This is the first time I’ve attempted a multi-chapter fanfic in ages. Hope it goes well.
The story takes its name from an album by Italian pianist/composer Ludovico Einaudi. The chapter titles will correspond with tracks from the album as well. While I am also doing my best to attempt to fit the mood of each individual song, this will not always be the case – this first chapter being one of those.
Hope the Italian in the titles isn’t too off-putting. I considered changing it to English, but ultimately decided to keep it as is. I like the sound of it more than the alternatives.
I sincerely hope you are entertained. That is my goal, as always.
Divenire
1: Uno
A Pride Lands morning was once a beacon of opportunity for King Simba, the orange sun announcing the dawning of a new day, a day in which there was unlimited potential. In his younger years, it meant a day spent by the waterhole, lounging in the shade of an acacia tree. Or perhaps it meant a hunt with Mufasa, after which they would bring a large antelope to add to a hearty feast the pride would have that night. Still yet, a day spent with childhood friend Nala, stealing away the hours roaming the lands, discovering what innocuous mischief they could get themselves into.
In those days, life was carefree, and the morning brought excitement. The sun’s rise could mean a number of things, much of them good and well. Even in his days in the jungle, the possibilities were continuous, and always untroubled.
But in the new era, Simba only dreaded the morning.
Instead, he wished he could be in a chronic sleep, a part of an endless night of dreams and slumber. Not that his dreams were pleasant – often they were anything but – but at least it was not reality. Reality was that to which he had to wake up at dawn, and the reality was that he feared it.
Scar’s death and the subsequent end of his reign had first brought peace and infectious glee to the Pride Lands. Hardship’s end was in sight. The foliage would be returned to the savanna, bringing the incentive for grazing herds to return as well. The ravenous hyenas would leave, warfare would be ended, the drought would cease and order would reign over a scarred land.
Some of this did occur: the hyenas left, albeit grudgingly. The drought ended, with rains sweeping the land just after Scar’s end.
But not all could take place immediately. Returning the Pride Lands to its original splendor could take many seasons. Plants could not grow instantaneously. Food would be scarce for quite some time.
These were problems that Simba, by all accounts a young king, felt each day. The sun brought the suffocating notion that he and he alone presided over an entire ecosystem on which many depended. He was a king – THE king – and the king was looked to for leadership in dire times.
But what kind of king was he? He had merely been in power for a few days, and no progress had been made. Worse still were the outside threats which still plagued his pride.
It began that morning, with visits from two different individuals.
The first came before Simba had even awoken. Having felt a prodding against his side, his eyes fluttered open slowly to see a lioness before him, staring at him expectantly.
Her name was Adhra. Usually she was the lioness who patrolled the borders of the land during the night hours. She came with a message.
“I overheard a conversation during my stroll around the northern border,” she said after a long bow to Simba. “As you know, the hyenas have taken refuge within the Outlands once more.”
“So I expected,” said Simba with a yawn.
“Yes, well, it doesn’t sound like they intend to be there for long. I was able to get close enough to overhear two fellow patrollers speaking of an assault on the Pride Lands.”
This awakened Simba completely. “An assault? But why?!”
“I cannot say. I am only reporting what I have heard,” Adhra muttered. With an additional bow, she left the inner cave of Pride Rock.
The king watched her go. Once she was out of sight, he rose with a minute snarl and began to pace across the dirty stone ground. Nala, who had been asleep beside him, heard his audible frustration and woke instantly.
“Simba, what’s wrong?” she asked groggily.
Simba emitted a long sigh, and turned to her. “Adhra was just here. She says the hyenas are planning an attack on us.”
These words caused Nala to send a bemused glance at the king. “An attack?” she asked incredulously. “That doesn’t make sense…”
“Doesn’t it? The hyenas only left on their own accord, Nala. We didn’t tell them to leave, and we didn’t have any contact with them while they left.” Simba glanced out of the cave mouth, at the barren grounds that lay before him. “What’s more… whatever hardships we’re facing here, I’m sure it’s far worse in the Outlands.”
But this was not the only peril that befell King Simba that fateful morning. He mulled over Adhra’s report for quite some time, adding it to the already dire outlook brought about by the conditions of the desolate Pride Lands. The motivation finally struck him to visit with Rafiki, who would certainly have an answer to his problems – or so he thought.
Yet as he neared the immaculate baobab tree in which the old shaman resided, Simba felt a sense of uneasiness creep over him, filling his entire body with unease. Rafiki was not swinging around his tree as he usually was, nor was he even visibly active at all. Simba by no means feared the worst, but the disquiet was intimidating.
Finally, after the lion called up into the tree a few times, the old mandrill appeared at its edge. He had a particularly disheveled look about him, one not of his normal stature. Slowly he climbed down the large tree to take a place before his king, to whom he bowed. “My king,” he said in a weary voice, one seemingly not his own. “Good you showed. I bring bad news.”
Simba confusedly looked at the shaman. “But I… me, too. I mean I have bad news to tell as well, Rafiki.”
The elder’s eyes widened as he stared into Simba’s own, and the lion could barely keep his composure to not break eye contact. The look Rafiki gave Simba was one of utter despair, the look of a weathered being who, despite having seen immense hardships in his extensive life, was nonetheless frightened. And Simba, having known Rafiki for quite some time, knew this to be so out of character that he felt his unease only growing.
“And… what might dis be?” asked Rafiki, his voice wavering.
Simba sighed heavily. “One of my patrols has informed me that the hyenas are planning an assault on the Pride Lands. This coupled with the state of the land anyway… and… well, I’m in trouble, Rafiki, I really am. I came to seek your advice on the matter.”
Initially Simba hoped that perhaps the news Rafiki intended to bring him was also concerning the hyena attack. But seeing the still-troubled expression on the shaman’s face led him to realize that there was, in fact, even more to worry about.
“Well, dis worries me,” spoke the mandrill after a long pause, “for it is possible dat de news I have received may be linked to yours in some way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Walk with me.”
It was a beautiful day, even if the barren grounds about them did not help to brighten the day’s worth. They walked past quite a few lingering skeletons, and if any indication of growing grass was present, it was certainly not visible. The trees and plains were bare; even Rafiki’s baobab home was significantly deteriorated.
“Simba,” said Rafiki finally, “you of course know dat I am in direct conversation wit de Great Kings, yes?” Simba nodded.
“Dey spoke to me dis morning, and de outlook… it is not good, I am afraid. Bad tings are ahead, maybe worse dan dat we have already seen.”
Simba frowned. “Worse than Scar? Than the drought?”
“Potentially. Simba, have you heard of a being known as Nbushe?”
The king shook his head. He had not. Unless mention of the name had been inserted somewhere in his father’s teachings when he was a cub, he had never even heard the word.
“I feared so.” Rafiki stopped walking and leaped upon a small boulder nearby, turning to face his accomplice. “Nbushe is all, dey say. Nbushe is in de grass, in de ground, in de air. Nbushe, dey say, IS all dose tings. Nbushe knows us before we are born, and welcomes us when we die. Nbushe, as I say, is all.”
Simba was perplexed, and he could not resist a dubious look of displeasure. “You sound as if you’re talking about the Great Kings, Rafiki. Aiheu, maybe. A higher power of some sort.”
Rafiki shook his head. “If you know Aiheu, den you are on de right track, but not quite dere. It is not Aiheu who you really refer to, but Nbushe. Aiheu was a great king, or so it is said, but dere is a cult of personality surrounding him. He knows dis actually, and is quite flattered by it. But in de times before Aiheu, dere had to be something or someone else, yes?”
“I… guess so.”
“We may have different names for dis higher power,” Rafiki continued, “but in de end, de name we seek is Nbushe. Nbushe, I say, is all.
“De Kings tell me dat Nbushe is unhappy, my king. Unhappy in particular with our pride and the surrounding areas. You see, it is said dat all bad luck dat befalls a being is done so because dey have angered Nbushe. It appears dat we have angered Nbushe in some way.”
“Wh-what? Why? Why would it be angry?” asked the king, his voice quivering.
Rafiki’s expression was one of utmost displeasure. He shook his head quickly, jumped from the boulder, and continued his motion. “No, no no no no, I cannot say,” he said quickly, his words slurring together. “It is not my place. I cannot disrupt de balance.”
“What balance, Rafiki? What are you talking about?”
“No… no, no. Wafalme, kwa nini mapigo yangu,” he sputtered, breaking into languages which Simba could not make out.
“Rafiki! Listen to me!”
“Nataka kumwambia lakini i hawawezi. Kwa nini, nbushe, kwa nini…” was the mandrill’s only response, but his voice was distant. Simba wanted desperately to stop him, to find out what the problem truly was, but the fit into which Rafiki had submerged was formidable. His limbs shook, his face contorting, expression pained. A trail of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth.
The Lion King moaned in anguish at what was happening to the shaman, the being who he most considered at that point his father figure. As he watched Rafiki’s fit, voices crowded his mind. Only you can save your people, they said. Do something before all fails.
An immense screech suddenly filled the air. Rafiki had froze, his arms spread to the sky, his head raised upward. The pupils of the mandrill’s eyes had vanished; only color remained.
“Simba, go! You are the key! Become!” Rafiki cried abruptly. And the shaman’s frame slackened as he fell to the ground.
Simba rushed ahead to meet Rafiki, to check on his dear friend, when another calling voice distracted him. “Simba!” yelled Nala. “Simba, come to me!”
The lion whipped around, seeing the lioness bounding toward him from the direction of Pride Rock. He hurriedly ran to her, his vision seemingly blurring by the second, blackness appearing at the sides of his gaze as he finally found his friend. He tried to speak, but no words came.
“Simba!” cried Nala again, nuzzling the lion’s neck as she reached him. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Simba,” she spoke again. “Two lionesses ventured to the Outlands after Adhra’s report. Adhra followed them to bring them back. But she didn’t come back – they did. Oh, Adhra’s dead, Simba. The hyenas killed her. And they’re on their way here now!”
END