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Standing in the large vast cavern of vertical sound I feel a very presence about me, my own mane mocked by the cubs barely old enough to hunt for themselves. Their saber sharp teeth gnawing at small insignificant bones and scraps of the larger lions meals; mostly meals from the darkest one, Midnight, his mane short, but pride vast, his roars so loud and backed with an attitude of harsh bitter bees buzzing in the lofty languid air of the Sahara, given life only by a cave filled with natural light. I call him friend, brother, ally, but he sometimes strikes with claws extended more frequently than with retracted, in our continuum of mock duels.
The next bright lions are among the dimmer breed, but brute in strength and fast in strides aided by long legs able to carry large bodies over vast distances. Almost twins, but not of the same mother, they act in the air of the pride as the friendly ones, willing to attack to protect a younger cub or weakened lioness, but never would they raise a hand in simple rage filled combat. They are brothers more so than Midnight. Zenith and Doldrum, I call them, they’ve protected me both at each point. For that I’m grateful. I still fear that if I ever shed a tear in presence of such beasts they may desert me, my goal to never test such hypothesis.
The Betas of the pride walk along side me, I lead them under Midnight Alpha, he calls to me to direct and without delay there should be command. Although mostly it is hard to ask for respect, my status so under minded by many. Alas though, many would follow, than lead, so it is understandable that not much dissention remains in the ranks. The Semi-cubs, their unofficial ranking, are that of Derri, Janus, Jora, Johna, JeZech, and Rano. They are present, and pay attention, and for the most part heed a call of leadership when asked. Mostly because they lack thinking capability for themselves, not because they can’t think, oh no, no, but rather that they need extra help to develop their own thought processing, it is due to over mothering I think. Not a fault of their own, I forgive them, as should anyone.
Among the Betas there is one who never follows command, and somehow has placed himself furiously above the rest, and even tried to usurp our dear alpha of the pride. Andarias, fowl creature, he gorges himself on the precious hunt with little care for the expense it has caused the others of the pride, he fills his large belly and requires much more of the upper members of the pack in attention. Using his need for satisfaction to become more important, how droll he is, that sloth more than lion. That mouse more than cat. He is sickening, but I must bear his brunt of insult. His cackles of high pitched roaring pulls at my face with contortions of hatred and sorrow. It is because I am smaller than the others in the pack, and more timid, and even weaker, I was labeled a dandy at birth almost instantly. Not a mere second from the womb was I made the runt of my litter, smallest, most likely to die than live, and it is that cross I have bared and been forcibly reminded of after every hunt, after every day in the sunny dryness of the grassy desert land. Loathsome beast is that that mocks me, making all of my life a horrid creation to be constantly reminded that my status is only a favor of a dear brother in the wild. Blessed Midnight set the moon of hope on that lifetime and let glorious dawn expel said demon from my visage. I wish no longer to look on that face which is mistook for mine on none to rare an occasion.
There is a subtlety in my ways, gazing into waves of vast shimmering gold, stalking, looking for a prey easy enough to land in one, or two bites, possibly intertwined with several swipes of a swift claw. There must be something to contribute to the meal, as easy enough for my own strength to kill, and enough to fill the stomach of a hungry nursing mother. I look for every instance that I can, sometimes it happens with ease, and other times ramming hoofs and antlers would have me pierced through and through. Frequently there is a loss for hope, but there never must be submission, less I become more and more like that loathsome one. Roar overpowering, fear is something easily stricken into beasts that would normally not cower before me, that roar, so mocking, my own is my only talent. Wailing is a power no other lion in this pride possess above my own, and to tune with nature and aid it in its moans, I am of great equal. Midnight shows praise and my enemy he dismays. Supposedly he would see my vocals cut, so as to remove me entirely. I soon shall leave the pride; I grow tired of this pack life. Maybe with blessing I can go.
Cruel desert filled with golden wheat like grass and trees of gnarled fashion, I miss my youth so full of happiness and ease, when I knew no enemy, and had no brother to swear any allegiance, only a mother for which I owed my gratitude of life, and a father with mane so full I was kept warm in slumber. But now, now I am slowly losing it all, and slowly it goes to another less deserving, let him have it I suppose, I care little. An oasis awaits me. One free of any vain reflections of true personality, at least I hope.