A canvas of color paints the evening sky, strokes of violet and orange streaking across the vast plain in a flurry of sensuous shades. A slight breeze rustles the sparse trees in the summer Serengeti air. Animals old and young dash about the plains, their voices indistinguishable as they shout and call to one another. The glare of the setting sun is nearly spent. Nighttime approaches.
A cloud of thin, black smoke is wafting lazily toward the colorful atmosphere – first translucent, but soon far more adversarial. A cacophonous cry can be heard nearby, a rising sea of voices which begs for mercy from the heavens above. The creatures of the Serengeti look up, up to the skies, yearning for a single droplet, and then an eventual, careening cascade that might save them. But it is all in vain.
It has not rained in many cycles of the moon, and conditions have thusly become quite arid throughout the Pride Lands. There are murmurs, hushed as they are, that it is the fault of King Scar, whose indiscretions against the lands and its inhabitants have angered the Great Kings. As long as the ruthless tyrant remains in power, the kingdom will suffer.
But at that very moment, the king is nonplussed. He has seen his empire decline and wither away, the golden lands becoming gray and dilapidated.
Scar’s focus is on a completely different matter. His teeth clenched in concentration, tail twitching in anticipation, he awaits her at the entrance to his innermost chamber within Pride Rock. She will come, he thinks. It is only a matter of time.
Outside, a din of voices shakes him from his tempered concentration. The king is frustrated at this, but yields not to the temptation of an enraged outburst. No, no, she will come. What is outside does not matter. She matters.
He idly traces a claw in the dirt as he bides his time. She is late, he thinks. Did I not stress punctuality? Finally, there is a sound in the outer caverns, a pattering of steps, an approaching being. King Scar licks his lips.
Sarabi enters. The king is disheartened.
“Scar!”
“I prefer king, Sarabi dear.”
The elderly lioness ignores this. “Problems. In the savanna.”
“Tell the wildebeest it is merely the… eh, circle of life…” he starts lazily.
“No, Scar,” Sarabi’s gaze narrows. “Come outside. Now.”
“But you see, I quite prefer the darkness, much easier to stalk one’s prey…”
“The savanna is ablaze, Scar. As the king I thought you should know.” She darts from the cave, expectant that he will follow her.
But Scar cannot budge. The news, in fact, barely registers with him, regardless of its weight. His mind, instead, is decidedly one-track, his attention focused on the ultimate prize.
There are whispers outside. Shouts. Cries. Golden brown lionesses dart and dash all over Pride Rock, some calling to others to find family members and friends, others trying to hatch what would be a certainly-futile plan to extinguish the flames.
The land burns; the smoke thickens. An untimely incursion of heat lightning is to blame, white-hot electricity striking a field of brush to the north of Pride Rock. The fire started almost immediately and spread quickly. What vegetation is left within the Pride Lands is either charred or shall soon be charred.
Many of the herds that once dotted the lands have already moved on to much more fortified plains, causing food rations to deplete magnificently under the reign of Scar. This, fears the lionesses, will only further their pain.
The lands will be a wasteland. A graveyard.
It is rumored that the drought is punishment from the Great Kings, a sentence directed almost solely at Scar himself. It is not known by the other lionesses why this could be. Perhaps it is his constant misuse of the lands and of its resources. Or that his leadership pales in comparison to that of his predecessor, Mufasa.
Perhaps it is his disregard of the wise shaman Rafiki, who many claim has the ear of those above and can beseech the overlords to cause drought and famine if so desired – and, conversely, rain.
Scar shrugs this off as nonsense – pure, unthinkable, inscrutable nonsense. He will not rely on some monkey to bring the rains – it is nonsense. They will come when they come. We cannot predict the weather, nor can we control it. We do what we must.
Moments turn to minutes, which pass with nary a voice or sound of steps toward his chamber. Scar is perturbed, his teeth bared forebodingly as he crouches toward the back of the dark room. The cries outside have become more alarmed and frequent, but the king is impassive. The fire will not travel to his quarters. He is safe.
Again he thinks: She will come. She must come. She always comes. Yes, my queen, yes.
He hears a snapping of a twig nearby. His yellowed eyes dart forward hastily. A young lioness stoops at the entrance, glancing around the circular cavern. Scar smiles.
“Nala,” he speaks once. The lioness jumps, spinning around to face the direction of the voice. Scar slinks out of the shadows, coming into full view. Her gaze narrows.
“Your majesty. I knew I’d find you here.”
“Ah, looking for me, were we?” says King Scar, his words venomous. “I’m flattered, really. But what for, hm?”
He prowls toward the lioness. “You are late, after all. Your hunting report was due by sundown. Surely it is far past that time by now.”
Nala stares at the old king incredulously. “Do you even realize…”
“Perhaps there was no report at all,” the king begins to circle his prey – slowly, as if she were a little zebra he did not wish to startle and cause to run away for all it was worth. “Perchance you are here for a different –”
“A quarter of our land is aflame, as Sarabi already told you. I came merely to get our king to come lead his kingdom in its time of need,” she says.
“Oh, give up,” growls Scar, shooting a furtive glance toward the entrance. “There is nothing I or any other can do. It is the will of the land, Nala
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