Chapter Twenty-Six: Frost That Heals

Sunset draped the misty forest in a golden veil. The air was quiet, thick with the hum of dusk. Shafts of amber light slipped between branches and curled gently through the ever-present mist, making the forest seem as if it breathed. At the center of the clearing, beneath his familiar twisted tree, lay Jitu—still and vast, a silent sentinel bathed in fading light. His eyes were half-closed, his frost-touched mane stirring faintly in the breeze. This was his haven, where he neither spoke nor stirred more than necessary. Just watched. Just breathed. From the underbrush, hidden and reverent, the watchers returned. Simba. Nala. Kovu and Kiara. Vitani and her Guard. Rafiki hung back, quiet and contemplative. They said nothing now. There was something sacred in this silence. Something they didn’t dare interrupt. Then, from the shifting mist, came the soft rustle of hooves. A mother antelope stepped cautiously into the clearing, her graceful form taut with anxiety. At her side, a young fawn limped, trembling with every step. A small scrape marred its delicate leg. The mother hesitated, then lowered her head. “Jitu,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to bother… but… he fell. And it hurts.” Jitu’s eyes opened, steady and calm. He rose slowly, his towering figure casting a long, pale shadow across the clearing. The fawn looked up at him—small, wounded, and frightened.Jitu didn’t speak. He leaned forward, his breath steady, and exhaled. A soft mist poured from his maw, but it wasn’t the cold of a threat or the bite of winter. It sparkled—delicate and shimmering like frost-kissed stars. The mist drifted over the fawn’s wound, cloaking the raw scrape in glistening silver. Slowly, the fawn blinked, its leg shifting carefully. “Wow... so cool!” it squeaked, voice high with disbelief. The mother’s eyes welled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Jitu.” Jitu didn’t bow, didn’t speak. He simply leaned back, settling once more beneath his tree, gaze following the antelope and her healed child as they faded into the mist. Silence fell again—but not for long.From the bushes came rustling, then a voice sharp with wonder. “Wait! Wait, please!” Vitani burst into the clearing, followed by her Guard, her eyes locked on the departing antelope. “Did… did he do that often?” she asked, breathless. “Did he heal your calf?” The antelope turned, surprised but smiling. “Oh, yes. He always helps the little ones. His breath… it soothes. Like a soft breeze.” Tazama stepped forward, stunned. “That’s not normal. That’s magic.”                                             “Maybe,” the mother replied gently. “Or maybe… it’s just Jitu.” The others emerged now, eyes wide with awe. Nala approached the antelope with a voice full of warmth. “How long has he done this?”                                                      “Since the day he arrived,” the mother answered, nuzzling her calf. “We feared him at first. So big. So silent. But he never harmed anyone. And when our little ones were hurt… he helped. Always.” Shabaha blinked. “You just… trust him?” The antelope smiled. “He’s cold on the outside. But warm, where it matters.” All eyes turned to Jitu. Still beneath the tree. Still silent. Vitani’s voice cracked through the quiet. “You can do something that amazing, and never told us?” Jitu looked at her. His face betrayed nothing. Simba stepped forward. “This is a gift, my boy. Why hide it?” Jitu’s eyes flicked toward Simba, then back to the horizon. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence wasn’t shame. It wasn’t fear. It simply was. Nala placed a paw against Simba’s shoulder. “Maybe he doesn’t.” From the woods, Rafiki’s chuckle drifted in like smoke. “Ah-ha… yes, yes. A healer with the breath of winter. But winter is not always cruel. Sometimes… it is comfort.” Jitu’s ear twitched at the sound but he did not turn. Vitani stepped closer, her eyes full of something new—not frustration, but awe. “Jitu… how many more secrets do you have?” He looked at her then, really looked. Although he did not speak, something passed between them. Something quiet. Something real. Then, as always, he returned his gaze to the mist. Watching. Waiting. Still. Wholly, silently present.