After an entire two weeks of unintended delays, the contest is finally up! That's right, no more asking me when the contest will be here, because here it is! And with four entries, it's not exactly a small one either. True, after a month, only four stories might feel small, but I wasn't very good on announcing delays, and I didn't plan for it to be four weeks, so in all fairness, I think four stories is a good number. Without further waiting, here they are:
[quote]Story 1:
Never Return: show
Never Return
All my life, I had done my absolute best, given, quite literally, my all. I had striven to be recognized and to be worthy of her precious and so rarely offered affection. Mother. She had always kept me running, ever running, running in place. When I was but a wee cub, we had been violently driven from the Pridelands we had called home, in its place, forced out to reside the misery and rot that is the Outlands. It was a despicable existence, but I knew nothing else, none of the pride she assembled had ever known anything better. Only she had seen true prosperity, and she extravagantly promised us all luxury beyond our wildest dreams. The catch was that all of it, every bit of it would be…
His.
But things don’t always go according to plan, do they? She lavished him with the affection I never saw, cutting me to the quick. I just wanted to be the perfect son. I just wanted her to love me as much as she did him. What had he ever done for her that I had not? Yet, no matter how hard I tried, she never looked at me with the same eyes that gazed upon my younger brother. Not until he betrayed us, in spite of always having her attention, and those heavy, soul crushing logs landed firmly on top of me, her only loyal son. I blinked, trying to make the pain in my body stop, and stared weakly up at her, pleading; in that final and wretched moment, in my destroyed form, I finally got her attention. The sadness written on her face told me I finally had her love. Knowing that, I felt that I could actually die peacefully, in spite of the violent cause of this. I almost welcomed the cold embrace of death, watching as she and my sister cried above me, even as I felt my life slowly draining away…
Blackness shrouded me immediately thereafter, thick permeating blackness, seeping into me through every pore, penetrating my very being. There was nothing, nothing for so long, or such a time that seemed long, while remaining brief and sudden. In a mental haze, I awoke to find myself in matching foggy darkness. Echoing in the nightlike vacuum, I could hear a voice crying in the mist, a once strong voice, saddened by tears, crying softly. It was her voice. Tentatively, knowing not what else to do, I took a step towards the sound, knowing only the life I had led at her heels, needing to be at her side, following her loyally, as always. Deeper and darker fog, like a blanket of suffocation, rolled in around me, choking the breath from me. I hesitated, staying my paws for a leaden moment, wary of the deathlike shroud. Until I heard mother sobbing again, and no matter what fate should befall myself, she was more important, as she always had been, and I was determined to stop her crying. So it came to pass that, in spite of the deathly mist, I began to trod in that direction, the pads of my paws becoming inflamed, as if with sharp needles from the bramble bushes, thick blackness encroaching in on me until I could see nothing, feel nothing but the ever growing misery in my paws. For my mother, still I marched on.
“That is not the way.”
At the sound of the deep, riveting voice of an old, and very wise lion, my procession into the darkness ceased, and I cautiously turned my head, to gaze back over my shoulder, a bitter rebuttal about how desperately I needed to return to my grieving mother prepared and waiting on my lips, but upon seeing my would-be adversary, my mouth just hung loose, gaping open without ever issuing a sound. The lion before me bore a glimmering golden hue across him; he simply radiated a welcoming and safe glow. His body was donned in fur so pale and yellow that it was a perfect match for his ethereal glow, and the lion’s thick and luxurious mane that would forever put my own scraggly mess of hair to shame contrasted in deep red. And though I had never seen this magnificent beast of a lion before, the resemblance was far too uncanny for me to ever mistake his identity; I knew exactly who he was, the former king Mufasa.
“How would you know?” I finally snapped, for the need to say something, to show him up. My jaw set, I was determined not to let this great oaf deter me from my righteous path. I would not waver.
“Nuka, your mother will never treat you as you deserve. You must not return to her. She will never let the past go,” he boomed, his voice vibrating my being as it resounded through the abyss in a wise and regal, and yet somehow gentle tone. Pathetically, I shrunk, unable to stand tall against his looming and all-powerful presence.
“No, if I go back, if I try harder, if I kill Simba—” I started to protest. As soon as I had opened my doltish mouth, I regretted saying the last part, in the fear that my intentions to murder the former king’s son would anger him, but the regal spirit before me seemingly took no notice of that egregious fact and simply continued trying to persuade me to stay my paw.
“It will never be enough.”
“But, I—”
“You will never escape the darkness in her heart if you don’t come with me now. She did not care until your life was lost. Look inside yourself, Nuka. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life,” the ever-resounding voice of the great and mighty spirit instructed.
“Of course you want me to leave her, you’re evil! Mother told me everything about how wrongly you treated Scar just because he was your younger brother!” I snarled, narrowing my eyes at him, struggling desperately to come up with a reason to refute him. Deep in the dark recesses of my heart, I knew that he was right, and that knowledge felt like a taint to me. It was imperative that I not give into it, that I find a way to disprove this magnificent beast before me and triumph over the godlike entity I faced.
“In life, I did make my mistakes, as do we all, but there are multiple sides to every story, and the truth lies obscured in the middle. Look at yourself, don’t you see how like Scar you have become, because of her? Your mother has filled your gentle heart with jealousy and rage; you covet your brother and all that he has, though the prize you seek, your mother’s love, is unattainable. She doesn’t love Kovu. She doesn’t even love Scar; she loves the idea of him, the goal she strives for. She loves the throne, the power that comes with it, and nothing else.”
“But…” I started again, anxiously trying not to accept the truth he presented me with.
“She will only love you as long as you are dead.”
“What am I supposed to do then? She’s all I’ve got,” I protested in a small, meager and weak squeak of a voice, knowing, as I had through the length of this whole ordeal, that what he said was true, and could not be more so. I could never truly uncover what had, in actuality, happened between the contrary brothers, Mufasa and Scar; likewise I was unable to learn and fully understand what had transpired between Scar and Simba; however, I did know with definitive clarity and comprehension what dark events had occurred within my own, short and miserable lifetime. I had put in my best each and every day in a futile attempt to win my mother’s affection, to prove myself superior to her precious “chosen one,” but no matter how I tried, the lengths I went to were always irrelevant, the things I did for her never becoming enough; it had never worked. It could never have worked. Nothing made her look at me or speak of me with any form of love or concern, to her I had always been the less than worthy, the mistake, the son she never should have had and never wanted to have… Nothing motivated her to accept me as I was and behold me as worthy of so much as a moment of her time; nothing until the logs had been crushing the life from my body, in a final bid to get her attention. My weak and bonelike limbs shattered and broken, every part of my body going numb, my desperate lungs gasping uselessly for just a taste of that oh-so-precious resource air… that was the only moment in which she had ever cared about me.
“You have the chance to experience luxury, and want for nothing, Nuka. Just as your mother promised you.”
I bit my lip, still pondering what he spoke of, and finally took a tentative pawstep towards the shining spirit of the one once known as Mufasa, however, I ceased movement a mere second later, as not even the dulling of the sharp pain in my paws could provoke me enough to keep going as yet. I cast a forlorn and longing glance back towards the eternal seething darkness. I could no longer hear my mother’s heart-wrenching sobs piercing through the deathly fog. In fact, I didn’t hear anything at all from that direction, no sounds of anything, not sorrow, regret, or even anger. The impenetrable shroud hung woefully in the air surrounding my ectoplasmic form, silent as stars. Had she already stopped mourning me?
“You can never know peace as long as you remain with her. Your time has come. You must leave your life behind, and the toil it brings. You must accept your place in the circle of life.”
Reluctantly, I lifted one foot, and then another, taking a few deliberate pawsteps in the ethereal spirit’s direction, my physical pains dissipating with each careful step. But a pain in my heart began to build, rising up as I drew nearer and nearer to a so-called mortal enemy. Though the walking became easier with each passing footfall, and though I knew this path was right, and that it was definitively my singular option, still my heart remained heavy as that dark fog to know what it had come to. Abandoning my mother and my family felt like a dastardly betrayal on my part, it felt like I was devastating them, and leaving them to fight and die in their petty war. But what exactly had they done for me, but drive me to my own demise already? What could they possibly ever offer me in life that would be worth ever more pain, deadly sorrow and destructive jealousy? Was it worth it, really, in any way, to return to them in this hour of need, only to continue on my path to self-destruction? I couldn’t see it as such. Even if they somehow managed to successfully overthrow the supposed usurper, Simba, and took control over the Pridelands, wouldn’t that traitorous brother of mine, Kovu, still be Mother’s chosen and claim the throne, becoming king; wouldn’t he still be the one holding the prize in the end of it all? I knew, deep down inside my soul, that I would never, in truth could never, mean more to my mother than I did now, in death. In life, I had done my piece, had achieved everything I had set out to accomplish. There was nothing left for me in that world.
With these oppressive thoughts weighing down on my existence, I resumed plodding towards the great king of the past. The nearer I came to him, all the simpler it became to keep walking, my pawsteps beginning to take a bit of a bounce. The thick and seemingly unsurmountable shroud slowly lifted as I soldiered on towards him, revealing as it did so, details about this new world that I was finding myself in. Soon the deadly fog had cleared completely, and I could see with sharp and brilliant clarity that I stood in an apparently unending plain so grassy and beautiful beside the no longer glowing and mystical, but more naturally golden lion Mufasa. He began to proudly stride across the field, and as I took point at his heels, with each step, it became even easier yet for me to follow his wise and generous form, knowing I had done not only what I had had to, but also what was in my own best interest for once, instead of futilely attempt what was best for my beloved, but deranged mother’s schemes. The savannah before me was full of life, with many, many animals inhabiting its vastness and regality, as real and full of wonder as the ghost of Mufasa who guided me into the light. It was like I was finally being welcomed home, after an impossibly long and trying journey from the pits of despair. Gazing at all that was before me, all that was within my grasp, I let a genuine smile turn up the corners of my formerly cracked and ever-sorrowful black lips. I could rest in peace at last.
I had run away from all that I had ever known, and I would never return.
Story 2:
Damage: show
Damage
“What will we do? What will we do?! I will call for help!” I smacked the bird. The thud confirmed that he would not thwart my plans I could not afford for him to warn the pride. I had my pieces set.
Like termites crawling out of their mound, the wildebeest ran down the gorge. The smelly brutes seeped down the rocky enclave. They were not the most resourceful of animals. The herd mentality was strong in them. They did not coordinate or form a complex system of protection compared to the buffalo and because of this, the wildebeest were a favorite prey for many.
They were the perfect means to my end. The thump of their hooves pounding like rain drops only to become louder as they came closer. Their feet were like sharp jagged ends thus making them effective weapons if the fall failed to break a back.
They began to curve.
This was an improvement.
Those three idiots had managed to get it right this time. I gift wrapped those cubs and they foiled the plan. This time, I might consider being generous.
I looked for the bait; a speck of gold hurried along the dust and sand. Simba had managed to climb onto a branch. It was a pathetic escape route but I could not blame him for choosing such a flimsy form of protection. He could have hidden in a crevice or taken refuge behind a rock but when the flight or fight response is activated, we are rarely the most rational of creatures.
I scanned the canyon, looking for the tell-tale gold and reddish pelt of my brother.
I saw a bulky body. He was going against the current. The branch broke and a small yellowish ball flew in the air. I was counting on either the weight of the wildebeest hooves or the fall to take either of them.
Mufasa caught the hairball.
Strike one.
There was only a few yards between them and the river of ungulates. Only a few feet away from having my entire plot exposed and possibly exiled. Fate intervened when the backside of the wildebeest had struck Mufasa in the jaw making him lose his precious cargo. Ironically, that was one of his favorite cuts of meat. Simba was only a few feet away from his father. Had I been any other, I would have risked the painful stabs of those hooves. I would not have thought about possibly having my bones broken.
But something bigger was at stake.
I saw Mufasa move more fluidly along the tide of grey pelt and black hair. Only moments earlier, I saw him angle carefully, scanning for his son. Within seconds, he began to move quickly and this time he ran with the tide. He carefully laid Simba on a platform.
Strike two.
The reunion was short lived.
“DAD!!”
I told myself that one of my first decrees as ruler was to give this herd amnesty for the next three full moons. I had to be generous. I would tell the lionesses that it was due to overhunting them.
Suddenly, a flash of the sun. No, it wasn’t a ray. It was Mufasa leaping out of the grey and black cesspool. His claws dug deep into the rock. It was not steep but it was not flat enough for him to walk much less climb without difficulty.
Strike three. Simba confidently turned around. I knew he was looking for a small entry to get closer to his father.
It was my turn to deal the final hand and my time was limited. Mufasa and I would sometimes explore these enclaves during our cubhood. I preferred looking in the crevices hoping to find a lizard or rodent. It was a lifetime ago. If memory served me well, I only had less than a minute. Mufasa climbed as best as he could. His weight along with the steepness of the hill gave him no favors. He was slipping. I could feign weakness but then I noticed something.
I will never forget those eyes. The look of desperation in them.
For many seasons, Mufasa was my ‘superior’.
Genetics gave him that advantage. That and his interest in hunting practice earned him the favor. I was more interested in the diplomatic affairs of the kingdom. What good is a king if he had his majordomo communicate for him? Power was not limited to strength. Going by that logic, the elephants and hippos would have run of the kingdom. Power was psychological. It would be enforced with subtlety. And control.
Now, he was at my mercy and I wanted to savor it as long as I could.
“Scar!” His voice cracked with fear. It gave me more pleasure sucking than the bone marrow from a gazelle’s left leg.
“Brother! HELP ME!”
The irony was not lost on me.
Here was the king at the mercy of his ‘inferior’ brother. To the public, Mufasa was regal and in control. He was poised and gracious. If they could only see him now. His pupils dilating, his body contorting in fear and in a desperate attempt to gain some stability beneath his feet.
For a millisecond, an old memory crept back into my consciousness and before it would fully manifest itself as a thought, I made my move. I had sharpened my digits earlier today. That was another benefit to not using one’s weapons so frequently. His were short and stumpy and they could barely graze a hide. Mine on the other paw were longer and pierced at his skin. They drew blood and I felt them cut beneath the upper dermis.
Damage.
His roar of pain acknowledged this.
He had a flaw.
I then leaned in and whispered something to him. He had said it once during a game of cub play. You see, Mufasa was not always gentle and one of his favorite games was to show me just how much stronger he was than me. He was a little larger than Simba was. I was often the target. This one time, he would not let me breathe until I had said these words. I still remember my lungs trying to inhale as hard as they could. My eyes almost blacking out. I protested but he would not let me go. I was returning the favor now.
“Long live the king.”
The realization upon his face was a delicious one. I could not indulge in it for long. Simba had still not appeared. If he was watching, I would tell him that his father slipped. He had pulled me and if I had not pulled back, I would have most certainly fallen.
He was the light and I snuffed the candle out.
I had taken a few paces when I heard that scream.
Affirmation. It was done.
I surveyed the damage. They were easily over ten thousand strong. If everything went accordingly, I could afford to give the hyenas a second helping with a wildebeest. Right after Simba of course.
The dust made it difficult to see but I could see a silhouette. A large figure lay still. I stood still, noting any hint of movement. Mufasa’s sternum did not rise or fall.
Success. It was then that I heard mewling. A much smaller figure emerged from the side.
I decided to wait and hide behind a rock. I wanted to observe the last moments of innocence.
“Dad?”
Denial. He was not sure if he wanted to process it.
“Dad, get up. Dad, we gotta go home.” Touch. He needed some sort of affirmation.
His voice was cracking.
“HELP!”
Desperation. He was registering what had happened and the results were not what he wanted.
Simba was no longer in his little bubble. These were his first moments of realizing how cruel the world is. He was no longer protected from harsh reality. This was a painful lesson and I relished it.
“Somebody! Anybody!”
The glass house was broken.
“Help.”
I let him come to terms with what had happened. If the stampede didn’t break his little spine then I would make sure that the hyenas would do the job. For now, I would let him have this last moment. The least I could do was be charitable to family.
He lay down next to his father, trying to feel any warmth that was quickly slipping away. He crawled under the paw, trying to relive those moments when they took naps together all while knowing how futile it was.
It was time to burst that bubble.
“Simba.”
He turned. Eyes widened and streaming with tears.
“What have you done?” I asked dispassionately.
I was careful to say the right thing. Although Simba could articulate his feelings, he was not aware that everything that I said had a purpose. I was careful to shape his memory. I had to mold how he would remember this.
. To make him uncertain. Tragedy combined with grief did not allow for him to create alternative explanations for this. Children and their tunnel vision made it easy for them to be manipulated. It was the power of suggestion. Only seconds ago, he was quietly and privately grieving. Now, everything I said had the power to shake him.
“There were wildebeest and he tried to save me. It was an accident. I didn’t mean for it to happen!”
I offer him some reassurance.
“Of course, of course you didn’t. No one ever means for these things to happen.”
I pull him closer. He needed comfort and family. He needed familiarity. He needed someone he could trust.
“But the king is dead.” I said coldly and factually. I had to be objective. I had to be truthful. I had to make sure this was how he would interpret what had happened.
I offered him comfort. This was to build a bridge. Then it was come to terms with the cold truth. And now, I had to play my final hand. I had to tug at his sensitive and emotional heartstrings.
“If it weren’t for you, he’d still be alive.”
The realization in his little eyes was stunning. Without question he took what I said at face value. I decided to give him another out of pleasure.
“What will your mother think?”
Shame. Guilt. Throughout his few months he was coddled and protected. These new feelings violated that sanctuary of comfort that he once enjoyed.
Broken. Damaged.
“What am I going to do?” He sniffled.
“Run away, Simba.”
He looked at his father in a last and desperate attempt for reassurance.
“Run. Run away and never return.”
That day the sun set on my brother’s reign. That night, it was the dawn of a new era.
Story 3:
The first day of the rest of your life: show
The first day of the rest of your life
It was far too coincidental, Scar wanted to be king and now Zazu was supposed to believe that Simba was dead as well as Mufasa? When the sadness and shock had passed, the suspicion that something was not quite right had started to creep up on Zazu. Although Zazu was small and pretty weak, he still stood to protect those he cared about, he had even ventured into the elephant graveyard to find Simba and Nala. But he was agile, he could fly and remain hidden, which is something lions and the other animals were not able to do.
Swooping onto Pride Rock, blue as the sky. He perched with his talons firmly placed into a rock just above the king's den and listened. King Scar was talking to one of his “loyal subjects”, three hyenas. The ones Zazu had encountered before, he was sure of it. He would never forget the menacing hiss in their tone of voice, or the look of evil as they gnawed their razor sharp teeth, the memories were enough to make Zazu's feathers stand on end. But he had to be brave.
“He's dead Scar. Dead as a doornail.” The female hyena said. “Ain't that right, fellas?”
“Yeah we took care of him, bud – I mean, king Scar.” The male said. Followed by only the sound of maniacal laughing from the third hyena.
“Good. I don't need to tell you what would have happened had you have failed me again.” Scar told them.
“As your king, my first order of business for you, gather the rest of the hyenas, your king will be addressing his subjects later this evening.” Scar turned on them and began leaving the den.
“Go! The glorious future I told you awaited you, begins now!” Scar said, breaking out into a laugh.
“Long live the king!” Said the two hyenas, the third nodding in agreement seconds later.
“This is going too well, Shenzi. What if he finds out? We'll be the doornails!” the male hyena said to the other, when Scar was out of ear shot.
“Don't worry about it, Banzai. There's no way that little squirt is still alive, he's probably already dead out in the desert somewhere.” The female said. Zazu thought it sounded like she was just reassuring herself rather than her friend, if they were even friends at all. The way they talked to each other was as if they would turn on each other in an instant.
“Come on, we gotta go gather the others.” Shenzi said
“Oh man, he's been king five minutes and he's already bossing us around.” Banzai said, stretching as he got up. The two of them left the den.
“ED!” They shouted back into the den. And the third joined them, giggling as he left.
Zazu knew it now for sure. Simba wasn't dead. He knew Mufasa definitely was but nobody had ever seen proof of Simba being dead, now Zazu knew the truth. Simba was out there somewhere and possibly alive. Should he tell anyone? Would they believe him?What if Scar caught wind of this? The hyenas? They'd kill him for sure if they found out he knew. No. There was too much at stake, Zazu decided that he will leave Pride Rock tomorrow, alone. He will fly high and low and search for the true missing king.
In the meantime though, he had to go to king Scar's speech later that evening. How sickening it was, watching Scar take to the throne, knowing what he now knew made the entire thing that much more difficult for Zazu to watch. The hyenas creeping into Pride Rock from all angles. And those three who Zazu was beginning to lose fear for, why would he fear them when they were so cowardly that they couldn't tell the truth to Scar?
There was nothing quite like the feeling of flying through the skies of the Pridelands, Zazu loved it, the escapism, being able to hear nothing but the wind he was cutting through. Perfect thinking time.
And what a beautiful day for it too, blue open skies. It only took a minute for Zazu to decide where to start, down in the gorge. The last place Simba was known to be. Zazu remembered seeing him down there that day during the stampede. Though the rest of the event was a blur, he must have hit his head on a rock or something because he awoke to find Mufasa laying lifeless in the same place.
Going along the valley, Zazu eventually came to a cliff edge, below were lots of sharp thorns. If Simba had ran along here and fallen into them, it wouldn't have killed him. Scar had definitely lied to everyone. Yet there was still now way of knowing where Simba was right now, Zazu looked ahead but only an endless sea of golden rocky surface could be seen. Simba was out there somewhere but where?
But before he had time to think about his next move, he was suddenly pinned down to the ground by Scar's paw.
“Ah! Scar... You know, don't you?” Said Zazu, wheezing his words out.
“Oh Zazu, don't be silly, of course I do. They had no proof.” Scar said, looking down at Zazu. Tightening his grip.
“Still, we can't have you running around knowing this. People will think you are crazy. Shame, I thought you could have been my majordomo.”
“You let the hyenas lie to you?” Zazu could at least attack with his words.
“They will get what is coming to them. And so will you. You really must start behaving Zazu, I don't want to have to keep on doing this...”
When Zazu awoke he was in the king's den in Pride Rock, trapped in a cage made of bones fastened together.
“That's where you will stay from now on. Don't worry, I will keep you alive. In the mean time we can sing some songs to pass the time away.” Scar said, he was wearing a sarcastic smile now.
“You can't keep this up Scar, they will find out.” Zazu barked back.
“Not as long as I don't let you out of my sight, they won't. Oh do lighten up a bit, Zazu.” Scar said, flopping down on his back in the throne.
Maybe the truth will come out one day but not on this day, not on Scar's first day as king. The first day of the rest of their lives.
Story 4:
Parting Words: show
Parting Words
A wall of flame blocked Simba's view of Scar as his uncle fled to the top of Pride Rock, but he didn't care. With a might roar, he charged straight through, hardly even feeling the flames as they singed the edge of his fur as he landed just short of his uncle, who was busy searching desperately for any means of escape.
“Murderer,” Simba hissed, approaching the other lion menacingly. Whatever reservations he had about killing his own uncle were long gone, ironically enough, removed by Scar himself when he revealed who really was responsible for Mufasa's death. “You don't deserve to live.”
Scar had not thought very much on where he was going when he fled from Simba, and now found himself trapped at the very top of Pride Rock. There were only two ways down from here for him: he could jump off, or he could try to get past his nephew, who looked very much ready to murder him on the spot.
Not that the alternative was any better - Scar still very much wanted to live.
“Simba, I uh...” the smaller of the two lions struggled to come up with any good reason as to exactly why Simba should let him live. The personal crimes he had committed against Simba, who had been just a cub at the time to top it all off, didn't stop just at the murder of Mufasa. Scar had also completely destroyed his home, overran it with hyenas, and still tried to blame it all on him now that Nala brought him back to retake it all.
To top it all off, Scar wasn't sure if Simba knew about the several times he had sent hyenas after him. Not that it mattered, judging by how Simba glared at him, causing Scar to shrink back in fear. Of all the traits that Simba had inherited from his father, it appeared that stubbornness was certainly one of them, and while Scar had used that against Mufasa plenty of times, this same stubbornness was going to work against him as Scar tried to beg for his life.
“Simba, please! Have mercy! I- it was the hyenas! It was their fault!” In his crazed mind, it didn't cross Scar that he was now betraying the only ones who had ever truly called him their friend. If deflecting Simba's wrath away from him and onto them, Scar wasn't going to even think of the consequences. The immediacy of the situation prevented him from thinking about it for as long as he was used to.
But to add insult to injury, Simba didn't even fall for it. “Why should I believe you?” he growled, edging ever so slowly closer towards Scar, who by now ran out of rock and was awfully close to the steep edge. “Everything you ever told me was a lie...”
His mind racing, Scar struggled to think of a good excuse as to why he should live. “I uh.. I uh, am family...” he stammered, “you wouldn't kill your own uncle?” Long ago, Scar had abandoned foolish notions of morality and pride if it meant getting results done, but Mufasa never did, and while he was still alive, had always tried to instill the same notions into young Simba. Did the angry lion now facing him still have those same ideals?
“No Scar,” Simba muttered coldly, “I'm not like you.”
Clearly, the idiot did still have them. With finding out that he can use Simba's own conscience against him, Scar began to feel like he might actually get out of this alive, and with this knoledge, felt much more brave and confident than before.
Picking himself up from the rocky ground, Scar slowly walked around Simba, who simply glared at him without moving any more than turning his head. “Oh thank you, Simba, you are truly noble,” Scar said, not meaning any word that left his mouth. But as long as it got him out of this alive, what was one harmful lie? “I will make this up to you, I promise. Just tell me how -”
“Run.”
Scar froze, for he recognized that tone. For it was the very same one that he had used the last time he had seen Simba as a cub.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-
“Run away, and never return.”
Moving away from Mufasa's body was the hardest thing Simba had ever done, but what choice did he have? Uncle Scar knew exactly what to do, so if he was telling him to run, what choice did he have?
Giving his father's body one last tear-filled glance, Simba fled, Scar's parting words driving him onwards, preventing him from turning around and running back to Mufasa, or even to the rest of the pride.
Wanting nothing more than to curl up into a tight ball, Simba ran.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Now finding himself telling Scar what to do, it only seemed fit to Simba to hand Scar the very same sentence that he himself received.
And yet, as his uncle slowly retreated away from his cold glare, Simba knew that it won't be the same for Scar. Scar wouldn't suffer like he did. To be distracted by day by two friends, but still always haunted at night by the memories of his father's death, made all the worse by the knowledge that he was the one that caused it all.
No. What would Scar lose? A rotten kingdom and a pride that didn't even like him. Out of the two of them, it was completely unfair that it was his uncle that was getting the better deal. However, at the same time, Simba couldn't think of any better punishment to give Scar. Death would be too easy for Scar, and there was no way he would allow his uncle to remain in the Pride Lands. There was only one fitting thing to do.
“Run.”
It was all too easy to say it exactly the same way as his uncle did, for when the word left Simba's mouth, he wasn't hearing himself say it, but rather once more reliving the memory of when he was the one on the receiving end.
Seeing fear in Scar's eyes, Simba knew that he had the very effect he was hoping for. He was not the only one to remember that day very well.
“Run away and never return.”
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So apparently, the quick scan I get when I create this topic tells me that three of the four stories are all on the same prompt. Interesting, I think.
The usual voting rules apply: Don't vote for yourself, and don't vote for a story that you simply know was written by a friend. Don't ask others to vote for your story either. Read each one carefully and give all the stories the same consideration before you make your decision.
Good luck to you four authors!
