Write a prequel to The Lion King movie.

Before the Rains

An original, non-canon prequel to The Lion King

The first time Mufasa sat upon Pride Rock as king, he sneezed.

Dust had blown up from the plain and settled in his mane. Below him, the herds waited in a silence so complete that the sneeze echoed.

Somewhere behind his shoulder, his younger brother laughed.

“Majestic,” Scar murmured.

Mufasa kept his gaze on the animals below. “You could stand beside me.”

“And spoil the composition?”

Before Mufasa could answer, a zebra stepped forward.

“The southern pool is dry.”

An antelope called out next. “So is ours.”

Then everyone began speaking.

Mufasa rose, and the voices stopped. He had expected that much. What troubled him was how eagerly they watched him afterward, as though standing taller had brought him closer to an answer.

“The pride will search for water,” he said.

“And until then?” asked the zebra.

Mufasa glanced back.

Scar was already walking away.

By sunset, Mufasa had crossed half the kingdom.

He found mud hard enough to crack a claw, reeds that rattled like old bones, and a water hole crowded with animals too thirsty to flee when they saw him.

He did not drink.

When he returned to Pride Rock, Scar lay in a strip of shade, watching a beetle struggle uphill.

“You know somewhere,” Mufasa said.

Scar stretched one foreleg across the beetle’s path. It turned and began climbing around him.

“Somewhere what?”

“Somewhere there’s water.”

“A bold conclusion.”

“You weren’t worried this morning.”

“I seldom find worry useful when you’re doing enough for both of us.”

Mufasa sat beside him.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Mufasa said, “Please.”

Scar’s paw went still.

Beyond the rock, the last sunlight caught the backs of the distant herds.

“There’s a spring in the eastern ravine,” Scar said at last. “Under the fig roots.”

“I searched that ravine.”

“You searched the top.”

“You’ve been there?”

“When we were young. You were usually busy winning things.”

Mufasa stood. “Show me.”

Scar looked up at him.

“Now you want me beside you?”

The entrance was almost invisible: a narrow split behind a curtain of roots.

Scar slipped through easily. Mufasa scraped both shoulders and lost several hairs from his mane.

“Majestic,” Scar said again.

Inside, the air was cool.

A silver thread of water ran down the wall into a shallow basin, then disappeared beneath a tumble of stones. Mufasa lowered his head and drank. The water tasted of rock and darkness.

“There’s enough,” he said.

“For a few.”

“If we clear the opening—”

“The slope above it will fall.”

Mufasa examined the stones. “Then we make another opening.”

“With what?”

Mufasa set his shoulder against a slab.

Scar closed his eyes.

“Ah. Your head. I should have guessed.”

But when Mufasa pushed, Scar joined him.

Together they shifted the slab a paw’s width. Water seeped through the gap.

They pushed again.

A sharp crack sounded overhead.

Scar looked up first.

“Mufasa.”

The ceiling shed dust.

“Mufasa, stop.”

The slab moved.

So did the ravine.

Daylight vanished behind falling earth.

Mufasa coughed and tried to stand. A stone pinned his hind leg.

“Scar?”

No answer.

He pulled. Pain flashed through his hip.

“Scar!”

“I heard you the first time.”

His brother’s voice came from somewhere near the entrance.

Mufasa could just make him out through the dust: a thin shape beside a triangle of daylight.

“Can you get out?” Mufasa asked.

“Yes.”

“Go for help.”

Scar did not move.

Outside, a loose stone clicked down the slope.

For one moment, Mufasa saw the way clear before his brother. There would be no witness but dust. A grieving prince could emerge alone.

“Go,” he said again, more quietly.

Scar stepped toward the light.

Then he turned back.

“Oh, move your paw.”

He wedged himself beside the fallen stone and braced his back beneath it.

“On three.”

They never reached three.

Scar heaved. Mufasa dragged himself free. The stone slammed down behind them, and both brothers scrambled through the opening as another section of earth collapsed.

They landed in the dry streambed.

For a long time, they lay coughing shoulder to shoulder.

Then cold water touched Mufasa’s paw.

The collapse had torn open the buried channel. A muddy trickle crept between them, widened, and began running downhill.

Scar stared at it.

Mufasa began to laugh.

His brother looked offended.

“What?”

“We found it.”

“We nearly died.”

“But we found it.”

Scar glanced at Mufasa’s injured leg.

“You are,” he said, “an extraordinarily expensive way to dig a ditch.”

By morning, the stream had reached the plain.

Animals gathered along its banks. Hooves churned the mud. Birds fluttered down to drink. A young elephant sprayed water over her mother and received a shove for her trouble.

Mufasa stood above them with his leg stiff and aching.

A cheer rose when they saw him.

Then another.

Scar watched from the shade of a fig tree.

Mufasa turned toward him, but a cluster of antelope pressed forward with their thanks. Beyond them, an old buffalo bowed his heavy head.

The king looked back again.

The shade beneath the fig tree was empty.

He found Scar that evening on a ledge below Pride Rock.

“They should have thanked you,” Mufasa said.

“They thanked their king.”

“I told them whose spring it was.”

“Afterward.”

Mufasa lowered himself carefully onto the stone.

“Yes,” he said. “Afterward.”

Below, the new stream shone faintly in the dusk.

“You saved my life.”

Scar studied his claws. “Try not to require it regularly.”

Mufasa leaned over and pressed his forehead against his brother’s shoulder, as he had when they were cubs.

For a heartbeat, Scar stayed still.

Then he stood, leaving Mufasa leaning against nothing.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “They’ll want something else tomorrow.”

Mufasa watched him disappear around the rock.

Far below, the animals were still drinking. In the darkness, he could hear them calling his name.