Disclaimer: I don't own Lion King.

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Chapter 17: Augury

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Through a narrow crevice in the ceiling, pale moonlight invaded the secret cavern beneath the Pride Rock. Its location wasn't widely known – only the royal family were aware of its existence. When he was a young cub, Simba had no clue of this place. However, shortly after he returned home and dethroned Scar, his mother showed it to him.

Now Simba set his paw here for the second time. The underground, round chamber still made an overwhelming impression. When his eyes accustomed to the dim light of moon seeping inside, he discerned all skulls staring back at him, judging, for the secret cavern was a catacomb. The souls of the past kings dwelled among the stars, but their mortal remains rested in this grim place. Here lay the bones of the past kings of the Pride Rock, ever since the first nameless ruler claimed this land as his own.

Silently, as if not to disturb the dead, Simba strolled through the chamber, admiring the tombs. Each one had a drawing above it – a painting on the rock wall depicting the owner of the bones. The eldest were barely discernible. Simba didn't even know who they belonged to. He wished his father would have had enough time to tell him more of their family. When he approached the most recent ones, he felt his heart beating faster.

Simba's gaze slid over the image of a lion with impressive, thick mane much like his father's or his own. From his mother's tales, he knew that he stood in front of the tomb of Mohatu, the wise king. Next to him lay the skull of his successor and Simba's grandfather, Ahadi. The current king of Pride Lands held his breath, visiting the last tomb.

Here lay King Mufasa, but in Simba's memory, he would remain simply his beloved dad. The painting of his father was simplistic, merely a few brushes of a finger, but the memory brought out the familiar features of Mufasa, as he had smiled upon his little son with all the love he had in his heart. Simba traced his paw, over the skull, squeezing his eyes shut. Many seasons passed since that day, but he could never banish the image of his dad laying motionless on the bottom of the gorge. The young king allowed himself for a brief moment of mourning, before he wiped a stray tear with his paw.

Finally, Simba positioned himself in front of an empty slot that would become the resting place of his predecessor. Gently, he placed the skull on the floor with all the honors. Although he was barely worthy of a place beside the great rulers, the tradition demanded for the mortal remains of a king to be situated in the catacombs. Scar used to be one.

Besides, he used to be a member of the family too. Even though he murdered Simba's dad, Mufasa had loved his brother. There was a time, when Simba adored his uncle too. Simba sighed heavily, thinking of the positive memories. He had perceived Scar as a little grumpy, yet sympathetic lion. Always so clever and funny, a bit weird… Was all of this just an act?

Simba sighed heavily, stepping back. The skull was laid a bit crooked, so he readjusted it with its paw. A quiet noise interrupted the heavy silence, but the Lion King sat still, for he expected a guest. The sound of paws treading on the rock mixed with the characteristic rattling.

"I heard that you asked for old Rafiki."

Simba smiled fondly, turning to greet the old, wise, yet quirky mandrill. Rafiki returned the smile. His stick rattled as he walked. He put his arms around Simba and hugged him, giving him an amiable pat on the back.

"I need you to make a drawing," Simba said, as soon as the mandrill released him from the friendly embrace. He stepped aside, revealing Scar's skull, laid to rest beside Mufasa's remains.

"So he is no longer the part of the circle of life." Rafiki shook his head. Like Simba, he looked more saddened than relieved by Scar's death.

Rafiki untangled a fruit, which was attached to his stick. He grabbed it and smashed it against the ground. The fruit separated in half in two even pieces. Rafiki grabbed one and dipped his finger in its juice. Afterward, he proceeded to sketch the silhouette of a lion above Scar's skull. The movements of his hands were fast and steady. Amazed by his skill, Simba observed as an image of his late uncle appeared on the cavern's wall.

Then, the mandrill strolled to the opposite side of the cave and picked up a piece of old, burnt wood, that lay there. He used it to finish the painting by drawing the black mane. His fingers shook, as if he was about to add some other detail, even though the image seemed complete. Rafiki eyed his artwork with doubt, not pleased by how it turned out.

"It doesn't seem right." Rafiki commented.

"Looks fine to me." Simba shrugged his shoulders. The drawing of Scar was well-made, at least as good as the images of the other past kings, if not better. He didn't know what Rafiki found odd. "Thank you for doing it."

Rafiki smiled and nodded, gathering his painting tools.

"It is the tradition," Rafiki said, his gaze sweeping over all other tombs.

Simba fixed his gaze on the fresh painting.

"He won't be joining the kings of old among the stars, will he?" It was more a statement that a question, thus Rafiki didn't answer it. He walked over to Simba and stayed by his side.

"There was… there was a darkness in him, he couldn't escape," the mandrill said quietly. "Such an unfortunate soul."

"Rafiki?" Simba whispered.

"Hmm?" The mandrill leaned on his stick.

Simba sighed, not really knowing how to put together such an embarrassing question. Even for him, it was surprising that he didn't know it.

"Did Scar have a name? I mean, "Scar" couldn't have been his real name, right?" Simba drew some unspecified pattern in the dirt with his paw. He raised his head to look at Rafiki. "It's strange, how he was my uncle and I didn't even know his name."

"Taka," the mandrill said plainly. "That was his name. Taka died long before Scar did though."

Rafiki and Simba stayed still, granting Scar a brief moment of mourning. To Simba, it seemed that the grief after deaths of the loved ones lasted forever, starting from the fateful day in the gorge, when his father fell to his death. Even when he came to terms with the loss and the gnawing guilt, sorrow followed him. Simba felt Rafiki's hand on his shoulder. He looked at the old mandrill – by being engulfed in saddening memories, he almost forgot his presence.

"Simba, the rain always comes after the dry season." Rafiki poked Simba's forehead, as if he was trying to force a piece of his wisdom directly into the lion's head. "Great joy will come after great sorrow. This is the way of the circle of life and you are a still part of it."

Simba didn't quite get the bizarre metaphor, but he felt a heavy weight lift from his heart. The worries didn't disperse, but they seemed less depressing all of a sudden. It was like seeing the first rays of rising sun after a long night. He smiled.

"Thank you." He whispered.

Suddenly happier, Simba headed for the narrow corridor leading out of the royal catacomb. Rafiki followed him, but he looked over his shoulder, scrutinizing the tombs of the kings, every one of them. He muttered something under his breath and pushed past Simba, toward the exit.

"What did you say?" Simba furrowed his brows, staring at the old friend of the family, baffled by his disturbed demeanor. Rafiki didn't turn around, as he strolled up the narrow corridor, supporting himself on his stick.

"I said, I didn't know that Scar had such a big head." The mandrill went out into the bright moonlight, but Simba stayed back. Carefully, he took a couple of steps back to stare at the tombs of kings once again. All the skulls laid there to rest looked very similar – they had the same shape and the size matched as well. Scar's was no exception. Perhaps it was a bit bigger than the one, which belonged to Simba's father. Shouldn't it be smaller though?

The sky was getting brighter in the east already, when Rafiki made it to his tree. He set his faithful stick aside and scooped a handful of dirt from the ground. Afterward, he jumped onto a thick root, a little clumsily because of his bad knee. The drawings of generations of lions surrounded him, most merely faint shadows, wiped out of the existence and of the bark. Rafiki was about to erase another one, so soon after the previous one.

The mandrill stopped before an image of a lion with a black mane and a thin line stretching over his eye. He lifted his hand, about to wipe out the image. Suddenly, strong wind appeared, without any warning. Rafiki swayed, and the dirt got swooped from his palm, abducted by the gush of wind. Then, the breeze stilled, as if it was only a figment of imagination. The mandrill stared at his empty hand, pondering the meaning of the omen.

"Not yet." That was the conclusion, he came to. Rafiki sat on the root of his tree, thinking whether it was a good news or an augury of a catastrophe.

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Author's Note:

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