Cleaning wasn’t quite the word to describe what was going. Consecration came a little closer, but was still inadequate.

“Ugh… what are we doin’, again, Simba?” Shenzi said as she and the four other adult hyenas returned from the west, “I don’t pretend ta get why we just spent five hours buryin’ dead branches…”

“We’re—” began the Lion King

“—sanctifying… the Pride Lands,” Kovu interrupted, as he approached to take his father-in-law’s side, “that’s it, isn’t it? Rafiki… he told me.”

The dark lion looked down, a little, in sad remembrance of his teacher… whose fate was still unknown.

Simba was silent for a moment. At the base of Pride Rock, he felt, in many ways, overshadowed. First, physically—the huge, earthen structure was at least fifty feet tall, and massive.

But then, there was the spiritual way. Pride Rock had been the home of his fathers since before the time of Mohatu. And though, Simba painfully recalled, there had been not the slightest whisper from the next world for months, now… he could feel his ancestors’ strength, their life-force, enter and empower him whenever he was near what was many of their final resting place.

The Pride Landers were hard at work—all of them. The lionesses had split up into groups to maintain the various oases and waterholes of their home. The rest of the Royal Family as well as a few older lionesses and Uvuli, the youngest being in the area, were inside, performing a complex ceremony, a rite-of-passage.

Though, chronologically, the black female was a cub by any standard, she was as big as a nearly-mature juvenile, she was strong, and she’d taken enough prey alone to impress, theoretically, Freak.

So, Sarabi, Nala, and Kiara and a few otherswere talking to her, teaching her everything a good Pride Land lioness—er, honorary lioness… sort of… needed to know. They were teaching her how to be part of a hunting group, how to be a great asset to her family… how to attract a mate…

“Simba…?”

The Lion King gave a questioning grunt, and turned to Banzai, before smiling, apologetically, and speaking.

“Kovu’s right… that’s just what we’re doing. We’re sanctifying the Pride Lands. It’s a long, and, I’ll admit, sometimes boring procedure… but I promise, the results will be worth it,” he smiled, “trust me.”

“Cha, well, they better be,” Shenzi grumbled, “I ain’t seen half as much prey in th’ past few weeks as there used to be. There’s still plenty ta go around,” she admitted, shrugging, “but dang… if this keeps up, Simba, we ain’t gonna last…”

“I know. I know,” the Lion King sighed.

He was silent for another moment. The sky was gray, he noted, and had been for the past few days. The Sun rose and fell, as it always did, but… dawns, dusks, and everything in between weren’t… spectacular, inspiring… not anymore. Hs mind drifted back to a conversation he’d once shared with his father, years ago…

“I was such a fool back then,” he scoffed, shaking his head.

“What?” sounded six different voices simultaneously.

“…I was a fool,” he sighed, “I’ve been a fool for most of my life, and that only changed when Kovu,” he said, nodding his head towards the dark lion, who was giving his father-in-law a look of great concern, “and Kiara got together. Remember? When I allowed you five into the Pride Lands again, after a lifetime of exile…”

“…when we met Shujaa…”

The two lions turned, in unison, and instantly smiled. The smaller beings that were now behind them broke apart and took their sides, smiling similarly.

She hadn’t changed, of course, in the sense that she wasn’t more muscular, or larger, or anything else. But now, there was a sort of grace, of propriety in her step that said that the cub they’d all grown to love was gone. A woman had replaced her.

Uvuli didn’t blush—that wasn’t her style. She drew herself up, though, with pride, smiling, and cocked her head a few degrees.

“What? Don’t tell me, I have something in my teeth, right? I knew I shoulda listened to you and gnawed a bone, Pop…” the black female said as she circled to the side of the group to raise a foreleg, wrapping it around her father’s shoulders, “you always know what’s best.”

Usiku’s eyes were comically widened, in humorously-fake skepticism. He grinned, once, and cuffed his daughter’s chin.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter? Cheeky…” he murred, nudging the female’s forehead with his nose, “congratulations. You’re an adult now… you may be the youngest adult I know.”

“I dunno,” Uvuli said, as she moved to bow to, then hug each of the other adults in the area, as Sarabi, her daughter, her granddaughter and their peers watched from the tip of Pride Rock, smiling, “the ceremony, yeah, that made me an adult today… but the path to adulthood was longer. It was like the time you brought me from the Bloody Shadows, Pa. It was a long trip, but what was it you said to me when we started?”

“All great journeys are just a collection of individual steps. So… take them one at a time,” father and daughter said in unison.

Usiku smiled, a little sadly, and leaned in to whisper, privately, to his sole child.

“Your mother would be so, so proud of you if she were here. In fact—she is proud of you… I know that she’s watching you, now, from Heaven. Can you feel her, Uvuli?” he murmured, sliding away.

The dark female raised her head, and looked skyward. With the thrill of foreboding, Simba’s eyes widened, and he followed suit. Then, Kovu did too. Then Shenzi, Ed, Banzi, T, and Usiku looked up, too. Then Nala, Sarabi, Kiara; and then, every one of the Pride Lands’ sentient beings were looking upwards, trying to pierce the cloud cover for a glimpse of what lay above…

“She’s not ready for this.”

“Azizi…”

“She’s just a cub.”

“No…” said a soft, purring voice whose implicit malice was now in place out of mere tradition, “she’s not. Not anymore. She’s a woman.”

“Technically… but she’s so young! Mufasa…” she pleaded, “please. Don’t do this to my daughter.”

The former Lion King sighed. All around him, faces held anxiety, fear, and a lack of security. It wasn’t personal—here, in the Heavens, they were safe. But their children… their homelands… their legacies…

“Technically…” murmured Mufasa’s calming, baritone rumble, “I won’t be the one doing it to her. It’s the will of the Spirits… and even I am powerless to resist them.”

“But she’s just a child! Please…” the hyena begged, “you can’t let them do this…”

“But there’s no other choice,” Chukizo said, sadly, a look of great sympathy on her face.

When Azizi turned to look at the tigoness, however, her expression was one of suspicion, of mistrust. After all, the other female did have quite a stake in her daughter’s fate…

“Azizi, please… come with me. I’d like to talk to you, in private… mother to mother. Friends…” she called, looking around at all the other beings in the area, especially her mate, whose head had perked up in concern and the instinct to protect his mate, “please. A few moments…”

Scar and Chukizo shared a glance, and that’s all it took. The dark lion gave himself a shake, and whistled. Maisha bounded over, from her uncles, and instantly began to roughhouse with her fathre, squealing and giggling in glee. The two male tigons rolled their eyes, and did as their mother’s side did best—they lounged around.

Chukizo jerked her head, and began to move away. Her cuffed, striped tail twitched, a little, and Azizi glared, for a moment, then followed.

“This had better be good. Uvuli’s life is at stake here.”

He was still bigger than her, after all these years. And after all these years, the desire to cower in fear from him was almost overpowering.

Heaven, contrary to what one might think, was not a monotonous place. Different areas offered different views of the Land of the Spirits… in theory. Because now, it had been weeks since anyone had been able to get a clear view of anything below.

“I maintain what I said earlier…” Samehe said, not looking to the cat at her side, several feet away, “I looked down, at Shindani… and she looked back.”

“Please, please, memsahib… it’s a coincidence. I will not argue, however,” he said politely, in a voice that was deep, powerful, intimidating, and still accented, “I have given you enough trouble already.”

“So forceful even in the afterlife…” Samehe said, attempting to smile, as she turned to raise a friendly paw to Sikia, who was being shown around by Jinga (A/N: that’s one of Chukizo’s brothers, if you’ve forgotten), “aren’t you… Shere Kahn?”

The tiger turned to face the lioness, but couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a moment. His harsh, masculine features were evident to Samehe for the first time, and the lioness gasped, for a moment, willing herself not to step back. All those years ago, on the Desert’s beach… he was scrawny, scraggly, and weak. But now… muscle rippled under an ironclad frame. A powerful chin and three wisps of black fur at the cleft in his chin, as well as above his lips completed the look of a powerful male.

“Forceful,” the tiger whispered, ears flattening, “such a choice of words…”

There was a pause, then Shere Kahn turned his head, showing a steely, angled profile to Samehe, ruined by the contours and ripples of remorse and guilt. The lioness gasped, and that was the final nail in the coffin for the tiger.

“I apologize, memsahib, for the trouble I’ve given you now… and before. I’ll leave you in peace,” he said, trying to turn to glance at the female and failing, utterly, “I understand why you wouldn’t want to speak to me, very well. I’ll go now,” he said, bowing, deeply, before moving to leave.

“Wait…”Samehe said, catching the tiger’s paw in hers, “wait…”

Shere Kahn held his eyes shut. His jaw muscles rippled under his flesh, as Samehe began to stroke his cheek, his ruff, his neck, and his forelegs.

“So, so strong…” Samehe murmured, rubbing the male under the chin, “I can see where our grandson gets it from. His stripes… they’re yours, you know. It’s hard to see them, but I have, a few times… they’re just like yours. I know that you’ve been through a lot in your life, Shere Kahn…”

“…so have I…”

“…and our grandson still struggles and suffers everyday… I know that that’s true, no matter where he’s sent him. There are many things I don’t know,” Samehe sighed, gently caressing the tiger’s ruff with a paw, causing him to slowly close his eyes in relaxation, “but what I do know is that there’s no use in allowing the past to restrain us. I’ve forgiven you, Shere Kahn, I did years ago. It’s time that you forgave yourself.”

At that, the male quickly pulled away, so that Samehe faced his back. He spoke in a sharp, excited tone.

“You know only how easy it is to say that. To do it, memsahib…” he was silent for a moment.

“You cannot understand. Forgiving others is easy, but forgiving yourself…”

“Of course I understand,” the lioness said, cocking her head in incredulity, “have I not done a great many wrongs in my life? Have I not killed my own cubs? Have I not attacked downed enemies? Have I not hated and acted on hate? …Have I not forgiven myself?”

There was silence. The tiger didn’t seem as if he was willing to accept what Samehe had just said; he remained facing away from her.

“I’m only telling you what you know,” the lioness said simply, as she walked up to Shere Kahn’s side, “you’ve watched me—I know it. I’ve felt it. But you can’t forgive yourself… why, Kahn? Why?”

There was a pause.

“Because, memsahib, everything you’ve done to our children has happened because of a mistake that I made—so, it is my fault, you see. Mine, not y—”

The tiger’s eyes widened. This feeling… he hadn’t felt it for two lifetimes, now. While it was true that Chukizo and Maisha were ever willing to be affectionate with him, there was nothing like the feel of flesh that was aged, worn, but still proud and strong, like his…

For a moment, he was unable to do anything but close his eyes, standing still, deep purrs reverberating through that majestic form, as Samehe rubbed the smooth bluntness of her head against his shoulder.

Then, he turned, slowly, facing the lioness with shiny eyes.

“Perhaps I cannot forgive myself yet… but under your care, memsahib… I am hopeful.”

Samehe’s smile faltered as she began to walk alongside the tiger.

“Hope…”

“Shujaa…”

“Well, what is it?” Azizi huffed, “where are you taking me?” she asked suspiciously.

Chukizo turned, smiled, and walked on.

“It’s not much farther. You’ll see when we get there.”

The female hyena’s jaw muscles rippled. Damn, was that sort of logic infuriating.

“I know I’ll see when we get there, thank you. I just want to know beforehand; is that really too much to ask?”

That made her smile, a little, and made her step livelier. The tigoness was leading her to a shallow pool, about two yards wide, that looked like the inside of a mother-of-pearl’s shell.

Azizi twitched.

“A puddle…”

“…Nice.”

“Heh,” Chukizo said, as she guided the hyena to the edge of the pool, “yes. Very nice. A puddle. Yes…”

Unlike her father, mother, and mate, the tigoness was not a great orator. She twitched, slightly, before speaking again.

“It’s not just a puddle, though. It’s… I can’t explain it. It’s like a mirror, but it’s also like a looking-glass. It’s hard to explain,” Chukizo sighed, before looking up at Azizi with hard, determined eyes, “but please. Just look into it. Then, you’ll understand what I mean.”

The hyena’s lips peeled back, just a hair, but she shrugged, disinterestedly, and, with half-lidded eyes, peered down to placate Chukizo. But a second later, every fiber of her being was captured by what the puddle showed her. The tigoness watched, solemnly, as light emanated from the puddle, enlightening Usiku’s mate.

The hyena saw many things. She saw Freak, first, then, she saw the li-tigon’s form slowly but surely blend into many beings. She only recognized a handful of them—Uvuli, Simba, Kovu, Chukizo, Scar, Samehe, Shere Kahn… There were others, too; lions that resembled Simba and might very well be his ascendants, and tigers, too, and one being that made Azizi shiver for the brief second she caught sight of him.

Slowly, the light diminished, and Azizi looked up at Chukizo.

“You see? We’re all connected. My son needs your daughter, and they need everyone else you saw, too. To keep your daughter from my son…” the tigoness shook her head, “it’s more unnatural than to keep a mother from her child… unfortunately.”

“Don’t think I’m unsympathetic,” the tigoness said in an attempt to be brisk, though there was a definite quaver in her voice, “I want my son safe, too. Oh, Azizi, I feel your pain, so much. Doing this—sending your daughter to—we don’t even know where—I hate it. I honestly do,” Chukizo said.

There was a pause. The two mothers made eye contact, broke it, then made it again. Sad smiles appeared on the two faces—different in cone structure, fur pattern, and general shape—but similar in deeper, more important ways. After all… two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, and sentience—that’s all that mattered.

“So…” Azizi sighed, “I suppose we have no choice.”

Chukizo shook her head.

“Then…” the hyena said, as she walked, gently bumping into the tigoness’s shoulder with her cheek, “I hope I was wrong.”

“I hope Uvuli is ready for this… because the alternative…”

“…is death…”

There was prayer, and plenty of it. Prayer and meditation and cleaning and bathing and fasting. Within days, the Pride Lands were looking better than they ever had for generations, since Mohatu’s time.

So much had changed in so little time. It seemed like so longer ago that Simba had to obsessively patrol the Pride Land’s southern borders with the Outlands. However, it was immediately after the fall of the Outlands that Freak had entered the Pride Lands, forever altering its history. Since then, there had been more time to partake in the greatest pastime of lions—sleep.

Now, though, there wasn’t much time for napping. Patrols had been increased, and though all Pride Land lions and hyenas were under strict orders to give refugees the benefit of the doubt, it had been impressed upon them just how vital it was that now, during sanctification, that the Pride Lands remained untouched by evil.

There were tears and laughter, every day. Lion and hyena alike had to let go of the past—Kovu and Simba had been taught by Rafiki, well. They knew how to enlighten themselves, and, shortly, most others followed suit, confessing to past sins and carefully locking away happy memories so that sanctification could protect the Pride Lands for at least a few months.

There was a slight problem, though. Uvuli…

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t let go of the past, or rather, a part of it. Though time and again Simba, Usiku, Kiara, and T had explained to her that what they were doing would, in the end, help Freak, every time the young hyena tried to let go of him, something inside of her rose up and grabbed onto the few, beautiful memories she had of the li-tigon hard, refusing to release it.

More than once Uvuli had stormed from Pride Rock, with angry tears in her eyes. She was trying her best—couldn’t they see that? The female hyena knew she needed time alone—so she went to the remote northeast of the Pride Land. For her safety, she was covertly trailed by Sarabi. But her anger—righteous, in the Lion Sheikh’s humble opinion—allowed another being to track her as Sarabi tracked her scent.

Uvuli was young and pure and strong and angry. So, depending on your taste… she was perfect prey. But Sarabi—she was a lioness. And not just any lioness, a member of the Royal Family. Though old and crippled, her heart, mind, and spirit were strong.

So, depending on your taste, Uvuli was a Hershey’s bar. But Sarabi was a freezer full of sugary, fatty, energy-giving goodness…

And, depending on your taste, to access that energy, that ever-lasting sugar-rush, all you have to do is open the freezer…

He recalled, vaguely, that he hadn’t hit the ground outright. The canopy had slowed his fall, slightly, and then rope after rope of thick vine had wrapped around his body. He’d almost choked and indeed, the lacerations that crisscrossed his frame like stripes were severe.

But he had not died.

He just didn’t realize that yet.

“Hell…”

The blackness was absolute, complete, dimensionless. He couldn’t navigate, he couldn’t make sense of the abyss he found himself in, and his senses were useless to rationalize his situation.

So, now, all that was left to do was to contemplate his fate. There were no tongues of white-hot flame to consume his body, yet, but they were coming. He knew they were. All there was to do was wait.

“I deserve this. I really do…” He winced—did he? Could he, with no body? And yet, something told him, his body was intact, and not so different from the body he had known when he’d been alive—“I’ve done so much wrong… and so little—no. Nothing right—not once. Never. …Heh…” he chuckled sadly, his emotionless face forming a smile, “I thought the deepest, darkest depth of Hell would be more painful…”

Wait. Wait. …Did he say that? Did he speak? Something told him he had, but… nothing was making sense. Pain was coming, but it wasn’t unbearable. Sensation was returning to his body—his body? It felt so similar, and yet, so different.

But did he speak? Did he? He didn’t hear his words, but he was fairly certain that he’d physically spoken. More sensations were starting to return—too fast. Far too fast.

He tried to open his eyes, a little, and caught a glimpse of a terrible, huge, toothed mouth. The mouth opened, as if to speak, but he knew that they would come down, scissoring him in half… over... and over… and over…

Eternity was a long time.

He smiled, though, and embraced his fate as his arms still did to his—his?—body. Eternal pain was certainly a formidable opponent, but his mind now was as weathered and tough as his—his?—body. He could take it—he knew it. So, it was again with a sense of apathy, of peace, that he again allowed his eyes to fall shut, as he again placed himself in the hands of fate…

Death?

It was dark, yes. Dark and bleak and seemingly infinite.

But was it death?

He was almost certain that he was not moving. He sometimes tested his muscles—or so he thought—but he could glean no response through touch, smell, sound, or sight.

Taste, though… it came. Occasionally. Well… that’s what Freak thought, anyway. A hand by itself cannot clap, and only one sense gives minimal clues as to what was going on.

But, slowly, other senses returned. Touch was first. The li-tigon moved his legs and felt things with his paws. He was fairly sure that he was in water, perhaps a swamp of some sort. He felt thick, muddy water, vines, the bark of gnarled, twisted trees, and sometimes something else, too… something scaled, perhaps, or armored.

Scent returned next, but it was nearly useless. Freak knew only a few scents from this land thanks to his ancestry, and couldn’t tell anything that touch hadn’t already told him. At least, though, the added level of certainty calmed the li-tigon, a bit.

He was always waning in and out of consciousness. Dreams and reality mixed with one another inexorably without notice, but, to be fair, there was no appreciable difference between the two.

He tried to think, sometimes, but it was of no use. Fatigue took over, sending his mind careening down the dark spiral of depression, and so, quickly, he fell into unconsciousness again.

How long that darkness lasted, he didn’t know. It could have been hours, or days, or weeks. All he knew that, at some point or the other, it ended…

They were all surrounding him. It made sense, they had spent quite a lot of time and effort in his upkeep. They’d fed him, and tended to his wounds, and hidden him from the Banghar Clan. And now, finally, it looked like he was waking up.

He was gaunt, perhaps, but he was young. He’d put some meat on his bones soon, they were sure, and in a healthier state, he would look powerful and noble, as cats were supposed to.

Eagerly, they gathered, and watched. Their blue-green forms were almost piled one on top of the other as he stirred.

First, he stretched, in that graceful, sleepy manner that not one of them had seen in months. He was groggy, but that certainly made sense—he’d been out for a while, and there was still plenty of sedative in his system.

But still, he was a sight to see. Though he’d come to them small, for a li—…a… ti…? …a cat, now, he was a pahlawan—a big guy. He used to be about the size of a small lion, but now, he was as big as a fully-grown tiger—he might even compete in stature with the legendary Shere Kahn, who the local elders still remembered.

When they’d met him—or, rather, when he’d met them—they’d assumed he was a lion, a weird-looking lion. But, shortly, they were less sure of themselves. Stripes had become more and more visible, day by day. His bone-structure had changed—even his eye color did, too. They went from being a dull, slate gray, to a shinier, darker near-black shade. His mane was less concentrated, and created a dark overlay across a larger portion of his neck and even his chest. His fur, overall, had lightened, a few shades, and had even become more orange…

They were really looking forward to meeting him.

He let out a low, long, soft groan, and opened his eyes—or tried to. Blinking rapidly, trying to rid himself of the hazy blur that rendered sight useless, he shakily attempted to stand.

He would have fallen if they hadn’t jumped to his side, instantly, to support him.

“Careful, careful, my son,” an elder murmured, gently easing the cat down, “you’ve been out for quite some time, no? Thus…” he smiled toothily, “you should take it easy for some time, at least…”

There was a pause. He stopped trying to stand, and instead, it was as if he was trying to relearn how to use his body. It made sense, he’d undergone so many changes in such a short period of time—it was something of a miracle that he’d even survived.

“I’ve been out…” he rasped, groaning, his snout scrunching up as he seethed in pain, “…that makes sense…”

His foreign, monotonous tone made them all tense up. They weren’t scared, certainly not, but there was a palatable texture to his voice—a sort of bleakness, a tangible feeling of sadness that seeped into his every word—it wasn’t something they’d experienced anything like, ever before.

“…How long… …have I been out…?” he murmured, opening his mouth, several degrees, to run his tongue across the impressive kirpans—daggers—that were his teeth. He winced, a little, and flexed his jaws, several times, feeling the added muscle that backed them ripple under his fur.

“Quite some time, my son,” the elder said, dabbing some pungent-smelling ointment onto the deep gouges from which they’d pulled out God knew how many spikes, “about… two weeks. You were in very bad shape when you came to us,” he chuckled, “we weren’t even sure that you were going to make it. But you did—there’s something about you, I think, that wouldn’t let go of life. You were holding onto it by the thinnest, most frayed of threads… but something about you didn’t let you fall into the next world. And so… you live.”

There was a pause.

“I’m alive…”

Groaning, he tried to get up again, and despite the way they surrounded him, preparing to halt another fall, he managed to stand, shakily, on his own four paws.

His eyes fluttered as they opened, again. He hissed, shuddering, but managed to not moan in pain, and, panting, raised his head to pan his gaze over his saviors—who were still, to him, just random blobs in the field of his vision.

“So… I suppose I owe you my life…” he said, plastering on that terrible, grimace of a smile. Finally, his vision began to normalize… and he finally saw them properly.

“In a way, that’s so, my son…” the elder grinned, “but we prefer to think that the only ones you owe your life to are your parents…”

He was silent.

Large reptiles were never beings he’d had good relationships with. He’d been assaulted by crocodiles countless times in the Jungle, and then, in the Southern Rocklands, he’d literally been swallowed by a Southern Dragon.

These beings were different…

…But not to him.

True, their snouts were long and tapered down to such a small width that, logically, they’d never be able to harm him if they tried. And there was, of course, the fact that they had saved him from otherwise certain death.

But he didn’t see that. He didn’t see any of that. All he saw were teeth, lots of them, and jaws, lots of them, and enemies, lots of them.

Instinct took over. Even as he watched their surely sadistic smiles falter, his heartrate and breathing picked up so that he was panting, his snarl deepening with every gasp. His darker eyes were shadowed, now, and the sudden rush of blood and adrenaline brought down the shaking in his limbs, so that he stood strong.

“Everyone was a threat at home, everyone is a threat here, and everyone everywhere will be a threat. Everyone is a threat.”

“I’m not going to forget that lesson again.”

The elder dared to speak, and even approach him a little. His long form was wrinkled and wizened, but carried innumerable scars—he’d seen his share of violence, and tasted it, too. He wasn’t a weakling.

Not good.

(Arr, a bit of bad language lays ahead, maties.)

“Is something the matter, my—”

The roar was sudden, intense, and, to them, unprovoked. But it made the forest shut up for hundreds of yards in every direction, and it made them gasp, stand in front of their children, protectively, and cock their tails… their only weapons.

He was still panting, and his face was a mask of terror and rage. He might be skinny, almost unhealthily so, but he was still large and had enough muscle on him to massacre every single one of them without breaking a sweat.

“No. No. Get away, get away from me! You bastards aren’t going to try to kill me too—if you do, I’ll kill you, I swear I will—I’LL KILL YOU!” he yelled.

Mouth half-opened to snarl and prepare to bite, his eyes darted around for both an escape and a forthcoming attack. He tried to smell, but his nose was blotted up with a strong-smelling herb—no doubt, it was to cloud his mind for who knew what sort of unspeakable torture, later. His ears flickered this way and that, this way and that, as they listened, carefully, for something—anything.

“…You’ll kill us… if we try to kill you…?” the elder said, scoffing, just a little, causing him to flinch, terrible, as that long mouth was opened, “Well… I suppose we’re safe, then, my son. We’re not going to hurt you…” To demonstrate, he stepped forward, just a little.

Big mistake.

He’d always been an optimist. No lesson ever taught him cynicism—I mean, realism—no matter how painful it was.

Not even a blow so hard that it dented his toughened scales, roughly etching several deep, jagged cuts through them all.

It made him grimace, in pain. But it certainly didn’t change his intentions.

“Might I ask what that was for?” the elder questioned, politely, smiling, even as he canted his head at the cat. The rest of the family tensed, hissing, growling, moving to converge on their suddenly violent guest.

However, he was still panting and growling, and his eyes were still darting around frantically. It was terrible to watch, and painful to consider that they were causing such fear by their very presence.

Suddenly, the elder’s good humor failed.

“Oi. Coward. Yes, I’m talking to you. Look here—don’t disrespect me like this,” he growled.

The cat hissed horribly, but extended his claws, lowering himself… and looked… not really at the elder, but, sort of through him. His gaze was aimed directly at the elder, but their eyes were not meeting. It was lip-service, and an offhand but very intentional “fuck you” gesture.

The elder didn’t take very well to it at all.

“Are you stupid, or cross-eyed, or do you dare to disrespect me?” he snapped, making the cat flinch and flatten his ears, “Look. At. Me. It’s not so hard to do—yes, there you go.”

“Not so hard, is it?”

There was silence. No one spoke and even fewer lowered their guard. Tense…

His eyes were dark, almost black, and reflective—like finely polished obsidian or a similar igneous substance. Though his expression was a threatening and practiced snarl, there were two strange qualities about it. One was that it seemed a little awkward—that was due to the fact that his control over his new body wasn’t yet precise enough to give him great control over his facial muscles. The other was that it no longer seemed genuine. It wasn’t plastered on, not really… but it was as if he was too tired, too defeated, to allow a smile or even a look of the apathy that was expressed with his voice to overcome his features.

“…No. It’s not.”

“Good,” the elder said crossly, “now, answer. Tell us—who are you, where you hail from, and… what… exactly… you are. Not a lion, not a tiger, not quite something in between like the Dark One. Tell us—do not attempt to run, you aren’t well yet, and the Banghar Clan is still out there, calling for your head on a platter. So… tell us,” he said, for the third time, “who are you?”

There was another pause. Slowly, his expression normalized, but his noble, sleek ruff sagged, showing depression. His whiskers dropped, and he lowered his head, speaking to his saviors’ feet.

“I hail from the Jungle… in the Land of the Spirits. It’s not local,” he murmured; responding to the sudden flash of hissing whispers that crisscrossed the group, save for its bold elder, “what I am… …not a lion, not a tiger, not something halfway in between. My grandfather was a tiger, but my grandmother was a lioness. My father was a lion,” he groaned, shuddering, gritting his teeth as growing pains suddenly spiked.

He panted, for a moment, to try to control himself, and looked up with a smile that was twisted, mangled, chewed-up-and-spit out, hopeless, and was as painful to view as it was to form.

“So, there’s only one thing you can call me…”

“…a freak.”

“And,” he rasped, “that’s my name—it always has been, and it always will be…”

“Freak…”

Reality…

Dreams…

Blackness…

This time, he couldn’t think. Not even a little. It’s hard for the Lion Sheikh to explain—he was self-aware, still, but not much else. He knew he wasn’t dead, though, and that was somewhat comforting.

Time meant nothing. It was as dimensionless as the black enclosure in which Freak found himself. He tried to “move”, in a fashion, testing the limits of his cage. These were the times when his limbs would twitch, or his eyelids would flutter. He couldn’t really break free, though. So, eventually he gave up, and allowed himself to slip away, sort of, into the cold, lonely abyss of death.

In the end, though, he didn’t die. That would be a poor ending to such a fanfiction—that is, he wasn’t allowed to die. Though he was quite content to allow himself to slide down the cliff of mortality into the valley below, his will wasn’t the only force in play.

And so, slowly, little by little, the li-tigon was pulled back from beyond the brink. One could say that he had died, and be correct, or at least, partially correct. But what happened to Freak could be called transformation, or even rebirth.

This time, he awoke instantly and without drama. He was asleep one second, and awake the next. The change was as sudden and seemingly mundane as the flick of a light switch. One second his eyes were shut, the next, they were open.

This time, they met the elder’s eyes directly. It’s not that he could have avoided it, even if he’d tried to—the reptilian’s face wasn’t an inch from his.

This time, though, he wasn’t afraid. So, for several seconds, as the elder’s hand applied more of that strong-smelled salve to the grievous wound on his muzzle, they stared at one another.

The reptilian was first to speak.

“What made you scared of us, I think, is that we look like crocodiles. But, my son, we are not crocodiles. We are related to them, distantly, but we are gharials. We cannot hurt you, my son, our jaws are not so strong. Only good for catching fish, you see?”

Freak was still, for a moment. Then, he nodded, curtly, but didn’t say a word. The elder continued to tend to his injuries, and only when he’d backed away, giving the li-tigon breathing room did Freak speak.

“…I’m grateful for your help,” he said in that low, dejected tone, “but…”

“…why?” he rasped, groaning, as he started to test out his limbs, accepting the new, heightened level of awareness, prowess, speed, and sense that his body gave, “why would you help me? I’m not of your blood, or your land—I’m not of anyone’s blood… anyone’s land…” he murmured, looking down, and extending his razor-sharp, knife-like claws.

“Well,” the elder said, as he circled Freak, checking that a series of contusions on the li-tigon’s side were healing nicely, “there is, of course, the fact that you, my son, are a predator like us. Predators must help other predators, yes? And cats, like yourself, are being exterminated left and right by the Banghar Clan and humans alike. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a son of this soil,” he said, facing Freak again, “we have a responsibility to help you.

“Responsibility to help…”

“… Even me?”

Freak was silent. He struggled not to think, as emotion threatened to overcome him. He somehow knew that the Banghar Clan’s standard operating procedure was to spread the word about their objective—killing him—far and wide, promising rewards for assistance, and swearing bloody justice for abetting their enemy.

These gharials were risking their lives by healing him. And it wasn’t as if it was a short affair, either. He’d been out for over two weeks, now, and required, aside from the most time-consuming and tricky of medical procedures, food, water, and shelter…

The li-tigon sat, for a moment, head hung. He tried to busy himself with the examination of his claws, but, slowly, his chest began to heave. He wasn’t nauseous.

“What’s wrong, my son?” the elder asked, as he turned away, cleaning his scaled appendages with an antiseptic leaf, “does Hindustan’s climate not agree with you?”

“No…” Freak thought, as he looked around, all around.

Vines here were thick and loose and covered with moss and fungus. Trees were wide and proud and strong, and perhaps a little more forgiving than the harsh plants atop the cliff from which he’d fallen. Freak noted, vaguely, that he was in a swamp—generally, he was too obsessive about cleanliness to stay in such muddy water for long, but he knew, somehow, that the gharials were not dirty creatures. Though muddy and sometimes choked with leaves and debris, the wide lake in which they lived wasn’t polluted. Without realizing it, Freak digested the information from suddenly sensitive nodes of nerves under his coat—slight fluctuations in the heterogeneous swamp’s flow moved his fur, barely, telling him that the fish that lived in it were healthy.

His eyes now were not shiny in and of themselves, as they looked upon the old gharial.

“You’ve fed me, and cared for me, and sheltered me…”

“…wait…”

“…food?”

“My son..?” the elder prompted.

“No, I’m… I’m alright,” Freak said in his low, gruff voice, as he took his eyes off his many saviors, and looked down. It was a second before he spoke again, this time, in a softer, friendlier, even happier tone. “I’m… so… so… thankful to you for what you’ve done. There’s no question in my mind—if you didn’t, I’d be beyond dead, now. I’d only be bones and a bad memory…”

“But I have to know…”

“What did you feed me?”

By now, most of the gharials had left Freak and the elder alone. A few children, no larger than the li-tigon’s forearm, played with each another, splashing, as they darted by. They paused long enough to greet the elder respectfully, addressing him with the title of “baba”, before moving on.

“Why, fish, my son,” he said, stroking one of his grandsons before looking back to Freak, “it’s our only prey—you aren’t allergic, are you?”

The li-tigon had groaned, and was now hunched over, gritting his teeth. He shook his head, as two trails of wetness reached from his eyes to his snout.

“No. No. Not allergic,” he rasped, as agony from his growth spurt still rolled back and forth from perception, “just… I made a promise…”

“Well, please, share, my son,” the elder smiled, as Freak finally walked out of the swamp, without shaking himself off, “I have plenty of free time, these days, and you will not be well enough to go anywhere for at least another week.”

As the murky, green water dripped off of his body, leaving a dull, olive residue and pulling his fur into long tendrils, Freak stood, for a moment, considering. He seemed to flinch with every motion, but didn’t lie down to relax or heal—he stood, and accepted the pain. He knew he deserved it.

“I can’t eat meat anymore. I won’t. I won’t kill another creature to live—I’m not worth dying for. It’s wrong.”

The words tumbled out, quickly, like a flash-flood or avalanche. But the li-tigon’s flow of speech was cut off as quickly as it had began, and he looked aside, refusing to lick himself clean or speak again.

“You won’t eat meat?” the elder said after a spell of silence, “but my son, you are a predator! It’s your nature,” he said in stupor, canting his head, “you’ll deny nature because you believe you’re not worth dying for…?”

“…I’m not natural.”

There was a pause.

“No. No, my son. You are. You were born to a mother, yes? You have two ears, two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and a brain, yes? You think, you feel, and you dream, yes…?”

Freak’s jaw muscles rippled under his ruff as he gnashed his teeth—but he didn’t nod.

“No, my son, you are natural—”

“Why do you call me ‘son’?” Freak interrupted, turning, suddenly, to level his dark, intent gaze at the gharial. “You have sons of your own, and I swear to you, they are a thousand times greater than I can ever be. I’m not your son—I’m not the son of anything or anyone either—”

“Enough.”

For once, it was the li-tigon’s turn to be frozen by a powerful, intense stare. Freak was a crazy motherfu—that is, a confident, dominant being. But he was humbled by the ironclad glare the old gharial fixed upon him. It was odd—he could, he was sure, tear this old reptile apart and feed him to his grandchildren while he still lived. But that stare was like being in the focal point of a million candela spotlight: Freak was motionless.

“You will never again say that you are unnatural or that you do not belong here around me. And you will remain among my family until you are well enough to travel—at that point, I cannot tell you what to do… Though I suggest that you find the Dark One. He will help you find peace…”

“Until then, though, you are my humble guest,” the elder growled, “and, as a good guest, you will do as I say. You will eat fish—you will,” he growled, “and you will stomach it.”

Freak had made a sudden, hissing gasp of protest, but was shut up again.

“Now… I think it will be a week until you can leave. You’re a strong one, my son, but you cannot rush things—the body, like the mind, sometimes needs its own time to sort itself out. Understood?”

The li-tigon had two choices. He would accept—but he could do so grudgingly, or gallantly. The choice was simple.

Freak nodded, slowly, just a few degrees. Then he moved, suddenly, and before the elder could react, he was lifted off the ground and squeezed, hard.

He wasn’t being assaulted, though, that’s why his family didn’t rush to his aid—though, to be fair, for a good few seconds, they did consider doing just that.

Whispering numerous, heartfelt thank-you-very-muches into the gharial male’s side, Freak didn’t realize that the added muscle and adjusted bone structure that his new body sported rendered him powerful enough to squeeze the life out of most animals—including an armored, scaled reptilian.

And yet, the elder merely patted the li-tigon’s back, grinning, a little, before speaking. “You are, of course, very, very welcome, my son, but please release me, yes? I would like to spend at least a few more years on this Earth with my family.”

“Oh… of course. Apologies,” Freak said, as, immediately, his embrace ceased, and he backed off. There was a pause, as the gharial studied his guest, who was busy cleaning off his paw with a scratchy, prehensile tongue.

“You are not in such a bad condition, my son, that you cannot already work to regain your strength. I don’t very much understand it, but in the short time you have spent with us, you have changed—greatly. Yes, the way you move, my son, I see it—you are not yet used to your body. There is only one way to get used to your body, my son,” he said, flexing his shoulders.

Freak stopped licking his paw, and looked at the gharial, cocking his head. His brow furrowed, but his heartrate sprang with the thrill of anticipation, but the sudden spray of water that soaked him again was totally unforeseen.

Laughing and moving with surprising alacrity, the elder darted off towards the center of the pool, leaving Freak in his wake.

“So, my son,” he chuckled, pausing, so that, from twenty yards away, Freak’s near-black eyes picked up the endless, tight bunches of muscle under that old, withered, wrinkled, but proud frame, “you are three-fourths lion, and one fourth tiger. Do you think it is beyond your capacity to swim?”

The li-tigon was still, for a moment. For a second, he recalled Adhabu’s strange prowess in water, with a pang, before he clamped down on his mind, shutting out those painful… obsolete… memories.

“Maybe this is a new beginning,” Freak thought as he hyperventilated, a little, allowing his nerve and adrenalin to build, “maybe I’ve been sent to Hindustan to start over. I have a new body, new principles, new… …friends…”

“Yes. This is a new beginning. A new life…”

“…I swear I’ll make the most of it.”

Freak had, throughout his life, been a painfully repressive individual. It was through necessity that he’d done almost nothing “just for fun” in his cubhood (for what is cubhood fun but watered-down combat training?). It was through fear that he’d kept himself from really showing affection and emotion to the Pride Landers, the Desert Warriors, and others. It was through hopelessness that he ‘d refused to acknowledge the depth of his heart to himself, every minute of every day of every week of every month of every year of a life that was lived minute to minute, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year…

No more. This was a new beginning, a new life… a new Freak. He was the same being, in a fashion, but now, he was going to let go of the past, and look to create a future for himself.

No more death, no more pain, no more hopelessness, no more loneliness, no more worry, panic, fear, or anger. No more guilt…

“Maybe… Hindustan isn’t so bad… after all…”

And so, it was with a desperately rare smile that would, God willing, recover and become as common and cherished as a meal with whoever he might call a friend in the future that Freak dove into the lake, struggling, for a moment, until instinct took over and, for once, pointed him in the right direction…

For a being to whom swimming came as naturally as breathing, the elder—Salim was his name—was a fairly good instructor. Freak was a land-animal and always had been. His muscles were configured for the low resistance of atmosphere, not the thick, soupy concoction of swamp-water.

Despite that, though, his progress was nothing short of remarkable. More than once did Salim’s three youngest grandchildren, Tahir, Jahanara, and Amira, stop by to watch the li-tigon practice, time and again despite repeated failure, the most basic of swimming maneuvers.

Amira, a golden-eyed female with a voice like the chirp of one of Hindustan’s many exotic songbirds, even pointed out, once, that Freak should be able to move faster if he were to flatten his ears.

The li-tigon followed the young gharial’s advice, and when he managed to swim farther than he had before underwater, without rising to breathe, he surprised her with a smile. For a second, it faltered, though, as Amira blushed, returning the smile.

“The last time I’ve smiled at a young female…”

“Uvuli…”

The young gharials had moved on, leaving Freak to his practice. Salim had sat back to relax; saying that his old bones needed a rest. Regardless, the li-tigon was encouraged and directed from afar, as the old reptilian neared a clump of mangroves.

He disappeared from view, after that, and, curious, Freak doggy-paddled, with surprising grace, towards the lake’s bank. The sun was low in the sky, not quite setting, yet, so as the li-tigon shook himself off, the millions of tiny water droplets caught its rays, refracting them, so thousands of bright but small candles gleamed until Freak was dry.

His fur was longer, now. Longer, thicker, and shaggier, too; but it didn’t make him uncomfortable. Instead, it served as a useful barrier to the moisture of the Hindustani jungles, and Freak found himself wishing he had this coat years ago—it would have made a stiflingly hot summer, years ago, many times more bearable.

Salim was still below the surface of the water, and, despite the fact that his family didn’t seem to be worried in the slightest, Freak grew concerned. Leaving large, deep pugmarks in the damp soil behind his, he made for the thick group of trees at the nearby mouth of a winding stream.

As he neared the more forested part of the lake, his more prominent stripes made him nearly disappear—it was incredible. Before, he’d had to hunker down and concentrate, hard, to blend into the environment. But now, he stalked through his habitat like a ghost.

Freak’s expression was, mostly, blank, but there was a hint of concern on it. Salim still wasn’t coming up. No matter—the li-tigon was only feet away, so, if the old gharial was in trouble, he’d be right there to help—right there.

“I won’t allow people to hurt around me again. Never again,” he promised himself, mostly as an implement of distraction. Because Salim still wasn’t coming up…

Freak was leaning out over the lake, now. His bodyweight was balanced, mostly, on his front paws, which gripped to a moss-covered rock that offered plenty of traction. His eyes allowed him, now, to peer not at the surface of water… but through it…

But when Salim came up like that, with three fish in his maw and going fast enough to rise a good five feet out of the water, Freak was caught off-guard. And despite the level of comfort he displayed around the gharials (he could allow them to come close to him, for instance, without growling and extending his claws), he was ever-fearful.

Salim wondered what had caused that large, heavy rock to fall into the lake, as he took care to ram a tooth through each of his preys’ skulls, killing them instantly. He wondered, until, by chance, he looked up into the trees.

“…My son, I must admit that I am impressed. Most beings can climb or swim, but, it appears that you can do both. Why, though, are you shaking so much? Are you in pain, my son? Or cold? I know that you warm-blooded creatures cannot be in water for so long, and we’ve been practicing for hours now…”

It occurred to Freak that he hadn’t really been listening to the old gharial. He’d been reading Salim’s lips, because the way his heart pounded in his ears rendered hearing useless. It also occurred to him that he’d been holding his breath, and that his paws were gripping the tree branch tightly enough to make him white-knuckled.

Hindustan was still a foreign land to him, and so, a little jumpiness was to be expected. And, for a muscled li-tigon in the prime of his life, a little jumpiness entails leaping, backwards, and scampering up a twenty foot tree without thinking about it.

“…No, Salim… ...I’m fine,” he said. He hopped down, taking advantage of his broad paws’ ability to accept the impact of the drop easily, and turned to the gharial with a sullen, blank expression, moving away, warily, from the fish…

The gharial, however, noticed Freak’s hesitation to ask for food. He was a good host, though, and knew that the li-tigon had trained long and hard—and was still recovering from a great illness. Freak needed food, meat, and plenty of it.

“Catch, my son,” Salim chuckled, flicking two of the fish towards Freak. He kept one for his own, a lean, blue-scaled creature, and began to chow down at the side of the river.

The li-tigon reared up on his hind legs, with a determine expression, opening his maw. His eyes were wide and saliva began to collect in his mouth in anticipation, but then, his appetite failed, and he merely batted the fish down… and didn’t touch them.

Salim noticed, several seconds later, that Freak was staring at his food. Hunger was evident in his eyes, but he wasn’t eating. It seemed, to the gharial, from the hopeless, dejected expression on the li-tigon’s face, that he’d rather starve than eat food that was inches from his paws.

Maddening.

And so, with a sigh of effort, the old gharial pulled himself from the lake, and, twitching in irritation, walked to Freak.

“Do you not like this kind of fish, my son?”

The li-tigon shook his head curtly, but didn’t look up. He bared his teeth instead, groaning, as growing pains made him shudder.

“Then, why do you not eat?” Salim questioned.

Freak finally looked to the gharial, and spoke desperately.

“I don’t… I don’t mean to insult you at all. But… …I can’t bring myself to do this. It’s wrong. You’ll strike me for saying this, but I don’t mind. I don’t mind. I deserve it. I’m not worth killing or dying for… I can’t eat this meat. I’m sorry.”

Salim’s eyes narrowed, and he clenched a fist… then relaxed it. Beatings were a tried and true way of teaching a disobedient cub a lesson, and, in Salim’s opinion, that’s all Freak was—a lost, lonely cub in need of a great many lessons.

But he was not the one to teach these lessons—that was the Dark One’s job.

“My son, I will admit to it,” he sighed, “you are trying my patience. But if it’s a battle of wits you want, you are not in very much luck. I am not in the mood,” Salim said, with a sudden smile, “I have not the patience to talk to you and teach you why it’s acceptable to eat meat.”

“So, instead, I am telling you,” the old gharial said, his bright features darkening instantly to a pressuring, rough glare, “eat the fish, my son. Don’t make me repeat my order.”

For a second, the li-tigon twitched. He considered shaking his head, courteously, and leaving—Salim would be powerless to stop him. That’s what he would have done in the Land of the Spirits. But here in Hindustan, with his new body, new principles and new morals, in a new life… he had to act correspondingly different.

And so, he submitted. It was incredible—he’d stared down adult hippos, before, and wildebeest, and hyenas, and lions… But he wouldn’t—no. He couldn’t disobey Salim. That’s because, Freak would come to realize, Salim had something that he never had.

Salim had purpose on his side, purpose and compassion. Though tough love was a concept often twisted by peoples worldwide, the older gharial knew how to love and how to be tough, when needed. It wasn’t a characteristic that was his alone—his father before him, and his grandfather before his father had also been harsh, but compassionate men—great men, strong men, that had kept their families alive and healthy through the worst times in living memory.

Freak, on the other hand, had only purpose. It wasn’t a noble purpose—the be all and end all of his existence was just that—existence. His only goal was to survive. Rarely did events occur that allowed him to consider the possibility that he might someday have more than existence. Freak was an expert at living… but he was a complete novice at living.

True life, true contentment… these were things that Salim couldn’t teach. The Dark One could, perhaps… but Freak had had attempts against his life for nothing other than being as he was created. Was the li-tigon’s soul broken beyond repair…?

This was something that future chapters—that is, the future, would tell. But what Salim knew was that to live, Freak had to live. So, until every last shred of flesh had been scraped from the fishes’ bones, the gharial held his stony gaze.

“I’m finished…” the li-tigon said pathetically, looking at the remains of his meal. Though his hunger was sated, he felt sick. It took a great deal of effort to stomach the food, but he managed it.

“That’s very, very good, my son,” Salim said, and reared up, a little, to stroke Freak’s neck. He’d seen felines show affection to one another before… …a very, very long time ago, back when cats were respected and liked, not hated. His simple motion was meant to be a sort of reward for Freak, and the li-tigon’s surprised blink and the relaxation that was spoken through his body language suggested that Salim’s observations were correct.

Perhaps the li-tigon really was just a lost, lonely cub in need of not only lessons, but someone to teach them—a parent figure.

“Maybe that’s it,” he thought, as he felt his morose expression leave, slowly, “being with Grandmother did so much good for me. I bet that if I’d allowed her to, Sarabi would have been good for me, too. But Salim is not acting out of guilt, in any way… and it hurts to say this, but Grandmother was. There was a desperation in her treatment to me; she wanted to set things right. But Salim is, in a way, a better replication of a parent—he’s caring for me out of the goodness of his heart alone.”

“Grandmother… I’m not thinking badly of you, at all. But I needed more. In a way, Grandmother, you set me on the right path by readying me for a real parent… thank you. I l—I love you…”

Freak noted that he was now looking into a crystal-clear puddle next to the swamp. He only saw his reflection… but, really, what was he but his grandmother, his grandfather, his father, his mother, and all of his other ancestors? Samehe was gone… somewhat. Because as long as Freak lived, as long as his empty, locked-up heart beat… Samehe lived.

The sun had set, and the gharials were starting to turn in. At first, Salim wanted Freak to stay right at the water’s edge, so an eye could be kept on him, but the li-tigon had promised to not run, and had been allowed to curl up several yards away, in a drier, grassier area.

The li-tigon gritted his teeth, but otherwise, didn’t react as a beetle the size of a small fruit decided that he was a threat and carved a painful wound into his side. The insect would have continued; Freak just turned the other cheek, hissing in pain, even as it threatened to gut him…

A blur of motion and a grotesque crunching sound announced the end of the insect’s journey, and, as Salim turned, Freak looked, regretfully, at the broken pieces and steaming mass of gore that remained of the beetle. In a way, he felt reminded of himself—maybe Salim was only looking after him out of pity. Maybe all he was were broken pieces and repulsive, toxic gore.

The gharial sighed, and sat down in front of Freak. He noted, eye twitching, that the li-tigon’s gaze was off to the side.

The sky wasn’t the dark blue that it was in the Land of the Spirits, where, on any given night, one could look up and count the stars in God knew how many distant constellations. In Hindustan, the night sky was black, and attempting to penetrate it to see any sign of the Heavens above was pointless.

“Do you know, my son,” he said, turning over to bare his belly to Freak in a blatant display of trust, ignoring the fact that the li-tigon’s paws were configured just right to give him a speedy escape, if need be, “that our ancestors look down upon us, from the stars?”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, Freak slumped over, turning, to face the sky as well.

“Black…”

“…Yes, I’ve… heard a story like that before.”

“Aré, is that so? From whom did you hear such a thing, my son?” Salim asked, grinning.

“I heard it from my cousin,” the li-tigon said emotionlessly, “he told me that the great kings of our past look down upon us from those stars. He told me that his father told him that—that they… watch over us, they protect us… and that whenever he feels alone, or in need of guidance… he looks to the stars…”

“…Wah wah; your cousin, my son, is a clever man—and his father is, too. But tell me, my son… what do you think about stars? Do you think that our ancestors look down on us, that they protect us, from the Heavens… or do you believe, instead, something crazy, like… stars are giant burning balls of gas, millions of miles away?” the elder laughed.

Freak was silent for a long, long time. His eyes were more powerful than they ever had been before, and, to replicate these results, the Lion Sheikh suggests a diet heavy in carrots… but still, they couldn’t see anything in the sky. Nothing—not even the slightest glimmer of light…

“…I don’t know what to believe,” Freak said heavily, turning away from the gharial, “I’ve tried—I really have—to believe in the power of the Spirits. But Salim… they… haven’t really protected me… ever. What little I have… I have in spite of the Spirits. It hurts to say this… but it feels like the Spirits have only ever tried to harm me. Nothing else…”

The gharial sighed, and looked to the sky, for another moment. Throughout the day, Freak hadn’t said much, but Salim was an observant being—he knew that the li-tigon’s life had been unspeakable tough, brutal, and lonely. So… as much as it hurt to say… Freak’s near-atheism was understandable.

“Sometimes, my son, things can feel that way…”

“I know. But this isn’t sometimes, Salim… it’s always. I’m… look at me,” he said, turning to face the gharial with a face racked with sadness, “they tried to kill me by sending me to Hindustan, and they very, very nearly succeeded. They gave me a different body… they took away the one thing I thought I had. I’ve lived in the Jungle, the Desert, the Pride Lands, and traveled through other places.”

“But the one thing I thought I had was the Land of the Spirits.”

“It looks like even that’s too much.”

There was a pause.

“…Well, then, my son, why live the way you do? Why give up meat, why not kill for fun? Why not live for only yourself, without regards to anything else? Because, my son, you are wrong about one thing…”

“You have never had this Land of the Spirits.”

“You see, my son,” Salim said coolly, looking skywards, “all that any of us really haves are our own selves. That’s it—anything else can be taken. Life can be taken, limbs, family, friends, home, nation, honor… but even death cannot take us from ourselves. You must have experienced it, at least once in your life, surely, my son… surely you have been visited by a dead ascendant, or friend, yes?...”

Freak nodded, looking, bleakly, at the sky. Crickets chirped as the last of the gharial youngsters were ushered to their parents’ sides. This part of Hindustan wasn’t so bad… but Freak couldn’t stay; he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t plague a peaceful, honorable family with his poison for any longer than they forced him to.

“Well, then, you see, even death cannot truly kill us. And my question remains: why do you not live a life of hedonism, of hate, my son, when it seems that that’s all there is for you?”

There was another pause.

“Ah, you do not know, do you?”

“…No. I don’t.”

“Then, my son, I’ll tell you why you don’t. It’s because your brain tells you that the Spirits do not care about you or that they want you to die… but your heart, so to speak, says something else. You see? What you say… it makes sense, I think. Why should you believe in God, why should you do the right thing, if all you reap is pain and depravity in return?”

“The answer, my son, is not a simple one. And it is not an answer that I can give you—it is beyond my capacity. You’ll have to see the Dark One, he will answer your questions.”

Freak nodded, slowly, but his brow furrowed, and he turned to the gharial.

“Salim… I’ve heard about this ‘Dark One’ before, from the Banghar Clan—they wanted to kill him, so, I suppose, he can’t be all that bad… the enemy of my enemy is my fri—my ally. But… what—who, is he?”

Salim just laughed, and looked back to the sky.

“Ah, you are a clever one, my son, but I have been on this Earth longer than you have. When you are well enough to leave, I will tell you where and how to find the Dark One; it’s a closely-guarded secret for his safety, you see. And it’s also, I think, one of the few reasons that you are not walking out of my home this very minute, yes?”

Freak was silent. His ears flattened, a little; no, that wasn’t his intention, not at all. He was just curious…

“The Dark One is a cat, like you, my son. He is a little bigger than even you, I think… ah, I will tell you more when it is time, my s—hmm…” Salim said, thoughtfully, stroking his chin with a scaled appendage, “we need a new name for you.”

The gharial strated to rattle off a list of Hindustani names, along with brief meanings and histories. Freak listened only halfheartedly. As far as he concerned, Freak fit him just fine, but, if he had to have a real—that is, a less accurate, sugarcoated name…

“Not Shujaa.”

“Ah, my son, names must have a meaning behind them, yes? So, let us pick one out for you that has meaning behind it.”

Freak looked, motionlessly, skyward, as Salim stood, and walked in his awkward, old-gharial-fashion to the li-tigon’s side. Muscled arms wrapped, halfway, around his thick chest, Freak didn’t react as the reptilian examined him with his careful, wizened blue eyes.

“…Your left eye, my son... close it.”

Freak did as he was told, shutting his scarred eye. He tensed up, stiffing a frightened his, as Salim’s rough, scaled finger stroked the length of that pinkish slash.

“This is the only wound you had that we could not heal. I am curious, my son… how did you receive it?”

As the gharial gave Freak his space again, the li-tigon thought. But there was no way to sugarcoat this…

“My mother gave it to me.”

“…And, my son… why was that…?”

“…Because she was trying to kill me. …But it’s not what you think. Not at all,” Freak said huskily, “she tried to kill me to protect me… from the wretched half-life that I now lead. She tried to kill me… because she loved me. Heh… terrible, isn’t it…? That a mother would be pushed to a point where she attempts to kill her child—her own flesh and blood—because the alternative, life, is a thousand times worse?”

“And if you think that’s terrible,” Freak grinned, sadly, “well… that was my first day alive. Believe me when I say this, Salim… I’ve seen, and done, and experienced, much, much worse things than attempted murder… by my own mother.”

There was silence for such a spell that Freak thought that Salim had drifted into sleep. The way the gharial lay there, motionlessly, like him… it was as if he was still rooted to the spot by the dark, disturbing story of Freak’s birth.

“I think, my son, I have a name for you. It is timely, yes? You are in a new land, you have a new life… so, you need a new name. And I think I have one that fits you well.”

“You came to us scarred, and it looks like that you will leave us scarred. Even when you meet the Dark One… there are some wounds that only time will heal. So—you have many scars, both physical and not so physical… can you guess your new name, my son?” Salim grinned, almost as if he was playing a game, “can you?”

“…Wait… …no. It’s just a circumstance. It means nothing. It’s just a name…”

“I can see that you want very much to hear it, my son, so, here you are,” the old gharial said.

He rolled over to his feet with a grunt of effort, and, as he began to make his way back to his watery home, he spoke.

“From now on, my son, you will be known to us as the Scarred One. Or, for short…”

“Just a name…”

“…Scar.”

He was a hardy li-tigon. He’d survived falls, gouges, cuts, and sicknesses before. But, over the course of the next week, pain was more and more rare. It was only occasionally, now, that Freak had to pause to double over and retch, coughing up blood from his sudden growth spurt. Aside from the telltale mark across his eyelid, his wounds had all healed, completely.

He’d kept himself at a higher level of fitness by swimming, running, climbing, and, sometimes, playing with the young gharials, all day. More than once had Tahir, Jahanara, and Amira mentioned that they’d be sad to see him off—at this, Freak only ever gave a sad smile, and asked them if they wanted to be chased again.

But, soon, even Salim had to acknowledge that Freak was healthy enough to leave. Though the li-tigon had always made it clear that he couldn’t stay with the gharials, they had grown to like him. He even fished for himself, now, but they still saw that grimace of agony every time he took another living being’s life.

They’d done all they could for him, and, to a degree, he was better because of it. He’d lived—and, to be fair, that was their objective when they took him in in the first place.

But still… did he really have to leave? Wasn’t the purpose of life to find a home among people that care about you, and stay there, forever, to care about them?

For the gharials, the answer to that question was a resounding, impulsive, and vitally true yes. But for Freak…

He still had to find his own peace. They couldn’t help him with that—the Dark One could point him in the right direction, but, as the saying goes, doors could only be opened for Freak. He’d have to walk through them on his own four feet, with his own strength, alone.

That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t miss him, of course.

At first, the gharial juveniles—and their grandfather—had refused to come out to see him off. But, in the end, when he said his last farewell in an incredibly emotional, final manner, all four of them rushed out, looked him in the eye, and embraced him one last time.

As Tahir, Jahanara, and Amira squeezed his forelegs tightly, begging him to promise he’d be back, Salim sighed.

“You are a strange one, O Scar, my son. Though I know that you will miss us, perhaps not as much as we miss you, your face is one of stone. But I know that you feel, my son. Your eyes are unlike anything I have ever seen before, but I understand them. You do not need to show your emotions with your face, my son, because you feel them, very strongly, in your heart.”

“I wish I believed that as strongly as you do, Salim.”

There was silence. The three young gharials were pulled away by their parents, and so, Salim could lean towards the li-tigon, whispering him the secrets of the Dark One’s location.

“The Dark One, my son, is like you in many ways. He, too, is of mixed parentage—his father was a lion, and his mother was a tigress. As I told you before, he is still bigger than you are, very much so, in fact. But do not fear, my son, his soul is kind and gentle, as, I am very sure, he will help yours to be.”

“You will find him,” Salim murmured, “thirty or so kilometers from here, directly north of the Triangle of Pain. He will be praying, or meditating… you would do well to search for him at sunrise or sunset, at any other time, he is impossible to find, my son, impossible. The last time I met with him was ten years ago, my son—times have been hard. But he told me that if I ever needed to find him, all I had to do was stand at the top of the largest waterfall in this part of Hindustan, calm, pray, and find him not physically, my son, but spiritually.”

“I’m… not a spiritual being, Salim. But I’ll try,” Freak said, “I will try.”

The gharial sighed. He looked to the li-tigon, and knew that he was being truthful. So… what more was there to ask?

“Ah—my son, you have only nibbled on fish for the past few days… you have been training, hard, and I have not been walking around with my eyes shut. You are not starving, my son, but if you continue, you will be.”

“So, Scar, my son, I only ask you one thing. I cannot force you to follow my word, as you will no longer be under my care and protection—but I ask this of you as a friend, of someone who wants only the best for you.”

“Eat, my son. Promise me that you will eat until you find the Dark One.”

The li-tigon was silent. His face was expressionless… but, slowly, he shook his head, side to side… no.

“Salim, I respect you, I… …care… for you, and your family… and I value your friendship. But… you’re asking me to do something that I can’t, Salim… I can’t. I can’t eat. I won’t be able to live, Salim, so if you really do care about me, you will tell me to starve.”

“At least, that way, my will won’t quaver for a second, because I can’t disobey you.”

Silence.

It was just after noon, and the sun was high in the sky. But here, on the shady banks of the gharials’ lake, few harsh rays struck Freak. Insects worked, deeper in the forest, hiding under leaves and rocks and logs. Snakes existed, but were largely tolerant of Freak—he’d gone for a run, the previous day, and found that as long as he kept his distance, the quick, powerful animals were content to live and let live.

Salim sighed again.

“I won’t wish for harm to befall you, my son. So, I will tell you now… …find peace. Find happiness. Find comfort and security in yourself. That’s all I can tell you, my son, because from now on, I cannot help you anymore.”

“I hope that the Dark One can, Scar, and tonight, my family will sacrifice ten plump fish for your sake.”

“No, Salim… no sacrifices. But… …if it’s not too much to ask… pray for me. Hindustan is still foreign to me… but I know that whatever divine beings look over this land don’t hate me. I know that because they’ve given me friends, Salim…”

“And, for me,” the li-tigon said, giving his still rare, but recovering smile, “that’s so, so much.”

The gharial elder grinned, tears suddenly springing to his eyes, and embraced Freak again. The two males broke, and looked at each another. It was not a look of affection: it was a look that said, “Where you’re going, what you’re trying to do is wrought with danger at every turn. So don’t fuck up.”

“Go with God, my son. Find happiness…” Salim murmured as the li-tigon turned.

The family watched him walk for a long, long time, before they finally went back to their lives. And yet, for a longer time still, Salim remained, looking after where Freak’s form had disappeared.

“Find happiness…”

Pain was returning.

Though never truly banished from Freak’s system during his stay with Salim and his family, the dull discomfort he felt there had exploded into a bed of needles that punctured him from every angle, at every minute of every day.

And after the pain, depression followed.

Like his hunger, there was nothing to sate it. Freak’s soul had been weak since the deaths of Samehe and Sikia, and threatened to be shattered as easily, really, as his life might.

The Banghar Clan was still out there, still looking for him, and he knew it. So he kept to the shadows, traveling desperately, stealthily slow, knew that being spotted by anything could mean death.

The li-tigon pressed himself against a large tree, crouching. A family of deer passed along the path ahead, and he had to look away, closing his eyes tightly to keep his growing hunger in check.

“I can’t let myself be tempted. I’m too weak.” So, he clenched his teeth, and bit his own tongue, until the throbbing pain from the pink, prehensile organ overcame his hunger.

It took quite some down, and so, warm rivulets of blood shortly trickled down from Freak’s maw.

But the deer were gone, and so, he dared get up and move on.

His expression was one of dull determination, as his long, striped form flitted through the forest. At the swamp, his coloration made him stand out, but here, in the dry forests and sudden plains that comprised the majority of the Hindustani wilderness, he was invisible.

That was some comfort.

Because, after days without food after days of mere sustenance, he knew that he wasn’t standing proud and strong, as he normally did. He knew that his paws were dragging across the ground, and, more than a few times, he’d found that he’d collapsed, sometimes out in the open, from exhaustion.

But he had no other choice. He could find the Dark One… or he could instead just lie down and wait for death. Freak was a survivor: so, though every step now caused him pain, he went on. He had to.

His eyes were no longer shiny and lively—they were droopy and dull, and unfocused; pointed, blankly, ahead. It was either through luck or divine protection that he didn’t tread upon snakes, which would have killed him, or the homes of harmless insects—that would have caused him to kill himself.

Quickly, Hindustan seemed less welcoming. Now, it seemed like every blade of grass wanted to stab, to cut right through his rapidly degenerating coat. Once sleek and shiny, it now barely clung to his frame. Many bones showed against its baggy folds, and, day by day, they only increased in number.

Night blended into day blended into night again. Freak didn’t dare sleep, for fearing of not waking up. He had been careful, around Salim, to eat just as much as he was told to, and no more. He hadn’t packed on fat for the journey ahead, despite the knowledge that it would be spent, at his will, without food.

The thirty kilometer journey was, really, self-imposed Hell. Freak didn’t stop mosquitos, ants, scorpions, from digging their stinging instruments through his coat and into his fur. As the sun, like the moon, continued to rise and fall, he walked on, in a trance. What little hope the li-tigon had for himself was all vested on his meeting with the Dark One—he was putting all of his eggs in one basket in the worst way… so he was being extremely certain that that basket didn’t fall, shattering its precious contents.

As his belly tightened further, almost caving to his spine, dark circles appeared around his eyes. Those were the last of his concerns, though.

It was… hours?... days?... ago, that he’d paused, at random, turned, and looked at his right flank. Freak had dealt with infections before… but the way this fungal growth sapped at his muscle, his strength…

Maybe he wouldn’t be able to deal with it. Maybe it would kill him; but, after so many close brushes with death in such little time, Freak found that the proposition of actually dying no longer seemed so bad. Constant proximity to death in Hindustan had devalued death itself. It wasn’t that Freak wanted to die… he just no longer feared death, he no longer felt the desire to struggle, desperately, for his life, because he was too tired, too defeated, too lonely…

And so, as that greenish patch grew from the size of a claw to the size of a paw, making Freak’s leg stiffen, and eventually lose all ability to move, the li-tigon… walked on. He walked on because he couldn’t do anything else, and didn’t trust himself to think up a better solution—logic, he was certain, would lead him to suicide.

“Shameful,” he thought, as he dragged his useless leg along, teeth clenched in pain as they were constantly, these days, “in the Land of the Spirits, I killed beings for looking at me wrong. But it’s in this terrible land that I’ve awakened…”

“And it seems that it’s in this terrible land that I will sleep my last.”

“I wish… many things. But, most of all…”

He paused, and sobbed once, dryly.

“I wish I could say goodbye to my friends and family. I wish I could see them again, speak to them, touch them again, just once more. Just once…”

“But it seems that that’s not my fate,” the li-tigon thought dully, not realizing where his feet were taking him, “it seems that my fate is as it always has been… to suffer…”

Suddenly, though, Freak paused, and blinked. Though he hadn’t slept for days, now, he hadn’t really been away for… quite some time. But, gradually, consciousness forced itself up, and the li-tigon panned his gaze around.

First, he noticed that the plants and trees were lush, green, not like the tough and sometimes dry foliage that he’d spent days trudging through. Second, he noticed that Hindustan seemed to be built in levels; that, or it was sloped so gradually that changes in altitude went unnoticed by him—a very real possibility; he’d walked thirty kilometers, so it was quite possibly he’d walked up a few, too. He’d fallen hundreds of yards to Salim’s family, but now, not daring to approach the apex of the waterfall, he looked outwards, and down. This drop was also hundreds of yards…

“Wait. Wait. Waterfall? Dark One should be here. Time…” Freak thought, having traded higher-order thinking for consciousness. He looked to the west, and only saw a few of the Sun’s rays strike out over the canopy. Indeed, it was quite dark, and the clear, crystalline water that rushed past Freak’s paws didn’t sparkle or shine.

“Sunset. Dark One will be here soon. Must prepare. I’m dirty… must clean.”

It was hard, it really was, for Freak to stay conscious. Darkness kept blurring in and out of his vision, playing tricks on him—several times, he thought he saw a large, black, feline form exit the treeline, approaching him, but after blinking and checking again, the li-tigon realized he was hallucinating.

Not good.

Freak scrubbed at his face hard, so hard that it, like his paws, became raw. He was, perhaps, a little insane, just then, but you can’t blame him. He’d walked thirty kilometers without rest or food, taking untold dozens of insect bites and worse on the way.

The li-tigon turned, cautiously, and attempted to rub off the dark green patch on his flank. But the second his wet paw came in contact with it, mind-numbing pain shot from his leg to his skull. Freak roared suddenly, hissing, falling down into the rapid torrents of water with a splash.

Breathing heavily, he sat up, lips peeled back into a painful snarl.

“At least I’m awake now.”

For a time, he tried to sit there and relax. The Dark One would come—he would, because he had to. Freak needed him… whoever he was.

The li-tigon’s tail lashed rapidly as the sun dipped down a few more degrees. His fur was still baggy and loose, and, wet, it looked somewhat ridiculous on him—ridiculous until you realized just how hard the past days had been on him. Freak had been dealing with the pangs of hunger every second he spent with the gharials; he felt too guilty to eat enough food to get some to stick to his ribs. During his seemingly endless journey, though, starvation had never been more than a few kilometers’ travel in the wrong direction, a run-in with the Banghar Clan or another band of mongooses, bandicoots, or other roving predator.

There had been rain, Freak recalled, as he licked himself, and lots of it. It could be compared to the wettest periods in the Jungle, but, the li-tigon knew, Hindustan’s Season of the Rains would put any little cloudburst in the Land of the Spirits to shame.

Now, striped, sitting, and silent, Freak waited. The Dark One would be around soon, surely.

So Freak waited…

And waited…

And waited…

Then, he noticed that the sun truly had set.

“Should have searched. Should have paid more attention to time. …Can’t risk waiting until tomorrow for the Dark One. Will starve… or go insane. Method of suicide with almost certain success is not far…” Freak noted, peering, almost longingly, at the waterfall, and the long drop it offered.

The li-tigon groaned, in hunger, pain, and frustration, then growled at his own stupidity. Then, he looked down at the dark, sedimentary rock beneath the stream of water that moved to throw itself off that great cliff.

“Similar to southern tip of Jungle…” he noted, as he closed his eyes… then slammed his head, down, hard, against the rock.

Freak heard a crack, vaguely, and as he looked up, stars flashing across his eyes, he felt his skull with a paw. No matter what he did with it, it was like his head was unbreakable. If only his will was that strong…

The li-tigon groaned, and gingerly stepped away from the broken, jagged pieces of rock that he’d created. He was again fully conscious, and, maybe, would be able to think…

Crickets and cicadas chirped, audible over the soft rush that the water made, and, from time to time, the mournful croon of a songbird would serenade Freak’s thoughts. Normally, his memory was as lightning-fast and true as his reflexes, but now, with a stomach full of hunger and a heart full of pain, Freak found thinking difficult.

“What was it that S… Samir…? Salim… Salim. Salim… …what was it… that Salim said, to find… the Dark One… I have to…what was it…”

The li-tigon thought, hard, closing his eyes, both of them, both the scarred and the good one, and concentrated so hard that his body shook.

“Spiritually.”

“Spiritually…”

“…How?”

Freak ignored a deep, desperate growl from his insides, and forced himself to calm. Eventually, he managed to tune everything out. Simba had taught him the rudiments of meditation, as had Rafiki, but Freak was just a little desperate, now, and hadn’t the patience or the will to allow spirituality to come to him. So, instead, he forced it. Instead of slipping into a lower, or, depending on your tastes, higher level of consciousness, he shut himself down.

All energy that normally went outside, to his senses, was torn to face inside. Freak sat, motionless, mere feet from the cusp of the waterfall, and, finally, achieved his low, pathetic level of spirituality.

The li-tigon searched, for a moment, but gave up. Simba could find divinity at a moment’s notice… Freak wasn’t so blessed. Instead, he had to throw himself out there, and hope that the Dark One was listening.

“Please…” Freak thought, allowing the word to bounce around inside his skull, for a moment, before, hopefully, leaving it, “Please… Dark One… I need you. I will—I am dying. I need you… Salim sent me. I’m on the waterfall… please come, please… this battle is one that I can’t fight alone. Please…”

There was no answer. Not even the slightest answer, or acknowledgement. Just painful, biting, silence. And, slowly, Freak gave up, retracting, allowing his mind to rise, or, depending on your tastes, lower, into the physical realm.

“I should have known better,” the li-tigon thought as his face set. Calling upon his last reserves of energy, he moved, purposefully, towards the waterfall’s edge…

Salim’s voice was accented, powerful, dominant. This voice was accented, powerful, protective, kind, and ever willing to listen. It came from the treeline, and made Freak freeze and turn, rapidly, searching for its speaker.

“Was it you that called me, my son? Did you call for me, the Dark One? I heard someone call from here, my son, and it sounded like they needed me very much. So I rushed here, of course, and here I am. …Did you call me, my son?”

As his eyes fluttered, involuntarily, strength and resolve leaving him, Freak squinted, trying to block out those psychedelic blobs… he had to see, in case this was a trick…

“…Show… yourself…” he rasped. He managed to run, a little, facing what could very well be just another threat. What was startling was that the widest part of the li-tigon, just then, wasn’t his still muscled chest or shoulders… but his head.

There was a pause. Freak heard movement, but could see nothing but the vague shapes of the treeline and the darkness that lay behind it.

“Were you expecting, perhaps, a differently colored being, my son? I am not called the Dark One for no reason, you see,” the voice said politely, humorously, even.

Freak looked a little harder… and tensed up. Or, rather, he would have, if his limbs would stop shaking so much. Struggling to keep control of at least his face, stumbling, a little, as he stood, the li-tigon spoke.

“The Dark One…”

“Yes, my son, that is what I am called,” said the massive, black furred cat. His fangs gleamed as he spoke, baring his position, clearly, to Freak. “So it was you that called for me—good. …You don’t seem in such good condition, my son… What is your name?”

Freak blinked, rapidly, but his vision didn’t clear. He panted, his chest too heavy to move without any energy left in it, but he managed to stand, and look the Dark One in the eyes… or he would have, if the Dark one would open his eyes…

Though, the li-tigon noted, vaguely, his groan slurring as he tried to speak, his wrinkled features, his closed eyes, his calm, confident, content, relaxed demeanor gave off this vibe… the Dark One was everything Freak wanted to be.

He groaned, though, and fell, his right leg sticking straight out behind him. Whimpering for the first time in years, or ever, Freak was unable to hear the volley of questions the Dark One asked, as his huge paws brought him forward, just in front of the li-tigon.

Shaking, shuddering from pain and fatigue, Freak let his head down, so that half of his face was underwater. Then, he noted, with some sad amusement, that he had the strength to speak. Muffled and distorted by the liquid running through his maw, his answer to the last question he’d heard heard was regardless coherent and audible.

“Scar…”

(Next chapter in the Freak-Kifo universe will be My Name. More reviews will expedite future updates, but I’m not going to put a five review minimum to write. I encourage those of you that are still with me to review, though, and get other people on board. Again, kovukonos to Kudo—er, kudos to Kovukono, for helping me edit this chapter. Look for My Name within a few weeks… but until then, this is the Lion Sheikh of fanfiction… see you next chapter.)