IT LIKES TO THINK ITSELF AN EQUAL TO THE QUEEN, even when spewing white lies and half - truths, when it lies on the mossy ground, still as a corpse, no breathing from its borrowed lungs ( but they aren’t there anymore, are they? but soup in its chest ). it likes to believe it is ALLOWED in the circle of the faeries for they are, after all, not that different ( where life led them in their pursuit of mischief, death led it in its pursuit of yearning for something more ).
“ what do you mean? ” it asks and crosses its arms like a child about to throw a tantrum, a feeling of unfairness in the air around it, “ what do you mean i’m not welcome here? ”
yet behind the biting tone there’s teasing, like it knows why, and that it’s only playing it up because it’s bored — a petty reason, perhaps, but it had NEVER really played by the rules before.