Sharp pain erupted in Simba's head, a searing, electric jolt that pierced through the thick fog of unconsciousness. He gasped, but no air filled his lungs; his breath was stolen, locked somewhere beyond his reach. Darkness surrounded him, impenetrable and suffocating. It was not the comforting dark of a night sky scattered with stars, but an oppressive void that swallowed light and sound alike. Panic clawed at him as he blinked, desperate to orient himself, but the space around him offered no answers.
A memory came rushing in, unbidden and cruel. He was no longer floating in darkness but standing in the canyon. The walls of the gorge loomed high and menacing, jagged like the teeth of a predator. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of dust and fear, and the ground trembled beneath his paws. He remembered this place. The stampede.
The sharp roar of wildebeest echoed through the canyon, their pounding hooves a thunderous wave of chaos. Mufasa's voice rang out, clear and commanding amidst the cacophony: "Run, Simba! Run!"
Simba's heart raced as he relived it. His paws scrambled against the ground, slipping on loose stones as he tried to climb to safety. He reached the ledge, his claws sinking into the brittle earth, but the sight above him froze his blood. There was Scar, his uncle, looming like a shadow against the sky. His face was twisted in cruel satisfaction as he reached down, his claws sinking into Mufasa's paws. The great lion's muscles strained as he clung to the edge, his gaze filled with desperation.
"Scar, brother, help me!" Mufasa's voice, full of strength and fear, thundered through Simba's mind.
Scar's smile was a dagger. His words, sharp and venomous, carved themselves into Simba's memory: "Long live the king."
Simba cried out as he watched Scar release his father, his paws letting go with deliberate malice. Time slowed, the scene unfolding with cruel precision. Mufasa fell, his body twisting in the air, his eyes wide with betrayal and sorrow. Simba's small voice screamed, "No!" but it was drowned out by the deafening roar of the stampede.
Simba's limbs twitched as if trying to reach out, to change what had already happened, but he was powerless. The memory played on, vivid and unrelenting. He watched as Mufasa's body disappeared into the churning sea of wildebeest, the dust rising like smoke from a fire. Tears burned his eyes, his chest tightening until it felt as though he could never breathe again.
The pain in his head lessened, fading into a dull throb, but his heart ached with a sharper, deeper agony. He stumbled forward in the void, the canyon dissolving into darkness. His paws found no purchase, and he fell, his body suspended as though gravity itself had abandoned him. Yet, through the black, a golden light began to emerge.
It was faint at first, a flicker in the abyss. Slowly, it grew, its warmth piercing through the cold void. Simba squinted, his heart lifting with tentative hope. The light formed into a shape, its edges soft and glowing. He recognized it instantly—Mufasa.
The great lion stood tall, his mane a cascade of fiery gold, his eyes gentle but somber. Simba's breath hitched as he reached out, his paw trembling. "Father?" he whispered, his voice cracking with disbelief and longing.
Mufasa did not move, his form ethereal and distant. Simba's paw brushed against his father's outstretched one, but it passed through, the golden light rippling like water. Desperation seized him as he tried again, his claws swiping through empty air.
"No, no, please," Simba choked, his voice rising in pitch. His body trembled as he pushed forward, his paws flailing as if to anchor himself to the fading figure. "Don't leave me again!"
But Mufasa began to fall. His majestic form tilted backward, his paws slipping away as though pulled by an invisible force. Simba's heart screamed in protest as he lunged, his claws extended to catch what he could not hold. The golden light faded, swallowed by the darkness, and Simba's cry echoed into the void.
"Father!"
His legs buckled beneath him, his body crumpling to the unseen ground. Tears streaked his face, and he buried his head in his paws, his sobs wracking his frame. The ache in his chest grew unbearable, a deep chasm of loss that threatened to consume him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the emptiness, his voice broken. "I'm so sorry."
The void remained silent, indifferent to his anguish. Time lost meaning as Simba wept, his mind awash with memories of his father. The strength of Mufasa's presence, his unwavering guidance, the warmth of his love. All of it was gone, leaving Simba adrift in the cold emptiness.
A flicker of movement caught his eye, and his head snapped up. The darkness shifted, forming a shape—a shadow that twisted and loomed. Scar.
The sight of his uncle ignited a fire in Simba's chest. Anger replaced despair, his claws digging into the unseen ground as he tried to stand. Scar's silhouette grew sharper, his smirk as wicked as ever. Simba growled, low and guttural, his muscles tensing as he prepared to pounce.
But his body refused to move. His legs remained rooted, his strength drained. Panic flared as he struggled, his growls turning to frustrated roars. Scar's laughter echoed around him, cruel and mocking, reverberating through the void.
"You've always been weak, Simba," Scar's voice sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "Just like your father."
Simba roared again, his voice raw and fierce. He strained against the invisible chains that held him, his claws raking through the emptiness. But Scar's form dissolved, leaving only his laughter, which faded into silence.
The fire in Simba's chest dimmed, replaced by a cold numbness. His body grew lighter, the pain ebbing away until it was a distant memory. A strange calm settled over him, and he felt himself begin to rise, his soul drifting upward. The darkness thinned, replaced by a soft, radiant glow. The heavens seemed to beckon, their warmth and peace enveloping him. For a fleeting moment, Simba felt weightless, free of pain, free of sorrow.
But then he heard it.
His heart beat, faint but persistent, a steady rhythm that grew louder. It thudded in his chest, syncing with voices that called out to him, faint at first but growing stronger.
"Simba!"
He recognized them. Sarabi, her voice firm yet trembling with fear. Nala, her cries raw and desperate. Sarafina, a tone of pleading he had never heard from her before. The voices overlapped, creating a symphony of anguish and hope. They tethered him, pulling him back from the brink of the heavens. The glow dimmed, replaced by the earthy scents of life, of home.
The Pride Lands needed him.
His family needed him.
Simba's heart surged, the beat strong and insistent. The void trembled as light began to seep in, warm and golden. He closed his eyes, the voices anchoring him to the world he had nearly left behind. Slowly, painfully, he began to fall—not into the void, but back toward life.