This is an idea I had when dissussing poetry with one of my teachers. He said his favorite poet was Walt Whitman, and I can't blame him (though the man had an odd obsession with our 16th president). He printed out a copy of "O Caption! My Caption!", and I, with my never halting idea process, formed an idea. What if, instead of one person telling the story, it was two or three? My thoughts imediatly went to TLK. This is the result of me thinking about it to much. Enjoy!
O King! My King!
As the cherished rains fell from the heavens above, a young lion, his fur of gold and mane of crimson, ascended to his throne. Simba stood at the end of Pride Rock's ledge, where so many other great kings had stood, his father included. He sighed happily, and looked to sky. He felt the wind in his mane. It seemed to be saying 'Well done, my son.' He knew it was his father praising him from the stars.
As he looked upon his kingdom, he tried to remember what it had looked like when his father had shown it to him that one fateful morning. He smiled at how his father had handled his kingdom, as a caption at the helm of his ship. And so, he belted out the words that came to him.
O Caption! My Caption! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring!
What Simba didn't know as he sang his joyous song, was that his victory had lead to the widowing of an already partially insane lioness. Zira, shadowed by her young son, Nuka, slowly and nervously crept over to where her mate's still corpse lay. He had been maimed by the hideous hyenas who he had taken into his arsenal. Unfortunately for him, his "toys" had betrayed him, as he had them, and had been the cause of his demise.
Zira gently caressed his face, hot tears streaming down her muzzle. Nuka hide behind his mother, not sure if he wanted to see his father's mangled body. She looked up to the sky, hoping that it might give her answers as to what her next course of action should be. Her eyes landed on the new king. Simba. Her blood red eyes filled with hatred for the young lion. He had murdered Scar! His own uncle! He may have been the true king, but he was not her king. Then and there she vowed revenge. But not now. No, now was the time to mourn her loss. She buried her face into her beloved mane, and wept.
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Caption lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Up above the weeping lioness, Simba couldn't have been happier. He knew he had made his father proud, and this fact alone made his spirit soar.
O Caption! my Caption! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up – for you the flag is flung – for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths – for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning!
Nuka slowly took a step forward. He grimaced as he looked over his father's unmoving form. He cuddled between his mother's warmth and his father's deathly cold. Small tears slid down his face.
Here Caption! dear Father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
Zira tried to pull away from her mate's lifeless body, but could not bring herself to do so. She only wished she could look into his emerald green eyes one more time. For him to hold her in his embrace one more time. One more time. She pulled her sobbing son close to her, and they mourned their loss together
My Caption does not answer, his lips are pale and still.
Zira choked out.
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.
And now, Simba let out a last victorious cry, signaling to the kingdom that hardship had ended, and salvation had arrived.
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring O bells!
Zira finally managed to pull her son, and herself, away from Scar's mutilated body. She would avenge his death, no matter the price.
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Caption lies,
Fallen cold and dead.