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.”