Return

Scar was a very infuriated individual.

His greatest plan had gone completely and utterly awry. The one condition of it – simple, really, and easily amended if he'd chosen henchmen with even a single brain cell between them all – was that Simba was gone. Dead. Unable to return…ever. He should have taken care of the problem himself.

Now his own people turned against him. His people – completely unworthy of the name. His pawns, more likely. And, like a small cub afraid of his shadow or a butterfly, he begged for mercy. Screamed his terror as they attacked his precious flesh. Pitiful. Weak. Looking back on it in his odd sort of purgatory, Scar wasn't sure who was most worthy of his wrath.

Behind his rage, the meticulous and thoughtful part of his brain was curious as to what exactly was going on. Randomly he remembered his brother and his ideas about the stars; he was king, albeit disliked and dethroned. After all, he wouldbe remembered in the pride; of that, he was certain. But was he worthy of the great kings in the sky? He thought so, but he was intelligent enough to know he was one of few to be of that understanding. He knew he did wrong – wrong was part of the bargain in revenge and rule. Nothing he could have done would have changed that, not if he were to fulfill his goal. However, after little contemplation, he was able to realize that if Mufasa were right, he most likely would not be joining him.

As his anger dimmed to a low growl, he began to investigate his new surroundings. Overall it was bland, devoid of even the darkness of the elephant graveyard. There were no trees, no rocks or hills; simply a blank, emotionless vastness that made no sense and held no purpose in Scar's point of view. He wondered if he'd feel hunger in this place, or need sleep, for that matter. He didn't feel either, but his time here had been short. Further experience would form more knowledge.

Prowling about, he found something solid, like the edge of a rocky cliff side. He ran his paw down the surface, finding it jagged and mossy. A claw caught on a bit that particularly protruded, suddenly letting out a cry like a bird whose name he couldn't place. A brown and blue light burst from behind him, causing him to jump back lightning fast with a snarl. Symbols were etched across his vision, flashing in color of varying shade and shapes and constantly changing. His memory flew to Rafiki; the designs were much like his, but different somehow. Sinister. Dark.

A voice echoed in his head, as if from the vision. "You've been gone long enough. It's time for your return."

They started off slowly, Scar learning what the ancient ancestors had to teach in their plan to toy with the pride's new king. He wasn't surprised that he was not the only displeased soul waiting to make change and play with those who once did them wrong. He felt pleased in his new state, with the skills of his life without the necessities, and new tricks to be learned. The ancestors were patient, willing to teach and assist, with a touch of growing expectation in each moment passed. His own plan was forming: what he'd command Simba to do, to see how he'd react, and whether he'd go mad in confusion and pain. He looked forward to seeing how things would progress.

"Scar." One of the many voices whose identities he was gradually learning called out of the semi-darkness. "Would you like to see?"

A grin, revealing a row of fangs, spread across his face. "Yes, ancestors, I would. Show me this new king." The same side of his sanctuary that lit up before shone faintly emerald, melting gradually into the plain he knew well, leading to Pride Rock. His own world fell away into the grass, leaving him standing at Simba's side. He had to admit, as he surveyed him slightly, that he was proud of his nephew. He was very much like his father, but showed signs of his uncle as well – a compassion and ability to lead, but also a strong connection to his emotions, altering from caring to self-centered to angered and back again. Scar could tell Simba struggled against the darker side of his nature, and took pleasure in the prospect of molding him toward his own designs.

The king stood alone, studying the land in a casual yet commanding attitude. He sat relaxed in the shade of a tree, but his eyes were tense, alert. Scar nodded his approval as he paced around Simba, then situated himself at his nephew's right. Something was wrong. Simba's emotions were distinct, and often unveiled, and Scar could tell his mind was affected. He followed his glance and noticed a group of various species crossing into the territory, seemingly arriving for the first time as they marveled at their surroundings. As he studied more closely, he noticed far more animals across the setting than he'd ever observed before. He smiled in understanding.

"Overpopulation," he muttered to himself. "Now that I'm gone, everyone's returning, plus more. The ground hasn't time to catch up."

Simba's head whipped around in Scar's direction, his eyes narrowed. "Who's there?" he demanded, tossing his head in search of the source. "Show yourself!"

Fascinating, Scar thought as he calmly watched the lion in his confusion. Icanbeheardhere…perhapsI'llusethistomyadvantage.

Eventually Simba's nerves receded and he returned to his scan of the territory, though his eyes darted to the unseen Scar often. Scar sauntered closer to his side, memories of imitating Mufasa's voice as a cub crossing his mind. He sat close by Simba, leaning near to his ear. He considered his words for a moment, then spoke.

"Simba…" he whispered, mixing his own voice with his brother's. "Simba…what shall you do?"

Simba stiffened, his eyes widening. "Father?" he whispered back. "What…can it be you?"

"What shall you do, Simba?" Scar repeated. "If more return, more shall die…what shall you do?"

"I – I do not know, Father," he replied, a quiver in his voice. "The plains aren't ready for the return of so many in such a short amount of time. They need a chance to grow and we can't give it to them. I can't let my people die, Father."

"Death is inevitable in the great circle of life, Simba. You must decide – which deserve to live and continue to thrive?"

Simba jumped, obviously surprised. "Deserve to live…all of my people deserve to live, Father. Who am I to pass judgment over those who I approve of and those I don't. They've been given life; it isn't my right or decision to determine whether they deserve it."

"Yet you allowed your uncle to die."

His face darkened. "That's different. Scar caused a lot of strife here. He allowed many to be hurt or die, with no concern to anyone but himself, including those he enlisted for his help. As king, it is my duty to protect the good of my people, including getting rid of the source of danger in any way necessary."

Easy,Scar, the lion thought to himself. He'sgettingsuspicious.Backoff…fornow.

"You will do well, my son," Scar replied in his half voice, striking a pleased tone. "You have learned much in your short life, and will continue to learn more. For now, farewell."

Simba's tone turned frantic. "Father, wait! What should I do? How can I save my people from starvation?"

Scar backed away as the scene began to mold back into his oblivion. "You will learn, my son…you will learn…" The plains completely vanished. Scar felt himself smile in the darkness as the ancestors spoke.

"Well done, Scar," one said, pride in its voice. "The seeds of opportunity have been planted, and you acted well. And now…we must continue. You still have much to learn yourself."

Nodding, Scar sat. "Continue, ancestors. What is next in our wicked deed?"

"Come closer, friend. What do you know of mind control…?"

Time passed; how much, Scar wasn't sure. His afterlife with the ancestors didn't particularly provide the traditional understanding of days passing. He was pleased with what he had learned and had practiced more on those in the pride, particularly Simba. They had developed a kind of understanding together, always meeting in the same spot, discussing the problems of the plain without Scar giving himself away too much. He'd been developing a plan for some time, working on molding Simba's mind in a way that only Mufasa's influence could. He decided his goal was not to return, at least not in the physical sense. No, his purpose was different – he wanted Simba to destroy himself, and the rest of his worthless kingdom. His attack, he planned, would be just like him: swift and deadly.

His fur bristled, a sensation he'd learned to associate with Simba's presence. The world melted, faster than the first few times from practice, and he was immediately at Simba's side. The plains felt different, closer to how it was when Scar was king. The sun was shockingly bright, leaving a shiver of haze on his vision that blurred everything together. The green from his initial visit had shattered into an ashy blankness, rotted away by the heat and lack of rain. Each time he had come, the trouble of the kingdom had shown more on its king. Simba slouched, his countenance heavy, his mind on something other than the land he seemed to be watching. Scar cleared his throat.

"My son, you are troubled," he said, bringing more of his own voice into the disguise. Simba turned his head in his direction, no longer startled at his conversation. Scar noticed a fear in his eyes he'd only seen once before, when Mufasa was killed and Scar told him he must run away. He was thrown by this look, and that Mufasa would never see it the way Scar did. Simba thought he was his father; they'd had conversations meant only for father and son, conversations that Scar had intimately intruded upon. For a moment, he was uncertain and strangely disappointed in himself as Simba yet again looked upon him with this expression.

"I am, Father. We haven't had rain since the day Scar died. It's almost as if he hasn't even left – nothing has improved, and the ones who came back again are leaving. We're rationing the food so that everyone has something, but it isn't enough. I'm at a loss."

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Scar replied, "Leadership is not easy, my son. Much of the time it is strife without peace, for peace may only come through perfection, something not even the greatest of kings could achieve. You have found, and will continue to find, that your choices are difficult and may seem to do more harm than good. The most important thing to remember is to do what your heart sees fit."

Simba stared off at Pride Rock, his expression contemplative. "I told Rafiki of my encounters with you," he said suddenly. "He muttered his usual gibberish and I guess he meant that you're here to help me through my first problem as king. He seemed strange, though."

Scar barked a laugh. "Strange! You're talking about Rafiki, son! I have all respect for the mystic, but one must admit, he's not all quite there."

Simba grinned weakly. "I guess so. But it was a different kind of weird than Rafiki usually is. He acted…concerned. Like what I was experiencing wasn't possible. I can see his point – he is the mystic, like you said. Why would you visit me and not him?"

Sensing the lion's suspicion, Scar thought quickly. "You are my son, Simba; why should I not speak only to you? Call me selfish, I suppose, but this was something I wanted to do with you, and only you. Now: what are your plans for the pride?"

"I've been sending out patrols to keep the peace, along with rationing," he replied, reverting into the tone Scar had begun to notice whenever they discussed his rule. "We're losing our people almost as fast as we gained them back, however. There just isn't enough for everyone. We've been considering leaving to search for someplace better."

"No!" Scar nearly yelled, startling Simba. "You cannot leave Pride Rock, Simba! The entire kingdom may perish, but you cannot leave!"

Simba sat stunned, a look of utter surprise and shock etched on his face. Too late Scar realized his mistake and searched his mind for a way to right it. Simba seemed lost in his confusion, unable to even process a response. The silence between them deepened, Scar becoming more frantic in his search for a response and watching to see if Simba found him out. At the same time he cursed his own strong emotions that led him to speak outside of his façade of Mufasa as the source of his possible downfall. Before he'd had a chance to determine his response, Simba's face had turned black with understanding.

"Scar," he growled, stepping away from the tree and Scar's invisible form. "You aren't my father; you've never been. You've tricked me!"

Scar stood and followed him, reverting to his natural voice with a tint of imploring sympathy. "You are correct, Simba; I am not Mufasa. But you thought I was – doesn't that mean anything? We've talked as father and son, as we should have when I was alive, as uncle and nephew. We've been given an opportunity, one that goes beyond even death, to make this connection. Haven't you relished it, even though I'm not who I seemed?"

He turned his face away before he answered. "Our discussions have been informative and pleasant," he replied in his king's voice. "However, you are my uncle, not my father, and morally wrong overall. You had no right to lie to me, to pretend you were the lion I could be most myself with! Don't you have any shame, Scar?"

The change to an emotional tone struck Scar deeply, in a manner he hadn't experienced before. For the first time in many years, he felt the entrance of an unusual feeling: pity. For once, he could relate – flashbacks of his own family, of Mufasa receiving their father's full attention, of Scar left alone to fend for himself, flew through his thoughts. He couldn't fully understand Simba's indignation and hurt, but he could relate.

"Simba…" he began slowly, searching for a way to convey his intriguing new thoughts. "I suppose you cannot fully understand. To answer your question, I suppose I once felt shame – felt guilt for doing wrong, and letting my father down. It did no good, of course; your grandfather was seldom very forgiving of me, or loving at all. That must be how I lost it…lost my shame. I didn't get what I needed when doing good, so why feel badly about doing evil when at least in some way I can gain?"

He stopped to study his nephew's expression. It wavered between fascination, sadness, and uncertainty, keeping him frozen in place, reluctant to leave yet wanting to do so. Scar struggled to understand his long buried emotions and give them words, knowing that regardless Simba would never comprehend.

"My goal for speaking to you was to ruin you, nephew," Scar burst out, brokenly honest. "I sought revenge for what I saw as my injustice. You stole my blood right by being born, after it had already been stolen by your father; I always despised you for it. My jealousy for you almost matched that I held for my brother." He stepped closer to the king. "When I began speaking to you, Simba, I hoped to destroy you. Now…I seek your forgiveness."

Simba stood open-mouthed for a long while. The life of the plains continued normally behind them, ignoring the emotional struggles of its current and former kings. Birds flew overhead and called greetings to one another, sending warnings to intruders in their territory. A herd of gazelles ran past, kicking up dust into the face of the lioness stalking after them. Faintly, at the opening of the cave that was Simba's home, the outline of Rafiki stood out in the dark, his staff jutting up and looming over his head. Scar watched him, barely even visible, and saw his head nod. An eerie feeling fell lightly on his fur.

"I want to forgive you, uncle." Finally, Simba spoke. Scar was struck by the tone in his last word – he'd never heard the earnestness he did now, not to him, not when calling him 'uncle.' There was always a hint of doubt, enmity, fear, in it, even when he was a cub. This time, however, it was different – this time, he spoke as a devoted nephew concerned for his downcast uncle. "My heart tells me to forgive. My judgment tells me otherwise. I'm not sure what else to say." His eyes were lowered. "I think you should leave now, Scar. Leave, and never return." Both caught the words and gasped. The same, or nearly the same, as Scar said to Simba when he was a cub. As Simba said before Scar died. This time, Scar felt their sting.

Turning, Scar began to reenter his limbo. "Of course, Your Majesty," he said dully as the plains faded away for the last time. "Of course, nephew. Farewell."

"Wait!" Simba called, his voice gradually softening the more Scar moved back to his world. "Uncle, come back! I didn't mean…"

"Take care of the pride better than I did, Simba. If anyone could…it would be you."

Scar returned to his purgatory. The ancestors were furious, ordering him back to finish what they had begun. But Scar refused. Each time they demanded, filling his head with their screams of wrath and tortured his soul with their frenzied confusion and hate, he remained stoic against their commands. Eventually they ceased, allowing him to continue on, away into his next stage of his seeming afterlife. He travelled forward, never fully reaching his destination on his own, until he was found and welcomed into the arms of his brother, and finally joined him among the stars.

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