Butterfly Reign

12. Each time I share, you just forget that i'm stuck in this forever and a day

“Please-” Ranboo begs, but his mind is empty – he doesn’t know who he’s talking to or why, only that it hurts and that his begging might stop it from hurting even more. There are hot tears streaming down his face that he only feels because his hands are clasped over his eyes, nails digging painfully into his scalp.

There is a whistle of something raised quickly, and the next thing Ranboo knows, there’s a loud crack in his ribs.

He wakes up choking on his own scream and flinging himself off the bed. The pain of the fall doesn’t register. All Ranboo can feel is the flaring agony in his chest. He tries to stand up, but blankets get tangled around his legs – his breath stutters and he scrambles backwards until his back is pressed into the bedframe.

Ranboo frantically jerks his shirt up. He searches his ribs – the one that’s broken, the one that’s killing him – but all he finds is smooth, healthy skin. No swelling, no splash of bruises ranging from plum-purple to ugly yellow, no blood dripping from the shards of glass stuck in his abdomen. The scars are here, still; a map of life that Ranboo doesn’t remember – but the freshest of them are marked with a period of three-four months.

A sigh of relief echoes across the room. Ranboo massages his chest, taking in a few more deep breaths, every new one less shaky than the previous, until the phantom pain disappears completely. Little by little, the sickening-bright images in his head creep back into their den, and his mind gets clear enough to register that he’s still in his room, inside the Imperial palace.

Ranboo remembers feeling exhausted yesterday. Despite Tubbo’s insisting on helping him get dressed into a nightgown, he went to bed with the same clothes from the ball. Fancy button-up shirt that was picked out for him by his friend turned into a crumpled, battered mess. Ranboo would be glad to get rid of it now, but a glance at the window and the sun just barely tilting over the horizon confirm that it’s too early for Tubbo to show up yet.

Ranboo stands up on his unsteady feet. The leather journal on the bedstand stares at him tauntingly. None of Ranboo’s memories are pleasant, but this is one of the few that he really debates not writing down at all. Phil always insists he does, though, so he flips the cover open with a quivering hand.

Paper rustles as he skips to the latest record. “Sibling?” is written in bold letters and underlined multiple times at the top of a yellowish page. Before Ranboo can reach for the quill, a knock on the door forces him to walk up to it and peek out tenderly with one eye.

There’s a woman waiting in the corridors. She seems vaguely familiar, but Ranboo can’t quite put his finger down on where they met, until she says, “Her Majesty has sent me to invite you for breakfast,” and he remembers that the woman is one of Niki’s ladies-in-waiting.

Ranboo considers declining the invitation. He really doesn’t feel like talking to people right now. The remains of the nightmare still cling to him, cold fingers grasping his throat. The lady seems impatient, tapping her foot on the floor, and Ranboo feels dread churning his insides at the thought of angering someone. The broken rib long since healed throbs dully.

“You can’t just simply say no to a noble of a higher rank”, he remembers Tubbo saying, “And especially not to royals. A lot of those barons and marquises would give anything to be in your place and get that closely acquainted with several monarchs.”

Niki has been really nice to Ranboo last evening, shielded him from the rude gossip and undeserved insults. As glad as he was to get away from the dense crowd and join the queen at a table with delicious pastries, he felt bad for taking up her time. Ranboo owed Niki, even if she insisted otherwise, so with a crooked smile, he mutters, “I’ll be ready in a minute.”