birth.”

            “Sarabi’s granddaughter? But Sarabi had no cub but…”

            “…Simba, I know. I wove my way into the king’s cave at night and begged of him an exchange. I thought my wiles would be enough to provide a safe place for my pride to thrive, but instead, he carted us to the Outlands. Little Safi is the spawn that followed. A weakling, too vulnerable and soft. She won’t survive long.”

            Raziya took the news with a shudder. Sometimes her mother’s ways were too… erratic. She ventured to veer the subject away from Simba. “I know that the other female is Vitani, though the last time I saw her, she was but a babe. Who is the male?”

            “You were not around Mheetu enough to know his look,” Zira began, almost wistfully, “but you must have seen him. I thought you would have recognised him.”

            “Mheetu? Sarafina’s last get?”

            “Yes, child, Sarafina’s – and Scar’s. I… adopted him, in a sort of way, before fleeing the Pridelands. Sarafina insulted me too many times; she has paid for it now in a lost son.” Zira’s anger was etched deep into the dust upon the ground; her claws were carving neat lines beneath her.

            “Do you think you might… adopt my own son? Your grandson?” Raziya looked her mother in the eye, which once would have been a fatal error, but now it was a desperate appeal. “You have milk enough to feed him, and I am too weak to do so myself. My milk is drying mother, and I have no wish to stay here.”

            And here the queen looked wounded. “You’re not staying?”

            “No, mother, I mean to flee this land forever and forge a new start. Perhaps exact revenge upon Simba in a few trifling ways first. He is my lifelong enemy, I do not wish to give him triumph after murdering my father, but I do not wish to bring risk to my family through my actions. I need you to safeguard my son, and raise him as Scar’s grandson – Scar’s heir.”

            “You are Scar’s heir, child.” Zira glared at her daughter, and Raziya suddenly felt helpless before her mother. “You have the brilliance of his eyes, the sheen of his dark coat, the malice of his soul. You are Scar’s blood, Scar’s legacy. You must remain.”

            “I have no wish to, mother,” Raziya countered, more firmly this time. “I will not stay, but my son must.”

            There was a long silence. Then, “So be it. You may go.”

            Raziya looked at her mother, studied her, tried to find a way through her harsh façade to any emotion that might be hiding inside. For now, however, the queen was a statue of iron, unmoved, and unchanged. Her eyes were empty of anything that might give away her thoughts, and her paws had ceased to scratch at the ground.

            “Mother, I cannot thank you enough for this kindness.”

            “Then don’t. Repay me by never setting foot here again.”

            Raziya blanched. “What?!”

            “You heard me.” The queen’s voice gave way to a tremor, and as she rose, her quaking gave away her grief, her humiliation. “I wish never to see you again. You have forsaken your blood; forsaken me, forsaken your father, and your son! Go, damned daughter, but never return. You are not welcome.”

            The princess’ breath caught in her throat, and the tears flowed freely. She was free… but she was homeless, unwanted, and childless. “Might I see my son once more before I go?”

            “Once.” The queen turned her back. “And that is all.”

            “Thank you,” Raziya sobbed. “A thousand times, thank you.”

            “Get out.”

            “Mother?”

            “Raziya.”

            “I love you.”

            A pause.

            “My daughter, I love you more than you will know.”

            Raziya found her son crawling with the other cubs, all watched dutifully by the queen’s lionesses. Her little boy found her easily enough, and came trundling towards her, mewling, and the princess’ heart broke a second time. “My beautiful child,” she whimpered, “you are safe with your family now. Your friends, your subjects. You will be loved, my sweet son, I promise you, and know that you are always in my heart.”

            Her son smiled up at her and reached for her crystalline tears with an outstretched paw. Raziya released him from her embrace, and then turned her back. His cries stayed with her as she padded towards Sly-Eye, whose own eyes betrayed more easily than Zira’s her hurt, her grief at seeing this final goodbye between mother and infant son.

            “Princess,” Sly-Eye called, “he will be well cared-for, I promise you that. Zira will make him a great lion – a king.”

            “I know,” Raziya said, smiling bitterly, in spite of the racking sobs. “He must be a king.”

            “He will be.” Sly-Eye pressed a brief kiss to the princess’ forehead. “Name him, at least. Name him and leave one last gift to your son.”

            Raziya thought on it. “Moyo,” she suggested, “for the first prince of the Pridelands.” And then, more confidently, “My son’s name is Moyo.”

            Sly-Eye smiled. “A good name. May the love you bear for your son light your path, fair princess, and bring you happiness in time.”

            Raziya acknowledged her, and then, with one last look over her shoulder at little baby Moyo, her beloved son, she started out into the unknown. Into a new life.

 

- - - - - - -

 

“Moyo, she named the babe. Means ‘love’. A good name, I thought.” Sly-Eye’s voice echoed throughout the chambers of the cave, as did her grief. She loved the princess well, much like a daughter, and was torn to see her leave, to see her hurt by the loss of her son.

            “A weak name.” Evidently, Zira was not in favour. “Love is weakness. Scar loved me; his love killed him. Raziya loves her son. And now she is exiled.”

            No, fool, Scar loved his power, and he loved the heirs you brought into the world. Never you. Sly-Eye knew better than to voice her thoughts. Instead, she merely dipped her head. “So you disapprove. What would you have us do about it?”

            “A new name, I think. One that means something. One that does not cry weakness.”

            “Do you have any ideas?”

            “I have a thousand, but there is one of that thousand that calls to me.”

            “Tell me, Your Majesty.” And be done with it.

            Zira stroked the cub with a single claw, along his spine, so gentle that Sly-Eye almost missed the hidden desire to open the babe’s skin and bleed him.

            “Do you see his eyes, Sly?” Zira crooned, grabbing the cub’s head and tilting upwards so that Moyo’s eyes bored into her own. The cub looked frightened, and no wonder. The green of his gaze was piercing…

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