The world feels peeled open, raw, as the lion blinks against the brightness. The sun pricks his naked skin, its sting mingling with the ache of rope and the slow sizzle of honey caramelizing. He remembers the cool shade of acacia trees, the brush of wind through his mane—now absent, replaced by the rough scrape of exposed flesh against steel. The scent is sweet and grotesque, a mocking perfume of his impending end.
Zebra One dips the brush, honey dripping in lazy arcs. Zebra Two arranges utensils, the clang of metal jarring against the lion’s thundering heart. In their voices, there is no fear—only the comfort of routine. The lion watches, mind reeling at the inversion: predator rendered helpless, prey emboldened. He wonders if this is how the gazelles felt, minutes before the chase.
"You think he's tender enough yet? I swear, the honey really brings out the flavor,"
"Let it caramelize a bit more. They say lion's best when the skin crisps,"
The lion closes his eyes, letting their conversation wash over him. He cannot fight, cannot roar. There is irony in their cheerfulness—a surreal reversal that gnaws at his pride. He recalls every hunt, every moment he wielded fear like a weapon. Now, fear is his only companion.
Memory unfurls: the taste of blood, the thrill of pursuit, the chorus of his pride echoing across the plains. He wonders if his old strength lingers somewhere inside, or if it has melted away with his fur and dignity. The zebras hum as they work, their calm a sharp contrast to his trembling resolve. He feels the slow erasure of his former self—a king dethroned, transformed into a feast.
The lion no longer struggles. Instead, he contemplates the cycle—predator and prey, power and powerlessness. He understands, at last, the fragile thread that binds all living things. The zebras slice a small piece, taste it, nod with satisfaction. He feels a strange peace, the agony ebbing into resignation.
His mind floats above the pain, to a moment untouched by violence or hunger. The world blurs, and the lion lets go—a king, humbled and transformed, carried away on memory’s gentle tide, as the zebras begin their meal beneath the indifferent sky.
