There had been talk, rumors of a pair of lions – siblings – fleeing the land in the north. Some sort of crimes, the animals had said: unpardonable crimes that had driven the pair of them south, and from there, their wrath had grown.
Incorrigible, it was said, and ill-tempered; hateful. They harassed creatures simply, perhaps, for the sake of it, and were merciless in their taunts. Evil creatures.
So Wemusa had been told. Snippets of gossip and conversation had floated across the savannah and reached the vulture’s ears, rare and treasured bits of information that led him slowly, arduously to his goal. It had been months since the news of Werevu’s death had reached his ears; a shock and tragedy to all of his brother’s followers, and shortly thereafter, chaos had descended upon the flocks as power struggles were straightened out and the process of settling a new king upon the throne began.
But it was not Wemusa’s fight. Since birth, he had had to cope with the reality that ruling was an opportunity that was not destined to be his. He was the youngest, with four brothers ahead of him, and if and when the chance to battle it out for the throne came to them, the ultimate victor would, inevitably, be one of the elder brothers, and in all likelihood, the eldest. The eldest had been Werevu. Without children, his throne would have passed to the second eldest of the clutch – or should logically have been.
Wemusa didn’t know.
After the news of Werevu’s death had come, and news of the interlopers’ treachery along with it, Wemusa had made up his mind: there was nothing left for him at home; no opportunities had presented themselves to him. But with Msiba and his little troupe… that was an altogether different matter.
Because Wemusa was not blind; nor was he stupid. He had been more aware of the comings and goings of the group of outsiders than anyone had given him credit for, and he knew exactly how close Msiba’s plans had come to fruition. They had come so close, damn it, and if it hadn’t been for certain factors, Wemusa had little doubt that their plan would have succeeded. And though he did not know why they had wanted to kidnap the little seers from the pride, he knew it must have been for a worthy cause.
So he had taken to the skies, leaving the place he had called home, to seek out the charming lion and his sister. Werevu had served Msiba well, but Wemusa would do it better. He would see to that.
“It’s just a matter of principle,” The green lion muttered to himself, shaking his head as he dropped the hare’s carcass onto the ground, and stood regarding it for a moment, frowning. “I told you not to push your luck. There are always consequences in this world.” And the hare had paid hers. Nobody could blame him for that, and nobody would. Still, the fact of the matter was, it didn’t matter either way. Like he had said, it was a matter of principle, and Msiba liked to keep his promises.
“Don’t think I’m not hungry,” he added. “It just wasn’t the reason… this happened. To you.” Sometimes, when he was in a slightly more philosophical mood, it would occur to Msiba that it was a shame. He had no way of knowing now, but perhaps the hare had been a vibrant, loving hare with a family and eight small children waiting at home for her. Or perhaps she had done something monumental, and had somehow changed the course of the world.
Msiba doubted it. But it never hurt to wonder.
It hadn’t occurred to Wemusa that he might be hungry until the smell of fresh blood wafted to him on the air. The vulture wheeled, craning his head to find the source with bloodred eyes.
“Say, friend, are you of the generous sort?” He clacked his beak as he descended with a flurry, and landed some steps away from the lion, eyeing the hare.
Without looking up, the lion scoffed and shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on it.” He answered coldly; it wasn’t as though he exactly needed to eat the hare, but he would much rather he did than some vulture. It was his kill, after all, and what had the bird done to deserve it in the first place?
As if to place a face next to the idea of a creature audacious enough to even consider asking him such a question, the lion raised his head from the hare – and paused.
“And who are you, then?” He asked after a moment’s hesitation when he had finally found his voice.
“Nobody, friend, that’s who,” the vulture answered, eyeing the lion and the hare and then the lion again. He seemed to be sizing the other up, and his mind seemed to be calculating the odds of a successful attempt to steal the hare away.
No such luck, perhaps.
“And who are you?”
”Unless I’m mistaken, nobody to you,” The green lion answered carefully. He, too, was sizing the other up, and he watched the vulture warily. He was like a ghost of the past, so alike… and at the same time, so different. And still, the memories came flooding, and a frown riddled the handsome lion’s face. “But a friend to someone else. Some like you, maybe.” Was, but putting reality into words was not something Msiba liked to do. It wasn’t denial in the traditional sense of the word, but sometimes it seemed as though he could perhaps, just for a moment, suspend reality if he kept it caged within his mind.
At this, the vulture tilted his head and clacked his beak, curious. “Who might that be, then, friend?” He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew where this was going. And yet he refused to get his hopes up, to allow himself to think, even for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—after months of searching, he had finally found what he was looking for. Not until it was definite.
And as if something had been exchanged between the two through their wary gases, Msiba felt the dawning of understanding. But still, his guard stayed up. There was nothing in the world that would make him lower them again, not for anyone. “You’re his brother, aren’t you?”
”I might be,” Wemusa answered. But they both knew that it wasn’t really a question.
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