"What will we do? What will we do?! I will call for help!" I smacked the bird. The thud confirmed that he would not thwart my plans I could not afford for him to warn the pride. I had my pieces set.

Like termites crawling out of their mound, the wildebeest ran down the gorge. The smelly brutes seeped down the rocky enclave. They were not the most resourceful of animals. The herd mentality was strong in them. They did not coordinate or form a complex system of protection compared to the buffalo and because of this, the wildebeest were a favorite prey for many.

They were the perfect means to my end. The thump of their hooves pounding like rain drops only to become louder as they came closer. Their feet were like sharp jagged ends thus making them effective weapons if the fall failed to break a back.

They began to curve.

This was an improvement.

Those three idiots had managed to get it right this time. I gift wrapped those cubs and they foiled the plan. This time, I might consider being generous.

I looked for the bait; a speck of gold hurried along the dust and sand. Simba had managed to climb onto a branch. It was a pathetic escape route but I could not blame him for choosing such a flimsy form of protection. He could have hidden in a crevice or taken refuge behind a rock but when the flight or fight response is activated, we are rarely the most rational of creatures.

I scanned the canyon, looking for the tell-tale gold and reddish pelt of my brother. I saw a bulky body. He was going against the current. The branch broke and a small yellowish ball flew in the air. I was counting on either the weight of the wildebeest hooves or the fall to take either of them.

Mufasa caught the hairball.

Strike one.

There was only a few yards between them and the river of ungulates. Only a few feet away from having my entire plot exposed and possibly exiled. Fate intervened when the backside of the wildebeest had struck Mufasa in the jaw making him lose his precious cargo. Ironically, that was one of his favorite cuts of meat. Simba was only a few feet away from his father. Had I been any other, I would have risked the painful stabs of those hooves. I would not have thought about possibly having my bones broken.

But something bigger was at stake.

I saw Mufasa move more fluidly along the tide of grey pelt and black hair. Only moments earlier, I saw him angle carefully, scanning for his son. Within seconds, he began to move quickly and this time he ran with the tide. He carefully laid Simba on a platform.

Strike two.

The reunion was short lived.

"DAD!"

I told myself that one of my first decrees as ruler was to give this herd amnesty for the next three full moons. I had to be generous. I would tell the lionesses that it was due to overhunting them.

Suddenly, a flash of the sun. No, it wasn't a ray. It was Mufasa leaping out of the grey and black cesspool. His claws dug deep into the rock. It was not steep but it was not flat enough for him to walk much less climb without difficulty.

Strike three. Simba confidently turned around. I knew he was looking for a small entry to get closer to his father.

It was my turn to deal the final hand and my time was limited. Mufasa and I would sometimes explore these enclaves during our cubhood. I preferred looking in the crevices hoping to find a lizard or rodent. It was a lifetime ago. If memory served me well, I only had less than a minute. Mufasa climbed as best as he could. His weight along with the steepness of the hill gave him no favors. He was slipping. I could feign weakness but then I noticed something.

I will never forget those eyes. The look of desperation in them.

For many seasons, Mufasa was my 'superior'.

Genetics gave him that advantage. That and his interest in hunting practice earned him the favor. I was more interested in the diplomatic affairs of the kingdom. What good is a king if he had his majordomo communicate for him? Power was not limited to strength. Going by that logic, the elephants and hippos would have run of the kingdom. Power was psychological. It would be enforced with subtlety and control.

Now, he was at my mercy and I wanted to savor it as long as I could.

"Scar!" His voice cracked with fear. It gave me more pleasure sucking than the bone marrow from a gazelle's left leg.

"Brother! HELP ME!"

The irony was not lost on me.

Here was the king at the mercy of his 'inferior' brother. To the public, Mufasa was regal and in control. He was poised and gracious. If they could only see him now. His pupils dilating, his body contorting in fear and in a desperate attempt to gain some stability beneath his feet.

For a millisecond, an old memory crept back into my consciousness and before it would fully manifest itself as a thought, I made my move. I had sharpened my digits earlier today. That was another benefit to not using one's weapons so frequently. His were short and stumpy and they could barely graze a hide. Mine on the other paw were longer and pierced at his skin. They drew blood and I felt them cut beneath the upper dermis.

Damage.

His roar of pain acknowledged this.

He had a flaw.

I then leaned in and whispered something to him. He had said it once during a game of cub play. You see, Mufasa was not always gentle and one of his favorite games was to show me just how much stronger he was than me. He was a little larger than Simba was. I was often the target. This one time, he would not let me breathe until I had said these words. I still remember my lungs trying to inhale as hard as they could. My eyes almost blacking out. I protested but he would not let me go. I was returning the favor now.

"Long live the king."

The realization upon his face was a delicious one. I could not indulge in it for long. Simba had still not appeared. If he was watching, I would tell him that his father slipped. He had pulled me and if I had not pulled back, I would have most certainly fallen.

He was the light and I snuffed the candle out.

I had taken a few paces when I heard that scream.

Affirmation. It was done.

I surveyed the damage. They were easily over ten thousand strong. If everything went accordingly, I could afford to give the hyenas a second helping with a wildebeest. Right after Simba of course.

The dust made it difficult to see but I could see a silhouette. A large figure lay still. I stood still, noting any hint of movement. Mufasa's sternum did not rise or fall.

Success. It was then that I heard mewling. A much smaller figure emerged from the side.

I decided to wait and hide behind a rock. I wanted to observe the last moments of innocence.

"Dad?"

Denial. He was not sure if he wanted to process it.

"Dad, get up. Dad, we gotta go home." Touch. He needed some sort of affirmation.

His voice was cracking.

"HELP!"

Desperation. He was registering what had happened and the results were not what he wanted.

Simba was no longer in his little bubble. These were his first moments of realizing how cruel the world is. He was no longer protected from harsh reality. This was a painful lesson and I relished it.

"Somebody! Anybody!"

The glass house was broken.

"Help."

I let him come to terms with what had happened. If the stampede didn't break his little spine then I would make sure that the hyenas would do the job. For now, I would let him have this last moment. The least I could do was be charitable to family.

He lay down next to his father, trying to feel any warmth that was quickly slipping away. He crawled under the paw, trying to relive those moments when they took naps together all while knowing how futile it was.

It was time to burst that bubble.

"Simba."

He turned. Eyes widened and streaming with tears.

"What have you done?" I asked dispassionately.

I was careful to say the right thing. Although Simba could articulate his feelings, he was not aware that everything that I said had a purpose. I was careful to shape his memory. I had to mold how he would remember this.

To make him uncertain. Tragedy combined with grief did not allow for him to create alternative explanations for this. Children and their tunnel vision made it easy for them to be manipulated. It was the power of suggestion. Only seconds ago, he was quietly and privately grieving. Now, everything I said had the power to shake him.

"There were wildebeest and he tried to save me. It was an accident. I didn't mean for it to happen!"

I offer him some reassurance.

"Of course, of course you didn't. No one ever means for these things to happen."

I pull him closer. He needed comfort and family. He needed familiarity. He needed someone he could trust.

"But the king is dead." I said coldly and factually. I had to be objective. I had to be truthful. I had to make sure this was how he would interpret what had happened for the rest of his life.

I offered him comfort. This was to build a bridge. Then it was come to terms with the cold truth. And now, I had to play my final hand. I had to tug at his sensitive and emotional heartstrings.

"If it weren't for you, he'd still be alive."

The realization in his little eyes was stunning. Without question he took what I said at face value. I decided to give him another out of pleasure.

"What will your mother think?"

Shame. Guilt. Throughout his few months he was coddled and protected. These new feelings violated that sanctuary of comfort that he once enjoyed.

Broken. Damaged.

"What am I going to do?" He sniffled.

"Run away, Simba."

He looked at his father in a last and desperate attempt for reassurance.

"Run. Run away and never return."

That day the sun set on my brother's reign. That night, it was the dawn of a new era.