Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Judge me now for who I am. Or am I to be blames for a crime I didn't commit?

Simba paced in silence, all eyes fixed on him and Kovu. His Majesty had to make a decision—and fast. Accepting an outsider male had never been done before. Then again, Simba had never been one to follow rules for their own sake. He was more than willing to break tradition.

But this hesitation came from something deeper: he had to weigh up Kovu’s value against the potential danger he posed.

This young upstart had barely finished saving Kiara before he started negotiating—calm, steady, asking for nothing more than a fair judgement.

This lad had guts.

“We'll see how you really are.” Simba said.

Simba knew full well how likely this was to be one of Zira’s traps. He wasn’t naive. His family and closest confidants certainly didn’t think so either—they kept a careful eye on Kovu, if not with open suspicion, then at least with quiet restraint. Only Kiara seemed entirely at ease, endlessly chatting to him, tail flicking with excitement. The little princess, still too young to see the world’s shadows, clung to her own sense of right and wrong with stubborn warmth.

Kovu, to his credit—or perhaps as part of the performance—seemed to understand perfectly what he represented. He rarely raised his head, and wore an air of solemnity that bordered on mournful humility. When he spoke, it was always soft, measured, almost hesitant, as though he were afraid of stepping too far in any direction. There was something clumsy about the way he used that gentleness. Perhaps deliberately so.

Each night, near midnight, Kiara would return to the den, her eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. She’d tell Simba how she’d been practicing ambush and hunting with Kovu, and she won every time—she was a born huntress, after all. She’d laugh and say she’d taught him how to leap into the river from the treetops, or how to escape from a charging herd of rhinos. 
“He’s so helplessly serious." she'd laughed, " Doesn’t he know how to play?”

Simba would nuzzle her gently behind the ear, that soft spot from when she was a cub. He told himself he ought to be grateful—how many daughters her age still chose to tell their fathers everything?

So when darker thoughts crept into his mind—Was Kovu feigning awkwardness to win her over? Was it all calculated? A long game, masked in meekness?—he turned them over once, twice, and buried them deep.

What mattered most to him now was simple.

He just wanted his little girl to be happy. Even if only for a while longer.

“Just look after yourself.” He tried to keep his voice light—gentle, not overbearing.

Kiara nuzzled into the curve of his neck, purring softly in response.

“Of course, Dad. Trust me.”

I do trust you, my little one.

Simba lay with his eyes shut, unable to sleep.

It wasn’t you I couldn’t trust.

It was him.

Waking from nightmares had long since become routine for Simba. Mufasa's death and Scar’s betrayal—these had marked him too deeply to ever truly fade. His dreams had changed over time, but never meant to leave him alone.

In the early morning light, Simba stood by the watering hole, drinking in slow, steady gulps. He heard the footsteps behind him—soft, approaching from a distance, growing nearer with each second. Of course he heard them. But he didn’t react. He kept his posture loose, his expression calm.

Because he knew, right on cue, Kiara would come bounding into view.

And Kovu—he still believed Simba was unguarded, unaware. That was why he kept trying. Again and again, he managed to catch Simba alone, always so conveniently. But the more he pushed his luck, the more certain Simba became that one day, Kovu would overplay his hand. The bigger the mistake, the sharper the turn.

He let it happen. Let the boy think he was winning ground.

Simba still dreamed, now and then, of falling—that long, helpless plummet down the cliffside. But fear no longer followed him into waking. When danger crept close, Simba didn’t flinch.

After Kion formed the Lion Guard and took on part of the kingdom’s duties, Kiara rarely had time to play with her brother anymore. That was part of the reason Simba became so protective of her—she was the only one still constantly under his nose, and always getting into trouble. It was hard not to centre his world around her.

That's why Kovu’s arrival had made Kiara genuinely happy.
He was endlessly patient, following her everywhere she went, indulging all her whims with such quiet tolerance that it began to strike Simba as odd. He hardly saw Kovu during the day anymore. And on the rare occasions they crossed paths near Pride Rock, Kovu would bow his head quickly and excuse himself at once.

“Kiara’s waiting for me.”
It was always the same excuse.

Simba had noticed early on that Kovu watched him in secret—trying, he suspected, to track his movements and plan an attack. The boy had been painfully obvious about it at first, all sharp eyes and barely concealed aggression.

But lately, that gaze had changed.

It came less often, and when it did, it no longer held the same edge. There was no threat in it now—only something quieter. Something… curious.

And always, just before their eyes could meet, Kovu would look away.

It was unusual.

Simba couldn’t understand why Kovu had stalled. His informants had reported increasing activity from Zira’s camp near the outskirts of Pride Rock. The number of rogue lions was rising steadily—enough to make him worried. His enemies were clearly preparing to strike.

And yet the boy they’d sent was doing nothing.
No move. No signal.
It was starting to frustrate both sides.

If anything happens to me, you must be ready to defend at once.

That was what he told Nala. Her expression had grown tense, eyes shadowed with worry.

“Do you know what’s going to happen? Are you planning something dangerous again?”

“I want to take a chance.” he said simply.

Waiting any longer served no one. Simba knew he was the bait—the most valuable prize the enemy could hope for.

So he’d give them an opening.
Let Kovu take the bait.
And as for who was truly laying the trap… well, that remained to be seen.

Chapter Text

Kovu lay beside his stone, swallowed entirely by shadow. The cold moonlight cast Pride Rock in a skeletal pallor—bare and haunting. It reminded him of the place where he’d grown up: a cradle of broken stumps, a lullaby of bloodshed.

Zira had moulded him with twisted obsession, a weapon forged for vengeance. He believed he could live without a heart. He could feel, but he wouldn’t have feelings.

Before entering the Pride Lands, Zira had drilled into him one unyielding command—to kill the king. Yet, every now and then, she would mutter to herself, “Such a pity.”

Once, driven by curiosity, Kovu asked what made his mother feel that way.

She had smiled a cruel, sharp smile.
She said she wished Simba were a living trophy instead.

“I thought you only wanted Scar’s throne back. What's the point keeping Simba alive...?”

Her smile vanished.
“Enough questions.”
Zira turned away, her hoarse voice echoing through the cave.
“Kill him. Whatever it takes.”

After dragging the king’s precious daughter back to shore, Kovu came face to face with the famous prince of vengeance.

Every creature on this land knew the story: the betrayal between brothers, the stolen throne, power seized and then turned against its thief; fire and rain washing it all clean, so that life could begin again.

The young king had stood at the heart of that storm. He had everything - everything worthy of awe. His father’s legacy, scarred but unbroken, had passed to him in full.

And now, that same Simba came charging at him, a growl rising low in his throat—deep, cold, and full of warning.

Once, as a cub, Kovu had been paralysed with fear at the sight of him.
He wasn’t much better now.

Forget the mission—one wrong move, and it would be over before he blinked.

Joining the Pride Lands on a provisional basis wasn’t particularly difficult.

Kovu cast a sideways glance at the King—only to find Simba staring straight back, assessing him from head to tail without the slightest hint of restraint.

It was uncomfortable, being stared down by someone so utterly dazzling.

Look at the king—solidly built, effortlessly regal, with that absurdly perfect red-brown mane.
Then look at himself.
Would he even grow a mane like that before he came of age?

Tch.

Simba’s acceptance meant little to him—at least, that’s what Kovu told himself. To him, it felt like a gesture from on high, a carefully measured display of mercy. A political move. No doubt the king thought it made him look noble. Balanced. Just. Above it all.

Kovu offered a respectful smile, just enough to look grateful. But beneath his fringe, his eyes stayed fixed—cold, sharp—on Simba’s fading back.

Kiara, by contrast, was easy to be around. Bright, bold, endlessly eager to turn every quiet hour into an adventure—or, more often, a disaster. There was never a dull moment with her.

Kovu watched her bounding through the sunlit grass, golden and restless.

Then his gaze drifted, as it always did, until it landed again on Pride Rock, to the lion who ruled from its peak.

Lately, Kovu had stopped trying to pretend he wasn’t watching.

It was something in his blood—this irresistible pull toward strength, toward the very ideal he had been taught to destroy but couldn’t stop measuring himself against.

Because Simba… Simba was flawless in every sense.

The kind of lion Kovu wasn’t sure he could ever become.

The kind of lion one wanted to stand beside.

Or overthrow.

Perfection like that was unbearable to look at for long.

It stung the eyes, made you want to reach for it—just to see if it would shatter.

He could understand his mother now. Even she had hesitated.

Killing Simba...

would be such a shame.

Kovu tore his gaze away and returned his attention to Kiara chasing butterflies, imagining for no particular reason that the stern-faced king had once been just as silly.

Kiara excitedly told him about the king and queen’s thrilling childhood adventure in the elephant graveyard, her voice full of awe and envy.

“If they’d got one bite by hyenas, Kiara, you wouldn’t be here at all.” said Kovu with mock seriousness.

The princess gave him an annoyed slap. He laughed, rolling down the grassy slope, covered in seeds, and lay back under the shade of a tree.

“Such a jerk!” Kiara shouted from the top of the hill before turning and running off somewhere unknown.

Kovu didn’t rush after her. He knew she’d forget all about it soon enough and drag him off to cause more mischief elsewhere.

Kovu rarely lay flat on his back like this. He was usually staring down at the earth beneath him—exposing his soft belly was far too dangerous. Zira’s harsh lessons kept him constantly on edge, never allowing him a moment’s ease. Over time, he’d lost the luxury even to look up.

But these days, hanging out with Kiara, he was learning to be reckless. They had even started talking about the shapes of the stars.

“My father says the great kings watch over us from the stars,” Kiara said.

Kovu turned his head around. The young princess’s face was filled with awe and longing. He knew she was imagining Mufasa—the great and shining being they’d never met.

“Do you think Scar’s up there?”

No one would pay attention to the shadows cast by the light.

“Kovu, the grudges of the past aren’t our burden to bear. You don’t have to carry that weight.”

Kovu sneered inwardly. Such a naïve princess. The return of the rogue prince was revenge, wasn’t the widow’s scheme just the same? Scar’s death was only the beginning; the bitterness festered with time, and the spark to ignite the conflict lay in his hands. This time, he wanted to feel what it was like to stand at the heart of the storm.

“Maybe there’s a darkness in me, too.” The expression was just fragile enough to make the kind-hearted princess pity his dilemma.

“If you want to, you can break free. I’ll help you, Kovu. We all will.”

There was a small flame burning in Kiara’s eyes.

“Dad told me about his plans to expand the territory. He hopes I’ll stay at Pride Rock to inherit his place. Kion’s already found a suitable jungle to the south. And you, Kovu—he hopes you’ll help him too.”

Kovu froze.

"His Majesty never mentioned this to me."

Kiara flashed a mischievous grin, “I really shouldn’t have told you so soon. Dad said he wanted it to be a surprise. Just… pretend you don’t know, and don’t tell him I let it slip!”

Kovu followed behind her, head lowered. His mind drifted back to his first clumsy assassination attempt. It had been almost impulsive, by the waterhole at dawn, and the chance had vanished as quickly as it came.

Simba often ventured out alone. While keeping Kiara company, Kovu had quietly worked out the King’s patrol routes.

Kiara, with her restless nature, was always darting about. Kovu stayed put, using the opportunity to catch Simba’s scent downwind. Sometimes he even glimpsed that flash of bright reddish-brown flickering through the bushes.

He’d had several chances to strike, but each time he’d stood frozen, letting them slip away.

And now the King extended an olive branch.Territory expansion. That meant lionesses would trail behind Kovu, scouts in the search for new lands to claim.

Once, the Pride Lands were ruled by one mighty lion; soon, they would be ringed by smaller kingdoms, like stars circling the moon’s pale glow.

He pondered the weight beneath this gesture. Did Simba truly place such trust in him? Was there no fear that, once Kovu planted his flag in foreign soil, he might rise with Zira’s rogue pride and strike at the heart of Pride Land? Did Simba believe Kovu’s loyalty unshakable—or that even if betrayed, Pride Rock would stand unbroken?

Perhaps Kovu himself did not wish betrayal. He would not become Scar, for no hope can bloom beneath the shadow’s chill.

In Kiara’s bright eyes, he glimpsed possibility—a dream too pure for his darkened past, an ending where effort births perfection. Yet having never known fairy tales, his eyes—hardened by darkness—feared the blinding light.

Who could say if that light was dawn’s gentle paw or the wildfire consuming all?

Enough questions.

Zira’s voice whispered in the hollows of his mind—sharp, relentless:

Kill him. Kill Simba. Whatever it costs.

The sharp command struck like a branch wedged deep into the cliff face, pulling Kovu from the swirling torrents of his thoughts. His mind was tangled, but the task before him stood in stark clarity.

“Then so be it… tomorrow I’ll try again…”

“Try what, exactly?”

Startled, Kovu leapt to his feet. Simba stood before him. The moonlight cloaked the King’s figure in a blurred silhouette, but as he stepped forward, his face gradually came into focus.

“Your Majesty.” Kovu snapped back to himself and lowered his head in salute, buying precious moments to steady his racing heart—wondering if Simba had glimpsed the cracks beneath his calm.

Simba paced slowly from one side to the other.

“You haven’t answered me," he said, almost lazily, "What is it you’ll be trying tomorrow?”

It sounded like idle chatter—light, unbothered.

Kovu held his breath. Surely Simba hadn’t seen the storm flicker across his face. And he hadn’t been foolish enough to whisper treason aloud. No—he hadn’t slipped.

Not yet.

And he wasn’t ready to.

“Just… a new hunting technique,” he said at last, keeping his voice steady. “Something the Princess and I have been working on. We thought we’d try it out tomorrow.”

Simba didn’t press. He didn’t even seem to care much at all. Instead, he sat—just like that—right beside Kovu, his gaze drifting over the cold, jagged stone around them.

“Bit chilly up here, isn’t it?”

Kovu lowered himself carefully. The whole scene felt off—deeply off.

Here he was, shoulder to shoulder with his would-be target, making small talk as if they were companions.

And they both knew they weren’t.

So what was Simba playing at?

“I’m used to it,” Kovu replied flatly, eyes downcast.

Then he heard the rustle of movement—Simba had lain down beside him, and rolled over.

On his back.

That posture. That impossibly exposed, dangerous posture.

Kovu blinked rapidly. Had his eyes deceived him, or had the King finally lost his mind?

Did he not realise Kovu could tear out his throat in a single bite?

“I like places where you can see the stars,” Simba said, voice quiet and far away. “I used to lie down and watch them until I fell asleep.

After I left Pride Rock, I spent the rest of my childhood far from here. But wherever I went, the stars above me never seemed to change.”

Kovu stared at him. The King’s gaze was fixed on the sky, awash with memory.

And for a moment—perhaps it was a trick of the light—he looked… young.

It was as if the King had stepped back into the cub he once was—the boy who still believed in dreams.

“Kiara told me the story. About the stars and the kings,” Kovu said softly.

Then he lowered himself to the ground, inching closer without quite meaning to.

Curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to hear more.

Simba let out a soft chuckle.

“She really tells you everything, doesn’t she? That’s good. I’ve always worried she didn’t have peers her own age. Kion can’t always come home, and she’s... well, she says I’m overprotective—but she’s just like I was at her age. How could I not worry…”

“Why did you come back?”

The question slipped out before Kovu could stop it. And the moment it did, he knew he shouldn’t have asked.

Simba sat up at once, turning to face him—closer than Kovu expected.

Silence fell. Long enough that the weight of those golden-red eyes began to press on him.

“You’d already left, hadn’t you?” Kovu continued, his voice trembling slightly. “Everyone thought you were dead. You got a new life. Why give it up?”

It wasn’t like him, interrogating the King’s past like this. And yet something in the stillness urged him on, the same quiet pull that had made him lie down beneath the stars beside his target.

When Simba finally smiled and lay back down, Kovu let out a slow breath.

Maybe this kind of honesty helped keep suspicion at bay.

His Majesty seemed to be in a rare mood tonight—unusually willing to speak, even to an outsider.

Perhaps it was because they shared something neither the queen nor the princess could quite reach — the shadow that Scar left behind, the weight of a name too heavy for childhood.

And maybe… that was something Kovu could understand.

“Because it’s my responsibility,” Simba said, half-mocking, and laughed at himself. “Though I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear.” His eyes flicked sharply to the young lion. Kovu stared, struck—Kiara’s lively spirit was clearly cut from the same cloth as Simba’s.

“Out there, I could have lived a happy, peaceful life. No troubles, no weight to bear. Hakuna matata—life really could be that simple. But coming back here meant facing my own blood, carrying the burden of this kingdom. I might die, or lose those I love. I thought it through, wrestled with it, and still chose this path.

Maybe I’m seeking forgiveness from the stars—for the cowardice of wanting to run away, for losing sight of who I was.

Or maybe I’m chasing something real—because hakuna matata will one day turn to emptiness.

……Sorry, have I confused you?”

Kovu looked into those amber eyes, half-understanding, as Simba’s smile stayed constant tonight—almost dizzying in its brightness.

"Don’t be afraid to question, Kovu. What is it you truly want?"

So this was it. The young male had been exposed all along.

He had watched silently, followed in shadow, drawn up plans only to discard them, torn between struggle and surrender.

And now Simba was confronting him with ease, his every scheme laid bare before the King's watchful eyes. From the very start.

The hunter and the hunted exchanging roles at the final moment—there was no chase more thrilling than that.

Chapter Text

Simba had spent his life laughing in the face of danger—the tighter the noose, the bolder he became, always finding a way to turn the tables. Whether it was that scrappy cub standing between Nala and the hyenas, or the fallen prince facing Scar alone despite the doubts of his father’s old subjects, Simba hadn’t really changed at all.

Now, as king, he slipped past the dozing lions and stepped out into the night with all the ease of a stroll to admire the moon—not a lion preparing to spar with a potential threat. Plans for a moonlit wander? He didn’t need them. He’d simply see where the night took him. Failure wasn’t even a thought.

With a grin tugging at his lips, he crept up silently behind Kovu, ready to give the young male a good scare. The startled reaction was worth it. Zira must have been off her rocker to send this wide-eyed boy as a spy—so transparent, so obvious.

Simba flopped down beside him. Being on edge every moment was beginner’s stuff. If he needed to, he could spring into action within a blink—even from sleep. And what was there to fear from this one? Like a river stained red, Kovu’s menace hadn’t truly seeped into his bones. Given time, that water would run clear again. Letting him dry up slowly could be such a waste.

To get the other male to drop his guard, Simba had to be open himself. So he shared a bit of his story—and was surprised by how earnestly Kovu listened. The lad was absurdly naive; a little probing, and he was already lowering his defenses. Maybe he’d just been lonely too long, and no one had ever offered him an honest conversation.

"What is it you truly want?"

Simba let the question hang, watching as Kovu stiffened, his expression clouding over—something grave taking shape behind his eyes. Almost as if he were preparing for his end.

As he stood, his shadow fell long and deliberate across Kovu’s crouched form. It had the intended effect. The young lion all but folded in on himself, as if sheer presence could crush him. Simba arched a brow. So much for Zira’s great hope.

“I don’t know… Your Majesty.”

The words came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Kovu lowered his head, shut his eyes, and waited for judgement.

Simba stepped closer, lowering his head until his breath ruffled the fur atop Kovu’s skull. The young male flinched at the warmth of it but still didn’t move.

Simba inhaled—curious—and frowned. Not what he expected. The boy didn’t smell of deceit or blood. Simba leaned in again, catching something softer, and—without meaning to—brushed his nose lightly behind Kovu’s ear.

That brought him sharply back to himself. He pulled back at once, slipping into the shadow before Kovu could look up and see the flicker of emotion on his face.

There was a part of him, a very old part, that wanted to toy with this would-be predator. The young lion had dropped his fangs—what fun it would be to prod, to circle, to remind him who held the throne.

But that would be far too easy. And far too soon.

A spy with no secrets was just a frightened boy in borrowed teeth. Push too hard now might only drive the boy exactly where Zira wanted him to go.

“Then think about it.” Simba said, briskly turning to go. He heard no movement behind him and couldn’t help but smirk—had he overdone the kingly presence and scared the poor lad half to death?

“You’re really not cold?” he added, voice light and casual, as if they’d been discussing the weather all along. “Come along.”

Kovu’s mind went blank.

Had he been spared? Was Simba not going to execute him after all? Or was this the punishment—to be left twisting in dread, waiting for the blow to fall? Simba’s breath had scorched his skin, teeth and claws so close to his throat he could almost feel them. For one dizzying moment, he’d even welcomed it—wondered what expression the great king would wear when tasting his blood.

The humiliation stung—he’d failed, utterly—but losing to Simba somehow didn’t feel quite so disgraceful. If anything, he might have been willing to die by his paw.

His spirit felt detached, adrift above his own body, watching as it stumbled upright and followed after the king. He had no idea how long he’d stared before his senses returned.

Simba turned toward him, tilting his head as though trying to glimpse the eyes hidden beneath Kovu’s fringe. Kovu flinched instinctively, but the king has already circled around, slipping behind him with effortless grace.

Kovu ground his teeth. He hated how easily he lost control around Simba—how every small gesture set his nerves alight. And just as he gathered the nerve to meet the king’s gaze, Simba had already passed him by, tail flicking lazily, the tuft brushing his cheek as he went.

Kovu followed, legs moving before his mind caught up.

He lay on the edge of the cave wall, thoughts spinning, replaying every moment of the night.

And once his mind cooled, he understood, at least a little, what Simba had meant. What Kiara had said was true—mostly. The king did have plans. And now he was making new ones. Ones that included Kovu.

But where had this trust come from?

Raised in jealousy and suspicion, Kovu didn’t know what to do with it. He smothered the strange warmth rising in his chest before it could show on his face.

He forced his eyes shut.

And refused to think about what it meant—
that the king’s tail had touched his cheek.

Chapter Text

Kiara’s invitation to another grand adventure was met, for the first time, with refusal.

The princess raised her brows high in surprise. Kovu, unfazed, said flatly he had something to deal with—on his own.

Kiara, generous as ever, let him go. Then immediately marched off to complain to Simba.

“What could he possibly have to deal with?” she huffed. “He’s either blowing me off, or you've been giving him a hard time. Did you tell him about the plan? Because he didn’t look excited at all! Did you even explain it properly, Dad?”

Simba pulled his gaze back from the horizon. Kiara’s chattering reminded him far too much of a younger version of himself - begging his mother to let him and Nala go exploring at the "waterhole".

Raising cubs, he sighed to himself, was like looking into a mirror—one that only showed your most embarrassing moments.

He took a deep breath and gave her the official excuse: the plan was complicated and long-term; Kovu would have great responsibilities; and Kiara, perhaps it was time to stop chasing butterflies and start—

“You’re doing it again,” she interrupted. “The whole queen of the kingdom speech. You’ve been going on about that since I was a cub. But the only thing I’m actually good at is hunting. At least I can feed myself. All that ruling-the-kingdom business is just—just talk!”

To her surprise, Simba nodded thoughtfully. Then smirked.

“Well then,” he said, turning to leave. “The kingdom is yours for today. Any problems, ask Zazu.”

The royal advisor, who had of course been standing nearby the entire time, stepped forward with a bow.

“Princess Kiara, shall we begin?”

Kiara stared, stunned.

Then she shouted after her father’s fading figure:

“Where are YOU going?”

Simba laughed without looking back.

“I'm on vacation!”

Simba walked the familiar path to the waterhole he once looked down on as a cub. Animals gathered there to drink, respectfully bowing to their king, but no one disturbed his rare moment of solitude. A marmot popped up at his feet, whispering news of the outsider’s whereabouts. Simba ordered his spies to keep watch, then climbed a small mound and lay down, crushing a patch of grass beneath him.

He hoped Kovu had properly thought over their conversation that night. Things didn’t need to be said out loud—Kiara, who could never keep a secret, had surely already told Kovu about his plan; and Kovu’s hesitation was a clear refusal of the dreadful assassination task. His hopes had stretched over many moons. Perhaps there was now a new reason to believe.

He rolled over, flattening more grass. The breeze carried a distinct scent, and the sun, nearing midday, warmed his fur.

The mating season was coming, and Simba felt restless. While other males looked forward to it, to him it was nothing more than trouble. Nala was well past her prime, and with Kiara and Kion by his side, he didn’t need another heir. He knew well the dangers a new cub could bring. Instinct felt more like a chain now - damned hormones.

He slipped quietly into the water, hoping the coolness would ease the heat inside him.

The king returned to Pride Rock just before sunset. Zazu fluttered down at once with a full report on the day’s affairs. Simba listened with half an ear, then nodded, satisfied. Kiara, it turned out, had handled everything with a natural ease. Bold yet meticulous—clearly born to lead. Even Zazu, who rarely handed out praise, seemed genuinely impressed. (Not that Simba had ever escaped his nagging.)

Maybe he really was getting old. Time to step back, let the young ones run the show, while he dealt with… older-lion matters.

Just then, Kovu passed by. Simba was about to call out to him—but the young male dipped into a quick bow and strode off stiffly before he could say a word.

Was Kovu avoiding him?

Simba gave a quiet, uncertain huff. Maybe the tail-to-the-face thing had been too much. Seriously, what sort of king does that?

Sighing, he sprawled out on the narrow peak of Pride Rock. The scent inside the den had grown thick, nearly suffocating. Out here, the breeze cooled his fur just enough to lull him toward sleep.

What he didn’t notice, dulled as his senses were by the season’s haze, was the quiet pair of eyes watching him from the shadows.

Chapter Text

Kovu hadn’t meant to ignore the king.

He knew how dominant males grew instinctively hostile during the mating season—Simba allowing him to remain near the pride was already more mercy than he could’ve hoped for. And yet, something in the air had shifted. The scent of the pride was different now, laced with tension he only half understood.

His own body lagged behind the others’, slow to mature. His older brother had reached adulthood long ago and never tired of mocking him for it—said he’d be a runt forever, patchy and stunted. But just now, when Simba had approached him, the scent hit Kovu with such force that his heart began hammering wildly. He hadn’t dared say a word. He'd taken the first chance to slip away, to keep his distance.

Even now, it seemed absurd—he must be losing his mind. Of all lions… why should it be the king’s scent that stirred something in him?

Whatever the reason, he knew one thing: he couldn’t stay.

Whether Simba still had any grand design for him or not, Kovu didn’t care. He needed to leave, quickly as possible.

He tossed and turned all night, unable to settle. And as soon as the first light spilled over the horizon, he went to find Kiara.

“Kiara, I need to talk to you.”

He didn’t want to face the king alone. If Kiara could speak on his behalf, that would be best…

“Kiara, I don’t want you talking with him.”

But things never went as hoped.

“I want to talk with him.”

Kovu resigned himself to trailing behind Simba, neither too far nor too close—the scent clung to him like a shroud, dizzying his senses. Simba spoke of those darkest days, a version far removed from the one Zira had drilled into him. Kovu struggled to focus on the words, not the way Simba’s mouth moved with each sentence, nor the sway of his thick mane in the breeze, nor those eyes, bright as the sun.

Scar truly was the killer. He had never doubted the secret his mother kept, yet when the truth was dragged into the light, he felt a shame he hadn’t expected—even though Scar was not his father by blood.

The fire was a killer, but sometimes what's left behind can grow better than the generation before. His gaze swept over the scorched earth before settling on Kovu, a flicker of pity in his eyes. Kovu kept his eyes fixed on the ground as Simba drew nearer; he dared not step back, nor could he hold his breath in defiance. Just as their foreheads were about to meet, Simba paused, gaze locked on Kovu’s face, and heat surged through the young male like a burning flame.

“Do you want this chance?”

Simba’s voice dropped low, startling Kovu into stepping back sharply—only to meet the expectant look in Simba’s eyes.

“Of course! If only your Majesty could trust …” Kovu swallowed the rest of the sentence. He didn’t want to sound too eager—too desperate—as that would only jeopardise his credibility. “It’s not my revenge. I don’t want to carry that burden any longer.”

Simba studied his face with quiet intensity, long enough for Kovu to begin doubting whether he was sincere enough. Then Simba gave a soft chuckle.

“That’s more like it. I’m glad you see it clearly.”

Kovu exhaled deeply, feeling the heavy stone pressing on his chest finally lift. His whole body seemed lighter. Simba noticed the unguarded reaction clearly and slowly paced around the young male. Kovu’s gaze followed him, from left to right.

“...Your Majesty?”

“Now, let me ask my second question.”

Simba stopped again, closer than before. He leaned in, his breath brushing Kovu’s ear.

“Do you want this chance?”

The words were the same, and so was the rhythm, but Kovu caught the slight difference. Simba’s voice had turned languid, almost indulgent, like an invitation meant for no one else.

Kovu’s breath caught. He tried to pull away, but something in him held fast.

Rooted, he looked down.

A shoot of green had broken through, in the pale dust beneath their paws,

He didn’t dare understand what the king might be implying. It defied all sense.

“You’re rather taken with my scent, aren’t you?”

Simba laid his thoughts bare with cruel precision. Kovu flushed with shame, wishing the earth would swallow him whole.

“Do stop overthinking.” Simba said. “Come now - come, take a breath.”

Then he stepped forward—just enough for Kovu’s nose to sink into the thick of his mane. The scent filled the young male, warm and strangely mellow. It took every ounce of will not to lean in closer.

This wasn’t the same scent Kovu remembered. It had changed—fainter now, but gentler, and oddly pleasant. If closed his eyes, he might have thought it belonged to…

…a lioness?

His heart missed a beat.

Why in the world did the king smell like a lioness?

Kovu’s mind had gone blank. He wanted answers—desperately.

There was no use denying it now. He had long harboured feelings for the great King Simba, a confusing blend of admiration and resentment that went all the way back to his cubhood. Kovu still remembered how the king in his prime had left an indelible impression—terrifying in his brilliance, impossible to ignore.

All his imagined ideals of what a grown male ought to be had sprung from his rival, his enemy, his impossible goal. Unwittingly, he had begun shaping himself to meet that standard, longing for a glance, a word—anything. He knew he could never become that shining figure. But oh, how he feared being deemed unworthy.

He wanted to draw closer, to touch, to understand. This sun that hung so high and blinding overhead—what sort of being was it, truly?

When Kovu came back to himself, he found he was draped across Simba’s body. The king lay quietly beneath him, offering no resistance as Kovu pressed close, burying his nose in the warm, tawny fur.

“Well?” Simba said, smiling faintly. “Have you worked it out, then?”

He spoke with the patience of one far older, long used to the clumsy fumblings of youth. Kovu stiffened and nodded—then hesitated and shook his head. He awkwardly backed off to let Simba sit up.

“I… I’m not sure I understand.” His voice was hoarse. “Why does it smell like that to me? Am I imagining it?”

“Well, I can choose,” Simba replied calmly, “which role I play during the mating season.”

“Role?”

“Male… or female.”

Kovu’s jaw very nearly hit the ground. It took considerable willpower not to glance instinctively at the king’s underbelly.

Chapter Text

Simba watched Kovu closely. The lad was clearly rattled. Understandably so—Simba himself had panicked when he first realised the nature of his own body, and it had taken him a long while to come to terms with it. Still, he had confidence in his allure. He hadn’t missed the way Kovu looked at him over the past days and weeks. Even if it was mere curiosity, it was enough. Few male lions could ignore a scent like his, and this one had held himself together admirably.

But still—no move?

Simba waited a little longer, patience beginning to fray. He had come down from his pedestal for this, and if the boy couldn’t muster even a flicker of response… perhaps he wasn’t interested after all.

“Of course, I won't force you,” Simba said smoothly. “You needn’t feel any burden.” He rolled onto his feet and shook the dust from his coat with practised ease. “And don’t worry— your place in the Pride Land is secure.”

He had barely turned to leave when Kovu sprang forward, so suddenly their faces nearly collided. Simba watched him gulp hard, green eyes darting over him in a frantic sweep before the younger lion leaned in and, hesitantly, brushed his tongue along the side of Simba’s cheek.

Hmm. Not bad at all.

“That's it?” Simba murmured, narrowing his eyes with a hint of a smirk.

But Kovu wasn’t finished. The next moment, Simba found himself gently pinned to the ground. The kisses were reverent—tentative, devoted. Simba let out a low, contented purr. Youthful, yes, but earnest. Still, when the touches wandered too far down his chest, Simba gave a soft warning growl.

Kovu stilled at once, then obediently lay beside him, exposing his belly in a silent gesture of submission. Simba began to groom his mane in slow, deliberate strokes. He knew the rhythm well by now—just enough to kindle heat, but never too fast. They had time, after all.

As Simba’s grooming drifted down the younger lion’s flank, he paused, sensing Kovu had all but melted into the moment.

“Something’s not right.”

Simba’s ears pricked at once, the heat from before vanishing as if it had never been. His expression gave nothing away. He cursed himself—how could he have let his guard down, this far from Pride Rock? When had they even managed to surround him?

“Well, look who we have here.”

A familiar voice cut through the mist, and Kovu snapped to full alertness. He leapt in front of Simba on instinct.

No. No, not now… why now, of all times?

“Why, Simba?"

Zira stepped forward, her face gaunter than before, sharp-edged like the fangs she bared.

"What are you doing out here… and so alone?”

“Mum,” Vitani chimed in with a shrill laugh, “seems like we picked the wrong moment—interrupting His Majesty’s little... enjoyment.”
The lions behind her sniggered cruelly.

Kovu froze, panic seizing him. Why would Zira choose this moment? He hadn’t told her anything about Simba’s whereabouts… Damn it. He should’ve known. He was never her only eye inside the Pride Land. And it had been far too long since he’d brought her anything useful—she must’ve lost faith in him long ago.

“Well done, Kovu.”

His mother’s voice cut through the air, sharp and venomous like a serpent’s flicking tongue.

“Just like we always planned.”

No. No. No, this isn’t his doing. It has nothing to do with him… Kovu’s eyes flickered wildly as the surrounding pride tightened around him. He shot fierce glances at his former kin, hoping to scare them off, but every lion’s gaze burned with hunger and resolve. He ached to steal a glance at Simba. What shadow crossed the king’s face now? Why the silence? Surely the king wouldn’t believe him a traitor — they were on the verge of something far more than trust… Kovu’s teeth clenched so hard they clicked. Why now? There was still so much left unsaid - words he'd never dared voice, reasons for him coming here that he hoped Simba would one day understand and forgive. Now the trust he’d painstakingly built teetered on the brink of collapse — once lost, it might never be reclaimed.

“What are you waiting for?” Zira roared. “Attack!”

Everything happened too fast. Kovu only had time to shout, “Run, Simba!” before the entire pride lunged at the king. Nuka and Vitani pinned him down.

“You’re still of some use, brother dear. But if you cause trouble now, we’ll gut you on the spot.”

Kovu couldn’t see clearly. He heard Simba’s furious roars from within the ring, mingled with the savage clash of teeth and claw, the dull thuds of bodies striking bodies. Some lions fell only to be replaced instantly by others. Then—through the chaos—he saw the king break through the encirclement, already wounded, golden-red eyes burning with defiance. Kovu reached for that gaze, desperate to hold it. But before their eyes could meet, Simba was pushed off a cliff by the pursuing pride.

“Simba!”

Somewhere, against all odds, Kovu found strength and broke free. He lunged to the cliff’s edge, watching most of the rogue pride descend into the valley below, the tawny figure still running desperately.

Faster. Just a little faster. Almost out of the valley.

Kovu chased after them, swiping down two young lionesses. But before he could press on, Vitani struck him hard, sending him crashing into a rock. Darkness claimed him.

Run, run… please run…

Even as the dark closed in around him, Kovu prayed—wordless, desperate—that the king might yet find a way to flee. He no longer cared what became of his own body, only that that light, so bright and golden, would not be dragged down into the pit with him.

Chapter Text

“Wake up, you bloody idiot! How long are you planning to lie there?”

Kovu opened his eyes with a pounding headache—his skull felt like it had swollen at the back. Vitani was flinging muddy water in his face.

“So, you’ve finally decided to wake up? Useless lump. Do you even realise how close you came to ruining everything?” she snapped furiously. “You just wait—Mother won’t let you off easy.”

“Why wound’t I let him off?”

Zira appeared, her voice sweet with venom as she approached.

“I should be thanking you, my darling boy.”She wore a satisfied sneer. “If not for you, how would we have got His Majesty?”

Kovu’s eyes widened in horror. He followed her gaze towards the crowd of lions huddled together. Shoving his way through them, half-stumbling, he finally caught sight of Simba.

The king was a ruin of crimson—his body slick with blood, deep wounds still weeping down his flanks. His eyes were half-shut, his proud form slumped against the rock wall for support.

“Simba…”

The name escaped him before he could stop it, thick with pain. But Simba only flicked an ear, offering not even a glance in return.

“How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act?”Vitani’s voice rang sharp as a claw. “It’s disgusting to watch.”

Kovu turned and shot her a furious glare. Vitani met it without flinching, her eyes blazing with defiance. He had never felt such loathing for his sister by blood. The rogue lions began to edge back, clearing a path as Zira approached with slow, deliberate steps, her triumphant gaze fixed on the wounded king.

Kovu kept his jaw tight, eyes locked on his mother, but Zira merely shrugged.

“Honestly, don’t be so dramatic,” she said with breezy disdain. “I’m not gonna kill him. Told you, didn’t I? I wanted a living trophy.”

She leaned in closer, dropping her voice so only her young boy could hear.

“Has he told you yet? His little secret he’d rather keep buried?”

Kovu couldn’t speak. It felt like the blood in his veins had turned to ice.

Zira chuckled low. “Never would’ve guessed it, but he’s rather fond of you, isn’t he?”

Then she turned on her heel and strode away, raising her voice for all to hear.

“Look at him! The high and mighty King Simba—who’s never spared a glance for us exiles—turns out to have a filthy little truth of his own.”

The gathered lions began to whisper sharply, a low susurration rippling through the crowd. It sounded too far-fetched to believe. But a few of the younger males stepped forward, sniffing the air with shameless curiosity. When the scent reached them, their expressions changed. Kovu recognised that look at once. That scent, rare and irresistible, was enough to drive any full-grown lion to madness—and blood in the air only made it worse.

“What do you want from him?!” Kovu roared after her.

Zira turned back, face cold, her eyes brimming with contempt.

“I hear that little princess has been playing queen lately. I rather think it’s time I paid her a visit—see if she’d be open to a trade.”

Her gaze swept over the lions assembled before her. A few of the males at the front watched her eagerly. Zira’s smile twisted into something cruel.

“Easy now, boys. Try not to break him before I’m done.”

Chapter Text

Blood trickled down from Simba’s soaked mane onto his face. He shook his head, but the world before him remained awash in crimson. He silently chastised himself for growing old—such a mere scratch now slowed his steps, making it exhausting to climb the rough stone once more. Even the smallest mistake could be fatal in a battle. The moment he hit the ground, two lions lunged, sinking their teeth into his neck. He threw them off with a hard swipe, but not fast enough—their jaws had already ripped into his skin, leaving raw, bleeding wounds across his neck and shoulder. The relentless loss of blood made him dizzy; staggering, he was forced back into a corner, leaning against the rock to stay upright.

So this was his end, Simba thought hazily. Then let it find him on his feet. Just one more glimpse of the sky - that was all he asked

The blow he braced for never came. Instead, Zira’s voice rang out, issuing commands, and the pack fell back. He had bought himself some time, but experience told him that captivity was often crueler than death on the spot. His family and subjects would come for him, and the larger the conflict, the heavier the cost. If his enemies treated him as a bargaining chip, weighing his life against the future of the Pride Land, he doubted Kiara would make the right choice.

When Zira began to vulgarise his private matters, Simba thought bitterly to himself—it was the same cruel tactic: if you spare your foe, you condemn them to suffer in life. Swallowing the blood in his mouth, he steadied himself, preparing for whatever humiliation lay ahead.

A bold young lion crept forward, saliva dripping from the corner of his muzzle. Simba growled with loathing, forcing him back, trying to swipe with his paw but pain seized him. Damn it—the wound in his shoulder was deeper than he’d reckoned, and the rogues were quick to sense it. A wounded male lion was still dangerous, but useless without claws.

The younger lions exchanged glances, then two sprang forward to pin their pray’s head and neck, heedless of the bleeding wounds. Simba clenched his teeth until they clicked, letting out low growls that only drew crude laughter from his assailants.

“Save it, Your Majesty,” one hissed near his ear, the foul breath making Simba want to retch. He sucked hard at the hollow of Simba’s neck, riled up by the scent, and taunted, “Lads, he reeks like a slut in heat!” The others burst into harsh laughter and vulgar insults.
The lionesses in the rogue pride carried themselves like noble ladies, noses high in the air. “Here’s the true nobility,” they sneered, “just look at his eyes.” One lion snarled, bitter that he’d never grow a mane like that. “Chin up, mate,” his pal said, grinning. “Soon ya’ll be banging a top-class royal bitch. That’s bragging rights for life.”

They argued over who’d go first, the squabble soon spiralling into chaos and near blows.

Exhausted, Simba thought grimly: if they kept at it just a moment longer, perhaps he might slip into unconsciousness. That, at least, would be a mercy in all this wretched luck.

“What do you lot think you're doing?”

The familiar voice dragged Simba partway back to his senses. He struggled to lift his heavy eyelids—only for a deeper chill to set in when he saw who had spoken.

Nuka.
Kovu’s elder brother. Nothing like him in any way.

Simba told himself he’d simply lost too much blood, must have misheard the voice, or perhaps he still clung to some foolish hope.

Whatever the case, he didn’t have the strength to untangle it.

Nuka clearly held sway among these rogues. All but the two lions pinning Simba down quickly backed off, showing him a grudging respect.

“Well, ain’t this a bloody mess.”

Nuka stepped forward and tilted Simba’s chin up. Blood had crusted over his face so thickly it was impossible to tell what colour his fur had once been.

“Never thought I’d see the day, eh, Simba?”

The king held his silence, his golden-red eyes burning with a quiet fire—smouldering embers that refused to be extinguished.

“Don’t you give me that look. Still reckon you're royalty?”

Nuka’s gaze slid shamelessly over his body before a knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, I get it now—Kovu went all soft ‘cause of this. Forget who he even was. Guess the best thing he ever did was hand you right over. That it, then? This your fancy kink, Your Majesty? Gettin’ bent over by the lad you kicked out y’self?”

A twitch flickered through Simba’s jaw, his stomach churning uneasily. The blow to his belly from the fall throbbed painfully, and Nuka’s foul stench cut deeper than the rest.

Lions in heat were meant to loathe one another—yet Kovu alone was the exception.

A sudden, sharp pang seared through his shoulder, cruelly ill-timed. A low groan slipped from him before he could hold it back.

“Oi, watch yourself!” Nuka slapped the head of a nearby young male lion sharply. He was pressing down too hard on Simba’s neck, and the wound on his shoulder began to bleed again.
“Didn’t you hear Mother? We want’ im alive.”

“I reckon we might as well give up. He won’t last much longer like this,” one lion muttered, shaking his head and stepping back, clearly done with the entertainment.

“Ain’t that just perfect. Now there’s a spot free. Let me see…” Nuka’s eyes swept over the pride until they landed on something that made him grin.

“Kovu! Get your arse ‘ere!”

Kovu stepped out from the pride with a glum look, his forelock hanging over his eyes so Simba couldn’t read his face.

“Good news. A coward’s just bowed out, so you’re lucky to join us,” Nuka said magnanimously. “But since you’ve already had a taste, you’ll be queuin’ behind me.” He motioned for the other lions to back off—he wanted to savour the moment properly.

“No.”

“Say that again?”

Kovu met Nuka’s challenging gaze, voice low and controlled, edged with a quiet growl.

“You guys messed things up back there by picking up the wrong time. I didn’t even get a chance to do anything. Besides, without me, you’d never catch him. Don’t get above yourselves, brother.”

His expression held a chilling calm, untouched by fury; those luminous green eyes flickered like ethereal flames, pulling all who dared meet them into a bottomless abyss of hell.

“It’s nobody’s turn but mine.” he declared firmly, “and certainly not yours.”

Nuka took a step back, unwilling to show defiance before the pride’s rightful heir. Besides, Kovu’s stature far outmatched his own, and even their mother wouldn’t intervene should they come to blows.

“By all means, please go ahead, brother,” Nuka gritted his teeth and forced a smile, joining the other lions waiting nearby, hoping to get a share of the spoils.

Chapter Text

Simba lay with eyes half-shut, dimly aware of his circumstances. Things were far from ideal, though at least the nausea had passed and most of his wounds had stopped bleeding. He found it bitterly amusing that, even now, hormones wouldn’t leave him alone. The musk of those rogue lions was foul and wholly unappealing—but his body, traitorous and undiscerning, seemed ready to welcome anything that might ease the burning heat within.

Simba heard the young lion’s pawsteps draw near, followed by the rough warmth of a tongue tracing the wounds along his flank—slow, deliberate strokes that travelled downwards, halting just beneath the base of his tail. Scorching breath fanned over that most sensitive and vulnerable spot, and His Majesty flinched, shifting subtly in an attempt to hide it from reach.

The young lion no longer lingered on his most private place, but climbed onto his back instead. Simba felt the weight of another male settle over him, his heart pounding wildly: He didn’t want be here, not beneath so many watching eyes — and least of all, he didn’t want it to be Kovu. Faint whimpers escaped his throat, raw with dread and longing. Kovu heard them, without question — and yet, he did not stop.

The king felt that coarse tongue drag across his cheek, then behind his ear, peeling away the dried blood with aching tenderness. He turned his head just a little, catching Kovu’s gaze from the corner of his eye. The younger lion leaned in until their faces touched, warm breath shared in the stillness. Simba drew in his scent hungrily, his heart twisting with sorrow — how different it might have been, if only the moment weren’t like this.

“I’m so sorry—please, close your eyes.”

 Kovu whispered swiftly by his ear, before sinking his teeth softly into the nape of his neck.

Simba had never faced the mating season in such a state; within him, the two halves of his nature waged a fierce battle, the male side refusing to yield, setting his body ablaze with restless turmoil.

Kovu almost lost his grip on the lion beneath him and had to bellow fiercely into Simba’s ear to crush his resistance. With countless eyes fixed on them, he had to stay ruthless to hold absolute control over his captive. Kovu forced himself to press his claws hard into Simba’s forepaw, driving him down without mercy. Paying no heed to Simba’s snarling cries of pain, he pressed a certain something into that narrow, slick hole.

This was never meant for pleasure or enjoyment; for lions, this was the very act of reproduction. Yet in this moment, it had become a measure of strength and dominion. Only the leader claimed first choice of prey and mate, while those who dared to challenge him would face exile. The outcasts quietly took note of the gulf between the heirs — it was clear whose word would rule them from this day forth.

A strange and searing pain pierced the unfamiliar part as Simba lay gasping against the earth. Blood pooled beneath him, the metallic scent rising with each ragged breath. Each withdrawal dragged the backward-facing barbs against raw, delicate flesh, tearing him anew. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, trailing down fur already matted with blood, slipping into his mouth — but the copper tang of blood was so thick on his tongue that Simba couldn’t even taste the salt of his own sorrow. This vessel was never forged for reproduction, and yet it endures the agony of it all the same. Had some cruel hand shaped him for this suffering alone — not to bear life, but to taste its cost?

The claws of the young male still dug into his flesh, and Simba knew this was only the beginning. He kept telling himself to stay strong, to endure. But when the next wave of searing pain crashed over him, a low, involuntary growl escaped his throat. Again and again, the agony returned, as if trapped in a hellish cycle of endless torment. Cold sweat mingled with blood trickled down his brow; he had lost count of how many times it had come. When he reached five, darkness crept over his vision, yet the pain showed no mercy—rousing him cruelly just before unconsciousness could claim him. Simba stared at the claw embedded in his forepaw, a hazy memory surfacing of his duel with Scar on the Pride Rock. The old lion’s voice, dark and cruel, echoed in his mind:

But this time, daddy isn’t here to save you.

Then the liar revealed the truth, shattering the lies that had tormented him for years. Countless nights he woke from nightmares, twisting in sorrow and guilt. Slowly, suspicion took root, and he dared no longer to trust so easily. He pondered again and again, weighing risks and safety, yearning to believe once more — hoping it might free him from those dreadful dreams. Yet he failed again, weary of the ruin that broken trust brings. Scar’s shadow was a venomous curse; even beyond death, his ghost would haunt Simba to the very end.

A restless murmur swept through the pride, whispers flitting like shadows that the captive had not moved for quite a while. Should he breathe his last, Zira’s wrath would be swift and terrible—and then no one would walk away unscathed. The voices grew louder, edged with unease, until Nuka, noting the lions’ anxious faces, stepped forward to check on the situation. Kovu stood sentinel beside the king, lost in thought.

“Oi, Kovu, he—”

“He’s passed out.”

Kovu turned to his brother, his tone cold and clipped.

“Anyone else want to carry on? He’s got barely a breath left.”

The lions exchanged uneasy glances; no one was keen to invite trouble. Quiet grumbles scattered them in twos and threes, retreating like leaves on the wind. Nuka spat disdainfully, unwillingly withdrawing to the shadows of the den. When their mother questioned the sourness in his gaze, Nuka rolled his eyes, voice thick with frustration.

“That Kovu’s got no sense. Nearly killed the king. Mum, ain’t you gonna say something?” His complaints spilled forth like a torrent, testing Vitani’s patience.

“Then you’d best keep a close watch on that king. Don’t let Kovu lose his head and do something daft.”

Nuka never questioned their mother’s orders. He eagerly clambered onto the rock outcrop outside the den, from where he could see Simba still lying there, and Kovu standing guard - never leaving his side, alert to keep any lion at bay.

Bored, Nuka flicked his tail, shooing away the swarming termites. He’d never seen Kovu like this before—when that lad wanted to claim something, he truly carried himself like a proper male lion.

Ah well, that means he’s got no chance at all.

Chapter Text

Kovu rose and stretched his stiff limbs, then found a clean waterhole to drink from before immediately returning to Simba’s side. The night was scattered with stars, calm and windless, with not a cloud in sight. Were it not for the torment of nightmares, Simba would surely have relished such a night.

Kovu once again examined the king’s injured body. His Majesty’s recovery was holding well; the wounds showed no signs of worsening and should heal fully with rest. He carefully examined the more delicate wound —the one Simba, were he awake, would never allow him to touch. Kovu felt his cheeks flush, unsure whether his reckless behaviour might cause further harm. Simba struggled so fiercely, clearly wracked with unbearable pain.

The feminine part bloomed a stark, aching red—tender flesh drawing inward, shivering beneath the chill of the night air. The young male’s nose brushed against the base of Simba’s tail, catching a faint musk — not the scent of fresh blood, at least, so no new injuries had been sustained. Finishing his inspection, Kovu glanced around nervously, making sure no other lions had noticed his furtive sniffing.

When would he wake? Kovu lay down again, watching over him. Simba still slumbered, restless and uneasy—soft groans and murmured words escaping him now and then. Kovu’s tongue moved gently over his muzzle, as if trying to soothe away the haunting shadows of a bitter dream.

His mind emptied, Kovu kept repeating the motion, hoping it might quiet the thoughts of the uncertain path ahead.

A faint murmur came from Simba, his ears flicking sharply—pulling Kovu back from his wandering thoughts. Moonlight spilled softly across his face as his golden-red eyes slowly opened, narrowing the moment they caught sight of Kovu.

“Simba…”

But then, with a sudden motion, his body was thrown backwards, crashing heavily onto the ground. Without a word, Kovu climbed to his feet slowly. A sharp sting flared from the corner of his eye, spreading across half his face; his left eye was bloodshot and raw. Drip. Drip. Blood fell from his chin, tracing a winding path behind him. He shook his head to clear the vision. A heavy blow—but one he knew he deserved.

“No… not you…”

To Kovu’s shock, Simba recoiled, fear flashing in his gaze as he pressed his back against the pale stone. His dark pupils pinched tight, narrowing into slits.

Under the chill of moonlight, blood seeped into the earth behind the dark-maned lion, two emerald flames flickered in the shadows, and a fierce scar stretched across that slender face.

From the grip of his nightmare he awoke, only to tumble into a darker abyss.

"Scar… no, you are dead …"

Kovu halted, catching that name tangled in Simba’s whispers. He hardly dared believe it, yet the puddle beneath his paws reflected his face clearly. Now he understood the source of that burning sting. Now he understood the source of the sharp sting that lingered—an unwelcome mark, etched cruelly across his left eye. Mother would surely laugh till she cried, muttering about fate and signs left by Scar himself, swearing she’d live to see revenge fulfilled.

“Simba, wake up!” Kovu stepped forward, closing the space until Simba was pressed between him and the cold stone wall. The king thrashed, desperate to break free. “Open your eyes. Look at me. I’m not Scar. I won’t become him.”

But Simba’s mind had slipped into madness. Claws slashed wildly, and Kovu had no choice but to dodge, careful not to strike at the king’s healing wounds. Tears clouded the king’s golden eyes as his voice cracked with anguish.

"Help me, Dad…… Dad, it’s my fault, it’s my fault. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please… forgive me…"

Kovu froze. As he stepped back, Simba curled into himself, a towering king reduced to a lost cub. Words failed him — he simply sat and waited. Time stretched on, until the king’s trembling ceased and his gaze drifted vacant into the darkness. Gently, Kovu lowered himself, seeking out those fading eyes.

“Simba?”

Simba’s golden-red eyes swiftly turned to meet his, the tears long since dried, leaving those orbs unnervingly clear yet clouded with confusion.

"Uncle Scar?"

“No, it’s me.” Kovu summoned his courage and pressed a gentle kiss to Simba’s cheek. “Do you still remember me?”

In the next heartbeat, Simba recognised him — Kovu was certain of it. Those had been the eyes of a boy, briefly glimpsing a happy childhood in a fleeting dream. If only he could linger longer in that vision of Simba — born of light itself, blessed with all the world’s beauty and grace, untouched by sorrow or pain. But the boy’s innocence was swiftly locked away beneath the mantle of a king’s hardened exterior. Now, it was near impossible to read any feeling beyond the weight of command in Simba’s face.

The quiet stretched between them, thick and trembling, and Kovu felt it like a storm gathering behind his eyes. He wished for anger, for rebuke — to be called a traitor, a faithless coward. Though the accusations weren’t wholly true, he was ready to bear any blame. From the moment he accepted the mission, Kovu knew there would be no redemption, no light at the end. “You were born to walk in Scar’s paw-prints.” Zira’s bitter whispers echoed in his mind, “and Kovu… it’s to die for.”

Kovu hadn’t expected it— not now, not like this. Yet Simba leaned forward and pressed a slow, gentle lick over the scar above his left eye. The fleeting flicker of guilt in those golden-red eyes landed like a blow.

“No…” Kovu murmured, shaking his head before the king could speak. “Don’t. I deserve it.”

Simba was silent for a moment, then resumed softly licking the wound. Kovu treasured this fragile warmth, ashamed of it too, and so he rambled on about himself — about his adventures with Kiara in the Crocodile Pool, and how Simba had terrified him back then. Yet he had never seen a creature so radiant — the sunset wrapped Simba in a perfect fusion of passionate scarlet and golden light, every hair aglow with brilliance.

He spoke of long-held desires, a flicker of jealousy magnified by the hatred he’d been raised with — a hatred he’d mistaken for his own. When he finally reached the bright sun, he was unsurprised to be drawn to its dazzling strength. Like a moth to flame - or linger in darkness - death awaited either way. He would rather perish beneath the sun’s warm mercy.

He told how grateful he was, that the sun had somehow spared his fate, that he was willing to atone for a chance at a new beginning. But his voice faltered, and no matter what he said, it sounded like excuse-making. Simba’s battered frame stood as a silent testament: flesh would heal, but scars endure. How could he ever mend the wounds etched upon his heart?

Simba paused, his gaze fixed on the vivid red scar.

“After all this… you still seek my trust?”

Kovu gave a bitter smile and began to tell another version of the story. A widow consumed by hatred, a cub still learning to walk. Flames devoured the proof of evil, rain poured like tears unleashed, and the mother carved the curse deep into the boy’s flesh. He glimpsed a world of light through a crack, but his mother warned him it was all lies and hypocrisy. My child, you must hold fast to your faith. You were born to bear a noble burden, to clear the great king’s name. Stiff and hollow, he repeated the vow. I WILL KILL HIM. Then the world before his eyes faded into stark black and white. 

“This’s why I come close to you, Your Majesty. I should’ve told you long ago—confession brings such relief.

How can you still trust me?”

Simba sniffed close to his face, perhaps the scent still tasted of deceit. Then he sank his teeth into Kovu’s neck.

The young male rolled his eyes upwards. Simba was right—the night sky was beautiful, vast enough to hold all his shameful past. He longed to see it from above.

“Never mind.”

Kovu kept his head lifted, while the wounded king settled back onto his makeshift resting place. Simba was exhausted; ever since waking, his mind had never ceased turning over the day’s grim events. Now, he truly wished for a moment’s peace.

“Death… that would spare you too much.” He rested his head upon his paws, shifting to find comfort. But the chill seeped through the cracks, causing him to shiver. Come here. He gestured with his eyes to the young male, whose body radiated just the right warmth, soothing him into a soft hum. And that scent Simba loved—he’d lingered over it earlier. Wrapped in this comfort, even in enemy territory, he felt safe.

“Just… forget what happened earlier...”

Kovu tilted his head, uncertain which one Simba meant. If it was that slap he’d taken, well—that would be hard to forget. From now every time he saw his reflection in the water, he’d be reminded of the sting that left the scar. The king’s eyes were half-closed, barely meeting his gaze.

“I mean the drivel I was spouting…”

Ah, so that’s what he meant. Kovu nodded, finally catching on. But Simba’s glare sharpened, fierce and warning—as if daring him to say one more word, and he’d be dead on the spot.

Kovu quickly forced a smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.”

Simba’s eyes grew wider, cold and sharp. “Didn’t I tell you to forget it? You want another hit, then?”

He raised a paw as if to punch the boy again, but instead grabbed at his wounded shoulder, wincing and falling heavily to the ground.

Kovu nudged his neck gently with his muzzle. “Your majesty can slap me all you like - but please don’t hurt yourself. That hurts me worse.”

Simba gave a reluctant sigh, settling back down with a low rumble in his throat.

“Don’t start… And where did you learn to talk like that?”

Silence stretched between them, until Kovu began softly licking his chin. Simba’s purring grew louder, a quiet approval — the young lion’s loving touch a quiet offering to the one he held dear.

Kovu longed to stay, just a moment longer beside his majesty. But the danger here was real, and time was running out.

“You must leave soon. Once you’re gone, Zira won’t no longer hold power over Kiara and the others.”

Kovu hesitated briefly, considering Simba’s strength and how hard it would be to see him safely on his way. “You should be able to move by the day after tomorrow, if not sooner. I’ll help you—trust me.”

Simba raised his head a little, creating some space between them as he looked at Kovu more clearly.“And what about you? Zira won’t let you off so easily.”

The young lion gave a bitter smile.

“Your Majesty, please don’t concern yourself with me at this moment. It’s alright. This scar will remind her—” he chose his words carefully, “remind her of that ghost. Besides me, Zira has no better choice. She’ll spare my life.”

Simba kept his gaze fixed on him, as if searching for a crack in Kovu’s expression to prove he wasn’t truly concerned. But young male pressed his forehead against his and said, “Yet, thank you for asking. That alone is enough for me.”

Well, that left Simba with nothing more to say. He closed his eyes, savoring the brief warmth, until the young lion’s presence slipped away, though his scent lingered on.

“I’ll find some food for you, while it’s still before dawn.”

Kovu glanced cautiously towards the den where the lions were gathered, making sure everyone was asleep before slipping quietly away.

Simba listened to his footsteps fade into silence before slowly rising. Walking a short distance along the rocky wall, he found a pile of stones and dry wood, beneath which the faint rustle of insects could be heard.

Now was the time to be thankful for his two foster fathers—though he still never understood quite what it was he’d been fed to grow so strong.

Chapter Text

All the lions saw it — the mark on Kovu’s face, the scar crossing over his left eye, making him look all the more brooding. Some of the older lions whispered amongst themselves, saying he was Scar’s spitting image, more so than even his own offspring. Zira showed no reaction, but her subjects could plainly see the barely concealed excitement in her eyes. Their leader had always claimed that Kovu was not only Scar’s chosen heir but the very embodiment of Scar’s will. Nothing was more convincing than this sudden scar - as Zira insisted it had appeared from nowhere, a sign that the long-planned scheme was drawing to its close. Behold, foolish subjects—you are about to witness yet another great moment in history.

Nuka and Vitani sneered at this. The former seemed never to know when to quit, loudly boasting of his contributions during the recent hunt, and claiming he was stronger and wiser than Kovu—at least he didn’t end up scarred while banging some half-dead noble. Only a few scrawny young males cared to listen to his bluster; the losers gathered together for a bit shared delusion. Vitani, however, held no such illusions about herself, nor did she brood bitterly like Kovu. And of course, she didn’t give a damn about her mother’s obsession. What difference did it make who wore the crown? What had it to do with her, a lioness? In a world like this, everything was about survival. To live was to triumph; everything else was secondary.

Passing by Simba’s resting place, Vitani wrinkled her nose in disgust. The king lay weakly on the ground, turned away from prying eyes. She hated the scent clinging to him. Usually, lionesses showed little interest in the rutting of their kind, but Simba’s odd nature made him an outcast in both genders. All creatures shun the different; bonding and isolation alike are instincts.

“Kovu, you bloody idiot,” she snapped, cutting off her brother who was lost in thought. “If you’re going to mess with that king, then finish the damn job. He reeks, and it’s turning all our stomachs.” Frowning, she muttered curses as she walked off. A few of the males seized the chance to surround Kovu, asking what it felt like eating that noble bitch out. “If it’s bothering you , just hand him over to us. Me and the lads gonna take a good care of him.” Lewd words seeped into Kovu’s ears, and he closed his eyes in disgust. These lot were worse than drooling hyenas. He hated to admit they were of the same kind.

“Alright then, but be prepared —you see this?” Kovu turned, revealing the half-scarred side of his face. “If you guys think you can hold him down, be my guest.”

The jeering lions exchanged glances. More intimidating than the scar was the look in Kovu’s eyes — he didn’t even realise how much he resembled Zira. The lioness had thrust him, a cub, before the wrathful Simba with a cold, cruel smile: If His Majesty needs his pound of flesh, here. 

The lions slunk away, muttering and blaming each other for courting misfortune by meddling with Kovu. From now on, best they kept their tails tucked firmly between their legs.

When Kovu returned to Simba’s side, the king greeted him with a brief grunt and a nudge of his head. Kovu spoke in a low voice, urging Simba to move: this place drew too much attention, watched by countless eyes. Reluctantly, Simba rose and followed, tracing the rocky wall until they reached a narrow cleft. Kovu gestured for Simba to enter first, then marked the gate with his scent before stepping in himself — a silent warning: while he lingered here, none would dare approach unbidden.

From the outside, the space seemed too small, but Simba closed his eyes briefly and then opened again, his keen night vision quickly adjusting to the gloom. Sparse mushrooms and moss clung to the damp stone, while faint shafts of sunlight filtered through cracks above — a pale echo of the warmth he cherished so dearly. Simba felt the urge to complain about the dank darkness, but Kovu’s scent wrapped around him, thick and close in the cramped space, stirring a strange comfort mingled with tension.

As if to confirm his unease, Kovu’s paw pressed gently but firmly to his back, shifting most of his weight onto him. His muzzle traced through the tangled mane before sinking teeth into the nape of his neck.

“What do you think you're doing?!” Simba jolted, nearly leaping to his feet.

“I might ask the same of Your Majesty,” Kovu retorted, loosening his grip and nudging aside the thick mane to reveal the bare skin beneath. “Was it your intention to release that scent in front of every lion out there? Or you don’t give a damn which one of them tastes you next?” He deliberately leaned in, inhaling deeply. Simba flinched, trying to pull away. “If that’s the case, then go ahead. I won’t stand in your way.”

Kovu was in no mood to be gentle. The other males had made it quite clear what they thought of his pray—circling like jackals with far too much interest. And now he had to come back and deal with this—Simba’s cold indifference, as if the pampered king had no idea what kind of pressure Kovu was under just to keep him in one piece. The irritability of a lion in heat was clearly contagious, and Simba was in no mood to back down either.

“Weren’t you the one who so generously invited them to try their luck, should they think me an easy meal?” Simba growled, pushing himself up with his uninjured foreleg and shoving Kovu aside. “As if I’d just roll over and let you do as you please. And what makes you so sure I won’t give you another scar to match the first, boy? Next time it won’t be a mere scratch. I’ll aim for the eye.”

As Kovu lunged, Simba swung his forepaw—good timing, good angle—but his battered state robbed him of both speed and strength. The blow only caught a few tufts of Kovu’s fringe. The younger lion slipped to his flank, exploiting the blind spot to strike at his injured leg. Simba lost balance and crashed to the ground, and that brief falter gave Kovu the upper paw. A sharp sting at the nape made Simba groan aloud.

He felt utterly wretched—Kovu’s scent pressed in, thick and suffocating, crowding his body, sending his heart into a maddened rhythm. The hidden feminine part burned, damp with something Simba refused to name. His body had already betrayed him, quietly sending out signs of surrender — but his mind clung stubbornly to resistance. Simba shut his eyes, reaching for the memory of the previous evening, when he'd, if only for a moment, invited the closeness himself — when rush had risen before shame.

He turned his head slightly, brushing his cheek against Kovu’s mane — a tentative gesture, part comfort, part longing. But Kovu, caught in a single-minded intent, had no room just now for such delicate desires. 

“No, wait…!”

Simba gasped as the male thing plunged deep into his body; ripped out just as fast, the barb slashing savagely through his inside, making him howl in agony.

“We’re not done yet.”

“What…”

“I’ll stop, very soon,” Kovu said, licking the base of Simba’s ear as he held the trembling king firmly in place,”but only when Your Majesty stop smelling like a whore in heat.”

“Get off! I said, get off, do you hear me?!” Simba twisted unwillingly, making it difficult for Kovu to wedge it into that narrow hole.

They remained locked in a bitter struggle—until, at last, Simba felt the weight lift from his back. Kovu had actually let him go, stepping away without meeting his eyes.

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Kovu gave his ruffled mane a shake. “Carry on giving off that tempting scent. There are plenty more lions willing to keep you company.” With that, he settled down comfortably and began licking his paw, utterly indifferent to the fiery glare Simba was shooting at his back.

“And what are you still doing here, then?”

 Simba’s voice was sharp. He knew Kovu was waiting for him to relent, but since when had a king ever bent his knee to another beast? He was far too used to being the one begged for favour. This was a downright insult — even injured, he could look after himself.

“Your Majesty never considered that you might get pregnant?”

The words, tossed out so lightly, knocked the breath clean out of Simba.

“What nonsense are you spouting?!”

“Now, don’t get so worked up,” Kovu said lightly, stretching his forelegs against the stone wall as he rose. Simba looked furious — ready to snap him in two.

“I’ve seen lionesses with cubs that look nothing alike. Seems they can have different fathers. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Hormones indiscriminately sharpened every emotion. Kovu’s temper slipped its leash, and the venom in his words brought him a strange, cruel pleasure. His remaining reason begged him to leave quickly — it was impossible to keep calm around this finicky king. Staying any longer would only lead to a proper fight.

Promising to spare Simba’s life had already been an act of mercy. Kovu owed him nothing beyond that — certainly not concern over whatever wretched cubs the king might end up carrying.

“Anyway,” Kovu muttered coolly, “something to look forward to, isn’t it?”

The king moved before he could think, intercepting the young male at the mouth of the cave — driven not by will, but by instinct, a fragile urge to turn to the only presence His Majesty could still endure, even as the act scraped against the raw edges of his pride.

Kovu met his gaze, silent and impassive. Simba swallowed against the dryness in his throat, a bitter understanding settling in his chest — there could be only one alpha male between them, and by letting himself be taken, he had already yielded that ground. There was no dignity left to cling to.

Slowly, as if the act itself burned him, he brushed his forehead against Kovu’s muzzle—an offering more instinct than choice—then let his head fall, as though the weight of it had become too much to bear.

Kovu’s voice came, cold and amused: “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Simba’s eyes squeezed shut. This boy was utterly insufferable. Could the rush truly twist one’s nature so deeply? Maybe he’d misjudged Kovu — or maybe this was the real Kovu, the one shaped by hatred, by a mother who would’ve be proud of her spiteful little whelp.

The words tore out of His Majesty, barely a breath:

“Get me out of this……please.”

Kovu scoffed, sharp and scornful.

“See? Was that so hard? Next time, Your Majesty, do try saying it nicely.”

As Kovu drew near, Simba forced himself low to the earth, fury simmering beneath his breath — once this was done, the boy would pay for it. Whether Kovu bit into his neck with intent or not, the sharp sting drew a soft, involuntary whimper from Simba. The young male let out a merciless roar, ordering him to keep quiet, the harsh sound echoing sharply between the narrow stone walls.

His weight settled heavy once more, pressing down like a crushing boulder, stealing the breath from the king’s lungs, forcing him to gape for air. Kovu’s member rubbed against the base of his tail, a low growl urging him to lift himself a little higher.

“Your Majesty,” the young male hissed, “do stop testing my patience — while I still care for your injuries.”

Simba gritted his teeth and obeyed. The whole ordeal bore no hint of pleasure or tenderness—Kovu gave him no time to catch his breath, the barbed prick plunging in and out of his body, again and again. Each movement cut deep, with sharp pain making Simba fear he was bleeding once more. On one occasion, Kovu even drew his member back with deliberate slowness, its barbed edge grazing tender flesh like thorns through silk — a cruel, lingering caress that made the pain sing.

“No! No! Don’t - don’t do this…it hurts, please…”His Majesty covered his face with a trembling paw, vision dimming at the edges. The pain was flooding his mind, leaving him barely aware of what he was saying.

The young lion’s voice came almost lighthearted in reply, “Didn’t I just ask you to keep quiet? Have Your Majesty forgotten already?”

Simba’s jaws remained agape, yet not a sound dared escape. Though he longed—desperately—to ask when it would end, or whether Kovu could be just a little gentler, Simba swallowed the words whole, burying them deep in his throat until all that remained was the faintest, broken whimper. His claws scraped the earth in unconscious, uneven gouges, each swipe etching deeper the turmoil within. The restless flick of his tail betrayed the fury and shame that had long since boiled over. 

When Kovu finally slid off his back, Simba’s restraint broke at last, and he let out a furious roar straight at the young lion’s face.

By sheer instinct, he pressed himself against the stone wall, as if its unyielding chill might offer shelter from the pain. He longing to fold into himself, to vanish into some small, safe corner of the world—like a cub hiding from a storm.  His feminine part throbbed with cruel persistence, dragging soft, broken sounds from deep in his throat. He couldn’t reach it, couldn’t soothe it—could only lap at his own paw in a futile effort to distract himself. 

He knew Kovu was still there.

Those two green embers hung in the dark like ghost-fire, watching. Relentless. Driven by the rush, the young lion seemed like something else entirely—something wild, and frightening. But worse than the terror blooming in his chest was the shame, the aching revulsion for what he’d become: curled, trembling, voiceless.

As Kovu stepped toward him again, Simba let out a low, hollow growl — not the voice of a king, but of something cornered and fraying. It wasn’t a threat, not really — more a trembling plea, the pitiful sound of someone pushed past his limits, begging in the only way pride would still allow. Once, the king’s roar could freeze the world around him — a sound that stilled hearts and carved silence like ice. Now, it did nothing. Kovu pushed on without a pause. The young male bared his fangs, his voice low and commanding as he bore down on Simba, pressing him to the earth and ordering the king bare his defenseless belly.

Then, something shifted.

Kovu dipped his head and grazed Simba’s abdomen with a gentle bite, just enough to sting. A breath, hot and slow, spilled over his skin. And then came the tongue—coarse and deliberate—dragging over the narrow crevice in slow, rhythmic strokes, turning pain into something harder to name.

“Wait… what are you doing?!”

“Silence!”

Kovu’s voice cut through the stillness—sharp, commanding—but beneath it lay a brittle calm, as if he was fighting to keep control. Simba’s breath hitched, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain.

The king crumpled onto the cold ground, raw and vulnerable, as the rough tongue traced agonizing paths over his tormented feminine part. The heat of it both soothed and stung, a cruel comfort he couldn’t escape.

Moisture, thick and raw, oozed from the crevice, swiftly claimed by the warm tongue’s careful devotion—each wet, whispered lap ringing hauntingly in the hush around them.

"Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?"

"What...?"

Simba blinked himself back from the haze, only to find Kovu motionless—his eyes fixed on him, warm and unblinking, as if he'd been watching every breath, every twitch of his body, memorising him in silence.

Then His Majesty looked down.

His slit bloomed crimson, vivid and raw — and clinging to it, a faint thread of something pale and translucent, like sap weeping through a wounded tree, slow and shamefully alive.

“I… this is…” Simba’s voice trembled as he tried to make sense of what he saw.

“Forgive me,” Kovu murmured with mock contrition, “I didn’t realise I’d overindulged—something's spilling free.”

“Enough…” the king panted, each breath a soft plea.

Kovu’s eyes narrowed playfully, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect Your Majesty to enjoy this so much. You did very well — no crying out for Daddy to come save you this time. Brave, truly remarkable. Feeling better now, are you? Shall I carry on then?”

A flush of fierce shame swept through the king. He inched back painfully, trying to hide his vulnerability.

“If I asked you to forget what you just saw…”

“Your Majesty do know that’s a tall order.”

Kovu’s laugh was cruelly innocent. He leaned closer, pinning the king beneath him. His broad, rough tongue traced lightly over the wound on Simba’s neck, where a thin scab had already formed. Simba shivered and closed his eyes. Resisting was futile now; all he could do was hope the young male would show some mercy.

Then the weight on his back lifted. Kovu rolled onto his side beside him, gazing with clear, honest eyes.

“Please, don’t worry — I won’t do it again.”

His voice was calm and normal, as if the swaggering rogue from moments before had never existed.

Simba remained rigid, his body taut as Kovu meticulously groomed his fur. After a moment, the younger lion ceased his motions, a quiet sigh escaping him. He regretted, if only slightly, the cruel things he had said. Yet, it was difficult to remain measured when confronted with those golden-red eyes — bright, proud, and indomitable. He craved the moment that fire would soften into pleading, that the great king would yield to him, wholly and without resistance.

To see such pride broken and willingly offered—was that not every male lion’s deepest ambition? To earn submission from the finest among them—the recognition of a peerless rival.

Now, however, he was left with a mate in a foul mood, and Kovu told himself he would need to temper his impulses next time—should there be a next time.

He rolled languidly onto his back, exposing his belly in a gesture of surrender, a silent reassurance of harmlessness. Simba watched him with thinly veiled suspicion, then turned his face away and snapped:

“Must you lie so close? This place isn’t exactly cramped.”

Kovu leaned in until their faces were nearly touching.

“Ah, but how cruel of Your Majesty to cast me aside so soon. Just moments ago, you were so very eager—have you already forgotten how sweetly you pleaded?”

That earned a snarl. Simba sprang forward, paw raised in protest. But Kovu, ever agile, twisted with ease and pinned him beneath his weight, pressing his face into the thick mane and inhaling deeply. The king’s outraged roar echoed through the cavern.

“It really has changed…” Kovu lifted his gaze, slightly confused—Simba’s paw was pressing against his throat.

“What has?”

“Your scent.” His Majesty didn’t hold back in the slightest; his claws were barely a whisker from breaking skin. But Kovu, entirely unfazed, brushed the paw aside and buried his nose again for a moment before giving his verdict:

“Seems your heat’s passed. Still, Your Majesty smell as good as ever.”

“What a relief.” Simba said dryly, unsure what to feel about it.

His first mating season spent with another male had left him with conflicting memories. One could only hope next year wouldn’t be quite so exhausting.

“I hate change.” he muttered. Whether it was the rush and ebb of heat, or how his scent shifted with the act itself—it all unsettled him. Simba hated the feeling of losing control, especially over his own body.

“I know,” Kovu said, blinking innocently. “I hated the way I acted earlier, too.”

Simba offered him a withering glance: Do you really expect me to believe that?

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“Who, me?”

Kovu said, all false innocence. What a joke. He’d never been more pleased with himself—but if he said that out loud, he’d earn himself another slap. So instead, he bit back the grin curling at his lips and focused on soothing his mate.

And when he wasn’t licking wounds or grooming fur, Kovu liked to chatter: Had His Majesty ever wondered why his body had changed like this? What would he do if he really got pregnant? Would he raise the cubs alone, Simba?

To which the King, with a wry edge that masked a warning, cuffed him and said, you’re not to use my name so casually.

“Stop talking nonsense,” Simba muttered. He avoided thinking about the pregnancy altogether, hoping that if he didn’t acknowledge it, it might cease to be real. “Just tell me how to get out of here.”

Kovu rose to his feet and padded deeper into the cave. Simba followed him, the walls narrowing until they had to crawl. At the very end, Kovu placed a paw against a slab of rock and pushed. From outside came the faint tumble of loose stones.

“If you clear this out, you can slip through to the other side of the valley. Your Majesty know what to do from there, don’t you?”

Kovu turned, a wicked glint in his eye.

“Run. Run away, and never return.”

Had they not been wedged into such an absurdly tight tunnel, Simba would’ve swatted him on the spot.

Did Zira really feed him every tale about Scar like bedtime stories? How in the world did he even know that line?!

“What will happen to you?”

Once they were out of the narrow passage, Simba hesitated before finally asking.

Kovu replied with careless ease, “Your Majesty really shouldn’t trouble yourself so much. I’m honestly hoping you’ll leave soon—otherwise, I’m on edge every moment. You have no idea how many eyes are watching you, nor what they’re plotting. I can’t even put it into words.”

Simba frowned, and Kovu circled him, nudging his neck insistently. The king wasn’t used to the young lion’s sudden change—from fiery dominance to clinging gentleness—as if he wanted to stick to him. And that boy, it seemed, had an endless stream of things to say.

“You should work on your temper.”

The words barely left Simba’s mouth before Kovu froze, then burst into wild laughter.

“Really? I’m the one with the bad temper?” His chuckles rang out, relentless, driving Simba to glare at him in mock annoyance. “Alright, alright. But you are an alpha male, Your Majesty… well, most of the time, anyway. So I suppose you can understand me?”

Simba turned away with a sigh, his tail brushing teasingly across Kovu’s face.

The young male’s smile flickered, a new complexity in his eyes. Could it be that the proud king saw him as more than just a suitable mate? Perhaps there was hope for something more… something stronger.

“Why hasn’t night fallen yet? I really don’t want to stay here a moment longer.”

Simba lay in the corner with careless grace, his form draped like crimson velvet in the dim light, ears twitching in idle rhythm against the stone. There was a languid tension in him—too deliberate to be ease, too alluring to be ignored.

Kovu drew nearer, his eyes tracing the contours of Simba’s body. The mottled wounds, now swiftly healing, whispered of renewal—soon the king would stand whole again, a radiant sun whose fierce light made Kovu feel small and awed, barely daring to meet his gaze.

Do not unleash that charm so casually, He thought bitterly. 

Or He might just have to keep His Majesty here. 

By any means necessary.

Chapter Text

Zira discovered Simba had vanished — slipped away from the depths of the cave, where the air still clung thick with the scent of mating. But what ignited her true fury awaited at the other end of the ravine: the crumpled corpse of Nuka. He had apparently fallen while scrambling over a pile of dead wood; a great log had collapsed upon him, crushing his spine and killing him almost instantly.

The lioness’s roar tore through the valley like thunder, and the messengers who had come to report it lowered their heads in silence, not daring to utter a word. Vitani’s gaze turned toward Kovu with suspicion. He looked too calm — as though he already knew what had transpired. And Simba’s disappearance, she felt sure, was no coincidence. Nor could Nuka’s inexplicable journey to the far side of the gorge be dismissed — their mother had given no such order, and Nuka had never disobeyed her commands.

Vitani pressed him with questions, but Kovu remained stone-faced and silent. Then Zira declared she would see the site of Nuka’s death for herself.

She moved through the ruined timber like a shadow in mourning, her steps heavy with rage. Long experience made it easy for her to discern the truth: two sets of claw marks. Simba had been here. She hissed the words aloud — more conviction and theory. Nuka must have found the fugitive king, given chase, and been slain for his trouble.

A wave of fury swept through the gathered lions. Cries for vengeance rose swiftly — they begged her to march on the Pride Land, to make Simba pay with blood. But Zira, unmoved by the clamour, strode directly toward the last son she had left.

“Well?” she asked, her voice low and sharp. “Have you nothing to say?”

“Simba escaped under my watch,” Kovu replied, expressionless. “I accept full responsibility.”

“I’ve heard you’ve taken rather tender care of the king,” Zira said, her gaze narrowing, voice velveted with threat. There were things she had chosen not to question — but that did not mean she had failed to notice.

Kovu twisted his lips into a cruel smile. “Because Mother always said it was better to keep him alive. I could never quite understand why. Was he truly just a bargaining chip to you?” He ran his tongue slowly across his teeth, eyes rolling upward in languid indulgent satisfaction. “I was merely indulging my curiosity. I didn’t expect him to be so cunning—pretending to submit, only to plot an escape. That was my mistake. I should never have gone easy on him.”

“Is that all?” Zira’s gaze was fixed sharply on her youngest boy. The more she looked, the less she recognised the cub she had raised with her own paws.

“If you’re asking about Nuka’s death, that had nothing to do with me.” Kovu remained composed, his voice flat and untroubled. “I suspect he stumbled upon Simba trying to flee during his night patrol. He finally saw a chance to win your favour—he’d never have handed it to me willingly. You know how desperately he wanted to make you proud.” His smile turned colder, biting. “Had he not tried to play the hero alone, he might yet be breathing.”

“Kovu!” Vitani roared, lunging at him. “He was our brother!”

Kovu looked genuinely surprised—there were tears in her eyes. He hadn’t expected that. When had she begun to believe in this elaborate farce of a family?

Zira never saw us as her children. She went mad the day Scar died. One day, she woke from a dream spouting madness and swore Scar had returned—through me. She left you and Nuka to fend for yourselves while pushing me through training that nearly killed me time and again. She wanted us to be like her, living only for some foolish revenge. My dear, dearest sister, of all of us, you know that truth best.

Vitani’s eyes were bloodshot, wide with fury and grief. Her young brother was looking at her with something between mockery and pity. She had never liked Kovu—now, she hated him.

“He is our brother.”

She repeated the words, then turned away, stepping back as tears fell at her feet, stirring up the dust. “Enough”. She heard their mother’s voice ring out. “Nuka had failed, and the price of failure was death — a lesson we must never forget.”

Zira leapt onto a nearby rock, her gaze sharp and commanding as she declared her plan. “The weakened king had fled, and the Pride Land would surely lower their guard. Now was the moment to strike. Be prepared — we will reclaim what is ours, by force!”

The pride erupted in fervour, rising on their haunches, claws slashing the air in solemn oath to wash the Pride Land with blood. Their battle roars thundered through the valley like rolling storm.

Kovu stood at the middle of the pride, weaving through the pressing bodies like a shadow among flames. He caught sight of Zira’s dangerous smile.

“This is your last chance to redeem yourself. You know well the cost of defeat.”

With steely resolve, Kovu lifted his head.

“Rest assured, I will make him regret ever escaping from me.”

Chapter Text

News of the king’s safe return spread swiftly throughout the Pride Land, and animals gathered by the thousands at Pride Rock, eager to see the monarch with their own eyes. When that flash of golden-red fur appeared bathed in sunlight, the entire assembly erupted in joy. He still looked strong, standing tall against the breeze. Blessings and greetings were offered, and the animals dispersed in groups. They did not notice that Zazu had quietly kept back the guards assigned to the border, while the Queen and Princess hurried forward to support the king’s unsteady frame.

Inside the cave, Kion was throwing a fierce tantrum, demanding to know why his father hadn’t called him back sooner, why His Majesty had allowed a stranger male to roam freely within the Pride Land, even within their own living quarters. Kiara felt a heavy pang of guilt—she struggled to believe Kovu could betray them, yet no matter what, it had been her who pleaded with their father to let Kovu stay. The burden weighed so heavily that she dared not look closely at her father’s wounds. Kion continued shouting, "Seriously, Kiara? You just believe anyone! And you’re supposed to be queen one day?"

Simba listened quietly as the argument played out, offering the occasional half-hearted comment to keep the tension from boiling over. He lay stretched on a bed of soft dry grass while Rafiki tended his wounds with herbal salves. Nala sat beside him, silently grooming his face. He still had the energy to nudge her with a smirk, “Why the long face? Thought I couldn’t make it, did you?”

Nala rolled her eyes in mild annoyance before turning to scold her kids:

“Can you two be quiet for once?!”

Kiara and Kion clammed up at once—ever since they were cubs, they’d known that when Mum got mad, she was way scarier than Dad. Even Simba didn’t dare talk back when she was fuming.

“How is everything with him?"

Nala’s voice was low with worry as she turned to Rafiki. The moment she saw her king again, she had been overwhelmed with relief—until she saw the wounds that scored his body, and then she could hardly bear to imagine what he had been through, let alone find the words to ask. Simba, ever flippant, tried to brush it off with a smile, claiming he’d simply gone to laugh in the face of danger again. It had been perilous, sure - but hadn’t he always made it home? Couldn’t she be happy for once?

With a weary sigh, Nala nipped his ear. “You’re not that reckless little hairball anymore, Simba. You’re the King. Next time you’re about to do something stupid, please remember the responsibilities that come with your title.”

Simba clapped his paws over ears like a cub. “Nala, you sound like my father again. Do you have any idea how boring that is?”

The old mandrill cleared his throat, politely interrupting their playful squabble.

“King Simba’s injuries are not severe. With rest, he will soon recover.”

A collective sigh of relief passed through the lions gathered there. Timon and Pumbaa, who had been sniffling throughout, promptly burst into louder tears. Timon wailed that he’d known their sunny boy would be fine all along, even as he clambered up to ruffle the lion’s mane with frantic affection.

“Next time you sneak off on some adventure, bring us along! Don’t tell me you think we’d slow you down!”

Simba was just about to tease him with a grin, but Nala caught the strange look in Rafiki’s eyes and asked with concern, “Rafiki… is there anything else we should know?” 

The mandrill finished applying the last of the herbs in solemn silence, his palm resting gently on Simba’s abdomen. Only Nala’s eyes widened at once.

Rafiki looked at her seriously. “You’ve seen it too, Your Majesty? Then it seems what we feared most is coming true.”

“What are you talking about?”

Simba’s eyes flickered between their faces, and in that moment, the unspoken dread he had long feared finally settled upon him.

A cold fear coiled tight around his heart. His smile froze on lips, and his mind slipped into a haze. The voices around him grew distant, muffled, as though underwater.

He caught the faintest whisper of Nala’s voice before Kion’s roar shattered the silence—raw and thunderous, shaking the very heavens above. Outside, the tranquil sky darkened, split open by jagged lightning and the rumble of gathering storm.

“I will kill him! I swear I’ll kill ‘im! What d’you think you’re doin’, Kiara? Why’re you stoppin’ me? D’you have any idea what that bastard’s done? Now get outta my way! I’m gonna kill ‘im!!”

Nala rushed to block his path, scolding him sharply. “Enough, Kion! You were brought back to protect your father. Do not rush into things like a reckless child. Do you understand?”

Kion opened his mouth to retort, but one more glance at Simba - lying still and pale in the grass - stole the words from his throat. His eyes burned red with unshed tears, and he bowed his head in silence.

Sobbing, Kiara flung herself into her father’s mane, pressing her nose into his fur—yet it no longer carried the scent of the lion she had known since her cubhood. She understood, all too clearly, the meaning of this change.

And when Simba finally stirred from the fog, his daughter’s tears were already soaking into his coat.

“Dad… how could this happen? Why did this have to happen? I thought the mating season only lasts a few days, and everything will be fine once it’s over… How could this be…”

Simba and Nala had, of course, never hidden this from their children. Such matters required family support at the right time, and so for the past few years, there had been no issues. Yet no one could have foreseen such merciless timing—Simba’s heat took hold at the very moment battle called, leaving him helpless and isolated behind enemy lines for a full day and night.

Desperate, Nala sought out the wise old Rafiki, asking if there were any herbs that could prevent pregnancy. The elder paused in silence before shaking his head. The King’s body was unlike any other, and he was unsure if conventional remedies would work; worse still, they might cause even greater harm.

Finally, His Majesty spoke calmly, and the entire cave fell silent.

“Don’t cry, Kiara. I will be alright.” His gaze was tender as he looked at his tear-streaked daughter. “You and Kion go outside for a moment. I have something to discuss with your mother.”

The young prince and princess left side by side. Simba then turned toward the others. “So, how long are we planning to cry?” he asked, his gaze landing on Pumbaa’s watery gaze as he summoned a weary smile. “Hakuna Matata, right? It means no worries.”

Timon grabbed Pumbaa’s arm and began to lead him away. “Our sunny boy isn’t a cub anymore; he can take care of himself. So Pumbaa, if you keep crying, I’ll use you to mop the floor.”

The warthog shot back, unwilling to be outdone: “And you, Timon, what about that huge puddle you cried? You’d make a lousy mop, just a bit of fur that won’t even clean a foot.”

The two bickered as they walked off, leaving the cave in a lighter mood.

Simba’s smile faded. He gave Rafiki a silent nod, and the aged primate, leaning on his staff, slowly departed—leaving the cave to the King and Queen.

“You’re absolutely out of your mind.”

Nala sat beside him, tail lashing in agitation. Simba turned his head, hoping to catch her eyes, but the lioness was glaring stubbornly at the ceiling of the cave, refusing to meet his gaze.

“How was I supposed to know it’d turn out like that?” he said, sounding ridiculously innocent.

“Then control yourself! Stop thinking with that thing between your legs!” If he weren’t covered in wounds, Nala would’ve gladly given him a slap. “So what now? You heard what Rafiki said. Do you really think you’ve got a choice?”

“Alright, alright. No choice. So be it.” Simba flopped back onto the dry grass. This was more like it—his own soft bedding. That bloody cave yesterday had been all sharp stones and rubble. How Kovu managed to live in a place like that, he couldn’t begin to understand. Still, the lad had pulled it off: gave him a nice escape route, plus a little bonus: neatly arranging for the King to clear away his only real rival. Simba honestly couldn’t see what Kovu was so worried about. Not like that waste of fur ever counted as a true rival. Hopefully the boy would keep his head down for a few days... if Zira hadn’t torn him apart already.

Nala stared at him in disbelief as the King drift off into comfortable silence. Her sudden growl startled Simba so much he nearly leap out of his fur.

“Hey! What was that for?!”

“Took the words right out my mouth! Simba, you’re no longer a young cub - you can’t just run your body into the ground however you like?” Now she really did want to smack him. Not that it’d hurt much, and who knows—maybe it’d knock some sense back into that thick skull of his.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

Before Nala, honesty was all he owed—one of the secrets to their many years of harmony. Her gaze softened from irritation to reproach, and finally settled into quiet bitterness.

“Get some rest. You must be exhausted.”

She sighed gently and leaned over to lie beside Simba.

“Alright, I’ll rest. But just so you know, it’s because I’m wounded, not for any other reason.”

Simba smiled wryly as he settled back onto the dry grass. “Have you forgotten what you were like back then? When you threw those paws around, you never looked tired for a second. Honestly, agreeing to have another cub with you was pure madness — you nearly knocked me out cold. You’ve never gone easy on me since we were cubs. It’s so humiliating to lose a fight to you. And I’m the King, you have any idea…”

“Simba.”

Now he had to stop. Nala’s calm eyes pierced through every mask he wore. At this moment, His Majesty was just Simba. So he let the carefully crafted smile fall away and exhaled deeply, as if unburdening a thousand burdens.

“I’m not feeling well.” He slowly rolled his eyes.

“Mm.”

“I didn’t know it would hurt so much.” He blinked, pushing back the sting of bitterness.

“I know.”

“I was scared… back there.” His voice trembled. Before pride could falter further, Nala leaned in, licking the corner of his eye —an unspoken promise between them.

“I’m here.”

Nala said nothing more—only remained quietly at Simba’s side, listening as his breathing grew slow and even. Let him not dream of dreadful things, Nala thought to herself.

She recalled the days when she had carried Kiara or Kion, and how the pride had always stood behind her like a wall of warmth and strength. She had been surrounded by the care of her kin, with Simba indulging her every foul mood with tireless patience and quiet tenderness. But when it came to his own trials—those long-lingering nightmares—Simba had always borne them alone. No one could truly share the weight of his suffering.

He would often wake in the dead of night, never knowing that Nala had seen the silent tears tracing paths down his face.

And what had he endured this time? He would not speak of it. A lion like Simba—so proud, so unyielding—would sooner carry his suffering alone than let slip the smallest sign of weakness.

Whatever lay ahead, Nala vowed she would remain by his side. She only prayed she still had the strength to reach him.

Chapter Text

The Pride Land had tightened its border patrols, so word of the Outlanders’ unusual movements arrived swiftly: more lions were gathering than previously observed, and at their current pace, they would cross the river at the kingdom’s edge before dawn.

War was coming.

The whole kingdom was on high alert—but fortunately, preparations had been made. Now all that remained was to follow the agreed-upon strategy and meet the enemy head-on. Kion and the Lion Guard were to take the vanguard. Being fewer in number, they could move more quickly and respond to sudden developments. Nala planned to lead the pride into battle herself, and Kiara insisted on going with her.

That was where Simba drew the line. “You're all going, and I’m supposed to sit here waiting for news? What kind of joke is this? Do you even remember I’m your king?”

But both lionesses pressed him back down—one on each side—with the clear look of: try it and we’ll break your legs.

“Dad, you wouldn’t be much help on the battlefield right now.” Kiara trailed off, and Simba could guess what she’d meant to say—that he’d only slow them down.

“Kiara is still young, Simba,” Nala said sternly. “The Pride Land needs you here. You absolutely must not take any risks.”

“And I’m just supposed to sit back and watch all of you go risk your lives?”

“Well, you’ve left me no choice.” Nala cleared her throat and said, “Simba, now you'd just be a walking target out there. Staying put is how you help.”

Simba had no answer to that. He slumped back down, thoroughly defeated.

“Don’t sulk. Zazu will report back with updates, and if anything changes, we’ll need your judgement,” Nala said gently, her voice dipping into that patient tone she usually saved for the cubs. Simba always acted like one in front of her, after all. “You’ll behave, won’t you? Promise me?”

Simba let out a huff, caught somewhere between a laugh and a grumble. “Hey, you promised you wouldn’t use that tone on me in front of kids!”

Kiara turned and walked quickly away. “I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything. I’m actually not here.”

“Oh, come on - cut me some slack. It’s a special occasion,” Nala chuckled. “Not like someone didn’t just throw a fit right when we needed him calm, hmm?”

Zazu flitted in and out, chattering incessantly as he relayed updates from the battlefield. Simba paced back and forth in mounting anxiety; more than once he tried to bolt for the front lines, only to be held back—firmly, and with some effort—by Timon and Pumbaa. The hornbill held great admiration for Her Majesty’s foresight. Had those two not been there, he wasn’t sure he could have held the King back.

Dark clouds gathered above the Pride Rock, and the distant roars of battle rolled in like thunder. At times, the storm clouds seemed to take on the shape of beasts, the sky splitting open with lightning as the winds tore across the plains. Though far from the fray, Simba listened keenly, issuing swift commands to adjust their formations. His years of experience meant his judgement remained sharp even from a distance. Still, he loathed being kept away. His loved ones were out there, and with every heartbeat, his thoughts were pulled toward those he held dear. If anything were to happen to any one of them…

Simba shook his mane hard, as though to cast out those dreadful thoughts. And then there was Kovu. He must be out there too. Would he even make it back alive? Simba sank to the ground, his gaze falling to his still-flat belly. Kovu didn’t even know this yet…

Eventually, the black clouds began to part, thunder fading into gentle rain that fell soft and steady over the battle-worn land. Word of victory soon followed. Simba barely paused to celebrate—he dashed out at once, eyes scanning the pride for those most dear to him. He caught sight of Nala first. She looked tired, but strong, bearing only minor wounds. Kiara walked beside her with a slight limp, brushing it off with a grin. “I’ve had worse,” she said, “Hunting wounds hurt more than this.”

“Where’s Kion?”

Simba’s heart seized with dread as he craned his neck, peering across the pride. His boy had that fiery red mane—just like his own—should’ve stood out a mile. But he couldn’t see it… couldn’t see him anywhere…

“Kion!!”

“Dad! Over here!”

Simba bolted towards the voice. At the rear of the pride stood Kion, caked in mud from mane to paw, so filthy his own colour was all but hidden.

Relief washed over Simba. “Are you alright? Were you hurt?”

Kion lifted his chin with pride—his special power had made him unstoppable in battle. Not only had he come through unscratched—he’d even captured an important enemy.

“What do you mean? Who’s that?”

Simba glanced beyond Kion to see the Lion Guard forming a tight circle. Two lionesses were holding Kovu firmly pinned to the ground. Simba blinked rain from his eyes, trying to make out the young lion’s face—but it was hard to see through the downpour.

Still… he was alive. Whatever else had happened, Kovu was alive.

“Kion, what about the other Outsiders? Where’s Zira?”

“She’s dead.”

Simba’s eyes widen in shock. “Who did that? Why wasn’t she taken alive?”

“It wasn’t us.” Kiara chimed in, stumbling toward them. “Zira tried to drag Mum off the cliff. It was Kovu… he threw himself between them. They both went over.”

She cast an uneasy glance at the young lion nearby.

“Zira couldn’t make it back. The flood took her.”

Kion shook mud from his face and strode toward the circle, voice raised with accusation.

“No one saw you climb out. No one saw how Zira fell,” Perched above, Kion let the question fall from his lips—quiet, yet it cleaved through the rain like a blade. “Care to tell us how it happened?”

The outsider slowly lifted his head. His right eye was swollen shut from injury, the lid hanging low and heavy. Kion stared into the scarred left eye that mirrored his own and clenched his jaw. The young prince could hardly bear the sight of him. Even if this outsider bore no connection to the father he held in such esteem, Kion doubted his loathing would be any less. Full-grown alpha males repelled one another—an ancient tension written into their blood, where instinct offered the perfect veil for all that simmered beneath.

Had Her Majesty not insisted the outsider be brought in alive, Kovu would’ve been dead already.

“Is Your Highness not satisfied with the outcome?”

Kion found himself momentarily at a loss for words. The day’s battle had gone remarkably smoothly — the lions of Pride Land sustaining minimal casualties, while the enemy’s tactics played directly into their favour. Several laid traps had successfully lured the foe deep into their grasp, fragmenting their forces at critical moments. With their formations broken, the outsiders’ defeat was all but assured. Many had lost their resolve early on and surrendered without resistance. All that remained was to await His Majesty’s command regarding the fate of the survivors.

Yet the ease of victory felt unsettling.

Having clashed with the outsiders before, Kion knew very well how cunning Zira was. He had never seen such glaring mistakes made by a commander in the field, as if they had invited death itself. Kion lowered his voice to share his concerns with His Majesty, his instincts warning him that the lion before them was not to be trusted.

“Father, he’s already deceived you once — don’t fall for it again!”

Simba lowered his gaze silently, under the watchful glow of those glimmering green eyes.

"I humbly ask to join your pride."

A voice, neither loud nor soft, came just within earshot of Simba’s attention.

“Take it as my… pledge of loyalty.”

“How dare you!” Kion shouted in anger,“That’s your mother!”

“That’s your enemy.” Kovu’s voice, chill and composed, cut like ice through the blaze of the young prince’s fury. “No — That’s our enemy.”

“You bastard!”

“Enough.” Simba interrupted firmly.

“Release him.”

“Father!”

Kion and Kiara cried out together, desperate to stop their father, but the King’s command stood. The guards released Kovu and silently withdrew to the side.

Simba stepped forward to check on Kovu. The lions held their breath. Kion leapt between them at once.

“Get up. Now!” The prince snarled through clenched teeth. “No more pity acts — I know you’re hardly scratched.”

Kovu let out a slow breath as he stood, his left hind leg twisting slightly where it had sunk into the mud—nothing that impaired his movement. He tilted his head back, letting the rain wash away the blood and mud. The right side still throbbed dully. How curious, he thought wryly, that father and son shared the same preference—both seemed to have a fondness for strike him across the face. Luckily, he’d been prepared this time. A heartbeat’s delay, and Kion might have gouged his eye out.

“Nice punch, Your Highness,” Kovu said, voice smooth as polished stone—though his gaze never wavered from Simba. “Though still a long way from matching His Majesty.”

“Kovu…” Kiara stepped up beside her young brother. The lion before her wore a face she barely recognised—too sharp, too calm. The warmth she remembered had faded into something cold and unknowable. A shiver crept down her spine.

Then he turned to her, and the change was instant. His whole face lit up with disarming cheer. “Kiara! Thank the stars - you're all right!”

The sudden shift in tone was unsettling. Kion stole another glance at his father. Why the hesitation? Why hadn’t judgment been passed already?

A lion who could betray his own mother—what made the King believe he wouldn’t one day betray them too?

Simba lowered his gaze, meeting the young prince’s look—so full of unease and silent appeal. He offered no explanation, only said softly, “You’ve done well, Kion. Thank you.”

“Dad…” Kion murmured, frustration and confusion flickering in his voice. He still couldn’t grasp what his father was thinking.

Simba then turned to inquire about the other Outsiders. The guard reported that most had been captured successfully. Some were gravely injured but might still survive. But every adult male - save the one now standing before His Majesty - had perished.

A heavy silence settled over the pride. The leaders of each combat team glanced at one another, their confusion edged with unease. They all swore they had followed orders. The Queen’s command had been clear: take prisoners whenever you can.

Kion and Kiara exchanged a glance. The battle had moved too swiftly, too chaotically, for them to notice how—or when—the deaths had occurred. Still, as grim as it was, the outcome had its advantages. A single surviving young male was a risk. But manageable. Far more so than many.

Kion stepped forward, his gaze sharp and unreadable as it fixed on Kovu.

“Well? Nothing you’d like to explain?”

Kovu smiled, smug and unnervingly calm.

“Explain?” he echoed, tilting his head with exaggerated confusion. “Why some of them died? I thought that was obvious.”

His voice darkened.

“They were weak. They deserved it.”

Kion cut him off, voice like a whip.

“That’s your idea of loyalty? Not just your mother—any lion who stood in your way. You think spilling their blood earns our trust? That butchering your own kin proves your allegiance?”

But this time, the pride didn’t echo him. The murmurs rising around them were mixed, uncertain. Cruel as it was, wasn’t that the very definition of defection?

Betraying your own kind? If Kovu had truly burned every bridge behind him—severed all ties—maybe he meant it. Maybe there was no going back.

Some even began whispering about the old conflict. If His Majesty had truly wanted to be rid of Kovu, he’d had the chance. Twice the boy had lured Princess Kiara away—and twice, Simba had let it go. That had to mean something.

And no one could deny Kovu’s potential. A lion like him, sharp and unshaken… why not bring him into the fold?

“Your Majesty, is your wound healing well?”

The words came softly—just loud enough Simba and his children to hear. Kovu’s tone was light, almost gentle.

Simba didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch. Kiara glanced between her father and her old friend, uncertain whether she’d imagined that flicker of concern in Kovu’s voice.

But Kion ground his teeth. How dare he? After everything—after all he’d caused—to stand there as if nothing had happened, as if a few soft words could wash the blood away—

“I won’t deny it,” Kovu said, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Simba. “It was my fault. The King suffered because of me.” He paused, voice low but steady. “Which is exactly why the others had to die. Surely… of all lions, Your Majesty understands that.”

Simba’s growl rumbled low in his throat. “Is that a threat?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Kovu replied, bowing his head with practiced humility. The resemblance to the young outsider who had once sought shelter in the Pride was striking - and deeply unsettling. “Only tying up loose ends, that’s all.”

Simba did not answer him. He turned to his pride instead, voice steady and resolute.

“We will offer sanctuary to all the lionesses taken captive—so long as they wish to stay. The Pride Land welcomes them in good faith.”

Vitani broke the hush with a furious cry.
“I’d rather die than be a traitor!”

She lunged at Kovu, but the guards held her fast. Her gaze was filled with sorrow and wrath.

She should’ve known. From the very first moment Kovu had laid eyes on that King, his heart had been lost. And now, after all their efforts—after her mother changed their plans on his advice—it had come to this. A total, humiliating defeat.

If only she'd seen it coming… Maybe then her mother… maybe Nuka…

“Liar! You lying traitor!” Vitani’s voice cracked, hoarse and wild even as the guards restrained her. Kovu turned away with a faint wince, unwilling—or unable—to meet the truth blazing in her eyes.

After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke with low voice. He asked the King to let her go—not back to the Outlands, but somewhere far, far beyond. Somewhere she could never return from.

Kion scoffed bitterly. “Oh, now you want to play the family card? Don’t bother with the drama—it’s just pathetic.”

Yet, to his dismay, Simba gave a subtle nod of approval.

A few lionesses who had refused to join the Pride stepped forward. “If we go together, our chances of survival might be better,” one of them said. Vitani gave them a look of quiet gratitude, and the border patrol began escorting them away.

That was the last time Kovu ever saw his sister - she didn’t spare him so much as a glance.

“Off you go,” Simba said to his children, fatigue tugging at his voice as he watched the departing lionesses. “See the others are settled. The sun will be up soon, and the Pride Land still needs you.”

Then his gaze shifted to Kovu, who was still watching his sister vanish into the distance.

“I need a word with him. Alone.”

“Dad!” Kion stepped forward at once. “It’s not safe! At least take a guard—or let Kiara or me come with you!”

But Simba only shook his head with a faint, patient smile.

“Don’t go far then,” Kion pressed, worry creeping into his voice. “Just... stay where we can see you.”

His gaze lingered on the wound across his father’s shoulder. It would take a moon at least before the King could hunt again. The thought of Simba alone with Kovu—Kion clenched his jaw. He trusted Kovu no more than he’d trust a snake.

Simba leaned down, brushing his cheek against his son’s in quiet affection.

“I will.” he said gently. “So no sneaking after us, alright? No eavesdropping.”

Kion, realising he’d been seen through, glanced away in embarrassment.

The pride slowly dispersed. There was still much to be done. Only the Queen and her children remained, watching as Simba and Kovu made their way toward the shade of a nearby tree.

“I just don’t get it,” Kion muttered, glaring at the two figures. “He’s clever, sure—but it’s not like we’re desperate for fighters. Why’s Dad so set on keep him?”

“Yeah…me too.” Kiara murmured, her gaze distant. She was still replaying Kovu’s every word and look.

Kion snorted. “Please. Your reasons sound different. Come on, Kiara—don’t be naive. He deliberately played dumb in front of you. You know that, right? Just to win your sympathy and get close to our Dad. And now you’ve seen what he’s really like. He changes his face faster than a dust storm.

He sold out his whole pride—and then gives his sister a free pass? That wasn’t mercy. That was theatre.”

“You don’t know anything about him!” Kiara shot back. “You’ve only met him twice!”

Before the siblings could spiral further, Nala stepped in, her voice firm.

“Trust your father. He knows what he’s doing.”

She paused—then, softer, almost to herself:

“I hope he does.”

Chapter Text

Kovu followed quietly at Simba’s side, well aware of the watchful eyes trailing his every step. He kept a respectful distance—never too close, deliberately lagging half a pace behind. No doubt the King would have questions, each one a snare, waiting to be triggered by a careless word. Kovu chose his silence carefully. He had much to atone for, chief among them the shame of turning against his own kin. If only he could find a way to prove his heart—and, perhaps, his affection—to His Majesty.

Simba stopped beneath a thick-boughed tree—his favourite watering place. The storm had passed, and the pond lay still and smooth, mirroring the fragile peace between them: calm above, yet beneath the surface, currents twisted in silence, waiting to break.

Intent on claiming the upper paw, Simba cast the first stone.

“I think you might like to know - there’s life growing within me.”

Kovu stopped dead, mouth parted, robbed of speech. Simba sat quietly beside the pool, his gentle gaze resting softly upon his own tender belly. The sight overwhelmed Kovu with a fierce longing—he had been restraining himself since the moment he’d laid eyes on the King again, and his self-control was now worn thin. It had been days since they last met. His Majesty had family and friends to comfort him; perhaps, upon his return to the Pride Land, he had cast all thought of Kovu aside.

The young male lion, by contrast, had been left in that sunless exile, chilled to the bone. He had walked a knife’s edge—keeping Zira ensnared in his quiet deceit while ensuring none of the outlanders, least of all Vitani, suspected the truth of his divided heart. On sleepless nights he would gaze up at the stars Simba had once called his guides - and made his: Great Kings of ages gone - light my path, and steel my spirit.

And he had endured. Every bitter moment, he had survived. Now the one he had yearned for stood right before him, but he dared not draw near. Kion’s words from earlier had been for his ears alone; should he step out of line, even once, he would be struck down without mercy. The Prince’s power on the battlefield still echoed in his mind—that mighty roar that bent the wind and sky… what on earth was that?!

“And you… I mean, Your Majesty—do you intend to keep it?” The question left him in a cautious breath, though his face could not quite hide the rising thrill.

The King met his eyes, gaze inscrutable, laden with meaning.

“That depends entirely,” came the King’s voice - measured, but edged with steel -“on what you say next.”

Kovu held his breath. His heart had begun to pound, unruly and loud. Of course Simba’s first question would be about his escape that night. 

“What was I to make of that?” Simba’s gaze was level, his voice grave. “You let me strike down your own brother with my own paws. That takes boldness—perhaps too much.”

Kovu faltered inwardly. He had known Nuka was assigned the night watch, but whether his brother would have caught Simba then and there was uncertain. If not, all the better. But if he had—well…

“Surely Your Majesty could handle a single overconfident outsider.”

Simba’s eyes were cold as the wind on high cliffs. “How kind of you,” he said, voice like frost, “to place such faith in my strength.”

Even now, the memory sent a chill to the King’s brow. Had Nuka not, by sheer misfortune, stepped onto a fractured branch, the outcome might have been far less certain.

Kovu dared not look away. He needed to appear unsettled—but only just enough. He felt certain Simba would believe this version of events: it was plausible, if not spotless. Full confession was never his style. A reckless burst of honesty would only feed the King’s doubt.

And in fairness, he had warned Nuka to be cautious during the patrol. He’d even implied that the Pride Land might attempt a rescue. His foolish brother swallowed it whole, never doubting a word. When he stumbled upon Simba slipping through the valley’s shadow, he had already used up the last of his luck.

Kovu had watched everything from the cliffs, his breath caught in his throat. If Simba couldn’t escape, of course he would intervene. He lay atop the rock, dreaming of the moment he might descend like a saviour from above—if only given the chance. Then His Majesty’s guilt and gratitude might deepen, might blossom into something more. Perhaps even affection. But alas, it was just like the lion he adored: far too strong to ever need rescuing by another hero.

A pity, really - but so be it.

Simba’s expression told Kovu all he needed: he accepted the story, at least for now. His next question came without ceremony.

“And Zira? How did she die?”

Kovu closed his eyes, as if bracing himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was low—careful, measured—revealing how it all came to be.

He began to recall her clinging to the cliff’s edge, as the floodwaters roared below. He had pleaded with her. “Let go, Mother. It’s over. We’ve lost. Must you die for a dream that was never real?”

But Zira had refused his paw. Refused to climb.

This was the end she had chosen. Death as the price of failure.

He could still see her—head held high, eyes alight with pride… or madness—as she fell backwards into the gorge, swallowed whole by the current.

Kovu had not opened his eyes since the last word left his mouth. The pain was genuine. His resentment for her was real—but so too was the grief of watching her die.

The young lion lowered his head, as if unwilling to revisit the memory.

Simba, hearing the soft hitch of his breath, spoken at last -slowly and gently, as if to ease the weight.

“Even if you had saved her, she would never have accepted what followed. Her end would have come all the same.”

Kovu nodded, the motion almost imperceptible.

This time, he did not lie. He had tried to save her. He wasn’t sure why—it had simply overtaken him, some primal instinct refusing to let her fall.

But Kovu hadn’t told Simba everything.

In Zira’s final moments, she saw through more than Kovu had expected: the forbidden desire he bore for the King, his long-harboured allegiance to the Pride Land, the part he played in Nuka’s fall - and how this final battle had been lost, in no small part, because of him and the lies he so carefully fed.

He confessed to none of those charges, though his mother no longer sought a response.

That’s my boy.

She had left him with a final parting word:

“Stay alive, Kovu. Your survival shall be mine—and Scar’s—final victory.”

Then, with a twisted, almost delighted smile, she released her claws from the rock and flung herself into death’s embrace.

This would surely haunt his dreams in the rest of his days.

Perhaps, Kovu mused with twisted delight, he might share those nightmares with His Majesty—

And wouldn’t that be the sweetest balm of all?

“The last one.”

Simba’s voice pulled him back from his drifting thoughts. Clearly, the thoughts of his mother stirred a soft place within His Majesty’s heart, yet not the faintest flicker of doubt crossed the King’s gaze.

Kovu watched him in silence - still so earnest, so kind-hearted. No wonder his children all bore that noble weakness alike—the readiness to trust strangers, the mercy to spare foes.

“Kion said the battle was won far too easily. He doubts that was the true strength of Zira and the outlanders.”

“It was not,” Kovu replied plainly. “I fed Zira a flawed strategy - that’s what led to her crushing defeat. But I never thought she’d go so far as to drag the Queen into her fall. In that moment, I was terrified. I know how much Her Majesty means to you.”

He laid it bare, his words clear and sharp. He had walked both sides for this—this one chance. Until now, neither side could know where his loyalties lay.

“Thank the stars she came through unscathed. Please, Your Majesty… forgive my misjudgment.”

Simba looked at him with a measure of surprise—but not disbelief.

After all, it was precisely what he had expected.

As Kovu himself had said, this was the price of admission to the Pride Land.

A gift, neatly wrapped in loyalty.

Winning over a spy through sentiment alone was rarely wise, but paired with the cub now growing inside him—

That was another matter entirely.

No male in the Pride Land had any right to pass on his lineage without the King’s blessing. This was his kingdom. What lived within it was his to permit—or not.

And Kovu would trade anything for that newborn, even his honour.

He did not know, of course, that the choice might not rest in Simba’s paws alone.

Dawn was drawing near.

Simba turned his gaze to the horizon, where the sky was beginning to blush with warm orange. Soon, that light would spill across the Pride Land.

Kovu gazed at the King’s face, ever-shifting in the young daylight.

He thought, perhaps, his answers had not been so poor.

He decided to take one final chance.

“…Only one thing I beg of you, Sire - Will you keep it?”

Kovu’s voice was earnest, pleading - almost a prayer to His Majesty, not to sever the bond between them. He pledged himself willingly to his sun—the one who had drawn him from the dark side, and shown him the gentleness of affection.

Now he held that grace close, like parched earth cradling long-awaited rain.

Perhaps one day, it would become his new shackle -

But Kovu embraced it with no regret.

His whole life longed for nothing more than this one legacy.

When Simba gave the faintest nod, Kovu let out a slow breath, a weight lifted from his chest.

“If only I could lean into you,

and whisper - right by your ear - 

how humble I am,

how honoured I feel,

my sovereign.”

A shy curve touched Simba’s lips. Slowly, he rose and came to Kovu with quiet grace.

“There, there. Now Kion won’t come barreling in to box your ears.”

Kovu felt the warmth of him—Simba’s breath steady against his ear, that scent he knew by heart, rich with the promise of shared blood.

His Majesty began to groom his face, murmuring, “This poor face of yours—it’s forever fated to catch a paw, wherever it goes.”

Kovu let out a soft purr. “Can’t be helped, can it? A handsome face draws envy.”

The King gave a mock-threatening look. Kovu quickly softened his tone, all submission and good humour.

“Only teasing! Who could outshine Your Majesty in beauty? I daresay Prince Kion must be your very image in youth?”

Simba snorted. “He’s only got my coat. The rest—he takes after his mother.”

Realising he’d pushed his luck, Kovu sealed his lips and held his tongue, savoring the gentle stillness that had finally settled between them.

“We should be going.” Simba said at last.

As the first rays of the rising sun unfurled across the sky, Simba returned to Pride Rock with Kovu at his side. The long and harrowing night had, at last, come to an end.

The royal family still lingered where they had stood. At the sight of the two lions walking side by side, they understood at once how the talk had ended.

Kion, despite all his reluctance, could no longer raise objection. Soon, he and Kiara would have a younger sibling, and their father would need that young male by his side. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to like Kovu—no, a quiet loathing still lingered in his heart. Unlike Kiara, all sunny cheer and unguarded joy, he had no wish to come bounding over with welcome on his tongue.

“Let’s go.” Her Majesty said gently, calling Kiara to her side. Kion trailed after them - sullen and slow - casting backward glances now and then.

“What on earth could Dad have to say to him for so long?”

Simba merely wished to walk a while with Kovu.

He was grateful that Nala, ever perceptive, had understood his unspoken need.

Before their children, the King could not quite be himself.

Though no betrayal of love stood between him and Nala—their bond was one of family, forged by lineage and duty. And yet, to show Kovu any tenderness before their eyes? Even in another life, he could not imagine himself so brazen.

So they wandered through the dew-kissed grass, step by unhurried step. The weariness in his bones seemed to melt away. Simba found himself watching Kovu a moment longer than he meant to. The young lion, dark-maned and radiant with youth, stood bathed in the first light of dawn—so full of life that for a heartbeat, Simba felt he had returned to his own golden age.

They spoke little, yet the silence was far from awkward. It was companionable, warm—a quiet language woven through glances and soft smiles.

They walked on, who knew how far, when a small thought nudged its way back into Simba’s mind. It wasn’t quite urgent, but curiosity was a habit he had never quite shaken.

“By the way.

What had happened to the other males?”

The question slipped out lightly, almost casual, but it struck Kovu like a lightning bolt, making him tense up right away.

The King came to a sudden halt, sensing that the question had unexpectedly touched something buried.

There was more to it, he realised—something darker.

As if to ensure they were truly alone, Kovu’s gaze swept over the grass and the bushes.

Then, at last, he leaned in just enough to whispered—

It’s my little secret.

Before Simba could so much as react to that familiar, loaded phrase, Kovu stepped closer—pressing in until his breath warmed the King’s ear. His expression remained utterly still, not a flicker of hesitation or shame. Yet what he said made the Simba’s heart pound and brought a flush to his cheeks.

“My golden King,” he murmured, smooth and low, “have you truly forgotten what happened that day? Do you still recall what it felt like—pressed beneath those lions, their heavy weight bearing down on you?

Do you recall the way they leaned in close, drawing in your scent? How their breath, warm and trembling, brushed against your ear…”

His voice dropped further, lips brushing coat against coat.

“Just as I am now… whispering the desires only meant for you.

Any other’s scent would have sparked a fire, fierce and fleeting—but I saw it in your eyes. 

You were calling to me. Wanting me. Me alone. 

So tell me – how could I still let them live?

Even Nuka—my wretched, envious brother - lusted after you with a hunger that knew no bounds . The mere thought of their filthy gazes lingering on your delicate skin, their lewd words staining your noble name—it drives me to the edge of madness.

If I’d let them live, their venomous tongues would weave lies and slander, twisting shadows into stories that never were. 

How could I leave you to face such disgrace? To let the purity of your honour be sullied by guttered gossip?

The lionesses will not talk – that I can promise. Their loyalty belongs to you now.

So there is no need to fear. No one will ever know.”

His voice softened, becoming reverent – possessive.

“Only I know—and I will never betray you."

Simba,

it’s our little secret.

Simba sat frozen, stunned by the rush of words and the heat of Kovu’s breath on his skin. The young male was already lavishing kisses on his face, his tongue dragging warm and slow across the corner of his mouth.

The smug, reckless boy—he didn’t even realise what he’d just given away.

Simba’s face remained composed, but within, a storm was rising.

So – it had been Kovu behind Nuka’s ambush all along.

It was entirely possible Kovu had watched the whole thing unfold—watched Simba claw his way up the shattered timbers, watched him slip, begin to fall, his body tipping toward Nuka’s waiting claws.

Had he planned to intervene if Simba had failed? Or would he have stood aside, letting fate do the work for him?

He knew, all too well, the depths of Kovu’s obsession—teetering on the blade between worship and ruin.

And now, as Kovu looked up at him with unguarded tenderness, reverence, yearning—Simba found himself wondering:

Was there anything more thrilling than this?

“You arrogant boy,” Simba growled, lunging to pin him down, teeth closing playfully around the side of his neck. “Only you would dare talk to me like that.”

Kovu didn’t even flinch. “Exactly. Only I could.”

Simba heard Kovu’s unrestrained laughter echoing over the dew-slick grass and thought—

Yes.

He like him.

More than that—

One day, he would love him. Without question.

If given the chance.

Chapter Text

Since that day, Simba had been under tight watch by his kin, swaddled in care and caution. His royal duties had been reduced to little more than scheduled appearances before his subjects. Everything else—patrols, hunts, dealing with trespassers—was no longer his concern.

He lay sprawled on his bed of dry grass, steeped in boredom, sighing as each passing day dragged on worse than the one before. Hadn’t they once said that growing up meant chasing those slobbering, mangy, stupid poachers from dawn until dusk?

In the shade, the old mandrill only chuckled, grinding herbs as he launched into another rambling update about Kovu’s recent exploits.

Apparently, Kovu had become a crucial member of the hunting parties, his ambush skills sharp enough to earn the respect of many. Most had already chosen to forget what the young lion had once done to claw his place into the Pride Land. If he stood with them now, what did the past matter?

There was a rumour—whispered with knowing smiles – that His Majesty himself had once said, back in his younger days: You got to put your past behind you. 

In hindsight, it was almost prophetic.

Kiara often spoke of Kovu’s brilliance: how he had leapt onto a giraffe’s back and toppled it with ease, how he slipped past a buffalo’s hooves and lunged straight for the throat. He was always where the hunt turned. No prey ever escaped once he’d marked it.

Simba listened to the stories—versions varied, but the figure at the centre never changed: always the same modest face, streaked with the blood of conquest, quietly offering the fattest piece to the King, as though tribute were owed.

Simba couldn’t help but feel… kept. Fed. Coddled. Less a king than a mascot.

By the Great Stars, his wounds had long since healed, and just because he was carrying a cub didn’t mean he had to lounge around like some pampered housecat. He remembered Nala, days from giving birth, still bounding off to bring down a young antelope.

What vexed Simba most was not the tales or the praise, but how seldom Kovu lingered near—just when some restless part of him had begun to crave closeness in secret.

The young lion would sometimes join him for meals—always composed, yet somehow just out of reach. He spoke in careful courtesies, then politely excused himself.

Once, Simba had asked, “why not stay a little longer? I have so much to say to you, or we can slip away behind Pride Rock—I know a hidden path that leads to the marshlands, where the reeds are thick and the water is warm. Don’t you want to watch the sunset with me?”

But Kovu had only smiled, head bowed as he shook it. “Your Majesty should remain here, if only to put my mind at ease. If Prince Kion knew I’d whisked you away—he’d tear me limb from limb.”

Simba had rolled onto his side with a groan, grumbling that he was going mouldy in the cave. It had been far too long since he’d run across the open plains. His legs were going soft from idleness.

That was usually when Kovu would lean down – and kiss him.

“Just one more moon,” he would whisper, as though calming a restless flame. “Please bear it a little longer. I’m waiting for the cub too—just like you.”

When Kovu heard the news—Simba had gone into the jungle—he dropped the still-warm body of the wildebeest and ran for Pride Rock without a second thought.

But Kion was already there, barring his path.

“Why did you abandon your hunting post?” the prince demanded.

Kovu explained himself, Kion only lifted his chin high, eyes cool with authority.

“Mother’s gone with him,” he said. “She knows what to do. We trust her. Her experience speaks for itself.”

Kovu pleaded again. He only wished to be there—for that first breath, that one perfect moment when life began anew.

But Kion turned away, swift and firm.

“You won’t help him by being there,” he said. “The only thing you can do now your job.”

It was Kiara who took pity on him.

“Don’t be upset,” she said softly. “Dad… he doesn’t want you there. Not now. It’s a vulnerable moment, and you know how proud he is. The last thing he’d want is for you to see him like that.”

Kovu accepted it – silently, without protest.

He climbed to the highest point of Pride Rock, where the starlight poured down like water.

Once more, he offered his prayers to the silent sky—

for the King of this generation, for the Pride Land, for himself,

and for the small soul soon to draw its first breath.

“If pain must come, let it come to me,” he whispered to the stars. “Let his suffering pass over him and fall up me instead.”

The stars gave no answer – just as they never had. And Kovu could only wonder if his plea reached any corner of the heavens at all.

He stirred as the first light kissed the earth—

a slow unfurling of gold across the sleeping plains.

The grass bowed beneath a sacred wind;

the trees whispered in a language older than time.

Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba.

Have you heard?

Last night, a lion was born.

Kovu ran with the wind, eyes unfocused, ears deaf to all but instinct. Something deep within him pulled him forward—he had to be there. Someone was waiting for him.

He pushed through the thick underbrush. There he was – His Majesty, weary beyond measure. Yet when their eyes met, those golden-red irises lit up like firelight on riverstone. Kovu swallowed back the rising tears and stepped close, gently brushing his head against Simba’s, inhaling in the fragile warmth of his breath.

Then he saw it—where the King’s belly had swelled, now rested a single wriggling bundle of fur, pale as morning straw.

“What shall we name him?”

Simba’s voice barely rose above a whisper, yet the sunrise crowned his body like a crown of molten gold, dazzling as fire-lit clouds. The stars had long since vanished from sight, but Kovu knew they lingered still – watching from afar, offering their silent, distant blessing.

Adom.

His name is Adom.

A gift from the heavens – life borne on the breath of sunrise.

-END-