Kafele was in the foulest mood he’d ever experienced in his (admittedly) short life. The young lion was moving away from his family at a steady pace, tense paws landing heavily with each step he took. He’d growled at his brothers, he’d growled at uncle Siku, he’d growled at a Ligi or two and when he growled at his sister, the red lion finally decided it was time to remove himself from the presence of others.
He could feel that he was being followed by a large adult. It was one of his “bodyguards”, most likely, though Kafele always considered them more jailors than protectors. He tried to find a corner where he could be alone and out of sight which was considerably harder than he anticipated and the rumble in his throat was enough to keep the Ligi just around the corner of the massive rock formation where he could hear his charge but not necessarily see it. Kafele would have to settle with that.
Were they the talk of the pride now? Would everyone be amused by the fact they’d played Catch the Ligi or whispered stories of the Chosen One with one of Sahen’s grandchildren? No, they would most likely be afraid now, scared that Kafele might give away sensitive information that they’d shared as friends before they knew of the blood connection between the red cub and the Shaktona, before they knew they were dealing with a potential heir. As if. Dada would be the successor, that much he was sure of. One could easily tell her obvious adoration had earned great favor from the ruler. And as much as Kafele loved his sister and believed she could never be as cruel as Sahen, the juvenile had to admit she was by far the easiest one to influence and manipulate. Kafele himself could only resist the ruler’s undeniable charisma because of the teachings aunt Fila had imprinted on him since a very young age.
Kafele desperately wanted to believe he’d made friends now, real friends and not just coerced playmates. Would they stand up for him? Or would they turn on him at the first nasty remark or fearful concern expressed by the majority (or so he assumed). All those mothers that scowled at his rowdiness, young cubs that preferred to be left out of the games Kafele invented, all those who had told him to play nice, to be nice, to show more respect. “I could tell there was something wrong with him” ,“The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree”, “I knew it all along, there was a mean streak to that red cub” He could hear it already inside his mind but surely it was happening within the pride as well, everyone discussing the news and talking about the four cubs, assessing, judging, condemning.
All that time, all that work invested in training, in becoming stronger. Practice, practice and more practice. Horrible runs and exhausting sessions. For what? For the sake of being prepared to fight the ruler, his own grandfather and overthrow the Shaktona as the prophesied Chosen One! A joke, a lie! The prophecy clearly stated the Chosen One would not be of royal blood and Kafele, one of the First Blood, had spend most of his life training and preparing to accept a fate that was never his to begin with, it could never be his. Perhaps there was no such thing as the Chosen One! Aunt Fila had lied!
No…
That wasn’t true and it certainly wasn’t fair. Aunt Fila hadn’t known either. And now she was gone. She’d left the pride, she’d left them and he might never see her again. He’d been too hurt, too distraught and he’d completely dumped everything on aunt Fila and refused to speak to her before the lioness had been exiled. He’d never said goodbye. He’d never wished her good luck on her journey. He’d pouted like the wimpy little cub that he was and now he might never be able to see her again, to apologize and to tell her he didn’t blame her for anything. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he be nearing adolescence and still be so ridiculously childish? Even now he was dumping his frustrations on his family and even though he could always apologize later it was simply inexcusable. He hadn’t been raised to become the mean fool he was acting like.
The juvenile growled louder and hit his head on the rocky wall over and over again, mentally cursing himself, his blood and his coat until his head actually hurt quite a bit. He felt something wet dripping over his eyes before he could actually smell the blood and the red lion looked down at his red coat with something akin to deep disgust, mentally willing his soothing white mane to grow faster and cover the vicious red he’d been born with.
Kayin. He needed Kayin. Not to tell his friend what had happened (if he didn’t know already) but to play like they always did. No politics, no lies, just play and laugh and trust. It would probably be too much to ask that Kayin didn’t know about his ancestry but the red cub desperately wanted to believe that at least one thing, one of his most precious memories didn’t have to change like everything else. Kayin would still play with him, right? Kayin would still like him…
He’d been avoiding the Mwanasheria’s children for quite some time now, wiggling out of a few social occasions that might prompt a run in with the brats. Oh yes, Kafele was quite sure they were brats. How couldn’t they be? They’d lived all their lives as part of the First Blood, being served upon and living close to ruler. They were probably conceited and prissy and mean and just general pains, the red lion assumed. Kafele wanted nothing to do with any of them. He’d rather just stick to his siblings, thank you very much. He hoped, at the very least, that they’d all be boys so he wouldn’t feel the slightest urge to be polite to them.
And then finally, his mental energy all but spent, the young lion dropped to the ground and exhaled the longest possible sigh that ended as a pained moan. The word sadness could not encompass half his feelings of loss, fear and despair. His own identity slowly escaping him, sleep would’ve been a blissful escape if not tainted by the nightmares he’d been having as of late. The young lion let eyes wander to a small puddle in from of his nose, watching the smooth surface ripple with each breath as he let himself become slowly detached from all reality.
(word count: 1121 words)
