THE LION KING: THE FREAK

Dawn.

Freak hardly knew it, of course. He registered, vaguely, that he was in a forest of some sort; his nose, ears, and paws told him this. He was on his side on a relatively clean patch of Earth—insects and dropping leaves and fruits left him alone.

The li-tigon was still hungry, but he wasn’t really starving, anymore. At least, that’s what it felt like.

He had no idea where he was, or, for that matter, how he’d gotten there. Flashes of memories jumbled, incomprehensibly, in his mind—useless.

Regardless, he was in no mood to get up. Instead, he sighed, a little, and decided to take rest, and then figure things out.

“I might die,” he thought vaguely, as, painfully, he adjusted himself, not hearing a surprised “Aré!” from only feet away, “… That’s alright.”

” I didn’t come here, I think, with the intention of leaving alive. I’m prepared for death,” he thought, “So…”

“If it wants me…”

“It may have me.”

The Lion King: The Freak

Chapter 17: Exile III: Family Bonds

(I’m putting in a lot of references to past chapters, below. I hope it helps to tie things together for you. There’s almost no foul language in this chapter, or gruesome violence.)

He wasn’t asleep for long, this time. That he knew—when he got up, the sun was directly overhead, its rays broken up into sparse beams that only occasionally reached the ground. And when he turned, checking his vicinity for, of course, threats, he saw that the depression that his body had made into the soil wasn’t deep.

“This isn’t that much different from home… …or, at least, what I’ve considered home. I never really belonged there… or, anywhere, at all…”

Freak was right, at least, half-right. This new part of Hindustan wasn’t unlike the Jungle. The li-tigon might have realized that earlier, during his trek across the countryside, but he wasn’t exactly in the best of states, both mentally, and physically. So now, for the first time, he really opened his eyes… and looked around.

It had rained recently, much like it used to in the Jungle: relatively brief storms, no longer than an hour, or so, that soaked the land, rejuvenate plants and animals alike with water. Drops of liquid caught light, now and again, so that the glistened on the surfaces and tips of leaves, trunks, vines.

Freak looked to the distance, though, squinting, a little. He was fairly sure that he was at a higher elevation, somehow, than the land at large, though the air wasn’t thin, at all. It was dense, moist, alive. The li-tigon realized, vaguely, that he hadn’t had any allergic reactions to anything, really, in Hindustan.

Maybe this really was his ancestral home.

Freak grudgingly allowed himself to accept that, to a degree. Everything about this place… it was just too damn familiar to be sheer coincidence. The rough, untamed trees that reached so far into the sky it was as if they meant to pierce the clouds to grab a piece of Heaven for themselves; the juxtaposition of mundane grasses and weeds and bushes with bright, exotically shaped and colored vines, flowers, cacti…

It was just too familiar. The li-tigon looked to the ground… and jumped.

Because, in the dark, wet soil all around him, there were pawprints…

… that did not belong to him.

He wasn’t alone, and, judging from the size and depth of the mark, whatever had made it was big.

Now, he ignored the lush, private jungle; now, he took advantage of its silence instead of relishing it, listening, closely, for signs of a predator.

He got nothing.

His senses were running at full throttle, but still, he could detect no signs of anything nearly big enough to create pawprints like that.

Teeth peeling back to show off a frustrated, nervous snarl, Freak turned, slowly. His eyes, both the scarred and the intact one, searched this Hindustani forest, filtering, sifting through it for any signs of another predator.

Below the primary layer of his consciousness, Freak tested himself, checking for injuries, inadequacies, and other oddities. He wasn’t in the best of conditions, of course, but his physical state was head and shoulders above what it had been just eighteen or so hours ago. He was still malnourished, but after resting and giving his wounds a chance to heal, he wasn’t in immediate danger of starving.

Still, he could be better.

He didn’t have much energy, and certainly not enough to take on another predator or any other serious opposition. Freak shivered, a little—suddenly the forest seemed less welcoming. But then, to a freak, what kind of pathetic place was welcoming?

Fight instinct had subdued; thus, flight instinct had risen. Paranoia was taking over—Freak’s eyes darted this way and that, his nose sipping in scents in brief, explosive gasps. But still… nothing.

The li-tigon began to back away. He hadn’t had time to really get his bearings, but he was reasonably sure there was a waterfall to a roughly western direction with respect to his current position. Due to a lack of spiritual and mental stability, he couldn’t be sure, of course, but most anything beat staying around, and waiting for whatever monster had made those dinner-plate wide pawprints to come.

Freak was about to scamper… but then he paused. Slowly, his muscles relaxed, a little, his half-sheathed claws pricking holes into the ground. Wind kicked up, a little, cooing maliciously, warning that the Season of the Rains would soon hit in full force, brushing aside some of the leaves, yards above the li-tigon’s head. For a moment, he was basked in sunlight that warmed and brightened a loose, down-and-out, dejected coat that should have been shiny with health, youth, prosperity.

“Salim said that… the Dark One was… bigger than me.”

Slowly, Freak looked down. His striped face was mildly curious as his dusky eyes met the soil.

“Could it be?”

His paw left the ground, folding, a little, in that endearing, graceful feline manner. The occasional breeze ruffled brush, leaves, and the freak’s mane as he set his appendage down, gently, in the pugmark of, possibly, the Dark One.

Self-esteem wasn’t a concept Freak had ever really understood. Perhaps it was due to his strange dichotomy; complete confidence in terms of war and battle, but complete diffidence in terms of the impossibility of finding peace, friends, and a place in the world.

His emotional range was not great. He could feel, for example, varying degrees and manifestations of anger, loneliness, pain, guilt, perhaps sympathy, maybe a dash of fear, and maybe—just maybe—one more.

But now, Freak felt a new emotion, as he slowly brought his paw away, and raised his head. His eyes were deep and dark and clear as they came to rest…

Humility.

He was sitting there like he’d been watching for several moments; and, to be fair, he might well have been. His fur was dark, almost as black as midnight on a new moon, but he knew how to use it to his advantage. In the patchwork light of this forest, he merely stayed still among a collection of dark-colored plants, allowing Freak’s eyes—accustomed to searching for movement, not detail—to float right over him.

His eyes were closed, and yet, when the li-tigon looked at their lids, he felt the Dark One look back—not with his eyes, really, but he felt a wave of attention, of interest, of… of care… wash over him.

Neither cat spoke. For the next few minutes, they just examined each another, up and down. Freak’s heart had been beating so loudly, a moment ago, that it had dampened his formidable auditory senses, but now that things had cooled down, he heard—and, to a degree—felt the Dark One’s heart beating powerfully, steadily, peacefully.

Freak was lean—well, now, he was beyond lean. But, in general, he kept himself fit and on the low end of a healthy size. The Dark One was similar, but with a bit more substantial serving of muscle. There was no fat to be had on either cat’s frame, and, due to the Bloody Shadows invasion and then the war in the Desert of only days ago, Freak was nearing the best shape he’d even be in during his life.

The li-tigon eventually sat down, and had to angle his head a good deal upwards to face the Dark One… who, for some reason, hadn’t yet opened his eyes. Stripes, blacker still than the liger’s coat, were visible, from time to time, unlike Freak’s now openly displayed camouflage.

Freak was the first to speak.

“So…”

“You’re not trying to kill me.”

The li-tigon’s lips twitched, as if he was considering saying more. But he fell silent, and continued to look at the Dark One, expecting a reply.

And, eventually, he received one.

“Of course not, my son. I do not believe in violence.”

The answer seemed as curt as Freak’s question, but the way the bigger cat said it—in a kind, rolling, accented voice—made it gentle, teaching, warm.

“… Is that so…” the li-tigon murmured, slowly.

The Dark One nodded, smiling, but didn’t speak.

“… That’s… good. Very, very good.” Freak’s face didn’t change, and neither did his voice, really, but the li-tigon felt a great weight lift from his mind. The Dark One sensed this, but didn’t let on. He wanted to see what Freak would tell him on his own, without prompt.

“You see… I… I’m violent. I cause death, and pain… in magnitudes that defy imagination.”

The Dark One normally would have considered Freak’s words hyperbolic. Yet… they were spoken in such a flat, blunt monotone completely devoid of emotion and rhetoric. He concentrated, a little, and felt Freak replaying just a few of the thousands of instances of violence he’d caused over the years to himself.

Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating.

“I’ve killed mothers in front of their cubs,” he said flatly. “I’ve massacred entire families, I’ve murdered out of pride and anger, and I never, ever do anything to stop violence… unless it benefits me.”

“And the Hell of it is this,” the li-tigon said, lips twitching, a little, to form themselves into a sad, slight, lopsided smile for a moment, “I don’t even deserve to live—to fight to live. I’m… well, I’m like you, but worse. You, Dark One… you’re righteous and pure. Salim told me this.”

The liger nodded in acknowledgment, but didn’t reply, as Freak continued.

“My grandfather was a tiger,” the li-tigon said blankly, “but… my grandmother, and father, were lions. My mother was like you—half and half. But me… I’m closer to being a lion than she was, and yet…”

“And yet…”

“I’m not made for pride life,” Freak said quietly, “I… I feel no desire to mate, and I can only… brush against the emotions that my relatives feel when they work for their pride. Loyalty, kinship, affection, love… these words mean n—almost… practically nothing to me.”

The Dark One was silent, for a spell, but so was Freak. Now was the time for prompting.

“Scar, my son…” Freak’s eyes widened, a little, at that address, before he remembered what he’d told, feeling as if he was at death’s door, to the Dark One the night before, “I understand, I think, much of what you say. But please… there is much you have yet to say, if I am correct, yes? Much on your mind and much in your soul, weighing you down, keeping you from peace, happiness…” the liger’s voice trailed off. He turned his head, gazing, through shut eyelids, at Freak’s flank.

The li-tigon canted his head, a little, before turning around to see what the Dark One was looking at. He kept his claws ready, of course, just in case.

The infection had been so bad that it had shocked Freak to consciousness the moment he’d registered it. Now, though, the full scope of the ailment really hit him.

It was a flesh-eating bug, or spore, that had attacked the li-tigon. How he’d allowed it to advance to such a stage was a mark of just how utterly sick he’d felt towards himself over the past days.

Regardless… it seemed that the Dark One’s care had saved Freak. The li-tigon tested his leg, and found that he could move it in most normal motions without pain. He hadn’t lost any flesh, thankfully; the Dark One had gotten to him just in time. His fur was a bit thinner, but still offered him camouflage and a reasonably decent shield against stingers, teeth, claws, and any other threats that might make an attempt at him.

Like the world itself…

“I’m a disease.”

“I… I’ve caused, or enflamed, two wars… that have each ended hundreds of lives.”

“I have received real love, I think, but I can’t find it in me to return it… though the one that gave it to me was so… so pure, so tender… so beautiful,” Freak whispered, incapable of holding back the jab of nostalgia, guilt, and pain that was associated with Vitani.

“I have family, and, I think, my relatives love me, as well. But I… ran away from them, because I didn’t have the guts to make pride life work, even though I feel certain that I hurt them—a lot—by leaving.”

“Why they would feel upset about being rid of an abomination like me is beyond my limited comprehension… but I hope you see how great they are.”

“To let someone like me into their pride, into their hearts, even…”

“… After I ran from them, I went to my grandmother. I’d never seen her before, and the way she treated my mother…” Freak shook his head. “She changed, though. She… we didn’t have nearly enough time together. But within minutes of meeting me, of finding out that her daughter lived, and had a cub… she… I can’t begin to explain the way she looked at me. She was a harsh lioness, a warrior, but… when she looked at me, her face and heart softened even more than they did when she looked at her… soldiers.”

The li-tigon gave a quiet, raspy scoff.

“My cubhood… was brutal—that doesn’t excuse me from anything that I’ve done, of course, but…”

“… I never played before. I never had anyone bathe me.”

“My grandmother did both.”

“And yet… I tore down her pride. I did. Me. One of her soldiers was killed because… of me. Because two of the others, or one of them… thought that they loved me.”

“The Great Spirits—the Gods of my fatherland—know of my sins. They must. That’s how I got here: they exiled me. They… cast me out, vomited me, after a thousand attempts on my life failed.”

“This land, this Hindustan…I don’t know what to do here,” Freak said hopelessly, “I… suppose I should live, at least for a little, to find out how I can repent, in what remains of my life, for my sins. That’s why I came to you—Salim told me that you might be able to help me.”

For a heartbeat, the li-tigon’s voice was hopeful. Coincidentally, or otherwise, the sun shone, just a little brighter, but then, a cloud rolled into the play, cloaking it. The forest floor was dark… as was any chance for Freak’s spiritual well-being.

“I’m beyond help, though, I think.”

The li-tigon’s tone was almost peaceful—almost. He’d accepted his fate… but even for a being whose first memory was that of an attempt on his life by his mother, it was saddening.

“I mean… what...? What…”

“What can be done that can help me, Dark One? I’m so bad and full of sin. How can I be helped…?”

Freak broke off, and looked away. His profile, once noble, powerful, protecting and awe-inspiring for some, nauseating and dreadful for others, was now shrimpy, weak, almost hunchbacked. Years of collected agony, locked up and hidden from consciousness had now come crashing down on him all at once. If it wasn’t for his growth spurt, Freak would have been the size of a cub… if he even lived.

The Dark One looked, analytically, intently, at the other hybrid. It wasn’t just the look of a doctor; the liger had patched up Freak to the best of his ability—the li-tigon’s body was safe, or would be, as soon as he got some food into it. For now, though, Freak’s mind and soul were in terrible, terrible danger. And, for some reason, the liger felt that more than just Freak’s safety was at risk now. Shrewdly, he deduced that this li-tigon had a purpose in life, a great purpose, that even he didn’t know yet.

“My son?” the liger said suddenly, making Freak’s eyes snap onto him, instead of focusing on other, even darker things, “…Tell me… your cubhood, my son. What was it like?”

“…Hard. Hard, and painful.”

“Lonely,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

The li-tigon suddenly didn’t seem in the mood to talk. He’d gone from hungry for an outlet for the sad stories of his life to morose and brooding in a second.

“Ah… well, my son, you may not wish to tell me all that there is to tell right now. But that is very much all right,” the Dark One said kindly, “I cannot help you on my terms, only… yours. So… we won’t talk about your cubhood just now.”

There was a pause, for a moment, as the darker, larger cat gathered his thoughts. Freak wasn’t looking at him, and the expression on his face suggested that he didn’t want to be spoken to. But the dampness in his eyes, and the slight, slight quivers of his lip suggested otherwise.

“Scar, my son, you seem to believe, for some reason, that your ancestry, your parentage, your mixed-species status… makes you undeserving of life.”

“Well.”

“Let me tell you, my son,” the Dark One said, “that no matter what others say, no matter what they do, they are not acting logically or morally—they are acting out of fear. Cats like us—they are few and far between, even more so in recent years…”

“But we defy normality, you see. You know this, but, Scar…”

“Do not confuse normality with nature. They are two very, very different things. Normality… it means nothing. That’s my belief, and, my son, I shall admit some bias.” The Dark One laughed, a little, in a deep, rumbling purr… that Freak only twitched at. The li-tigon didn’t really have a sense of humor, so, the liger decided against using that tactic again.

There was a pause. The Dark One always chose his words carefully, but now, after seeing Freak’s negative reaction to that… he had to re-evaluate his strategy, a little.

“Like me, I am sure that you have had people spit on your face and demand to know what right you have to exist.”

Freak almost looked to the liger, and that told the Dark One all he needed to know. To help Freak, he needed to leave emotion behind, and speak rationally, logically. It was sad that the li-tigon hadn’t developed humor or emotion… but the Dark One knew that he could, perhaps, someday have them. To get to that eventual someday, though, Freak needed to be saved, first—with reason.

“The answer to that question, my son, is extremely simple.”

“Beings like you and me,” the Dark One said, purposefully slowly, so Freak turned, just a little, not facing the liger, but not quite staring in the other direction, either, “we are alive, yes? We feel pain, we have brains, feelings, hearts, and we breath and eat and need some things like all other beings, yes? So, we are alive.”

“Why are we alive?”

A pause.

“I am not asking you to tell me our mission in life, my son. Not yet. But please answer me, O Scarred One… how did we come to be alive?”

Freak’s head angled down a little. His brooding, striped, intent features were shadowed, not only by the forest overhead, but the li-tigon’s fur and ruff. His eyes darted back and forth, back and forth, rapidly, mind whirring with energy as he thought…

“The answer is extremely… simple?”

“Because the Spirits intended, or allowed us, to be.”

He’d said that without realizing it, and blinked, looking up, wondering if he really had spoken—he had.

The Dark One nodded, slowly, proudly, and then continued.

“That’s right, my son. When our mothers carry us… we’re defenseless. We’re at the mercy of God, or, as you say, the Spirits, yes?... so, it follows that if we live, if we are born into the world… it is by the will of the divine.”

“Unless, of course, there are more powers that control our world than those above it…”

“So, my son, we are here due to as much of God’s will as any others are. Why, then, do we deserve less?”

Silence.

Freak really was a stunningly exotic being. His features were, regardless of his position in the world, practically supernatural. He was large, and his thick, plush fur could, no doubt, hold and protect any number of pride members, females, cubs…

Despite the loss of muscle and meat due to his fast, he still was reasonably strong. He could, probably, fight off most of Hindustan’s beasts, and, once fed properly and healthy, he’d be nigh untouchable.

If it wasn’t for the scar on his eye and the sulking, sad way he carried himself, even now, he might have looked like an angel.

“We don’t.”

“God put us here to live, yes?” the Dark One said warmly, “So, of course, we have the same rights to exist as all others do. We do not seek for special treatment, wonder, awe, fame… no. But we do deserve respect and tolerance, my son. All do. It’s not so very much to ask to be left to live in peace, yes? Violence, my son, cannot be justified against us… as we have done no wrong…”

Finally, Freak turned towards the Dark One. His eyes were full of guilt and moisture, and his heart was full of shame. But the li-tigon no longer felt depression and hopelessness ebbing away at him, at his will and ability to live.

Maybe he wasn’t beyond help, after all.

There was silence, for a moment. Then… Freak spoke.

He spoke for a long, long time, hardly stopping. The Dark One was silent, and only periodically nodded, encouragingly, keeping his eyes shut, as if meditating while the li-tigon told him… everything.

Everything.

Every one of his sins, or, at least, every one that he could remember. Every emotion he’d felt, every being that he’d ever cared about or had cared about him, everything.

Freak had been with friends, before, he admitted. But never before had he… so completely set the cards on the table. Every fiber of the li-tigon’s being had been exposed for scrutiny and healing… and when he finished; throat, lips and tongue sore, he looked down.

The ground was still damp from the rain of just hours ago. But the slight, tight grouping of wet dots in front of Freak’s paws said that Salim was right—he didn’t express emotion with his face, very much. He did so with his eyes.

It had been the longest talk Freak had had with anyone, ever. Every detail of his life—and the events leading up to it—were now in the possession of the Dark One. The li-tigon felt a spike of worry, of suspicion, prick him, but he was too tired to act on it. Whatever happened next… he didn’t care. He’d be helped, or he’d be harmed. It didn’t matter to Freak… he was just too tired to go on alone. He needed help, and if he didn’t receive it… death would not be a bad fate, at all.

It was starting to get a little hot, as midday approached. Freak wasn’t uncomfortable, though, his coat offered protection from the elements. Sunlight, even here in the shaded forest floor, was present.

The Dark One had been still for a few moments, now, but for Freak, it felt like a lot longer. He was just sitting there, watching, thinking, presumably. The liger’s fur was surprisingly shiny, in the Hindustani sun, despite his obvious age.

“I wonder… if I live to be that old, what… will I have accomplished, with my life? What will I have built, besides hatred…?”

“My son.”

Freak’s eyes snapped to the Dark One. In the strange lighting, the younger cat’s stripes were strikingly visible—the rest of his fur blended into the forest, so it almost looked like a series of curved, vertical gashes had been ripped into the forest.

“First, I would like to thank you, very much, for being so very honest with me. I appreciate that very much, O Scarred One.”

Freak nodded, a little, his eyes glazed and unfocused. His hunger was starting to return, but he needed—he needed to hear the Dark One’s words. They were, probably, his final chance at a fate besides Hell.

The liger opened his mouth, a little, but paused, and licked his lips. He had so much to say… but where to start?

“… I don’t believe, my son, that what you told me earlier is true…”

“… At all.”

Freak’s face tightened, a little. The Dark One had just praised him for honesty… but now, it seemed, he’d lied, before? But before the li-tigon could speak, though, even if he wanted to, the liger did.

“You said, O Scar, that you are a violent being; that you cause pain and death in, you words were, I think, in magnitudes beyond imagination.”

“This is not true, my son. At least, not entirely.”

Another brief pause. For his part, Freak wasn’t entirely sure that the Dark One truly understood his speech. How could he, if he’d heard that soliloquy, then gone on to say that Freak didn’t cause pain and death to such a grotesque, unearthly degree?

“My son, you have made mistakes,” the liger said gently, “But I do not have any reason to believe that you often act in malice. After beloved Vitani died…” Freak felt a pang of regret for not capitalizing on what would surely be his only chance at love, “you were angry, my son. What you did after that… was unfortunate.”

“But let us be fair, my son,” the Dark One said in a slightly louder tone, so that Freak’s mind couldn’t wander to undesirable places, “they were only plants. What you did was wrong… but it was not so very wrong. You feel regret for it, I can tell… so. What can you do now, but take wisdom from that experience, and move on?”

“And, O Scarred One, I feel very strongly that this is what you have been doing, for many years, without even realizing it.”

“You learned the hard way, as I did, that there is no one that wants to help a so-called freak.”

Freak noted that he was fairly certain that he’d revealed his “true” name to the Dark One, sometime along the course of his spoken autobiography. And yet… the liger seemed adamant on referring to him as “Scar” or “Scarred One”.

“But my son,” the Dark One said, power and charisma suddenly entering his voice, making Freak’s ears angle themselves, just so, to pick up every syllable of the liger’s words, “your stories have told me something, something very important. Something so important that it is my belief, in fact, that it is the… pinnacle, the purpose, of all life.”

“My son, you have been scarred and battered. Sun and Earth and water and fire have tested you; it almost seems, my son, that the elements of this Land of Spirits have come together to try to make you stop… living, yes. But it also seems, my son, that they have tried to make you stop doing something even more important than living…”

Silence.

The forest.

The nearby water.

The li-tigon.

The liger.

Silence.

Freak didn’t answer. His lips twitched, a little, and he almost gave one of his cold, pragmatic, robotic, unfeeling responses.

“There is nothing more important than living.”

“My son… no matter what life has thrown towards you, you... have… never, once, given up in your efforts to do right.”

“Moments of passion and sadness have shaken your resolve,” the liger admitted, nodding, a little, “But, O Scarred One, you have never once legitimately attempted to do evil. Out of naivety and fear, you have, on occasion, allowed evil and violence to occur, but, O Scar, none are perfect.”

“Naturally.”

“None of us are born perfect…”

“But, my son,” the Dark One said, with rising emotion and conviction, making Freak sit up, a little, his dark eyes widening to drink in every detail of what might very well be his life’s crossroad, “you were born to do not only good things, but, I am certain, great things.”

“You have survived insurmountable odds, my son. If anyone but you, O Scar, were to tell me that they fought an entire clan of these hyenas, or defeated a serpent so large before your first year passed, I would have laughed and called them a braggart. Quite simply, my son, you are a one-man army.”

The li-tigon’s spirits weren’t raised by such praise, much. He didn’t seem his huge capacity to cause death and destruction as something to extol...

His vision blurred, a little, and Freak blinked, rapidly, trying to clear it. The li-tigon wondered if he was going insane, or if this was some new type of attack… but then, he realized that he was hungry.

Too bad. The Dark One’s words were more important—but shit! He’d missed some…

“… virtues, my son, that we all must hold dear. Among them are: respect for all forms of life, O Scar, compassion, a willingness to carry out and institute justice, and duty towards one’s kin.”

“I once heard a very foreign saying, O Scarred One. It’s about kinship…”

“Good people draw a circle around them, and place inside it their mate and their cubs. Great people draw larger circles, including their siblings, parents, and other relations. But some people... have circles that include many.”

Freak twitched, a little, and despite his still-shut eyes, the Dark One noticed, and smiled, tilting his head, a little bit.

“Aré, O Scarred One… could it be that you have already heard this saying?”

The li-tigon was still, for a moment… then nodded, a little, rapidly. The liger seemed to understand, as Freak spoke.

“Yes, my… …father… said that to me… a long, long time ago.”

To be fair, it hadn’t been really that long ago when Freak had brought the Pride Landers to the Jungle, to teach and train them and to forge them into counterassassins. But since then, so much had happened, so much had changed, so many had died…

“Ah, shabosh, my son! So, you see, there are many paths to enlightenment, thousands of them, everywhere… with brothers and sisters, O Scarred One, to be found on any of them.”

“… Your father, my son… you never met him in life,” the Dark One said, “And yet, he was as important to your creation as your mother.”

“Tell me, my son… what does your father mean to you?”

There was a pause as Freak collected his thoughts. His father… he’d never really thought about him, before. Not really. He’d struggled with himself before, over his true feelings towards his mother, who had, after all, tried to wipe him off the planet before he’d been alive for a minute…

But his father…

Scar, Freak knew, had killed Mufasa, and tried to do the same to Simba. And yet… yet…

If Scar was in Heaven, which he was, his sins couldn’t have been unforgiveable. He couldn’t really have done nothing more than launched a coup on his family, his own blood, if they really deserved power. Things couldn’t have been as simple as they’d seemed in the movies—in Simba’s portrayal of events.

“I… I don’t know. …Scar… I’ve taken his name as mine, I suppose, since Salim told me never to refer to myself by my true name around him.”

“… I don’t think it was simple coincidence,” Freak said, as the Dark One nodded slowly, encouragingly, “that Salim named me Scar. So… there must be something about my father, something that we share.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m not a lion, and he didn’t want to be, or maybe it’s because of our matching scars,” the li-tigon said, “or maybe it’s something else.”

“I don’t know.”

A pause.

The Dark One was about to speak… but then Freak did. Not so much to the liger as to himself; the way his head tilted into the air, angling up with hope and even pride, the way his voice was soft but powerful and confident… no. Freak was speaking to himself, affirming what he should have long ago.

“But whatever it is… …it’s… refreshing, in a way, to think that his blood runs in my veins, that he lives in me. I know that he wasn’t a perfect being, at all, but he’s still my father. …I’m… grateful to him, as I am to my grandfather… …They… did evil. And yet… I was born… …out of evil…”

The li-tigon’s face fell. Again… logic had let him not to understanding and enlightenment, but darkness. He was born to evil, and, time and again, he’d nearly died to evil…

The Dark One spoke in a relatively flat tone, now.

“What you say, O Scar, is very true. Very true… but, I think, the conclusions you are reaching from it are not so true.”

“There is, I think, something very powerful about acknowledging your roots; the greatness that flows from ancestors to live in you. But, my son, know this, and know it well.”

“You are, O Scarred One, in no way responsible for the actions of your ancestors—for the good ones, and the evil ones.”

“What matters, my son,” the Dark one said, with a set, serious face, “is what we do with the time and life we have. Take pride in your blood, and learn lessons from the actions and deeds of your ancestors… but be your own person. Control your life and your actions, and never feel bad about who… or, my son, what… you are.”

The li-tigon didn’t seem to be listening. His eyes weren’t entirely focused, and his face wasn’t angled, exactly, towards the Dark One’s. The liger wasn’t offended, but he was a little confused. Freak was a serious, focused cat… why was he now—

Freak stumbled, but, before he could fall, the Dark One was there. The li-tigon blinked, a little, shifting, feeling the powerful liger heft a good portion of his weight, accepting it.

“He’s a freak, too…”

“…Maybe, even in Hindustan…”

“I’m not alone…”

“Ah, my son, please forgive me…” the Dark One said mournfully, as he half-carried Freak to the west, towards the waterfall, “I tended to your wounds, and, due to the urgency of your spiritual health, I tended to that, too. But, O Scar, I do not think I am wrong in saying that you haven’t eaten for far too long.”

The li-tigon nodded, and attempted to squirm off of the older cat, to walk on his own four feet. He was unsuccessful, though, and was taken back to the waterfall where he and the liger had met.

“Stay here, my son,” the Dark One said, gently, tenderly laying Freak down in the shallow pool, “I will be back to you, very soon, with food. There are no men here, my son, usually, and few other dangerous animals; you should be safe. But if you need me,” the liger said, backing away, his dark fur enabling to practically vanish in Freak’s eyes, “do not hesitate to call.”

The Dark One turned, and began to lope off. But, as he did, the li-tigon heard his voice, or he thought he did… in his head.

“I am here for you.”

Eyes shut, Freak sat, head raised. The sparkling, clear water cleansed him, it felt like, and so, he didn’t feel overcome by hunger. Even his infection ceased to irk him, and the dozens of other injuries seemed to open, allowing the purifying liquid to rush through them, carrying away poison and impurity.

The li-tigon was hidden, rather well, against the small, paw-sized rocks that filtered the water before it careened to the valley far, far below. The dark overlay of his mane did well to break up his tan-orange fur. Aside from his mixed features and telltale stripes… he looked like he belonged there, just there, at the top of that Hindustani waterfall, gazing down upon the land around him; watching over it.

Suddenly, Freak’s eyes shot open.

“The Dark One said that he doesn’t believe in violence.”

“So, of course, he won’t bring me food obtained through violence—that would be hypocritical. He has…”

“…an alternative food source?... he must. He must… he wouldn’t eat meat; he wouldn’t kill to do it.”

The li-tigon smiled, just a little, feeling enthusiastic energy reluctantly enter him. His coat hung loose over him, but in other places, it was starting to get a pinched appearance… he really did need food, and soon.

“Food, life… without killing…”

“Hungry, my son?” said a now-familiar voice perpendicular to the stream that led to the misty falls, “That’s good. This meal is a large one…”

Freak stood, turning, to face the Dark One. But then, his face, containing interest and hope a moment ago, began to fall, filling with confusion… and revulsion.

The liger was a great hunter, he really was. He hadn’t left Freak for more than ten minutes, but already, he was back, as he said, with a large meal.

The li-tigon stood, in shocked silence, that the liger—whose eyes were still shut—didn’t notice. Instead, he continued to drag his kill, a large, fat water buffalo into the stream. As the animal’s neck, cut open in what appeared to be a single, remarkably powerful killing blow, met the water, blood poured into the stream, carried to the falls, before turning into airborne, pink mist…

The animal’s eyes were closed. It had at least been done that dignity. Freak shuddered, but remained frozen, like a deer in the headlights, as the liger continued to pull the kill towards him.

The li-tigon felt no hunger, as he looked, incredible sadness and sympathy on his face, at the defenseless herbivore. It occurred to him that until then, he’d never taken the time of day to appreciate animals that could feed him. He’d never before shown real respect, real humility, towards his prey…

That was now dead…

“… Is something wrong, my son…?” the Dark One said eventually. He was positioned at the far side of the buffalo, a controlling paw on the animal’s side, as he looked, through shut eyes, with his head cocked, at Freak.

“Are you, perhaps, allergic to this kind of meat? Or—”

“No. No, I’m not allergic to that meat, or any.”

The li-tigon was on his feet. His eyes were flashing with anger, and his heart pounded, making blood and adrenaline rush through his system. He was snarling, a little, but the Dark One merely looked on, head tilted, fur as dark as his kill’s, waiting for Freak to speak again.

A pause. Water flowed over and around Freak’s paws, the Dark One’s paws… and the dead buffalo’s body. There was no blood left in it; at least, not enough to show in the transparent, rushing liquid.

“You… said that you don’t believe in violence. That we should respect all life.”

Rapidly, Freak’s voice was becoming thinner, quicker, more robotic. Eyes tight and mistrustful, he hissed, exhaling, for a long moment, before continuing.

“That can’t be true. How can you value life while eating meat? How can you use violence when you don’t believe in violence?”

“Well, my son—” the Dark One tried to cut in, to stop Freak from getting too worked up, he was still in poor health… and, at the very edge of a waterfall.

“NO! You might be a liar and a hypocrite; you might not practice what you preach, but I’m different. I can’t eat that revolting… that… garbage… obtained through evil—violence. I won’t—I’d rather die.”

Silence, for a moment. The Dark One’s face was clear and understanding, as he remained still, so as to not excite the li-tigon. He tried to continue, but Freak spoke again.

“Do you understand me? I’d rather die than eat meat. I’m not lying,” the li-tigon said, all emotion and conviction leaving his voice, making it husky, low, heavy, monotonous, “I swear on my mother, I’m not. Don’t try to make me eat meat, Dark One. Salim… I’ve had enough. I really have. I’m tired, I’m sick, I don’t want any more violence or pain. I’m done…”

Freak turned, almost facing the waterfall. The fall, he noted vaguely, might be… satisfying. The Dark One sensed that thought, and shifted, a little, preparing to pounce on the li-tigon, if necessary, and pin him.

But Freak didn’t jump. He just sat, dejected and confused and in need of guidance, waiting… waiting for the Dark One to try and save him…

Or fail…

“I’ve been blind to the evil I’ve been doing my whole life until now. But now that my eyes are open…” Freak said, turning to cock his head at the Dark One without a hint of feeling on his face or in his voice, “How can I shut them again? How can I, Dark One…?”

Silence, for a moment—relative silence. The soft whoosh of the waterfall, as it spilled over the cliff’s edge to create mist and a powerful, streaming flow was audible, as were the occasional, distant calls of Hindustani songbirds. Out in the open, as the two cats were, it was bright and hot and sunny, for most of the year. But now, as the Season of the Rains prepared to let loose its true power, cloud cover created dappled shade over them, even as the sun attempted to sear through the puffy, white collections of vapor.

The Dark One smiled, a little. Freak felt any sense of hope he might have retained leave, and prepared to—not jump—but… let loose, relax, allowing fate to take over, and cast him over the falls, into whatever lay beyond…

But the liger cleared his throat, so the younger cat looked up, slowly, looking at the older male.

There was another brief pause… and then the Dark One opened his eyes.

Freak looked at the other cat… and empty sockets looked back at him.

“I was only alive for four months when my world went dark.”

I was abandoned, my son, just after my mother gave birth again. I don’t remember things very well, because I was a sickly cub. Who my father is and why my mother treated his cubs as she did is a mystery that will not be solved, O Scar, but it doesn’t matter.

You know how hard it is to look after yourself, my son, even better than I do. For me, at least, my mother hunted and cared for for some months. But when she left, I was still sick…

You know, Scarred One, that it’s hard to raise yourself.

Well… I had not only myself to raise… but my twin sisters, also.

Ah, my son... you had a sister, yes? You’ve been around females, yes? Then, you should understand this better than I do.

There’s just something about them… that’s incredibly soft…

Not just their bodies, of course. But to be around them, to relax and sleep amongst females, to be near them… ah, my son, it’s an experience I have missed every day, since…

…They, like me, were neither lions nor tigers—of this I am certain. They were not sick, but they were young, my son, too young to hunt and look after themselves. So, of course, I had to look after them.

It was a hard job, my son.

There were benefits, of course. There was nothing finer than coming to them, to see their happy faces, to feel their heads rub against me before we would, together, as siblings, sit down, and, together, eat.

But, Scarred One, I was young, and I was a fool.

I had no patience for them when I came back without a kill. They were not whiney, O Scar, but they were too young to keep their mouths totally shut when they were hungry.

And so, one day…

…

I… I’ll never forget what happened. Do not ask me to repeat what I said to them or what prompted it. But…

… I… ran…

I ran very far, very quickly—they could not hope to keep up, O Scarred One. Rage, bitterness, and resentment—not just at them, I think, but at my mother, my father, the world, and God—were on my face… and in my heart.

But even then…

I can’t forget their faces, my son, or their voices, as they cried out after me.

“Brother!” they called, over and over, “Brother, please, come back, dear brother! Please… we are sorry, dear brother. Please, don’t leave us, we’ll be good! Brother!…”

Brother…

…

And yet, my son, I didn’t stop running until sunset that day. My heart and lungs were still pumping, and anger still sang through my veins. I remember—I roared, my son, and walked around, striking at anything that got too close. I remember all this, my son, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot remember feeling any desire to go back to them…

O Scar, I don’t think you can understand this. But to know that you left a face under your responsibility, that loved you, that you l—should… have loved… to know that you left it with such terror, such sadness, for the last time…

…I never saw my sisters again, my son. As my mother did to me… I abandoned them.

I didn’t act only in passion, my son, I thought and I continued that terrible, terrible act.

“They might try to follow me,” I thought, “So, I should keep moving. Then, they’ll never catch me up—I ‘ll never see them, never hear their cries again! …Good riddance...”

So, Scar, I kept walking.

I think, eventually, my anger dulled. I believe I felt sick, or off balance, my son, so my level of awareness was not high.

What happened next, my son… I am not sure, entirely, whether it was an action of nature or God. Though I suppose that it does not matter. But I’ll continue.

I was walking along, just walking; thinking, a little, about masking my scent so that they could not follow me. I was quite far from the Triangle of Pain, my son…

But I was attacked, O Scar.

By men.

They jumped on me, perhaps as few as three of them or as many as six of them. I had no chance, my son; I had not been eating enough for a growing cub, and, as you can see, I am a pahlawan—a big guy. I had also been running and then walking for hours—I could do nothing but shout and cry as they held me down.

They hit me, my son, and made me eat dirt. What they shouted at me, so loudly that my hearing was out for some days after the encounter I do not know; it was not in the tongue that men here use.

Perhaps what they did to me was in revenge for the action of some man-killer, I do not know.

Perhaps it was random, my son, or, as I said, divine.

But, my son, whatever it was… it’s how my world went dark.

You see, O Scar, this is what they did. All but one of them held me down, back down, on the ground. They had a flashlight lit, to help them see what they were doing. The man that was up… he moved towards me, and, with his fingers, held my eyes open…

… You lived near volcanoes, my son. So, you know something about fire, I think.

What I felt… what they poured into my eyes…

It wasn’t fire. I do not think it was fire.

It was liquid, Scar, for it flowed and dripped, but it was not water.

Because, my son, it burned. Oh, how it burned! I cried, in agony, and begged, too, as they poured that fire-liquid into one eye… then the other.

Perhaps they thought I was dead, or perhaps they intended for me to die of my injuries—they were many. My chest, my paws, my face… they took my vision, my son, and left me with many broken bones instead.

But I lived, my son, and, obviously, not just for a few minutes or days.

I had to relearn everything—I do not think that someone whole, like you, can understand it. But… hunting, tracking, even things so basic as walking…

I had to learn to do it all again.

Alone…

As you can imagine, my son, I was very angry for quite some time. I committed my share of sins—in revenge for what the world did to me, I struck back at the world. I killed more than I could eat, I tortured, I maimed almost as badly as I had been maimed…

But then, O Scar, I started to think. Not just about what to do, now that I was fairly certain that I could live with my darkness—I started to really, deeply think, my son, as I believe you have just recently.

Things changed, my son, very quickly. I righted what wrongs I had committed, or tried to; I did good whenever I had the opportunity to do so …

But still, I felt no security or peace.

I tried not to think about them as much as I could, my son, but… … even to this day, the biggest sin I committed—the abandonment of my sisters—Scar, it haunts me.

So, after some thinking, I stopped eating meat.

As I starved, my son, meditating for days at this very waterfall… I thought even more.

What I achieved, my son, is—I cannot conceal its magnitude with modesty—incredible.

Enlightenment.

True enlightenment, my son.

Not only did the world start to make sense; its confusion and chaos becoming order… but, O Scarred One, I found that I could make sense of communication, of other lands and creatures and beings, even. It’s as if many arrows point to the same goal, my son—you will learn this, I think, soon…

My meditation, fasting, and suffering finished, I rejoined the world as a stronger, better man. Of course I continued to do good when given the opportunity, but I stopped just trying to do physical good. Why I did this, my son, is, I think, shown by your situation. Physical health is nice… but spiritual health is a thousand times as important.

I believe I’ve made some progress for Hindustan by caring for both the physical and the spiritual needs of its creatures.

But back to the topic at hand, O Scar…

“My son,” the Dark One said, finally shutting his eyes, “you must accept this—there is no avoiding it. On one level, or another, most everything is wrong…”

Freak showed no reaction. In fact, he hadn’t shown any reaction at all to the liger’s entire speech.

“Scar, life is hard. I do not know what impression you got of me from Salim, but know this: I am not perfect.”

The liger’s words were simple, curt, and clear. His tone was serious, and he continued to look, through closed eyes, at Freak, as if daring the li-tigon to look away again.

“I am not perfect, my son; no one is. We can attempt to be perfect, and do much good in the effort, but we must accept that we are not—and, possibly, can never be—truly flawless.”

“But, my son, we are predators. There is no getting around this; trust me when I say that I have tried.”

“And, O Scarred One, as I explained before, we are here to live, because God put us here, yes? And if God, or the Spirits, however you would like to call them, put us here as predators… my son, what can we do but be predators? What good can we do by starving to death, depriving future generations of lives that they have a right to…?”

Another brief pause.

“My son, it is my belief—it may be wrong, O Scar, so take it for what it’ worth—but I believe that if we kill without malice, without causing undue suffering, and if we respect our prey as much as possible… I believe that if all those conditions are met, then, there is no grievous wrong in eating meat… in acting as we were created to act.”

Another pause, a longer one. Freak’s mind had numbed, to protect it from the Dark One’s tale, but, slowly, full consciousness and cognition returned. The li-tigon’s lips peeled back, a little, as he prepared to snarl, and deliver a one or two word rebuttal to the Dark One’s story and the conclusions he’d drawn from it.

But then… Freak’s will changed. He didn’t growl, and, slowly, his lips returned to their original position, covering his teeth.

Water continued to rush over his paws, and the liger’s, as the two cats looked at one another. All around them, the Hindustani wilderness was silent yet alive, as if watching, waiting, to see what Freak would do.

For quite some time, the li-tigon did nothing. His face was blank and his posture passive-assertive, but he didn’t seem to be on the verge of talking, much less acting.

Silence…

The Dark One opened his mouth, a little, so that a soft pop as the pressure inside his lips and out of them equalized was head—the liger had, unwittingly, been holding his breath. After all… what Freak did now, whether he accepted or rejected the older male’s philosophy would plot a new path not just for his life, but, unknown to him, the lives and fates of all of the Spirits’ Land.

The liger considered his words carefully, toying with a fang with the tip of his tongue, before speaking in a soft, warm, inviting tone.

“Our meal is getting cold, my son. Come… eat…”

For a long time, a very long time, the Dark One felt certain that he had failed. He felt certain, entirely certain, that the li-tigon would curse him, and run, perhaps off the waterfall. The liger forced himself to relax, though, and smile, bowing his head, a little, to nudge the water buffalo’s fallen form with his nose, welcoming Freak to nourish himself. He prayed a little, too, and, in the end, that might have been what made the difference.

Slowly, reluctantly, questioning himself every step of the way…

Freak approached…

His eyes were downcast and his paws were heavy, but regardless, he approached.

Careful to bite back slowly rising anticipation, the Dark One nodded, slowly, proudly, as, with Freak, he lowered himself.

The li-tigon’s thoughts raced by his mind, rapidly, waning in and out of existence too quickly to leave any traces behind. He closed his eyes, swallowed at the dryness in his throat, and attempted to calm, and make sense of things.

He wasn’t successful—but he wasn’t divine. Things never would, and never could, make total sense.

And yet… the Dark One’s words had penetrated past Freak’s sharp claws, jaws, and mind.

Slowly, quivering, the li-tigon’s mouth opened. The older male nodded, and then, went out of view, as Freak leaned in. He could hear the Dark One’s jaws working, digging into the buffalo.

His mouth was watering, and his teeth and tongue were pressed against the kill’s hide. It took everything Freak had, and then some, to control his feral instincts, to think, to force himself to really consider whether or not this was acceptable.

In the end, the li-tigon pressed his head forward, just a little, eyes shut in sorrow, as he thanked the buffalo for giving up its life for him.

Blood again dyed the water pinkish-red as the Freak’s jaws shut, neatly slicing off a small chunk of flesh.

He paused, thinking, leaving his eyes shut as he chewed… then swallowed.

The Dark One stopped eating, for a moment, and concentrated, ensuring that Freak was alright. His brow furrowed, for a moment, as he tried to make sense of the l-tigon’s very confused thoughts, until one broke free of the confusion and chaos,

Freak licked his lips, then his teeth. The Dark One’s ears perked, suddenly, and he almost stood—Freak was short of breath…

But then, after a tense moment, the li-tigon let out a deep, rumbling purr, almost a moan, of enjoyment, and delved back into the meat.

It was the sweetest he’d ever tasted.

“Father?”

“Yes, daughter?”

“I have a question, Father… Why are you not religious, when Mother is?”

The male stopped, and, a heartbeat later, the two females followed suit. The white tigress, his mate, looked to the right, as he stepped forward, a little, sniffing into the air, concentrating—they were still very close to the Triangle of Pain, and now, just before the Season of the Rains hit in full force, the Banghar Clan’s activity was at a maximum.

The Hindustan they knew, just then, was cool and misty. Visibility was low, but tigers were not creatures that relied solely on their eyes—in dense jungles, eyes could only see so far.

The two adults’ ears swiveled back and forth… then relaxed. They were safe, at least, for the next few minutes.

A pause followed before they started to walk again.

“Well, you see, Kochai,” the old tiger said, turning his head, then jerking it, smiling, so that his daughter loped over to travel in between him and his mate, “religion is useless.”

The golden tabby cub blinked, then looked to her white-furred mother. The tigress had rolled her eyes, and turned, making a groaning sound of dissent in her throat. Another logic versus spirituality argument…?

The twelve soft paws made little noise as they padded through the foggy, silent jungle. The Season of the Rains, this year, seemed to be starting erratically, slowly, gradually, instead of all at once. In a way, that was good; they could cover more ground. But the flipside was that they had no idea when the months-long storm that defined the Season of the Rains would strike—they had to be wary and cautious and on their toes 24/7; and it didn’t help that they weren’t on home turf.

“For instance, daughter, your mother believes in karma, yes? The belief that somehow, you will reap what you sow, that all actions are repaid in kind, be they good or evil?” the old tiger said, glancing up from his daughter to wink at his mate, asking her to humor him for a moment.

Reluctantly, the tigress sighed, shrugging, but shook her head, her expression downcast. Her blue eyes were sad as they faced the trail ahead—her husband tolerated her faith, in a way… but to drag it through the mud in front of their daughter… it upset her. It hurt her.

“That belief, Kochai, is false. I’ll demonstrate… ah, you see this bug, this beetle, in my path?” the tiger said, after a moment of scanning the ground with his walnut-colored eyes.

The kitten walked on her tippy-toes, for a moment, to try to follow her father’s gaze. She frowned, for a moment, spoiling otherwise soft, innocent features.... then nodded, smiling, as she picked up the large insect.

“Mhmm, mhmm! Yes, Father, I see it… why, Father? What are you doing—”

The group came to a halt; all dozen paws firmly on the ground. Kochai’s ears flattened, though, as she winced, turning away, then stepping away, closer to her mother.

Nasher’s paw had come down on the beetle, crushing and killing it… for no reason at all. Or, so the young, innocent, naïve tigress thought.

Careful to keep emotion out of his voice, Nasher looked at his daughter, peering through the mist that had collected around her, until he saw those two small, bright green orbs look back at him.

“Tell me, daughter… am I dead?”

“Am I being harmed?”

“Am I in even the slightest amount of danger for what I did?”

On the final sentence, the tiger scoffed, a little, looking skyward for a split-second, ridiculing his own question—the answer was obvious.

“Well… …No, Father… you are not.”

The tiger nodded, a little… but then, hit a slight brick wall. What to say now?... fortunately, though, his daughter kept speaking, as she walked on, forward, away from her parents, using nothing but hope, innocence, and a sense of adventure to guide her through the mist. Her steps, though, were a little shaky, a little unstable… she was a carnivore, a meat-eater, and, yes, she had already killed small mice and reptiles for herself.

But what her father did… disquieted her. It made her flesh crawl under her skin, because she knew, somehow, that it was wrong.

“Father, you have not come to harm, and thank God for that. But… I swear, Father, that I’ll never, ever, ever kill… unless I have to.”

For such a young cub, that was quite a statement. It displayed maturity, it really did, because Nasher and Asal knew, deep in their hearts, that their daughter would honor that statement, that oath, for the rest of her days.

The kitten spoiled the moment, sort of, just then, by turning, giggling, before scampering off.

“Now, come on, please? This is so exciting—the Triangle of Pain! How many tigers as young as I have ever been so close to here? Come on, Father! Come on, Mother! Let’s explore!” she laughed, before running off, well out of earshot.

Nasher exhaled heavily, willfully ignoring his mate. He smiled a little, though, sadly, as he stepped forward, never taking his mind off of his daughter.

“I swear, Asal, that child isn’t serious enough. If that’s not the death of me, it’ll be the death of her—”

“Ah, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” the white tigress said, suddenly, looking, intently, at where her mate’s paw had just left the ground.

The imprint it left behind suggested that he’d put his weight, somehow, on only the pads of his digits, creating a safe sort of shelter under the heel of his paw… a space just big enough for a frightened insect to take cover in, then leave, hastily, as the huge, furry weight lifted away.

Asal smiled, widely, shaking her head, as the insect hightailed it to cover. Her blue eyes traveled to her husband, as he walked on, a little miffed at her discovery of his secret. The tiger faced forward, scowling in upset embarrassment… until the tigress stepped closer to him, then rubbed the smooth, soft bluntness of her head against his shoulder.

“Ah, Nasher… you are strong, you are smart, you are wise…” she murmured, licking, gently, at the tiger’s cheek, before bringing her lips to his ear to whisper softly, sensuously, before pulling away.

“You are also a hypocrite.”

The tiger felt warmth leave his thickly-furred neck as his mate drew away. He walked along, for a moment, in silence, until he could trust himself to speak seriously, without embarrassment or uncertainty in his voice—it was hard. He was blessed with a very affectionate, very beautiful wife.

He sighed, for a moment, peering into the mists, listening, too. Asal was similarly intent, but was still smiling, victoriously, giving coy, triumphant looks at her husband from time to time.

“Asal…” he started, before pausing, again, until he felt the female’s icy eyes on his wiry, stern form, “I think you do not understand what I did completely. It brings me great pain to teach our daughter to be harsh, to teach her to abandon her spirit to protect her life.”

“But, wife, that’s how things have to be now. We—I mean, tigers, all Hindustani tigers—are facing an existential threat, Asal. You know it,” he said, turning, a little, so that his brown eyes flickered to the female’s sleek, white form.

The two adult cats walked together, in silence, for a moment. Their graceful motions caused the fog all around them to part as they moved on, eastward. Kochai was, now, neither audible nor visible, but Nasher bit back his worry, for the moment.

“We must raise our daughter harshly,” the tiger said coldly, “we must teach her to be harsh. Because, Asal, as much as I would love for things to be different… any reluctance, on her part, to be harsh… will kill her.”

The white tigress was silent. She looked forward, pink nose twitching, periodically, as she swallowed her pride, and a veritable volley of retorts. There was, as much as she hated to acknowledge it, as much as the concept disgusted her, validity to her husband’s words—after all, spirituality could only ever exist if life existed first.

Nasher didn’t press his wife for a reply; there was no utility in doing so. She understood the gravity of the situation, and he didn’t even like the necessity of his actions in the first place—there was no use, no good that could come from rubbing the sense in his harsh actions into her face.

“I wonder where Kochai is…?”

There was a trail, sort of, a vague path in which fewer plants grew. Almost picturesquely, it was flanked by large tufts of grass and saplings and bushes, all embraced by smoky wisps of fog.

From behind one of those plants, or something else entirely; the adults would never know, for sure, their daughter appeared.

Both tigers jumped, a little, eyes widening, tails becoming bushy and erratic, until, seconds later, they calmed, and tried to get their fur to stop sticking out, to stop betraying their surprise.

The young tigress saw past those reparatory motions, though, and giggled, before sliding under her mother, positioning herself in between the couple. Asal and Nasher shared a glance, broke eye contact, and continued on, in silence for a moment, before their daughter spoke.

“What does ‘hypocrite’ mean?”

The mist had cleared, and with it, cloud cover. It would have been bright but for the tall, tropical trees that shaded the ground below, and the fact that it was very nearly sunset. On the horizon, the great orange orb of the Sun slowly sank. Numerous, hardly defined shades of tangerine, red, purple striped the sky in bands, attempting to escape the Sun’s pull on the colors of the sky.

The family had made good progress, walking for almost the entire day. But they’d done so on nearly empty bellies, and it had been some time since they’d had a really proper meal. They were ravenous.

Kochai was very well disciplined and behaved, though, and only complained, softly, to her mother from time to time. Nasher was as patient as a male tiger could be… but he was still a male tiger, and thus, had almost no patience for his daughter when she was cranky.

Still, though, for creatures born and bred for solitary lives, the family was getting along astoundingly well. No sharp words or blows had been exchanged the entire trip, and, in fact, they even felt… good… about being around each another. Maybe this wasn’t so unnatural.

As rapidly dimming orange light warmed the ground below, Nasher began to formulate plans for the night. They’d all nap, of course, for at least a few hours. After that, thought…

“Asal will stay with Kochai, get some more sleep, and I’ll hunt for them. Then, we’ll eat together, as a family, and sleep until late tomorrow morning. Then we’ll be off, again… to wherever we’re going…”

“…Asal, Asal, Asal… the Triangle of Pain, of all places. And why? I hope that you’ll fulfill your promise and that, someday, I’ll find out.”

The tiger suddenly froze in his tracks. His bronzed eyes widened, for a moment, as his wife and daughter, chittering, innocently, about how great it would be to sink their long, clean teeth into food when it came, passed him, walking ahead.

“Oi, oi! Aré! Silence, please!” the tiger said, suddenly, quite annoyed. His voice wasn’t loud, but there was caustic intensity in it, and his face, which the females saw as their heads snapped towards him, was irritated, and intent. Something was going on.

So they nodded, complied, and took his side. Even Kochai, for once, did as she ought to, and clung to her father’s protective form. Asal sidestepped, a little, peeling her lips back, raising her white head, a little, to sniff into the air, preparing a threatening snarl. Nasher would never grow angry so suddenly and without provocation—unless he was, underneath it all, worried, concerned for his family… or scared.

The females sensed nothing, physically. Asal shivered, though, feeling danger, foreboding, and calmed, slowly, so that her pale blue eyes darkened, a little, their dilations slowing with her breathing.

As Hindustan’s animals prepared to turn in for the night, their energy levels, both physical and spiritual, dropped. So, really, an attentive, wary being, a sentinel, stuck out like a sore thumb…

Asal blinked, a little, and returned to the physical realm just in time to hear her mate’s voice.

“Greetings, brother, and blessings be upon you. We mean you no harm—we merely seek safe passage, food, and shelter for the night…”

Silence. Even the hypersensitive Kochai, who was busy sniffing, cutely, from next to her father, peering out and leaning forward, listening hard, trying to tell what the devoutly atheistic male was speaking to.

The obvious answer was nothing at all. But, a moment later… Nasher was replied to.

Unlike his wife and daughter, Nasher’s face remained courteous but assertive—the other two registered surprise, then interest and curiosity.

“Three tigers, roaming around our home, just before the Season of the Rains…”

A pause followed, and then that deep, authoritative voice continued.

“None of your kind have been within a hundred miles of this area for generations.”

“So…”

“What drove you from your previous home to ours, at such an inopportune time…”

“… must have been a demon, or worse.”

“I’ll not question what it was. Instead,” the voice said, “I’ll need your names, and your destination.”

There was a pause, filled with expectant, anticipatory silence. Nasher and Asal shared a brief glance, and the tigress nodded—they’d be better served, just then, by honesty.

The tiger spoke, in a powerful, clear, assertive voice. Though their potential hosts didn’t appear unduly hostile, there was no wisdom in showing passivity or weakness.

“My name is Nasher; and these are my wife and daughter… Asal, and Kochai. We come from the west, and our destination lies to the northeast of the Triangle of Pain…”

The tiger worked, quickly, careful to keep his gaze courteous and unreadable, to think of some reason to give the voice, if their purpose was questioned. Luckily, though, it wasn’t… and, a moment later, their unseen speaker stepped into view.

It was an Asiatic lion, a male. He was a bit on the diminutive side, and streaks of gray ran through his mane. He was flanked, though, on either side, by more powerful males, that looked, warily, at the three other cats.

Asal adjusted her position, just a little, stepping in front of Kochai. Her husband had answered all of the Asiatics’ questions, but they certainly didn’t look friendly.

A moment later, though, the two burly males relaxed, visibly, sheathing their claws. They nodded gruffly at the tigers, then bowed their heads, as their leader stepped forward.

The smaller male got to within fifteen yards of Nasher. His ocean green eyes picked apart each member of the family, but Asal was too fast for him—she recited a brief prayer in her head, so that her husband and their daughter’s minds appeared tired, a little wary, but not even slightly malicious or suspicious.

After a moment of careful examination, the small lion nodded, and bowed his head, as well.

“All right. I’ll act in good faith, and assume that you mean us no harm—there’s no reason that you would. For, in the eyes of men,” the green eyed cat sighed, before smiling at Kochai, “lions and tigers are one and the same. So, in a way… we’re kin.”

The adult tigers were suspicious; their daughter, not so much. Before her parents could stop her, the naïve kitten had jumped out from between them, and gone to rub her head on the Asiatic’s shin. Nasher and Asal moved, but stopped, halfway, and laughed, along with the lion.

“Yes, yes, hello to you to, little one,” he grinned, rubbing Kochai’s head with a paw, before looking up to her parents. “We’ll be your hosts for as long as you like, but, I regret that our prey situation is dire. We can offer you only one deer… I hope that that’ll be enough, and, as honorable guests, you won’t take more?”

A slight, but very understandable edge had entered the Asiatic’s voice. The Season of the Rains was hard on everyone, so food was a valuable commodity. It was generous enough for the lions to allow Nasher and his family that much meat.

“Of course, of course,” the tiger nodded, as his wife bowed her head graciously, “we will not disrespect you so, brother. And don’t worry; we won’t be here for long… just one night. No more.”

The Asiatic nodded, and nudged Kochai with his nose. The two pairs of green eyes met, and both of their owners smiled.

“Run along now, little one; be with your parents. I have work to do, all in my family do, as we make some last-minute preparations for the Season of the Rains. I must leave my post as a sentry; I’ll trust you to keep your eyes open for intruders, yes?” the lion smiled.

“Of course, uncle! You can count on us,” the young tigress grinned, before sitting upright, and snapping off a sharp salute.

The three adults shared a look, then a smile, before the Asiatic turned, bowed, paused, then saluted, and left the area.

“Crazy kitten.”

Now, well behind the boundaries of the Asiatic pride’s territory, the family felt relatively safe. It was dusk, now, and, as the Sun dragged all the colors in the world over the horizon with it, a blanket of darkness took over the sky.

Kochai yawned, and, eyes drooping, trotted around in a circle, before slumping over. Among the large, heart-shaped ivy leaves of the Hindustani jungle, her pale orange form stuck out. Her father, then her mother, licked her nose, making her snout scrunch up, before bidding her goodnight.

They often went off, late at night, together, so Kochai wasn’t suspicious. As a couple, she reasoned, they sometimes needed privacy, even from their own daughter.

If the young tigress wasn’t so sleepy, she’d have remembered that her daughter had planned, aloud, to take a nap together, as a family—they’d done that. But afterwards, he was to go hunt, alone. Then, they’d eat together, and sleep until late the next morning, before moving on.

Why the plans had changed would have been clear to the tigress, if she wasn’t so sleepy just then. Her small maw widened as she yawned, eyes squinting, before she mewled a quiet “good night” to her parents, and folded her paws to keep them warm.

As her head lowered, she wondered, vaguely, why on Earth her parents would have decided to embark on such a dangerous, dangerous journey right before the Season of the Rains… and, for that matter, what the journey’s purpose was.

For tigers to be close to one another so much… it’s not natural. It’s not how things are supposed to be. It’s wrong, and if it must happen… then, it’s natural for little… slip-ups… to happen. Even with tigers as controlled and affectionate as Asal and Nasher.

The tigress was still, sad-faced, watching her husband pace, snarling at the ground. Even in the darkness of night, her fur was white and bright, so much so that when Nasher finally looked to her, freezing in his tracks, it felt almost as if she cast a dim, slight glow on the surrounding area.

Almost as if she was an angel, or some other ethereal, benevolent being.

Even her silent confidence, even the prayers that she recited to herself, over and over, didn’t stop him from speaking with resentment, and anger in his voice.

“I can’t believe that you had us go to the Triangle of Pain—the Triangle of Pain—at the start of the Season of the Rains! What’s worse, you will not tell even me; me, your husband, your life-partner… the purpose of this—this insane, this suicidal trip.”

“Asal…” Nasher said, suddenly quietly, looking at his wife until brown eyes met blue, “Asal… you brought Kochai along. She loves you more than she loves me, there’s no denying that; it’s natural… but she’s as much my daughter as she is yours.”

“This trip is dangerous for her… so, so, dangerous. Surely, I have a right to know why I’m putting my daughter in danger? And surely, the person withholding this right from me is not my own, my beloved, my beautiful wife?”

The tiger was smiling, or trying to. Because, even as he looked to his wife… he could see her shut her eyes, then open them, swallowing… preparing a gentle refusal.

“Nasher, my husband… my love…”

Silence.

“I… I beg of you, trust. Please, Nasher… trust me. Why I have to come back to the place that I came into this world… I can’t tell you. I can’t, Nasher, I’m sorry. But please know… it’s necessary, even if it puts Kochai in danger—”

“But for God’s sake, woman, if it puts my daughter in danger, do I not have a right to know about it? The immorality of keeping secrets from your mate aside,” Nasher snarled, suddenly raging; trying, hard, to keep his eyes anywhere but on his wife, as he paced, again, this time, with extended claws, “you must tell me why we’re here. You must tell me what I’m doing something that can kill my daughter at any time.”

He still paced, still angry, confused, and afraid. In this private, darkened part of the forest, there was no chance of being seen or overheard. The Asiatics managed to live so close to the Triangle of Pain by keeping a low profile—and, in doing so, they were successful. All they had to do was keep good relations with other sentient Hindustanis, usually through bribes or threats, and keep off the trails that led from the nearest man-village, not ten miles away.

It was quiet. Quiet and private.

And so, Asal could feel the pulsating, dangerous waves of anger, caused by her husband, that vibrated through the air, through the ground, through the trees, through the leaves, to make her heart beat faster, and bring wetness to her eyes.

“Nasher… …please…” she whispered, sniffling, lowering her head in submission, “I… I…”

The white tigress closed her eyes, swallowed, and regained her composure. She looked up, focusing her eyes on her husband, who’d stopped pacing, to glare at her, baring his teeth. Her eyes were still wet, and she still spoke with a quavering voice, but she was confident and assertive… because she knew she was right. She knew it…

“I’m sorry, Nasher. I can’t tell you. You have to trust me, though… accept that, as your wife, and the mother of your cub, I want nothing other than what’s best for us; me, you, and, above everything, Kochai. I’m sorry, Nasher…” the tigress said quietly, “I can’t…”

The weight of the following silence was great. It made Asal’s ears flatten, a little, as she turned, slowly, facing her mate sadly, before moving to leave. She took one step, in which even the slight, slight wind died down. The silence, then, was almost numbing—time slowed down, so the tigress heard her heart beat, as she started to walk… lub-dub… lub-dub… lub-dub… lub-dub—

Something moved.

She ducked, splaying her limbs out, clutching the ground with her claws.

Nasher shot just over her head, turning, in midair, before sliding to a halt within five yards of her. He really was snarling now, but what frightened the tigress the most was the insane, the… wild look, in his hard, brown eyes.

He was positioned similarly to her, but, a moment later, he began to circle. And, out of fear, she did too.

“What’s the matter, woman? Frightened?” he hissed, swiping at the air, threateningly, with a paw, “That’s understandable. I am too—but not for myself, like a coward. I’m scared for my daughter.”

Asal’s lip twitched. And then, the sadness, the reluctance, the submission on her face vanished, replaced by harshness and anger.

“Nasher, I told you ten times already—I can’t tell you what we’re doing. What’s wrong with you; why can you not trust your mate? Your wife?! What’s wrong with you?” she growled.

The two adult tigers circled each another, now, in silence. Scanning one another, they flexed their claws, tensing their muscles, coiling them up like giant springs. Teeth always bared, they searched for openings to exploit, to use to tear the other apart…

They stopped, all at once, and growled, roared. The fight, viewed by an unwitting bystander, might well have been called epic—to view an imminent discharge of such might, agility, and power surely would be an experience.

But, really, the fight would be chilling. Here were two beings that had known each other for years, that loved each other, that had a child together. The madness of it was that naturally, such a thing could never, ever happen, not in a thousand years. But after being forced to stay together for so, so much time… their nerves had worn down and down, thinning, before finally snapping.

And this was the result.

Hyperventilating to fill their lungs with energy-giving oxygen, they felt the ground under their paws, peering over their surroundings, one last time, to find any environmental aspects that would lend them an upper hand in the battle.

There was no turning back now. Both tigers were beyond reason. Pupils shrinking into venomous slits, they roared one final time, and charged—

They didn’t meet. They were close, though; so close that each could count the whiskers, the fur on the other’s face. Still snarling, still panting, it was moments before they managed to control themselves enough to look away, to look down…

“Mother…? Father…? What’s wrong…”

Until then, Kochai’s face had merely been curious. But, in a heartbeat, tears appeared in her eyes, then began to stream down her face, trailing paths of wetness, as she looked from one parent to the other.

“You… weren’t going to fight, were you…? Wh—why… why would you fight?” she whispered, “Don’t you love each other…?”

A brief pause. Then, Nasher spoke.

“Of course we love each other, Kochai,” the tiger said calmly, confidently, looking at his daughter instead of his wife. His face was firm and kind, but also sad and grey. His eyes flickered, briefly, to his wife, before leaving her in both shame… and fear that he might lose control again.

“Your father’s right, Kochai,” Asal said with a smile, also refraining from looking at her mate, “It’s just… from time to time, we forget that. Tigers aren’t meant to live together for so long, daughter, you know it.”

The kitten nodded, but certainly didn’t look convinced. She sobbed, dryly, and, wiping her smallish nose with the back of her paw, looked down, dejected.

“I don’t know, Mother. I don’t know… if you saw the way you and Father were looking at one another, I think you’d agree…”

Silence. Neither parent dared approach their sobbing daughter, because they knew any comfort, physical or verbal, they offered her would be empty, and untrue.

Despite everything, a portion of Asal’s mind remained unattached and pragmatic. And, as the two adults made eye contact, it was that portion of the tigress’s mind that spoke, emotionlessly.

“I think, Nasher,” the white female said quietly, looking into her mate’s eyes without feeling, “that you and I need some time apart… if just for a few days.”

A pause.

“…I… …agree.”

Nasher looked away. Asal’s eyes, cold and hard, like the ice that their shade implied, remained on him, thinking, analyzing, planning. It was as if the emotional portion of the tigress’s mind, the majority of it, had shut off or taken a temporary break.

Maybe emotion, like religion, sometimes had to be ignored to make good decisions.

“You know…” the tiger said eventually, scoffing.

His voice trailed off. A bit shaken by the expression on her mother’s face, and in her eyes, Kochai had shied away, coming to her father. The kitten was still crying, and, for comfort, rubbing her face on her father’s old but still powerful shins. Nasher’s harshness had relented, at that, and he’d begun to rub his daughter’s head with a paw.

Then, the tiger continued.

“You know, Asal… when we became mates, we made a promise. Do you remember what it was?”

Eventually, the tigress nodded, just a little. And though her eyes were still hard and emotionless, her shoulders relaxed, just a hair, as she spoke.

“We swore that we’d stay together, not until death tears us apart… but as long as love lasts…”

Nasher nodded, and turned to his wife. Now, his eyes were as blank as hers.

As Kochai continued to cry, hugging her father’s shin, the tiger spoke.

“So, tell me, Asal… if we have to keep being like this, if we have to continue to stay together for every moment of every day because the alternative is death… how long will our love last?”

Silence.

Total silence.

Even the golden tabby kitten had stopped crying, looking up and listening to hear her mother’s answer.

The tension was so taught that it could be cut with a knife. Finally, though, it ended with Asal’s soft, measured voice.

“I don’t know…”

This time, the silence wasn’t tense—it was dark and suffocating and final. Kochai started to cry again, and didn’t look up when her mother addressed her.

“Stay with your father, little one. I’ll be back…”

“…soon…”

There was a pause; more silence. Hindustan’s forests were dark and dangerous, and, in the vicinity of the Triangle of Pain, even at the deadly beginning of the Season of the Rains, this held true for even a tigress as powerful and cautious as Asal—it held true even if her intentions were to stay out of trouble… and nothing could be farther from the truth.

Kochai was a being unlike far too many in the world; Hindustan, the Land of the Spirits, and other places. She was lucky enough to have two living, healthy, loving parents.

But, for some reason, as the tigress looked up, seeing that her mother had left... she felt, somehow, that… she’d never, ever see her, ever again.

And so, as the tigress kitten’s cries echoed after her mother, through the black depths of the Hindustani forest, it was clear that just another family, previously forged in iron and strong… had been torn apart…

(Please review if you’re reading this. Until next time… this is the Lion Sheikh of fanfiction: see you later.)

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