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The hard cement cuts into my knees. The pain is a welcome reprieve from the fog of my mind. It reminds me I'm real.
I haven’t left this position in hours, and my voice is weak from the lack of food and water.
“The second I get out of here. That’s a... promise.”
The threat is pathetic, even to my ears, and I wish for my magic.
“Do you hear me?” I muster as much strength as possible and yell at the top of my lungs. “What do you want from me?”
There’s no response.
The only reason I know someone is here is because I can see one of them from my position near the door of my cell. Sometimes they don’t close the door after my feedings. Not anymore. I'm so weak, I cannot move.
“It’s cowardly to keep me trapped here, drugged and in irons. Come and fight me like a real male!” I slur.
Nothing.
They don’t listen to me. They don’t even acknowledge my words. Gods, they treat me like the rats that infest this hell hole.
This is some sort of punishment only Fortuna could dream up. If I were to see the tapestry of my life, I imagine this stretch of fabric would be grey, dotted with the bright pink of rat eyes.
The bastard’s back is to me, and he’s watching a news channel on his FaePhone. He is shoveling donuts into his mouth, and I groan. Sprinkles are falling all over the floor as he eats.
Slob.
What I wouldn’t give for something like that instead of the bread and questionable stews they keep giving me. On the good days, they toss me a piece of rotting fruit.
There aren't many of those.
I inch closer to the door opening, straining my ears. The volume is so low that I can only hear snippets of what’s being said.
“...riots every day... death... contracts... no news... money...”
The only thing that still sometimes works properly is my brain. Today, I’m feeling remarkably lucid.
The newscaster drones on and on, but honestly, everything she says sounds the same as it always has. I’ve been alive for a long time, and I’ve come to two conclusions.
One, Aranthium is a messed up place to live.
Two, some beings are just evil.
You get rid of one, and two more pop up in their place.
Maybe they’re born bad, but I know evil can be shaped. You can take a good being and pour enough anger, enough bitterness, enough sadness into them so they become the thing they hate.
I should know.
I’m not a good Fae.
Maybe I was when I was first born, but being a youngling in the Winter Court taught me that feelings are dangerous and caring is for the weak. I was raised to believe I was better than the other Fae in our court because I had more power.
Getting close to anyone meant they could be a danger to my birthright, so my mother made me push everyone aside. Her fear of emotions meant I grew up alone, with only myself for company.
When my father died, I cried for the last time in my entire life. Tears are a weakness. One that I can't afford.
My friendship with Helena was my first revolt against my mother’s icy grip, but it wasn’t my last.
Every time I look down at my tattooed hands, I’m reminded of every time I pushed back against her. Usually, that’s enough.
