Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the hottest time of the day. Simba lay sprawled across a tree branch, dozing in the shade. The thick canopy of leaves all but covered his body, shielding him from the searing heat—and from the increasingly urgent voice calling his name.

“…Simba… Simba!”

He yawned, long and lazily, blinking sleepily. His lovely afternoon nap had been rudely interrupted, and he was in a thoroughly foul mood because of it.

The meerkat stood beneath the tree, arms akimbo, shouting up at him with relentless determination.

“Timon… what’s…” he yawned again before he could finish his sentence, “what’s the matter?”

“There’s someone in the forest—someone we’ve never seen before!”

“Oh…” he sounded distinctly unimpressed, “A new neighbour. How shocking. Brilliant. Now let me go back to sleep…”

Timon flailed his skinny arms in wild protest.
“He’s all dark—head to toe! And he’s big! I’m not having some dodgy brute like that moving in next door!”

Simba didn’t even bother opening his eyes.
“Then stop playing porcupine bowling, pop. Honestly, haven’t you learnt by now?”

“You think I can’t tell the difference between a porcupine and—ugh—that thing?!”
Timon leapt up and down, properly offended.
“This bloke was the size of a baby elephant!”

“Then maybe he is a baby elephant.”
Simba mumbled, pulling a paw over his face.
“Got separated from his herd or something. Not our problem. Nothing around here eats elephants, his lot’ll come for him eventually.”

“Oh, really?”

Timon crept up the trunk, circling round carefully until he was level with Simba’s head.
Then, quite suddenly, he let out a very unconvincing roar—right into the lion’s ear.
Simba shot upright with a yelp, very nearly tumbling out of the tree. 

“What was that for?!”

“Tell me—do elephants make a sound like that?”

Simba rubbed his ringing ears. “You’re saying…”

“I’m saying it’s a lion, Simba. A foreign lion’s turned up here, and I swear to you—he’s much bigger than you were when we took you in. Even bigger than you are now!”

Timon shuddered visibly. He clutched his face, claws digging into his fur, teeth chattering like pebbles in a tin.

Didn’t look like he was making it up.

“Right,” Simba muttered, “Lead the way, then.”

In several swift bounds, he was on the ground, ears pricked, listening carefully to the sounds of the forest. 

“This way,” said Timon, already dashing ahead.

They moved quietly through the undergrowth, weaving between vines and trees trunks. Along the way, they stumbled upon a rather shifty-looking Pumbaa, who whispered that he was already keeping an eye on the stranger. 

“Simba, d’ you think you might know him? Could he be looking for you?” 

Timon shot him a sharp glare.
“Don’t be daft, Pumbaa. Do you know every warthog in Africa?” 

Simba kept his gaze on the forest floor, careful not to make a sound. Up ahead, he could just make out a shadow, dark and slow-moving between the trees.

“I don’t know any black lions,” he murmured, voice low in his throat. “And there’s no lion out there looking for me.”

They crouched behind a curtain of giant fern. The figure had stopped moving—just five metres away, lying in the tall grass, apparently resting.

“Wait, Pumbaa!” Timon hissed, yanking the warthog’s hind leg just as he was about to stroll right out of cover.

“What d’you think you’re doing? Gonna show up and say hello?” 

Pumbaa blinked his watery eyes innocently.
“Aren’t we here to welcome our new neighbour?” 

“How very thoughtful of you, Pumbaa—bringing him a lovely pork dinner all by yourself.” Simba grinned cheekily.

“Right, listen up!”
Timon barked, snapping into action.
“Simba, you go left. Pumbaa, take the right. We’re going to surround him. Simba, we wait for your signal—then we strike together!” 

Pumbaa still looked puzzled.
“And after we strike… what exactly?” 

“We drive him out, of course!”
Timon was practically screaming into his ears.
“What, did you sleep through your nap? If we don’t get rid of him, we’ll have to move! Do you remember how long it took us to find this place?!”

Somehow, they managed to form a shape that could generously be called a ring. The stranger appeared to be fast asleep. Through the blades of grass, they could just make out the shape—not so much as a twitch in the past few minutes.

Simba held his breath, though the thunder of his own heartbeat made it hard to focus.

Hunting—it had been a long time. But the instinct still pulsed through his blood, sharp and primal. He had no intention of killing the stranger. But breaking a nose or sinking teeth into a thigh—enough to send him limping home with his tail between his legs—was certainly on the table.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Timon and Pumbaa in position. All they needed now was his signal.

As Simba leapt, the forest went silent. Every sound vanished. His whole body launched into the air, muscles taut, heart hammering, all weight aimed squarely at the figure ahead.

“Got you!”

“What the—?!”

The three of them landed in unison—Simba, Timon, and Pumbaa—looked at each other, utterly confused. 

Then all three pairs of eyes turned to glare at the enormous boulder in front of them.

“This is the ‘lion’ you were going on about?” Simba sounded less than impressed. 

Timon and Pumbaa exchanged incredulous glances. 

“But it was there! You saw it too, didn’t you? Right there, just in front of us!” Timon stammered. 

“I definitely heard it roar!” Pumbaa insisted, puffing out his chest. 

“Then where the heck did it go…?” 

Simba cast his mind back, trying to recall the path they'd taken, eyes sweeping the forest in every direction. Then came a sudden rustle overhead.

Before he could even lift his head to check if it was a robin-chat or a colobus, a black figure dropped from the canopy like a stone—slamming straight into him and knocking him clean off his paws. 

Pumbaa and Timon screamed and scattered in all directions. Simba barely scrambled to his feet before the shadow pounced again. He threw himself flat just in time, feeling the sting of claws skim past his head. A small tuft of his mane came loose—soft, reddish strands fluttering to the ground. 

The figure landed with a sudden, skidding stop, carving deep furrows into the soft earth beneath him. 

He rose. 

And turned. 

Now Simba saw him clearly. 

Emerald green eyes. Dark brown coat. A mane as black as ebony. The sight was all too familiar, making Simba's heart clench. 

But that face was quite different—round, blunt-featured, lacking the sharp angles and cunning that had defined the face he remembered from so long ago. 

Although that didn’t mean Simba was going to lower his guard. This was a young male, still fresh into adulthood—but already enough to make Simba break into a cold sweat. He towered over Simba by a full head, every limb thick with muscle and strength. Simba would stand no chance in a straight-up fight. And that earlier ambush had made another thing clear—the male was highly skilled in stealth and counter-tracking. 

Simba began to circle, slow and deliberate, never letting his gaze leave the stranger. 

A quick glance behind—Timon and Pumbaa were still cowering at the base of a tree, curled into one trembling ball of fur and tusks. 

He had to get them out of here. Then figure out his own escape. 

The stranger’s eyes lingered on Simba for a moment… then slid past him, landing on the two shivering animals behind. 

That glint in those emerald eyes—there was no mistaking it. The gleam of a hunter. 

Simba darted forward, planting himself firmly in the stranger’s path.

“Don’t even think about it.”
he growled, baring his canines and squaring his shoulders, trying to make himself look as imposing as he could.
“You’ll have to go through me first.”

The young adult’s mouth twitched into a strange, lopsided smile.

“You should be more worried about yourself.”

His voice was calm. Gentle, even. But the words were cold—so detached they chilled Simba to the bone. Like a young killer with a babyface, smiling sweetly while watching his prey bleed out. 

Simba could feel it coming—any second now. 

“Run!” he shouted, twisting round.
“Hurry! Get out of here, now—!” 

A heavy paw smashed right into his face with shocking force, lifting him clean off the ground with brutal strength. Mid-air, he collided into a thick tree trunk, bark cracking on impact, then crumpled to the ground—dazed, breath knocked out of him. 

Dizzy and reeling, he forced himself upright, vision swimming. His tongue tasted blood—he must’ve bitten the inside of his cheek. Spitting out a mouthful of red, he looked up… 

Just in time to see the black lion barrelling toward Timon and Pumbaa. 

Fear vanished. Only raw instinct remained. 

Simba lunged with a roar, clamping his jaws around the stranger’s foreleg and yanking hard—twisting the limb sideways with all his strength. 

Timon and Pumbaa jolted back to their senses and started to charge in, but Simba’s eyes flew wide. The word came out garbled, teeth still locked around the lion’s leg: 

“R’rn!”

“Timon! We can’t just leave him!” 

Pumbaa ran while sobbing loudly, tears flying in a glittering arc behind him. Timon clung to his head, yanking his ear with all his strength. 

“Don’t be stupid, Pumbaa! We’d only slow him down!”
he snapped, teeth clenched, pushing any dreadful thoughts aside.
“If anyone can get away, it’s Simba—we’ve got to believe that! He knows this forest better than anyone. We’ll wait for him downstream by the waterfall. When he shows up, we’ll all leave—together!” 

Pumbaa glanced up. They were crossing an open ledge halfway up the hill, with a sweeping view of endless green. Below, birdsong and the murmur of streams echoed gently through the valley.

This beautiful paradise—until yesterday, it had been their home.

The warthog sniffled loudly, trying to hold it in.
“As long as Simba’s with us, it doesn’t matter where we go.”

The black lion narrowed his eyes, watching the direction the two animals had fled. Then he lowered his gaze back to the little thing still tugging at his paw.

He’d never cared for eating the little ones—scrawny things, barely a mouthful. And now… he’d rather share a far more entertaining moment with this cub. 

He lifted his other paw and swatted mercilessly towards the cub’s red head. But the boy let go just in time, leaping back with sharp instinct. 

“Your taste in friends is certainly… unique.” the black lion murmured, giving him a long, calculating look. 

The cub’s reddish mane had only just started to grow in—he couldn’t be more than a year into adolescence. Faint spots still clung to his flanks and legs.

A typical teenage cub, smaller and leaner than most males his age. Agile, yes, but undertrained—his attacks were wild, his tracking all over the place. And clearly had no idea just how outmatched he really was. 

“What do they call you… Simba, is it?” 

The cub bared his fangs with a snarl, fur standing on end.

“None of your business.”

“You really want a fight?” 

“Cut the rubbish.” 

“Alright, then.” 

The moment Simba lunged, the black lion sidestepped with ease. Time seemed to slow. He could see every muscle straining beneath that golden coat, smell the clean scent of grass and earth clinging to that fur. 

Effortlessly, he sank his teeth into Simba’s hind leg, feeling the solid bone just beneath the flesh. One little crunch, and the leg would snap in two like dry wood. 

But he held himself back—barely. 

Instead, he left two neat punctures—sharp, neat. Just enough for a warning. 

Simba gritted his teeth through the pain and lashed out with a forepaw, retreating the moment the grip loosened, opening up some breathing room between them. 

Cold sweat trickled down his brow. 

The gap in strength was staggering—far worse than he’d imagined. 

The black lion sat on his hind legs in silence, his tail flicking lazily as if swatting away flies. He looked utterly at ease—but anyone watching closely would see the tension coiled beneath his coat, muscles poised, ready to respond to any foolish outburst that might come his way. 

Blood trickled down Simba’s golden-brown fur, pattering softly onto the soil. Yet he still stood tall, amber eyes darting restlessly, clearly turning something over in his mind. 

The black lion was beginning to grow impatient. He rose to his feet, and the youngster instinctively took a cautious step back. 

“Still in the mood to play, are you? Just so you know—I went easy on you, once. Call it a favour between kin. But don’t count on me being so generous next time.” 

The cub swallowed hard, seeming to search for any hidden meaning between his words. 

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” 

Why come here at all? This wasn’t the best place for lions. 

“You’re here, aren’t you? So why shouldn’t I be?” 

That piqued his interest further. Had the boy been cast out? Driven from his pride, forced to hide in the jungle and live among prey? 

The cub’s voice dropped to a murmur.
“...I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Just as he thought.

Not even two years old, clearly forced to survive on his own. No real skills to speak of—his fighting, tracking, everything was a mess. But he'd stumbled into this quiet little haven. And in a place like this? Even a cub like him could stand atop the food chain.

“I was just thinking of finding a new patch myself,” the black lion said, striding forward.

The young cub fluffed up and backed away step by step. 

“Oh, relax, Simba. Be a good lad, I might even—” 

“Don’t you dare say my name again!” 

The cub lunged at him again, but whether from pain or fury, his aim was slightly off. The black lion dodged with ease—only to glance up and find the golden figure gone. 

A faint rustle in the grass ahead gave him the only clue.

“Trying to flee, are we? That leg won’t take you far, kitty.” 

Adorable. 

He could almost taste how sweet it would be to tear this charming little brat to shreds.

With the grace of a shadow, he slipped into the dense underbrush. Thick paw pads cushioned every step, but it was his uncanny stealth that made him deadly—even in unfamiliar terrain, he moved like a ghost born from the forest itself. 

He left nothing behind but the ripple of disturbed air.

Here, the towering trees didn’t spread their branches until ten metres above the ground. Only low ferns and shrubs offered any cover for creatures on foot. 

His dark coat melted into the gloom, but that golden-brown little scrap… not quite so lucky.

This place really wasn’t meant for a lion.

That bright, pale fur belonged to the open plains—where the sun burned red over endless fields of oat grass.

Simba crouched behind a thick patch of flame lilies, curling himself into a motionless ball. He kept his breathing shallow, ears strained for the slightest suspicious sound.

The wound on his hind leg still throbbed, but at least it had stopped bleeding—small mercy, given the circumstances.

He was now at the edge of the woodland. In the distance, the waterfall thundered down into the valley, its roar ever-present. Pumbaa and Timon were somewhere downstream; they’d agreed long ago that if they were ever separated, they’d regroup at the river’s edge.

Simba never thought they’d actually have to use that emergency meeting point. But here he was—and it meant one thing: he was about to lose his second home.

No adult lion would tolerate another unaligned lion within his territory.

He would have to go back to wandering. Again.

Simba clenched his jaw and swallowed the bitterness down.

It’s fine, he told himself. As long as he left with Pumbaa and Timon, he wouldn’t be alone. 

Ten minutes passed. 

Other than two sunbirds fluttering past his cover, nothing stirred. Not a whisper of movement. Even the wind made a sound now—soft and thin. 

Quietly, Simba crept out from the lilies, his wide eyes darting warily across the trees. Then, lifting a paw, he bolted down the slope. 

Almost the moment he took off, the sound of movement sliced through the air behind him. He didn’t even need to look. From the footsteps alone, Simba knew—it was him. That black bastard. 

He’d been lying in wait all along—probably spotted Simba’s hiding place ages ago. But he was treating this like sport, drawing it out, letting Simba believe he had a chance… until the moment he didn’t. 

“Off to see your little friends, are you?” 

The voice called out behind him—light, amused.

The poor cub actually faltered, as if seriously considering a change of direction. 

Hesitation meant death in their world. And he had no qualms about giving this daft cub a proper lesson. 

He lunged, toppling Simba with a single strike, and before the boy could scramble back up, he slammed a paw over his shoulder and forced him down again. Claws unsheathed, curved barbs sank into golden fur and buried themselves in tender flesh. 

The pain was instant and blinding. Simba let out a harrowing scream—but caught himself, pressing a paw over his own muzzle to keep it from echoing down the valley. 

“Good boy.”
The black lion murmured, lowering his head, breath warm against Simba’s ear.
“Scared your little friends might hear and come to the rescue?”

He gave a low chuckle.

“But I think you’re worrying for nothing. You believe they’d risk death—for you?”

He could hear Simba gasping for breath, teeth clenched so tightly they clicked.

“Spare me the talk.”

Oh… Was that a challenge? Telling him to get it over with?

The dark-maned lion gave a scornful grin.

“Going for the throat—that's a courtesy I reserve for prey. But you, kitty… I’ve no appetite for my own kind. So you don’t even qualify as that.”

His jaws lowered, teeth brushing against the nape of Simba’s neck. He scraped them slowly across the rough fur, savouring in the way the small body couldn’t help but tremble beneath him.

“I could snap your back legs.”
He murmured, voice almost affectionate.
“Leave you crawling about on your forepaws like a worm. Or perhaps I’ll gouge out those pretty amber eyes and toss you to some drooling hyenas—you'll see how much they enjoy a slow kill.”

Simba stared at the dirt beneath his muzzle, panting raggedly, like claws scraping against rock. The tang of blood coated his tongue, heavy and metallic.

He tried to wriggle free, but every twitch drove those claws deeper into his shoulder, each fresh tear opening another stream of crimson.

“Or…” the lion's drawled, “you could just tell me where your little friends are. I might even leave you the warthog’s head as a gift. Been a while since you’ve tasted real meal, hasn’t it?”

His gaze raked over Simba’s frail frame. 

Of course. No lion raised on meat would be this feeble. The poor thing was all bones and fluff—it was a miracle he’d even grown a mane.

With a sudden, cruel motion, he yanked his claws out—only to plunge them into the same wound. The gash widened, fresh blood squeezing out like juice from crushed aloe, soaking into Simba’s tawny fur. It slid down his body in thick, sluggish trails, dripping to the ground, mixing with dust and sand into a dirty, slow-spreading crimson.

“Well? Are you going to talk?”

Simba’s mouth was slightly open, but no sound came out.

Pain pounded through his skull in waves, so frequent it had begun to blur into numbness.

The blood loss darkened his vision, his breath coming faint and shallow. 

It felt as though whatever strength he had left was bleeding out with it. 

He probably wouldn't make it to the riverbank. Simba thought miserably. 

Back in that dust-choked gorge, Prince Simba had already lost half his life—teetering on the very edge of death. These days he’d been living were stolen time, a dream he’d tricked himself into believing.
But all debts must be repaid, and dreams must end eventually. 

Though the ending hadn’t come in the way he’d imagined, Simba found, to his surprise, that he wasn’t afraid. 

I’ll be with my father soon. 

The thought made his eyes prickle with heat. 

“Dad…” 

He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of sunlight washing over his battered frame, the dust in the air filling his nose—if only the scent of blood didn’t ruin it. He could even hear the faint sound of hooves pounding in the distance. 

Father was coming to fetch him. 

“Simba!” 

But that wasn’t his father’s voice. 

“You bloody bastard, let go of him!” 

The pressure on his back lifted. Through his dim vision, Simba vaguely made out the red blur of a charging warthog, tusks flashing as he forced the dark lion to retreat. Timon seized the chance to lob a beehive—tumbling to a stop right at the lion’s paws. He swatted it down the slope at once, but not before a furious swarm burst free, circling him in a buzzing storm. The lion had no choice but to lash out with his forepaws, trying to fend them off.  That was all the time Pumbaa need—he hoisted Simba onto his back and tore off at a gallop. 

“Simba? Simba! Wake up, don’t fall asleep! Oh no… any other time but now!” 

The meerkat scrambled up beside him, checking Simba’s wounds with trembling paws. Though there was a lot of blood, it was all surface—no broken bones, no torn muscles. He exhaled in relief and clutched Simba’s paw as if it might vanish. 

Simba gave a weak, lopsided smile amid the jolting, “Stop crying, I’m not dead yet… Timon, are you sure I can’t sleep? I feel so tired…” 

Pumbaa soon reached the river’s lower bank, gently tucking Simba into a thicket. While they waited, Timon rummaged through their supply of herbs—he’d insisted they gather some, just in case, and for once, it had proved useful. He carefully applied shredded leaves to Simba’s wounds, then pressed his ear close to the little lion’s chest. 

“Alright, take a nap, sonny boy.” 

Simba slipped into unconsciousness almost instantly. 

That was when Pumbaa leapt to his feet, trembling as he pointed to the far ridge. The black lion had somehow scaled it without a sound, and now crouched atop the cliff, peering into the valley. 

“Don’t panic, Pumbaa. Stay still. He won’t see us.” 

Timon’s judgement proved right. After a moment, the black lion turned and padded away—thankfully, in the opposite direction to where they were hidden. 

“Timon, do you think he’ll come back?” 

The meerkat’s expression darkened.
“I don’t know, Pumbaa. But something about this doesn’t sit right.”

“You think he came here for Simba?”

Timon nodded slowly. “Whatever it is, it can’t be good. What do you think Simba’s been through, anyway—?” 

“Timon!” the gentle warthog snapped, frowning deeply. “We promised Simba we wouldn’t ask about all that! And we’ve never told him about our past, either!” 

“Yes, but nothing in our past is likely to get us killed, is it?”
Timon muttered. His original family had been overbearing, suffocating, dull—but not dangerous. And as for Pumbaa… with that special weapon, he’d never really had to worry about survival. 

“I still think it’s not our place to ask. If Simba wants to tell us, he will.” 

The meerkat sighed. He couldn’t deny his friend had a point. 

“Alright. We’ll leave it to Simba, then.” He paused, then added, “Let’s stay here for the night. With any luck, Simba will be able to walk tomorrow. We’ll move to the far side of the mountain then.” 

Pumbaa had already begun building a temporary nest out of dried grass and leaves.  

“Shame… I’m going to miss that lovely warm spring.”

“Oh don’t pout, Pumbaa. There are plenty of ponds in the hills.”

Chapter Text

Kovu moved through the throng of hyenas cloaked in shadow, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

Once bitter enemies on this plain, they now stood side by side—
All thanks to his majesty.

The three leading hyenas gave him a show of deference, all mock bows and oily grins.

He didn’t spare them a glance, walking straight past without breaking stride.

“Boss is waiting.”
Came Shenzi’s low murmur behind him, and her two companions let out a jagged burst of laughter.

Hyena laughter.
Kovu’s lip curled deeper.
Even their laughter stank.
He couldn't begin to understand how Scar had endured their company for so many years.

“He’s in deep now, ain’t he?”
Banzai swallowed noisily, the gulp loud in his throat.

Shenzi cast a knowing look, a cruel smirk tugging at her muzzle.
“Since when does Scar call anyone in to hand out good news? Hm? You remember that, Ed?”

The mute hyena responded with a string of incomprehensible giggles.

“Heard Scar’s thinkin’ ‘bout namin’ the brat his heir,” Banzai muttered, licking his yellowing teeth.
“You think we’re eatin’ good if that little prick ends up king?”

“Why don’t you try thinkin’ for once before parroting every bone-brained thing you hear?”
The she-hyena bit down hard on his head, yanking out a tuft of fur.
“Scar pass his crown to some stray he dragged in? What’s that make his own son—a bloody decoration?”

Ed screeched with inexplicable glee, rolling on the ground in hysterics. Banzai kicked him aside, muttering curses under his breath.

“So wha’, you sayin’ Scar’s keepin’ the brat just to—”

“C’mon. What the hell else could it be?”

Their eyes turned in unison, smiling those warped hyena smiles, all fixed on the jagged peak of Pride Rock.

The evening sky was bruised with heavy clouds. Vultures circled above, dragging an air of quiet dread behind their wings.

“A’right, let’s go. Time t’ dig up somethin.”

Banzai gave Ed another kick.

“Shut up, you halfwit. You’ll be lickin’ bones tonight if you don’t zip it.”

Zira sat high upon a stone outcrop, looking down at her son’s return with icy detachment.

“What took you so long?”

Kovu glanced sidelong at her.
“Scar sent me on an errand.”

“What kind of errand?”

“He didn’t say I had to tell you…”
The black-maned lion paused, then added with a curl of his lip—
 “Mummy.”

Zira gave a short, derisive snort.

“He’s waiting for you. He’s been waiting a long time.”
Her lips curled back in something too sharp to be a smile, exposing teeth like jagged rocks.
“He’s not in the best of moods today—you’re a full day late. If you haven’t got what he wants…”

Her tone dropped to a serrated whisper.

“You know what that means.”

Kovu’s emerald eyes stared ahead, his face unreadable.

“Well, isn’t that sweet. Since when do you care what happens to me?”

She glared at his fading back.

“Watch yourself, boy,” she hissed after him. “If Scar’s not pleased, none of us will be spared.”

From the moment he stepped into the cave, Kovu knew he was being watched.

He moved close to the walls by instinct, eyes scanning the flurry of fireflies for a flame that didn’t quite belong.

“You’re back, then?” came the rasping voice from deep within the hollow—a voice cracked and parched like scorched earth that hadn’t tasted rain in years.

“Come now, boy…step closer.”

He followed the sound, his eyes now adjusting to the gloom. Ahead, he saw the gaunt form stretched across the great slab of stone.

“Scar.”

He stopped below, head bowed in a gesture of respect. His voice vanished into the thick, heavy air before it could find an echo.

“You kept me waiting, Kovu... I do hope you’re worth it.”

The King shifted with sluggish grace, propping his chin upon one paw, those slitted green eyes narrowing in appraisal.

“Give me some good news—or a very good lie. Your choice.”

His voice, lazy and low, carried the edge of a thorn—slipping through fog with precise intent, aimed directly at Kovu’s throat.

“There was no cub. Just shadows—and a old mad monkey’s scribbles. If that’s what you call a lead, my king.”

Scar arched a brow, and for one brief second, a flicker of malice glinting in his eyes.

“Is that it? You come crawling back with nothing?”

“Perhaps you should’ve sent your hyenas instead.” Kovu muttered, shrugging. “They’re the ones who sniff things out, aren’t they? Seems unfair to fault me for their nose.”

Scar extended his neck, his face so close now Kovu could feel the faint heat of his breath.

Two pairs of green flames met mid-air—one pair flickering, hungering for a crack; the other frozen still, untouched by even the need to blink.

“Spare me the innocence, boy. You really thought I wouldn’t hear about the little tale you’ve been spinning—red mane, golden fur, just outside the Pride Land?”

Kovu didn’t flinch a bit.
“I thought the rumour… worth a second glance. That’s all.”

His gaze was the still surface of a pond long stagnant, smothered in algae. Scar saw nothing in it.

So he tilted his head.

“You’ve still not told me, boy… how did you manage to make Ed talk?”

They all remembered it—that moment when the drooling, gibbering mute hyenas had spoken his first—and maybe last—coherent sentence:

The cub got away.

He lost what little mind he had left after that. Not that there’d ever been much to begin with.

The others, once the shock wore off, were quietly relieved. No one wanted to hear what a lunatic might blurt out next—especially not those names.

The former king, and his only cub.
Names that were never to be spoken.

No one wanted to test Scar’s temper on that matter.

Shenzi and Banzai, of course, had been conveniently absent.
Otherwise, they might not have started babbling the moment they heard Ed’s confession.

Mad talk didn’t count for much. But mad talk still had it uses.

It was mad talk that forced the truth out of liars.

The way they tripped over each other, passing the blame back and forth—it was almost entertaining.
They painted the whole sorry chase in vivid detail, down to the last panicked breath.

Three hyenas, chasing one half-grown cub with no claws to speak of.
And they still managed to lose him.
Their excuse? The thorns were too thick to follow.

Kovu listened from the side, grinding his teeth.

Worthless idiots. Meat-wasting fools.
If it weren’t for the cub luring the old King out—softening him up—they’d never have managed Scar’s little coup.

Put another way—if even that was the strength he had to rely on, Scar must’ve been truly desperate.

No one knew what punishment he dealt to the three hyenas. But one thing was certain: from that day on, he no longer trusted them—nor, by extension, the rest of their kind.

The Pride Lands shifted once more. Lines were redrawn.

The hyenas, once favoured, were pushed to the margins—tasked with border patrol and perilous hunts.
The lionesses stayed near Pride Rock, left behind to guard the illusion of security.

“You’ve asked me that so many times,”
Kovu murmured, a weary smile twitching at his lips—sweet, even coy.
“But surely, I’m allowed one little secret… even with you, my king?”

Scar relented, just barely, his appetite for truth sated for the moment by flattery.

And so, for now, he let it go.

“Did you uncover anything of note?”

“No signs of strays beyond the border. Nothing lingers there, not even the herds. I doubt any lion could last long in that desert.”

Scar blinked slowly, as if weighing the taste of the question on his tongue. 

“No chance of finding the remains, then?”

Kovu shook his head. “It’s been over a year, Your Majesty. If there were bones, they’d barely know who they belonged to…”

“No! I can’t live like this! Do you hear me?!”
Scar’s voice rose, no longer smooth and sinister, but fractured, feverish.
“Not while his ghost still clings to me—always there… in the corners of my eyes…”
The sound ricocheted off the stone walls, wild and graceless, stripped of all majesty.
“Every day, every hour—I see him… feel him watching me. And I don’t even know if his whelp still walks this earth or not.”
He never spoke that name, as if those syllables would burn his tongue.
“How am I to silence a dead... if I can't find the boy who bears his face?”

Kovu remained impassive as the King unravelled before him. He simply waited, silent and still, for the storm to pass.

And when he began to offer his conclusions, he held his voice steady and measured.

“The way I see it? He was too young, too soft. Likely starved, then torn apart by scavengers. That’s our best bet.”

He paused for a moment, eyes distant, as if tasting blood on his tongue, smelling decay in the air.

Scar took visible pleasure in this bloodthirsty little glimmers Kovu allowed to show–and Kovu knew this well.
How much of it was genuine, and how much performance? That question had long since ceased to matter.
He had worn this mask for so long it had become his second skin—perhaps the only one left.

“Or,” he continued, “maybe he was taken in by another pride… unlikely. Any proper leader would’ve dealt with him—no one wants tomorrow’s threat in their den. Either way, he’s not coming back.”

“So you see, sire…” Kovu said softly, “there’s nothing left to worry about.”

Scar stared at him, those venom-green eyes narrowed. A strange, sibilant hiss rose in his throat—Kovu thought of a snake tasting the air.

“Come here, boy.” the King growled, impatient. “Now!.”

Kovu bowed his head, placed a forepaw against the ledge, and with a slight pull, lifted himself up.

Now he could see the King clearly. The life of privilege had not made Scar strong. Time had hollowed him out with no kind. His joints jutted beneath thin skin, as though barely held together.

He lay sprawled in lazy repose, eyes tracing the lines of Kovu’s frame with languid amusement—muscles taut, body full, brimming with youth.

“A silver-tongued boy.”
Scar murmured, voice dipped in poison and charm.
“I’m quite tempted to believe you.”

Kovu gave a respectful smile at once.
“I’m honoured.”

“But I still need your eyes.”
The King said, and something unsettling flickered behind his grin—a mirror of Kovu’s own, only eaten through by rot. 

“If that cub dares to set paw in the Pride Lands again…”

“Then I’ll deal with him myself.”

“Good.”

Kovu stepped forward slowly, his head kept low. Only when granted permission—marked by a rough, rasping lick to the corner of his eye—did Kovu draw closer.

He began grooming the King’s black mane, working each coarse tuft until it lay smooth and gleaming. He always took his time, always worked with a kind of obsessive patience, as though trying to perfect the task—or stall the moment that came after.

“By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.”

He gave Kovu’s cheek a slap—not harsh, but sharp enough to leave a sting. Kovu’s eyes closed briefly, brow creasing ever so slightly—but his face betrayed nothing. At the King’s bidding, he eased himself down onto his side.

He was grateful for the darkness. Even the fireflies knew better than to linger here now, and the keen eyesight he so prided himself on were of no use in this gloom.

That was just as well.

He didn’t want to see that withered, ageing body. If he had to look, he would prefer the face—the one that bore, perhaps, a faint resemblance to his own. The youthful sharpness had long been eroded by time, but not erased entirely.

And those green flames—he saw his own eyes reflected there.

Not the same, no.

Scar’s held a chill arrogance, a ruthless gleam.

He didn’t have that. Not yet. Not fully.

And it was always at times like this that he lost.

“Your eyes are like spring leaves,” his mother had once told him. “It’s tragic, really, the pathetic warmth in them.”

Warmth. 

What an appalling word to use for him. Kovu had felt only shame at that softness, and fury that it had been seen.

He clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus on the drag of the king's tongue across his fur.

But instead, unbidden, came that flicker again.

Gold and crimson. The cub’s silhouette.

Warmth.

That little one’s blood had burned with warmth—real warmth. And it stung the corner of Kovu’s eye.

That word—warmth—should have belonged to that boy.

This momentary distraction didn’t go unnoticed.

Scar hated to be ignored, especially at a time like this.

He shoved the young lion onto his stomach, pinning him to the stone floor. 

Then climbed atop him—towering, controlling, taking in the view.

“Your Majesty…” Kovu murmured.

A hot breath brushed his ear. 

“That’s not what you’re meant to call me.”

Kovu corrected himself instantly.

“I’m sorry…Father.”

“Don’t you forget the first time you called me that.”
Scar whispered, curling a paw around Kovu’s broad chest, claws barely dimpling the fur.

“Or shall I help you remember?”

Kovu tensed, then began to squirm—adorably, delightfully.

Scar always loved this part.

That startled little panic, the trembling breath, the half-formed words.

“No… Father, please don’t…”

The King hushed him softly, his tone suddenly sweet—sing-song, like a lullaby. A cruel echo of gentleness.
But the rhythm soon changed.
Something darker pulsed beneath the surface, something hot.
Desire flickered in the stale air, catching like dry tinder.

The den closed in with heat.

And the young lion—overwhelmed—began to yield.
The resistance melted away, until nothing was left beneath his king’s claws but breath, and flesh, and quiet submission.

Kovu slowly rolled his eyelids open, eyes drifting upward to the stalactites hanging from the cave’s ceiling.

Fireflies crept across the damp stone, their dim green glow flickering over the white surface in ghostly pulses.

He couldn't tell whether it was the glow that trembled, or his own body. 

Either way, the dizziness came in steady waves.

Normally, he'd bite down on his tongue—hard enough to break the skin—flooding his mouth with the taste of blood to push back the rising nausea.

But not tonight. 

His tongue lolled out at the corner of his muzzle, his thoughts elsewhere.

The old lion exhaled heavily beside his cheek, stale breath like damp ash.

Kovu knew he’d earned another precious moment of reprieve.

If he could ignore the cloying, slick sensation of their bodies pressed together, he might even call it tolerable.

Some feelings, like the soft curves of his face, had dulled with time—rounded off at the edges, shaped smooth by the tight crawl of survival.

“Father?”

His voice was cautious, testing. Scar gave no reply, so Kovu placed a careful lick upon the old lion’s paw, where it pressed against the stone.

“That cub… his name was Se—no, wait. What was it?”

Scar usually hated this question. There was a strong chance it would set him off in a rage, but now he only gave a gruff exhale of irritation.

“Simba.” he muttered. “His name is Simba.”

Kovu waited a beat, maybe two, but gave no response. That contemplative look on his young face unsettled the King.

Scar had never been a patient ruler, so he drove a claw into Kovu’s chest—just enough to break skin and draw a silver of red.

“And why,” he growled, “do you ask?”

“Oh, I was only…” Kovu paused, feigning thought. “Just thinking…”

Scar’s claws—like the rest of him—were long past their prime. 

Dull things now, crude and slow, more memory than weapon.

The wound would close in a matter of hours. Still, Kovu drew a quiet, careful breath, playing his part, playing along.

There was no need to remind Scar of what he already knew. The King, more than anyone, understood the facts—whether he chose to admit them or not.

“If he really is, as you say, the kind of fool to toss his name around,” Kovu murmured, “then it’ll make him easier to find, won’t it, Your Majesty?”

“That’s all?”

The breath at his ear vanished. Kovu felt the shift in weight pressing down on his spine. He shut his eyes tight, cursing silently.

Old bastard still had stamina.

“I just hoped…” he added, voice dry, “that when I finish him, I might say it—his name… straight to his face.”

“Oh, goody.” Scar drawled.

He bent low and sank his teeth into the loose skin at the back of Kovu’s neck.

“Tell me—how will you do it?”

“I… ah…” Kovu swallowed hard, forcing down the sour note clawing at his throat.

“I’ll break his legs…make sure he never walks again.”

“Then you best take your time.”
Scar’s claws trailed the crook of Kovu’s foreleg.
“One crack, then another…bit by bit. I imagine his screams will be delightful. You’ll enjoy it.”

“Yes, Father…”

A muffled groan slipped through his clenched teeth, gone before it could fully form.
But if age had dulled the old lion’s claws and muscle, it had sharpened his hearing to a blade’s edge.

Scar caught it. He always did.

“Go on.”

He gave the order with quiet cruelty.
He knew full well Kovu would rather bite down until his mouth filled with blood than make a sound— so of course, he demanded it.

All for one slip of the tongue.
One question—that question—about Simba.
And what a noble excuse Kovu’d tried to offer. As if that odd golden coat wasn’t enough for every beast to remember him by.

Why ask that name?

What reason but curiosity?

Scar had spent so long moulding him—so long shaping the boy into something useful.
And still, the flaws clung like birthmarks.
Stubborn little things. Impossible to scrub clean.

“The spine…”

Kovu forced the words out—two syllables dragged across gritted teeth.
He could bear most pain—but not this kind.  

“A good choice,” Scar murmured.
His paw drifted across Kovu’s back, settling between the shoulders blades.

“And how would you do it?”

“N-not there…”

“Lower?”

“Yes, lower…”

His claws traced lightly along the fur—neither sharp enough to cut, nor soft enough to soothe.
The touch crawled over Kovu’s spine like a blocked current, sluggish and electric, burning and numb.
He shuddered, a broken sound rattling from his throat.

“There… yes, that’s it… right there…”

Scar’s claws reached the base of his spine, hovering at the notch of the lower vertebrae.

He stopped.
Pressed.

“Break it here?”

“Yes…yes…”

“And why?”

“Three days, maybe more… before death finally takes him.”

Kovu drew in a ragged breath, rough and shallow.
Sharp-edged pain coiled in his gut, fused with filthy pleasure like smoke and flame.
Sweat gathered across his brow, slipping slow and stinging into his eyes, blurring everything.

“No… if I fed him now and then, just enough… he’d live a while longer… Father… Aaah, Father…”

His claws scored deep into the stone beneath him.

“I’ll bring him to you…”

His blood felt like it was boiling behind his eyes.

“You’d want to see him die, wouldn’t you… Father?”

He tilted his head back, lashes trembling, eyes dragged upward in search of that long, lean face.

“Imagine how he’d look at you… Father, imagine the way he’d beg…”

A slick tongue slid across Kovu’s muzzle, then curled back to hook his own—dragging the blood from his teeth with almost tender cruelty.

“Now that’s something I’d like to see.”
came the rasp above him, the voice swaying with the flicker of green flame.
“Those eyes.”

And in Kovu’s mind, a small sun broke through the fog.
Red and gold.
Fierce. Free.

“Tell me,” Scar purred, “what kind of eyes does he have?”

“I…I don’t know.”

There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation in his voice—only breath, measured and metered, just enough to speak.
He held himself taut, strung tight as wire, every nerve braced for this single moment.
Scar had never stopped doubting him.
Not since the moment Kovu dared to utter that forbidden name.
A single word—casual, almost careless—had betrayed too much.
Curiosity.
And that, above all, Scar would never tolerate.

The mock affection vanished in an instant.

The old lion slammed Kovu’s head against the stone, claws pressing deeper into his lower spine until the bone beneath gave a sickening crack.

“How could you not know?”

“No—I swear—I truly don’t! Father…aaah, please! Please… forgive me, father—!”

Whether it was the pain tearing through his insides or the cold panic of bones on the verge of dislocation—he couldn’t tell.
But the cry that burst from his throat rose sharp and bright, too bright—
a voice too clean, too alive, the kind he’d buried long ago beneath obedience and silence.

And for a moment, it broke free.

“I’m sorry…I couldn't find him—it was my fault— please, Father, aaah…another chance, I swear—!”

Scar stared blankly into the dark, unblinking.
The boy’s scream echoed off the stone walls, shattered by each calculated movement.
Lowering his gaze, he looked down without emotion at the twisted face beneath him.
Another inch, and that spine would snap clean in two.

Either the boy was telling the truth—
or he was gambling, foolishly, that Scar lacked the resolve.

Whether it stemmed from loyalty or sheer nerve, Scar found himself…satisfied.

From the very first glance, he’d known—
this one would be his only heir.

But no one else needed to know that.

Kovu lay with his head tilted sideways, saliva and tears smeared across his face, soaking the cold stone beneath him. His chest rose and fell in short, rapid bursts—like a stranded fish, gulping air that would only hurt.

Every visit to Scar cost him half a life.
But never like this.
Never so close to the edge of ruin.

The taste of death still lingered in his throat—raw and flayed from too many screams, now dry and burning with every swallow.

Reason warned him thousands of times—not to prod where curiosity had no right.

Next time, Scar would definitely kill him.

And yet, another voice stirred—

Wasn’t it thrilling?

The golden pair—father and son—were Scar’s eternal thorn.
Kovu had swallowed Scar’s stories, his story, his hatred, just as he swallowed anything else the King forced into his body.
But it had never truly belonged to him.
Time and rain would wash it away, leaving behind only a hollow confusion he could never seem to fill.

Now, at last, he held something that was his alone—a secret, raw and electric.

And he needed to know the truth.

He had to hear it.

This dry, grey, well-trodden life had never felt so vivid, so sharp with promise.

The price was worth it.
Even if the price was himself.
Truly—
It was to die for.

The King, well pleased with himself, now reclined against the bleached skull of an elephant, drawing coolness from its surface to soothe a body flushed with exertion.

He lifted one paw before his eyes, admiring the curve of its dull claws.
They no longer caught prey, not truly—but Scar still regarded them fondly, relics of his former glory.

But in the dim, muddled backdrop, that figure moved—slow, broken, yet impossible to ignore.

Wretched little scrap.

The words passed through his mind with practiced contempt. He thought he'd lowered his standards quite enough—but even then, the boy barely met the mark.

“You may go now.”

There would be no tenderness. No gesture of comfort. Such things were the luxury of the weak.
If he ever bothered with them, it was never for the sake of another’s wellbeing.
Today, there was no such need.

Kovu still had his head bowed—slightly tilted toward him, though Scar couldn't tell why. What was he looking at?

“You have five seconds to vanish from my sight.”

A final warning. The King never permitted him to linger here—never allowed him the dignity of rest within his domain.

Kovu struggled to rise, joints groaning under the strain.
He lowered his head—not deeply enough to be truly respectful, but it was all he could manage—and, after a laboured bow, turned and limped into the dark.

He dragged himself out of the cave, lungs drinking in the night air as though it might cleanse him from the inside out.

Darkness had fallen. Judging by the moon’s position, this had been the worst of royal audiences—
The worst yet.

Kovu lifted his head, slowly rotating stiff joints and aching muscles.
He was tired—deeply tired—but nowhere near the pitiful figure he’d allowed Scar to see.

A shame the moonlight and the stars couldn’t wash him clean, or he might’ve stood there longer.
But all he wanted now was to plunge into the waterhole, to scrub off every foul trace clinging to his skin, his mouth, his memory.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the silhouette—high up on the rock, Zira still sat in silence.
She always did.

It had started long ago. So long, in fact, that he’d only just begun to grow the first tufts of mane.
She had led him straight to Scar, and waited outside, while he emerged drained and trembling.

Once again, he thought of Simba.
That blaze of gold and crimson.
He must’ve been no older than Simba was back then.

From that day forward—and every moment since, and every moment still to come—Zira had known.
She had always known.

Once, he’d asked his mother for a reason.

Scar had answered that for her.
Not with words, but with action.
He showed the boy precisely what came of speaking out of turn.

So Kovu had learned quickly.
To stay quiet.
To bite down.
To swallow the blood. And tears.

And in time, not even the tears came.

“I warned you. Scar was in a foul mood tonight.”

Her eyes gave him a quick once-over—dishevelled fur, the stench clinging to him—before she lifted her chin in distaste, as though his very presence might soil her gaze.

“I trust you didn’t displease him.”

Kovu didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her.

He just walked away, silent as a shadow, melting into the night.

Chapter Text

Simba stirred from sleep, groggy and unbothered enough to keep his eyes shut. He rolled lazily to one side—only to tumble straight off the soft bedding of dried grass and leaves, landing face-first in the dirt.

With a grunt, the young lion pushed himself up, spitting out a mouthful of earth and twigs. He still hadn’t quite adjusted to this new place. It looked much like the jungle he’d known, but once he started living in it, all the little differences crept in. It would take some time to feel familiar.

From somewhere in the bracken nearby, a heated exchange was brewing. Simba stretched, yawning, and padded over. If there was one thing he did often these days, it was breaking up arguments—though he still didn’t understand how a meerkat and a warthog could find so many things to fight about, especially when it always came down to grubs.

Frankly, they all tasted the same.

“I mean really, Pumbaa, have you ever seen a termite mound that small? A bit of drizzle and it’d be soup!”

“Oh come on, Timon! These grubs are practically twigs—no creaminess, no bite!”

“That queen is totally a joke. Two eggs and she retires!”

“I just saw a whole bunch of crickets! Why didn’t you grab some?”

“Pumbaa, my dear Pumbaa… did you not see that troop of baboons? I’m not volunteering to be their chew toy, that’s why!”

Simba decided it was time to intervene.

“Er… guys?” he asked, surprised to realise they weren’t arguing so much as jointly complaining.
“Not quite settling in, are we?”

They turned as one, eyes wide and guilty. Clearly, they hadn’t expected Simba to overhear.

“Oh, Simba! You’re up!”
Timon bounded nimbly onto his back, tiny paws probing gently around the still-fresh wounds.

“You shouldn’t be out and about yet, you need to rest.”
Pumbaa’s big, worried eyes brimmed with concern.
“Are you hungry? Want something to eat? It’s not much out here, sure, but it’s not nothing. Timon and I were thinking of whipping up a Blue Enchilada… or maybe try a Kahuna Colada—what d’you think?”

But the young lion only shook his head. His amber eyes moved slowly across the unfamiliar foliage, taking it in without quite seeing.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Well, you’ve got to eat something if you’re going to—”

“I’m fine,” Simba said curtly, cutting him off. “Really. I’m doing all right.”

“Oh, well, if you say so…” 

Timon muttered, shrugging. Pumbaa gave his tail a tug. Timon glanced at him, confused. Pumbaa gave a rather exaggerated wink.

Sadly, they hadn’t yet developed the kind of psychic bond that would allow for silent communication. To Simba, they looked like they’d both just been stung on the backside.

“Guys, what’s wrong?”

Both turned to him in perfect unison—and then, just as synchronously, looked away.

The young lion’s ears drooped low.

“Is there… something you want to ask me?”

He caught the flicker of movement in Timon’s eyes, but the meerkat kept his gaze fixed on the fallen leaves.

“Is there something you want to tell us?”

“Timon!”
Pumbaa hissed, tugging at his tail again.

“What?”

The warthog gave a tiny shake of the head, throwing a nervous glance at Simba.

“Look…I told you—I don’t know him,”
Simba said, eyes lowered, the weight of something unspoken pressing on his chest.
“I have no idea why he was there. I… I don’t know a thing.”

Pumbaa rushed in to reassure him.
“That’s alright, Simba. If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t. We’re safe now. We can travel again, find somewhere better to stay—you don’t need to worry…”

“Oh, you adorable fool,” Timon rolled his eyes. “Look, for the sake of tomorrow, we can’t just pretend this didn’t happen. Simba, listen—this isn’t just your business anymore. We want to help you, but you’ve got to give us something to work with.” He paused, weighing his words. “Only what’s necessary. If there are things you’d rather not say, fine. But give us enough.”

Pumbaa looked worried the whole time Timon spoke. His old pal was always too blunt. What if Simba started blaming himself? What if he thought they were forced to leave because of him? Worse still—what if Simba was planning to leave them?

But to his surprise, the lion’s stiff features softened a little. He seemed… more accepting than expected.

“…Alright,” Simba murmured. “When I was young, something happened. Something bad. I had to leave my family. But there wasn’t any lion trying to hurt me. Not at the time…”

He hesitated, then continued vaguely, skimming over every violent detail.

“Have you two ever seen a really big rock? A tall one? Kind of… pointy?”

The meerkat and warthog exchanged a glance.

“Maybe…”

“Sort of…”

“Yep.”

“Wasn’t there a party going on when we passed by?”

“Right! That weird monkey was up there—”

“Er,” Simba cut in, again, “do you want to hear this or not?”

They fell silent at once.

“It’s called Pride Rock,” he said quickly, anticipating questions about the name—it’s a rock, how can a rock be proud?—and pressed on, “I grew up in the Pride Lands. As far back as I remember, the only animals not welcome there were the hyenas. They always tried to upset the balance… ruin our peace…”

He couldn’t avoid it forever—the truth of his father’s death—but he also didn’t want to talk about it now. So he improvised.

“My family thought the Pride Lands weren’t safe anymore. So… they sent me away. That’s it.”

The story ended rather abruptly. Given more time, he might have added a few polished details to make it sound more convincing.

But with lies, the rule was simple: the more complicated it gets, the easier it falls apart. Best to keep it clean.

“So why wouldn’t they come looking for you?”
Pumbaa asked, tilting his head.
“Maybe things have changed back in the Pride Lands?”

Timon scrambled up onto his friend’s head and tugged his ear.

“Don’t be daft, Pumbaa. Why would they send someone Simba’s never met to bring him back?”

“Oh!” said the warthog, his face lighting up with sudden understanding. “Good point!”

“And I wasn’t planning on going back anyway,”
Simba added quietly, casting a cautious glance at his two friends.
“I’m happy here. I want to stay… I think…”

Timon leapt from Pumbaa’s head to Simba’s back, ruffling his mane with a paw.

“We’re not kicking you out, junior. What’s Hakuna Matata without you?”

Pumbaa nodded enthusiastically, his eyes shining suspiciously—as if he might cry.

“So,” Timon said, suddenly thoughtful, “going by your version of things, the only ones who’d come after you are those slobbering mongrels?” He shivered. “I still remember the smell. But I doubt they’d wander this far. That black-maned guy was probably just… passing through, right?”

Simba let out a quiet breath. His story had held up.

And now his two friends were hugging him, muttering things like “sorry” and “thanks” and promising never to ask him about unpleasant things again.

“Well, that’s one problem sorted!”

Timon hopped down to the ground, his joints cracking loudly as he stretched.

“Pumbaa, I’m starving! When’s lunch?”

The warthog donned his woven grass hat with flair.

“Almost ready! Kahuna colada doesn’t take long to whip up! Simba, sure you don’t want to try some?”

The young lion was craning his neck, peering through the ferns.

“Hm? Oh… thanks, Pumbaa, but I’m not really hungry. You two go ahead.”

His ears stayed perked, though, as if still listening out for something in their new home.

“Simba, what’re you looking at?”

“Er, nothing—actually, I was thinking of checking out that place you mentioned. Timon, where did you say those baboons were?”

Timon raised a paw and pointed.
“What do you want with baboons?”

“To clear out your dining room, of course,”
Simba said with a grin, flashing a row of clean, sharp teeth.
“Might as well test whether my roar’s improved.”

Timon and Pumbaa clapped and cheered, then immediately turned on each other.

“Why didn’t you think of that, genius?”

“I was just about to suggest it!”

Simba laughed brightly.
“Leave it to me.”

“Don’t wander too far, alright? Be back before dark!”

“When did you two get so fussy?” Simba teased, blinking innocently. “Got it!”

Simba pushed through the thick underbrush, following a narrow path trampled by some lumbering lizard. The topsoil had long dried out, and he broke into a run, leaping over twisted roots and ducking past low branches. Strange, unfamiliar plants lined the way—his instincts warned him off the sharp-needled ones; likely poisonous.

A brittle snap underfoot. He'd stepped on a rotted branch, startling a flock of high-strung guinea fowl. They burst into the air in a flurry of flapping wings, squawking like lunatics as they scrambled for the trees, broadcasting this lion’s arrival to the entire forest.

“Oh, do shut up. I'm just passing through…”

Simba muttered, ears twitching in irritation. He never cared much for noisy birds. But rather than quieting, those fowl grew even more frantic, leaping and fluttering madly—then, all at once, fleeing in his direction.

Simba frowned and looked up.

A small troop of baboons came crashing through the undergrowth. They just passed by and got curious by these noisy chickens. Crickets were nothing but starters; when it came to a bit of prime meat, baboons were never known to say no.

The young lion slowed, listening as the chaos faded. The forest fell back into silence, but he didn’t relax. Not quite.

Simba edged towards a low ridge of rock and pressed his back against the cold stone. His amber eyes were wide open, scanning the thick tangle of arrowroot and umbrella leaves around him, careful not to miss the slightest sign of movement.

“I know you’re out there.”

His voice rang out to the empty woods, calm but alert.

“No point hiding. Come out.”

A rustle in the leaves answered him.

From above.

Simba’s heart kicked against his ribs. He forced himself not to panic, titled his head upwards—stiff as stone.

Lazily sprawled across a fig branch, the black lion looked down at him, poised and watchful, like a predator waiting for the right twitch of prey.

“Well, hello there, kitty…”

Simba didn’t wait for him to finish. 

He bolted. At once.

What in the stars was that thing? A lion—or a leopard in disguise? How could something that size even climb trees like that?!

He didn’t get far. The rock wall at his back had boxed him in—a stupid, fatal oversight.

The black lion landed with a fluid, silent thud, directly in front of him, blocking the only way out. Simba froze, pressing himself tight against the stone.

“Now that’s just rude. I was saying hello.”

Simba pressed himself against the stone, eyes locked on the lion’s claws.

Simba ducked his head low, eyes locked on the black lion’s claws—unsheathed, gleaming, casual.

He didn’t even bother to retract them. Noted.

“I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“Hm? And here I thought you came all this way for a little private conversation.”

His tone was almost friendly—almost. But the cold coiled beneath it made Simba flinch. His teeth chattered with tension, tail lashing the dust behind him in short, nervous flicks.

“Have I misread the situation, then?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Simba muttered, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“Come off it, sweetheart. You knew I was here. You’ve known for a while.”

The black lion's voice softened, oddly pleased.

The stranger narrowed his eyes, something like approval creeping into his voice.

“You’re learning fast. Sharp little ears. Nothing teaches like real experience, eh?”

“Oh, is that so?” Simba hissed through gritted teeth. “Should I be thanking you, then?”

“You’d best lose that tone when you speak to me.”

The lion’s voice turned glacial—dropping like a stone into a bottomless lake. The cold sank into Simba’s chest, heavy and inescapable.

“I can see your wounds are healing well. It’d be a waste to mark up that fur again—though you’ve no idea how tempting it is. So I’d mind my tongue, if I were you.”

Simba’s mouth flooded with saliva, a side effect of sheer panic. He forced himself to swallow it back, again and again, telling himself to stay calm.

“…what do you want?”

He, Timon and Pumbaa had travelled seven long days to reach this place—even risked trailing a herd of bad-tempered forest elephants, hoping their massive footprints would help cover their own.

And yet, no sooner had they settled than this lion turned up again.

If their first encounter had been a twist of fate, this one most certainly wasn’t.
Simba was almost sure of it now—this lion had come for him.

But why?

They’d never met. He’d never wronged a lion—not that he could recall.
In all his life, whether within the Pride Land or beyond it, Simba could count the lions he’d seen on a single paw.

“I’m here for you, darling.”

“I don’t understand.”

All he wanted was a quiet corner of the world, somewhere to live in peace with his friends. Why did trouble always come looking for him?

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“But you do now, don’t you? And I know who you are. Your name is…”
He paused, deliberately, letting the silence stretch—then gave a lazy, mocking chuckle.
“...Oh, you thought I’d forgotten? I remember everything about you, my dear. You don’t like it when I say your name. That’s alright. I don’t mind.”

Simba couldn’t make sense of this lion’s mercurial moods—thunder one moment, sunshine the next. Even the savannah weather wasn’t this erratic.

“Oh, cut the cra—”

He caught the word just in time, biting it off before it passed his lips. Better not push his luck before he figured out a way to run.

He swallow hard, steadied his throat.

“…Just tell me what you want.”

“There you go, being all polite. If only you’d been half this sweet the last time, we might’ve spared ourselves that nasty scene.”
He sounded almost regretful.
Simba stared at him, jaw slack, one eye twitching madly.
What kind of sick bastard could say that with a straight face?

All his effort to stay calm went up in smoke.
“You’re the one who barged into our territory first!”

“Whose territory?” the black lion replied breezily. “I must’ve missed the signpost. Last I checked, the jungle didn’t belong to you three. Plenty of others live there—why shouldn’t I?”

He had a maddeningly reasonable tone—but Simba wasn’t backing down.
“My gut told me you were dangerous. And guess what? I was right!”

“Oh, your gut.” The lion scoffed. “You mean the part where you judged me on how I looked? Or maybe it was when you and your friends started tailing me, all whispery and suspicious. If you were in my paws—what would you have done?”

Simba faltered, mouth partway open.
Somehow this smug stranger had twisted the whole thing around—now they were the villains, and he was the misunderstood outsider forced to fight in self-defence.
It was absurd.

And yet… Simba had followed his pace so far into the weeds that he missed the glaring truth:
When the “victim” can take down three attackers with his eyes closed,
then everything else—every clever excuse—is just a very pretty lie.

The black lion let his gaze linger on the boy’s face—a delightful mess of confusion, surprise, hesitation… even a flicker of guilt.

How could one little face carry so many tangled emotions at once?

And how, by the stars, could it still look so utterly adorable?

“…Well, if you really didn’t mean any harm…”

He almost laughed out loud.

A quick cough covered it up—an awkward, sputtering sort of noise, like he’d swallowed the wrong way.

Luckily, Simba was still staring at the ground.

Any glimpse of the smug twitching at the corners of his mouth might’ve ruined everything.

What a stupid, sweet little kitty.

“Come on now, don’t look so miserable. What kind of lion would I be, holding a grudge against you?”

The kid’s guard had slipped. It was a golden moment—rare, delicate, begging to be used.

He stepped closer, eyes drifting to Simba’s shoulder.

The scab had fallen away, though the fur hadn’t quite grown back, leaving behind a patch of pink, swollen skin.

Without warning, a warm, wet tongue dragged slowly across the tender spot.
A slow drag.
Deliberate.

Simba nearly jumped out of his fur.

“What are you—?!”

Now he was the one spluttering, coughing on his own spit.

“I’m apologising,” came the breezy reply.
“You got a bit roughed up thanks to me. Hardly fair, is it? Charging around like that’s supposed to be your job. Comes with the cubhood, I hear.”

Simba gaped at him like he’d grown horns.

That was not what he was asking. At all.

They were nowhere near tongue-licking terms!

Even he—still practically a cub—knew there were lines.

So this lion absolutely knew.
And he’d done it on purpose.

Now it began to dawn on Simba:

This guy could play with him like a toy—
and not even break a sweat doing it.

“If that’s all you came to say—fine. Let’s just pretend none of it ever happened.”

Simba’s patience had all but run dry.
He wasn’t about to stand here trading words with this smooth-talking stranger.

“I’m leaving.”

But the black lion stepped closer again.

Simba flinched back so fast he nearly wedged himself between the rocks.

“Who said you could go?”

A heavy shadow fell over him, swallowing his smaller frame whole.

“W-what do you want…?”

“I want you…”

The final word curled in the air like smoke.
He smiled—easy, amused.

“…to keep me company. I get awfully bored out here on my own.”

Simba’s mouth hung open again. Nothing came out.

And then—without warning—the lion leaned in, nudging his head gently against Simba’s.
Once.
Then again.

His breath ghosted hot along Simba’s cheek, but never pushed too far.
He left a space. Enough to breathe. Enough to struggle.

“Is this better?” he murmured.

His eyes, now inches away, were a still green pool—
like sunlight caught on water, or new leaves in the breeze.
Calm. Steady. Waiting.

Simba stared.

He liked that colour.
He always had.

Why hadn’t he noticed before?

Simba spaced out right in front of him.

The black lion frowned ever so slightly, as if genuinely puzzled by the little one’s reaction.
But something else quickly caught his attention—something far more amusing.

The cub’s flattened ears slowly perked back up, relaxed and turned outward.
His gaze softened. Even his pupils began to shrink back to normal.

Then came the sound.

A low, fluttering purr, barely more than a breath—
the kind only pampered little cubs made when they felt safe.

“Well now,” the black lion murmured, eyes glinting.
“Didn’t expect that.”

And when the cub finally snapped out of it—realising what he’d just done—
the black lion swore he saw a blush rise beneath that golden fur.

Heat swelled in his chest, bright and warm, like the slow inflation of a hornbill’s shimmering throat sac—ready to spill through every limb.

“What—what are you laughing at?!”
Simba’s ears went flat again, furious this time.

Which only made the black lion laugh harder.

He doubled over, chuckling so freely his chin ended up resting on Simba’s shoulder, utterly ignoring the little paws pushing uselessly at his chest.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this.
How long had it been since he was allowed to?

And all the cub could do was huff and fuss and pretend to be mad, before giving in with that same helpless little sigh.

When the last breath of laughter finally slipped into the air,
he turned his head just a little—emerald meeting gold.

“You’ve been lonely for a long time, haven’t you?”

There was still laughter in his eyes, but something softer had crept in—something rare and honest, so faint even he hadn’t noticed himself.

“No need to be shy. I know… I know it better than anyone…”

Simba looked into those glimmering green pools, and his eyes burned faintly at the corners.

But this time, he remembered not to stare too long—he knew this lion would tease him again.

“What could you possibly know…”

He glanced away just in time, blinking hard to send the heat retreating back to where it came from. His face held a touch of something wistful.

“I know your answer is ‘yes’.”

The black lion took a step back, allowing a little space between them once more.

“I don’t need to know anything else. Not just yet.”

Simba straightened up and carefully slipped past him. He didn’t want to be trapped in that corner any longer. Every flick of the other’s tail still made him twitchy.

“You’re very clever, aren’t you? I don’t remember saying ‘yes’.”

The black lion didn’t stop him—just watched his every movement with mild amusement.

Simba told himself he must be losing his mind. That could be the only explanation for why he kept getting drawn back to those emerald eyes—why he even, light-headed and half-aware, leaned in to gently press his forehead against the other’s.

“Well, to me, it sounded like ‘yes’.”

The lion winked at him, then stood up and stretched lazily.

“You should head back now. Otherwise, your little friends might come storming in to save you.”
He gave a cheeky grin.
“I’ve had enough run-ins with angry bees, thank you very much. Took me long enough to shake the last lot.”

Simba watched him turn, genuinely startled that he seemed to be leaving just like that.

“You’re leaving?”

“What, missing me already?”

Simba’s expression crumpled instantly. He rolled his eyes—hard.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Absolutely not.”

“Alright then. I’m off, kitty.”

“And don’t call me ‘kitty’.”

“Boy…you’re a picky one. What do you want me to—”

“I have a name.”

The black lion froze. His brows shot up, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.

Simba lowered his head, as if to study a particularly fascinating patch of dirt. In that instant, the other lion leaned in close—so close his breath tickled the inside of Simba’s ear.

“Kovu. That’s my name.”

His voice was low, but carried the lightness of birdsong on a breeze—soft and fleeting.

“See you next time, Simba.”

Before Simba could ask when next time would be—before the thought had even fully formed—Kovu was gone. It was as though he’d vanished into the trees in the blink of an eye, without so much as a whisper of his scent left behind.

Simba began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. But then, from deep within the forest, a roar rolled through the valley—thick and powerful—followed by the shrieking panic of startled baboons. Grey shapes darted across the treetops overhead, fleeing in wild haste.

He’d nearly forgotten—he’d promised to help Timon and Pumbaa clear out the cricket patch.

And now, to spare them a heart attack, he supposed he had no choice but to claim that thunderous roar as his own.

That was… kind of cool. I wonder when I’ll be able to do something like that.

As the thought spun round in his head, a breeze stirred his fur, and his paws seemed to grow lighter with every step.

Chapter Text

Kovu stood beneath the thick trunk of the baobab tree, staring blankly up at its wide, outstretched canopy.

He had rushed all the way from the jungle back to the Pride Land’s borders, so hastily that he hadn’t even stopped to rest, heading straight here in search of that old mandrill.

But Rafiki was as elusive as ever, and it came as no surprise to Kovu when he found nothing but silence.

He slumped against the trunk and let out a sigh, his gaze falling to the ground strewn with round, fallen fruit.

Kovu had only meant to rest his eyes for a moment, but when he awoke, the sun was already rising over the horizon. He had slept through the night without meaning to. As the golden light broke through the branches, Rafiki appeared, leaning on his staff, only to find the dark-furred lion curled beneath the tree, fast asleep.

The nights had grown noticeably colder of late. The winds now carried away the baobab’s seeds and brought those from other places in their stead. Rafiki caught a handful of the drifting fluff and sniffed it, trying to make sense of its tangled scents. Something had changed—but he couldn’t yet place what.

Answers, he had long since learnt, seldom arrived directly. They came through signs, through oddities in the world. And today, here was Kovu, uninvited, asleep beneath his tree.

He could hardly remember when he had last laid eyes on the young lion.

The mandrill reached out to nudge him awake, but before his fingers could even brush the rich brown fur, Kovu’s eyes snapped open like a pair of flames suddenly lit.

The instinct of a seasoned predator—never asleep, not truly.

Rafiki recoiled at once, fingers tightening round the staff that clanked loudly in his grip.

“Young lion,” he said at last, “what do you seek?”

Kovu rose from the ground, gave his pelt a brisk shake, and blinked away the last of sleep.

“I need to see the painting again.”

Rafiki said nothing. He climbed the smooth trunk with practised ease—less spry than in his youth, perhaps, but still nimble enough. From the branches above, he rummaged a while before retrieving a weathered scrap of bark.

The pigment was already beginning to fade. The outline of a lion could still be made out, just barely—but any distinguishing features had long since vanished.

“I need something more specific,” Kovu said flatly. “You know the King is running out of patience. The sooner I find that cub, the better for all of us—including you.”

Rafiki’s gaze sharpened. His dim, yellowed eyes fixed unwaveringly on Kovu.

“You will not find him.”

Kovu raised a brow. “You mean… he’s dead?”

“No,” the old mandrill replied, stubborn as ever. “I mean—you will not find him.”

“Oh…” Kovu gave a theatrical nod, as though understanding had just dawned on him. “Shall I suggest to His Majesty, then, that it was you who’s been hiding the little prince all this time? I wonder what sort of reaction that might stir.”

Rafiki’s features stiffened, the lines in his face drawing tight.

How much did this young lion truly know? Why had he come here—and for what purpose? Rafiki could not tell. He was like the shadow beneath the trees—present, shifting, never caught.

Raised by the King’s own paw, Kovu had grown up steeped in lies and calculation. As an adult, he displayed a polish and cunning that even Scar might have envied. That soft, unmarked face—so melancholic, so refined—had become a more sophisticated kind of camouflage. And Kovu knew it. He wielded his gentleness like a mask, expertly hiding the ambition that burned beneath.

In a place like the Pride Land, where the throne meant everything, no male ever truly stopped longing for it—especially now that the King was ageing and the younger contenders were circling. Of them all, the most likely heir was Scar’s only surviving blood—Nuka.

He was a full-grown lion now, broad in bone but thin in muscle, with spindly limbs and a body that verged on emaciation. And this despite never having lacked food or favour. The reason, as Scar once mockingly admitted, was simple and obvious: he were also born from the shallow end of the gene pool.

Still, blood was blood. Many of the pride landers continued to believe that Nuka would be the next to ascend. Scar had granted him decent privileges and a territory of his own—perhaps a gesture of goodwill, perhaps a test, or a warning. Either way, Nuka had not grown arrogant. He had not reached for more. If anything, his ambition seemed to have withered under the weight of his devotion. His mind held nothing but awe and worship for his father.

A candidate without ambition—such lions made the perfect puppets. And while Kovu’s star was rising, Nuka’s base of power remained steady, underestimated at one’s peril.

As Kovu grew older, he helped the King wipe out two rival prides downstream and nearly doubling the Pride Land’s territory, his reputation soared accordingly. Those who’d once kept neutral began quietly choosing sides—and even among Nuka’s supporters, ‘traitors’ began to appear.

Kovu was nothing like his brother. He worked alone, temperamental and brilliant in equal measure. Opinions about him were always split down the middle—until they circled back, inevitably, to one irrefutable fact:

Kovu was adopted.

Anyone could wield that truth like a weapon, as if simply speaking it aloud was enough to erase all he’d achieved. A lion raised by the King’s mercy—it was already a gift he’d been allowed to grow up at all. And besides, everyone in the Pride Land knew what happened—or was happening, or might yet happen—within the damp, shadowed hollow of that cave.

That wound—was his greatest, and would always remain so.

The hyenas he’d once crossed never missed a chance to return the favour. They came for him like flies to rot. The young lion would lower his head, his face dark like stormclouds, while their jeering laughter and vile, filthy remarks clung to him like muck, impossible to shake off.

He walked out into the rain, but even the downpour couldn’t drown the sound of their laughter. It pierced through like horns—sharp, jabbing. He stared down at the puddles at his feet, where his reflection twisted back at him: snarling, with pale fangs just visible beneath the skin. Raindrops shattered it to pieces, leaving only a ghostly blur.

The next morning, the skies cleared—but one of the hyenas was gone.

A young male, just a year old.

It didn’t take long to find him. Vultures were circling above Pride Rock—an ominous sign if ever there was one.

Atop the stones lay carnage. Clearly, death had taken its time. The corpse had been torn open—entrails mixed with black blood spilled in all directions, fur limp over broken bones. His eyes and tongue were gone.

Scavengers swooped down, flapping about the corpse. A gust of air from their wings sent a scrap of flesh tumbling to the hyenas’ feet.

And then they saw it. 

The male hyena’s genitals—ripped clean off, still bloody.

Shenzi and Banzai stood at the front of the pack, bellowing their outrage to Scar. All suspicion pointed to one lion.

He stood near the king, eyes lowered in false humility, lips curled in a strange, lopsided smile. His gaze was colder than the desert after dark.

And when Scar began to question him, everything changed.

“I don’t know anything about it, Father.”

His eyes widened just enough, the corners of his mouth turned downward, even his expression sagged with practiced innocence. He shook his head slowly and spoke in a soft, sorrowful tone, like a child pleading with a parent.

“How could I ever do something so… horrible?”

Scar was silent for a moment. Then he said, simply, “I will deal with it,” and turned the hyenas away.

Shenzi and Banzai left gnashing their teeth. All they’d gotten was a vague promise—it sounded more like a warning to mind their tongues.

“So that’s it, then?” Shenzi growled, “Scar won’t lift a claw for us.”

She cast a venomous glance back at the cave, where some cosy little ‘father-son’ moment was likely underway. That brat would go to any length just to spite them.

“Maybe we oughta go to Nuka…”

“Him? You think that clown’ll help us?” Shenzi whipped round and glared.
“He does whatever His Majesty tells him. We’d have better luck sorting the little bastard ourselves.”

She shoved past her companion with a snarl and stormed off through the jostling crowd of hyenas. Her sharp nose twitched—something smelled off. Lifting her snout, she scanned the area.

There, hunched on a bare branch—grey, still, watching Pride Rock.

“Oi! Old monkey! Who the hell said you could show your wrinkled face around here?!”

Rafiki sat silently on the high branch, his gaze fixed on the distant crown of Pride Rock.

The hyenas had found no help from the king. Now they needed something—someone—to tear into. They surged toward the tree, shouting curses and snarling with bared teeth.

But the mandrill sat like stone.

“You know what happened, don’t you? Scar won’t let you near Pride Rock, but nothing escapes those oh-so-wise ears of yours!”

Shenzi’s voice, hoarse and bitter, rose above the others.

“He was your little find, wasn’t he?” Her sneer deepened. “What a brilliant choice. Really, old freak—spot on.”

Rafiki slowly closed his eyes.

It had been long ago, before Simba was even born, when Zira came to him alone, a light brown cub clamped gently in her jaws.

The king, Mufasa, still reigned then. The young lioness had asked, with quiet resolve, to raise the little stray herself.

Rafiki had hesitated. Zira had already borne Scar a son—making him, not the King, the first to produce a male heir. A matter that had stirred unease enough. Now another young male, of unknown lineage? The King would never allow it.

Zira had lowered her head in quiet disappointment. Without Rafiki’s help, she and Scar would have no chance of keeping the cub within the Pride Lands.

She was already turning to leave when Rafiki stopped her.

The old mandrill raised one arm into the air, fingers splayed and moving delicately, as though trying to catch the path of the wind. He gazed up at the sky—clear, endless, burning with light.

And then, from nowhere, a single cloud drifted above their heads. It cast a soft shadow on the earth—small, but just enough to cover the little cub entirely.

And at that very moment, the cub opened his eyes.

They glimmered with a sudden, vivid green. The air grew heavy with moisture, as though rain had passed this way unseen. Even the wind changed—gentler now, like the scent of water after drought.

The mandrill stared, hushed.

“…Peculiar,” he murmured. “So very peculiar.”

He reached out and touched the cub’s head.

“I shall speak with King Mufasa.”

Zira’s face brightened at once. She thanked him again and again, her voice trembling. In that moment, at least, her joy had been real.

But predictably—perhaps inevitably—Mufasa had not placed much weight on signs or weather. That was never how he judged things.

“The Pride Lands welcome any creature in need,” he said simply, before turning to his brother.

“Take good care of him.”

Rafiki had smiled then, truly smiled, as he dipped his fingers in pale yellow sap and pressed it gently to the cub’s cheek—a quiet ritual of welcome.

But before he could grasp what the wind had truly meant, disaster struck—and the promise turned to ash.

Rafiki had sat in his tree, grieving the huge loss. But grief soon gave way to unease—for worse things were yet to come.

Scar had pressed him time and again about the strange omen, his voice soaked in a fanatic fervour. Whatever noble clarity had once lived in the late king had clearly failed to pass into his brother.

And so, when Scar looked upon Kovu, he saw more than a cub. Every small triumph, every glimmer of instinct, took on a greater meaning. The boy was brooding, silent, untamed—his edges sharp as thorns. He became, in Scar’s eyes, a living mirror: not of kinship, but of self. A likeness conjured not from blood, but from vanity. Even that face—so unlike his own—seemed to carry his shadow.

When the young Kovu snatched a chunk of meat from his brother’s claws and leapt nimbly atop the jagged rocks to claim it for himself, Scar’s expectations soared to impossible heights.

As for Nuka, he made no move to reclaim what was his. Whatever the reason, Scar saw only weakness. Their resemblance, once a matter of pride, now lay solely in the flesh: a withered frame, thin and hollow, that no rich feeding could amend.

Scar loathed it. He loathed him.

Yet before Zira, he spoke with a serpent’s honeyed tongue, whispering promises of legacy—on one condition: that Kovu be raised by him, and him alone.

“Trust me, my dear,” he crooned, voice steeped in velvet deceit. “One day, this cub will be Nuka’s greatest strength. I’m only saving the best for our boy.”

Another lioness might have balked at such words. But Scar had chosen his mate well. Zira’s greatest virtue was the worship she gave him without question. Perhaps some part of her had wavered, briefly. But only briefly.

Her overflowing tenderness during the nursing moons had less to do with love than it did with hormones. And when they faded, so did the softness. Like when the tide ebbed, it left behind only the faint trace of water on sand—soon scattered by the wind.

Her own son inherited that same numbness—perhaps even more refined, for he had mastered the art of looking away.
Kovu’s suffering, in Nuka’s eyes, became nothing more than rigorous instruction—lessons lovingly bestowed by a father who still lowered himself to correct him.

“You should be grateful he even bothers with you.”
That line was a favourite of Nuka’s, often delivered with a smug flick of the tail.

Only Vitani had dared to ask their mother—why? Why wouldn’t she protect her son?

She never found the courage to question Scar himself. There had never been affection between them, and besides, she feared him with the deep, instinctive dread reserved for natural predators.
But Zira answered for him—with a slap, sharp and final, followed by a growled command to wait by the cave mouth.

The screams began soon after—drawn-out, harrowing things, as though a dull-toothed nightmare were gnawing its way into her heart.
She stood frozen, eyes fixed on the opening, until at last Kovu emerged—slowly, limping, each step a battle against his own broken body.

“Kovu…”
She whispered his name, voice trembling, and moved to steady him.

But the young lion only looked at her once, then turned away.

Behind her, her mother’s rasp reached her ears.
“Now you see. That’s what comes of running your mouth.”

Vitani had no choice.
That day, she learned not just to hold her tongue—but to close her eyes.
Kovu didn’t need pity, and certainly not from her. Perhaps the greatest mercy she could offer was to act as though she saw nothing at all.

No one knew how deeply that strange omen had imprinted itself upon Scar’s mind. But it was a beginning all the same—a flicker of destiny in a place that knew only rot.

Rafiki, his fingers trembling, had dipped them into soft tree sap and marked the cub’s face, believing the Pride Lands stood on the verge of a new chapter—one of compassion, of renewal.

That vision had been torn apart almost before it took its first breath.

Now the old mandrill sat alone, with few left who still bore the mark of the old king’s reign. And those eyes watching him now held no trace of rain, no vivid green, no sign of spring.

Only the depthless dark of a pit that would swallow every last hope of revival.

Rafiki seized a handful of red earth and swiftly picked up the worm-eaten bark, its surface pocked and crumbling. With a trembling hand, he smeared a bold ring of crimson around the faded image.

It was a gesture steeped in quiet despair—the only act left to him. To cling to a weathered face drawn in sap, and call it faith. To pray that the young prince yet lived, somewhere out there. That one day, they might bear witness to a great return.

A hard fruit crashed to the ground, splitting in two with a sharp crack.

“So that means he’s still alive, doesn’t it?”
Kovu’s voice floated lazily in the air, his mocking tone cutting sharp as thorn.
“You do realise he wouldn’t be that size yet, even if he was alive?”

He gave the bark a passing glance. The old mandrill had daubed a full red mane across the lion’s head—lush and grown. Three more years, at least, before that pretty kitty might look like that.
The thought made him chuckle.

Rafiki shot him a stony glare.

“You’ve seen what you came for. I’ve nothing else to say to you.”

“Seems like I’ll just have to find him myself.”

He turned to leave, but a sudden gust stirred the dust, sending it straight into his face. Kovu jerked his head to the side, blinking furiously. His eyes stung; a few involuntary tears escaped and clung to his cheek.

He raised a paw to wipe them, and opened his eyes—only to find a pair of large yellow orbs staring straight at him.

Rafiki loomed close, his expression unreadable, wild eyes flickering as though seeing through him. He reached into Kovu’s dark mane, pulled out a small cluster of alfalfa seeds, and raised them to his nose, inhaling deeply again and again.

Kovu scowled. The old baboon had clearly lost his mind. He shouldn’t have come here, he told himself. Shouldn’t have expected anything from this lunatic.

“Sim...ba...”

Kovu thought he’d misheard.

But Rafiki was still mumbling.

“Simba… Simba? He’s alive…”

The mandrill’s eyes grew wide. His long, gaunt face lit with wonder—real wonder.
Before, it had been prayer. A hope scraped from distant stars. But now—now, he was sure.

That scent didn’t lie. It had come from the missing prince.

But the old mandrill’s heart soon sank.

Kovu’s sudden appearance—carrying Simba’s scent, standing here before him—was he here to declare the boy had fallen into his claws? Or perhaps… that it was already too late. 

Had he come merely to gloat? 

With the king’s greatest threat removed, Kovu stood a real chance of surpassing his brother—of rising as the kingdom’s next ruler.

And now this—was he here to secure the old mandrill’s allegiance in advance? To have him bow early to a new master?

“Not bad, old fellow. I thought that nose of yours had gone dull.”

Rafiki crushed the alfalfa seeds to dust between his fingers.

“Where is Simba?”

“You’re asking me?” Kovu chuckled. “I thought I was the one asking questions here.”

Rafiki did not argue. He cut straight to the heart of it.

“You’ve found him, haven’t you? What are you going to do? Deliver him to Scar?”

“Hmm…” The young lion gave a knowing smile. “That depends… on your attitude.”

The mandrill leaned in slightly. Every wrinkle on his face trembled with dread.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, surely you can think of something. Aren’t you the wise one who talks to clouds and bones?” Kovu smirked. “Scar’s grown rather fond of such ramblings lately. If you happened to whisper the sort of things he wants to believe…”

“You mean the sort of things you want him to believe.”

“Wow. Sharp as ever. I knew I came to the right tree.”

Rafiki peered into the lion’s eyes. Still. Utterly still. Like a pond suffocated in duckweed—no current, no ripple, no sign of life beneath.

“What if …”

“…you don’t play along—yes, yes, I know you’re about to say that.” Kovu cut in sharply. “Or if you whisper something in our good king’s ear— certain charming little secrets of mine… hoping he’ll do the dirty work and clear the path for your lost prince…”

His voice dipped into a rasping growl, barely above a whisper.

“Then I swear to you, old monkey, as long as there’s breath in my body—I’ll see to it you get his hide, peeled clean, and laid at your feet. You can count the mane yourself… and see just how much of him there really was.”

He unsheathed a claw and slashed clean through the bark painting.

“That, I can promise you, will be nowhere near as much as you were hoping for.”

The sun blazed overhead, but Rafiki shuddered all the same. His fingers tightened around his staff as though without it, he might collapse entirely.

The black-maned lion turned to leave. Rafiki opened his mouth to speak—but the other was quicker.

“Oh—shall I pass along your regards?” Kovu called over his shoulder, voice light and laced with malice. “Perhaps our little Simba still remembers you.”

And with that, he was gone—never once looking back—leaving Rafiki rooted to the spot, alone.

Kovu was in a fine mood. Everything was going according to plan. That old monkey, however reluctant, would have no choice but to play along—unless, of course, he no longer cared whether Simba lived or died.
Not that Kovu had any intention of handing the little one over just yet. He wanted to see him a few more times.

This part of the plan needn’t reach Rafiki’s ears for now. Kovu didn’t trust that old mystic—not entirely. Better to wait and see just how far he was willing to go.

Omens and visions, dreams clung to mist and starlight—he held such things in disdain. To him, they were little more than mirages, hope planted in air and expected to bear fruit. This arrogance, too, was Scar’s legacy.

Yet with time, the king had begun to deny the lion he once was. Perhaps it was the slow ebb of vitality that he could no longer ignore. Or perhaps it was Kovu—young, strong, forever circling near—that soured his temper.

The boy was always obliging, always eager to please, but Scar had long since grown weary of that simpering deference, of those eyes that held not a flicker of truth. And now, to expect honesty from Kovu—it was ridiculous.

So Scar turned instead to forces beyond nature. Be it failing body or hollow soul—surely, there remained some hidden means of turning the tide.

Kovu left the borders of the Pride Land behind, the baobab tree now no more than a dot on the horizon.
He leapt into the rushing river, springing deftly across the backs of the crocodiles to reach the far bank.
The hard-shelled brutes did little but gape stupidly, flinging mud in his wake.
Kovu snorted in distaste and picked up speed across the open grassland.

The river twisted onward, threading through pockets of dense underbrush before spilling into a vast lake.
He listened to the soft thud of his pads on the dry leaves, breathed in the forest’s crisp scent—sharp and clean, washing away the dryness the savannah had left behind.

It had taken him less than half a day to return—thanks, in no small part, to Simba.
The little cub and his odd friends had no idea that their carefully chosen new home lay less than thirty kilometres from Pride Rock.

All that sneaking and circling around—one might think it had been fate, drawing them toward him.

Kovu climbed onto a sun-warmed rock and lay sprawled beneath the gentler evening light.
It wrapped around his body like mist, soft and dreamlike.

Tomorrow—
the thought brought a smile to his face as he closed his eyes in contentment—
Tomorrow, I’ll be seeing that little thing again.

Chapter Text

Kovu had dozed off again the moment he closed his eyes. The back-and-forth over the past few days had worn him out more than he’d realised. By the time he woke, night had already crept in on silent paws.

He rolled to his feet and stretched, limbs long and languid.

Time to find something to eat. Surely this forest wouldn’t disappoint him.

When it came to hunting, water was always a safe bet. The jungle was dotted with pools and streams of all sizes, and with a bit of sniffing, Kovu could always find the largest one. Prey liked to gather there—lots of prey.

Of course, they also came with sharper senses. Especially after dark, when danger slithered through every shadow.

If he blundered around like that little hairball, stomping straight into a guineafowl’s nest—well, one screech from those walking alarms and dinner would be off the table. But Kovu didn’t make rookie mistakes. The night was his ally. He moved through the uneven terrain like smoke, silent and sure, closing in on his target.

That was when he noticed—he was being followed. Again.

Kovu didn’t stop. He just smiled to himself. This jungle must be in love with him. Every time he came back, it gifted him another pair of curious eyes.

The breeze shifted against his coat. Wind direction was changing—soon, he’d be standing right upwind. Not ideal. Whoever was trailing him was sneaky—no scent, no sound.

But ahead, he caught the murmur of water and the faint tread of hooves.

Perfect.

First, he’d need to deal with the little tail behind him. Otherwise, the hunt wouldn’t go nearly as well as it should.

Simba hadn’t meant to follow him—honestly, he hadn’t.

He’d just been wandering through the hills when he noticed a few familiar paw prints. Some moss on a nearby rock had been scraped clean, the telltale marks of a large predator sharpening its claws.

Simba puffed up with pride. His instincts were spot on. He hadn’t expected Kovu to turn up so soon—it was perfect. The last ambush had gone embarrassingly wrong, and he’d been stewing about it ever since. This time, he’d settle the score.

He studied the trail closely. Kovu had left barely a trace; Simba could only follow by scent now. That meant keeping close without making a sound—a nerve-wracking game of tag that left him panting by the time the pace began to ease.

Holding his breath, Simba crept forward.

There—he caught sight of that dark, muscled form shifting between the shadows. Then it froze. Kovu’s ears pricked high and angled outward, as if picking something up. Simba dropped flat at once, barely daring to breathe.

He shouldn’t have been noticed. He’d only dared to close the gap when the wind changed. He’d stepped lightly. No way Kovu could’ve heard him.

Then came the sharp clatter of hooves on riverstone. Both lions turned toward the sound. A small group of red forest duikers was drinking at the water’s edge.

Simba let out a breath of relief. So that’s what had caught Kovu’s attention—he was picking a target.

That meant there was still time—barely. He had to make his move before the hunt began; the last thing he wanted was to ruin it.

He drew his gaze back—only to find Kovu had vanished.

The leaves were still quivering from where he’d passed, but the lion himself was gone.

Simba’s first instinct was to look up. He reared onto his hind legs and braced against a tree trunk—he’d been caught out from above more than once now—but the trees here were tall and smooth, with no branches for ten metres. Nothing could be hiding there.

He dropped back to the ground with a sigh, amber eyes scanning the hushed forest.
But then the wind shifted—again.
And the moment that scent hit his nose, Simba knew he was too late.

He spun around—and found himself staring into a pair of deep, emerald eyes.

“Looking for me?” Kovu said softly, with a smile.

Simba's ears drooped, his frustration plain.
Caught again.
He hadn’t even heard Kovu slip to his back.

“Why do you always pull a face when you see me?” the dark-maned lion teased, brushing his forehead gently against Simba’s.
“You do know I come running every chance I get… don’t you?”

The cub’s pout stayed firmly in place—probably over something silly—but his eyes gave him away completely.
Bright and shining, they told Kovu everything:
He was just as glad to see him.

“Don’t feel too bad—you actually did a pretty good job.” Kovu said.

Simba assumed he was just being polite.

“But you still caught me.”

Kovu chuckled.
“What, do you think I’m that blind—or you’re that sneaky? If I let a kitty trail me halfway down a mountain and didn’t notice, I’d be hopeless.”

Simba’s pout deepened. Honestly, he preferred the fake compliments.

“I could teach you, if you want.”

Simba eyed that half-smile warily. He had a feeling Kovu wasn’t offering out of pure goodwill.

“You showed up at a good time,” Kovu went on. “You know what this place is, right?”

A few lowland bongos had stepped out onto the riverbank, their pale stripes gleaming under the moonlight—like zebras drawn in reverse.

Clearly, this was a favourite watering hole. Simba said nothing, though. No way he was going to compliment Kovu’s hunting instincts out loud.

“Come on,” Kovu whispered, eyes fixed on the herd.
“Let the master show you how it’s done.”

After a round of ‘instruction’, Simba now lay flat on his belly, practically pressed into the earth. He looked slightly ridiculous—like some clumsy little lizard with his limbs all over the place.

Kovu gave a soft sigh.
“You don’t have to copy me exactly. Just move the way you’re used to.”

Some things, he figured, were better taught in action.

Kovu lowered himself beside Simba, signalling him to follow.

Simba held his breath, tuning in to every sound of the forest around them. But his eyes kept flicking toward the lion at his side.

Kovu’s body was taut with focus, yet his movements remained smooth, fluid—like moonlight gliding through leaves. He didn’t just move through the jungle; he belonged to it, like he was made of its shadows and silver light.

“Eyes forward,” came the quiet whisper.

Simba flinched.
He’d only been sneaking the occasional glance! And Kovu was half a body’s length ahead—how could he possibly know?

“You’ll get your fill later... if you don’t blow our cover first.

Simba felt he ought to say something—explain, maybe.
That he was only studying the master’s movements. Nothing else.

But before he could think of any proper excuse, Kovu paused, letting Simba catch up, and the two of them settled shoulder to shoulder in the grass.

This was the perfect vantage point—just short of the open bank. With the moon shining ahead of them, their shadows wouldn’t give them away. Through the curtain of narrow-leaved shrubs, the scene by the water stretched out before them.

“What do you think?” Kovu whispered.

“You’re asking me?”

Simba blinked fast and scanned the drinking herd.
The tall, striped bongos stood in clusters—some old, sick, or weak among them. But their massive spiral horns were no joke.
The red forest duikers were smaller, meeker, and posed less risk—but only two were drinking, and they were already on edge.

“That one.” Simba said, tilting his chin toward the nearest male duiker.

“Really?” Kovu smirked. “Didn’t think you’d go for something so... easy.”

Simba grinned. “Didn’t want you to mess up your demo. I was being considerate.”

“Nice try. I’m not so easily taunted, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Kovu’s eyes darkened slightly. Then he locked his gaze on the biggest bongo in the herd.

“Alright then. That one.” 

“Yes! Now we’re talking!”

Kovu shot him a sideways glare.
“Quiet! You just stay here and bid it a silent goodbye.”

“Aww, come on. Can’t I do anything?”

Kovu had already taken two steps before pausing again, glancing back at the cub’s hopeful, slightly tense face.

“I usually hunt alone.”

Simba scowled. “What kind of lion are you?”

Kovu rolled his eyes, very subtly.
He was starting to regret bringing this cub along.
What a handful.

"Alright... alright, let me think…"

Kovu quickly scanned the terrain and the position of the herd. A hunting strategy formed in his mind almost instantly—it was a bit rough, he hadn’t done coordinated hunts in a while, but he trusted his skills to patch up any gaps.

“You go down to that spot, behind those leaves,” he instructed softly. The cub listened with rapt attention. “I’ll take position beneath that tree. Once I find the right angle, you drive the herd downstream. I’ll time my strike based on your movement. Sounds easy enough, right?”

Simba tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Will you give me a signal?”

“A signal? How am I supposed to do that from that far away?”

“Then how will I know—”

“Use your eyes. Use your ears. You did just fine a moment ago.”

Kovu leaned in close, their foreheads nearly touching. Beneath the night sky, his amber eyes shimmered with soft golden flecks.

“You seem awfully good at watching me, anyway… aren’t you?”

His words rippled with quiet amusement, and Simba’s face—so full of telltale cracks it might as well be a rain-swollen thicket—betrayed every heartbeat pounding beneath.

All this... just for a hunt? Was the kitty always this easily flustered?

The cub seemed overwhelmed by his gaze, turning his head awkwardly and giving a hasty nod.
Kovu chuckled under his breath, then slipped into the cover of the forest and darted toward the beech tree.

His target: the lead bongo bull. A big one, with an impressive rack of horns. Normally, he wouldn’t go for something this troublesome—it wasn’t that he couldn’t catch it, just that it wasn’t worth the risk or effort.
But tonight, with that little tail wagging behind him, Kovu’s urge to show off was reaching its peak.

Maybe taunts didn’t work on him, but Simba sure did.

He reached his ambush point swiftly. From his vantage, he could just make out a flicker of russet mane shifting in the shadows.
Simba probably couldn’t see him at all—his coat of dark browns and blacks blended perfectly into the gloom. Three metres out, and he was no more than shadow.
Kovu didn’t dwell on that. He focused on the herd.

Most had finished drinking and looked ready to move back into the forest. The lead bull kept a wary eye on the treeline, its steps slow, deliberate.

Slow—
But closing in.

Five metres.
Three.

Two—

Now!

That flash of gold burst from the undergrowth like a thought brought to life, a strike signal made flesh.

The herd scattered. The bongo stumbled right into his trap. Kovu lunged to cut it off, forcing it toward the riverbank. Before it could leap into the water, he hooked its hind leg with a swipe and sent it crashing down.

The beast thrashed, fighting to rise again, but the pebbles underfoot robbed it of speed. One misstep on slick moss sent it careening sideways—and Kovu seized the opening.

He leapt. Landed hard on its back.

The horns flailed wildly, trying to dislodge him. But he clung on with an impossible angle, claws buried deep in the coarse hide.

Now it was a contest of endurance.
As long as he didn’t fall, those horns wouldn’t touch him.

What he didn’t expect was Simba.

The cub sprang in, tearing at the bongo’s hind legs and flanks. He dodged the hooves nimbly, raking bloody gashes beneath the belly. The bongo faltered fast, its heavy frame collapsing under exhaustion.

Kovu was on it in a flash, locking his jaws around the throat, pinning the skull beneath his forepaws to nullify any last resistance.

Simba joined him a second later, clamping his jaws over the snout, silencing the final, trembling breath.

Only the murmur of the river remained, broken now and then by the bongo’s shuddering limbs knocking against the stones—and by the sound of their ragged breathing, the drumming of their wild hearts.

The scent of blood, rich and warm, flooded Kovu’s muzzle, seeping between his teeth and curling through the air.

Simba had to smell it too. He’d tasted it—how else could his amber eyes burn so brightly, setting fire to the hush of the jungle night?

The prey was dying. The tremors beneath their paws were fading. Life was slipping away, flowing into them. Their heartbeats were carrying it forward.

Kovu stared into the blaze of gold and red. When that gleam of bloodlust flashed through the cub’s eyes, every hair on his body thrilled. Every muscle shook.

Simba felt it. That final breath, pushed past his fangs.

He stared at the bongo’s eyes, unmoving, until the light drained from them and left behind a dull, lifeless grey.

Those emerald eyes had never once strayed from his face—wild and fevered, as if the kill they'd shared had passed straight from its torn throat into his own.

Kovu let go of the prey’s throat. Blood trickled from his jaw, slipping from his fangs, falling in slow, heavy drops—
—each arc stretched into slow motion, seared into Simba’s gaze like he was watching a dream that wouldn’t end.

All at once, Simba couldn’t take it anymore.
He could no longer beat the crimson to sting only his eyes—
He wanted to taste its sweetness on his tongue,
To hear its rhythm slipping down his throat.

He leaned in and gave a single, quiet lick at the corner of Kovu’s muzzle.
Just once.
Stealing the drop he craved, and letting it glide down, slow and warm, lingering on the back of his tongue.

Kovu only eyed him, wearing that almost-smile.

He leaned his forehead gently against Simba’s, letting their breaths crash together, tangled and hot.

Exhausted muscles, nerves still buzzing, and that… that little kiss that had brushed his cheek—

Kovu curled his lips into a sly, private grin.

Anyone watching might’ve thought they’d just finished something else entirely.

He never knew a good hunt could feel like this. And clearly, the little kitty was feeling it too—his glowing amber eyes kept darting to him, then shyly glancing away… only to peek again.

Maybe hunting together wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

It just depended on the partner.

He nudged Simba’s little head with the tip of his nose.

“So… do you think we’re at…” he murmured, tongue flicking across Simba’s cheek, “… that stage now?”

The cub jerked his head away at once, but Kovu caught his forepaw and pulled him gently back.

“You did good today, Simba.”
He didn’t linger on that question. If the cub wanted to get all flustered about it, so be it—he wasn’t in a hurry for an answer.

“How’d you know when to jump in?”

Simba clearly cared about the praise—his beautiful amber eyes lit up, sparkling with excitement.

“Gut feeling!”

Kovu gave a low hum. “Not bad… though I thought you might say something a bit sweeter. Like…”

He let the words trail off, savouring the look of curiosity on Simba’s face.

“…you just knew what I was thinking.”

But this time, Simba wasn’t taking the bait.

“Please. Your thoughts aren’t that mysterious. You were hunting. It’s not like I’ve never been taught.”

Kovu scoffed, mock-offended.
“Well, someone’s getting cocky. Next time I’ll let you do it all on your own—let’s see what you catch without me.”

Enough talk. The adrenaline had ebbed, and in its place surged a more primitive urge—hunger.

Kovu turned and walked toward their kill.

He lowered himself and tore into the flesh at the base of the hind leg, peeling back the skin to expose the belly. The thick skin split open with a wet sound, spilling warm entrails onto the grass, painting the earth a vivid red.

He heard Simba approaching, but didn’t look up—he was busy tearing a strip of flesh from the bongo’s thigh, working the muscle into bite-sized chunks with mechanical precision.

The cub began gnawing clumsily at the hide, tugging with teeth and claws until he managed to rip open a small tear. It had taken him far too long, and he was already growing impatient. His gaze flicked to the juicy haunch Kovu held between his jaws.

“If you want some, get your own.” came the elder lion’s calm warning, barely glancing his way.

But Simba didn’t seem to hear it—or chose not to.
His eyes were locked on that glistening, tender piece of meat, twitching with every movement, gleaming like it was still alive.
Just a mouthful… he thought, edging closer.
What harm could it do?

The moment he sank his teeth into the meat, a low growl rumbled above his head.
A second warning.

But Simba didn’t understand the weight behind it.

No one had ever challenged him over food before. He’d always been free to pick at whatever part he liked. His mother used to tear the soft organs for him, place the fattiest cuts right at his paws.

Maybe it was the long absence from fresh meat—whatever the reason, Simba wasn’t about to let that prize slip away.
He growled back, a young, determined sound, unrefined but full of stubborn fire. He even reached with a paw, tugging harder, trying to take more.

And in that moment—
He paid the price for his ignorance.

Kovu bared his teeth with a snarl, a forepaw slamming into the ground so hard it carved out a pit—just inches from Simba’s head.
But the cub still didn’t let go.
Another strike came down.
This time, his claws raked across Simba’s shoulder, leaving a pale scratch just shy of drawing blood.

It wasn’t until Kovu lunged a third time that Simba finally backed off—but by then, the black lion’s patience had snapped.
With a low, furious growl, Kovu pounced, knocking him onto his back and clamping his fangs around the skin at Simba’s neck and shoulders. The roars crashing through the cub’s ears sounded like thunder.
Simba lay stunned, his mouth hanging open, legs splayed, and paws instinctively rising to shield his head.

“I did warn you, didn’t I?”

Kovu tapped his cheek—not hard, but enough to make his point. His emerald eyes, half-veiled in shadow, burned like twin ghost-lights.

“I’m the one in charge, got it? Don’t test me unless you’ve got the bite to match, kitty.”

He turned to glance at the bongo’s belly, where a few ragged tears gaped crookedly across the hide.
How had this little idiot survived this long when he didn’t even know how to eat properly?

With a sigh of exasperation, Kovu sank his teeth into the creature’s side.
A sharp crack of splintering bone rang out—several ribs snapping in clean succession. The belly caved in at once, collapsing over itself. A few more rough tugs, and the whole abdominal wall split wide open.
The rich scent of fresh entrails spilled into the air.

Then Kovu returned to his place and calmly resumed gnawing on the bongo’s haunch.

Simba watched the black lion, unsure what he was allowed to do now. But the pull of blood and offal was too strong.
Summoning his nerve, he darted forward and buried his head in the carcass, yanking out the heart and liver in a single motion before bolting all the way to the riverside. Only there did he begin devouring his prize, one frantic bite after another.

Kovu gnawed lazily on the bongo’s haunch, idly noting how the little one sure had an eye for the best cuts.
Not that he minded. If anything, He’d been more than generous tonight.
Normally, he was the one doing the stealing, and offenders didn’t deserve a warning.
Anyone who tried challenging him… didn’t get a second chance.

Given his appetite—even with Simba’s thrown in—taking down something this big was a little excessive. Kovu kicked aside the leftover bongo leg bone and stretched out in the riverside grass, lazily licking his paw with half-lidded eyes.

He heard soft clicks of paw pads on pebbles, but didn’t look up.

Something nudged his head. A faint purring followed.

But Kovu went on licking his paw.

He would never be the first to lower his head—that was the rule. Right now, he held the upper ground, and he wasn’t ready to give it up.

Simba’s first attempt at affection was met with silence. His ears flattened, tail twitching between his legs in a narrow sway. He wasn’t used to this. He didn’t know what to do.

So he tried again, awkwardly, pushing his little head against the other’s with a repeat of the gesture—hoping, foolishly, for any sort of response.

This time, Kovu did pause. He turned his head, looked at him—

And Simba instantly took two steps back, lowering his head, and turned his eyes way.

He stood at an awkward distance: too far to feel close, too close to pretend he wasn’t trying.

“Come here.”

Kovu’s voice was even, smooth as still water.

Simba stepped forward hesitantly, still avoiding his gaze, and rested his forehead against the side of Kovu’s face.

He wanted to do more. Anything to soften the silence. He hesitated. Struggled. And finally, quickly, licked the corner of Kovu’s eye.

To his surprise, Kovu didn’t move away. He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t stop him, either.

Something in Simba stirred—a timid joy, maybe. A silent permission.

Encouraged, he began to groom the dark mane, cleaning away dried flecks of blood with small, careful strokes.

It didn’t stay one-sided for long. Kovu's paw found his shoulder and gently pulled him down into the soft grass beside him.

“Learned your lesson?”

Kovu’s voice was low, rough with a lazy rumble as it brushed against his ear. Simba stared at the tip of his damp nose and gave a small nod.

“Good. Now… mind lifting your head a little?”

Simba kept it low, stubborn. But Kovu’s paw came under his chin, tilting it gently until their eyes met.

“Didn’t I say you’d get your fill? So drink it in, kitty. I’m right here.”

Simba tried to pull away, but Kovu’s paw held firm. His lips drooped into a reluctant, moon-sliver pout.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His mouth said one thing, but his eyes betrayed him—bold and unblinking, tracing the curve of Kovu’s cheek, the tiny, fading scars in his deep brown fur. For a lion his age, those marks were nothing.

Nothing compared to the quiet shimmer in those emerald pools.

Simba wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. He was simply—utterly—absorbed, tracing every flicker in those eyes, watching for even the faintest ripple, unwilling to let a single glimmer escape him.

Simba didn’t know how he looked just now, but Kovu did. He saw his own face reflected in those fiery amber eyes, so still that if time stopped, they might turn to true amber and trap him there forever.

“Simba, there’s something I want to ask you…”

That stare flickered, gentle as resin gliding down tree bark—fragrant, golden, painfully beautiful.
It was breathtaking, dangerous in its stillness, luring him into discarding all reason, into voicing his desire without restraint.

Kovu leaned in. Slowly. Their foreheads pressed close.

Simba’s heartbeat was racing again, thudding like summer rain against a wide, open lake.

“I wanted to ask… do you think we…”

He swallowed, noiselessly. The green in his eyes trembled; the light within them shifted, subtly.

“…do you think the prey we caught today tasted any good?”

Simba’s eyes flew wide, stunned—his mouth even parting in a small, breathless gap.

Kovu pressed one ear against the cub’s chest, then raised his head with a mischievous smirk.

“Your little heart’s pounding like… mad,” he teased, slipping back into that familiar, easy tone of his. “What did you think I was going to say?”

Realisation dawned at last, and Simba flushed visibly—his skin blooming pink from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck, dusted in a soft golden hue.

“Go away,” he grumbled, shoving Kovu’s grinning face with a sulky paw. “I’m going home.”

He turned to push into the underbrush, but Kovu darted ahead to block him.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said quietly, his voice subdued, almost reluctant. “And I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to come back.”

Simba immediately forgot all about being teased.

“Where are you going?”

His eyes grew wide again, with all innocence and faint distress making Kovu want to groan. He bumped their heads together and gave the cub’s ear a soft nip.

“Don’t look at me like that… I will come back for you.”

He licked the dark edges of Simba’s ear, feeling how the small head nudging deep into his mane with extra force—such a desperately lonely kitty. 

Simba didn’t have to say anything. When he felt wronged, his eyes drooped at the corners, and his mouth turned into a crumpled, sulky line—no one could look at that face and say no.

“Seriously, don’t look at me like that,” Kovu muttered, meeting those amber eyes.
“How am I supposed to leave you like this?”

When he lay down again in the thick grass, Simba’s head was on his back.

“Won’t your friends come searching all over for you?”

Simba gave a listless flick of his paw through Kovu’s mane. His voice was dry.
“I’ll be back before they wake up.”

“Mmh, I like the sound of that.”

Kovu murmured, settling onto his side. Maybe it was something about being near Simba—this place felt safe, more solid somehow. And lying like this, he could hold that small body close and feel better for it.

“Sounds like sneaking out behind your parents’ back to meet your—”

He stopped himself. That wasn’t like him. The old Kovu would’ve finished the line without a second thought, just to see Simba’s flustered little face. But now…

Now he looked down at the quiet cub in his arms, and the words caught in his throat.

Not yet.

“Nothing.”

He draped a paw over Simba’s face and whispered,

“Close your eyes.”

A breath. A pause. And then—

“Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Those at the centre of power in the Pride Land rarely strayed far from it.
But Kovu had always been the exception.

He’d never seen the point in orbiting Scar like some desperate moon. The old lion had no shortage of sycophants licking at his heels.

Kovu loitered along the outer edges of the Pride Land, dragging out the journey home for as long as he could. The cool evening breeze slipped over the grassland, rustling through his mane and carrying off the scent that didn’t belong to it.

He drifted, mind elsewhere—and crossed into Nuka’s domain without realising.

But it wasn’t Nuka who came to greet him.

“Well, this is rare. Didn’t think I’d find you out here.”

Kovu’s eyes twitched, almost imperceptibly.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” He tilted his head slightly, a smile tugging at his lips as he recognised the lioness before him.
“Sis.”

Vitani stepped from the tall grass. She clearly didn’t appreciate the affectionate tone—her brows knitted in faint distaste.

“Did you eat something bad?”

“Well, that's cold.”

Kovu pulled a mock-pout and fell into step beside her.

“Nuka’ll throw a fit if he finds you here…”

“As if I’ve ever cared what he thinks? He’s never shown me anything but his teeth.”

He didn’t seem to mind. And truth be told, he hadn’t meant to pass this way—but if it happened to rile his idiot brother, well… that was a bonus, not a bother.

Vitani minded even less. She gave a shrug and moved on.
“Drop it. I said nothing.”

“What else I should know?”

“Don’t take that tone with me. I’m not some messenger crow.”
Her voice snapped sharp enough to startle two ground squirrels into their burrows.

“The King asked after you yesterday. Said you’ve been taking your time a little too generously. He’s not pleased.”
She didn’t sound pleased either. Vitani hated playing errand girl.
“He wants to know when your assignment will finally see results.”

The King... Kovu rolled the title on his tongue like something sour.
“It's just us, Vitani. Do you have to call him that?”

She snorted. “Not everyone’s as bold as you—calling him by name like you’re untouchable.”

“The old bastard gets bored and starts inventing nonsense for me to chase.”
Kovu didn’t even try to hide his contempt—he couldn’t be bothered to call the King by name anymore.
“He has a bad dream, wakes up in sweat, and I’ll be the one sent to kill the ghost.”

“So… no results. Tell him yourself. I’m not part of this.”

Kovu cocked his head, grinning.
“Don’t speak too soon, sis.”

The lioness snapped her head around, shooting him a glare sharp enough to slice bark from a tree.
In adulthood, their size difference had grown more pronounced—beside Kovu’s frame, Vitani looked almost slight.
But her presence didn’t yield an inch.
And from what training had taught him, Kovu knew better than to think he’d come out ahead in a fight.

“Don’t stir up trouble. I’ve got enough of it already.”

“Oh? If something’s weighing you down, I’d be happy to help.”

Kovu was still grinning, clearly savouring this little display of sibling warmth. But he’d never been the cuddly sort—when he did turn on the charm, it was usually in much stranger circumstances. Over time, every well-practised gesture and honeyed word of his had begun to rot, cloying and false to the core.

Vitani’s disgusted expression said she wasn’t buying it.

He sighed, faintly amused. This sort of thing always came easier to Simba. That kitty had a gift for feigning innocence Kovu couldn’t replicate.

“Alright then. Let’s be serious—what’s got you all knotted up?”

The grin fell from his face in an instant. His expression turned hollow, lifeless, and even his voice dropped into shadow.

Vitani, oddly enough, seemed to ease at that.
This was the Kovu she recognised.

“A new pack of wild dogs turned up on Nuka’s patch. They've already clashed with the hyenas a few times. So the morons went running to Scar, whining that the dogs are stealing their hunting ground.”

Kovu lifted his head, gazing out at the dark, seething mass of hooves in the distance.

“You mean that lot—the wildebeest and the buffalo?”

Vitani nodded.

“And they’re worried about a few pups stealing their prey?”

“That’s what I said. Not that anyone cares.” She gave another of her habitual shrugs.
“Scar’s already approved—Nuka’s taking his lovely crew out to drive them off.”

“So it’s handled. What’s it got to do with you?”

“It will be handled, but I don’t like how Nuka’s going about it.
He never reins in the hyenas—they’ve already wasted too many grazers as it is.”

Kovu’s eyes lit with understanding.

“You’re having another of your soft-hearted moments, aren’t you? You really ought to fix that.”

Vitani clicked her tongue in irritation. She was long past correcting Kovu for calling her decency a defect—it happened too often to count.

“I said I’d try to get the dogs to move elsewhere…”
Her voice trailed off, doubt creeping in.
“You know it won’t just be a ‘relocation’ if Nuka and hyenas get there first.”

“Oh…let me guess—they’ve got pups.”

“Eight. Barely a month old. I checked myself.”

“Ha! Dropping litters on someone else’s land—gotta admire the nerve.”

Vitani sighed heavily.

“Kovu… the hyenas won’t let them walk away.”

“So you’re asking Nuka to stall so you can smuggle the mutts out quietly?” Kovu scoffed.
“You really do love making life difficult for yourself, sis.”

Vitani lunged at him in frustration. Kovu threw up a grin like a shield.

“Hey! I thought you wanted my help—why so touchy?”

Vitani muttered inwardly that she never actually asked for help. But thinking of her own limits, she hesitated—then pushed out something halfway passable:

“Fine. What hare-brained idea have you got?”

“Simple. Let them stay on my turf. I don’t mind a few extra mouths helping clear out the grass rats.”

She eyed him with open suspicion. Since when was he this cooperative?

“So drop it. I’ll sort it out.”

Something’s off. Way off. Vitani was now absolutely certain he’d eaten something foul and it had gone straight to his brain.

“Your turf’s mostly muddy wallows overrun by hippos. There’s half as much prey as here. You think they’ll just go along with that?”

“If they won’t, let them rot where they are. I’d like to think they’ve got more sense than that.”

He said it like he was commenting on the weather—not the fate of a whole pack and their young.

A chill ran down Vitani’s spine.

Her brother never did good deeds without reason—especially not ones that risked upsetting multiple groups at once.
Scar would question his authority.
Nuka would loathe him for stealing the spotlight.
And the hyenas… they already hated Kovu. This would only make things worse.

Which meant there could only be one explanation:
Whatever he stood to gain was worth more than all those losses combined.

“Spit it out, Kovu. What do you need me to do?”

But Kovu wore a look of mock injury, deep and theatrical.

“Oh, sis…my dear sis, why would you think so little of me? Can’t I simply want to help you for once?”

“Don’t play the saint.”

“I’m serious, Vitani.”

She stopped walking and turned.

The dusk had begun to blur the line between sky and soil.

“I just worry your kindness will be the end of you.”

In the weight of gathering shadow, his silhouette loomed tall—almost indistinct, as though it might not be him at all.

He stepped forward, lowered his head, and gently pressed his forehead to hers.

“You know what I mean, don’t you?”

There had never been a struggle for inheritance between them, and perhaps because of that, they rarely fought.
But tenderness was just as rare.

There had been a handful of moments—scattered and fleeting—when Vitani had risked punishment to defend her brother.
Some things, she simply couldn’t pretend not to see.

And Kovu, in turn, had offered little more than a curt “Thanks.”
It wasn’t ingratitude. He just seemed… dulled to most feelings, as though self-preservation had long since worn everything else away.

But now—now the shift in him was unmistakable.

Vitani could feel it, clear as air: something in his voice had held a rare kind of honesty.

She’d watched that face for years—watched it shape every kind of false smile, watched that tongue talk circles around the truth.
So she, more than anyone, could see it in his eyes now: the stillness, the weariness far too old for his age, the weight dragging his gaze to the ground.

These eyes… they weren’t lying to her.

For a long time, Kovu had been little better than a walking corpse.
Eventually, he became the corpse—the very image of it.
Every breath he took seemed to hang by a thread of pure hysteria, as if his reason might snap at any moment.

So what had changed?
What had pulled him back to the surface?

She thought, and thought again. And at last, she just said—

“Thanks.”

The warmth was real.
And so was the debt.

Vitani tucked it away silently, and let the moment pass, as slowly as it needed to.

The resettlement of the wild dogs was swift.
In that less fertile patch of land, the grass rats had dug a maze of tunnels beneath the earth—perfect for raising those newborn pups.

Peace returned to the savannah.
Though peace, as always, was both precious and short-lived.

Scar lounged sideways across his throne, listening lazily to Kovu’s report.
Solving problems without bloodshed was, of course, preferable.

Nuka stood nearby, seething, grinding his teeth.
Scar didn’t spare him so much as a glance.

Pathetic.

He’d passed that silent judgement countless times before—one more wouldn’t matter.

But then Kovu shifted tone, turning the spotlight on the hyenas, denouncing their unchecked slaughter of grazing animals on the open plains.

“I would advise intervention, Your Majesty. If left unchecked, we risk losing a significant portion of the herds when the next rains return.”

He never once mentioned his brother’s name.
But everyone knew exactly whose territory the hyenas hunted on.
To accuse them was to accuse Nuka—of negligence, of weakness.

Even Nuka, slow-witted as he could be, caught the barb.

But before he could muster a defence, the wild dogs’ matriarch stepped forward and took up Kovu’s side.
Visibly shaken, she gave a vivid account of the blood-soaked scenes her pack had witnessed.
She declared, trembling with anger, that they refused to live beside such beasts.

Kovu found their support unnecessary, perhaps even clumsy.
But these loyal little creatures seemed grateful for the protection—so he didn’t mind borrowing their fragile strength for a moment.

That night, five adult buffalo cows and four calves vanished from the herds.
Shenzi was left speechless.
No matter how she tried to twist the story, there was no way she could blame the diminutive wild dogs for such devastation.

And now even the lionesses began to stir.
Murmurs spread—quiet complaints, but multiplying.
The hyenas’ excessive killing had gone unchecked for far too long.

Even if the King wished to shield them, he could no longer avoid passing judgement.

Scar announced it idly, as if stating the weather:

“From now on, the hyenas are to keep out of the hunting grounds—except when sent for. That includes patrols.”

Then, almost as an afterthought:

“Nuka. You’ll be watching them.”

The scruffy-maned lion lowered his head, trembling, and muttered,

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

A sentence neither harsh nor merciful—yet the words echoed through the hollow chamber like a hammer against Nuka’s chest.

If there had been disappointment in the King’s voice—real, aching disappointment—
it might have meant something could still be salvaged.
That effort might still earn back a flicker of hope.

But there was nothing.
Just a cold, hollow warning.

Don’t let that boy catch you out again.

Pathetic.

Scar, once again—silently, mercilessly—passed judgement.

The King gave a sharp, irritable flick of his paw, dismissing the gathered animals with a glance.

Nuka dragged his feet at the back of the procession.
He could feel it—like cold water trickling down his spine.
The trust he had spent years building was slipping, fast, draining away from him… and straight into the hands of that mongrel.

He turned his face in scorn, glaring sidelong at the younger lion.
That brooding face, to him, looked like silent, smug triumph.

“Kovu. Stay.”

His brother halted. Visibly.
Something in his posture stiffened at once, as if the command had struck bone.

Nuka's lip curled into a crooked sneer.
He strode from the cave with a flick of his tail, and a flash of grim satisfaction.

That little bastard was bound to suffer.
Climbed too fast, stepping over him like he didn’t exist—serves him right.
Let him choke on that smugness now.
The King would never allow the balance to tip.
Just wait. He’s in for it today, that much is certain.

Their mother said something to comfort him—useless, fluttering words.
He replied with the barest effort, his mind elsewhere.
She still clung to that promise Scar had made, spoke of it like a sacred truth.
But Nuka had no such illusions. He knew full well that day might never come.

Below Pride Rock, the hyenas were gathering.
It seemed they were expecting him.

Perfect.
He had business with those dogs.

Kovu stared at the ground.
At his own claws.
At the lines they carved into the stone, and the beads of cold sweat that slid from his brow, vanishing into the grooves with a scatter of dust.

He no longer knew how many times he'd stood in this exact moment, cycling through it like a loop with no way out.
He had imagined breaking it, over and over.
He had imagined Scar’s death.

Erase the other end of the loop, and a single point couldn’t make a circle.

But the fantasy had long since dulled.
He didn’t believe in it anymore.

“Come now, child. Come to me.”

He told himself to endure a little longer.
He could take it.
He'd stopped feeling anything a long time ago.

And he thought of those golden-red eyes.
Of the little hope he kept buried in his chest.
He clutched it tightly, tried to draw strength from it like warmth from a fading ember.

Then why were his legs still shaking?
Why wouldn’t the sweat stop?
Why did his heart ache like the morning might never come?

Through the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow—Vitani, still pressed against the cave wall, the black stone looming around her like a coffin.
She looked even smaller than she was.

Why hadn’t she left? Didn’t she know what was about to happen? Was she really going to plead for him again? How many times had she been slapped across the face for it?

And yet, to his surprise—and yet not—she stepped forward.
Steady. Deliberate.

He turned on her with a jolt.

“Vitani…!”

He gritted the name through clenched teeth, a hoarse warning.

But another voice cut in.

“Your Majesty. You should rest.”

Both lions turned at once toward the voice.
The aged mandrill stood nearby, placing half a hollowed gourd before the throne—within, a thick red liquid shimmered faintly.
Scar leaned in to sip it, then collapsed back against the stone, boneless as a serpent coiled in wait.

Longevity. Strength. The common obsession of aging kings.
And beyond that—
The paths of stars, the shapes of drifting clouds, the sound of fallen leaves.
Everything—natural or otherwise—was summoned to patch the battered heart that still beat within his chest.

“Rafiki,” Scar murmured lazily, “tell me what you’ve seen.”

The mandrill dipped his head, leaning on his staff—yet his eyes flicked downward in a subtle flash.
Vitani caught it at once.

“Father,” she said quickly, “Kovu and I need to speak. It’s important.”

Scar gave a noncommittal grunt.
The young lioness wasted no time. She tugged her brother’s shoulder and guided him away, the two slipping off side by side.

Outside Pride Rock, all was still.
Night had long since fallen.
The hyenas, and Nuka, were nowhere to be seen.

Vitani trailed a few paces behind, eyes fixed on Kovu’s back.
He always walked like that—head lowered, face to the dust.
Because a submissive cub lived longer at Scar’s side.
And after all these days, it was as if he’d forgotten there was any other way to live.

She found herself thinking: he wasn’t so tall, after all.
Not really.
He stood in the hollow of that vast stone, buried in shadows thick as ash, and the dark pressed in from all sides—
leaving him just enough space to breathe.

No matter how much time passed, he was still that small, pale-brown ball of fluff in her memory.

“You’ve forgotten what I told you again, haven’t you?”

Kovu had settled at the foot of the rocky spire, gazing up at her with dull, clouded eyes.
He looked exhausted in a way that had no beginning and no end.

“Don’t do this, Vitani. I don’t want you getting killed over this.
No one’s worth that—not someone like I am.”

She sat beside him, silent, eyes lowered.

“You should think of it that way. After all this time, I may hate it, but I’m used to it by now.”

“Stop.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty. You couldn’t have changed it, any of it. Why torture yourself over something that was never in your paws?”

“I said stop.”

“Then why are you crying, Vitani?”

She blinked, startled.
Her cheeks were wet.
Tears streamed down her jaw, dripping into the stone beneath their paws, soaking the rock where they sat.

Her brother was staring at her—with an empty gaze, touched faintly by pity.
As if that pain wasn’t his to bear.
As if those tears weren’t shed for him.
As if his spirit had already left his battered body, hovering just above them, detached and weightless, coldly watching the soul still writhing in the dust.

She hated it.
She hated that this version of Kovu felt so far away.
And growing farther still.

So she did the only thing she knew how.

She pulled him into a tight, clumsy embrace.

“I’m sorry, Kovu. I’m so, so sorry…”

Her claws pressed into his stiffened frame.
Her tears soaked his dark mane.
Maybe, just maybe, they could slip into the cracks and soften the dry, dying heart within.

She heard him exhale—a long, trembling sigh.
And slowly, his muscles began to loosen.
His head dropped, resting limply against her narrow shoulder.

The sigh echoed in Vitani’s ears like a scream.
Sharp as a blade drawn through memory.
It sliced into her chest and rooted there, a pain she would carry in her sleep.

“Why are you apologising to me?”

Kovu gently pulled away, confusion furrowing his brow.
He looked at her tear-streaked face like it made no sense.
As if he couldn’t comprehend the sight of someone crying for him.

She stared back at him with the same look—
as if it made no sense that his eyes stayed dry.

“All right, all right…” he mumbled, tentatively placing a paw over hers.
“You’d rather I didn’t lick those tears off, I suppose?”

“Ugh. Don’t be disgusting.”

She batted his paw aside and wiped her face with the fur of her leg, clumsy and rough.
Her eyes felt sore and swollen, but the world seemed sharper now, washed clean by tears.

Kovu turned to leave, and as he passed her, Vitani caught a whisper of a word—

“Thanks.”

Same as before. And yet not quite.

She couldn’t help but follow him.

“He’s dying, Kovu. Everyone knows it. Once he’s gone, everything will finally be right again, won’t it?”

Kovu said nothing. Didn’t even look her way.

Vitani pressed on.

“He’s grown tired of Nuka—that much is clear. There’s a good chance he’ll pass the throne to you. That’s what you’re thinking too, isn’t it? Plenty of lionesses believe that’s how it’ll end. And once you take the throne—”

“What if it isn’t me?”

She faltered. Her voice lost its edge.

“Even if… even if it’s Nuka, at least you won’t…”

“At least I won’t be like this?”
Kovu turned at last, that bitter smile bleeding across his face.
“No, I’ll be worse.”

“Why do you think he’s kept me so close? Hasn’t it been obvious? I’m the weapon he shaped with his own claws—he’s saving it for his favourite son.”

He held her gaze, unblinking.
“Do you really believe I’m his favourite?”

Vitani had no answer.

She hesitated. Something hardened in her expression. And then she asked again—

“What do you want me to do?”

Kovu shook his head. Still shaking it, stubborn to the point of absurdity.

“Vitani… don’t do this—”

“No. Don’t you do this. Don’t give me that look—like I’m meant to feel guilty, like I owe you something. Well done, Kovu. You’ve got what you wanted. So go on. Say it.”

He shut his eyes. Tight.

There was nothing he could say. Nothing he could look at.
Nothing he could do to make her believe—
That this, of all things, was the one place he wouldn’t use her.

Even closing his eyes felt like a game to her. Another move in a rigged little play.

How had it come to this?

A sudden rush of pawsteps broke the tension.

A young lioness—one of Vitani’s companions—came hurrying up, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Vitani… oh, Kovu, you’re here too. Good—no, I mean, it’s better this way. You both need to see this.”

When they arrived, several lionesses were already gathered, all loyal to Vitani.
“Look at this.” one of them said grimly.

The scent hit them before the sight did—blood, thick and metallic. The corpse of a wild dog lay in the grass, already drawing a swarm of flies.

Vitani’s eyes widened in shock.
“Who did this? Why would something like this happen now? The King just mediated a truce—why would it fall apart like this?”

“It wasn’t us,” one of the lionesses said quickly. She reached out with a paw, carefully brushing at the bloodied wound. “The marks here… they’re hard to make out, but we all thought the same thing—”

“Hyenas?”

The lionesses exchanged glances and nodded silently.

Vitani shook her head, stunned. “Those bastards… why would they—”

“It’s obvious.”
All heads turned to Kovu. His voice was flat, unreadable.

“Look where it happened. Whose territory this is.”

“They’re trying to pin it on you?” Vitani snapped, furious. “That’s insane! You’ve been with me this whole time—there’s no way you had the chance to—”

“Don’t be naive, Vitani,” Kovu cut in. “Those dogs are in my land. Even if I didn’t touch them, it’s still on me.”

His mind was already spinning, running through possibilities, discarding them just as fast. His gaze fell to the corpse.

“You need to get this cleaned up. Don’t let those dogs find it. If they come looking, stall them. Lie if you must—just keep them from knowing.”

He issued the orders low and firm, then flicked his tail toward Vitani, motioning her to follow him aside.

“You’re really going to help me?”

Vitani nodded.

“If I asked you to take on Nuka… would you still say yes?”

The lioness hesitated at once.
“He’s…”

Kovu’s gaze sharpened, hooking into hers like a claw.
“You really think the hyenas would dare provoke me like this without his blessing?”

Vitani frowned in thought. “That depends. How far are you planning to go?”

“Relax. If you want his life spared, I won’t argue.” His voice was icy. “What would I want with it anyway?”

“What are you thinking?”

Kovu’s tone grew darker.
“He must be racking his brains trying to squeeze something out of me. What do you think he’s after?”

Vitani took a moment, then her eyes widened.
“That runaway cub?”

“Exactly.” Kovu gave a low, twisted laugh. “I’d wager the hyenas fed him more than a few clues. He thinks he can beat me to that little kitty…”

“And you—”

“I already found him…”

Vitani stopped breathing.

“…and I found him dead.”

For once, it was a death she could almost call good news. She exhaled in quiet relief.

“Then all you need is proof. Show it to Scar and Nuka won’t be able to touch you.”

But Kovu shook his head.

“Not that simple. I said I’d spare him. I never said I’d make it easy.”

His eyes drifted again to the wild dog’s body, then slowly returned to hers.

“A corpse can be useful. You understand that, don’t you?”

This time, Vitani shook her head.
“Nuka’s not that dense. He’s not going to believe a random carcass is that cub—”

“Maybe. Depends if he wants to race me for it.” Kovu’s grin curled into something sharp and certain.
“If he stays out of it, no one gets hurt. We each get what we want.”

“But I don’t believe he will. And neither do you.”

He leaned in, voice low and slick as oil.

“Care to place a gamble, sis?”

Chapter Text

Simba pushed the rabbit fur and crushed bones into the pit, then filled it with a thick layer of soil.

His luck had been just as rotten today—every time he tried to make an ambush, he either stepped on a crisp leaf or knocked into a round stone. And those steenbok never offered a second chance. The more agitated he got, the sloppier his mistakes became.

He dragged over some fallen branches and clumsily covered the bare patch of earth.
Credit where it’s due: he had that unlucky leopard to thank. Simba had stumbled upon him just as the cat was hiding his kill. No matter how many times Simba tried to explain he wasn’t there to steal, the leopard only kept baring his fangs like mad.

It was a nuisance, but not a complete waste—Simba had at least picked up the trick of burying leftovers. That part was worth remembering.

He backed away from the “crime scene”, wiping away his pawprints as he went, already deciding he’d best avoid that leopard’s territory for the next few moons.

But once thoughts of timing slipped into his head, they were impossible to shake loose.

Ever since he'd started living with Timon and Pumbaa, he'd grown used to falling asleep under the stars. Which meant he knew, quite precisely—the moon had already been full once, and the next one was due in about seven days.

Kovu had never stayed away this long. Simba had searched all the places they’d been, over and over, combing through the familiar places until his paws were sore—but there was nothing. Not a trace. Not even the most seasoned hunter could vanish this cleanly.

He wasn’t coming. He might never come back.

This thought hung over Simba like a veil of clouds drawn across the moon—only, it wasn’t the right image. Clouds drifted on, eventually. This unease showed no sign of lifting.

Whatever promises had once been made, Simba knew deep down that Kovu had no obligation to keep them. He shouldn’t have clung to words tossed so carelessly into the air. That lion’s mouth was a tangle of honeyed lies, sweet as nectar from a pitcher plant—and he’d been the bug that flew straight in.

Kovu had said this place bored him, and that Simba was just company.

Maybe he’d found somewhere more entertaining by now, someone else to amuse him—and left Simba behind without so much as a backward glance.

And here he was, still thinking about him.

He felt like an utter fool.

The more he thought about it, the more his temper flared. The logic made perfect sense in his little lion brain—and that only made it worse.

He stormed through the underbrush, tail lashing violently, sending leaves and petals flying in every direction. Blossoms clung stubbornly to his fur, but he barely noticed. He leapt onto the clearing, gave himself a furious shake—as if that might fling the wretched lion out of his head for good.

“Where’ve you been off to this time?”

The warthog and meerkat had somehow materialised right in front of him.
Pumbaa looked thoroughly troubled, and Timon had his arms folded, deep in some unknown thought.

“Nowhere. Just wandering around,”
Simba mumbled, head drooping.
“I’m kinda tired. I think I’ll just—”

“Hold on. Not so fast.”
But the pair blocked his path.
“We need to talk, Simba.”

Simba yawned loudly, trying to wave them off.
“Does it have to be now?”

“Yes, now.”
Timon replied firmly. Once daylight broke, this kid could vanish to who-knows-where again, and finding him would be like chasing clouds.

Timon perched on the edge of a tree stump, his legs jittering. Pumbaa paced nearby, clearly uneasy. Simba sat in the grass opposite them, yawning his head off like the meeting was cutting into his nap time.

“So… wanna tell us what you’ve been up to lately?”

It sounded like this might take a while. Simba was genuinely tired, so he went straight for honesty.

“I’ve been hunting.”

His friends said nothing. That surprised him.

“You’re... not upset?”

The meerkat and warthog exchanged a glance.

“Well, if you think you need more... nutritions…”

“I love a slimy juicy grubs, but yeah, maybe they’re not quite enough for a growing lion…”

“We get it, Simba.” Timon wrung his tiny paws. “Just as long as you can promise—”

Simba scrunched up his face, rolling his eyes massively out of their sight.

“I promise! I’ve promised like a hundred times—I’m not gonna have a weird dream and wake up with you two in my mouth!”

They both exhaled in unison—such visible relief that Simba was thrown off.

“You really don’t mind?”

Timon spread his narrow arms.
“You really didn’t think we’d noticed?”
He gestured vaguely.
“You’ve been growing. A lot. Especially the mane.”

That, Simba had to admit—he hadn’t noticed. Hard to spot changes like that when you’re staring at your reflection in the same pond every day.

Pumbaa nodded so hard he looked like a woodpecker hammering bark.
“Simba, you could’ve just told us.”

The young lion blinked, unsure what to say.

What, then, was the point of all that careful burial work?

“So don’t feel pressured, okay? It’s just that—I have a suggestion—”

“A tiny suggestion!” Pumbaa chimed in at once.

“Exactly. Just a teeny-tiny tip. If you ever want to hide something…”

“Pick a better spot...”

“Somewhere even you can’t find it...”

An awkward silence settled over the forest clearing. Somewhere nearby, a spotted eagle-owl let out a nonchalant hoot.

Pumbaa’s tusks glinted under the moonlight. Simba stared at them, wide-eyed, too stunned to even blink.

“You guys…”

“We…”

Simba felt his heart sink.
“How long have you known?”

“Well…”

“Not that long…”

“Remember the time we were looking for that beetle—the shiny blue one…”

Simba groaned out loud.

“But that was ten days ago!”

Now he really felt like a idiot.
How could he have forgotten Pumbaa’s favourite hobby was rooting through dirt?

The two friends hurried to comfort him.

“It’s alright! Pumbaa finds all kinds of weird stuff underground.”

“I’m quite used to it!” the warthog beamed proudly.

“We just didn’t expect to dig up…”

Timon trailed off, mouth half open, struggling to describe the memory.
He quickly changed tack—

“You’re still practising, right? You’ll get the hang of it.”

“That’s right, Simba. One day you’ll catch something big—like, with horns and a face and everything!”

Simba started shaking his head—hard.
Again and again and again.

His brain felt waterlogged—no idea when the flood had started.

But one thing was certain:
He was never trying to be clever again.
Never.

“So that’s it then. We’re done here? Can I go to sleep now?”

He’d give anything to vanish right then—maybe find a hole and bury himself in it.
But Timon caught his tail.

“Not yet, junior.”

“What now?”

“Don’t you have anything else to tell us?”

Simba blinked innocently.
“Not really.”

“You need to cross two ridges just to hunt?”
Timon snapped, paws on his hips. He and Pumbaa knew that innocent face of Simba’s a little too well.
“What were you really out looking for?”

The warthog nudged him in the ribs, but Timon swatted his hoof away, mouthing I’ve got this.

Simba stiffened and stuck out his chin.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alright, alright.”
Timon didn’t press the point.
“Then let’s hear that roar again, Simba.”

“…What?!” Simba was suddenly wide awake.

“Yes, please!” Pumbaa started bouncing in place. “Come on, Simba, just one roar! That last one was amazing—I swear the whole jungle heard it! When did you get so scary? Those baboons haven’t been near the cricket field since! Oh, Simba…”

Simba looked extremely uncomfortable. “…But it’s late.”

“We’re allowed to be rude once in a while.”

“And we’ve got a lion on our side! No one’s messing with us tonight.”

Simba stood there, awkward and fidgety, under two very hopeful stares.
What was he supposed to do?

He had tried a few days ago—and still sounded like a wild cat with its tail stepped on.

In the end, he just muttered,

“…That wasn’t me.”

He stole a glance at them: Pumbaa’s jaw dropped like a stone. Clearly, he hadn’t seen that coming. Timon, on the other paw, just gave a slow blink. He probably had his suspicions for a while now.

“Was it that big guy?”

Pumbaa nearly launched himself into an old beech.
“Simba, was it him? Is he still here?! Are we in danger?! Should we run?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pumbaa.”
Timon rolled out his signature brand of disdain—the one reserved for every brainless thing the warthog had ever said.
“If that guy were still a threat, do you really think Simba’d let us hang out here?”

But Pumbaa still looked unconvinced.
“Simba… is this true?”

When Simba nodded, he gasped and clapped a hoof over his mouth.

“So you’ve been sneaking out to see him?”

Simba said nothing—but that said it all.

Pumbaa’s eyes darted this way and that, all sparkle and panic.
“Isn’t that kinda… Timon, don’t you think that’s kinda dang—”

“Of course it’s DANGEROUS!” 

Timon’s voice shot up an octave, making both of them jump.

“What is going on inside that fuzzy little head of yours, Simba?!”

“He wasn’t after you guys…”
Simba muttered, almost too low to hear, a quiet defence—for himself, and for Kovu.
“He came for…”

“He came for you, genius! What do you think I am, blind?”

“Please, Timon.”
Pumbaa clamped both hooves on his frantic friend and forced him back down onto the log.
“Don’t get so worked up.”

“I’m fine—fine, don’t touch me.”

The meerkat jerked away from his hoof, took several sharp breaths, and tried—tried—to calm himself.

Simba had his head drooped, mumbling under his breath as he absently scraped at the dirt with one paw—clearly more interested in anything but the lecture coming his way.

Timon could feel his temper bubbling up again.

Parenthood, it turned out, was a mug’s game. He really needed to reconsider his life choices.

“Listen, Simba.”
He did his best to not sound like a complete nag.
“We’re not just worried about our own safety—we’re worried about you, too. If you don’t know that lion, you shouldn’t be running off to see him. That beehive trick only bought us time. If something bad happened again… Pumbaa and I couldn’t help you.”

But the cub clearly wasn’t listening. He’d already torn up the patch of grass in front of him and dug halfway through a sand wasp’s nest. A few half-grown larvae were wriggling helplessly in the soil.

“Tell me honestly, how much do you actually know about that guy?”

Simba gave him a wide-eyed stare, all innocence and fluff.

“His name’s Kovu.”

“And?”

“…”

Timon stared back—eyes bulging so hard they almost escaped and made a dive for the larvae.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The way Simba tilted his head reminded him all the oh-so-lovely nights the kid used to wake them up every five minutes.

Just when he thought he’d seen it all…
Apparently, there was something more lovely in store. 

Pumbaa stepped in to smooth things over—his speciality.

“Aw, come on, Timon. We never told him much about us either. Hakuna Mat—”

“Don’t you dare Hakuna Matata me right now!” 

Timon shot up onto Pumbaa’s head and grabbed both of his big floppy ears like reins.

“I’m just saying, maybe Simba’s looking for someone to talk to…”

Timon was this close to stuffing the tree stump down his warthog friend’s mouth—there’s nothing worse than trying to scold a kid with someone else playing the sympathetic uncle. And what really got on his nerves? Simba was nodding along like it all made perfect sense.

“Exactly! I know what I’m doing. You’re both just overreacting. It was all a misunderstanding—he’s not that bad…”

Timon shot Pumbaa a glare so sharp it could have cut bark, a look that plainly said, “Ya happy now?”

He slid down Pumbaa’s broad face like it was a playground ramp and flopped against one of his shiny tusks.

“Simba, I’m being serious about this. That guy’s off. Proper off.”
The meerkat’s face was all scrunched up with worry, and his voice sounded as worn out as his nerves.
“You ended up here by chance — you don’t have a lion’s survival, and you don’t want to go back to your pride, so you stayed. But he’s not like you. He could go anywhere. Why this place? And why did he show up twice…”

“Three times.”

“THREE—?!”

Timon shot upright with a snap, looking like he might keel over then and there. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, then opened it once more… and finally gave up. This kid had a habit of vanishing every time the stars came out and creeping back in just before dawn — Timon really didn’t have the energy to start counting anymore.

“Simba, I’m begging you — just think, alright?”
Timon was pinching the bridge of his snout now, eyes squeezed shut.
“Are you absolutely sure you’ve never seen him before?”

Simba scoured his memory for every lion he had ever known — then gave a slow, resolute shake of his head.

Although his mind paused, briefly, on his uncle, he dismissed the thought at once: from the moment he could remember, there had only been two cubs at Pride Rock — himself and Nala. His uncle had always kept to himself. Simba had never heard of him having a mate, let alone cubs.

And besides, they didn’t even look alike. The idea was ridiculous. 

Timon studied his face — really studied it, eyes narrowed, as if trying to dig something up. But Timon was better at digging tunnels and bugs than digging the truth out of a lion cub’s expression.

“…Alright,” he said at last, voice stiffer than usual, “let’s say that’s the story.”

There was a pause — just long enough to sting.

“Then don’t go looking for him again, Simba.”

The young lion gave a sharp slap to the little mound of dirt at his paws, sending a fresh wave of caterpillars wriggling desperately through the grass.

"Why not?!" he protested, loud and heated.

“Take it easy, will you?”
Timon sighed, rubbing his face with both paws. The blood vessels in his eyes were starting to show.
“The thing is… we can’t stop you, Simba. We never could. But please— just don’t go looking for him again.”

“You’ve gotta give me a reason!”

“I have given you a reason. He’s dangerous. Why do you insist on seeing someone you know nothing about?”

Pumbaa had been quiet for a long while. Now he decided to chime in.

“Because… well, he’s a lion. And Simba’s a lion too?”

“Shut up, Pumbaa.”

Pumbaa gave a sulky little click of his tongue. He really never knew when it was his turn to talk.

“Simba, is it that you want to be with your kind… or just with him?”

The young lion opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. What came out was more of a cough than anything else.

“Look, I get it. Pumbaa and I—we’re not lions. If one day you want to go back to a pride, we won’t stop you. Or if you just want someone to be with, that’s fine too. You could find yourself a nice lioness—a sweet, gentle little thing—”

Simba suddenly panicked. Timon had clearly got the wrong idea.

“I didn’t say I wanted any of that—”

“Exactly! You didn’t. That’s the problem.”

Timon halted mid-thought, letting out another heavy sigh. His thin, angular face looked like it had aged five years in the last five minutes.

“When you didn’t show up for ages that day, Pumbaa and I were scared stiff. We thought you might not make it.”

He hopped down from the log and shuffled over to Simba’s side, gently brushing the fur on the young lion’s forepaw. Then he looked up at him, small face full of concern.

“Simba… whether it was a misunderstanding or not, he didn’t need to treat you like that. You fought him. You know what he’s capable of. If he really wanted to…” 

He swallowed hard—a loud, audible gulp. The word caught in his throat, too heavy, too awful to say.
Instead, he snapped his tiny fingers.

“...he could’ve done it in a flash. You wouldn’t have lasted long enough for us to come help.” 

“Isn’t that terrifying enough for you, Simba?”

The young lion lowered his eyes. His long lashes trembled slightly, as if he were looking at Timon—or perhaps just lost in thought.

“Simba…”

“You don’t know him.”

Simba took a few steps back, shaking his head with stubborn defiance. His face had gone as hard as stone.

“And neither do you, Simba.”

Timon turned around, a look of surprised approval crossing his face. Well, what do you know—Pumbaa did have a way with words sometimes.

There was a rustling behind them. Before Pumbaa could open his mouth to call him back, Simba had already vanished into the underbrush.

“…Let him go, Pumbaa,” Timon said quietly. “Let him think it through on his own.”

The night breeze, cool and quiet, brushed against Simba’s face. His mind was blank—drained of thought, and even the weight of sleep had vanished.

All he wanted now was to flee—just as he once had, when he ran from the Pride Land without ever looking back. He wanted to leave behind every tiresome warning, every voice that wouldn’t stop talking. He didn’t want to hear a single word more.

But his aching limbs reminded him he couldn’t keep running. He needed rest.

Slowing down with reluctant steps, the young lion realised he had wandered to the riverbank where he and Kovu had once hunted.

The bongo’s carcass still lay there. It had long been stripped down to a hollow frame by passing animals. Only threads of damp, decaying flesh clung to the bones, sprouting clusters of pale fungus and reeking with the sodden stench of rot.

Simba didn’t go near.

Head low, he pushed into the thick underbrush, feeling the crunch of fallen leaves beneath his paws—and the insects that scurried beneath them.

The twigs grazed his flanks without leaving a mark, just like that shadowy figure, coming and going as it pleased.

Once more, Simba began to wonder if it had all been a dream. A strange and senseless fantasy, born of too much time spent alone.

Timon’s words were sharp — too sharp to ignore.
Like the past he tried so hard to leave behind, they kept crawling back, stealing his rest.

Those strange, fleeting encounters had been real. So had his unease.

But he’d let himself drift through each rush of surprise, each glimmer of allure, never quite asking what Kovu had truly come for.

Then he saw it—a patch of flattened grass.

Or rather, once-flattened.

The blades still lay slumped across the earth, but along the edges, fresh shoots had already begun to rise.

Even the grass was mocking his foolish heart: Look how tall we’ve grown. See how long it’s been.

Silly little kitty.

In a sulk, Simba hurled himself onto the spot, rolling belly-up and thrashing until every blade was crushed beneath him—as if to make sure nothing would ever grow there again, nothing would ever bury his precious memories.

When Simba finally came to a halt, breathless and spent, he flopped onto his back and lay there.

That was when he noticed it — caught in the edge of his vision, his own mane, dark red in the dim light.

He really was growing quickly. Time really was slipping past.

The crimson he’d once been so proud of now glared back at him—just as unpleasant as those flattened blades of grass he’d tried so hard to crush.

The forest mocked him in silence.
And deep down, he joined that chorus.

Simba glared up at the sky in frustration, but the layered canopy overhead had grown thick and dark, shutting out everything. His favourite stars were nowhere to be seen.

He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed that before, or why he hadn’t realised how bare and empty this patch of grass had become. 

Now he lay there alone, like a brittle autumn leaf floating on a pond’s surface—the emerald he yearned for just out of reach, hidden beneath the green around him.

You said you’d come back for me.

It felt like a promise made long ago—
so long, in fact, it felt like it belonged to another lifetime.
A small voice under a younger sky had once asked:

“We’ll always be together, right?”

He wasn’t that cub anymore. He would never say something so childish again. But that didn’t mean he’d stopped dreaming. He still clung to those fleeting, foolish hopes.

There was no breeze stirred the trees, and yet their shadows danced.
Specks of glowing dust drifted slowly down, like fallen stars drawn to him, lulling him into uneasy sleep.

He dreamed of gentle waves, warm against his face, stirring something deep within him. A tear slipped free, trailing down unnoticed—only to be carried off by the tide.

He kept his eyes shut, unwilling to wake, unwilling to shatter the fragile beauty of that dream.

Rafiki stood at a distance, watching the young lion in silence, worry etched deep in his weathered face.

A few days prior, that black-maned lion had come to him once again, asking for aid in a deception of immense scale.

Rafiki had braced himself for the same old threat — that the boy would again use Simba’s life as leverage. But to his surprise, Kovu never even uttered the name. He spoke of his plan like a ghost reciting someone else's tale, his voice flat, his brow heavy with an exhaustion far beyond his years.

So Rafiki dared to offer a condition:
“I need to see Simba. With my own eyes. I must know he is safe.”

Kovu did not resist. Quite the contrary — a flicker of surprise, or was it relief, passed through his gaze. As though he had been waiting for the old mandrill to speak those very words.

“Good,” he’d said. “as it happens, I need something from him.”

And so Rafiki had followed him to this patch of jungle. The scents and murmurs of the forest had already told him much. To find the young lion had not been difficult.

“I can go no further. He’ll notice.”

Kovu murmured, his voice low as the wind through dry reeds. He remained still, barely distinguishable from the thorned underbrush.

Rafiki clung to a branch overhead, craning his neck toward the golden-red figure that lay below.

By the stars… has he grown so much already?

The old mandrill’s clouded yellow eyes trembled; his vision swam.

Mufasa… if you see anything still from where you are… please, watch over your boy.

Hidden beneath the hush of the leaves, Rafiki edged out until he was just above Simba. From here, he could see more clearly — the dark gold, the ruddy mane, that proud curve of the brow… a mirror of the Mufasa he once knew.

But he had not come only to look.

He drew out a gourd with a carved opening, and tipped it downward, letting the powder fall — fine threads of silvery dust drifting through the air until they met the young lion’s muzzle.

And then he waited, quietly, for the dream-root to take effect.

“He’s asleep.”

Rafiki gestured softly to Kovu, then slid down the trunk and stepped carefully across the clearing. He crouched beside the young lion, observing his breathing with quiet focus.

Simba didn’t seem to be sleeping peacefully—but the dream-root powder would keep him under a while longer.

Rafiki took out a small polished stone. With practiced fingers, he cut a single strand from Simba’s mane, then wound it tightly around a stem of beggarticks, their tiny hooks catching in the fur.

“This should be enough.”

He turned to show it, but Kovu didn’t look. His gaze remained on Simba, steady and unmoving, as if he hadn’t heard a word.

Rafiki tucked the seeds away on his staff and leapt lightly into the branches nearby. He couldn’t quite say why, but after all these years, it was not the first time he’d seen a scene like this.

Kovu stood still, neither approaching nor turning away, as if simply watching Simba gave him all the answers he’d come for. His dark, thick mane hung low, veiling half his face. Rafiki could not make out his expression — and perhaps that was for the better.

Then, to his quiet surprise, Kovu leaned closer. His nose brushed gently against Simba’s cheek, as if hoping to leave behind some trace of breath.

The golden lion murmured faintly, and Kovu recoiled, startled, uncertain whether to step back. But when he saw it was only a dream-born whisper, he sighed—not quite relief, not quite anything.

Rafiki stayed where he was. He wanted to see what Kovu would do next, before deciding whether to step in.

But with time slipping by, the mandrill began to grow uneasy—dream-root would not hold much longer.

“Do you want to stay?” he asked at last, “Only for a couple of days, I’m afraid.”

But Kovu shook his head.

“We don’t have much time.” 

Rafiki watched as the black lion lift his head. There was hesitation in his face, yet his voice stayed firm.

“I’m not spending it here.”

“Then come. He could wake at any second.”

With that, Rafiki turned and sprang toward the trees — and so he didn’t see it:

The way Kovu leaned down, just for a moment, and gently touched his tongue to the corner of Simba’s eye.

They made their way back in silence, dust clinging to their coats as they travelled through the dark.

Before dawn broke, they reached the outer edge of the Pride Land.

The sun was rising, slow and sure, casting its first light across the plain — a golden hush spreading through the grass, as if the whole land was holding its breath.

“Is it ready yet?”

Rafiki ran a thumb along the edge of the sharpened stone blade.

“By the day after tomorrow — no later.”

“Good.”

Kovu stared at the distant horizon, still and unreadable.

“I’m surprised you actually dug up something that looked the part.”

In his eyes, the sun caught fire — a gleam of gold and red, flickering like something long buried now stirring awake.

It had begun.

And this time, there was no turning back.

Chapter Text

Vitani emerged from the hollow of her den, forepaws hooked over a low-hanging tree as she stretched with languid grace.

“Well, aren’t you at ease.”

The lioness flinched at the voice, but her expression remained unreadable. She calmly scraped a sliver of bark from the trunk, then gave her paw a delicate shake.

“So are you,” she murmured, lifting her gaze, “Nuka.”

Their big brother had leapt down from the stone ridge, now approaching with deliberate steps. His eyes, thin slits carved into his weary face, shifted beneath swollen lids — shadows clung to his gaunt features.

The crimson gleam of his irises flicked toward his sister.

“Haven’t seen you for days. Funny how free you are now,” he said with a crooked smile. “Done with whatever task Kovu gave you?”

Vitani said, her tone as even as ever, “I don’t work for him.”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You think I don’t know there’s a pup missing on his patch? And you—always so keen to meddle—of course he threw that mess your way, then vanished off who knows where.”

Nuka stepped forward, eyes fixed sharply on his sister.

“Well? Regretting going against me yet?”

Vitani’s face twitched, just enough to betray disdain.
“If you’d kept those hyenas of yours in line, I wouldn’t have needed to interfere.”

Nuka shook his head slowly, lips curled in disappointment.
“I just don’t get you, Vitani. We’re blood. Backing me wouldn’t hurt you.”

The lioness gave a slight wrinkle of her nose, making no comment either way.

“Any news on that pup?”

Nuka sounded unusually fixated on the matter today. It was no longer something she could brush off.

Vitani blinked slowly.

“Nothing. But we all think it’s not looking good. There was a herd of elephants migrating through that area. Might’ve crossed the wrong path…”

“Ha! See that? Meddling always ends badly. You’d do well to remember that, Vitani.”

Vitani tilted her head, as if weighing the wisdom of that comment—or just finding his gloating tiresome.

She stayed silent for a moment before speaking evenly:
“What do you want from me, Nuka?”

The older lion brightened at once.
“That’s what I like about you, Vitani. You always know what others are thinking.”

“Then spit it out.”

“You’ve been helping Kovu with something else lately, haven’t you?”

Vitani raised a brow.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Father gave him that special assignment—personally.”
The words came through Nuka’s teeth, tight with resentment.
“Hunting down the missing prince… He’s been dragging it out for ages. Not like him. I’ve got a feeling he’s already found the brat and is just waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and take all the credit.”

Vitani gave a look of weary resignation.
“Come on, Nuka. You really think he’d tell me something that important?”

Nuka knew she wouldn’t give anything up that easily. He studied Vitani’s face, weighing where to strike.

“You used to spend quite a bit of time with him—before he vanished off the face of the earth.”
The tip-off had come from those sneaky hyenas, who’d spotted the two of them patrolling together more than once.

“And what does that prove?”

“Even if he didn’t tell you outright, you must’ve picked up something.”

Vitani gave a deliberately wide smile.
“You give me too much credit.”

“You think I’m the only one who wins if I come out on top?”

Nuka finally chose the most straightforward route—about the furthest his lion brain could go.

“You’re my own sister, Vitani.”
He stressed it again, voice turning slyly persuasive.
“You know exactly what it would mean for you if I became king.”

Favour for favour. That was the first rule of survival Nuka had ever learned. There was no loyalty in this world—only trade. Just look at the hyenas who followed him.

“It’s not like you’ve got no leads at all, right?”
Vitani had been thinking of those slobbering beasts too—this whole mess had started with them.
“If you’re quick enough, you might still beat him to it.”

“Easy for you to say!”
Nuka suddenly whipped his head around. His voice rose,  claws scraped across the rock with a shriek, sharp and grating.
“You think I haven’t tried? Those mutts are tied up with half a dozen restrictions—I can’t even use them properly anymore!”

Vitani watched him fume and stomp, silent but inwardly amused.
Serves him right.
That’s what comes of building an army on scraps and bribes.

“And if Kovu’s already caught the little brat,” Nuka growled,
“then what’s the point of me turning the whole savanna upside down?”

He was shouting now, loud enough to send nearby herds scattering. Wildebeest and zebra thundered through the scrub, fleeing into the safety of the open plains.

“So he’s probably just waiting for the right moment to claim the credit…”
Vitani paused thoughtfully for a moment, as if trying to recall something.
“Come to think of it, he’s actually been in a pretty good mood lately. So good that he’s dumped all his duties on me — hasn’t lifted a claw on his own territory in days.”

That only made Nuka’s mood turn uglier. Things were playing out in the worst possible way. If Kovu really pulled this off — especially with Father acting so unpredictably these days — then his own chances at the throne would shrink to nothing.

“As long as he hasn’t handed that cub over yet, I still have a chance.”

A glint of violence sparked in the older lion’s eyes, his glare boring into the rock like it could split in two.

“And what could you do, now?”

“Well, first of all, there’s no way that cub’s still alive. Not at his age…”
Nuka paused to calculate, then let out a crooked grin.
“Kovu’s probably been trying to drag him back alive, I’ll bet — thinks Father would want to finish the job himself…”

“Good point… Chances are the poor thing won’t make it back here alive.”

Vitani nodded, tone flat and unreadable.

“So? What’s next?”

“…Next?”

Nuka echoed, a little taken aback. He hadn’t expected her to follow the logic so closely.
Still, that was a good sign.
If Vitani was starting to think along his lines — starting to see things from his side — then maybe she wasn’t a lost cause after all.
He’d never thought much of lionesses in politics, but desperate times called for desperate allies.
And his sister — the rising voice among the pride’s younger huntresses — was his top target.

“Then, obviously — bones. Fur. Anything that proves ‘His Highness’ is gone.”
He spat out the title like it was a scrap of rotting meat lodged in his throat.

“You’re planning to dig up whatever he’s hidden?” Vitani shook her head in quiet disapproval.

“Even if you could find anything, this is disgraceful. If Father finds out—”

“Father only cares about results! That’s all he ever cared about!” Nuka cut her off sharply.

“Need I remind you how he got this throne in the first place? You clearly haven’t learnt a thing from his example!”

Vitani lowered her gaze without a word, her tail flicking lightly against the ground.

She loathed those so-called lessons—every single one. But her foolish brother clung to them like sacred scripture.

Nuka glared at his hopeless sister and let out a long, exasperated sigh.

This wasn’t the time to fix her broken values. All he needed now was her cooperation. Once he was king, the rest would fall into place.

“Just do one thing for me, Vitani.”

His tone turned glacial, as though he were already perched atop the savanna’s golden pyramid, looking down on every lesser beast beneath him.

But his sister was still shaking her head, that stubborn look on her face infuriatingly familiar.

Just like that cursed Kovu — neither of them knew how to bend.

“Kovu’s never told me where he’s hiding it. Don’t forget—this whole mission was his from the start. You think he’d suddenly let me in at the final moment?”

It wasn’t a bad point. Nuka rolled his eyes, then broke into a grin.

“If he wants that throne, he can’t go it alone forever. And you, Vitani… you’ve always underestimated your influence.”

The implication was clear: Kovu would never win the hyenas, and the wild dog upstarts were too few to matter. So who else could he count on, if not the lionesses?

Vitani didn’t respond. Her brow was drawn so tightly it nearly furrowed into her skull. She looked like she wanted nothing to do with this plan.

But Nuka saw the flicker in her narrow face—hesitation, uncertainty. Close enough. His own smirk curled with confidence.

“If he wants your help, he’s bound to drop some hint. Right?”

He turned and clambered up the stone mound again, chin raised with smug superiority.

“I’ll be waiting for your good news.”

“Well, well. Seems I did get some good news today.”

Kovu hung upside-down from a thick fig branch, eyes half-lidded as Vitani relayed the latest. The lioness didn’t bother hiding her scowl—she pulled a face and declared she was done playing sneaky little spy.

“Congratulations. Everything’s going exactly the way you wanted.”

She thought back to the greed in Nuka’s eyes, silently marvelling at how dull he truly was. Even her clumsiest hints had steered him exactly where they wanted.

“What’s your next move?”

Kovu’s eyes snapped open with a quiet click—two pools of green flame, swirling slow and deep.

“Now you want to know?”

“I’ve run errands across half the kingdom, wasted breath on that idiot brother of ours, and listened to him drone on for ages. Don’t you think I deserve the full picture?”

“The full picture?”
Kovu chuckled, rolling onto his paws. He dropped from the tree with a soundless grace, shaking leaves from his pelt as he approached.
“Don’t be greedy, sis. You’ll know everything soon enough.”

He came to a halt in front of her, voice smooth as ever.

“For now, we give our dear brother exactly what he wants most.”

Vitani didn’t blink. Her stare was as steady as ever.

“Don’t forget what you promised.”

“Sure, of course,” Kovu replied lightly, his smile almost too open. “I’d never dream of letting him die.”

His gaze flicked across her face, lingering.

“Though honestly, I think you worry too much. After all… when has mummy ever failed to protect her little favourite?”

The word made Vitani flinch inwardly. Mummy. It chilled her far more than when he called her sis.

But Kovu wasn’t wrong either. It wasn’t just their mother—anyone with eyes could see how the King had shielded Nuka all these years. The worst that could happen to their brother was to be struck off the line of succession and exiled to the outskirts.
They’d both lived there once. After the golden little prince was born, Scar—who was not yet king at the time—could no longer raise cubs within Pride Rock.
Kovu might have forgotten all that, but Vitani hadn’t. She remembered the tall grasses, the endless herds, the rich plains that once stretched unbroken beneath the sun.
It was only after Scar’s coronation that the land had begun to wither.

She still had her doubts—but she nodded, just slightly, to show she knew what had to be done.

“You’re sure?”

“Affirmative. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Nuka let out an exaggerated laugh, which to Vitani sounded more like the squawk of a lion who’d just had his tail stepped on.

“So our Kovu does slip up once in a while.”

“That’s not quite fair,” she countered. “Could you have guessed he’d hide something behind Pride Rock?”

Nuka scowled, displeased by her quick tongue. No one got to talk back to him—not even Vitani.
But today, he was in a very good mood. So good, in fact, he could hardly wait for nightfall.

“So, my job’s done now, right?”

Vitani made a move to leave, but Nuka stepped forward and blocked her path.

“You’ve just handed me something this valuable—don’t you want to go see it for yourself?”

“Not everyone is like you… like you lot.” she shot back, sharp as claws. “So desperate for a bit of glory.”

“Not everyone gets to speak to me like that. Watch your tongue.”

His lips curled back in a threatening snarl, a growl rising from deep in his throat.
But Vitani didn’t flinch. She stood tall, spine straight, gaze unmoving.

“Nuka, you’re not king yet.”

“Lucky for you, then. You’ve still got time to practise your curtsy, sister.”

He dropped the snarl, replaced it with a smirk, and strode past her like he already ruled the whole savanna.

“Midnight. Don’t be late.”

They lay low amidst the tall grasses, patiently waiting for the pride to retreat into the den at Pride Rock. The moon hung high above, casting a pale, lifeless light across the savanna, draining it of all colour.

A breeze stirred, carrying with it a scent they knew all too well — Kovu. Of all lions, he was the one who most should — and least should — be here.

Everyone knew Kovu never slept near Pride Rock. In fact, no one had the faintest clue where he laid his head — not even the watering holes. He was cagier than a burrowing hare, and twice as paranoid. He probably had a fresh hidey-hole picked out for every sunrise.

The tall grass blocked part of their view, but lions had night vision sharper than most, and they saw clearly enough — Kovu, alert as ever, was heading for a shallow dip behind the great stone. There, he began nosing through a loose pile of rocks.

Nuka shifted, agitated. He could make out Kovu’s movements, but not the thing he was after. The distance blurred the details.

He stole a glance at the lioness beside him. She looked even more on edge than he did. Clearly, this little revelation meant far more to her than she liked to admit.

Sanctimonious little fraud. Telling him she didn’t care about credit, acting all above it.

Nuka narrowed his eyes into a hard slit.
Not far off, Kovu was still digging steadily through the rubble.

“Go. Distract him.”

Vitani nearly jumped at the sudden order. She blinked, stunned, then arched her brow high in disbelief.

“What?!”

“You heard me.” Nuka threw her a cutting glance. Vitani’s neck instinctively drew back, only slightly.
“If he moves that evidence somewhere else, all your hard work goes down the drain.”

She grit her teeth, seething. She should’ve known—Nuka dragging her out here had never been about company.

“That means he’s already getting suspicious!” she hissed.
“You shouldn’t have rushed me into poking around—he’s not an idiot, Nuka! If I show up in front of him… have you ever spared even a single thought what it might mean for me?”

“Of course I have. I’m giving you the chance to be useful.”

She was nearly roaring now, voice rasping in her throat as she tried to keep it low:

“Even if you win this round, you’ve no guarantee he’ll go down for it! At worst, Father gives him a scolding—maybe a bit more. But it’s nothing he hasn’t endured before, Nuka—he won’t crumble! And if he thinks I sold him out—no, not thinks—he will know!”

Vitani’s breath hitched, her voice trembling now.

“Nuka… Brother… As long as he’s alive, he won’t let me go. You can’t—this isn’t—”

“Are you bargaining with me now?”

His voice came out flat. Lifeless.

Clearly, Scar had underestimated him—when it came to cold-blooded cruelty, father and son were disturbingly alike.

“Relax. I’ve got a plan. He won’t be coming back from this one.”

The fury drained from Vitani’s face, replaced by dread and disbelief. She stared at those dull red eyes, shaking her head slowly.

“You are asking me to stake my life on this…”

“What did you think this was?” 

His gaze turned glacial, slicing through the dark like a thorn.

“A playground squabble? I thought you'd grown up, dear Vitani.”

All the tangled emotions finally vanished from the lioness’s face. She looked as if she were wearing a mask that didn’t quite belong to her—and under the moonlight, she seemed paler still.

She didn’t speak another word. Only turned her head, fixed her eyes on the dark figure ahead, and rose silently from the tall grass.

Without a sound, she walked towards Kovu.

Nuka couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Vitani had her back to him, but at least she had the sense to leave a gap—just wide enough for him to see Kovu’s face.

Surprise flickered across it first, then confusion, quickly overtaken by alarm.
In a flurry of motion, Kovu pushed the loose stones back into place and bolted. Vitani followed close behind, and within moments, both of them had vanished from sight.

Nuka waited.
He waited until the moon had long since drifted from its place overhead, waited until the last rustle of the tall grass had stilled.
Then, at last, he slipped out from cover and broke into a quiet trot, making his way around the great rock to the small hollow behind it.

The crevice was sealed tight again, but he was brimming with strength now.
Fueled by frenzy, he tore the stones away one by one, hurling them aside with reckless force.
Exhaustion didn’t touch him.
His breath came in sharp bursts, pupils blown wide, the whites of his eyes streaked with red.

There, buried beneath the dust, lay a shattered skeleton.
Only the skull had held its shape—barely.
The rest was splintered into useless fragments, too broken to be pieced back together.
But there, clinging stubbornly to the brittle bone, was a single strip of matted fur—
a dry, faded brown,
and yet, in some forgotten light, it might once have shone a brilliant red.

Nuka threw back his head.
He could already see it—himself, standing tall atop the Pride Rock.
Crowned by something far greater than strength or legacy—
By bones.
The bones of that glittering little prince, now ground into dust, crushed into triumph.
He ached to roar his victory to the stars.
But no—
not yet.

He drew a long breath, steadying himself, a slow, shuddering inhale that cooled the heat behind his eyes.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he would taste glory.
And take his time with it.

Kovu sat restlessly, tail flicking across the dirt, his gaze drifting again and again to the lioness beside him.

She had been sitting there like that, frozen in that posture with that same expression, for what felt like an eternity—long enough that Kovu had begun to worry she might break apart altogether.

“Vitani…”

The moment he spoke, she clamped her eyes shut, as though afraid her feelings might spill out if she dared keep them open.

But Kovu wasn’t about to let her swallow it all down in silence.

“I warned you, didn’t I? This kind of thing… it was never meant for you.”

Kovu rose and circled around to face her, but she bowed her head so low he could barely see her eyes. She refused to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t want to believe you…”
Her voice was low and hoarse, as if clawed up from the pit of her chest—distorted and raw by the time it left her throat.
“I didn’t believe you back then…”

“I only planned for the worst. That’s all.”

Kovu stared coldly toward Pride Rock in the distance. He didn’t need to see it to picture that hideous grin stretched across that face—he could feel it, like rot under his claws.

Truth be told, even he hadn’t expected Nuka to be quite so ruthless.

He couldn’t even bring himself to think through the aftermath of this unexpected turn—how, from that moment on, his sister would stand by him more firmly than ever before.

And for once, there was no thrill in the win.

Quite the opposite.

It made him sick to his stomach.

“But he’s my brother…”

Vitani had begun shaking her head—again and again, as if the motion alone could reverse what had been done.

“I’ve never believed blood ties meant anything worth keeping.”

Kovu stepped closer, though not too close—leaving space, just enough for her to choose: to stand on her own, or to lean against him.

“All I know now is this: I’d rather be without it. At least I wouldn’t have been fooled by it.”

A broken sob reached his ears. Kovu immediately bent down, and saw his sister’s eyes rimmed red.

“Oh no… don’t—please, don’t…”

In a rush, he pressed his head against her neck, nudging gently until she lifted her chin. Then he leaned in and rested his brow gently against her cheek.

“Don’t cry, Vitani.”

His low voice echoed softly in the silence, striking her heart like a drumbeat. She inhaled sharply, forcing her stinging eyelids open—revealing those bright blue eyes, now swimming with tears.

The drops spilled quickly, sliding from her lashes—but vanished almost at once into the thick dark fur of her brother’s mane, as though they had never existed.

“This—this is the most precious part of you, sis. I don’t want to see your tears wasted…” He paused, brushing away a second tear with the edge of his brow, “...on someone who’s worth even less than me.”

A bitter laugh escaped her throat, unwilling but not insincere. Then, all at once, she threw back her head, clenched her eyes shut, and forced them wide again—her chest rising with a great heave, like she were purging all the filth from her lungs.

And from the corner of her eye, she could still see it—that look of pity in Kovu’s gaze, quiet and unyielding.

“You're too soft, sister. How will you ever survive in this world?”

But she answered with a question of her own.

“Tell me, Kovu—when you made your worst guess… did it frighten you? Did it hurt? Did it stir anything in you at all?”

His mouth twitched—barely. Then he looked away, dodging the weight of her gaze.

“I don’t know what to say, Vitani.”
His furrowed brow slowly eased, and the faint crease faded with it.
“I’m sorry…that you had to go through all this. I still regret it. I never should have agreed to let you…”

“It’s too late for that now.”

When he looked back, there was no trace of tears on her face.
The lioness met his eyes, clear and unwavering.

And in that moment, more than stripping Nuka of his claim, it was this—her unwavering stance beside him—that became his greatest reward.

Yet it lodged in his throat like bone.

Chapter Text

The first rays of dawn crept into the pitch-dark den. Scar opened his weary eyes and exhaled heavily.

Of late, his dreams had grown increasingly surreal—disjointed flashes of something he could never quite grasp. His sleep had suffered for it. Even the faintest stir would startle him awake, leaving him staring into the dark, unable to return to rest.

But today felt different.
His brow knotted as he fixed his gaze on the horizon.
A wash of blood-red was bleeding across the sky, devouring the dusky blues and greys the night had left behind.

What was left of his dulled senses told him—something was coming.

Once again, the matriarch of the wild dogs came forward to complain—their missing kin still hadn’t been found.

Scar turned his eyes with deliberate slowness, his face unreadable, and threw the question at the lionesses.

“What’s going on with you lot?”

Vitani stepped forward at once.
“Your Majesty, we’ve done all we can. But the herds have begun migrating en masse—it’s made the search far more difficult.”

Scar hadn’t expected a real answer, nor did he care to hear one. He offered a mechanical smile and gave the dog leader a shrug.

“The lionesses will see to it. Patience, if you may.”

The wild dogs exchanged glances. Discontent flickered among them like dry grass catching fire.
They knew the truth well enough: their packmate was almost certainly dead.
But even so, they needed to see the body. And the king’s indifference was beginning to curdle into something else.

A few of the young dogs crowded round their leader, murmuring heatedly. But the matriarch gave a tiny shake of the head—a quiet and firm denial.

“You may settle your petty disputes in private.”
Scar muttered, narrowing his eyes and flicking a lazy paw.
“If that’s all—”

“Father! I have something to report.”

Nuka stepped forward from the side, chest puffed out, positioning himself squarely at the centre.

Scar’s indifferent face twisted into something that could almost pass for friendliness.

“I do hope it’s not bad news.”

“Quite the opposite!” Nuka beamed. “It’s the very news you’ve been waiting for!”

Nuka wore the grin of a sure victor as he cast a glance to the side. The mass of hyenas parted at once, revealing a half-grown vulture at the centre. It had a bundle of banana leaves in its beak, flapping awkwardly as it half-hopped, half-flew to the front of the den.

Plop!

The parcel dropped at Scar’s feet. The vulture wobbled off into the corner without a word.

Scar hadn’t even opened his mouth yet when Nuka stepped forward, puffed with pride.

“This,” he announced grandly, “is what you’ve been searching for. The golden lion—here are his bones.”

Gasps rose in waves across the cave. Murmurs stirred the air like a swarm of locusts, splitting between Nuka… and Kovu. A dozen gazes flicked to them.

Some were startled, some were sceptical. And others were… openly pleased.

“Silence.”

Scar’s cold, high-pitched voice rang through the den like a whipcrack.

Every creature froze where they stood.

“Simba…?”

He reached out a claw and peeled back the shrivelled banana leaf.
Beneath it lay scattered bones, yellowed and sun-bleached, with a patch of dried, straw-coloured fur.

The name made everyone flinch—Nuka, the hyenas, and the lionesses. Everyone.
For moons they’d all avoided saying it aloud.
Even now, hearing the king himself utter it stirred something primal.
Fear, mostly.

“Is this it?”
Scar’s voice held no praise. Only faint disdain.
“You expect me to tell anything from this… mess?”

Nuka was quick to recover. The king’s displeasure, he guessed, came from the lack of recognisable remains. After all, few could describe what a lion looked like after death—let alone in such a state.

“He was already gone when I found him. The scavengers had nearly cleaned him to the bone. There was barely any hide left. This… was all I could bring back.”

Scar listened, but his gaze drifted.

To the corner.
To the old mandrill who hadn’t said a word.

Rafiki stood still as stone, leaning on his staff, staring at the bundle of bones.

He played his silence well.

“Rafiki.”
Scar said at last, baring his teeth in something that might have been a smile.
“Come here. Tell me—do you recognise him?”

Now all eyes turned to the stooped figure of the mandrill, watching as he made his way slowly toward the throne—each step falling in time with the thunder of a hundred pounding hearts.

He lifted his bony arm and gently pried back the curled edge of the banana leaf.

Not a soul breathed.

Silence poured into the cavern like smoke, thick and impenetrable; even the insects nestled in the cracks seemed to hold their move. Each passing second dragged on like an endless dry season, straining every taut, trembling nerve.

At last, the old mandrill withdrew his hand and took up his staff again. The hollow gourds tied to it knocked together with a crisp chime, a sound sharp enough to stir the watchers from their trance.

Rafiki turned slowly to Scar.

“This is not Simba.”

“Rubbish! You old lunatic—?!”

Nuka erupted at once, what little mane he had bristling in a pitiful show of outrage, but Scar snapped his head around, eyes flashing, and silenced him with a single glare.

“Give me the reason.”

Rafiki bent over the bones again.
“The shape of the skull is a close match. But from the level of weathering…”
He picked up the tuft of hair between two fingers, examining it closely.
“A red mane would take at least half a year to fade like this. Your Majesty—perhaps you haven’t visited his resting place. But I knew Mufasa…”

“Enough!”

Scar's roar cracked like thunder. Nuka nearly lost his footing, and a few of the animals shut their eyes in fear.

But Rafiki did not flinch.

“Tread carefully, old monkey,” Scar growled, voice hoarse and jagged. “I only asked for your conclusion.”

“And my conclusion is this—”
Rafiki met his gaze unflinchingly.
“There is no way this skull is so fresh, so intact, after half a year in the open. I don’t know whose remains these are, but I can assure you: this is not Simba.”

He named the other forbidden word, clear and loud, as if daring Scar to deny it. The king’s face twisted with fury—not just at Rafiki, but at something deeper.

“Nuka,” he rasped, like gravel grinding through his throat.
“How do you explain this?”

His eldest son rushed forward, shouting in protest.
“Father! How can you believe that stupid old thing? How could you trust him over me?”
His voice cracked as he clenched his jaw. Hatred flared in his eyes—eyes that seemed ready to bore a hole straight through the mandrill’s skull.
“All I ever wanted was to rid you of trouble. Anything, as long as it pleased you—anything—”

But Scar lifted a paw, silencing his heartfelt cry.

“What are you looking at?”

Every gaze turned again—back to the hunched figure of the mandrill.
He was still holding that tuft of yellow-brown fur with his fingers, gently tapping the skull with the other, inspecting its ridges and cracks as if lost in thought.

His silence drove Nuka wild.

“Hey! You deaf, you shrivelled old freak? The King is speaking to you! Say what you’ve got to say already—let’s see how far you think you can keep bluffing!”

Rafiki shot him a look.
The once-faded markings on his face seemed to stir. The reds deepened—no longer dull, but stained now with a strange, bruised violet.

“This isn’t lion’s mane.”

The words weren’t loud, but they carried far enough.

Another wave of gasps and murmurs rippled through the den.

Nuka blinked. And then he cackled, shrill and exaggerated.

“Did you hear that, Father? Now he’s just raving! You should keep away from him—he might start poisoning your judgment!”

Scar didn’t respond. His eyes remained locked on the old mandrill. Rafiki rubbed the fibres between his fingers. His gaze moved slowly—calculating, as if drawing lines in his head.

Then he turned away from the throne and swept his eyes across the crowd. Slowly. Repeatedly.

Finally, he raised the hand holding the tuft.

A hundred eyes turned like sunflowers toward where he pointed.

The matriarch of the hyenas stood there, frozen in confusion.

She clearly hadn’t a clue why all the eyes were on her.

“He’s asking for you. Go on.” came Kovu’s voice from the side. Calm. Emotionless.

The wild dog matriarch hesitated, but eventually obeyed, padding over to the base of the throne. The strange mandrill extended his hand, holding out the tuft of fur to her.

“What’s this supposed to mean?”

“You don’t recognise it?”

She leaned in and sniffed cautiously. The scent was rank—tainted with old blood and rot. Whatever had soaked into it had long since erased any trace of its original owner.

She pulled back with a frown.
“It matches our colour well enough… but I don’t know the scent.”

“Fair point. Then how about this?”

She followed the mandrill’s finger, her gaze falling to the scattered bones. The skull, still mostly intact, showed the trace of a long, slender snout. Rafiki’s hand hovered over a ridge near the cranium.

“These markings are unusual. I’d say this creature once suffered a serious injury—but managed to survive it. The bone healed, and left behind an extra layer. A callus.”

Rafiki tapped lightly on the raised ridge, then he turned—his gaze landing on the wild dog matriarch.

Her expression faltered at once.

She turned sharply and called out to her kin. Two young females emerged from the crowd, trotting anxiously to her side. With a silent nod from the matriarch, they lowered their noses to the broken skull, snuffling at the pitted bone with trembling muzzles.

Then all could hear it—
a low, grief-stricken whimper from the two young dogs, their tails falling limp against their hocks like dead branches.

Rafiki turned once more to the matriarch. The dark fur on her face gave away little, but her jaw was clenched tight, the muscles at her cheek drawn taut with strain.

“So it’s confirmed, then?”

The matriarch gave a slow, weighty nod.
Her eyes lifted to the king—unflinching, unmasked in their fury and disillusionment.

“Then I believe His Majesty owes us an explanation.”

Scar’s expression shifted imperceptibly, but his gaze turned toward Nuka.
The young lion stood frozen, utterly stunned by the sudden turn of events.

“No! No, it’s not—Father, please! You’ve got to believe me! I would never lie to you!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he shot a murderous glare at the hyenas—
Useless wretches! Can’t even pull off a simple frame-up without botching it!

He had torn them apart in his mind a dozen times over, never once pausing to consider what he might have missed.

The truth was, on the next day after they killed the wild dog, Shenzi had reported the body had somehow vanished. The rest of the pack, unable to track their fallen kin, had even enlisted lionesses to help search.

But Nuka thought nothing of it.

“Must be Kovu.” he’d said to himself at the time. “Panicked, probably buried it somewhere. As if he could fool a dog’s nose. Dream on, you pathetic whelp.”

But why—why was that carcass here now?!

He was certain he’d taken what Kovu had hidden and…

Nuka’s face went still.
It was as though lightning had struck him clean through, from crown to claw.
His mind—slow as it was—had finally caught up.

This… this had been a trap. From the very beginning.
Meticulously prepared. Painstakingly timed.
All for him.

He whipped his head round—his brother and sister stood just beyond the circle of the crowd, not even bothering to look at him.

Nuka’s teeth ground audibly. His bloodshot eyes bulged wide, trembling in their sockets.

Those miserable scum!

Kovu had planned this—of course he had! And Vitani, his sweet little accomplice, had played her role to perfection. Every warm word, every look of sympathy—
Lies! All of it!!

He remembered, now.
The hyenas had warned him once: Kovu holds a grudge like fire clings to dry grass. He’ll go to any length for payback.

Anything like splitting open the gut of the hyena who crossed him, and stringing its entrails from the peak of Pride Rock to feed the vultures.

The lion let out a twisted, mirthless grin—
So, his little brother had some teeth after all.
Used the very trap he’d laid to snare him?

But Nuka wasn’t about to give up so easily.

He threw himself at the King’s paws, grovelling, spitting apologies, cursing his own incompetence, begging for one last chance to make amends.

Perhaps he knew mere remorse would never be enough to salvage this, or perhaps panic had simply stripped him bare—his words poured out in a frantic torrent, confessing everything: how Vitani had led him by the nose, how Kovu had dug up the bones right before his eyes—how it had all been a ruse to lure him in.

Scar listened in silence, the frost in his face deepening with every word.

There was no covering for this son now. Not in front of so many eyes.

“Pathetic.”

Without warning, he raised a paw and struck him across the face.

Nuka was flung backwards by the blow, crashing to the ground with a heavy thud that sent the surrounding animals stumbling back in alarm.

“Father… I only wanted to ease your burdens…”

His head spun from the strike. One of his fangs had torn through his lip, and blood now crept thick and bitter across his tongue. Zira rushed to his side, but he shoved her paw away at once, staggering upright and shaking his head with brutal force.

He looked up at the King—at that cold, sculpted face that hadn’t so much as flickered.

“You gave him this sacred task… but did he ever think to serve you properly? No! All he ever cared about was framing me!”

His pupils gleamed with a ghastly red, as if the blood in his mouth had risen to drown his sight. He threw a glare at his brother, seething with rage.

But Kovu didn’t even flick an ear.

He stood there, still and silent, as if none of Nuka’s screams had anything to do with him, as if the entire spectacle were happening to someone else, somewhere far away.

“He dared to twist your orders—this great mission—and use your power to drag me down! Father… you can’t let him deceive you!”

The stone walls swallowed his final word.
And once again, silence seeped into the air, thick and suffocating.

No matter how detached Kovu appeared, the King’s sharp gaze inevitably found him.

“Have you anything to say?”
Scar narrowed his eyes with a look of quiet amusement, as though daring the boy to slip.
“If you tell me your long journey came to nothing once again…”

“It didn’t, Your Majesty.” Kovu replied, calm and even.

The animals pricked up their ears, hanging onto every syllable. Low murmurs began to stir—harmless theories, aimless bickering over who was scheming, who was sincere, which lion wore the purer mask.

But then, a few sharp eyes caught the slightest motion from Kovu.

At once, all chatter ceased.

A hush fell over the gathering as he made his way toward the rear wall, just left of the throne. He stopped at the base of the stone and began to dig with quiet patience.

Time trickled on, slow and relentless. One by one, the animals craned their necks, each terrified of missing even the slightest detail.

Click.

A sharp crack from a loosened stone broke the stillness. Kovu stepped aside without a flicker of expression, his gaze drifting toward Rafiki.

“You. Take a look.”

Rafiki glanced to the King for permission. Once granted, he hobbled forward, staff tapping softly against the floor, and reached into the small pit. From it, he dragged out two overlapping strips of bark, hauling them slowly toward the foot of the throne.

“You’d best keep your eyes wide, old man,” Kovu said mildly.
“It took me some effort to bring him back.”

The old mandrill froze for a heartbeat, his yellowed eyes shifting with unease. Then, as though reaching some grim resolve, he knelt and peeled the bark away for all to see.

It was the same again—shattered spine, a broken half of a skull—but now, atop the remains, lay a single tuft of vivid red mane. Even those standing at the edges could not miss the splash of crimson.

Nuka staggered backwards, limbs seizing, and collapsed with a heavy thud.
Somewhere, his brother was speaking—quiet, deliberate—but all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears.

So this was it.
The one with no way back… was him.

“…I had meant to bring him back alive, so you could deal with him yourself. But the little brat put up quite the fight. I couldn’t take the risk. If he’d managed to slip away…”

Kovu spoke as he approached the King’s side.
He could feel Scar’s gaze on him—sharp, measuring.
And beyond that, the eyes of the crowd—fearful, awestruck.
All of them followed his every move.

But his eyes were fixed solely on the one creature who wasn’t looking at him.

Rafiki had not raised his head once. He stayed bowed low, his hunchbacked form seeming even smaller now.
At some point he had discarded his staff.
With trembling hands, he cradled the red tuft of mane, stroking it over and over with painful care.

Plop.
Plop.

Kovu’s smile twisted, turning vicious.

He watched with quiet satisfaction as the mandrill’s murky tears spilled freely, splashing into his palms— falling thick and heavy onto that precious, final relic.

“Your Majesty, look—this came off the little one not long ago. Honestly, it’s much prettier than his blood. I was worried it might lose its colour… what a shame that would’ve been.”

His face twisted into something grotesque, a smile so satisfied, so savouring, it was enough to chill the blood.

“I’ve heard that if you peel the fur while they’re still alive, it keeps the softness… the colour, too. What do you think? I wouldn’t know if it worked well enough…”

He didn’t even finish.

A sharp crack split the air.

Kovu reacted at once—swift, precise. His forepaw struck with perfect aim, sending Rafiki’s staff flying.

The heavy ebony landed with a resounding crack.
The hollow baobab pods strung along its length scattered in all directions, rattling and clattering across the stone floor.

“In front of the King… what do you think you’re doing, Rafiki?”

He shifted his weight ever so subtly, positioning himself as though to shield the King—though his eyes, cold and narrowed, were locked on the frantic mandrill.

“You didn’t honestly believe that little one would make it back to the Pride Land alive, did you?”
Kovu wore that disarming smile again—the kind that made every word drip with venomous mockery.
“You should be grateful he returned at all. And in such a dignified manner too. A tidy little keepsake, just for you. Best keep it safe…”

“Watch your mouth.”

Scar cut him off with crisp finality, stepping forward to circle round and face Kovu head-on.
He towered over the young male, so close that the tip of his nose hovered barely two inches above Kovu’s brow.

“And since when,” he hissed,
“did you start making decisions on my behalf?”

Kovu bowed his head at once, silent, backing off by half a step.

Scar’s gaze lingered for a moment on the thick mane atop his head, then shifted to Rafiki.

His voice was cold and without a hint of indulgence.

“Put it down. I don’t recall giving you permission to take the evidence away.”

The mandrill looked as though he might object, but his eyes drifted past Scar—
and something in his throat caught. His mouth opened, wordless.

Then, slowly, Rafiki closed his eyes. The remaining tears rolled freely down his cheeks. With trembling hands, he laid the red tuft back upon the bark, as if leaving behind a torn piece of his heart.

Without word nor bow, Rafiki turned and walked away. He stooped to gather his staff and the scattered shells of the baobab fruit, and shuffled out of the den with faltering steps.

Scar did not glance his way. The mandrill had served his purpose. Whatever feelings the old fool had left no longer concerned him.

That little hairball was truly dead.

He lifted the crimson tuft with the tip of his claw—so vivid, so alive.
If only he could’ve seen it for himself.
Or perhaps he’d let Kovu recount it in greater detail, just to see whether the boy’s taste had improved in any meaningful way.

But before that—

Scar’s gaze drifted to the other remains.
A perfect monument to stupidity, cowardice, and failure.

Nuka, no doubt, never imagined that the gift he so proudly presented would turn out to be a grotesque self-portrait.

The king delivered his verdict with unsettling calm:

“First. Nuka shall bear responsibility for the death of the wild dog.”

Murmurs swept through the assembly—quiet at first, then swelling with unrest. The loudest came from the wild dogs themselves, whose rising growls and bristling coats made clear they would not let the killer walk free.

The lion in question simply lowered his head, accepting the judgement in silence.

“Second.”

Scar spoke with languid ease, and every last murmur fled like mist before the blaze of day.

“Nuka shall no longer be considered a candidate for succession.”

The silence shattered like bone beneath a strike.

Uproar. The crowd all but boiled over. Most of Nuka’s backers—chiefly the hyenas—erupted into chaos, howling in protest and jostling amongst themselves. At the centre of the storm, Shenzi bared her teeth and snapped commands until the worst of it stilled. Then she marched toward Scar, her hackles bristling, demanding an explanation.

They had backed this imbecile with the king’s tacit approval. If their puppet was now stripped of claim, what, exactly, had all their blood and labour earned them?

But the hyenas weren’t the only ones demanding answers.

Zira leapt straight onto the throne ledge — a brazen move, one she would never have dared on any other day. She nearly lunged at Scar, claws half-bared, but Vitani was quicker. She dashed in and caught her mother just in time.

“You gave me your word! You promised me!” the aging lioness shrieked, voice hoarse with fury. She couldn’t shake free of her daughter’s grip, her claws raking the stone in deep, frantic scrapes.

“My word?” Scar feigned a moment of reflection, then let out a cruel little laugh. “Ah, yes. I did say I’d save ‘the best’ for our boy.”

The smirk vanished in a blink. What followed was something far rarer—a flicker of fatigue, almost disdain.

“Take him away, Zira. Back to where he was raised.”

“That place is a ruin! You have sentenced him to death!”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” 

Scar sneered, wrinkling his nose as though her very presence offended him. It was difficult to say if he’d ever truly felt anything for her. Zira had always obeyed, but her mind had never been sharp enough to grasp his vision, his design for power.

“I gave him his chances.”
Countless, indeed.

“Liar!” Zira’s eyes bulged, bloodshot and blazing. “You never meant to—!”

“Mum, stop it!”
Vitani clung to her mother, desperately trying to hold her back.
“They’re both your sons! If Kovu inherits Father’s place, it’s the same—”

Zira slapped her across the face, cutting the words straight from her mouth and slamming them back down her throat.

Kovu, silent and with his head down all this time, nearly sprang forward at the sight—but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to hold back, his whole body giving a violent shudder before returning to stillness.

“How could it possibly be the same?!” Zira roared.

“No, of course,” Scar drawled, “how could it ever be the same?”

He strolled over, his posture that of a peacemaker—but his voice dripped with oil and fire.

“One of them is your darling little cub, coddled and spoiled at your every whim. And the other…”

He circled her slowly, then came back to face Kovu. Tilting his head, he searched for the emerald eyes that refused to meet his.

“…was only ever a pawn.”

Scar was most pleased to see Kovu’s eyes widen—just slightly—and nothing more. As for his daughter—Scar didn’t even bother to turn his head—Vitani lacked that same mastery of restraint. Her breathing, roughened by shock, stood out sharply even against the rising murmur of the crowd.

“What have you done.”

It wasn’t a question.
And the word “mum” would never pass her lips again—not for this lioness.

A sudden urge surged through Vitani—to flee, to vanish, to never return.
She had had enough of this family steeped in lies, of surviving only by holding her breath.

But then she saw Kovu—her brother—his fringe falling low, veiling whatever expression might have flickered across his face.

Kovu had never needed her protection—nor her help.
And yet, she could never bring herself to walk away.

That was why she’d played her part, aided his little deception.
She thought it might change something.
She thought it was their efforts that had earned them this victory.

She had not realised that everything—all of it—was merely the final turn in a path Scar had already laid for them.

How coldly he must have watched them… admired their writhing like worms in the mud, struggling, flailing, pathetic—and laughed to himself at their cowardice, their pitiful delusion.

A lie that had festered for years—
it brought her brother nothing but torture,
stripped him bare of all that was gentle,
and in the end crowned him with a cage.

A throne of thorns.

Could irony cut any deeper than that?

Zira opened her mouth to speak again—but Scar turned his head, just slightly, his gaze carrying a warning so sharp it needed no words.

If she dared utter another breath, he would see to it she and Nuka found no shelter, not even in the most barren wastelands.

And with the way things stood now, once Scar drew his final breath and Kovu took the throne, life for her and her son would only grow more bitter.

Even Vitani—that ungrateful little wretch—would no longer stand at her side.

The lioness cast a hateful glance over her so-called family,
then turned to her boy.

She was no longer young, but her roar—fierce and thunderous—still had power enough to scatter the hyenas like startled crows.

She seized Nuka from the dirt, dragging his dazed body across the stone, her claws rough and unkind. But she had taken no more than a few steps when Nuka suddenly wrenched himself free.

He looked at her—as if seeing her for the very first time.

If he had known—that every so-called chance, every rare indulgence, was nothing more than a carefully woven illusion,
a trap laid by his father to keep him docile, obedient,
and ready to be used…

Nuka left without so much as a backward glance, deaf to the voice that cried out behind him—
his mother’s voice, growing hoarse in the hollow dark.

The hyenas weren’t fools. They were never loyal enough to follow their fallen master into exile. With grins that strained to look eager and tongues lolling, they began slinking back towards the king.

But Scar gave a single command—for them to leave. For every animal to leave.

The cold dismissal stirred murmurs of discontent among the hyenas, but the lionesses stepped in to block their advance. Vitani moved to the front of the line. However furious she might have been, she understood what was at stake—lions had never truly equated the hyenas' interests with their own. And now, at last, this brittle, hollow alliance was splintering at the seams.

The hyenas knew today was no day for war. Reluctantly, they withdrew, trailing behind the dispersing herd.

“You as well.”

Scar gave the lionesses a vague tilt of his chin. They bowed and stepped back. Soon, the cave was empty—save for him, and his two young children.

Scar issued a quiet warning, “Vitani.”

The young lioness did not respond. She stood her ground, silent.

Out of the corner of her eye, she stole a glance at Kovu.

A flicker—gone in an instant, but not swift enough to escape Scar’s gaze.

He turned sharply—just in time to catch Kovu frowning at his sister, shaking his head ever so slightly.
A silent plea. A wordless command.

The moment he felt Scar’s eyes on him, his pupils constricted as though scorched by flame. His whole body sank low to the ground, as if sheer smallness could spare him.

“So… my command no longer holds weight with you, Vitani?”

Scar's eyes darted between the siblings, back and forth, the quiet understanding between them a thing both impressive and dangerous.

“Tell me—since when has she started answering to you instead?”

The young lions pressed their ears flat against their necks, as if bracing for thunder. The silence was heavy, stretching taut as the sky before a storm.

“Incredible. Truly, you never cease to impress me.”

Scar came to a halt in front of Kovu, though his next words were aimed at his daughter.

“If you’re so eager to stay, then keep your eyes wide open…”
He paused, then turned his head slightly toward her with a lifted brow.
“And how, from all the way back there, do you expect to see anything at all?”

Vitani moved like a puppet on mismatched limbs. Not for a moment did she dare meet her father's eyes—those eyes that might, at any second, send venom shooting straight through her.

She fixed her gaze on Kovu instead, as if his presence alone could lend her strength.

Then came the voice again.
Low. Thick. Almost tender.

“Look at me, boy.”

Kovu lifted his face slowly.

In the blink of an eye, Scar’s paw landed upon his left eye.

Vitani swore she could hear it—steel drawn from its sheath, tearing the very air apart.

It bit into Kovu’s skin at once, beginning at his brow, dragging downwards in a slow, deliberate arc. It halted only when it reached the upper ridge of his eye socket.

Vitani gasped, terror catching her breath, her chest heaving so wildly she nearly screamed.

But Kovu didn’t move.

He kept his eye open, his mouth parted just enough to let sound escape—yet nothing came.
Not a cry. Not even a breath.

Blood began to pulse from the wound, bubbling up with each beat of his heart, soaking half his face in red. His dark fur drank in most of it, but soon it began to drip—pat, pat, pat—onto the stone beneath.

Each drop landed like a blow to Vitani’s chest.

Scar paused. His eyes narrowed into long, thin slits, watching Kovu’s face with something like amusement. Or perhaps weighing the thrill of how far he might go.

His claw drifted closer to the emerald eye.

Closer still.

It stopped—just shy of piercing.

That eye trembled, unable to hide its fear. It swam with panic, deep and raw.

But it did not flinch.

It did not beg.

It did not cry.

Scar was nearly satisfied.

Almost.

He wanted this to be perfect.

“You may keep the eye.” he murmured.

And once more, the claw sank into fur slick with blood. It found the rim of bone beneath the eye—and continued its descent, carving downward in a flawless mirror of the line above.

A wound shaped not in rage, but precision.

A mark.

A seal.

A masterpiece.

When the claw finally left his skin, Kovu let out a faint, trembling breath.
The wound stung like fire, but he bit down hard on his tongue, forcing the tears to retreat—
useless things, only there to make the pain worse.

Blood had spread across most of his face, clinging heavy to his lashes and lids. The world before him swam in a haze of red, thick with salt and iron. He had no choice but to rely on his uninjured right eye, tracking Scar’s every move with wary focus.

Their king raised the bloodstained claw with elegance, as though presenting some grotesque relic.
Disgust flickered across his face.
Then he turned—to the daughter who still hadn’t quite found her breath.

A dreadful premonition struck Kovu like thunder.

Before he could move, Scar seized Vitani’s face in one fluid motion. He smeared the blood across her fur—dragging it from brow to cheek, down to her mouth—
letting it graze her teeth,
making sure she tasted it.

Panic and scarlet burned into her face, those wide blue eyes fixed on the void.

Then Scar gave a sharp flick of his paw. Blood spattered across the ground.

“Remember. This is my gift to you.”

The words, spoken to no one and everyone, hung in the air like smoke.

Scar cast a glance at the vulture in the shadows. The bird gave a jump, tottered forward, and seized the scrap of red mane in its claws. With a great flap of wings, it swept away the remains—real or false—like dust brushed from a table.

It trailed after the king as he stepped down from the ledge, and walked away.

Chapter Text

Drip.
Drip.

The intervals between each drop of blood were growing longer. The final one clung stubbornly to Kovu’s chin,
until he gave a slight shake of his head and sent it flying.

A poor decision.

The movement, slight as it was, pulled at the fresh wound.
Kovu hissed through his teeth, the pain sharp enough to rouse Vitani from her daze.

Were it not for the smear of Scar’s blood across her face,
she might have appeared ghostly pale—on the verge of collapse.

“Don’t look at me like that.”
Kovu raised a paw, brushing the back of it gingerly along his cheek. The dried blood clung to his fur in an ugly smear.
“I’m the one bleeding here. Surely you’re not expecting me to comfort you?”

The lioness stepped forward, bringing her face to his.

“It’s really not as bad as it looks. I’ve had worse—far worse—”

But Vitani said nothing.

Instead, she began silently cleaning the blood from his face,
cutting off whatever else Kovu had been about to say,
leaving the words lodged in his throat.

The lioness’s tongue was lined with tiny barbs, and hers made quick work of the half-dried clots along Kovu’s cheek. The edges of the wound had begun to curl, and the flesh beneath was swollen and taut—like a fissure in blackened stone, beneath which simmered molten lava. Vitani did her best to avoid the rawest parts, but it was impossible not to graze them now and then, drawing sharp breaths of pain from Kovu’s lips.

“You put on quite the show back there—brave to the death and all.” she remarked flatly, voice dry as dust.

Kovu could only see out of his right eye now, but that didn’t stop him from flashing his most shameless grin.
“Brave, sure—but even a tough guy wants to whimper to his big sister now and then—ow, ow, OW!”

Vitani’s tongue swept mercilessly across the wound, and Kovu yelped, jerking back and clutching his face with a paw.

“What is wrong with you?!”

“That’s for saying disgusting things.”

“I’ve gone half numb on this side of my face, thank you very much...”

He sulked, lips pursed in exaggerated misery, his good eye sneaking a glance at hers.

“Want me to help tidy you up too? Though honestly, you look great already… very striking.”

“You can just say you want a slap.”

Vitani couldn’t be bothered to argue. She rolled her eyes—slow and exaggerated—then gave her paw a few quick licks and rubbed it roughly across her face. Most of the blood came off in smeared streaks; the faded crimson blended strangely well with the sandy gold of her fur. It gave her the look of some ancient warrior marked by ritual, blood pulsing beneath her skin with fierce, defiant life.

To call her bloodthirsty would be a stretch, but to Kovu, she had never looked more alive. Fierce, vital, burning with energy barely contained in that lean, compact frame—this was how she was meant to be.

He thought it—but wisely kept it to himself. No need to have her yelling “Disgusting!” again and coming at him with claws drawn.

They walked side by side out of the empty cave. The sun had already climbed to its peak; the worst morning of their lives had just come to an end.

“So. What’s the plan now?”

“You really love asking me that.”

Kovu’s gaze wandered to the far distance—beyond the horizon. He couldn’t see the oasis, but his heart had already flown there.

“Your claim to the throne is all but sealed. Of course I should consult your wishes.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, Vitani.”

“But his intentions were made perfectly clear…”

“Doesn’t mean you can be so open about taking my side—not while he’s still in power.”

Kovu tried to open his left eye, but he gave up after a moment—the dull, relentless throb was too much. Just keeping the tears from welling up was effort enough.

His sister said nothing. The silence stretched for a few seconds, long enough for Kovu to realise she might’ve misunderstood him.

“I’m not blaming you.” he said quietly. 

“Don’t take it that way.” 

He turned his injured side away from her, refusing to see the apology in her eyes—or let her see the pain in his.

“If I’d had to face that old bastard alone, I probably… well, you know what I mean. So really—thank you.”

Vitani didn’t seem to know what to do with that. She mumbled a dry, awkward, “Don’t.”

Kovu smiled. The wound made it more of a grimace, but the intent was there.

“I’m planning to leave for a while.”

“What?”

“So that old bastard won’t come after me,” he paused, “or come after you.”

“And what about this place?”

“Well, you’re still here, aren’t you?”

Vitani was already regretting asking. She should’ve known better than to give him an opening.

“Don’t ask where I’m going.”

“As if I care.”

Kovu nodded.
“Anything you need me to decide on, say it now.”

Vitani fell silent.

Something nameless had been circling the edge of her thoughts since earlier, and she still couldn’t pin down where it came from or what it meant.

She decided to set it aside—for now—and start with something simpler.

“I don’t think the wild dogs were particularly pleased with the verdict.”

“Wasn’t it meant to please you?”
Kovu wasted no time in slipping into complaint.
“You see how much of a mess I’m in now?”

But he didn’t dwell on it. His mind was already shifting, fast and sharp.

“Open up the largest waterhole. Tell them they’re free to hunt near it.”

“Isn’t that a bit much?”
Vitani frowned, clearly not convinced.

“Hmm… you’ve got a point.”
Kovu clicked his teeth together, tilted his head back, thinking.
“No, it’s fine. Let’s go with it. I’m allowed the occasional bad decision.”

“What about the hyenas?”

“When were they ever my problem? The old bastard will deal with them. Just stay out of it.”

Vitani looked like she wanted to press further, but hesitated.

“They’ll be leaving soon.”

He brought it up before Vitani could.
She still hadn’t let go of those two lions—even after everything she’d seen, after all the filth laid bare before her eyes, her heart refused to harden.

“You gave me your word.”

“Of course. If you don’t trust me, you can see them off yourself. Just tell the old bastard—he’ll allow it.”

Vitani nodded.

The road to the wastelands cut straight across Kovu’s territory, all the way to the northern border of the Pride Land.

Truth be told, she didn’t feel right letting them go alone.

“Anything else?”

She didn’t answer.
Her gaze drifted across the silent plain, searching for the source of the unease gnawing at her thoughts.

A cluster of crimson fruit swung suddenly into view, dangling from the tip of a slender ebony tree.
They swayed in the wind with a clear, faraway chime.

Kovu’s brow furrowed—he saw the tall, thin figure almost at the same time she did.

“What’s he doing here.”

The flash of red wouldn’t leave Vitani’s eyes.
The soft chime grew louder, steadier, until it beat like a measured drum, pounding rhythmically against her memory—

Peel the fur while they’re still alive…
To keep the softness… and the colour…

I already found him…
And I found him dead.

Vitani’s breath caught.

A dreadful thought swept through her, crowding out all others.

She wanted to probe the truth—but knew any probing would be useless.
Her brother was far too quick to see through her.
Vitani had never been one for subtlety, so she chose the most direct approach.

Kovu didn’t look remotely surprised.
It was as if he’d been waiting for her to ask.

“Sharp as ever.” he said, blinking slowly. 

“I was wondering when you’d pick up on that. You know the kind of crap he eats up—I gave him exactly that.”

His answer came so fast, so clean, it only deepened her suspicion.
He’d prepared this line. She could tell.

And unfortunately, she had no proof.
So long as Kovu insisted he had presented the truth, she had no way to challenge him.

The sound of fruit shells clinking together drew close—too close.
They both glanced down.

The old mandrill was climbing up the rock wall toward them.

Kovu’s brow furrowed deeper.

“Vitani. You’ve got things to take care of.”

But the lioness acted as though she hadn’t heard a word.

“Rafiki’s here.”

“I can see that.”

“Why did he come here?”

“That’s not important.”

Kovu raised his voice slightly, trying to press her just a little harder.

“Go. Now.”

But he was pushing too fast—or underestimating her instincts.

Vitani ignored him again. All her attention was locked on the mandrill.

“What’s he carrying?”

Kovu was visibly irritated by these questions, but it was too late.
Rafiki had already reached them, standing now between the two siblings.

Kovu had no choice but to swallow whatever he was about to say.

The mandrill held half a fruit shell in his hand, filled with a green paste made from crushed leaves.

He scooped out a bit with his fingers and reached for Kovu’s wound.

Kovu immediately jerked his head away.
“I don’t need it.”

What he did need was for this old monkey to disappear.

But Rafiki seemed oblivious to the thought.

“Does it not matter to you if your face rots?”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Let me ask again—does it not matter?”

Kovu drew a deep breath, forcing the anger back down his throat.

Vitani cut in.

“You’re hurt worse than you think. Why not use the medicine? It looks like it works.”

“And since when do you know about this stuff…”

He was out of options. Refusing again would only make him look suspicious.

So he dipped his head obediently, letting the mandrill smear the green paste across his face.

It was cold and sticky. Unpleasant.
But not unbearable.

“She’s right,” Rafiki said.
“You’ll need to apply it daily if you want the wound to heal properly.”

“You hear that?” Vitani added, tone light.
“Be good—or that pretty face of yours is going to be ruined.”

She cast a casual glance at the mandrill.

“And don’t waste Rafiki’s generosity.”

“You’ve been hinting at something for a while now. What are you really trying to say?”

Kovu turned to glare at her—but Rafiki grabbed his jaw and held him still.

“She wants to know where I stand. Isn’t it obvious?”

He finished smoothing the last bit of paste and let go.

Kovu stepped back with a scowl and gave him a grudging nod.
It was the closest thing to thanks he could manage.

The lioness wasted no time voicing her doubt.

The old mandrill had attacked both the king and the heir—not long ago, and not lightly.
They had torn all pretence to shreds.
So how could he show up now, calm as the sky, bringing medicine like nothing had happened?

It didn’t make sense.

Rafiki let her finish, then spoke with measured calm.

“Forgive my outburst at the time. It wasn’t the fact itself… I should’ve known that cub couldn’t have survived on his own.
But that level of mockery—I couldn’t let it go unanswered.”

He tugged at the grey hairs on his chin, eyes narrowing as he cast a look of open disapproval at the young lion beside him.
Anger, unmistakable and unhidden, crept into his aged face.

“You used the phrase ‘peel the fur while still alive’, didn’t you? I’m not surprised. You lot have always had a taste for the bloodiest things...”

“But you figured it out later, didn’t you?”
Kovu said it quietly, but every word was scathing.
“Just part of the performance”

“I did my job, old man. Don’t take it so personally.”

The conversation wasn’t going in the direction Vitani had expected. Confusion clouded her face.

“So what you’re saying is…”

The mandrill bowed low, leaning on his staff.

“Since the days of the previous king, I’ve served as an advisor at the edge of the throne. Now that the facts are settled, I will continue—doing what I can for the good of the Pride Land,
whether it’s under the current ruler… or the one who follows.”

It was a flawless answer.
There was no opening to press further.
Vitani’s suspicions dissolved—for now.

Kovu shook his head slowly, as if generously forgiving his sister’s paranoia.

“You’re acting weird, you know. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Then, more lightly,
“Come on, sis. I’m still counting on you.”

Vitani paused, then turned back to the old mandrill.

“Rafiki… aren’t you leaving?”

The baboon was fiddling with the now-empty fruit shell.
“I still need to explain how to treat the wound.”

“Busybody,” Kovu muttered under his breath. “One night’s rest is more than enough.”

“No.”

“…What?”

Rafiki didn’t even look at him.

“You’re to stay still from now on.”

“…How long?”

“At least five days.”

“You gotta be kidding me!!”

Kovu burst out, then immediately realised he’d overreacted.

Vitani was still standing right there.

He lowered his voice, irritation simmering.

“I can’t waste that much time…”

“You’ve already wasted plenty. A few more days won’t make a difference.”

Kovu let out a long, guttural groan and began pacing in agitated circles.

Vitani had been about to leave. But now, watching this scene unfold, curiosity pulled her back.

“What’s got you so worked up anyway?”

That didn’t sound like her brother at all—he was never this rattled.

“None of your business.”

“You were asking for my help two minutes ago,” Vitani shot back. “And this is the attitude I get?”

For some reason, Kovu threw a sharp glare at Rafiki.

“I’m going to…”
He looked like he hated admitting it.
“…look for something.”

Which, of course, only made it all the easier to be taken the wrong way.

Vitani gave him a knowing smile.

“You mean someone, don’t you?”

Kovu said nothing—but his face said plenty.

“Well, well… Busy as you are, still got time for little side quests, huh?”

She said it casually, but couldn’t help glancing at the old mandrill.
Why did he seem to know something even she didn’t?
Maybe living long really did sharpen the eye.

Kovu clearly didn’t find it funny. He’d now turned his good eye on her, glaring again.

“Are you done yet?”

“Alright, fine—I’m going.”

And as she turned to leave, she tossed one last remark over her shoulder:

“He’s in your hands now, Rafiki.”

The mandrill gave a nod. He rested his weight on his staff and bowed low.

The lioness walked off alone, her head low as she stepped into the tall wild grass.
She kept glancing back at the two figures atop the Pride Rock.

The levity from that brief interlude hadn’t lasted long.
Suspicion still hung over Vitani like a storm-cloud, heavy and unshifting.
Rafiki’s explanation made sense—but not enough to quiet her doubts.

Everyone knew the mandrill had questioned Scar’s legitimacy from the very start.
He had always remained neutral, never openly supporting any potential heir.
If anything, given the chance, he might’ve preferred to see Scar—and their entire bloodline—cast out of the Pride Land…
and the long-lost prince brought home again.

But that hope had crumbled too.
Even a stubborn old baboon had to learn to accept reality.
Better to show loyalty early, while there was still a choice—
than be forced into it once the new king had fully risen.

Unless…

Unless Rafiki hadn’t chosen a side today at all—
but long before any of this came to light.

The sun had warmed the plains to a golden haze, but Vitani shivered all the same.
If this theory held water…
then Kovu had lied about the one thing that mattered most.

That trap wasn’t just meant for Nuka.
It was meant to blind Scar.
Which meant—

Simba… might still be alive.

No.
More than that.

It meant Kovu had hidden him.

That, and only that, would explain Rafiki’s eerie composure—
how much he already knew,
how rare Kovu’s agitation had become.

Vitani dropped, hard, into the shade of a tree.
The thought alone was enough to leave her stunned.
But it wasn’t the idea that truly frightened her.

It was the future.

The one she thought was settled—
the one that had finally offered a sliver of hope—
was unraveling again,
thread by unpredictable thread.

“You old bastard, what the hell was that?”

Once he was sure Vitani had gone far enough not to overhear, Kovu lashed out at the mandrill without warning.

“Who told you to come here? Who told you to spout all that crap? What are you even trying to pull…?”

His hackles were raised; the fur along his back bristled until he looked almost twice his usual size.
Quite the menacing sight.

But Rafiki was not the sort to flinch at such displays.

“Brought you a remedy, you ungrateful brat.”

“You could’ve waited till Vitani was gone—”

“I came to help, and now you’re picking it apart?”

Kovu bit back his temper.
“Alright. Fine. But I didn’t tell you to start running your mouth! Vitani’s not stupid—she’ll get suspicious!”

“She’s your ally now. I’d say she has the right to know.”

“You don’t get to make that call for me, understand?!”

He gave up trying to keep his fury in check. The blood was pounding in his ears, his skin twitching with rage—he could feel the fresh wound on his face threatening to split wide open.

“Just do what I tell you!”

The old mandrill fixed him with a sharp, measuring stare, eyes narrowed on the green flames burning in the young lion’s gaze.

“Why are you hiding it? What are you so afraid of?”

The black lion lashed out with a paw—thud—striking the ground hard enough to send gravel flying and dent the earth. But the old mandrill was quicker than he looked, leaping back just in time. The claw marks landed barely two inches from where he’d been standing.

Rafiki’s gaze sharpened. The ebony staff spun in his hands before he raised it high—and brought it crashing down with a whistle of air, striking Kovu squarely on the crown.

The young lion cried out in pain, staggering backwards, a paw clutching his head.

Rafiki folded his arms, staring at him without a hint of sympathy.

“Feel better now?”

The lion muttered something under his breath—most likely a string of foul words. The mandrill narrowed his eyes in disapproval but chose to ignore it.

“Bloody hell…”

Kovu rubbed his head with a grimace. A swelling lump was already forming beneath his mane.

“You do realise I’m injured, don’t you?”

“Oh, so now you remember you’re injured? Then you’d better lie low and stop flailing about like a lunatic.”

Rafiki picked up the half fruit shell that had fallen to the ground. From behind, he vaguely heard Kovu muttering something.

“I can’t…”

“What?”

“I can’t waste any time right now!”

He’d forgotten his injury again—his shouting tugged at the left side of his face, and dark red began to seep through the greenish paste smeared on his wound.

“He’s still waiting for me…”

“I can see you’re confident. Not always a good thing, though.”

“You won’t understand…”

The young lion glared at the stone beneath his paws. The pain lingered, dull and constant—but his senses were growing duller still.

“… why I had to do all of this.”

“You mean to say it’s all for Simba?”

Rafiki cut in sharply, no trace of sympathy in his voice.

“You don’t even believe that yourself, do you?”

Kovu froze. His throat bobbed once, a hard swallow.

“…It’s what’s best for him.”

“Did you ask Simba what he thinks?”

“I don’t need to—”

And then something crossed his mind. His eyes shot up, thorn-sharp and gleaming with menace.

“Don’t you dare breathe a word to him—!”

“Oh, save it, boy. You really ought to find some new tricks to threaten me with.”

Rafiki gave a dismissive wave. He didn’t take it to heart in the slightest.

“Either way, you’ll need to rest properly for the next few days—unless you want Simba to see you like this. Don’t expect him to be impressed.”

The effect was immediate.
Kovu’s mouth opened halfway, as if ready to protest, but something made him hesitate. His eyes dimmed—yet his lips twisted into a bitter, spiteful smirk.

“Simba… Simba…”

A rasping laugh scraped its way up his throat, thin and jagged, like wind over dead leaves. He lifted his gaze to meet the old mandrill’s yellow eyes.

“Didn’t expect a tuft of his mane to turn you into such a weeping mess… You put on a better show than I ever could, you decrepit fraud.”

Rafiki stared straight back at that unrelenting, defiant glare.

He didn’t answer.
What was the point?
To explain that those tears had been real? That the pain still clung to him every time he thought of Simba—or Mufasa?

To this lion?

What a waste of breath.

If it weren’t for Simba, he wouldn’t have bothered with this trip at all.

Scar had twisted the boy so far out of shape, there was barely anything left to salvage.

And whatever crude tricks he had left were no better than tossing pebbles at a wildfire.

“Come.”

Rafiki struck the ground lightly with his staff, then turned away, slow and unbothered.

“If you want to heal quickly, do as I say.”

Kovu swallowed the bitter leaves with a grimace, the taste so acrid it numbed his tongue entirely.

It was the sixth day.

Each day, he spent long hours by the waterhole, staring into his blurred reflection. Rafiki’s remedies worked well enough, and his own youthful strength did the rest—his wounds were healing fast. The swelling on his face had gone down; his left eye could open properly now, vision unimpaired. A thick scab was peeling away, revealing pale pink skin beneath.

A scar.
The very same as Scar’s.

With a snarl, Kovu slammed his paw into the water, breaking the surface into ripples.

He was sick to death of that old bastard. Sick of the sight he’d left behind—carved into his own reflection.

And yet he lingered.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from that loathsome image. He needed to watch it closely, to track his recovery, to wait for the moment he could slip away while Rafiki wasn’t looking. But every time he tried, that hawk-eyed baboon would intercept him on the spot, waving his blasted stick and threatening to crack his skull open again.

So Kovu always ended up back at the water’s edge.

The wounds on his face were nearly gone.
The lump on his head, however, remained stubbornly swollen.
Perhaps the old monkey had dipped that stick in poison.

It wasn’t until the tenth day that Rafiki finally said he could leave.

Kovu leaned so close to the water his nose nearly touched the surface, inspecting the scar with narrow eyes—it had healed well, all things considered, but the mark would likely stay with him for life.

He wondered how Simba would react to it… Tried not to, but his brow remained furrowed, tight with unease.

“Don’t you dare sneak after me once I’m gone. Got that?”

The old mandrill sat perched on a nearby rock, watching the lion’s reflection glare at him through the rippling water. The distortion robbed it of all menace.

“That depends on your attitude.”

“Say that again?!”

Kovu shot upright, eyes blazing.

That wretched monkey was throwing his own words back at him?!

“I won’t show myself,” Rafiki said evenly, “so long as you truly consider telling Simba the truth.”

The black lion bared his teeth in warning.

“Still dreaming, are you? Still think you can bring him back and crown him your precious king?”

Rafiki didn’t even blink.

“That’s for Simba to decide. I have no say in it—nor do you have any right to keep the truth from him.”

With a single leap, he landed on the far side of the pool, staff tapping softly as he ignored the wary lion.

“You’d do well to remember this: even if you keep it from him now, he’ll find out eventually.”

When Kovu stepped once more into the forest—so familiar, yet now strangely distant—everything seemed to welcome him back.
The cool breeze was like a breath he’d long forgotten how to take, flowing into his chest and stirring memories left behind.

Finding Simba had never been difficult. After all, the stars themselves were his eyes. He moved freely through the dark woods, listening to the whisper of fallen leaves recounting moments he had missed.

He didn’t expect the forest to lead him again to this shallow riverbank.
And he certainly didn’t expect to see that dusky golden figure, half-hidden among the grass.

Kovu slowed his steps, moving as if he were gliding over a bed of fallen leaves, silent as breath—afraid to wake the little one fast asleep.

No.
He couldn’t call him that anymore.

Simba’d filled out since Kovu last saw him. The red mane had grown thicker, brighter; well-shaped muscles now wrapped a solid frame, and the golden coat had taken on a silvery glow beneath the moonlight.
He was curled into himself, asleep in perfect stillness.

Kovu padded closer, about to sit down—but hesitated.
He raised a paw and tousled his mane until it fell over the scarred half of his face, thick and messy.

Useless disguise, really. But it felt like something.

He lowered himself quietly, settling beside Simba, brushing his tail against the other’s until they rested side by side.

Now that he was this close, Kovu realised just how much Simba had grown.He could barely wrap himself around the lion he once held so easily.

As Kovu lingered there in silence, the body beside him stirred.

A soft murmur slipped from parted lips.

Dark lashes fluttered—then opened, revealing amber so beautiful it hurt to look at.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Kovu was too stunned to speak.
That gaze cut through him like drifting thistle-down, rootless and lost to the wind.

“If you’re not real… please don’t come into my dreams…”

Kovu bent low, and let a kiss fall upon Simba’s mouth, gentle as the breeze.

“…Would your dreams remember this, too?”

Chapter Text

Simba could hardly believe his eyes.

The outline before him was achingly familiar, yet the face he had longed for, night after night, hid in the black shadows of the trees—like all those countless dreams, ready to vanish the moment he reached for it. And when he woke, he would be alone again.

But tonight, the full moon finally took pity on him.
It slipped from behind a bank of cloud, spilling a pale silver beam that lit the face for real this time.

Simba had so many things to say, so many questions to ask—why had Kovu been gone so long, where had he been, what had he done, would he leave again?—but another worry crept in at once: had he been talking in his sleep just now? Had he mumbled the other’s name again? Had Kovu heard it? Oh, by the stars…

What did he even look like right now? He’d only just woken up—no chance to find a puddle and check himself. What if there were grass seeds stuck to his face? What if his mane was sticking up all over the place—

He didn’t know what to do. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, until at last all that came out was:

“…Kovu?”

The sound was so small, so tremulous, as if he still wasn’t sure this was real.

Then the other reached out a paw, brushing lightly through his mane, drawing him close with a gentleness that broke what little composure he had left. Simba let out a muffled gasp and flung himself forward, wrapping the other in his forelegs.

Kovu seemed startled by the force of it—and Simba, for his part, had underestimated his own weight. He sent them both toppling into the grass. His face sank into that thick, black mane, and in an instant that long-missed scent filled his lungs.

The feeling was so reassuring, so familiar, it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

A low chuckle rumbled above his head, strong forelegs tightening around him.

Too tight—he began to fear the other could hear every thundering beat of his heart.

“Are you really that happy to see me?”

Simba looked up—and fell straight into those deep emerald eyes.

Elegant swirls of kelp-green, rippling with faint waves.

Simba realised Kovu wasn’t as calm as he seemed. The joy, the thrill of this reunion, was no less than his own—and the fierce heartbeat he felt through the other’s chest was proof enough.

Simba gave a somewhat triumphant smile. The other, still waiting for a reply, only sighed and tapped his head with a paw.

“Get up, will you? Since when did you get so heavy?”

The “little one” in his arms gave a disgruntled hum, then rolled down to sprawl beside him.

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
“I told you I’d come back for you.”
“But you never said when…”
“Yet you still waited here.”

Kovu lay on his side, studying the other’s face in quiet detail; every faint, unfamiliar change brought a dull ache to his heart. The nights they’d lost could never be reclaimed—he would not miss another.

“Before I came here, I still couldn’t believe you’d actually be here. I thought my nose was playing tricks on me.”

“Pure coincidence.”

The tip of Simba’s tail swept idly across his belly, tickling him right to the heart.

“If I’d been a day late—or a day early—it wouldn’t have been this moment.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Hmph… I’ll just pretend you’re not being coy about it.”

The dark lion folded his forepaws, resting his cheek sideways upon them, his gaze drifting into the air.

“You’re still the same—you’ve never said some sweet things for me.”
“I don’t even know what you want to hear…”

Simba murmured the words, his gaze resting quietly on the other, almost unchanged from the way he remembered—save for…

“All right, let me try…” 

He blinked quickly, feeling heat creep into his cheeks.

“It still feels like a dream. Some nights I’ve woken thinking I’d seen you, only to find the grass cold beside me. I don’t know… I’m not sure I’m really looking at you now. I’m afraid if I blink, you’ll be gone again.”

Green eyes turned back to him, a faint smile in their depths.

“Not bad, actually. Then it’s my turn—I’ll say something you want to hear.”

That smile deepened, rich with the ease of familiarity.

“If this is a dream, then maybe you should stop blinking and start counting—my breaths won’t vanish that easily.”

The young lion’s face flushed scarlet at once, his voice shrinking to a thread.

“Then why… won’t you let me see you—all of you?”

Kovu was still chuckling at the adorable sight. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why hide your face from me?”

He heard the other’s breath catch, and at once knew he’d touched the wrong—no, the most right—question. In a heartbeat, Kovu’s muscles bunched and he tore himself from the moonlight, vanishing as the trees’ shadow swallowed him whole.

Simba didn’t go after him. He had no wish to press, choosing instead to remain where he was—just as he always had.

“What happened to you?”

He could imagine the worst—that the other had taken a wound in battle so grave he would not show the ruined part. But Simba dismissed it at once. It was a lion’s way: from the day they came of age, they fought, large or small, until they died; no skill could spare them every mark. And from Kovu’s bearing, whatever the hurt, it had long since healed.

“Do you mean to keep yourself hidden like this?”

Silence passed briefly between them, until Kovu let out a long, heavy sigh.

“…Of course not.”

His legs felt bound with vines; each step was stiff, halting—and that unwavering amber gaze made each one harder still.

Moonlight crept, inch by inch, over his shoulder. He lifted his chin at last, letting his mane fall aside to bare that half of his face.

He never looked up. If Simba was sharp enough to know him from this alone, then let the truth be laid bare—there was no better confession. He had rehearsed so many reasons, both sound and absurd; he was certain one would serve to convince.

All but this: the one thing he could not abide, that sickened him to the core—
to have that scar lay his face over another’s.

Just as it did each time he looked into water.

Simba drew in a sharp breath. Soft though it was, in this stillness nothing could escape Kovu’s ears.

He shut his eyes in pain.
Who could he blame for it?
No one but himself—for lying, always, where it mattered most.

A damp touch broke his train of thought, warmth from that tongue racing up his cheek and spilling quick into his chest.

When Kovu opened his eyes, he could swear he saw flecks of waterlight shimmering in the amber.

“Does it… hurt here?”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing, what he was seeing. He searched the other’s face for the slightest crack, the faintest trace of hidden feeling.

But Simba was not like him—expression was the one thing he had never learnt to mask.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

Kovu swallowed hard, forcing back the sting in his nose.

“Not anymore.”

The golden lion’s eyes held such sorrow, as though the truth he was avoiding cut deeper into that soft heart than any wound could.

“I feel better—if you’d just…” He faltered, then softened the request. “Do that again, like before—”

He had not finished before the other pressed close, the tip of that tongue tracing gently along the lines of his face, lingering at the corner of his eye, then venturing over the pale pink scar.

The urge to weep rose again; Kovu bit down on his tongue, a silent warning to himself not to give in. Simba would know it at once—he had shown enough weakness tonight; the rest could wait.

“You’re lucky—this eye wasn’t hurt.”

“Then you’re lucky too. I’ve long known how you’re taken with my green eyes.”

But Simba did not fluster as he had expected under such barefaced teasing. His brows knit slightly, gaze clouded with worry.

“I’m not joking. The cut’s deep enough—and yet your eye’s untouched…”

He paused, the next words dragging.

“Was it done on purpose?”

Kovu was forced to let the jest fall away, realising he had truly underestimated the cub.

“Yes…”
He turned his gaze aside, feeling the other’s stare on him still.
“Do you want to know?”

“Would you tell me?”

He sighed. “It’s hardly a pleasant tale…” But Simba’s disappointed look knotted his heart so tight he could not hold it. At last, he gave a blurred answer: “I lost a duel. He spared me—left this mark instead. One day, he’ll wish he hadn’t.”

But the golden lion caught the other meaning at once.
“So you’re saying… you’ll be leaving again?”

Those amber eyes rippled, trembling in a way he could hardly bear to look at.
“No… Simba, it’s not like that. Come here…”

He pulled Simba back down into the grass, guiding that soft golden head to rest on his shoulder.

“That won’t be for a long, long time. Don’t think about it now, alright?”

The head nodded—reluctantly—and Kovu smiled quietly, paw pads stroking over the firm warmth of his fur.
The moon was sinking, the night thinning toward dawn.

“Want to rest a bit more?”

To his surprise, Simba immediately scrambled out of his hold, pressing both paws down on his chest.

“No.”

Kovu gave a small, incredulous laugh. 

“Alright… but why pin me like this?”

“You’re the one who needs to rest.”
Simba pressed down harder, stubborn.
“I’ll be watching you.”

“Afraid I’ll slip away?”

Simba’s solemn nod made him laugh even more.

“Alright… fine. But will you let go first? You’re stronger than you think, you know that?”
“…Sorry.”

Simba had little sense of his own weight. He withdrew, sheepish, but then hesitated—placing one paw gently on Kovu’s foreleg instead.

“Like this?”
“Sure.”

It was then Simba noticed—Kovu wasn’t lying on his side or flat on his back the way Simba himself often did. Instead, Kovu was curled tight, tail drawn in to hide in his own shadow.
A posture of someone who did not feel safe.

Sleep was heavy on his face, yet those green eyes would close… then open again… and again.

“Is it because I’m here? You can’t sleep?”

Kovu bared his teeth in a smile. 

“Exactly. It’s all your fault.”
“…What do we do, then?”
“I have an idea. Come closer.”

Simba leaned in. The other’s nose brushed the base of his ear.

“You haven’t forgotten how I woke you earlier, have you?”

His heart jolted hard. He moved to pull away, but Kovu’s paw came down—light, but enough to keep him there.

“Fair’s fair. You owe me one.”

Kovu didn’t truly hold him, yet Simba felt drawn in by something unseen, green tides rising to surround him, holding him fast until nothing but that face filled his sight.

He leaned in, brushed the other’s muzzle with a fleeting kiss, and felt the faint quiver of his own whiskers as he drew back—lowering his gaze, anything to avoid meeting the burning flame in those eyes.

“…Stars, you’re going to be the end of me.”

Kovu let out a low, almost helpless groan, flopping back with Simba’s paw still caught in his own.

“If I were in just a bit better shape… you wouldn’t be getting off so easily.”

Simba’s ears flicked; he pretended not to understand, though the heat creeping under his fur betrayed him.

“Get some rest. When the sun’s up, I’m taking you somewhere.”

The long journey had left Kovu worn out enough, but even so, he shouldn’t have been sleeping this heavily. There must be something about this place that stripped away his wariness.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was already high. The youngster who had sworn to watch him all night and keep him from slipping away was curled at his side, fast asleep.

Kovu eased himself to his feet, only to realise there was never any risk of waking Simba at all—the cub had flopped onto his back, belly up, sleeping so soundly that even thunder might not stir him.

It made Kovu want to misbehave.

He stepped quietly over him, peering down. In the sunlight, Simba’s mane shone a warm, fiery red, spilling from neck to shoulder and chest in a full, soft frame that perfectly matched his tawny coat. The whole of him steeped in golden light.

Kovu gave his face a light nip. No reaction. So he carried on, tracing the curve of his jaw with unhurried bites, drawing in Simba’s scent, his teeth grazing over the thick fur from time to time.

Then he noticed the few pale spots still lingering on Simba’s belly, forming curious patterns under the sun.

Kovu set his attention there. The soft flesh, padded with a thin layer of fat, yielded easily between his teeth, and he pinched at it, then let go, again and again, enjoying himself immensely—

Until Simba stirred groggily awake, then let out an almighty yell.

“Waaahhh—what are you doing?!”

He scrambled away in a mess of paws, shaking out his mane in a futile attempt to hide his fluster.

Kovu, utterly unrepentant, laughed.

“I just wanted to see when you’d wake.”

“Couldn’t you just—oh, I don’t know—poke me or something?!”

Stars above—he had opened his eyes to find that head moving about somewhere under his ribs… enough to give him nightmares.

“You’re incredible, you know that? I swear I could’ve dragged you all the way to the next ridge and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

Simba mumbled something under his breath, then all at once leapt up in alarm.

“Oh no—we’re going to be late!”

He turned and darted into the jungle. Kovu followed at an easy pace.

“Will you at least tell me where we’re going?”

“You’ll know soon enough!”

Gentle shafts of sunlight dappled through the jungle canopy. The night’s damp still clung to the air, dew beading on leaves and grass so that, as they passed, the cool freshness clung to their fur, leaving a clean, green scent in their wake.

Kovu’s gaze roamed over the path ahead, until a certain bend in the trail began to feel strangely familiar.

“You’re taking me to meet your friends, aren’t you?”

Simba halted dead, spinning round to glare at him with the wounded look of someone whose surprise had been spoilt.

“How did you know that?”

“Because I’ve been here before,” Kovu said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “and you were the one who brought me. Forgotten already?”

Simba had no answer to that. The hateful cliff was already looming ahead, and with it came a rush of half-formed memories, making the heat rise up his neck. He turned away abruptly and strode on, not wanting Kovu to see his reddening face.

“Hey, wait for me,” came the teasing voice behind him.
“kitty.”

Simba clenched his teeth so hard they might crack—he’d told Kovu time and again not to call him that, and of course the brute was doing it on purpose.

Kovu sat with a perfectly straight posture, boredly watching the grass at his paws.  

He knew he didn’t look easy to approach—he hadn’t said a word—so why were those two animals still looking like the colour had drained from their fur?  

Simba was talking away, warm and eager, giving the kind of glowing, very subjective praise about Kovu’s skill and how pleasant it had been, living together—
Pleasant? Kovu smirked at his own paws. That was one way to put it, kitten.  

“…That’s about it. Any questions?”  

Kovu sighed softly. The little dullard didn’t seem to realise his poor friends were scared half to death; odds were they’d heard next to nothing of that whole speech.  

It was Timon who snapped out of it first, elbowing Pumbaa hard. The warthog made a noise halfway between a grunt and a hiccup, and together they turned nervous eyes on Kovu.  

“So… is he going to be staying here?”  

Out of the corner of his eye, Kovu caught Simba nodding vigorously. Best leave that talk for later—he had no wish to argue in front of these two.  

“Simba, are you sure he—” Pumbaa sidled closer and dropped his voice to nearly nothing. “…he’s really not dangerous?”  

“Kovu?” Simba prompted him. “Want to answer that one yourself?”  

“Oh? I thought you told me not to say a word.”  

“Just this one question.”  

“All right.”
Kovu gave them the briefest glance. They all but collapsed where they sat. 
“Relax. I’m not interested.”  

Simba hurried to take over.
“…Which means the hunting’s good here. If you’re not worried for me, you don’t need to worry about him either.”  

Kovu let his focus drift to Simba instead. It was easy; he liked watching the sway of that red-tipped tail against gold fur, perfect for letting his eyes follow—and perfect for ignoring the little meerkat sneaking glances at him.  

Timon slipped to Simba’s side, tugging at his fur until the lion bent down.  

“You seriously don’t think there’s something off about this guy?”  

“Well… you’re not entirely wrong…”  

Timon gave him a look that was nothing short of odd. The kid kept flicking glances at that dark lion.  

“You’ve got that look like you’re into his type…”  

A shudder went through the meerkat as if spooked by his own thought. Simba’s smile was meant to be reassuring.  

“He apologised for what happened before. I’m fine with that.”  

“Is that so? And what did he say?”  

It was worded for Simba, but Timon’s eyes were fixed on Kovu. The dark lion, of course, missed nothing.  

“I overreacted. I’ve got a few… bad habits.” He shrugged, eyes still on Simba’s tail-tip. “Guess my upbringing wasn’t quite right.”  

Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze, a faint hint of plea in it—and Simba caught on at once.  

“Timon, Pumbaa, you’ve never asked about my past. So I’m not going to press him about his. We all have things we’d rather not talk about, right?”  

The two exchanged a look—perfect. The kid clearly hadn’t taken a word of their warning to heart. When feelings were running the show, no matter how much sense they tried to talk into him, their sonny boy would only clamp his paws over his ears as if to shut the world out, and stubbornly shake his head.

“But I’m lucky, Simba. I met you. And if you believe I can change, then I will.”  

Timon mimed a gag. Pumbaa, bless him, just came over to pat his back.  

Oh, for crying out loud, he could’ve sworn there were stars flying out of Simba’s eyes just now.

“Alright, alright, we get it. Simba—Simba!”

Timon stomped on the golden lion’s paw, snapping him out of his daze.

“What?”

“Just play along.” the meerkat whispered at lightning speed, then cleared his throat and spoke in his usual voice. 

“Simba, didn’t you once tell us you might leave here someday?”

Simba clearly hadn’t expected that. He hesitated for a beat before going along. “I said maybe.”

“You—Kovu, right?” Timon poked his head out from behind Simba’s leg. “If he went somewhere, you’d go with him, wouldn’t you?”

“You could put it that way.” Kovu paused, then turned to Simba. “And you? Anywhere you’d like to go?”

With both his friends all but winking holes into his skull, Simba could only grit his teeth and answer, “Maybe… maybe I’d like to go back to where I was born.”

“What was that place called again? Prime Rock?” Pumbaa tilted his head.

“Close, but wrong—of course, coming from you.” Timon snorted. “Pride Rock, right?”

Simba nodded quickly, then darted a glance at Kovu.

“Wait… you’re saying you were born in the Pride Land?” Kovu’s brows arched.

“So you’re some sort of… little prince?”

The meerkat and warthog exchanged a wide-eyed look.

“What?”
“Seriously?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Simba groaned inwardly—how had this turned into a cross-examination on him?

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m no prince. I just happened to be born there.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Kovu smiled easily. “I was worried I’d been too rude to you before.”

“Even if I weren’t, you might want to take me a little more seriously.”

“But you look so funny when you’re puffed up.”

Seeing them about to spiral into another back-and-forth, Timon jumped in.
“So how do you know about the Pride Lands?”

“And have you been there?” Pumbaa added.

Kovu nodded.
“It’s famous—especially to lions.”

Now Simba was curious too. He started to ask for more details, but Kovu only said vaguely.

“I passed through once. Heard the king back then was someone called… Scar?”
A deliberate pause. The name hung there like a thorn.
Simba’s eyes tightened for a heartbeat before he smoothed it over.

“So… have you met him?”

“Of course not.” Kovu dismissed the thought outright. “I’m a rogue. I don’t stick around in another lion’s territory for that long.”

Simba looked like he had more questions, but after a quick glance at his two friends, he said nothing.

Kovu stepped forward, lowering his head to the two much smaller animals.

“Is that enough for you?”

Timon folded his arms with great ceremony, puffing out his little chest. 

“Alright—since you didn’t dodge the question…”
He shot Simba a quick wink.
“Welcome.”

The golden lion’s face lit up at once. Timon sighed inwardly. Whatever he and Pumbaa felt about this, all that really mattered was seeing Simba happy. Their Simba wasn’t a cub anymore—he could take care of himself. Or so Timon kept telling himself.

“Hey! Timon, shouldn’t we, y’know, show some hospitality?”

Pumbaa tugged on his tail, and the meerkat’s eyes lit up. In a flash, they both darted off into the bushes, a racket of rustling and clattering following them.

The two lions glanced at each other, Simba looking at Kovu with growing unease. A bad feeling was creeping in.

“…Timon? Pumbaa?”

The pair burst back out, their arms full of banana leaves stuffed with all sorts of bugs.

Simba’s shriek was even louder than the one he’d given earlier that day.

“What are you doing?!”
“Just a little something for our guest!”
“Yeah—we’ve gotta make an effort!”
“No, no, no—you really don’t! No, no, please, take them back—”

He tried to block Kovu’s view with his body, but it was already too late. The black-maned lion had stepped round to his side for a peek.

“What’s the—whoa!”

Kovu’s eyes went wide in the most undignified way—fat, juicy grubs were squirming in Timon’s leaf bundle, a few plopping to the ground with a wet smack. Something with wings buzzed frantically inside.

If he could’ve seen his own face, he would’ve been surprised it was capable of such an expression.

“Simba…?”

The golden lion looked like he might faint on the spot.

“…Don’t tell me you’ve been eating these all along—”

But seeing the mortified way Simba’s ears flattened, Kovu couldn’t bring himself to finish. He bit hard on his lip, fighting the grin back down.

“No wonder, the first time I saw you, you were all skin and bones.”

The laugh escaped anyway—loud enough for Simba to hear. Without a word, the golden lion shoved his head into Kovu’s mane and began gnawing furiously at his chest fur.

Kovu tipped his head back for a long breath, easing the ache in his face from holding back laughter. When he looked down again, the two had already started munching.

“You feed him this stuff?”

Timon crunched down on a locust leg, loud and proud.

“What? It’s premium protein.”

Kovu watched Pumbaa gulp down a long, writhing worm, tongue catching the slime that slipped free—ugh, that was a sight to kill an appetite.

“Alright, who’s in charge here? I’d like to make a complaint for cruelty to cubs.”

The two blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Kovu shook his head with a small laugh. He almost forgot—this was a meerkat and a warthog. Keeping Simba alive at all was achievement enough; the rest was just details.

“Simba, you should be thanking me. If I hadn’t shown up, you’d still be a bag of bones.”

Pumbaa piped up at once. “You’re the one teaching him to hunt, aren’t you? He’s been practising a lot lately.”

“Is that so? Simba, why didn’t you tell me what you’ve caught?”

Simba said nothing, ramming his golden head into Kovu’s chest over and over.

So… not much luck then.

“Let’s see… rabbits, guinea fowl, and—”
“And that python! Timon, remember how long it was?”
“Do I? I almost grabbed it thinking it was a vine. Slippery as anything—ugh!”

Kovu was shaking now, his whole body trembling with suppressed laughter. He reached for Simba’s paw, only for it to be smacked away. The golden lion kept his face buried in Kovu’s chest, as though he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

All his attention was on Simba, and so he didn’t notice the meerkat’s steady, measuring look.

“…I don’t think we need to worry quite so much anymore,”

Timon murmured, his voice nearly lost under the beat of insect wings. Pumbaa perked an ear, then nodded.

“They seem pretty good together.”

“Pumbaa, for you, everyone’s pretty good together.”

Timon brushed his paws, shaking off the last of the bug bits. He’d thought this black-maned lion was all fake charm and trouble waiting to happen. But the way Kovu had laughed just now—and the way he was leaning in close, speaking low to Simba…

Maybe, Timon thought, he was just a young guy after all.
What in the world had he been through?

The black lion, sensing eyes on him, finally turned. His scarred left eye met theirs. Timon lifted the bulging leaf bundle with a small tilt, an unspoken want some? in the gesture.

But Kovu only gave a faint shake of his head, shaping the words without a sound—

“You should go now.”

Chapter Text

Timon propped his chin on one paw, leaning lazily against a low bush. Beside him, Pumbaa was still slurping up worms, flinging sticky juice everywhere.

“Do you think their manes are tangled together?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They’ve been in that position for ages. You haven’t noticed?”

Pumbaa answered with an impressively loud slurp: nope.

Timon sighed, resigned.

“What’s bothering you?” the warthog asked, wiping his mouth with a hoof. “Didn’t you say that Kovu boy wasn’t a problem?”

“That’s what I said, sure… but I still don’t feel easy about Simba…”

Timon cast a worried glance at the two figures leaning together. From here, they could only catch a murmur of voices, too faint to make out the words.

“We shouldn’t try to hold Simba back, Timon. You know that.”

“Of course… of course. He should be with his own kind.”

“And I think Simba likes him.”

“I can see what’s happening, Pumbaa…”

The warthog froze. “What???”

“And you don’t have a clue…”

“Wait—wait, wait, wait.”
Pumbaa grabbed Timon’s shoulders, shaking him frantically.
“Are you okay, Timon?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why are you singing?”

The meerkat blinked at him, baffled.

“You’ve lost your marbles, Pumbaa.”

But the warthog muttered under his breath, “I might be a bit slow up here, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.”

“Oh…” Now Timon seemed to be coming back to himself. He blinked wide-eyed, staring at the two lions walking side by side in the distance.

“Was I… just singing?”

Pumbaa nodded hard.

“…Huh.” Timon tapped his chin, eyes going distant. “That’s weird. I felt… this strong urge to say it that way. Like something was nudging me.”

Pumbaa looked as if none of this made any sense to him.

“And just now, there was this strange light…” Timon parted the leaves in front of him, pointing toward the clearing. “Look! That light—hasn’t it been following them this whole time?”

Pumbaa’s jaw hit the ground. “That’s… creepy.”

“And doesn’t it sound like the whole jungle’s singing?”

The warthog hunched his shoulders, shivering. “You mean there’s a ghost here, Timon?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“So what do we do?”

“We move, Pumbaa. Say goodbye to your hot spring.”

Timon turned to head deeper into the jungle, Pumbaa trudging after him.

“But I like that pool…”

“Aren’t you scared of ghosts anymore?”

“…Fine, fine. We’ll move.”

Kovu had a hard time prying Simba’s face out of his mane.
The young lion trailed beside him like a rain-soaked stalk of grass, drooping and distant, his mind clearly somewhere else.

Kovu called his name a few times. No response. So he quickened his pace, stepped in front—only for Simba to walk right into him, nose to nose. Even when Kovu flicked his tongue to brush the corner of his mouth, Simba merely rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“You look like you’re about to, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“What are you even mad about?”

Simba squeezed past him without a word, that listless air reminding Kovu a little too much of himself.

Not a look that suited Simba at all.

He caught up and blocked him again.

“For the record, I’m not making fun of you.”
“You were laughing just now. Don’t think I didn’t hear it.”
“You hiding your face like that was funny, sure. But it’s nothing to get worked up over.”

Simba’s mouth moved in a mumble Kovu couldn’t catch.

“You’ve only hunted with me once, kitty. Of course you’re not perfect yet.”

Kovu narrowed his eyes, thinking back to their first hunt.
The part that stuck with him most… was the moment after the kill, their first real touch—bloody hell… just thinking about it made his skin prickle with heat.

“I know that face. You’re thinking about something cheeky again, aren’t you?”

Not good. The kid’s instincts were sharp; he was glaring now, as if one wrong word would send him bolting.

“I was thinking about last time… You’ve got talent. Just a bit more practice and you’ll be fine.”

Simba studied his face, finding no hint of mockery or dismissal. At last, he gave a small nod, accepting the compliment.

What he wouldn’t say was that nine times out of ten, his clumsy mistakes came from being distracted—from thinking about Kovu.

The thought made Simba duck his head in embarrassment. But Kovu was right there, close, his damp nose pressed to Simba’s forehead, tongue brushing gently through his mane.
Simba’s flattened ears twitched upright, tilting toward the sound.

Kovu noticed. And he knew what it meant—the kid was already feeling better.

“What do you want to do now?”

He glanced around; unlike the endless green from earlier, this place was breaking into splashes of vivid blossoms.

“It’s beautiful here. Want to show me around?”

But Simba’s brain filed that under “playtime,” and the moment the idea took root, his enthusiasm shot up.

Moments later, Kovu found himself staring, brow knotted into a massive frown.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

Simba was almost completely submerged, only his eyes and nose breaking the surface, his red mane streaming behind like some oddly-shaped driftwood.

“Come on, try it. The water’s nice and cool.”
“No.”
“Alright. Suit yourself.”

Kovu’s voice rose in baffled complaint. 

“Why do you like staying in the water? What kind of lion are you?”

He hadn’t expected to repeat Simba’s own words—and in this moment of all times. Was it something he’d said wrong? Or was this kid’s head just… full of water? How had ‘show me around’ turned into this?

In Kovu’s head, it should’ve been simple: a quiet walk along the falls, a place to lie down with a view, whispers that would leave them both blushing and breathless—and, if the moment felt right, maybe coax Simba into the next step.

But now, watching Simba splashing about like a delighted cub, Kovu let out a long sigh. It seemed the only thing that had grown was his size—inside, Simba was still the same silly little kitty.

Kovu crouched by the pond’s edge, idly stirring the surface with a clawtip. Out in the shallows, Simba dropped and began sneaking toward him, crocodile-style.

“Just once. Try it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to get my fur wet.”

Simba blew bubbles into the water. Kovu edged back a step, unimpressed.

“Don’t you dare pull me in—or I’ll make sure you never come up again.”

“Fine, fine—don’t play then. Who’s scared now?”

Simba flicked his head and swam off, far too quick for comfort.

Kovu tilted his head back, sighing at the small patch of sky framed by the canopy.
But when he looked down again—Simba was gone.

The surface lay still, eerily still. No ripples, no bubbles. Only broken glints of light shifting over the surface, hiding whatever lurked beneath.

He plunged his muzzle in, forced his eyes open. The sharp vision he trusted on land dissolved into a blur of murky gold. Nothing.

Kovu jerked back, shaking his mane hard.

“Simba?”

No answer. Only his heartbeat, hammering in his ears.

“Simba, quit messing around—get up here!”

Still nothing.

His ears flattened tight against his neck. He reached a paw toward the surface; the pads were instantly soaked, and the sensation was awful. He hated water—hated it—and with the heavy mane weighing him down now, it felt like the worst trap imaginable.

He was just about to plunge in regardless when a rush of giant bubbles rose from below. A split second later, a golden head popped up—barely two inches from his paw.

“Got you, didn’t I?”

That bright, sunny grin had never looked so bloody irritating.

Little brat.

Kovu forced a long breath, smothering the flare of temper

“Come on, out you get.”

He held out a paw, and Simba dragged himself ashore, dripping and heavy, before shaking hard enough to spray droplets everywhere.

“I just don’t get why you enjoy that.” Kovu muttered.
Was the soggy feeling really so pleasant?

Simba only shrugged. “I’m used to it. I’ll dry off soon enough.”

Kovu almost warned him that with a mane like his, he wouldn’t be dry till sundown. But… no. The little pest had just tried to scare him. And Kovu, of all lions, never let such things slide. 

Simba crouched by the water’s edge, a puddle pooling beneath his paws. He gave his face a brisk swipe, then rose, ready to head for the clearing and let the sun do its work.

But a familiar shadow stepped into his path.

The next instant, a sharp shove caught Simba square on the shoulder. Off balance, he toppled backward with no chance to catch himself—thunder cracked in his ears as the pond swallowed him whole. His fur, barely beginning to dry, was drenched all over again.

Simba burst to the surface, sneezing water from his nose, while Kovu sat at ease, watching his floundering with relish.

“You were right,” Kovu said, “Water’s great fun.”

Simba ignored the jab and swam toward another spot to climb out, but Kovu shadowed him closely, wearing a look saying—Go on, try it. See if I don’t shove you straight back in.

“Can you let me up?”
“So soon? Bored already?”

The golden lion was starting to tire. He’d never known his mane could get this heavy, and it took more effort now just to stay afloat.

“Mm… I want out…”

"Before that—don’t you have something to say?"

Simba gave in at once.
“I’m sorry, okay? Won’t do it again.”

Kovu smiled in quiet satisfaction, and reached out his paw again.

“Remember—no next time.”

But before Simba could take it, Kovu rapped him sharply on the head, earning a few more splutters and coughs.

Now he was truly satisfied.

He rose, shook his paw free of stray droplets, and strolled off without a backward glance.

Simba lay sprawled upon the bank, utterly spent. His last strength had gone into thrashing the water from his coat, yet the sodden heaviness clung to him still. The short fur upon his body was of little trouble; it was the mane—that unruly mass of red—that held the damp as if it would never let it go.

With no other recourse, he slunk towards a clearing and pressed himself against a sun-warmed stone, hoping to shed the damp before nightfall. But Simba mistook the sky’s brightness for the sun’s heat. Though the heavens still shone, the warmth had fled, and even the rock beneath him was fast surrendering its warmth, darkening under the seep of his waterlogged coat.

No wonder Timon and Pumbaa never let him swim in the afternoon. Now, at last, Simba understood. A chill breeze scythed across him, drawing a fit of sneezes from his throat. Curling into himself, he slipped deeper among the shrubs in search of shelter from the wind.

Night in the jungle was gentler than upon the open plains. Kovu lay beneath a tree, limbs stretched in languid ease. He relished this hour of the day—when the blinding sun no longer glared from above and the raucous birds had stilled in the branches. The evening breeze played across his flanks, cool enough to soothe yet never biting.

But the quiet was broken by an irregular crackle. He did not need to open his eyes: those paws were plain enough. Too heavy to one side—the right foreleg again, sore and unsteady, each step faltering into a limp. The steps halted a few paces away, wavering, unsure whether to draw nearer.

Yet the golden lion had not grown so brazen. The hush gave way to the crunch of dry leaves as Simba burrowed into the thicket, followed by the scrabbling of tail and paws as he fussed to wrap himself away in foliage.

When night fell in full, the jungle held scarcely half the warmth of day. The change was not so savage as on the open plain, yet for a lion soaked through it was cruel enough.

Simba curled himself as tightly as he could, the thicket sheltering him from much of the night wind, but thin threads of air pierced through, stinging his sodden coat, drawing shivers one after another.

He watched Kovu’s back turned to him, tail flicking idly against the ground—too steady, too careless, as though to show he had noticed and chosen not to answer. A prickle of grievance rose in him. True, he had gone too far, but he had never imagined Kovu would take it so harshly. 

Timon and Pumbaa had borne his mischief for so long. Whether he toppled a sun-shelter they had just built or collapsed a termite mound they had fussed over, they never gave him more than a light scolding before setting about the wreckage he had left behind.

And this time, it had been no more than a silly game of hiding. Had he not already paid for it, chilled to the bone as he was? Was that not punishment enough?

Another gust stirred the leaves with a whisper and carried Kovu’s scent to him. Simba ached for it—the comfort of that thick mane, surely soft and generous with warmth, enough to drive away any unwelcome chill.

A fit of sneezes shook him. His nose felt clogged, his throat raw and parched. Shifting his stiff limbs, he tried to pull more leaves upon himself, as though they might hoard some scrap of heat.

“Simba.”

He opened his eyes at the sound. The dark figure lay on the ground, still turned away.

“Come here.”

He hesitated, dragging himself upright, shaking the twigs and leaves from his coat, though to the eye it seemed no more than a shiver. Simba stepped forward at a snail’s pace, the crunch of leaves loud under his paws, jarring against the hush. Uneasy, he froze, afraid of shattering what little calm there was.

Kovu waited a while, then rolled onto his belly, green eyes turning upon the bedraggled cub.

“Come here. Don’t make me say it again.”

Simba’s movement was little more than a crawl. He stopped half a pace away, swaying before curling himself up small, his golden-red head bowed so low it was hard to tell if he would not, or dared not, meet Kovu’s gaze.

When Kovu pressed close against the damp, shivering body, Simba at once tried to edge away, as if still afraid his wet fur might repulse him. A frown creased the black lion’s brow.

“Do you mean to make yourself ill?”

A faint shake of the head, the answer thinner than a moth’s wing.

“You said… you don’t like it when I’m all wet…”

“I never said I didn’t like you.”

With a weary sigh, Kovu nudged his nose against Simba’s belly, bidding him roll onto his side, then draped his own dry body over him. Damp seeped swiftly into his mane, a clammy chill against his skin.

Yes, he despised the feel of wet and cold.
But he had no defence at all against Simba, not when the kitty looked so miserably forlorn.

Kovu shifted his forepaw, locking the golden body firmly within his hold. The cub gave a faint whimper, ribs straining beneath the weight.

“Too heavy for you?”
A slow nod.
“Put up with it. I am putting up with you too. Right now you feel like nothing more than a clammy tangle of waterweed.”

His jaws closed on Simba’s ear. To his surprise the thin fold of skin carried no warmth at all, limp as a dead leaf. Simba opened his mouth, but no sound came; so Kovu bit down again, sharper this time, keeping just shy of breaking the flesh.

It was plain the little lion disliked it, yet he only writhed faintly and pressed himself closer, burying into the thick mane that wrapped him in its heat. Bit by bit the stiffness ebbed from his chilled limbs.

“Don’t ever joke with me like that again. Do you understand?”

He spoke while taking hold of the soft hide beneath Simba’s jaw, knowing full well it would tug the throat taut and steal the breath. Simba’s reaction was instant: four paws braced against him, feeble resistance—uncertain whether from the need for warmth, or something else.

“Your answer, Simba.”

He pressed a fraction harder, teeth drawing a tiny whine from the skin. Simba’s paw lifted, brushed clumsily past his cheek, then hung loose upon his shoulder.

“…Alright.” His voice was hoarse, rasping as though ground through sand.

Kovu released his grip, and the golden lion beneath him gasped for breath at once. The deep amber eyes lost its focus for a fleeting moment, that mouth parted just enough to seem an invitation, as though luring Kovu closer.

So he did.

He ran his tongue over the damp tip of Simba’s nose, satisfied to find the warmth had returned, then drifted towards the softness of his mouth—catching the young lion’s tongue before it slipped away, both of them feverishly hot against one another.

The road to this moment had been a little crooked, but it had ended where he wished it to, and that alone pleased him. The boyish face still lingered on the kiss, as though reluctant to let it go, and that only lifted Kovu’s spirits further. He pulled Simba over and switched their places, reclining with ease, chin tilted back, while the cub’s tongue wandered at his mouth’s corner in restless little touches.

Where their bodies pressed was burning, but Kovu chose to bear it. His instinct told him—tonight was not yet the time.

Perhaps because that clash had never grown too grave—indeed, one might say it ended upon a note of languid sweetness—it left little lasting mark upon Simba. The young lion remained as wilful as ever: a spirit of the wild hills, embodying all that was unbridled and free.

Kovu liked to linger nearby, watching the carefree creature chase his own tail in circles or swing from the thickets with vines between his teeth. He could not restrain himself from longing after that bright, vivid smile, and yet, when his own shadowed past intruded upon his thoughts, he shrank into shame.

Once, the meerkat and the warthog passed through. They seemed satisfied enough with Simba’s state, and lingered little before moving on.

“Keep it up, boy,” Timon called as he left, raising one small paw. “The kid’s a dream.”

Kovu turned to regard the golden-red figure, gleaming in the clear daylight, and thought that indeed it was a dream—his own cherished paradise, from which he never wished to wake.

But had he not been muddled by his own emotions, he should have realised sooner that the word dream bore another meaning.

To be called spirited is but another way of saying strength has nowhere to go; and in Simba’s case it meant trouble followed him wherever he trod.

Kovu crouched in the layered thickets, a place so dense that not even light could pierce it. With such a warped upbringing, his obsession with privacy had grown almost to an extremity. Only in such corners could he find the ease to groom himself.

Yet plainly, he could not explain any of this to Simba. In truth, Kovu himself could scarcely trace the roots of the habit. So Simba chose to think of it as a game of hide-and-seek. Round and round the bushes he prowled, slipping a paw through now and then to scratch within. Once he caught hold of a tail—how amusing to shake it to and fro!—and next time, what might it be?

Kovu sighed soundlessly. So, dream might mean nightmare as well.

“Simba. Leave me be.”

The young lion, lost in his own delight, paid no heed. Not until his paw slipped in once more and sharp teeth closed about it—then Kovu’s head thrust out from the thicket, and with a heavy stride he emerged, crushing a swathe of luckless plants beneath him.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?”

As yet, his tone carried no more than mild annoyance at the interruption. The golden lion, knowing he was caught, only giggled and bolted away—childish. So Kovu thought, even as he lengthened his stride to follow. Tag, you’re it: a game from their cubhoods, and Kovu did not mind indulging him for a while.

Only that their notions of game differed greatly.

For the third time Simba found himself flung unceremoniously to the ground, his fine red mane dusted over with brittle yellow leaves. He scrambled up in a fury, tossing his head to rid himself of the dirt.

Kovu, unruffled as though he had been out for no more than a stroll, murmured, “That all you’ve got?”

No male could bear such a goad. Simba glared at the impassive face before him, drew back a pace or two, muscles tightening as his amber eyes locked upon his foe.

“What’s this? Not going to run any longer?”

Simba snorted, the sinews in his frame taut. 

“Not that I can outrun you?”
“So you think you can outfight me instead?”
“What better way to find out?”

Kovu gave a low hum. “Ah… I like the sound of that.” He sank lower, forepaws braced, frame drawn into a predator’s crouch. “But kitty, ya ought to know—challengin’ me comes with a price.”

Yet the golden lion heard none of it, blood running hot with the need to prove himself—if only before Kovu.
Above all, before Kovu. He could not endure the thought of being held small in those emerald eyes.

The other made no move, so Simba struck first. He leapt for the soft throat, teeth closing on the thick black mane—only for Kovu to rear upon his hind legs and fling him off with brutal ease. The motion left his belly bare. Simba rolled, sprang again, claws driving for that weakness—near enough to touch—yet still an inch away.

But Kovu was quicker still. He slipped aside, letting Simba’s strike fall to nothing, and in the same breath came upon his back.

The tables turned at once. No lion should ever yield his back. Before Simba could recover, teeth sank hard at the root of his tail. Pain seared him and tore a cry from his throat, the spot alive with nerves; no blood, yet agony enough. He snarled, baring his fangs, and stumbled back, forcing space between them. Breath tore through him, tongue lolling; already burning with heat, forcing him down to the earth, seeking its coolness to drain his fever. Kovu steadied his own breathing in seconds, while Simba already sank low to the earth, seeking the cool ground to leech his fevered heat.

Kovu came on, one slow step after another, each heavy with pressure, denying him even a breath of respite. When the black lion closed the last gap, Simba had no choice but to lash out. Yet this time it was defence, not attack—sluggish, uncertain. Kovu caught the flaw at once and cast him down for the fourth time.

“So—that’s all you’ve got?”

The words were the same, yet the tone had changed. Simba could hear the edge of disappointment—boredom, even—and it stung him worse than the bite itself, leaving him both aggrieved and furious.

Simba rolled aside just as Kovu’s paw darted for his belly, claws scooping up a heap of dry leaves with dust and soil all flung into the black mane.

He ducked behind a gnarled root, smugly awaiting the sight of Kovu begrimed and choking. But with a single sweep of his paw the heap was blown apart, the dry burst cracking sharp as a whip. Simba’s ears flattened at once, and when the dust cleared Kovu’s face was stormed over, dark as thunderclouds. A shiver ran through him.

Then all was too fast. Simba’s thoughts lagged; instinct alone moved his body. Pain knifed at his belly and foreleg joints, claws scoring deep lines across his flank—then the weight descended, dreadful, pinning him to the earth. All but his head and tail lay bound.

“Alright, alright—you win, don’t you?” His head lolled against the ground, breath ragged, tongue limp at the corner of his mouth, every gasp scalding.

“Don’t be so hasty.” The voice breathed against his ear, spectral, cool as grave-soil. Simba shuddered. “And what was that pitiful display supposed to be?”

“…What?”

“I don’t recall teaching you to fight like that.” Teeth fastened on his ear; Simba twisted, grimacing with pain, but could not break free.

“A scrap of bait, and you hurl yourself in without thought. Did it never occur to you it might be a trap?”

The green eyes seethed, whirlpools ready to drown the amber so near.

“Have I not told you—hold the initiative, even if it leaves you spitting blood? Why lie and wait till the last, striking only when forced?”

His gaze dropped to Simba’s shoulder. The red mane half-veiled old wounds; the gold beneath would never be whole again.

“And most of all—never goad an opponent you cannot hope to defeat.”

His rough tongue pressed to the scar, and the golden body beneath shivered despite itself.

“So—you do learn, after all? Seems pain’s the best tutor.” The laugh crawled from his throat, low and cold. “A challenge has its price. You’ve not forgotten, have you?”

Simba strained his neck, seeking the face above. To hear was torment enough; the voice, detached and mocking, unsettled him more with each word.

“I remember… What do you want of me?”

“Simple, kitty. All you need is to stay put—and behave.”

Simba meant to press him with further questions—yet something strange along his spine halted the words in his throat.

A hardness prodded through the fur, searing with heat, sliding inexorably down his spine, towards the base of his tail.

Only when the coarse pressure fixed itself below the bone did he grasp what it was. His heart thundered, tail lashing furiously against the ground as though to beat the intruder away.

“Stop it! What are you doing?!” He could not twist his head, only glare at the paws pinning his forelegs.

“The price, Simba. So quick to forget?” Kovu bore down with his weight, the restless tail thrashing beneath him, yet he had patience enough. “And a lesson too—to see if you’ll learn.”

Simba’s claws carved furrows deep into the earth. His strength was spent; dizziness swarmed his sight, black at the edges. He could not shake free of that crushing weight. The damp, pressing weight at the tail’s root turned his stomach, churning him with sickness.

“Not this… I don’t want this…”

“Did I ask for your leave?”

The flat words prickled his skin, and his voice faltered.
“But it’ll hurt—"

“How else could I make you remember?”

Breath and expression alike froze. Even when Kovu bent close to lap at the corner of his eye, he scarcely felt it.

“All this… only for a lesson?” The trembling lips barely shaped the words.

"More than a lesson, of course."

Amber wavered, uncertain. “…you’ve wanted this all along?”

“Is it not plain enough, Simba?” Kovu’s nose nudged at his throat. Once, that gesture had been tender; now each touch only made him shudder more. “Don’t ask such foolish things. Why I want you… Simba, have you truly no notion at all?”

The golden-red head shook in denial, frantic. “I don’t understand. Not…not that I can give you any cub—so why must you still…”

Simba knew those green eyes were fixed upon him, and so he stared back into that bottomless whirlpool. Much he had thought needless to speak now choked unspoken in his throat—kisses and embraces were, to him, the supreme proof of affection; and since Kovu had vowed never to leave him again, he too was willing to pledge forever.

He had never thought it could mean so little to Kovu. His own naïve, romantic faith was such a trifling thing that Kovu would rather mark him with wounds than take those tokens as enough.

The thorn lodged long in Simba’s heart now sank deeper than ever before: how had he persuaded himself—persuaded his dear friends—that their first clash was no more than an accident? That Kovu cared for him now, and that such things would never happen again?

Now he seemed a fool, nothing but a joke.

“You’ll understand. One day, you will, Simba.”

The emerald wave he adored no longer glimmered with warmth, but with a chill—remote, merciless, and cruel to his eyes. When Kovu’s claws sank into his foreleg and fastened him to the earth, he could no longer tell which hurt more.

“Now all you need is to stay still.”

The voice struck like ice at the back of his skull. He felt the fangs pricking through his mane, closing upon the skin beneath.

Then all the piled-up emotions burst. He struggled blindly, heedless of the claws still lodged in his flesh, each wrench squeezing out small beads of blood. Every curse he could summon he hurled at Kovu—that he was never caring, never gentle, forever stringing him along, forever promising to change yet plagued with faults that were rotten to the bone, hopeless, beyond all cure…

“What did I ever do wrong—what did I do to deserve this?!”

But after only a few hoarse cries his voice broke, and tears pattered down unchecked. Simba loathed himself for it—for being so useless, for raging with no force at all.

Simba could not tell which of his words had struck, but something had: Kovu’s movements halted all at once—and Simba seized the chance. He slammed his head back with all his might, cracking hard against Kovu’s jaw. The blow left Simba reeling too, but he pressed on. He snapped his jaws down on the paw that nailed him, tearing loose. The weight above slackened. With a desperate swipe he cuffed Kovu across the face, then scrambled free in a tangle of limbs, rolling and clawing his way out until he crouched at a distance, glaring warily at the black lion.

But Kovu only stood frozen. The slap had only driven him back, the bite had not even drawn blood—Simba had held back, even now. Why? Why show mercy at such a time?

There was no room for thought. Simba’s broken cries still rang in his skull, louder and louder, until they fused with another—rawer, more childlike, yet every bit as racked with pain, a voice burned into him for life.

Kovu squeezed his eyes shut, yet the twin voices clung like ghosts, splitting his skull with their keening. Buried memory was pried open, raw as the scar carved across his face. Blood gushed again in phantom torrents; the venomous curse seeped deep into his marrow—

Sisi ni sawa, Kovu.

We are no different. None at all.

“No, no… I’m not—it’s not like that…”

He shook his head in panic, stumbling back, his gaze skittering across Simba’s tear-streaked face—those trembling amber eyes—why did they still hold confusion, even concern? Why would they look at him so?

Kovu dared not wait for Simba to speak—dreading whatever words might come. And with a rustle of leaves, he vanished into the jungle.

Chapter Text

Simba stormed out of the thicket, sulking, and flopped onto his heap of leaves without a word.

Timon and Pumbaa exchanged a look. They had seen this all too often. Their sonny boy was nothing if not dramatic—and who else could’ve put him in such a mood?

“Come on, Pumbaa. Who else d’you think?” Timon jabbed a fist against the warthog’s belly.

“Ohh… poor Simba.” Pumbaa’s eyes welled up at once. He was the sort to take Simba’s side without even asking why. “What are we supposed to do?”

“We? What d’you mean we?!”

“Aren’t you going to do something, Timon?”

The meerkat flicked his tail toward the golden lion sulking in silence. “Does he look like he wants to talk?”

Pumbaa gave a firm, honest shake of the head.

“There you go.” Timon shrugged. “Unless Simba starts, we keep our mouths shut. Got it?”

“…That makes us sound like we don’t care,” Pumbaa muttered, reluctant. But one glare from Timon had he backpedaling at once. “Alright, alright. Fine.”

By the fourth time Simba rolled over, rustling his leaves loud enough to wake the whole jungle, Timon finally snapped.

“What’s the matter with you? I thought we’d seen the back of those nights where you wake us four or five times over.”

Simba pouted like a sulky cub. “Aren’t you even going to ask what’s happened?”

“If we ask, are you actually gonna tell us?” Timon yawned wide.

Simba shook his head—just the way Pumbaa would.

“There you go again.” Timon echoed back. “We’ve said our piece before. You’re the one who insisted on hanging around with that lad—whatever comes of it, it’s yours to deal with.”

Pumbaa patted Simba’s shoulder in comfort. “If you ever want to talk it out, we’re here. But other things…” He glanced at his much smaller friend. “…Rather out of our depth.”

Another yawn split Timon’s face. “And please don’t drag me into predator politics, will you? I’d like to live a bit longer.” At this rate, though, Simba’s tossing and turning would see him off sooner.

Simba heard their care behind the words, even if he hadn’t really meant to ask for advice—he’d never tell what happened that day, not even under fire. But knowing they’d listen was enough.

“I’ll take a walk.” He hopped from the leaves, stretched, and flicked his tail in parting. “Goodnight.”

The young lion wandered beneath the night sky, the wind carrying a scent he knew too well. It gave him a rough sense of the other’s distance—Kovu’s. Doubtless the black lion could catch him just as easily. Yet for now, they kept apart, as if by silent accord. Until certain questions were settled, it was better they did not meet.

Simba leapt onto a boulder and curled himself into a ball, tail pressed beneath his belly. Moonlight fell in broken patches across his back, staining him not gold, but a lonely grey.

Sleep had not come easily of late. Whenever he closed his eyes, the memory of that day flared up, rousing him in cold sweat.

He had no end of reasons to be angry with Kovu: that promise-breaker, a creature of lies and riddles from mane to claw. That unfathomable air of mystery had drawn him in, made him shrug off both his friends’ warnings and the doubts of his own heart. Only when he drew too close had he realised how perilous it all was.

And yet, he could not drive away that other image: Kovu’s face shaken, stripped of calm, crowded with fear and some darker loathing—loathing not aimed at him, Simba was certain.

He recalled Kovu’s muttered words—guess my upbringing wasn’t quite right. Was that what he meant? That his early years was harsh, twisted? Simba could hardly imagine. He had been cherished as the sun’s own child; even in exile, he had found shelter and care. In every sense, he knew himself the fortunate one.

And here he was, pitying that shameless brute again. With a furious shake of his head, Simba cast the foolish thought aside.

Worse still, Kovu had mocked his fighting. As though he had not been trying—trying with all he had. After wasting so many seasons in idleness, how could he hope to recover it all in a few short days? A genius he might be—but not to such an extent.

But Simba was the sort to answer contempt with proof. If once was not enough, he would try again—and again. Stretching long against a tree-stump, he lifted his muzzle to the wind, amber eyes narrowing at the scents it bore.

For days now, no blood had tainted this forest air. Perhaps, Simba thought, it was time he changed that.

Meanwhile, Kovu was lost in a haze most alien to him. Confusion, hesitation, skulking in corners, dragging his paws day after day—none of it sat with his nature.

For the first time in his life, he did not know what to do. Simba’s scent was always there, circling within a fixed range. So Kovu trailed after, keeping his distance. At times the scent drew nearer; his heart quickened in suspense—yet always, before showing himself, Simba turned away.

At first, he had hoped: perhaps next time Simba would come, and then he would lay everything bare. He owed him the truth, owed him an apology, however harsh the anger that followed. Simba must at least allow him the chance to explain.

But as days bled into one another, that hope drained. He began to scorn the thought—what then? Parade his wretched childhood in plea for pity? Perhaps Simba would pity him, yes—but pity was the last thing Kovu desired.

The moment he spoke the truth would be the moment their bond shattered. How could he stand and watch that happen?

So he lingered, sleeping long or else adrift in thought, even hunger slipping from him. And still Simba would not appear. The knowledge stung dull and constant: perhaps Simba never wished to see him again. The ache pressed sharp against his nose and eyes, but he forced it down. The tears turned to blood within his chest, searing the scar carved into his left cheek.

Scar would have smiled to see it—his greatest and vilest creation, blindly striving to repeat the poison he had sown, to carry that accursed cycle on. The more Kovu resisted, the more he lost control when passion flared—and Scar’s schooling was the only script left to follow.

It smacked of a convenient excuse—laying all blame on circumstance, as though he himself were guiltless. The thought was almost laughable. Kovu gave a bitter smile to his paw, the moonlight trickling slow across it. Simba’s teeth had left no mark there, yet the fleeting sting lingered, reminder enough how unworthy he was of that radiant amber.

A voice deep within whispered: if only Simba might never appear again. That golden-red brightness should never be tainted by his corruption; that spirited body should remain in the dreamland, running free.

But Kovu’s dream had come to its waking. It was time to face what awaited him. He should never have coveted what was never his.

Fervent prayers seldom win reply; only when the heart lets go does the answer come unbidden.
Kovu’s ears flicked. Half-sunk in restless sleep, he stirred at the crash of something forcing through the undergrowth, louder and nearer until it stopped short before him. A thud, and heavy weight struck the ground.

Forcing open his eyes, he found his sight clearing upon the shape of a young duiker, throat torn, blood upon its coat already drying.
And Simba stood nearby, chin lifted, gaze turned aside.

“This is…?”

“I know you’ve not been hunting. It’s your affair if you mean to starve yourself…” Simba’s eyes fixed on a leaf trembling at the edge of its stem. “I’m only telling you this much: don’t think I can’t take down a decent kill myself.”

With that he turned to leave. The hush closed in save for the fading scuff of paws.
It was not how the scene ought to go. By rights, Kovu ought to have come running to stop him by now.

Simba spun, indignant, to find the black lion still rooted where he stood, eyes unfocused, staring through the air as though lost.

“Nothing to say?” Simba’s voice rose, sharp with anger. At last the green eyes stirred, met his—only to dart away.

“…I’m sorry.”

“That’s it?” Simba’s brows arched high. “You’ve a great deal more to explain, haven’t you?”

But the dark lion only shook his head, gaze fixed upon the ground. “Anything I say will sound like excuse. All you need to know is I’m beyond saving—and you were right. Every word you flung at me was true.” Weary sorrow lined his face, and when his lips twisted into a bitter smile, he seemed all the more spent.

The turn of things felt wrong. Simba opened his mouth to speak—yet Kovu’s murmur cut across him.

“And besides… you’ve done well, Simba.”

At last Kovu looked at him—looked, and the green eyes, though a smile touched them, why did they look so sad?

“You can do well on your own—I’m not worried for you.”

Simba’s gut told him he did not want to hear what would come next.

“Kovu, you—”

“Go back to your friends, Simba.”

He got there first, the words quick and hushed, as though he could not bear them to linger a moment longer. Then his head bowed, eyes pressed shut, and in silence he prayed—

Go, kitty. Go before it’s too late.

He was but a weed saturated with poison, bristling with thorns. No gift of sun, however lavish, could draw from him a single bloom.

And since he knew his end could only be ruin, he had no right to bind the one bright light that graced him.

“How dare you?”

Kovu lifted his head at the sound, and found Simba had come close without his knowing. That handsome face was contorted with anger.

When Simba raised a paw, Kovu did not stir—he ought to take the blow, and if it eased Simba’s wrath, he would endure as many as it pleased him.

But the paw never struck. Though it had cut the air with a whistle, at the last it halted, pressing lightly against his chest.

“You said you’d always stay by me.” The red-maned head leaned against his shoulder, nose pressed into his scent, as though to mask the thickness of his voice. “Will you break your word too?”

Kovu could not answer. Could not step back, nor draw the golden body closer. He froze, trapped between both.

“You’re too good for me… I can’t—”

“But I want your answer.” Simba raised his face in his arms, amber eyes fixed on him without flinching, their fierce warmth driving Kovu’s gaze away. “Tell me why you must act the bloody bastard.”

The green eyes darkened, shadowed as of old, and in a blink the veil was gone. In clipped, vague words he spoke of the savagery of his youth, of a family bond warped and twisted, of how the ease he feigned in matters of the heart belied the truth—that this was the first time he had ever sought any true closeness.

Careful to skirt all that might betray him, though knowing well—this was the perfect moment to confess. Never again would the chance come so easy, nor Simba be so ready to forgive.

Yet stubbornly he let it slip. Even knowing the reckoning must come, harsher than now, he could not resist the urge to delay. If the parting must come, let it be a day later, a heartbeat later.

Simba’s face tilted up, amber eyes searching him, never turning away, not even when Kovu’s last word fell. He knew how thin and evasive his “confession” rang. Even the guileless could not be wholly deceived—and this lion, sharp to the truth of any word, would surely hear what he concealed.

Yes. Even now I am lying to you. So why linger? Why not leave me at once?

A trace of bitterness wavered in the amber, but Kovu’s words had left Simba only a haze of fragments. And he was not set on prying into the past; all he sought was this—the chance to speak.

“Our meeting wasn’t by chance, was it?”
Kovu shook his head. “With a mane like yours—and hiding out in a jungle where lions don’t belong—of course the rumours spread. I wasn’t the only creature to come see if they were true…”

For once he had not uttered a single lie. Yet to Simba, who knew nothing of the hidden truth, the words carried a different, more suggestive weight.

“But you were the first to find me.”
Again Kovu shook his head. “Don’t dress it up like that. Things were far more tangled than you imagine…”

“Then why, once you’d seen me and fed your curiosity, did you keep coming back?”

Amber flared, weaving a burning net that caught tight around the black lion’s heart.
“It’s plain enough now, Kovu. Deny it if you like, but it’s far too late.”

The other lion gave only a frail smile. “When I said I wanted you all along… perhaps I meant it only on a physical level, northing more.”

Simba’s gaze blazed, sharp shards of gold seeming ready to pierce bone.

“I never thought you’d be such a coward.” His voice shook with anger, sharp and shrill, each word a lash. “You can’t even admit what’s in your heart?”

Kovu could not bear the questioning. His eyes slid away—first to Simba’s shoulder, then his flank, forepaws, and at last the mottled scar upon his hind leg.

Unwittingly, he had left so many marks upon that golden body. Each scar was the brand of his restless hunger, each one proof of how he feared to lose. He knew it well enough: so long as he stayed at Simba’s side, he would go on marking him, until even the soul bore his seal—a bond harsher than any promise.

And Simba was right: he was a coward—afraid of none but himself.

Kovu began to edge backward, his mouth curving into a smile that was half sneer, half mockery. He would say something—anything—to refute Simba: that it had all been a passing whim, a way to while away the hours. Cute, pitiable kitty, don’t go thinking yourself so important…

But with each word he forced out, the glow in the amber eyes waned. His chest ached with a dull sting, yet he told himself at least this once he had done the right thing—he would play his part to the end, then retreat into his own colourless world. He needed no brightness; he had never lived with it anyway—

“Then why are you crying?”

The words drifted soft as down, yet shattered his careful lie like thunder splitting the sky. Amber still blazed, steady and unyielding—
It was his own eyes that blurred with tears.

By the stars, Kovu could scarcely recall what it was to weep. When Simba pressed close, tongue brushing lightly at the corner of his eye, he could only guess the tears were hot and briny, for amber’s glow wavered, tangled with both hurt and relief.

“I never thought you’d answer me like this…” Golden kisses fell thick upon his face, tracing the scar’s path down to his mouth, words dissolving into the night like a sigh. “For me, it’s enough. But for you… it isn’t, is it?”

Kovu sucked in a ragged breath, swallowing the tears that threatened to spill. He kissed Simba’s cheek in haste, straightening, trying to pull away.

But Simba followed, refusing to let him go. His expression bore the weight of a choice made.

“If this is truly what you desire—then I…”

Kovu shook his head wildly before the words could fall, as though they scalded him.

“Kovu—”

“No!” His green eyes spun in frantic circles, unfocused, lost. “You can’t think like that. You mustn’t. Don’t you dare say it again!”

Still Simba pressed after him. “I can bear you, Kovu…”

“No! You don’t understand!”

A hoarse snarl broke from his throat, making Simba shrink his neck—but he did not retreat.

“It isn’t so simple. I can’t do that to you…”

His tears vanished into the earth, yet stained it a darker brown. He denied and denied, teeth clenched hard, but his eyes still betrayed the truth within.

He had lived long on the thrill of the unattainable, scheming and plotting for a future always out of reach; yet when the vision at last stood before him, he found it weighed too heavy to bear, and panic drove him back, desperate to flee.

“Kovu. Come to me.”

What had he heard? The lowered voice, roughened with an awkward force—as if this child had never once ordered another to do anything. He made the command sound almost like a restrained invitation, and Kovu’s body answered quicker than his mind: before thought could overtake him, he wanted to go, to drown in that amber gaze.

“Look at me.” Simba pressed his nose close, brushing at the corner of Kovu’s mouth. “Look at me, Kovu. Look at what you’ve left me with. Look at what you’ve made me bear. I won’t let you walk away from this as if nothing had happened.”

The green depths shifted, stirred by his words, as though light were flickering deep within.

“…It will hurt.”
“I know.”
“I mean—it hurts, a lot. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“And it will not soon be over.”
“I only worry you won’t keep it up for long.”

Simba gave a laugh—strained, but laughter still.

Kovu clenched his brow until the skin about his eyes wrinkled in heavy folds. He looked on the verge of tears once more.

“Why… you don’t have to do this…”

“Because I need you to stay!” The amber blurred now, yet Simba ground his teeth against the tears, refusing to let them fall. He would not be so weak again in the midst of anger. “I don’t know what it is you fear. I never thought you could be more afraid than I am! All this while it was I who waited here, heartsick with dread…” The shouting left him breathless, and he paused, drawing deep to steady himself. “I don’t even remember how long I’ve waited. Why is it you who cannot believe… What must I do to make you trust me?”

Kovu pressed his brow to Simba’s, green waves breaking against amber’s keen edge.

“I never knew… you were so good at giving orders. You almost sound…” He tried to smother his nerves, but his voice still shook. “…like a little prince.”

Simba tipped his chin high, mimicking Kovu’s sly, arrogant air—awkward, a touch sly, yet defiant.

“Or maybe I am. Care to show me some respect?”

“Then I shall be most grateful for the favour you grant me, your highness.”

Kovu kissed his face, then moved slow to his flank, until he stood braced above that golden body—neither of them breaking eye contact, not once.

He had sworn he was ready—yet when Kovu’s teeth grazed his nape, seeking the tenderest flesh, Simba still closed his eyes as though braced for death.

Kovu did not miss it. His body, strung taut with hunger, was held back only by the last thread of reason. For a heartbeat he wondered—was this, too, some trial Simba meant to lay before him? Should he, at the very brink, let go?

But then the soft tail swept against his hindleg, curling round his skin—a silent invitation.

Now he could not see Simba’s face, only hear the short, steady breaths, feel the heartbeat quicken beneath him. Soon enough, he knew, it would turn ragged, frenzied, bursting against his ribs. Silly little kitty—before long you’d be begging me through tears to stop. And yet pain carved deep; it endured. This was his hard-won chance. At last he could affirm it by his own way; at last, something would belong to him, entire and unbreakable.

…His way?

A voice murmured in reply: No—never his. Only the shadow haunting him all these years, a twisted compulsion forced upon him; and to yield to it would exact a grievous price. The thought alone sent a chill down his spine.

Kovu released the flesh of the nape. The swelling scent filled his nose—eager anticipation, yet tangled through with anxious dread. 

If all that followed was fear and torment… what a sorrow thing it would be.

Simba had not expected this. He had braced himself for whatever pain might come next, though fear gnawed at his heart. Yet instead, the dark brown head leaned from his shoulder, pressing close against his own.

“Kovu?”

“Let me try…” The words came blurred, mumbled into his ear. He nosed along the soft skin of Simba’s hindleg, but the golden lion seemed to mistake him—tail flicking up, haunches lifted, awkward and eager. Kovu let slip a low laugh at his ear.

“You don’t have to hold such a…pose.” He licked along Simba’s cheek, steady strokes, while his hind-legs locked firm about the smaller body. “Lie flat, properly.”

Simba’s face burned scarlet, his mouth mumbling helpless sounds. That rigid thing had been prodding at his thigh-root from the start, leaving damp streaks wherever it pressed. He half-wondered if Kovu himself knew what he was doing—

“!!”

A rough heat pressed into the narrow hollow between thigh and belly. There the coat was tender, only soft pale down—and the shock of it made Simba cry out.

“W-what are you…?!”

Kovu’s breath burned hot against his ear, setting it twitching. “Like this… it should be easier for you.”
He shifted, pressing closer, his voice a low command: “Your legs—hold them tighter.”

Simba obeyed in silence. Where their bodies met was fire, searing through him, flooding every vein till his face felt fit to ignite.

“Say something, Simba.” Kovu’s teeth worried gently at the root of his ear, his voice sunk impossibly low. “Anything.”

Simba jerked his head up too quickly, and their mouths met, clumsy and sudden. Both froze—but it was the younger who recovered first, leaning in to press a kiss upon the scar over Kovu’s left eye.

The blow landed far harder than any words. The little wretch hadn’t even bothered to draw his tongue back—Kovu ground his teeth, cursing inwardly, eyes snagging helplessly on that slip of pink against the white of his own teeth, too vivid, too inviting.

Amber narrowed to a crescent, glinting with a knowing mischief.

“…That all?”
“Shut up, Simba.”

Kovu’s mind went blank for a beat; when he came back to himself, he caught Simba’s ear between his teeth in chagrin. The young lion only giggled, soft and bubbling. 

“Sorry, sorry—I’ll say something dull next time.”
“Next time?”

The black lion prodded the thin fold of ear-skin with a fang-tip, blinking, forcing his unruly mood to settle, eyes drifting to the long-forgotten carcass nearby.

“Why don’t you tell me—why you went hunting without me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Oh, yes—it was. And yet… a pity.”
“How so?”
“I’d rather have been close enough to watch you…”

His weight sank back down, four limbs locking Simba down. The fur between them was sodden and clinging, the pliant muscle enclosing his member, steady with living warmth—exactly as he could wish.

“You’ve hunted before—you know how it is…” Simba felt the dreadful speed of his recovery, the insistent friction below, and stammered, nervous. “Don’t you dare laugh at me again.”

A low hum against his ear. “Then tell me—how you did it.” With Simba lying still beneath him, Kovu freed a paw,  claw-tip sliding slow down the gold of that coat. 

“Where did you begin?”

Simba stirred in small, uneasy motions, not knowing which hardness pressed him more. Breath shallow, his eyes fixed on the barren earth.

“The legs… from the hindlegs first…”
“Oh, I remember—you’re good at tripping prey from behind.”

Green eyes flicked toward the abandoned duiker. Its hindleg gaped with a long gash, muscle fibres showing raw, darkened with blood.

“Fighting hard is good. But beware the hooves, you hear?”

His rare note of seriousness was broken by a wet, squelching sound. Kovu bit back his grin—if he let it show, Simba would definitely leap up and cuff him in outrage. Instead Kovu brushed against his cheek, urging him to look at the carcass.

“Not bad. You’ve made such a mess of that spot, I can scarcely tell what colour it was to begin with.”
“Are you praising me… or yourself?”

Simba could read his double-meaning now with ease. The sticky heat between his thighs, the sounds it made, were impossible to ignore. He pressed his legs closer, and at once Kovu’s breath faltered, then poured hot against the back of his head.

“…You’re picking up bad habits, Simba.”
“Blame my good teacher.” 

The red-gold head tipped back at a sharp angle, tongue and teeth teasing along Kovu’s jaw, seeking skin beneath the black mane.

“Well? Will you keep talking? This fine achievement of yours…”
“I think there are ways clearer than words…”

Kovu’s eyes burned with a sudden spark of fervour, though Simba could only feel the thick length swelling still against him. The steady pulse throbbed under his fangs, shielded by nothing but the thinnest skin. It was dangerous, he knew: a slip too deep, a bite too hard, and he would draw blood. What if Kovu didn’t even enjoy it? Really…who in their right mind would take pleasure in such a odd trick?

Simba clamped down—brief, briefer than a breath—and loosed again, soothing with a gentle lick. I tore its throat open. I drank its blood dry. His meaning was clear enough, for Kovu’s arousal answered in a sudden jolt.

But before the tender moment could linger, Kovu wrenched his head aside. In the next instant Simba’s skull was slammed down into the earth, his nape caught in punishing teeth, a sharp sting flaring through him, a weak, rattling choke dragged from his throat.

Kovu bit hard into his soft flesh, curses spilling in a low, guttural growl.

…?”
“Shut it.” 

The words rasped out of Kovu’s throat, eyes squeezed tight as he forced the surge of impulse back down.

That’s enough—this brat never missed a chance to strike at his weak spots, and nothing sickened Kovu more than the taste of losing control.

“But I didn’t say anything…” Simba muttered, small and sulky. He gave a token twist of his head before yielding; Kovu’s teeth held fast, and struggling only tore at his own skin.

“If you don’t like it when I—”

“You ought to count yourself lucky,” Kovu hissed, hoarse, cutting across him. “Lucky I didn’t follow through on my first thought…”

Simba’s face sank towards the ground. His shoulders gave a faint tremor—Kovu thought it was pain, and was about to let go, until he heard that infuriating laugh.

“Oh—so you must like it far too much, then…” His hindlegs bunched, the wet, matted fur squelching obscenely as he tightened. Kovu nearly cracked a fang—he was right at the edge.

“Next time you get the chance… you should bite down hard—bite hard, kitty.”

He muttered thickly, not sure if Simba had even caught the words, before clamping harder on the nape and hauling him up. His weight ground heavy against Simba’s back as he wrenched the forequarters clear of the ground. The golden lion gave a sharp, panicked cry, forepaws stretching desperately for purchase. He was long past the age a scruff-hold could bear, and Kovu’s greater bulk made the wrench all the more brutal—his throat crushed tight, air strangled in an instant. Only when Simba’s claws scraped the earth at last did the strain on his neck relent, enough to ease the pressure and let a ragged breath escape.

Perhaps seeing how he faltered, Kovu’s forelegs locked about him, lending support. Simba dragged air greedily, until his voice returned in broken snatches—

“Well? Go on then—leave your marks… as many as you please…” 

He broke off, coughing raggedly as breath and spit caught in his throat, words spilling rough.

“Only don’t ask me to do the same…not your way.”

The hot rush came again, soaking fur already too sodden to take in anything more, pale fluid running down the bend of his legs. The grip at his neck slackened, and Simba curled back to the ground at once. The air held nothing now but their panting, tangled together in ragged disorder.

Kovu tipped his head back, silent curses burning his tongue. His restraint was shamefully thin—Simba roused not only the reckless desire he had long buried, but also the darker craving —to hurt, to dominate—that forever clawed at the brink. And yet he could only feel a bleak relief: that he had chosen the gentler way, however harsh it still was, though even so he had left Simba wrung out and shaken.

He cast an uneasy glance downward, only to find the golden body curled tight, limbs drawn in awkwardly close.

“Simba…? Hey, hey—what is it? Are you hurt?”

In haste he rolled him over. Simba shoved at his chest in faint protest—but the push held no strength, and Kovu brushed it aside with ease. Then his eyes fell lower, and widened in shock.

That part was still stiff with arousal, quivering faintly in the air, tipped with a smear of translucent white.

Simba ground his teeth, muttering the words so low they barely carried—“Shut up.”
They had both grown fond of that phrase today.

“Oh…don’t scare me like that—I thought something was wrong.” 

Kovu’s relief broke across his face in a wicked smile. Simba seemed to give up resisting, leaving him free to feast his gaze on the secret sight.

“Exactly what’s got you worked up like this?”

He half-expected the boy to flush, to bristle, to glare with those lovely eyes, to snarl at him for being shameless—taking every liberty and still pretending butter wouldn’t melt…

But Simba did not. Those amber eyes only held him, quiet and unblinking. And again Kovu felt it—that snare tightening, silent and unseen, drawing him closer—

Come here.

Come to me.

Simba never made a sound, only shaped the words with his lips. Yet Kovu moved as if spellbound, drifting into the embrace until he felt the soft rasp of a tongue upon his cheek. The fierce illusion of dominance slipped away; he must have imagined it—he must. For how else to account for the lion before him, gazing with such devotion, clutching him as though a single release would make him vanish?

“Did you like that?” he murmured against Simba’s throat.
“…Just about bearable.”
“But that’s not what your body’s saying, is it?”

Kovu nipped fondly at his jaw. Simba shut his eyes with a long sigh.

“I can’t make it obey me all the time.”
“I’d call that a blessing.”
“Of course you would.” 

Simba shifted uneasily, a clammy stickiness spreading across his underside, faintly sickening.

“At least it didn’t feel like I was roughing up a cub.”

“Since when do you care about that sort of thing?” A golden paw rested on his shoulder. “Fact is, you’re much older than me, you shameless, twisted brute…”

Kovu nudged his face with a snout. “Shhh…how about some quiet time?”

But the younger lion refused to let it go. “So this is all you’ve got? Worn out already? Some tough guy you are…”

“Simba.”

Tch—oh, fine! Clicking his tongue, Simba finally hushed, though sulking was plain across his ears. Yet still he could not stay still—before long, he was fidgeting again.

“So that’s it? Nothing more you want to do?”

He pressed their hips together on purpose, smearing his own mess onto the darker fur. To his surprise, Kovu gave no reaction, only shook his head against his neck.

“No.” he said after a pause. “That’s all I want.”

Simba gave no answer, but his paws slid from around him, dropping sulkily to the ground like a cub in a tantrum. Kovu turned his face aside with a weary sigh.

“I have no idea what you’re so hung up on. I told you—there’s no call for it anymore.”

“You’re really fine with just… this?”

“Perhaps I’d want it again—now and then. If you’d let me.”

Simba stared at him as though at some strange beast.

“You’re acting so normal it creeps me out. Who are you, and what have you done with my Kovu?”

The slip of endearment came unbidden, striking soft at a hidden place in Kovu’s chest.

“You were the one who said it held no meaning. Forgotten already?” A paw pressed lightly against his belly. “Down here… nothing will ever change, Simba—nothing will ever come of it. I hardly know what I was thinking then…”

A low hum in Simba’s throat—not clear whether assent or doubt.

“And more than that—I’d rather not see you suffer.”

“Sounds scary, the way you put it.” Simba stuck out his tongue. “How would you even know about something like that, anyway…”

When a lion carries ghosts in his heart, even the most careless words can cut like thorns. Kovu’s eyelids dropped—so fleetingly it was less than half a heartbeat. Any longer, and Simba would have caught the slip.

“I’ve wandered long enough to see plenty of strange things.” When he raised his head again, his expression was veiled, green eyes narrowing to slits. “The world’s a complicated place, Simba—more than you dare imagine.”

“…Alright, then.”

Simba gave a little shiver, as though trying to make it seem he believed the tale. But his clumsy act was plain to Kovu—just as Kovu’s excuse was far from enough to win him over.

One had no wish to say more; the other lacked the courage to ask. They hovered at that uncanny balance point—Kovu wondering how long he could keep dragging it out, and Simba, how long before the truth broke through.

“Get up—you’re bloody heavy.”

Kovu lay sprawled across him as though deaf to the words. Simba’s frame was solid now, full muscle under the hide, no longer the bony rack that once made holding him painful. Kovu was well content with this warm, breathing pillow; shut his eyes, and he could have slept at once.

But Simba had no wish to go on as a cushion. He caught Kovu and rolled him over in one swift move, the world turning upside down. Before Kovu could marvel at his strength, Simba was already on his feet, padding off.

“Hey, where are you off to?”
“To the water, of course. Don’t you feel all sticky and gross?”

Eyes still shut, Kovu thought with a bitter twist of humour: sticky and gross were nothing new to him—he’d lived through enough of both to stop caring.

“Oh—I forgot you hate getting your mane wet…” Simba’s voice held a trace of worry. A pause, then it brightened, as though struck by a brilliant idea.

“Want me to clean you up? I’m rather good at it.”

Kovu shot upright, sleep banished in an instant, unlikely to return soon. His dark coat hid the worst of his colour, but the restless flicker in his eyes gave him away—Simba’s suggestion had truly rattled him.

“…Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Of course I’m not. I mean it.”

Which only made it worse. Kovu groaned inwardly, his mind filling—against his will—with images he ought never to picture. Now he really needed to dunk his head in some cold water.

“Alright, alright! Water it is—come on, stay in as long as you like.”

Simba trotted ahead, cheerful, throwing glances back at Kovu’s evasive eyes. How amusing—it was clear Kovu was in some strange fluster, though Simba hadn’t the faintest idea why.

“When will you let me groom your mane?”
“Don’t be greedy. I’ve given in to you plenty already.”
“…Fine.”

Simba bounded about him, cheerful as ever, plotting how he might drench Kovu through and watch that proud black mane reduced to a dripping mess.

It was a long time before they returned—far longer than needed. Yet nothing had touched the place in their absence. The air was thick with the musk of two male lions, more than enough to keep every creature at bay. The poor duiker still lay where they had left it, those wide glassy eyes seeming to say— 

At last you remember I was meant to be supper.

Chapter Text

Kovu had thought himself accustomed to a life wound tight, that idleness would set his skin crawling—yet it was not always so.

He stared through a small patch of sky framed by the canopy, clouds drifting lazily across, and only then realised how visible the passing of time could be. When he tired of watching the slow procession, he turned his head aside—and his nose was instantly buried in a blaze of red mane. Time froze here, or else slipped by faster still, until he could no longer recall how long he had been lying there.

He could spend a whole day doing nothing, for Simba was near enough grafted onto him, clinging from the moment he opened his eyes, forever coaxing kiss after kiss. And kisses, more often than not, would slide into something far more intimate. Kovu frowned, hoping to savour the lull before pleasure crested—just a little longer. But his sly little kitty would never let him linger that long: golden paws hooked slackly around his neck, whispering every sort of reckless affection against his ear; or pulling a pained look, even squeezing out a couple of theatrical tears to sell the act.

Kovu surrendered in poor grace, muttering to himself in defeat—
Wicked little thing.

“Why do you always look like you’ve got something to say?”

Simba had picked up a terrible habit lately—lounging with his mouth half-open, a soft sliver of tongue lolling out as if he’d forgotten it existed.

Kovu wrenched his gaze away in despair. Any longer and they’d end up back at the watering hole again, and he was sick of grooming waterlogged fur. But Simba only leaned closer, wearing that pitiful expression and whining that he was terribly thirsty.

“Then stop making such a fuss. I wasn’t even rough with you!”

Innocent golden-red eyes blinked up at him, painfully slow. Kovu felt himself being drawn in, helpless.

“...Don’t you want to give me something to drink?”

He groaned and covered his face with a paw, while the golden lion cackled triumphantly above him.

“Why do you always get so worked up?”

“...Shut up, Simba.”

Whoa—harsh. But Simba knew he wasn’t really angry. Mostly just hopeless.

“Negative.”
He smirked, “What, you gonna nip me?”

All that indulgence had left Simba impossibly bold. Teasing like this was a near-daily ritual now—and somehow, he always knew exactly which string to pluck to get a rise out of Kovu. When Kovu finally snapped and tried to storm off, Simba would leap onto his back, nip at his ear or the scruff of his neck, and whisper that running only makes it more fun.

Kovu’s scant patience was all spent on this. But he gave it willingly—sharing his knowledge, his skills, his time. And Simba, for his part, revealed a frighteningly good knack for learning. He was brimming with energy, sharp as a thorn. Those bright, eager eyes sparkled with excitement, full of unspoken want. Kovu, caught in their beam, grew flustered and muttered—

“…Not bad.”

Luckily, Simba took any praise as gospel. He whooped and bounced through the grass like a cub, sending a flock of weaverbirds screeching into the sky. Kovu just shook his head with a laugh—but the very next moment, Simba pounced. There was a blur of limbs and sunlight, and they both went tumbling into the thick, downy thatch.

Kovu swiped at the burrs stuck in his mane and opened his eyes—
to find Simba towering above him, framed by a halo of blazing gold.

Simba was growing at a pace too fast to ignore—
The forepaw braced against Kovu’s shoulder was thick and solid, muscles firm beneath the fur. His fiery mane had grown long and heavy, tumbling down in waves that carried a wild heat, curling in the afternoon sun and flooding Kovu’s senses with its scent.

Give it a bit more time, and this kitty would soon outsize him completely. Some gaps were written into their bones—what did a few bug-filled meals matter, really?

Of course Kovu felt a flicker of envy. But it didn’t last. Something deeper always swept in to take its place. He’d been there to witness every inch of Simba’s growth. Day by day, with his own eyes. And nothing—nothing—made him prouder than that.

These were memories that belonged to him alone. No one could steal them from him.

He tilted his chin up, letting that fiery head nuzzle into the crook of his neck. The soft, steady purring eased something inside him. 

“Looks like someone’s been bulking up again.” 

He gave Simba’s belly a gentle kick with his foot—but before he could say anything more, the golden lion dropped his full weight on top of him, grinning at the way he squirmed underneath.

“...Don’t get cocky, Simba.”

That face turned obedient at once—ears drooping slightly, lips slack at the corners, those amber eyes gazing up at him with unblinking devotion.

“Don’t be so mean. I only wanted to hold you.”

That soft, sugary voice always itched beneath his skin, sparking that familiar urge to kiss all over again. And Kovu knew—if he shut his eyes, Simba would nuzzle close and begin lapping gently at the corner of his mouth. Sight fell away as every other sense lit up, drowning him in warmth and slick velvet. They didn’t part until their breaths turned ragged and limbs grew heavy with heat.

Amber still burned bright against the dusk. Kovu knew full well—Simba had been staring the entire time.

He’d told him before not to do that. After every breathless kiss, his mane would be all over the place, his chest heaving too fast, and his eyes too misty to meet a gaze—he hated the thought of being watched like that. Thank the stars his face never gave away much, even when he flushed.

But Simba had never cared for such protests, and tonight he was worse than usual. Those golden-red eyes stayed wide and hungry, unmoving, drinking him in like he hadn’t had nearly enough.

Kovu’s heartbeat faltered.He could swear he saw something shift.
That worshipful gaze, once so reverent, was starting to give way to something deeper, firmer.
Not the awe of a cub in love with a legend, but the gaze of a lion ready to claim what was his.

And beneath it all, something heady and hormonal hung heavy in the air, pressing down on his chest like the weight of a storm.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Simba blinked at him playfully but said nothing.

“You after a different kind of reward?”

His eyes lit up the moment he was caught. Kovu patted his shoulder, gesturing for him to sit up. Simba obediently shifted back—only to see Kovu roll over where he lay, propping himself up on one side, glancing back at him.

“…Wanna give it a try?”

“Wait—what?!”

Simba froze. The tone had been so calm, like he was offering a walk—but those emerald eyes slid his way, slow and unguarded, thick with invitation...

His face burned. He ducked his head and bit gently at the fur on Kovu’s hind leg, trying to hide the flush. His nose left a faint damp trail in its wake.

Surely he was overthinking it. It was still the usual sort of thing, just… from a different side. Kovu was probably just being lazy again, that slacker…

“That’s not what I meant.”

Kovu winked. His smile, his gaze—everything was tuned to just the right shade of suggestive. But Simba felt the fur stand on end along his spine.

He’d been pulled into a rhythm he didn’t know the steps to, a heat too practiced to be casual.

Kovu, on the other paw, slipped into it like it was second nature. Every movement landed right where it was meant to, like he’d rehearsed this a hundred times.

Simba almost forgot to blink.

He could only stare as Kovu eased beneath him, slow to the point of cruelty, arching up to rub against the downy fur of his belly, that agile tail coiling up around his hind leg.

Was he serious?
It wasn’t just a new angle. Not just a different game.
Kovu was asking him to take the lead. For real.

“Don’t you want to try?”

Simba hadn’t even moved, and yet the thick black mane had already curled around his nose, every strand steeped in that familiar scent—
So close. So maddeningly warm.

He was young. Strong. What else could he possibly feel?

A male in his prime—fit, burning, unsatisfied, with every heat to spare.

Of course he wanted it. Pretending otherwise would be a lie.

But no matter how fiercely the need surged through him, reason still held the reins. He bit back the urge to sink his teeth into that waiting nape, mumbling instead.

“…You’d only end up hurting.”

A soft hum stirred in Kovu’s throat—just those words were enough to steady him. The way Simba still worried, still held back. And at the same time, it made him crave it more.

For once, there were no tactics. No twisted purpose. Only because it was Simba. And he had no other way to love him.

Kovu tilted his head back as far as it would go, licking slow trails up the lion’s throat, again and again.

“I’ll be alright, Simba. As long as you want to…”

“No.”

The words landed flat. Simba cut across him without a trace of hesitation, then rolled off his back and sat upright beside him, stiff as a statue.

Kovu froze. He hadn’t expected that.

Something must had gone wrong—something in the way he moved, or sounded, or looked. He’d fallen out of practice. It was bound to show.

But only for a second. Then he folded his forepaws neatly beneath his head, and let the corners of his mouth curl back up. 

A polished smile. A slow blink, just slow enough to catch the eye.
Not too eager.
But not so dull that Simba wouldn’t look back.

Simba’s brows were drawn in tight—one of those scrunched-up expressions he pulled when nothing made sense.

There it was again.
That look.

Had he really have a dozen faces lined up in advance, just waiting to pick the right one?

A low, husky voice drifted lazily into his ear, coiling like smoke, like it meant to draw the breath right out of him.

“Something on your mind?”

Simba stiffened, refusing to look at him. “I’m not interested.”

“Then don’t come crying to me later.”

He said it lightly. Simba could still see—out of the corner of his eye—the black lion stretched out shamelessly across the ground, limbs slack, all his softest places on display. His tail flopped to the side in an exaggerated swing, striking the earth with rhythmic flicks that landed like blows to Simba’s chest.

There was no other word for it. It was blatant.

“But you…”

“I’ll be okay.”

Kovu rolled over without hesitation, flopping beside him, his belly warm against Simba’s leg. One forepaw crept up, tracing the golden fur of Simba’s chest.

“You don’t have to worry…”

“How could I not worry about you?!”

The sudden sharpness in his voice made Kovu flinch. He looked up to find Simba glaring down at him, amber eyes alight with fury.

But why?
What had he done wrong?

“Haven’t we already talked about this? Why do you always…”

Simba shook his head and backed away. He couldn’t understand how Kovu thought this was fine. It was always one or the other: either Kovu wanted to take the pain, or he wanted Simba to.

What was the point of any of it?

Kovu saw the shift and panicked. He scrambled upright and nearly lost his footing as he stepped on his own tail.

“Simba…”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Simba knew he’d gone too far.

Kovu froze like stone. His gaze, once bright, dulled before Simba’s eyes—like a star dimming, falling out of the sky.
He was still looking at him, technically—but the line of his sight seemed to float right through Simba’s body, drifting, lost, as if it no longer knew where to land.

“…Sorry,” Kovu choked out, his voice dry and scratchy, like something had lodged in his throat. “Sorry I messed up… please don’t be mad at me, Simba. Please don’t…”

His eyes drifted upward against his will, locking briefly on Simba’s face. But before he could make sense of the expression there, he dropped them again, staring hard at the dirt beneath his paws.

He couldn’t bear to look.
Couldn’t risk seeing disgust in those eyes.
Couldn’t survive it if all that was left on that face… was rejection.

“It’s okay. You don’t want to do this, it’s fine… I get it…”

He hated himself for asking. For doing this. For pushing too far, again.
Why couldn’t he just act normal? Of course Simba didn’t want him—
Who would ever want something so defiled?

He never should’ve said anything. Never should’ve asked.

Simba’s words still echoed in his ears, thorned like brambles, tightening around his chest until he could barely breathe. The ache clouded even his vision.

Reason tried to console him—tried to whisper that Simba was kind, and so guileless at heart. Even if he knew, he’d never turn him away for it.

But the truth loomed large and cruel: he’d been pushed away. That was all that mattered now. And it left him hollow.

He had to do something to make up for all his impulsive roughness. Anything, just to prove he truly meant well.
If Simba could be comforted, could be satisfied… what did his own feelings matter?

But now even that path had closed for good.
Caught like a cub who’d done something wrong, he stood frozen— eyes drifting, paws hovering, too uncertain to land.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Kovu hurried to flick the tears away, hoping his dark fur would hide the marks they left—but the moment he looked up, he fell right into those amber whirlpools.

“Tell me, Kovu.”

Golden-red eyes shimmered in the dark, lit with warmth—yet even their glow wasn’t enough to reach the chill in his chest.

“I won’t say it again, I promise. I really won’t… so please don’t be upset, all right?”

He inched closer. For a second, he looked like he might nuzzle Simba’s face—but changed his mind, and simply laid a paw gently on his foreleg.

“Would you give me a smile? You’re no good at frowning…”

It sounded light, almost teasing—but his emerald eyes, drained of all colour, were full of quiet pleading. As if the world might vanish with the next breath—and Simba’s smile was the only thing left he wanted to remember.

And now every hour they’d shared returned to Simba, soft-edged and aching. Every moment that hovered just out of reach. Every glance that held back just enough, every soft-spoken line that brushed against the heart—never quite enough to drown in, yet always enough to stir.

Kovu had always lived like tomorrow would never come. And whatever had grown between them was never meant to last.

And he suddenly wondered—
How had it come to this?

His mouth twitched in a way that could barely be called a smile—closer to a grimace, really. But Kovu seemed thrilled by it, thrilled enough for the tears to start falling all over again, one after another.

And he knew how much Kovu hated being seen crying.
So he leaned in, pressing his shoulder gently against Kovu’s, letting him bury his face in the thick red mane.
Whether it was tears or muffled sobs, Simba pretended not to see, not to hear a thing.

He whispered all kinds of soft things that night—silly, jumbled nonsense with no real sense to them. But he knew Kovu would want to hear them, so he just kept talking, until the steady rhythm of breathing told him Kovu’d finally fallen asleep. Only then did Simba stop, mouth dry, voice hoarse.

Even in sleep, Kovu’s brow was tightly furrowed.
He looked utterly spent—none of the energy a lion his age ought to have.

Simba sat still beside him for a while, staring at the scar that cut across his left eye.
Then he rose, silent as shadow.

He did his usual patrol of the land they called home, checking the borders, renewing every scent mark. The wind tugged at his mane—cool and restless—and Simba lifted his head to the stars, letting their quiet watch ease the weight in his chest.

When he reached the far edge of the territory, he looped back by another path.
All the way, his thoughts circled the same truth:
He’d been silent long enough.

Come tomorrow, whether Kovu liked it or not, he was going to make that mystery-cloaked lion talk.

And he was going to hear that story for himself.

When the wind paused, so did Simba.
He lifted his head and sniffed sharply. Something wasn’t right.
A stranger had entered the forest.

They weren’t trying to hide it, either. Paws dragged noisily across the earth, snapping twigs and trampling brittle leaves. The sound grew louder, closer—and with the wind against him, Simba had no chance to flee unseen.

He stood his ground, planted firm, muscles coiled. Whatever came next, he’d meet it head-on.

The undergrowth rustled. Then, from the shade, a pale lioness stepped out.
She didn’t come closer. She simply watched him for a long moment, then offered a thin, unbothered smile.

“Have you met a lion with a black mane?”

Simba’s eyes flinched, almost too subtly to notice. He forced his gaze to stay fixed on her movements, not the question.

“I don’t know who you mean,” he growled. “You should leave. This is my territory.”

Her smile deepened. She didn’t look remotely afraid—and that, somehow, made less sense to Simba than anything else.
She was older, maybe, but the difference in strength was obvious. So why that calm?

Something about her—cool, measured, unflinching—reminded him of the first time he saw Kovu.

“No need to be so tense. I only came to ask a question.”

There was a time Simba might’ve barked back, swearing he wasn’t scared of any lioness.
Now, he just frowned—barely—and said nothing.
His mind was already racing.
She had to be looking for Kovu. But who was she? What had happened? Was she connected to whoever gave him that scar?

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Simba said.
The tension in his legs eased a little, though he didn’t lower his guard.
“Maybe I’ll remember something…”

“Don’t play dumb.” 

She interrupted coldly. The smile dropped off her face in an instant.

“Where is Kovu?”

Simba’s shoulders drew inward, only slightly—but he felt it like a chill along his spine.

“What do you want, exactly?”

His instincts screamed.
This lioness wasn’t here just for a chat.
She could be a distraction.
Whoever meant Kovu harm had probably already gone after him.

Simba bit his lip. He couldn’t waste time here.
He had to get back. Now.

But she moved first, leaping clean into his path.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Move.” Simba growled.

“Shhh, he’ll be fine…” She didn’t flinch. Not a bit.
“If that’s what you’re so worried about.”

Confusion flooded his mind. She was turning everything inside out.

“He’s my brother,” she said simply. “I only came to bring him home.”

Then she smiled again.
A perfect, soulless little smile.

“Ah, I forgot to introduce myself. The name is Vitani.”

“Glad I finally meet you, Simba
—Oh, no. Wait,” she cut in, sharp and sudden.

“I should say… cousin.”

Chapter Text

Simba stood gaping, words caught in his throat. It took him several seconds to force anything out.

“What did you just say?!”

What had she called him?
…Cousin?
She couldn’t be—surely not—

“Scar. He’s my father.”

Simba stumbled back a step. The lioness—he ought to call her Vitani now—met his stunned gaze with a look that said she’d expected just that.

“Well, well. I suppose… Kovu kept very quiet, did he?”

Simba could barely breathe. “Kovu…”

She’d said she’d come to bring her brother home.

They were Scar’s children.

It felt like something had grabbed him by the throat and hurled him into deep, freezing water. Pressure crushed in from all sides, turning his insides to pulp. A surge of nausea rose through him. He bent down and gagged violently, but nothing came up.

No. No! That can’t be true.

How could he believe—

Simba threw her a look like bared claws.

“You’re lying!”

“Am I? Then go ask him yourself.”

He stared at her a heartbeat longer—then spun round and ran, crashing through the thick underbrush like a creature hunted. Vines and cobwebs snapped against his flanks. Yet he didn’t care. He didn’t think. Whether it was a trap, whether Vitani followed—none of it mattered. There was only one thought in his head:

It’s not true, Kovu. Tell me it’s not true.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the familiar clearing. Everything here looked so peaceful, like a world untouched by the storm raging inside him.
The black lion lay sprawled in the grass, limbs relaxed, breathing slow and even—utterly, impossibly asleep.

“…I’ve never seen him like that.”

The voice beside him was softer now. Simba glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The sharp edges of her face had somehow dulled; what replaced them was a quiet kind of surprise, and something like… sorrow.

Simba thought he understood what she meant. He’d only just begun to notice it himself—how Kovu no longer curled in on himself at night, how he slept now with his defences lowered, as though something inside him had finally grown quiet.

For some reason, Simba didn’t think she was lying.

“Go on. Wake him up.” she murmured, stepping back into the shadowed trees. The forest swallowed her lean frame whole.

Simba didn’t know how he made it to Kovu’s side. The short distance had felt endless. He didn’t know how he’d reached out—if he’d been too rough, too sudden.

Had he pulled Kovu from some quiet dream… and was he part of it?

For one fleeting moment, he wished Kovu wouldn’t wake up at all. Or that he himself might vanish—disappear into some hidden place no one could ever find. 

But Kovu stirred anyway, mumbling as his eyes opened—those green eyes he loved so dearly. They were dulled with sleep, shaded with the hush of night, then softened as they found him, like spring water breaking over rock, a warmth curling quietly through his chest.

“Hey, you’re back.”

Kovu didn’t mind being pulled from sleep—not when it meant waking up to Simba’s face. He pushed himself upright and leaned close, nudging for a kiss.

But the press against his chest stopped him—a blade unsheathed, firm and cold against his fur.

“...Simba?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

The moonlight poured over Simba’s back, casting a jagged shadow across his face. Kovu couldn’t see him clearly, but something was wrong.

“What are you talking about…?”

“Who are you, really?”

Kovu’d prepared for questions like this. He swallowed, choosing his words with care.

“Didn’t you say… if I don’t ask you, you won’t ask me either?”

“Not when you know everything about me, and I’m left in the dark.”

“Simba…”

The golden lion shook his head, the moonlight breaking across his face like glass.

“Then you should be calling me… cousin.”

Kovu sucked in a sharp breath. Just after a heartbeat, there was a rustle in the underbrush. Without hesitation, he lunged forward to shield Simba, his voice low and urgent—

“Stay back, Simba.”

The steadiness of his silhouette made Simba’s eyes sting. It felt like something had been carved out of his chest.
Any other time, he would’ve felt safe, grateful—even flattered that such instinct ran bone-deep in Kovu’s body.
But if that same instinct also meant keeping him from the truth…
He didn’t know what to feel anymore.

The moment Vitani stepped out, Kovu knew what had happened.

He barely had time to throw her a fierce glare before whipping around in a panic.

“Simba—Simba, listen to me! I’m not his son. Not what you think I am!”

But that face—drawn, silent—was drained of all light, the shadows swallowing every glint of amber. Kovu’s chest tightened.

Was he even listening?!

Desperately, he grabbed Simba’s shoulders and shook him, as if trying to rattle some sense back into that golden-red head.

“I’d never do that to you. Never. Please… please believe me—”

His voice cracked with fury, because those amber eyes looked like they were about to shatter. He snapped toward the lioness.

“What is your problem?! Why didn’t you explain? You knew bloody well how he’d take it!!”

“No. The real problem is—you.”

The answer came not from her, but behind him.

Simba’s voice was quiet. Hollow.

Kovu started to turn—then stopped. He wasn’t ready to see that face again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kovu had no words.

He’d gambled—selfishly, recklessly—that he could have it all. That he could rise to the throne and still come back now and then—to this secret paradise.
And to a lion who’d wait, no matter how long.
Of course Simba would. Kovu never truly doubted it.
That was the beauty of it.

But the stakes were far too high. And now, he stood to lose everything.

“Well, Kovu?” Vitani drawled, a soft sneer threading through her voice. “Took him no time to get the point. Unlike you.”

Kovu cursed under his breath. That wretched monkey must have spilled everything—and of course, she'd come storming in, not to help, but to ruin him. 

This wasn’t just payback for his lie. It was a warning. A reminder not to treat her like a pawn.

And she knew too much. Far too much.

It would only take one slip—one word—and Simba would be gone from his life for good.

Yet she smiled. Calm as ever, lips curled in that infuriating way that said—
This is the last chance.
You tell him. Or I will.
And trust me—you won’t like my version of the story.

He shot her a glare—don’t you dare— but she only arched a brow. 
Looked like she’d hold her tongue. For now.

With effort, Kovu turned. Met those amber eyes.

That face held no rage, no tears. Just an unreadable stillness, like the surface of a lake on a windless day.

At least Simba hasn’t run.
At least he’s still listening.

Kovu clung to that. Clung to the silence, to the one thing he had left.

“He’s not my father. I was adopted.”

Kovu kept a wary eye on Simba, gauging his reaction. Then he gave a small tilt of the head toward the lioness.

“She’s only my sister by name. Nothing more.”

He couldn’t tell if Simba was relieved. That brow was still furrowed, but his gaze slid past him, landed on Vitani.

“Then why didn’t she just say so—”

“Not like you asked, cousin.”

Vitani gave a crooked smile. It brought back an unwelcome memory—Simba had seen that expression before. That same curl of the lip, the cold gleam in the eye…

Just like Kovu, back then.

“There, there. I wasn’t picking a fight. Just thought I’d rattle some sense into my dear little brother.”

Simba looked away, back to Kovu. He knew the other lion was waiting—nervously, hopefully—for some kind of response.

All he gave was a nod.

That matter was closed.

“I take it… there’s more you haven’t told me?”

Blood ties weren’t the point anymore.
Of course he’d feared it—so much it made his skin crawl, made him sick with shame just thinking about it.
But now that Kovu had denied it, what terrified him more…was how Kovu thought that was enough.
That this one little clarification would set everything right.

From the very beginning, Kovu had known. Who he was. Where he came from. And through all of it—Kovu’d said nothing.

If Vitani hadn’t shown up, would he ever have come clean?

Simba’s questions snapped back to where it all began.
Their very first meeting.
That couldn’t have been chance. Kovu must have come with a plan.

But instead of answering, Kovu said:
Then let’s start from the real beginning.
He revealed something far worse. Something that burned through every other question in Simba’s mind.

Scar killed Mufasa.

The forest clearing fell into silence. Vitani stole a glance at the young lion. There was nothing behind his eyes. Just a golden-red husk, standing very still.

She couldn’t help it—she almost pitied him.

“I honestly don’t know where you get off calling me cruel.” she said as she came up beside Kovu, her voice laced with something between mockery and reluctant praise. 

“To think—you’d toss out something like that, just to save your own skin.”

Kovu shot her a glare.
“You left me no choice.”

Vitani looked like she had something else to say—but her eyes shifted.
Kovu turned, just in time to see the tears.

They were rolling, one after another, down Simba’s face—great, glistening and wordless.

“You knew…”
His voice cracked. The amber was flooding now, too full to hold back.
“You knew all this time—and you never told me.”

A tidal wave of grief and fury surged through him, drowning out everything else.
It was as if he were losing his father all over again—only this time, it hurt more.
Because the uncle who had once doted on him, patted his head and told him bedtime tales...
was a monster.

Let him bear the guilt of his father’s death.
Etch the sin so deep, it clung to his bones.
And tell him to forget who he was—
To run. Run away, and never return.

Simba had hated lies. Hated betrayal.
But now that the truth lay bare before him, he wanted nothing more than to run.
To turn his back and flee from this nightmare, from this bleeding thing in his chest.

But his father wasn’t coming this time.
There was no warm chest left to bury his face in.

Simba lifted a paw and clumsily wiped his face.
The past had split open like an old wound torn raw.
This time, he would have to face the pain alone.

Tears were no use.
They wouldn’t bring his father back.
And they wouldn’t take him back to those gentle, golden days.

Kovu was still speaking—low and fast—explaining how the Pride Landers had only ever been told the former king and his boy had perished in some tragic accident.

But they—Scar’s children—had grown up hearing the truth. Or at least, Scar’s truth.

Tales of triumph, spoken with relish.

How the great Mufasa had been cast down into the gorge. How the earth had thundered with stampeding hooves, until even the sunlight vanished in the dust.

And how Scar had snuffed out the last flicker of hope with his own paw.

“Simba,” Kovu murmured, “everyone thought you were dead. Right up until I found this place…”

His voice faltered.

Because the tears still glistened bright on that golden face, but the grief… the fury… had drained away.

Too fast. Too clean.

Simba looked almost calm now.

And that scared Kovu more than anything.

Was it too much? Or not enough? 

He’d thrown in everything he had. Pitched Scar to the pyre. Told the ugliest truth first.

He wasn’t doing it for forgiveness. That was far out of reach.

But if he could just win time, if this could buy him even a sliver of it—

He’d simply done what reason demanded.

“So it was him.”
Simba raised his eyes at last, gaze sharp enough to bore holes straight through Kovu’s skull.

“He dared lay his crimes on me.”

Kovu could hardly believe Simba was smiling.
A grim, furious smile that chilled him to the bone.
And what that smile meant was worse.

Scar…of course it was Scar. That bastard never stooped to sharing such details. He’d kept up his perfect little mask, even to the end— peddling warmth and false tenderness, playing the part of the gentle uncle, right before his smile vanished and the cruelest order fell from his tongue.
Otherwise Scar could’ve done it himself.
The end of the story.
No jungle.
No Simba.

Poor Simba.

If he’d known this boy had fled carrying the weight of patricide—Kovu would never have dropped the truth like this.

Vitani leaned in with a whisper, voice rich with mockery.
“Well done, genius. Bit too effective, don’t you think?”

Kovu had no idea how she still found room to gloat. He opened his mouth to explain, hurriedly, that he hadn’t known—
But didn’t get far.

“Of course you didn’t,” came the cold reply.
Amber eyes fixed on him like ice.
“That was his little secret. Just between the two of us.”

The golden lion stepped forward, close enough their noses almost touched.

“What about you, Kovu?
What little secrets are you still keeping?”

The tension between the two males was so thick it could’ve torn the air apart. A weak one might’ve collapsed on the spot—but Vitani only gave the slightest shiver before steadying her paws.

She studied her cousin again, wary, intrigued.

A streak of wildfire, burning silently through the black night.
In the lines of his young face, she glimpsed the old king’s shadow.
Something regal, something inevitable.
This lion was born to rule.

Well…this trip had just paid for itself. And then some.
Watching her ever-clever brother—the one who always pulled the strings, treating everyone like slow-witted beasts,
now flounder, stumble, sweat—
was, frankly, delightful.

Poor lad.
His polished and practiced silver tongue wasn’t working now. Not on this little prince.

She listened to his stammered confessions, lips curling into something close to a smirk.
Of course Kovu left the worst part out.
Not a whisper about what Scar had done to him. Not a word about the filth or the power plays.
Just a soft, tragic little speech about feelings.
How much he cared.
How badly he wanted to be loved.

Classic Kovu.
Always playing the heartstrings—worked every time.

He stole her a glance—one that all but begged her to turn away.

But the golden lion spoke first.

“No need.”

…For her to walk away? Or for him to keep unraveling?

Vitani wasn’t sure. But Kovu looked like he was about to fall apart.

Not even Scar had ever left him this shaken.

From that point on, his words turned flat, colourless.
Gone were the clever turns of phrase, the silken traps.
All that remained was the same line, over and over, dry and brittle as dead wood:
That he cared too much.
That he couldn’t bear to lose the boy.
That he couldn’t risk the truth—because the truth might mean farewell.

Simba listened to him patiently—almost too patiently.
Like watching a heartfelt little play fall apart in slow motion.

Then, without warning, he turned to Vitani.

“Why did you come to bring him back?”

Ops. Sharp one.
Vitani gave a silent nod of respect, and replied without fuss.

“Scar’s not doing well. He needs his heir back at Pride Rock to steady things.”

Simba’s gaze sliced toward Kovu next.

“I must have missed that part, or you don’t even care to mention?”

Kovu flinched. Actually flinched. His ears pressed tight to his skull.
Vitani blinked.
What in the stars…? That wasn’t how this relationship was supposed to go. Not in any version she’d imagine.

She made a move to rescue her young brother.

“Actually he did. That scar on his—”

“Stay out of this.” The golden lion snapped his tail with a sharp crack.

He didn’t even look at her.

“Cousin.”

Whoa.
He was doing a better Kovu impression than Kovu himself.
Vitani shut her mouth, somewhat amused.
Her proud, manipulative brother had finally met his match.
That’s what he got for toying with someone he couldn’t handle.

And still—Kovu was holding back.
He couldn’t mention the throne too often, too directly.
Everyone knew that stolen crown carried no right of inheritance.

So he hid this rightful heir away.
Wrapped up his hunger for power in the finest disguise—
A tender little romance, soft and gleaming like fresh prey.

He wanted it all—
The crown and the prince.
It was both or nothing.

A stupid, reckless gamble.

So very Scar.

“Anything else I should know?”

Kovu forced himself to meet Simba’s gaze. For the first time, it was truly hard to do.

“…No.”

His throat felt stuffed with sand, but at least the words came out. He’d told Simba everything. About the grand scheme he had so carefully crafted—meant to fool a tyrant, to get a troublesome brother out of the way. But all of that was secondary. At its heart, it had only ever been about keeping Simba safe.

“You sure?”

Those amber eyes were too close. Too sharp. They burned against his scar like they meant to dig something out—something buried deeper than flesh.

“What say you, cousin?”

His heart was in his throat. Kovu didn’t dare break eye contact. Couldn’t even risk a glance at Vitani, let alone beg her not to sink him. Everything hung on Simba now—on how he’d choose to judge the answer.

How had he let himself fall this low—this helpless? 

Thank the stars Vitani still had a shred of mercy. Or maybe the same cursed affection that got her into this in the first place.

“He’s said enough, Simba.”

It sounded more like: Can’t you let this one go?
Kovu didn’t fancy the edge in her tone, but he couldn’t afford to care. Every fibre of him was watching Simba now.

There was something moving in those eyes—not quite anger, not quite a smile. Just that golden whirlpool, slowly pulling him in.

Then without warning—a heavy paw slammed down on the left side of his face.

Kovu froze. He could feel the claws. Feel them tracing his scar, gentle as a threat.

Vitani let out a startled cry, “What are you—”

“Shut it!!”

The golden lion’s roar cracked the air like thunder over the plains. Vitani stumbled back, her heart skipping one beat, then slamming into rhythm again, loud as a war drum in her chest.

Stars above.
Her poor brother had gone and woken something far beyond his reach.

The sharp claws traced the length of his scar, then came to rest at the corner of his eye.

Kovu never moved. Never spoke.
He simply looked back—at a face growing more and more unfamiliar.

If Simba would never smile at him again.
If that carefree, golden light would never fall on him again…
That was on him.

Simba had said, more than once, how much he liked these emerald eyes.
Well.
He could have them.
Let the last thing they ever reflect be amber.

What was there to regret?

“…How could he do this to you?”

No one saw it coming.

Simba pulled back his claws, and in the same breath, drew Kovu gently into his chest.

Vitani watched the scene unfold like a farce.
Anger. Threat. And now tenderness?

She couldn’t make sense of it.

Maybe because she didn’t hear the whisper—barely a breath—falling in Kovu’s ear:

“…Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?”

Kovu flinched. Tried to pull back. But Simba’s foreleg curled around him, just enough to hold him still.

“I have a score to settle with Scar,” he murmured, nose brushing the base of Kovu’s ear.
“And I plan to collect.”
He laid it sweetly, like a promise. Like a vow.

Kovu shivered.

His pitiful act had only made it easier to read him. Simba had simply gone along with it.

This was his sentence—delayed, not lifted.

And what better punishment for a liar than this?

To be kept on edge.
Uncertain.
Hoping.

“Then what about… us?”

“Us?”

Simba chuckled, deep in his throat.

“You still use that word… so very touching, indeed.”

Kovu tried to turn his head, but Simba stepped back without warning.

Now they were face to face.

“I need some time to think about… us.”

Then he turned and left.

Kovu scrambled after him.
“Simba, please—whatever it is, just tell me—”

But one look stopped him cold.

“I’ll be back before dawn.”

Simba needed space.
And silence.

The last thing he would need right now—was Kovu.

Chapter Text

When the field was his alone, Simba no longer felt so decisive. So free.
His mind was stuffed full of too much—too much truth, too much memory. He wanted to sort it out, truly, but had no idea where to begin.

He was furious with Kovu. Absolutely furious.
If he could, he’d tear him to pieces. Claws, teeth, the whole lot—
Beat the lies out of him. Beat the whole mess right out of his skull.
And then, they’d lick each other’s wounds. Swear off secrets for good.
When their bodies healed, so would the rest.

A neat little ending.
A bright future, free of sorrow.

If only life worked like that.
If everything could be that simple, that black and white—
How happy he might’ve been.

But it wasn’t. It never would be.
The past he had clawed so far away from was now rushing back, loosed by every unveiled lie.
It followed him close, like a shadow. Like something skulking.

“Will you cut it out?”

Simba had had enough today. One weird-looking primate wasn’t about to spark his curiosity.

But the mandrill stepped into his path, cocked his head, and studied him like a half-finished sculpture.

Then smiled, gaze softening as it settled on the wild red mane.

“You’re Mufasa’s boy.”

So it wasn’t a secret anymore.
Chances were, the whole land already knew.

“You knew my father…”

“Correction. I know your father.”

“He’s dead. A long time ago.”

Simba’s face was taut, like tension alone could sever him from the grief that still lingered.

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And you believe it was your doing?”

Simba bristled. “You were eavesdropping?!”

But the mandrill gave no answer to that.
“What do you plan to do next?”

“I’m going back. I’ll make Scar pay.”

His low growl was pure frustration.

“Is that what you wanted to hear? Now tell me what you know.”

A flicker of guilt crossed the mandrill’s painted face. He said nothing, but the silence was answer enough.

“Oh… Maybe the real question is, what don’t you already know?”

Simba shook his head, disbelieving.

“You watched him—over and over, he lied to me, and you… You never came. Why? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

The guilt deepened. Leaning on his staff, the mandrill looked older than he ever had.

“It’s for your safety,” he murmured. “I swore I would never appear before you.”

Simba had thought he could no longer be surprised.
No matter what mask Kovu chose to wear before him, he had long known that none of them showed the whole truth.

But once again, reality struck a crack through his defences.
What if Kovu hadn’t just been saying things?
What if every kiss, every embrace, had been laced with hidden claws—ready at any moment to rip open his throat?
He didn’t even know when Kovu had decided to let go of that buried intent.
If he ever did.

And those eyes—pitiful, pleading—claiming it was all for his safety. For their future.
His mind had screamed not to fall for it.
But still, for one brief, traitorous second, he had felt the pull—
How dangerous a plan this was. How easily it could’ve gone wrong.
And yet, it had all been done for him...

Thank the stars he had kept a straight face.
Now Simba could only feel ashamed.

How many excuses would he keep making for Kovu before he finally learned?

This was never meant to be real.

A bond forged in blood and built on lies—how could one expect anything pure to grow from that?

He’d been drunk on the thrill of it, weightless in that high,
only to glance down and find nothing beneath his feet.

He had clutched every fleeting warmth, every glance that lingered a second too long, stitched them into the shape of a perfect illusion—
and hurled himself headfirst into love.

It was so foolish it nearly made him laugh.
Nearly made him cry.

But Simba only stared ahead, the golden lines of his face stiff as stone.

Rafiki had expected something more childish. A tantrum, perhaps. But what Simba revealed instead was a maturity edged with coldness—and it left the old mandrill both proud and pained. The king he had waited for all these years was no longer the stumbling cub of memory. The sun was returning to the savanna. But it was not the sun of yesterday.

“Come,” he said at last. “There is something I want to show you.”

Rafiki had lived too long not to know: heartbreak carves deep, but it also reshapes. And for one who would stand at the peak—worshipped by all who walk the land—mere strength was not enough. He would need faith. Unshakable faith.

The young lion leaned over the still water. The wind curled his reflection into swirling clouds, and from far across the plains came a low, distant rumble. A split of white tore open the night—lightning, fierce and blinding, as if some golden force had broken through from beyond the sky.

“You see? He lives in you.”

Everything around him was slipping away—
receding, dissolving—
until Simba himself was nothing but a pinprick of light.

And then the vision came, radiant and immense, drawing him upward in helpless awe.
At the centre of the shifting vortex, a face emerged—undeniably familiar.

Simba.
You have forgotten who you are.
And so have forgotten me.

No…how could he ever forget?

In countless nights haunted by nightmares, that face returned.
A dying cry echoing through the gorge, his own scream breaking in a child’s raw throat—
and then the dream would tear itself apart.

He would wake, slick with sweat, unable to make a sound.

Simba wanted to speak. To explain. But the clouds kept changing form,
their voice continuing—

You must take your place in the Circle of Life.

The young lion nodded softly.
“Yes. I’ll go back. I’ll make the murderer pay.”

He knew he was dodging the real answer.
And perhaps the vision knew it too.
Because the clouds unraveled all at once, and the blazing sun rose high above the sky.

Remember who you are.

The son of Mufasa.
Heir to the Pride Lands.
A prince in exile, carrying the weight of vengeance.
A true friend. A romantic companion.

Each version of him came like a ripple across the surface of a still pond—layer after layer, until he could no longer make out his own shape beneath.

Simba hesitated.
And the voice from above rumbled once more—

Look inside yourself, Simba.
You are more than what you have become.

The young lion took a step—then another.
And the sun, once distant on the horizon, surged forth to meet him.
Its crimson mane streamed like flame in the wind, yet it waited—silent and still.

“If I don’t want to be you,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“If I don’t want to follow your pawprint…”

The words circled inside his head, then sank.
Sank deep—like stones disturbing the still waters of his heart.
Bubbles rising through the darkness.
Then settling.
Peace returning.

“If I’m already what I want to become.”

His voice was low and calm. As calm as he felt.
No more raging tides. No more questions.
The stars shone high above—why would he seek the sun?

Maybe the answer had always been buried inside.
Maybe he had always walked among stars.
He looked up, only to find it was his own reflection he’d been seeing all along.

“If it isn’t enough for you, then maybe I never meant to…”

“If your answer is no,” 

The voice returned, but softly this time. No longer echoing through the sky, as if the flame before him had spoken.

As if it had spoken only for Simba to hear—

“You’d still be the only thing I ever needed you to be: my son.” 

“And I will always love you.”

Before Simba could reply, the clouds closed in.
They gathered the golden light and carried it away toward the edge of the sky.
Thunder still circled above, but the parting words were quiet—
just one phrase, repeated over and over:

“Remember…”

Remember.

Simba found himself running across the plains, unsure whether it had been real or imagined.
He called out once, then twice, but the sound vanished into the wind.

He couldn’t catch the sky.
Nor could he chase the light.
And when the heavens finally cleared, even the smallest ripples were gone.

And Simba… felt at peace.
Truly, deeply at peace—for the first time in his life.

“Have you made up your mind?”

When the golden lion gave a slow, steady nod, the mandrill’s face showed plain dejection. But he had always been the watchful eye on the sidelines; he could not, and would not, sway what must be.

“The Pride Land will always be my home. I won’t stand by and watch it fall into chaos.”

The first light was already breaking on the horizon. Simba drew his gaze back from the edge of the sky, then turned toward the forest behind him.

“Tell me about Kovu.”

Rafiki tightened his grip on the ebony staff. “He should have explained it clear enough…”

“That does count as clear—coming from him.” Simba put a biting emphasis on that word, and set off in the direction he had come.

“But I don’t mind hearing another version.”

Silence hung over the grove like mist. Vitani shifted her weight from left paw to right and back again, glaring at the black figure, wondering if she ought to say something to break the awkward stillness.

But her brother seemed far more in need of quiet.

Bored, Vitani let her eyes wander and offered a dry verdict: a pretty, hidden little thicket, perfectly suited to secret trysts.

The heavy scent lingering in the air only added to her discomfort. She gave the air a couple of sniffs, then wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Have you picked up some filthy habit from those dogs?” Kovu broke in abruptly, shooting her a sour look.

“If I had the choice, I’d rather not have such a keen nose,” Vitani shot back without missing a beat. “Seems you’ve been having a fine time here—almost forgot who you are, haven’t you?”

“Spare me, Vitani.”

She padded over and sat herself down at his side, entirely unfazed by the impatience in his tone.

“Well then. What’s the plan?”

“The same as before.”

“Oh, you wish!” Vitani gave a derisive little laugh. “Do you even realise how much trouble you’ve stirred up? By dawn that trouble will be right back to settle the score—and you’re still planning to trot out those soppy lines and hope he’ll swallow them?”

Kovu wore a look of utter indifference, as if to say: why not?

“I see. All this time here’s made you soft.”

Vitani shook her head in disbelief. The memory of that confrontation was enough to bring a chill of sweat to her skin.

Her cousin was never an easy one to handle; what she could not fathom was where Kovu found the certainty that everything would bend to his design.

“By the way, how old is he exactly?”

Kovu actually stopped to think. It was the first time he had ever tried to reckon Simba’s age. The past months flickered through his mind in a blur, and unease began to creep over him.

…Better not to count at all.

He forced out a vague reply. “…Old enough.”

Not really, then. Vitani shot him a look of open disdain.

“He’s barely grown a mane—and you call that fair game? What, Scar your shining example now? Don’t tell me you’re taking after him.”

Kovu glared back, bristling. The last thing he wanted was to be bracketed with that depraved old tyrant, though too many memories already proved the likeness was not entirely unfair…

But he and Simba—that was different. Entirely different. What did Vitani know?

“You saw how he was just now.”

“Oh, I did.” Vitani beamed at him. “And I saw you as well. For a moment I thought you’d kneel over.”

Kovu could not bring himself to smile. “I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“If it were you—fed on sweet talk and strung along like a fool—you’d have blown your mane too.”

There was an edge to it, as though she were venting a grievance of her own. Kovu rolled his eyes, “You’ve had your laugh. Can you let it go now?”

Vitani gave a snort through her nose and lifted her gaze to where Simba had gone. On the horizon a mass of black cloud was piling up, shot through now and then with lightning.

Kovu saw it too, but he only thought her fussing.
“Never seen a savannah storm before?”

“Rafiki’s here as well.”

At that, Kovu’s heart lurched up into his throat. That meddling old baboon, forever spoiling his game—what trick was he plotting now? Had he already found Simba? And what would he tell the boy? No doubt every ill word he could scrape together. The dried-up old creature had been waiting for this chance half his life.

“What’s he here for…”

“And now you’re asking stupid questions?” Vitani shot him a look, his tight-drawn brow making her sigh. “Relax. Rafiki couldn’t care less about your little schemes.”

Kovu said nothing more. The answer was plain enough.

Illegitimate succession was only ever the excuse. That old baboon had never taken him seriously, never once acknowledged his worth. No matter what he accomplished, how many voices rallied to him, how close he drew to that place of power—

He would never be of the blood the sun had kissed, never meant to sit where the light crowned the rock.

Stubborn old relic.

“I’d be more surprised if you weren’t worried. That cub will be a serious threat.”

Vitani turned to meet Kovu’s grave stare, the dark green depths circling with unspoken thought.

But his eyes soon swung back to fix on her. “Perhaps to me, yes. But what is it you’re worried about? You’ve only the one cousin, after all.” A faint, elusive smile stirred at the edge of his gaze.

“Tell me—how was it my big brother got driven out?”

The matter long since settled, Kovu no longer cared to dress it up. “You mean to say I played on your sympathy, set you against Nuka, until you stood with me of your own accord…”

“No matter how many hints you dropped, Nuka was only ever going to follow his own head,” Vitani cut across coolly. “…Sooner or later, it would have come to me anyway.”

Kovu saw now how weary she looked—whether from a sleepless night or something else, he could not tell. After a while she spoke low, almost with a sigh—

“Stop testing me. You may not tire of it, but I do.”

Her eyes lifted at last, coming to rest on the scar carved down his left cheek.

“I said I’d stand with you. I don’t go back on my word.”

Kovu narrowed his eyes slightly. Blood had nothing to do with it—but what kind of comparison was that? Nuka and Simba could never be spoken of in the same breath.

Vitani looked as though she had plucked the thought straight from his head.
“And that boy is still far too young, far too well-shielded—thanks to whom, I wonder.” She arched a brow in open provocation. “At best he makes a passable mascot.”

Kovu thought his own mind was turning strange. To be chosen so firmly—it felt good. He was grateful for Vitani’s loyalty. But the moment she began belittling Simba, all the lightness he had found drained away again.

She was only saying it to comfort him. No one knew better than Kovu what Simba was capable of. Innocence did not mean ignorance. That purity of nature gave Simba a sharper hold on the heart of any matter; it showed in the way he handled the knot between them, and it was only a matter of time before he surpassed Kovu in all else.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” Kovu scoffed, his tone meaning: best keep quiet rather than prattle about things you don’t understand.

Well, I give him praise and he bristles—so that was him leaping to Simba’s defence? Vitani thought she must have gone mad—she actually found her brother the least bit endearing.

Unaware of her thoughts, Kovu gazed into the distance. The storm clouds had broken. Dawn was drawing near, and the stars were thinning. A blaze of scarlet came racing toward them, and the sky seemed to ignite at its arrival.

When Simba stood before him once again, the horizon bloomed with searing gold-red, burning through half the heavens and stinging Kovu’s eyes.

“I have something to say to you.”

Simba stepped to his side, giving a nudge of his head toward the trees.

“Follow me.”