Yellow knows it’s the truth when Arthur tells him he was a god. He can feel it, even if he can’t remember.
In the same breath, he knows he hates this arrogant, condescending little mortal.
Naming him Yellow. As if they don’t both know his proper title should be King.
It’s dizzying—horrifying—to know, to half-remember what he was, and so to understand how far he’s fallen. To be trapped in this soft, vulnerable, disgusting flesh, soul to soul with this warped, pathetic little creature that’s been eaten alive by bitterness.
Dizzying, and lonely.
He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know why he should even recognize what that is, let alone feel any pang of rejection when Arthur dismisses his awe at the beauty of the woods. Why it should bother him to find out Arthur lied to him, tricked him. He should be above such things, he thinks, especially from repellent little mortals.
He hates Arthur all the more for making him feel it.