away across the plains-turned-marshes, he spun and threw his head down to the ground, charging on Simba with his horns outstretched. That had been a fun day. Once the buck realised that Simba was carefully keeping his claws from digging too deep, his rage eased enough to realise that the cub's roars were laced with childish giggles.
Impala understood, especially strong Impala like the buck. They were always mock fighting each other. It was a testament to how tough and dominate the buck was, that he didn't freak out at the idea of play fighting the cub. Half his height but equal in weight, with jaws that would sometimes mouth his jugular, but not apply pressure.
Or maybe it was a testament to how naive he was. All he knew was head butting and charging, making it easy for Simba to flex and get as his neck. Victory after victory had the buck cursing and trotting in circles around him, perhaps for the first time in a long time, being forced to think.
Simba taught him to throw his shoulder and protect his neck, and the buck taught Simba how to avoid getting kicked in the skull. It was all about timing. It was fun, and when rain rolled across the lowlands, they parted with civil acknowledgments on the others strength. It was more than the smugness of Nala, the crankiness of Timon, or the confused hurt of Pumbaa because why are you trying to attack me?
He liked it. It was good and filled with respect for one another. Simba felt like they had forged a steely bond of friendship, which was different from the usual 'annoying brat' experience.
But nothing compared to fighting Masikio. It wasn't about strength – it couldn't be about strength – it had to be tactics. And that was something, he had discovered, gave he even more of a thrill.
Not only were her ears keen, but her feet where hyper sensitive, able to pick up footfalls when he tried to sneak up on her. She was surprisingly quick moving when it came to close combat, but her top speed wasn't enough to catch him. Her skin was easy to climb because of its sags and wrinkles, so if he had the element of surprise and speed, he could scale up her back with ease. She was able to reach back and throw him if he sat on her shoulders or neck, but on her withers he was relatively untouchable. Until she decided to rub aggressively against a tree.
Simba dug his claws deep into the tree and launched himself up the trunk, grasping a branch and lodging himself there amongst the twigs. The whole structure trembled as Masikio kept leaning up against it, whirling to wrap her trunk around the bronze coloured trunk and heave it toward her, making several things go snap.
Simba hissed at her as his claws started to slip. You're not meant to actually kill your opponent. That infuriating trunk unwrapped and snapped up to reach for him, just falling short. Simba started to smirk, but felt it die upon his face when he saw that look in her eye. With a grunt of effort, the grown calf raised up on two legs, her front feet resting heavily against the tree, causing it to groan again. Simba watched as she rose, coming almost eye level with him in the tree.
For five seconds, there was silence.
"Argh, fine." He snapped and huffed, turning his head away from her in disgust. She started to giggle, on and on, even after she had dropped back down to all four feet. Her little brother, the youngest elephant of her heard, toddled over and openly gawked at him.
"How is he going to get down?" He shouted with concern, making his sister giggle again.
"I don't know." Masikio tried for serious concern, before breaking down again. "I think he might be stuck. He's like a baby bird up there, all scared and puffed up." Her brother didn't laugh along with her, he just looked extremely, extremely worried. It was nice to know someone cared.
"Pha-lease, I can get down from here easily. Need I remind you that I come from the rainforest? I practically lived in the trees up there." Simba worked his claws into the bark as he frantically looked for a way down that could be, at least, a fraction possible.
Masikio laughed so hard she snorted.
Once one of the older cousins helped him down, a gentle natured near-bull called Iman, Simba decided it was time to retire his career as a champion elephant fighter. There were just some fights a lion couldn't pick, not at his age, at least. Simba glared from the corner of his eye at Masikio as she chuckled and walked along side him. Perhaps when she was asleep? Maybe with a team effort? Were they ticklish on their bellies? Hmmmm...
Lost in dreams (battle tactics!) Masikio had drawn in front of him, and was now leading him and her tiny brother back to the herd. He could hear the sounds they made as they wallowed in the mud and their quiet conversations drawing closer. Emerging from the grass and onto the river bank, the great behemoth that was Masikio's Grandmother sat up and look at him intently. She had been lying on her side before, looking like the great bloated carcass of a long extinct monster, but now she was carefully struggling to her feet.
He had never actually talked to the Grandmother, but when he drew nearby, she always watched him with intensity. It scared him, like he was going to be made a meal out of. This was only the third time he had hung out with the herd, so maybe she was just wary of the mysterious lion.
But he was a fly compared to her! Just crush me under your toe now and be done with it!
She rumbled, like every other time, like she was going to talk but forgot to open her mouth. Simba turned away and pretended to be relaxed as he followed Masikio past the herd and further along the bank to a smaller mud slick.
"She doesn't like me."
Masikio raised a brow as she gently collapsed herself into the mud. Some small creatures that had been wallowing there skittered away into the river, causing Simba to shiver. Baby crocodiles, most likely, or perhaps toads.
"Who?"
"The scary one."
"Scary?"
"The big one."
Masikio looked highly amused.
"They're all big."
"The big big one."
Masikio swiped her trunk through the mud and flopped onto her side. Taking his time with judging the distance, Simba leapt from the bank to her, using her like a stepping stone.
"Oh, she's just thinking. I know she likes you, she asks questions about you all the time. What's your name, where did you come from, how old you are, what you're like, where your family is..."
Simba grimace.
Gingerly he walked up towards her head, pausing when she swiped her muddy trunk over her face, and resuming once she had huffed a sigh. Sitting gently by her shoulder, he looked down into her tiny eyes, which rolled to peer at him as well. Flapping her large ears around, narrowly missing him, she started to whisper just loud enough for him to hear.
"Don't look now, but, ah, she's walking over here."
Simba, of course, turned his head around quickly to look. Jerking back to stare out over the newly made river in shock. Stiffy he pretended not to notice her footsteps as she crossed the distance and came to stand at the bank.
Slowly he came to realise that perhaps he should stop staring out at some unseen point in the clouds, and instead turn to greet her. Simba turned as if he was made of stone, gulping as he took the sight in. She was the single biggest beast he had ever seen, and she would probably retain that honour for the rest of his life. Those tusks were as long as him! Her own tiny eyes looked down at him closely, like she was trying to strip the skin off him with her gaze alone.
Technically, their eyes were bigger than his own, but they were peering out of such a huge beast that they looked positively shrunken. She drew in a breath and opened her mouth, Simba braced himself-
"Hello..." It was kindly and soft. Simba wasn't sure if he was more nervous or less. "... little king."
More nervous, much, much more nervous. The habit these outlanders had of calling all lion kind kings never failed to strike his heart so fierce it stopped and spluttered.
"Having a good day?" She smiled, and then moved away like she was being pushed along on a gentle breeze, aimless and carefree. Simba watched, as she went to some trees and reached up to forage the leaves.
"Wow, you really are scared of her." Nothing about her grandmother seemed scary, not a single hair on her hide had an ounce of evil possibility. "It's like she's the Monster of the Mountain in your eyes." Masikio frowned as she shifted her legs through the mud. "Do you know something I don't? Has she been slinking around at night, scaring little children?" Simba made a frown to match her own.
"Monster...of the Mountain?" He said, like he was trying the words out for the first time.
"Huh? Surly you know about the Monster of the Mountain?" The cub shook his head.
"But you live in the jungle, how could you not! I come from far out, and even I grew up knowing about it!" When his puzzled expression never changed, Masikio felt like rolling on her back and screaming at him. He was living in that jungle, and he didn't even know the most basic things about it. Who was raising this cub? When her mind immediately answered with a hog and a rat, she stopped being so annoyed and instead tried to remember how her mother had always explain it.
"The Monster of the Mountain is a dark legend, about an unstoppable, unseen beast. Many, many years ago, it woke up one day, its growls so loud rocks tumbled and the echoes reached all the way to the lowlands. It caused so much trouble as it thrashed and roared over the weeks, that a hundred of the lands bravest and strongest marched up to defeat it. No one came back. My great-great grandmother was one of them. So that's my grandmother's grandmother. We pass the story down, but over time lessons become legends, you know? It's also why there ain't any lions here anymore."
"There used to be lions? What happened to them?" She pushed some more of the lovely mud over her, smiling at her new friend's confusion over how they could just vanish.
"Well, all the lions went up, and none came down. No one really goes up there anymore, except for some real recluse characters and travellers who don't know." She scooped some more mud over her skin. "Your guardians must be pretty brave, or stupid." Simba thinks that he knows exactly which one they are.
"They were driven away by their own kind, I think the summit was the last place they could go with peace. At least, now it makes sense why it's so empty up there." Simba gritted his teeth as he thought about the ominous legend. Should he be afraid? He had lived up there for months, and it had been nothing but tranquil. Pumbaa and Timon had lived up there for even longer, and they never talked about such a monster.
After several minutes of silence, Masikio forgot all about Simba, lost in deep thought, and rolled to lie on her belly. She realised her mistake when a scream pierced her ear, as the cub went sailing into the mud. He groaned and growed, generally making a massive fuss and getting himself even dirtier.
"Oops," she apologised sweetly. The look that she received then was no ordinary death glare, it was one of a kind. Masikio apologetically lifted her trunk, making as if to lift him out of the mud. He grudgingly complied. Just as she had her trunk around him, and had started to lift his weight up, she flipping him and pushed him deeper into the mud, cackling madly the entire time. When tens of thin claws dug into her sensitive trunk, she knew it was time to retreat.
Ripping her trunk up, he held on and was lifted into the air before his claws slipped and went plummeting back into the soft and healing mud. His four legs were splayed wide in the typical cat-falling-to-their-accepted-doom position. She was familiar with it – he spent a lot of time falling when with her.
Lunging out, she was off and trotting for her herd before he could splutter out a word.
Simba stayed low in the mud, letting it ooze through his fur alongside his rage. He hated this mud, it took his day to wash it out. The thin, thermal mud on the summit was in a whole another class from this gritty slop. Maybe it was because none of these animals had the pools on the summit to compare, and that was why they didn't mind it as much? Most likely it was because of how the river muck clung and stained him, while the thermal mud simply soothed. There was something about his fine golden fur that made dirt rub in and refuse to leave. The river, filled with pure rain water, ran cheerfully some meters away. He started to drag himself out of the half solid grime and head towards it. Skin care, pah! Stops sunburn, pah! Feels good in the cracks, pah! Lifting out of the mud, he was one dark glob with burning red eyes glaring out. She will pay... one day...
After lying a bit in the shallows of the river, and taking a paddle around, Simba emerged to sunbake in the cleanest stop he could find. With eyes closed and face turned up towards the sun, he purred and purred, occasionally licking his fur when it started to itch underneath. He was so still and had such a gentle look about him that the animals close by became at ease with him. Birds picking insects from the mud wondered closer than they ever had, and dragonflies would constantly land on him, entranced by the dirty gold colour. Imagine their reaction if they saw it clean.
A falcon swooped down upon the river, plucked something from the surface, and carried it over to Simba's section of the bank to quickly dismember. The falcon landed on top of its catch, something small which was thrashing and croaking. He used his strength to push his talon right through the undeveloped skull and out the other side. The hatchling screeched widely for a second before dropping dead.
The falcon looked up to Simba with a smile, aware of his audience the entire time.
"Hard to believe what they grow into, eh?" He shrugged with his wings and dropped to start ripping strips of flesh off the crocodile, swallowing the meat whole. After a few minutes of picking around the bones and eating the rich organs from the gut, the eagle threw it towards Simba with a crackly laugh.
"More easy pickings than I know what to do with these days. Have the rest cat, rare chance to taste a croc." He spread his wings, watching silently with a cocked head as Simba leaned over to sniff at the hatchling. "A hundred hatched today, and a hundred will hatch tomorrow. Watch it doesn't bite." Simba jerked back at his warning, making the falcon laugh as he flew off.
He watched as the flies started to gather and lap at it. A minute ago that thing had been enjoying the sun upon his back as he floated upon the river. Now he had just... stopped.
"Turning down a meal? Croc not your thing?" Simba nearly broke his neck from whipping around so fast. The matriarch stood behind him, eyes drifting from him to the carcass. She had probably watched the whole scene.
"I, argh, no. I'm not – it's not a preference, I just, ah, am not that hungry right now." He tried to focus on breathing in and out, even and slow.
"Not that hungry? You're a growing lion. I thought your lot could eat a buffalo a day without breaking a sweat." Was that an insult? It might have been.
"Well, I don't... really..." He stopped trying to explain himself when she took a step closer and poked the hatchling with her trunk, causing the flies to jump into the air and swirl madly.
"Haven't done much killing, have ya?" She flicked it onto its back, and the flies greedily swarmed and buried into the gash the falcon had ripped.
"No – not much – well, I suppose I kill a lot of bugs..." He trialled off, watching the flies start to fight amongst another, ignoring how she seemed ready to burst out laughing.
"Bugs?" She said with a barely there chuckle. "I always wondered how the predators thought about their food; I had so many theories. Yet here you are, a king, unable to bear the thought." Her ears flapped many times over in a show of her humour at the whole situation. "What do you see when you look at this croc?"
Simba studied the carcass, wondering what the right answer was.
"A... baby crocodile?" The matriarch eased back on her heels and took a step back.
"You see what was living, and who it used to be?" Ergh, was that a question or just a statement. Simba was on the brink of a reply til she started to talk again. "Hm, you're not being raised by a pride, right? My granddaughter says you live with a warthog and some sort of rodent." Simba nodded his head very, very slowly.
"Would you like a herbivore's perspective? A prey animal, if you will?" Simba, again, nodded his head very, very slowly. She swept her trunk over the croc one more, seeming perfectly at ease with the death.
"It is not a crocodile, nor is it a baby anymore. It is just flesh, used and left behind. It has gone, and its spirit returned to the earth, or wherever the crocodiles go." She gestured to herself then, the grasping tip of her trunk clutching at a roll of her own skin. "This here is not me, just like that there is not it. We are spirits, and this that we have, it is the flesh of the animal. It was gifted to me to use, and one day I will have no use, and it will belong to all animals once again. A creature will eat it, and grow, making their own flesh bigger, and creating the flesh of their children from it. One day their spirit too will pass, and their flesh will return to the animal once again. To feed the trees, and feed the herds, or feed the next beast, it does not matter." She then picked the baby up with her trunk and put it before him. "Its mother ate flesh, and grew from it, and made this child from it. Flesh was taken, and flesh is given. Flesh is not ours; it belongs to all animals, cycling around and around. This flesh belongs to you, as it belongs to me and once it. You should make a meal of it, something as precious as muscle and blood, gifts of the animal; it should not be left to waste."
He looked up at her, and she looked down at him. Silently, she left; her herd already disappearing into the trees as they searched for shade. The day was heating up, climbing its way to be one of the muggiest and hottest days he had ever felt. A few minutes later Masikio ambled over to tell him they were moving on. Mumbling that he might just stay here, she shrugged.
"Alright, well it was nice of you to spend the day. I might not see you for awhile. Me and Grandmother are going away, for my ceremony. I should be back in two days or so, but don't wait up, okay?"
Simba nodded, and she patted him on the head before leaving, making him smile and bat her trunk away.
Flesh that its mother took. Simba eyeballed the tiny thing at his feet, with tiny teeth lining its tiny jaws. He thought about how big he had seen the crocs get, and how they would need to take flesh to grow. He thought about his own tiny foot swallowed by the paw print of his father. How much more flesh was that, for a lion like him to grow? He thought about how their bodies became the grass. She called it the cycle of flesh. Flesh of the animal. He called it the circle of life. All connected.
Simba sat and stared down at the flesh of the animal for hours. His mind whirling, screeching to a halt whenever it went in a direction too painful to follow.
The day boiled and boiled, and when afternoon came it did not evaporate. Instead it clung. Clung like Simba's mind to the elephant's words. It wrapped around the animals like Simba's teeth wrapped around the flesh, and it settled and lay across the land like Simba did beneath the trees.
He waited through to evening, remaining until the temperature dropped. However it never did, even when it grew later and later, the sunset starting to peel around the sky. When he opened his eyes and looked, he realised why it was so.
The strangers arrived just ahead of the storm. They came along the bank of the river, and Simba had to squint to see them from the bright rays of the sunset. Four beasts too tired to notice him. Their hooves sunk in the mud as they marched along, each step followed by a pop of the mud as they yanked their feet free. There was even a mystic tinkering in the air, a sound that reminded him of nuts and fruit, ore mixed into clay, and herbs scrubbed into his fur.
Simba snuck glances as they passed by the tree he was dozing under. Intrigued beyond belief. Not so far away, cloudless thunder stomped the earth, as if a great beast who never slept had chased them in from the outer lands.
He did not pretend to think that he knew every animal here, but he could tell they were new. Haggard with travel and dirty with soil from another place, their heads were low with fatigue, but their steps were a stiff, quick march that never relented. It was the pace of an animal who had travelled so far and with such need that their body now felt like it was not capable of stopping. Simba experienced it once, when he crossed the sands all alone, the ghost of Upweke pushing him on.
But why were they travelling so late? Why were they only making it here now?
If that alone was not enough to give their foreign nature away, then there was also the fact that their kind was rare in these lands. The powerful barrel of their chests and narrow legs struck a homesick cord deep, deep, down in the dark of his heart. Small twisted horns crowned their heads, and their shaggy manes flipped to the gait of their march. He had only seen three of their kind in Arusha, and all were old, bitter beasts with injuries along battle-battered bodies. The two half-grown calves that marched along were the first he had seen since... a long time ago.
Besides, if even that alone was not enough to give it away, then the sight that he saw when they final moved past him, and the sunrays stopped burning his eyes, would definitely have given them away as strangers. And from very distant lands too. He had never seen animals like that, not in his whole entire life. The manes of the two calves was orange instead of black, and their fur purple in the place of grey. Dark stripes of rich black laced over their backs and guts, making gleaming zebra strips in the dusk light.
Simba considered following them, his curiosity itching to kill him. But when his paws quietly touched upon the ground, the coming night became apparent. Craning his neck up, Simba looked to see that the top of the tree was still encrusted with golden light, but it was weakening by the second. It was time for him to head off, remembering what awaited tonight. He quickly set off through the uneven grass, excitement buzzing, following the gentle slope of the land away from the river. Everything was alive at this time of day, the grass hummed with insects. Clinging to each blade was hundreds, who swarmed and lulled with the wind. Simba weaved his way through it, along paths worn down to the rock by thousands of animals. Tiny birds chased the tiny bugs, swopping and falling through the air to eat and avoid being eaten.
Flesh, being given and taken, an endless circle.
Speeding up to a lazy run, his growing legs kept pushing and pushing him forwards, until it felt like he was flying too. His nose was filled with only good things, fresh water and growing plants, the coming rain and herds thick with beasts.
The cub thought about what had been and what was now, studying the land around him as he passed through it, hardly disturbing a thing. He thought about nature in a way few animals had the space of mind to. However it would be quite a while until he realised this.
At some point while he ran, the busyness of dusk stopped and held her breath. There wasn't even a rustle in the trees thanks to the calm before the storm. His own pants felt like the only thing in existence as even the bugs paused, sensing the lull and instinct sending them quiet.
Damn it! It was starting already, without him! Halting, Simba looked up into the sky, searching amongst the young night for the first star along with every other beast in Arusha. In the distance, somewhere before him, a cheer started and spread, the voices rolling across the lands. Another group, by the lake, far, far away, could be heard. Their cheers were like that of a mosquito's whine. Simba's eyes darted through the colours of the sunset, around the storm front, and across every inch of sky, searching for what the others had found. Stepping to the side, he peered between the branches of trees that were turning black in the dusk.
He found it, too, the first star of the night, peering down from high, high above. A happy cry escaped his lips, before he choked suddenly and silently watched the second and third star bloom. The cheers of the other animals were still thundering, so Simba hurried on, thinking instead about tonight and the festival as he drew closer and closer, and less about the sudden hit of pain he had felt upon seeing that star. Two hundred or so animals had gathered at the start of the elevated land that, if a beast were to climb long enough, would take them all the way to the summit. The trees were a touch more jungle and fleshy, and the grass was lush and undamaged by the herds. Many had come up here tonight for the view across the lands and the fresh water that lay everywhere below. Everyone was so being wrapped in the celebration and cheers that they didn't notice him trot in between their legs, hurrying to find Timon and Pumbaa. As his eyes locked up a laugh Pumbaa, the deafening cheers turning into a chant.
Simba paused and looked up, searching the crowd around him. There were several giraffes next to him and they blocked out most of his view of the congregation. He threw himself forward, galloping up to Pumbaa to rub along his side and around his back before coming to a stop on the hog's other side, purring as he wrapped around his friend and the familiar scent of their family, a very unique smell, was shared amongst them. Looking in the same direction as Pumbaa, Simba forced himself to lift his eyes and admire the sight of the stars growing and blooming all along the sky. A compass or fireflies, balls of gas, gods, mythical beasts, oaths to swear upon or even a promised homeland, for every family the stars were significant. They cheered so loud that Simba couldn't even hear his own voice when he had said hello to Pumbaa.
He admired the stars because they were countless, because everyone else was so happy to see them, and because the stars were undeniably beautiful. It was the tradition of the festival. He didn't believe they were anything, just things up in the sky, like the moon, clouds and sun.
But really, deep, deep down in a dark part of him... he wondered what they thought of him, with his tail wrapped around the shoulders of a laughing and hooting hog, Timon jumping from the grass to walk along his spine and sit atop his head. Far far away from his homeland, in a place that might as well be off the edge of the world.
When the cheers had died down, the sky was lit with all the stars, and clouds were manifesting in the north. Happy conversations of the animals echoed around him, growing with excitement when the first strike of lighting blew up the sky and land up for an instant. Simba licked his nose and tore his eyes away.
"So, how did your day go?" Timon asked sweetly from atop his head.
"Good." Another lightning strike, too far away to be followed by a rumble. "How was yours?"
"Good. But I think you should ask Pumbaa instead of me. He had a very interesting day." They both turned to stare at Pumbaa in unison, Timon sucking his bottom lip in to stop a conspiring chuckle, Simba with a soft smirk.
"Aaaaaaaahhhh-" the hog scratched his head, looking away. Simba raised his brows at that reaction.
"How did your day go, Pumbaa?" His guardian continued to look away and shift uncomfortably, an uneasy chuckle starting.
"Arrrhhhhhhh-" deciding he wasn't getting anything out of Pumbaa, Simba looked up to Timon.
"Is it funny because it went bad, or went well?" Timon hid his wide smile behind Simba's ear. Surprisingly it was Pumbaa who jumped in to answer.
"Well. It went very well. Um, rather well you could say-" Simba picked up on the slip like the predator he was.
"Very well?!" He teased, his smile starting to grow more and more wild. Timon whisper evilly into his ear. Pumbaa was invited to join a warthog clan.
"Oh." Simba's smile instantly dropped. "Are you going to join?"
Pumbaa nearly screeched his reply. "No no no no, I don't think I could. I mean, I'm an outcast, and you guys!" He waved his hooves around, encompassing everything around them as if to explain.
"It's alright if you want to, if any of you had a chance to have a family again, I want you to take it." He watched the way Pumbaa's face pinched, and felt the way Timon's fingers clutched as his ear tighter.
"But we already have a family!" Timon puffed.
"Aren't we, like, more of a brotherhood then anything?" The animals were starting to walk around and spread out, giving them more privacy on their patch of grass. A few had cast Simba looks when they noticed him, but no one was making a fuss yet.
"Isn't a brotherhood the strongest type of family!" Another lighting strike, this one with thunder rolling after it, making Timon pause what he was saying. "You have to tell him the best part, Pumbaa."
"I don't really... isn't he a bit young?"
"For what? Get this Simba, so the clan's head honcho went and died during the dry, and they've been on the lookout for a new 'strong male' and all that. And - now this is the part I really can't believe - they want Pumbaa. They think he's so strong and brave, living free in the jungle and being the master of a lion and all that. Pfftt..."
Simba looked between Pumbaa and Timon, searching their faces once again. Timon left his family, but Pumbaa was thrown away. He knew that the sensitive warthog was still affected by what had happened to him, and something like this, to be accepted again, to be wanted...
"I think you should go, Pumbaa." His friend's ears lifted in surprise. "Really?" Simba knew from the widening of his eyes that he had hit the correct nerve of this situation.
"But – Simba!"
"But, Timon?" His dry words made the meerkat huff and cross his arms. Timon was fiery and self absorbed, but he put his friends first (eventually) and, if he just took the time to think about it, he would come to realise. "It's not like it will be forever, a season or two. Don't warthogs fight amongst each other all the time?" Timon's ears lifted, while his eyelids dropped in thought.
Another lighting strike, casting the small creature in platinum white.
"Hmph, yeah, I suppose. Go have a little holiday, me and the kid will have tonnes of fun without you. Might even make some new friends. Once your done with the boring family routine, you can come back and join us in living the dream." Then he waved his arms around with an angry 'pah!' before jumping off and marching away with head held high.
"I think he is happy for you." Simba chuckled. Pumbaa scrunched up is nose in doubt. "Hey, listen Pumbaa, Timon left his family because it was 'boring' and 'wasn't working' and all that, but you deserve to be in a clan and experience what your own kind is like. I know I'm really happy for you, and I think you should definitely introduce me. I'll try my best to be big and scary." Pumbaa nodded, his eyes looking the most steely they had been in a long time, and got to his feet.
"Okay, if you think its best." Simba sighed through his nose, upset by that response.
"I think you should do what you want," he corrected.
"Oh, okay. Then I'll go find her then, and let her know." With that he trotted off, shaky at first, but the further he got the more bounce enter his steps, until he was prancing along like the happiest pig in the world.
He watched him go, trotting around where a large group of seven or so zebra were lying. By their side was a small clan of baboons, the children ripping up grass and racing around while the rest talked softly. Simba laid down and disappeared into the grass, his ears tuning into the conversations tinkering around him.
Every now and again the baboons would laugh, their hoots rolling down the hill, and sometimes the zebras would whine to get another's attention. The giraffes were the quietest beast on the hill, their heads bent together in the rare times they exchanged hushed words. The noisiest animal happened to be one of the smallest. The baby hippo had tucked itself into the side of her huge mother, yawning and bellowing. She was too young for words yet, so instead she just cried and complained. Simba twirled and pricked his ears to all the sounds, alert as the crashing for a big beast started to draw close. Not realising Simba was there due to the thick grass, he stopped and huffed while surveying the festival. Then, he took a massive breath, and bellowed out a name. Everyone close by paused, carrying on casually when he had finished calling. He stayed by Simba, tail swishing through the grass and over his rump in agitation. He smelt like he had tried to be clean and tidy for the festival, no dung dried to his skin or mud layers, not even the smell acquainted by weeks of sweating under the sun.
"Relax, she'll be here," a small voice soothed. The big beast huffed again, Simba expected an angry voice, but his words shook with racing nerves.
"But I can't find her anywhere, and I've been looking for hours."
"Not exactly hours, drama queen, but is it her fault you came thirty minutes early? All you said was to 'meet up on the hill during the festival'. Perhaps she thought mid way through the festival, instead of before it?" Simba quietly stretched his neck up to get a look of the buffalo that stood nervously a meter away. He was big and black, horns nearly grown into the average size, weight yet to fill in and create the unmistakable shape of a bull. One more season and he would be a full grown male, but for now he was at the limit of sub-par. A little tick bird was fluttering about him, grooming his coat and triple checking his friend. Simba didn't think he had ever seen a buffalo's coat shine in the moonlight, but this one's did. For such a dirty animal, he had made himself remarkably clean.
"Hey, who's that down there?" The bird's mirth shone through his words, making Simba smile as well at the buffalo. He started taking uneasy steps forward, his heart starting to beat even faster.
"Ah, it's her. Oh my gosh, do I look okay? I look stupid don't I? Can she see me? Should I -" The bird squawked loudly to stop his downward spiral.
"Just walk down there and say hello, gees, how long have you two known each other?" He stayed on his friend's side until the buffalo made his way past the sitting zebra. Fluttering away and onto a striped rump, he tweeted at the buffalo to 'keep an eye out for her father' causing the beast to look wildly around.
Simba chuckled softly in the grass.
The bird groomed the zebra, looking for some dinner. After finding nothing on the beasts – they too had cleaned up for the festival – he flew off, swooping over Simba before making a turn to land by him. Simba's eyes snapped wide open to stare at the small animal who was currently looking him up and down.
"Leopard?" Simba nearly laughed at him.
"No, just a lion that was dumped in mud." Timon had warned him about these birds, how most were pretty useless, only taking the ticks off once they were filled with blood. How they would peck open healing wounds to get at the soft flesh. Simba didn't have any big wounds right now, but he was always laced with small scabs. He didn't feel like having those pecked open. He didn't need physical wounds opening to match his mental ones, thank you very much. The bird's feathers puffed out as he squeaked.
"Ah, dirty? Want a clean?" He hopped to a closer stalk of grass, his head inspecting Simba at each angle possible.
But maybe those warnings were just Timon's nature, and not true at all. After all, he groomed Pumbaa and Simba, they were his herd and his alone. Simba thought that he picked up the behaviour from the monkeys, but while down in Arusha, he had seen a beast incredibly similar to Timon groom upon creatures who wallowed in the mud. It was spooky to see them, a clone of Timon if not for the fur and lithe face, clean the skin and pick ticks from a young warthog with sunburn along one side.
"I don't get cleaned."
"Hm, too bad, because you look dirty. I thought cats were always well groomed."
"Not this cat," Simba exclaimed proudly. The bird cleared his throat, either displeased or happy of a possible meal.
"Being clean is import."
"You're starting to sound like my mother." Simba regretted those words as soon as they came out of his mouth, maybe even before that, when they were falling out of his brain. But they were said so casually, he didn't have a second to pause. Pumbaa and Timon said that phrase all the time when someone got nagging, but Simba had never. Time healed it, but speaking the name peeled off the scab anew. Maybe on any other night he could have handled it without the pain being visible on his face, but not now. Not with the ways these stars were pinning him down, their stares burning the back of his neck. The air was growing foul tonight.
"Where is your pride?" And then, voice dropping to a whisper, "did you come here with those other two?" His confusion must have been readable. "Two kings, big grown ones."
"Where? Here, in Arusha?" The bird gasped. Simba felt mildly amused - this was a seasoned gossiper. He supposed it made sense, the groomer birds spent their days flittering amongst the herds. They were perfectly placed to be the life blood of rumours.
"You haven't heard? It's all anyone can talk about since it happened. The hyena killed them, and left their bodies under the nut trees. Display their strength I expect, certainly did the job!" The bird laughed at that, but it died in his throat when he saw Simba's expression. "So you did know them?"
"No, but, I might. Maybe." Simba's mouth started to run so dry he had to swallow before he choked. Was it Scar, trying to track him down? One of his father's men? Some guards hunting him down? And the hyena killed them? He had only known one clan of hyena strong enough to kill the lions. Visions of the scraggily red lion from the wastelands flew through his mind. The sensation of hiding behind Upweke's hoof, peering out as his carcass was dumped on the ground, as weightless as a bird. Was it those hyena? The ones who had killed Upweke? Had they spent all this time searching for him, crossing the sands for him, waiting for him to show up...
The red lion from the wastelands, he had been small for an adult. Maybe these lions were also small, maybe they were young.
Like him.
Simba did choke that time. He had to find out. To look upon the faces and see. Were they dead because of mistaken identity? Mistake for him? Or was it his family, or maybe something more? Survival instinct at its most basic started to flood him.
"Ah, would you mind giving me directions?" He had no idea where these nut trees were. He didn't think it was possible, but the bird managed to make an expression like that of scrunching his nose.
"The bodies? It's a bit disgusting..." The level of their conversation was still at a whisper.
"Please, I need to check." The bird looked around, avoiding his eye before huffing and rolling his head around with a dramatic argghhh.
"Well, okay. As long as you agree to my conditions." Simba nodded his head curtly. "I'll take you, and you'll let me clean while you walk. We will travel quickly, and don't you start trying to eat me half way there." Simba didn't mind those conditions. He grunted his agreement before getting to his feet. The bird jumped to his shoulder and instructed him down the hill and southwards before experimentally poking a coat that was unlike his usual customers.
Yes, Simba realised as he passed between the happy crowds and out into the empty lands, there was definitely something creeping upon Arusha tonight. He tucked his head lower, stepped lighter, and quickened his pace. With two dead lions and killer roaming in the night, his land had unfortunately taken a change. Simba could admit, with no beasts to affect the atmosphere, the natural mood was foul and raw.
The bird's hard beak ran between his fur, pulling out the loose hair and starting to inspect his neck and chest for bugs. Even he was strangly silent, picking up on Simba's manner, and perhaps that of their land was well. After giving him directions to follow a particular trial, he pull harshly at the sensitive flesh behind his arm. Simba jerked his arm up to elbow the bird, who had been clinging upside down. The bird snapped at the offending arm, screeching at him.
"A tick! It's a tick! I get it out for you."
"A tick?" Simba echoed with venom, there wasn't much belief there. He knew what it was like to have ticks, Sili had once pulled tens of him from him. "Show it to me." He snapped, waiting motionless as the bird started to expertly tug. It stung, more that it had with Sili, but Simba held still. Bird finally straightened, leaning close to Simba so he could inspect the half bloated tick he held. Casually, he lifted his head and dropped the parasite into his gullet.
"There's been an outbreak since the rains, all remerged from the ground at the same time, and they covered everything. You wouldn't believe some of the horror cases I've seen. A cow had all in the ears, rows of them packed together. There was some thousand of them climbing up this tree, right, couldn't even see the bark. You wouldn't want to brush up against that, I tell ya."
Simba didn't think he had ever been this grossed out, not in his entire life. The urge to inspect and groom every single inch of his body hit him, another powerful new feeling. He settled for shivering, and telling Bird to keep it up.
"A lot died from the thirst before, but now it would be blood loss if the herds don't manage this outbreak right." He chuckled weakly. "I guess that's good news for you." Simba visibly flinched, not from the words, but from the mental image of his food being covered in ticks.
Erghhhhhhhhhhh.
Just, focus on the path. Simba took several deep breaths, tuning Bird completely from his mind and focusing on making his way. The journey passed quickly after that, though a few times concentration was broken when two more ticks were found. One inside his ear, another on his chest. Bird said they were only fresh, considering how small they were, and how he hadn't noticed them yet. Simba wondered when it would have been. By the river? In the grass? The mud?
Simba was blaming the mud. For the pure reasons that he hated it and it felt like something karma would do.
He could smell that they were close far before Bird told him. The dead had a scent of their own. This could well be the origin for all the foulness, it certainly smelt powerful enough. Once the tops of the nut trees were in sight, Bird fluttered away to perch in the grass.
"I will wait here. Bad luck to look upon dead kings." He tucked his wings close before crouching deeper into the grass, as if scared of what lurked beyond. Going on, Simba's body was starting to feel the strain from how aware he was forcing his sense to be. Or maybe it was just the volatile mixture tension and adrenaline. Slipping out from the Arusha grass, he realised with a flash of memory that he did know of this place. It was the super pass, the way most came into Arusha. The ground was incredibly flat, giving the large rains nowhere to run. Miles upon miles of flood water shimmered in the waning moonlight. From this lake, the nut trees raised on an island of their own. All save a small sliver of the animals came and went past these trees. It was the perfect place to make a statement. Simba gingerly stepped into water so shallow it struggled to cover his toes. He felt exposed out here, with the grass to his back. The ground by the nut trees was mud, rock, beginnings of moss and not much more. It was an extremely slimy type of mud, one that made a foot slip out from under him more than once as he made his way closer. It was hard to see the flies, but he could hear them. Thousands, more than the tales of the ticks it seemed. When he walked close and disturbed them all into flight; it was like the dead lions were roaring.
It really seemed that luck and good fortune was on the side of the smallest creatures this season. Blinking, Simba peered closer, chills running along his skin. He wondered what that meant for the biggest creatures.
Dark skies, dark fate... dark fur, dark mane.
He padded around to see its face, screaming at himself not to, but trapped in a trace. The body was horrendously tattered. Some parts where so bad that Simba would have heaved if not for his experience scavenging off corpses during the recent weeks. A back leg was gone, only a small stretch of white bone and limp muscle left. With his attention draw to its legs, he remembered morbidly his own uncle's legs. He used to scurry around underfoot, and sometimes a paw would bat out to push him away.
This was not Scar. His uncle had cream fur on his toes, making his black claws even blacker, and a similar colour underbelly. This lion had no lightness, not a single speckle upon him. His coat was solid, unbroken maroon. And his mane was different, short and shaggy. It was incredibly thick, so the lion's face was covered well. Simba decided that was a good thing, and turned away. He only knew one dark lion, and it was not him. Going over to the other body, which was sprawled quite a distance from the first, he found out where the missing limb had gone.
Sidestepping, he promptly ignored everything around him in favour of putting one foot in front of another. The night was extremely dark, with the coming storm starting to block the moonlight. It wasn't until he was beside the other, that Simba realised his fur was almost black. Simba didn't know that was possible. He supposed it shouldn't be surprising. If pure white was possible, as he had heard, and if gold, red, brown and everything in-between was common, then this almost pitch colour wasn't that strange at all. The hyena had taken care for its face to be visible, lying the corpse prone and one its back. The way the eyes stared out, dry and open, with throat slashed and savaged made Simba stop breathing.
This was the bigger lion. Cautiously, a curiosity gripped him when he noticed the lion's paw lying twisted around. Simba softly lifted his and pressed it against the chilled pad.
He was still absolutely diminutive, not even half the size. Not even.
Simba stepped back quickly, eyes raking over the scene. They had been dead for days, and stunk dreadfully, but nothing had dared touched them. Only the flies, who were too simple for fear and concepts, touched their flesh. Simba supposed the only beast brave enough to eat the lions were the hyena, and they wanted them for trophies.
They were monstrous in size, full grown, no doubt. Fierce, all their muscles and scar's still there for Simba to see.
Two full grown lions. Killed.
Full grown.
Two.
Simba licked his lips. Mouth suddenly dry and numb, his whole body in a similar shocked state. It was time to go back, and by back he meant so far up that mountain not even he was aware he existed.
Someone was watching him. He flicked his ears back, listening to the rustle of the nut trees and the bubble of flood water rippling. That shallow water was between him and them, he knew because he couldn't pick the sounds of their breathing or heartbeat. Just the prickling feeling of a stare. No matter how far they truly were, it felt like they were breathing down his neck.
Ever so slowly, he turned.
A shape, the water sharply calm around it. Storm clouds rolled in the sky and churned underneath the figure's feet. Briefly, the storm cell allowed the moon to flash and the stunning face of a hunched, grey gnu glowed. Her eyes were shadowed by fragile horns, but Simba knew they were watching him.
Then, it was like the world took a breath, held it, and then sighed. Rain started to drizzle silently, shattering the mirage of the figure floating in the sky, revealing her to be nothing more than a gnu standing in the flood water.
A simple gnu with a gaze that made his bones shield away. A tail of wind walked by them, making something that hung from her horns rattle. He was assaulted with memories, of a ghostly thumb running across his forehead.
Then, the drizzle turned into a plunging waterfall, and she disappeared from view in the white wash. Simba spun and raced away, forgetting all about Bird. Even if he had, he had run in the wrong direction, entering Arusha at a different place. The flood water chased him, his paws always striking water as he ran. Grass slashed at him as he flew, frogs marched out into the rain, excitement driving droves of them on.
It was different from the frogs of the summit. They sung poetically about their home and their love, but these of the lower lands...
'Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!' They cried were like a war drum, thrashing him on, the hooves of the gnu stampede, bearing him down.
A monster came that night. Its thrashing heard by even him, from all the way out on the edges. The air smelled foul and raw, and it was not the dead to blame.
Simba admitted that.
