A/N:

TRICK OR TREAT.

Well, sort of. Let me explain.

I know I normally don't do holiday pieces - not that it's a rule of mine or anything, but I rarely seem to have time to churn something special out for Christmas/Halloween/Earth Day/National Valentine's Kwanzukah Day, or whatever else you can think of, so I don't really do it (might in the future though, ya never know).

But as it happened, this month's contest on MLK featured a prompt ("Mufasa's ghost appears to Scar") that just seemed to fit in with a holiday which you may or may not know that happens possibly to fall upon this day, a coincidence which I perhaps purposefully perpetuated by choosing to publish this on the last day of October instead of right after writing it.

(Translation: Halloween story, guys.)

So get out your cheap plastic pumpkins and stuff this little treat in there! Be prepared for cheap scares, fake haunted houses, masquerading kids mugging their neighbors for candy, and faces stuffed with unhealthy junk food, or whatever the hell Halloween is about nowadays!

...Actually, scratch that, this story lacks most of those elements. Ignore me. Just read. x.x (And enjoy, duh).

It was cold, and dark, in the night. The air hung about with a frigid malevolence; its chill pressed itself harshly against the lion's sides, as though trying to freeze him from the inside outward. His sleek coat bristled, trying to trap his body's warmth, and when he shuddered from the low temperatures, countless wisps of condensed moisture floated towards the sky in his breath, tickling his whiskers—which had their own drops of perspiration gathering and dripping from the edges. As he walked, the wind howled a forlorn note, its force slicing effortlessly through his pelt. His flesh prickled in discomfort, though he continued onwards. It was unusual for the savannah to display such coldness, even at night, but the land now was barren and scarcely hid its cruelty from him.

His head dipped slightly and his eyebrows furrowed together, the short and thick hairs interlocking with a taut expression. This was it. This was surely where he was meant to be on this night. He could feel it, somewhere, somehow…

For the first time he stopped as his sharp vision studied the deviation before him. The dusty ground, with its scant blanket of brown grass above an eroded layer of soil, was worn away, replaced with stone walls and a massive ravine. Night though it may have been, his senses could detect the change in terrain: the dark, solid blackness of the ground faded away to reveal the ditch. The relative warmth of the earth, which his paws had gently imprinted with many scores of tracks, faded into the cold of the boulders. He nearly recoiled when his pads first met with the icy kiss of the solid, non-impregnable stone: its bitterness bit savagely into the hairless, unprotected skin on his soles, and it left him locked in another gripping shudder as he tried to descend the slope.

"Mmm," he moaned, shoulders poking out like undulating blades as he began to move downwards, picking his path carefully through the sharp rocks.

I could be back in the den right now…

He thought back with an indulgent fondness to his cozy, royal domicile. As a king, it was his prerogative to slumber in the wide, open cavern designated for him and his family. If he weren't here, he would be sleeping, huddled next to Zira. She would be there to warm his bed and comfort him, as she always was. Perhaps he would see a glimpse of his son, Nuka, muddy and dirty and smelly after a long day of playing and watching his newborn sister.

The king had fondness for the little whelp his mate had borne. The only problem, though, was his gentleness and timidity. He was a sycophant, too… but alas, he didn't have to make him his heir. There was still room in the world for those like him. As long as they didn't come into power, there were no problems. And Zira was still young, and willing, and fertile…

She was different, somehow. Unlike the others. He thought with disdain on the hordes of them, the same sycophantic commoners always groveling. It was, invariably, the same old inane set of queries—'How are you feeling, Your Majesty?'; 'Would you like me to get something for you, Highness?'; 'I could help you with that'. As transparent and shallow as it was, he rather enjoyed it. He enjoyed having control over the purposeless masses; those who had not the ambition to rise as he had, and were thus stuck as mere underlings. Pawns.

Pathetic. That they should be so lowly. So… without a pl—

Scccrrrrrrtch!

His heart skipped a beat when his paw slipped on a rock, sending fragments clattering into the ravine as his entire body shifted downwards. His knees locked; he took a sudden breath in surprise as he clung to his tenuous footing, muscles clenching and claws scratching at the stone to assist him in this. A momentary shot of fear coursed through him as he stared downwards into the yawning, gaping chasm below him.

A close call.

Perhaps it was best not to let his thoughts wander too far, or to allow himself to become too distracted, upon this steep slope. Bracing himself for another long moment, he swallowed, and resolutely decided to pay more attention to where he placed his step. His joints creaked in protest from the cold, and the frigid air crisply assailed his lungs as he sighed under the moonlight.

Alas, there was no point in idle musings. Daydreaming had nearly had him killed right then… and honestly, how could he have slept anyways, on this night? It was hard enough as it was, to enjoy a few hours of uninterrupted, peaceful sleep…

He stopped on a shelf of stone. It was flat, and frozen to his touch despite its position deep inside the ravine, out of the wind. The lion sat on his haunches and simply breathed for a moment, glinting eyes scrunching shut as the memories of this place haunted him. He was near the bottom… it was this shelf, in fact, where Mufasa had…

His teeth clenched. The king had held his throne for a year now—today marked the date of his usurpation. Now, he had never considered himself a sentimental lion, much less a spiritual one. But then, this year had changed everything he'd ever thought to be so solid. His perceptions were skewed, twisted… how could he not remember? How could he not remember the reverberating rumble, the omnipresent pounding of thousands of hooves within the tight throat of the land? How could he not remember the roar of his older brother, the former king, as he leapt bravely from the fray and unknowingly into his death? How could he?

'Scar'…

No. Please…

'Brother, help me!'

NO.

He'd smiled. He'd laughed. And he'd sent the older lion to his death. He heard the roar of pain, anger, sadness… as the big, strong brother fell into the horde, swiping at thin air. It haunted him, that sound. A cry so heartbroken, agonized. Anguish incarnate. He'd undertaken everything with so much levity: the planning, the plotting, the scheming to kill his brother and his nephew. He was ambitious; he wanted what he felt had been taken from him. He'd wanted revenge for so long—surely a little blood on his paws wouldn't be too bad?

But to hear that roar… that loud, gut-wrenching roar… he could never have expected that. He tried to push it to the back of his mind, yet being here did nothing to help. Not when he could almost feel the old heat pricking up beads of sweat on the back of his neck, from the sun which had shone ruthlessly on that day. Or breathe in the thick clouds of dust which had been churned up by those pounding ungulates so many months ago. The vision stung his eyes. And he realized he still remembered. Better than he wished to.

He leapt nimbly to the floor of the gorge with a quiet sound, before slithering across the ground in the darkness of the night. His body was a mere shadow, scantly illuminated by the full moon above. The nippy air was deathly still and its crisp coldness peppered his face. Fangs bared, he approached the center of the ravine, which was sheltered from the blustery winds above. His hackles were raised and his stomach was knotting and wringing itself nervously inside of his ribcage… but he knew it wasn't from the cold.

Clack-clack!

He nearly sprung out of his skin when his paw collided with something on the ground. His widened eyes scanned the shadowy, almost pitch-hue floor, barely catching sight of the many bleached bones littering the cold stone.

The lion—the live one—flared his nostrils, fear melting away and the hairs on his spine lying back down as he realized it was merely the skeleton of the lion that had died here months before. By now, the flesh of the corpse had been picked apart by scavengers and rotted away, leaving only the bones to be exposed to the sun. No hyenas had devoured them, and no other predators had moved the carcass: he forbade it, out of some twisted sense of respect. He had killed his brother, yes, but he felt oddly bad about letting others harm the body so. The only reason he hadn't buried it was Mufasa's belief in the circle of life. Surely he wouldn't mind being left out as food for the vultures?

Scar shuddered softly, another puff of frozen breath escaping his muzzle. Only now did he realize he was shivering, though whether it was from fear or from the weather was unknown.

"Why," he cleared his throat, the abrasive timbre of his cold and raspy voice displeasing him, "can I not stop thinking of you, hmm?" For a moment his lips twisted into a grin, and a small burst of mirth escaped him… but it was a somewhat mournful chuckle, and his expression quickly faded into a sharp frown. He approached the skull and picked it up, unsheathed claws poking out of his deceased brother's orbits as he held it at eye-level.

It was like a conversation… almost.

"Ironic, I suppose. The murderer and the victim, reunited again."

There was no effort made to hide his voice, even given the echo of the gorge—nobody would be around in this barren locale this late at night.

"You're getting back at me, I know it. Just like in life, hmm? Always… always right over me, yes?" He continued holding his brother's head by those empty, staring sockets. Mufasa was permanently grinning, smiling off at nothing. Taunting him. The live lion looked away in distaste, derision burning in his eyes along with his inward guilt. His act of murder changed nothing… and yet, at the same time, it changed everything.

"They still remember you. Your lionesses," he thought back to his complaining pride. How they were suffering in the midst of the dry weather back at home. He'd banned the mentioning of Mufasa's name—more to ease himself than the females—but that changed nothing, of course. The implications in their words were just as loud as before.

"… And I… I don't blame them. Hmpt. No. You were always so much… more fit for this job than I was. And now, under me…" he bared his fangs in an enraged expression, "it's all gone to naught!"

He lopped his brother's skull off of his paw carelessly, sending it clattering across the hard ground, when he was unable to suppress his temper further. The lion paced around, paw steps heavy and a thick, piercing growl ravaging the inside of his parched throat. He could not keep himself from knocking the abused head around with a limb once more.

"Why do you do this to me?" His bitter vehemence died down, replaced with an overwhelmingly sorrowful note. He stopped walking.

"Why, Mufasa?" He craned his head towards the ground, finding that the skull was nestled between his paws, orbits staring blankly back up at him. Almost unable to gaze upon it, he closed his eyes, clenched teeth tightening his expression. "Help me."

He took several deep breaths, composing himself. He'd never expected his seemingly apathetic self to release so many… emotions… In fact, come to think of it, he didn't even really understand why he'd come down here. Was it to… pay his respects? Or was it something else entir—

"… Why do you molest my body so…?"

The skull was knocked away by his flurry of movements, reflexes flinging him backwards with a catlike agility. A chill sprung down his spine at the sight of such an apparition, and he stood frozen in terror, muscles locked and claws extended into the ground.

Mufasa.

"M-M-Mu… Mufasa, I-I-I was si-simply…" He stammered, unable to continue as he suddenly lost his voice. The words melted away in his throat, which had tightened into an incorrigible, unmoving lump.

The sight of his brother was momentarily blotted out by the cold fog his breath had sent spiraling into the sky. His pupils narrowed to mere dots as the glowing, shimmering figure stood silently, several feet from him. Yet the ghost did not move, and gradually reappeared. His reddish-brown mane now appeared ruddy, almost sanguine… as did his eerie, unreadable eyes.

"Please forgive me," the live lion bent down, tail curving between his legs in fear and righteous awe.

As a cub, he'd never lent credence to those wild ghost stories he'd heard… but now he could see that, on the contrary, they did the spirits little justice in their portrayals. Their narratives didn't capture their essence. The very appearance of his dead brother's spirit was enough to trigger a visceral, primeval reaction within him. Something told him that this presence was out of the ordinary… He could feel Mufasa's deathly, immortal aura, and that alone was enough to curdle the blood in his body.

"… You complain so profusely. What have you to mourn…?"

Scar tried to find the strength to speak, his jaw hung open as he paused in thought. He trembled inwardly… Mufasa appeared impatient. In the end, all he could stammer was a weak "the kingdom suffers, brother."

"… Why do you think that is…?"

The lion backed up warily, until he found, with dismay, that his back legs were pressed against the stone. He could distance himself from the spirit no farther… not that it mattered. Mufasa surely had the power to approach him as much as he wished. There was no escaping it—he had to face his brother… and his guilty conscience, if it existed.

Somewhere deep inside, he knew the answer, and it terrified him. Hence why he chose to run from it.

"You know how to run this kingdom," he stated surely. "Please… help a wretched soul. I shall find no solace if I cannot help my own people."

"… Since when have you given a damn… about my people?" The apparition boomed, a slight tremor echoing through the gorge. His flame-red mane glowed a terrifying color… one reminiscent of blood. "…You deserve not solace, for you care not for this kingdom… you care only for your own name..."

Scar looked taken aback. He would have taken another step backwards, were it possible. His mouth gaped, and he denied it. No… of course not. He couldn't bear to see the kingdom—his kingdom, his people—complain so garrulously.

"You don't understand," he shook his head wildly. "Have you not—"

"… DO NOT LIE TO YOURSELF, Scar…!" A burst of flames appeared around the apparition as he roared, a sound more terrifying than any the living Mufasa could have produced. The fiery glint in his eyes bore into the living lion, effectively cowing him. He ducked his head and shrunk towards the ground, tail still between his legs.

"… I can see your soul better than you yourself can…" the spirit spoke, righteous wrath scarcely bridled under his bright, glowing countenance. "… And I am ashamed—of your greed, your guile, your selfishness... You bring this family no honor…"

Scar shrunk back, shaking slightly in fear. It was just like all those times in life… All the times he'd been shamed, shoved backwards. By his own relatives. By those who were supposed to be closest to him.

You bring this family no honor…

They were different words, from a different lion, but it was the same tune. What… what did he mean?

Again he denied it. He merely wanted to do well by his kingdom, so they could finally see that he was as good of a ruler as Mufasa had been. All he wanted was his time in the spotlight. Was that so much to ask for?

One look at Mufasa's spirit told him that it was so. In life, Mufasa had been a loving and compassionate creature, always giving second chances. Always believing in people. That kindness, that mercy, continued to a fault… and it was his downfall. But now… now he could see his jealous younger brother for exactly what he was.

An impostor.

"If not for me," the lion shrunk back, his voice pleading, "then at least for your kingdom. Sarabi, your mate… she suffers wrongly, through no fault of her own. We are starving, Mufasa…"

"… Is that so…? You appear to be well…" His statement was accusatory, the derision in his displeased stare clearly visible, even on his surreal countenance. When they had last seen one another, when both had been in the land of the living, Scar had been a pitifully scrawny, ribby lion, thin to the point of emaciation. Despite the famine and the drought, however, he now appeared to be faring better—muscle had been laid down across his frame, and his ribcage was covered by a layer of flesh.

It was clear, from this alone, who the king was truly looking out for. Himself. Any pretense of looking out for the pride was ass tripe as far as Mufasa was concerned. Alas, Scar viewed it as his rightful dues, but to Mufasa, it was wholly irresponsible and deserving of no less than contempt.

The new king looked absently at the ground, attempting to hide his emotion from the old one's clairvoyance. It did not work.

"… You have the gall to ask me for my help when you've brought this upon yourself… to speak to me about suffering wrongly…"

No. This can't be my fault. It must be the hyenas… someone… anyone else.

The younger lion pressed himself into the rock, his form awash in the shadow cast by Mufasa's brilliant light.

"… You caused this suffering when you took me from my family and tainted my throne with your bloody, evil ways… when you neglected your role in life and deigned to take what does not belong to you…"

His eyes narrowed in fright, though Mufasa was relentless. Suddenly he felt that this was a waste of time. To even think that Mufasa would help him was… surely… surely unreasonable. After what he'd done… why would he have reason to believe that Mufasa, of all lions, would provide him assistance?

"You are receiving nothing less than what you deserve!"

"NO!" Scar cried out, his raised voice more a roar than anything else. It was a rash, frivolous outburst, one borne of anger and frustration. He groaned, teeth gritted together in a horrid grimace as he bit back his temper and tears—yes, the tears… as unexpected as it was, he could feel a sting in the corners of his eyes. He couldn't handle these accusations. It reminded him of similar instances, long ago…

As much as it hurt his pride, he could not resist much longer. He fell to the ground, trying to dam back his frustration and keep what little dignity he had left.

"Please, I implore you… on my knees. Have mercy on me. Fix this. I can't handle these problems on my own."

He looked up at the figure of his brother, almost disbelieving that this would happen. Before he would have mistaken this for a fluke, a hallucination… for he'd had many of Mufasa. Visions. Nightmares. But this was different. This was indeed his victim's spirit, and as he lay practically prostrate before him he honestly felt as though he were being judged. The ghost's face was stern, stoic… he saw, and knew what was just. Scar half expected him to repeat what he'd said before, that it was his own damn fault… but he was silent.

"Forgive me, please."

Mufasa's brow furrowed. There was a long note of silence, and then he spoke… yet when he did, his voice was softer, more rational… He seemed to have faded slightly, his form nearly transparent as it wavered in the air before him. He was testing him.

"… The kingdom suffers as punishment for your actions… but…" Scar felt a mote of optimism as he gazed upon the imposing form of the former king, "… if you make an effort to continue forward, to forget the past and absolve yourself of your many mistakes… you may yet be forgiven."

"I'd do anything," he commented hastily, "please, give me a chance."

Mufasa appeared skeptical, but continued, his gaze softening considerably. A prickle of hope assailed the failing king's chest at this. To clear his guilt, to win over the happy ending he deserved… he would give nearly anything at this point. Or so he thought.

"… Tell the lionesses the truth. Give up the kingdom, and start a new life. Sarabi is a strong leader; she shall endure without you and bring the kingdom back on course. Your paws shall be cleansed, and the throne will be given to he who deserves it—there need be no bloodshed…"

His face fell, and he was quite sure that, under his fur, his clammy skin was all but drained of its pallor. "No bloodshed?" He could only imagine their reaction when he told them—if he told them, or ever could tell them—the truth of his predecessor's demise. His throat suddenly constricted, as though a serpent had squeezed his windpipe. They were close to mutiny as it was.

"I-I… No, you don't understand. Mufasa? I can't tell them… I can't give up the kingdom… that I…"

… Worked so hard for…

His breath caught, and he remained silent. The apparition tried to reason with him one more time, attempting to spare him his worry.

"… If you admit your guilt now, there will be time. Your life shall be spared…"

"How do you know that?" His voice quavered, eyes widened and glinting in the dark night. Mufasa's face remained blank, and he said nothing. Either Scar accepted his offer or rejected it—there was nothing more to be said. Somewhere he knew he couldn't do that. Would never do that. Perhaps, in a way, the old king was right all along… he deserved this. He was a worthless coward, a dead weight burdening the kingdom…

He felt his shortcomings first with sorrow… and then with a frustrated, outraged lashing of his chronically-shortened temper. How could he have known him so well? How could he understand? How dare he ask him to do something so impossible? It wasn't his fault—he was merely a mortal lion! There need be no change!

Suddenly, and for the first time since Mufasa appeared to him, his fear melted away, replaced with a brash hubris which would only do him harm. He exposed his canines, despite the fact that they posed no threat to his brother, and his coat bristled instinctively.

"Why must you make this so difficult? Why?" He roared in frustration, his expression demanding despite that fact that he was, truly, the one who owed answers, and an explanation for his deeds… "Why must you torment me, night and day, in my every waking moment, even after death? Why?"

There was a long and fateful silence. Scar bared his teeth, refusing to be subjugated.

"You are no merciful spirit!"

"—SILENCE!" Mufasa's voice rumbled with an otherworldly wrath, a burst of rubicund colors accenting his wild eyes, his dark crimson mane… A sudden shot of pain stung the living lion, as though he were being burned with virulent flames, and a cry of pain was promptly squeezed from his senselessly frightened figure. He fell to the ground with a thud, barely even cognizant of what was transpiring. All he could see was the trembling, fiery figure in front of him… and he rightfully knew to fear its wrath. His terror returned in full force as he lay, witlessly, on the ground. Scar tried to stagger to his feet and run, but he was disoriented. He knew not which way was up, nor down… his limbs wriggled helplessly, but he could do nothing. It was too late.

"I have attempted to show you the leniency you sought, but you are a blind and ungrateful runt, just as you have proven yourself to be! If you shall not accept mercy, then you shall accept your fate…"

The lion couldn't help but whimper as he ceased writhing on the ground. He continued to quiver with terror, panting desperately for breath, his body slick with sweat despite the freezing atmosphere. His heart raced as he tried to apologize.

"No, Mufasa, please. I'm sorry. I-I'll do what I can. Spare me."

The spirit ignored him—there was nothing left for his brother but punishment.

"… I will fulfill justice, that you shall pay for your deeds!" He boomed, his voice vengeful in its timbre and pitilessly strict, "And I curse you! That your kingdom and life be taken from you as you have taken from me mine, and given to one who deserves it!"

No… he can't do that to me…! Surely… surely he has not the power!

His eyes narrowed in pain as he lay there, trying to ignore the blows. The lion's paws covered his bitter face, and he refused to accede… but his limbs offered no protection.

"Your line shall end—your mate shall be barren!"

"B-but Mufasa, you can't; Zira has done nothing!" He pleaded.

"You had your chances, and you squandered them! And now your son shall grow up without a father, as mine has!"

His rage was potent, and even when he stopped speaking, the words continued echoing in the still air… through the gorge they rumbled angrily, and even when that had melted away into nothing, the inside of the younger lion's skull was still reverberating with those damning words. He clenched his teeth and pressed his eyes shut, trying to ignore it, but there was a tangible, physical pain associated with them. They remained, rattling his brain, sticking there like a disease. His paws covered his ears, and he rolled on the ground in agony. But they did not go away…

The outside environment was serene, and the air was tranquil and still, free from turbulence from the wind. There passed not a sound, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that the ghost was gone. He was alone.

With a grunt, he forced his aching body to stand up. No longer was he on his knees, yet he still felt oddly vulnerable. The words still hung there, omnipresent. He tried to blot them out of his mind, but they continued to tickle him malevolently.

… You shall pay for your deeds, Scar…

"Ermft," he groaned weakly. His jaw tightened, and when he looked around he saw no trace of anything threatening. It was as though nothing had happened—there was no odd prickle of the hairs on his spine. In fact, he didn't feel afraid anymore. What was there to be frightened of? Mere words?

Instantly he tried to discredit the experience. Surely it was just imagination, or a dream. This was not the first time he'd had a nightmare, after all. He'd just… overreacted this particular time to his presence, that was it… Yes, certainly.

Hmpt. I am a fool after all.

That was certainly overdone, that was for sure. There needn't be such fear on his part—it was merely guilt, and emotion… and like everything else, he could learn to control and suppress it.

He looked around, the crook of a smile forming despite itself, and spotted the skull of his brother lying on the floor, face gazing upwards towards the sky. Yes, that was right—Mufasa was dead. And a lion like him could do no harm when he was dead.

Without knowing exactly what he was doing, he took a hold of it one last time, and held it up to whatever scant light was in the bottom of the gorge. It reflected off of the polished white bone, showing the neat features as well as a crack which had started to form from earlier. He grimaced, showing his teeth.

"You are dead. I can see that. And you shall not get the best of me now!"

He threw it as hard as he could at the wall of stone before him, his anger propelling it through the air before it crashed into the rock and split apart into a million different pieces. For a moment he was overtaken by an odd sense of satisfaction, as though he had removed the last vestiges of power Mufasa had held over his life, absolved himself of their bond to each other.

He would have laughed. But there was only silence. His face drooped, and suddenly he was unsure of himself. No noise punctuated the air, but there was a faint trickle of air. Something like a breeze, just enough to ruffle the edge of his pelt. And he froze.

Who was he fooling? He could deny it… but he knew he would pay for his crimes. It was knowledge beyond his sensual understanding. Yet he could feel the presence of something ethereal. His breath stopped, as he was forced to remember all that had taken place. There was no forgiveness.

No. You can't let these powerless… words… affect you.

He looked around. Silence. And yet he was afraid. It was odd, for there was no physical impetus for it… but there was reason for him to fear. For the gorge was still alight with the spirit of the vengeful kin who had died there. He knew this, on some level, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Perhaps that was why he ran so suddenly and refused to stop, even when he tread over the sharp, biting shards of bone littering the ground.

He was a marked soul; the words would come true whether he wanted them to or not. And the very conversation, whether it had really taken place or not, would haunt him until the day he died… Unforgiven, just as he deserved.

So yeah, I didn't really bend over backwards to make it Halloween-themed, but the general idea complemented it, so why not?

In any case, computers are officially stupid. It says Unforgiven is not a word - who woulda guessed? - even though I have heard it before (not to mention it is also the name of a famous Metallica song that totally describes Scar xD)... so either 99.9% of the populace is clueless or Microsoft is once again trying to screw me over. Likely the latter.

Correct me if I'm wrong, though. 99.9% of the populace has been clueless before. I don't want to have the title of my story be a not-a-word word, if you get my drift... xP

I tried to improve this over my last one-shot, which I felt was far too abstract and flowery, and make it somewhat more like the one before. I was worried that Mufasa would be OOC, but when I read over the dialogue I think it fits with my own thoughts on what would happen based off my fan theory inclinations and character interpretations. I mean, I think Mufasa would be pissed as hell at his brother for killing him, trying to kill his son, letting the hyenas in, neglecting the kingdom and just overall being a selfish bastard, but at the same time I think it would be unlike him if he didn't give our lion at least some chance of redemption, however slim the odds of him taking it.

What do you think? What would happen if Mufasa's ghost appeared to Scar like it did to Simba? Would the encounter really transpire like this one, or would it go differently?

vvvvv Leave a review and share with us. ;) (Or a fave if you like it... or both. Whichever way. All feedback is appreciated.) vvvvv

Twin