The Sinuous Bargain of a Cowardly Prince (book one, The Shadowed Throne Chronicles)
Chapter Twenty - Ramiel

A/N: This chapter contains self-degrading thoughts regarding blindness which may be triggering to some readers.

It might just be my paranoia, but my bed sheets feel rougher than I remember—it’s as though someone has stolen the silk and replaced them with rough polyester. And there are other things I’ve noticed in my blindness so far: my bath last night was always at an inconsistent temperature. Too hot, then too cold. My chambermaids were probably unhappy when the were forced to fetch a new bucket of steaming water each time I complained. But it wasn’t my fault nothing felt right! It’s also difficult to determine who enters my chambers when the door opens unless a magical energy of some kind accompanies them. Not that many have visited me in the span of one night, but this is something I’ve already picked up on.

Will I be stuck this way forever? Living in a world of darkness?

I reach across my chest and massage my left biceps with my thumb. The muscle is still how I remember it, not any bigger than my right arm’s. But the fizzling of energy that constantly tickles its way to my fingertips is hardly familiar. It’s like a monster’s arm has replaced my normal human one, and the fusion is not yet seamless.

Ether mentioned dark magic. I’ve pondered what makes such magic inherently “dark,” and concluded it must have to do with something evil. It certainly doesn’t feel negative, though. Powerful, yes, negative, no. Power cannot always equate evil, can it?

I drop my arm and twist under the covers, replaceing a new spot of cold to conquer. The heat that swells in the early morning hours will come soon, and I want to savor the refreshing icy silk. Since I was little, the wintry sheets have done well to calm my sadness. They offer that same comfort now to a nineteen-year-old prince who is still the little boy he was when his mother passed away: alone, hopeless, and weak.

A polite knock sounds on the door of my chambers. It’s the one knock I’m able to tell apart from the rest—there’s a little scraping sound that accompanies it: Bernadette’s calloused knuckles kissing the wood. She’s always been very careful with my boundaries, though she’s perhaps the closest anyone has come to replacing my mother.

“Rami, your breakfast is ready for you in the dining room. How are you feeling?” Her voice is a little muffled behind the grand wooden door, but I almost feel like I hear her clearer now that I’ve lost my sight. But that could just be my brain trying to convince me that being sightless isn’t all bad.

The sheets are suddenly warm beneath me, and I tear them from my body to sit up. With a deep breath in, I stretch my arms to the ceiling. Warm air rushes around me, as though it has been waiting to cling to my arms in hot and wet sheets of humidity. When I bring my arms down, the cold, tacky sweat sticks under my armpits. It must be an especially muggy day.

“I’ve been better, but I’m not dead at least,” I say mid-yawn. Bernadette makes a small noise from behind the door. I’m not sure if it’s a sniffle or a note of surprise, but she’s gone too soon for me to ask her about it.

The thought has never occurred to me how much effort must go into caring for the blind and bereft. Bernadette has been my sole caretaker since my mother died, but I’ve been a pretty easy child, if I may be so bold to think that.

Is she really willing to care for me now that I can’t see anything? Surely I’m much more a chore than a joy to have around, if I was ever even a joy to begin with.

I roll my tongue over my bottom row of teeth and allow my thoughts to seethe about the hopelessness of my situation. How can I possibly defeat a mighty beast blind? Will the kingdom accept a sightless crown prince? An unseeing future king? Will I be cast aside, thrown into peasanthood? It would be easy, considering no one knows of my existence... No one would notice my absence, would they?

The sound of the door scraping along the ground pulls me from these thoughts. It can’t be Bernadette, because she’d surely knock, and the entrant also has a faint, slightly off-beat magical energy surrounding them. It makes no sound, but its presence is unmistakable—an existence demanding recognition.

I also notice it’s the same one that accompanied the familiar voice speaking with my father yesterday.

It’s Ronan. The magical energy blipping around him must be the pills he carries with him.

“I’m here to help you get dressed,” he says, voice tight. I can’t tell if he’s holding back pity, or if he’s shocked to see me. Maybe it’s neither, or both. Does it really matter?

Sighing, I hold my arms out and feel the air for his hands. He’s quick to understand my request, grabbing my wrists to help me up. The cold stone flooring is rather relieving on my bare feet; has it always been this cold?

“Ether insists you train today. But are you ready for that?” he asks, moving away from me to grab clothing from the wardrobe along the wall.

When his hands leave mine, I combat the feeling of abandonment that reigns over my emotions with the knowledge that he’s not leaving me alone to fend for myself.

It’s ridiculous how lost I feel. Had my life been less pathetic, maybe I’d deserve to feel this crummy about my situation. To think that becoming blind actually makes my life more interesting is just... depressing. I’m disgusted with my burdensome existence.

Ronan returns to me, a hand gently touching my back to direct me. I turn at his slight presses, making my arms and legs loose as he helps me with my shirt, pants, socks, and boots. His little perfectionistic pats over my collarbone and down my arms tell me he’s trying to boost my confidence. Unfortunately, my appearance is the least of my worries, but I still appreciate his kindness.

I reach for him, then pull him into a hug. He stiffens in my embrace, then relaxes his shoulders and lifts his arms to pat my back. He’s just as unfamiliar with this gesture as I am.

“Curse those mages,” he whispers harshly, his voice breaking as he pulls away. “They had no business using that filthy magic on you.”

I sense the swirling energy move back a few feet. It’s a strange feeling—though I cannot see him, I feel a strange pull in his direction, like I’m drawn to the energy of his magical pills. I can tell exactly where he is without seeing him. Does my blindness amplify this awareness?

“Speaking of magic,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Ether mentioned something about my ability to sense it. She was telling the truth; I can even sense some on you—the pills, I presume. When you served my brother, did you notice if he ever used magic in a similar way?”

There’s a slow pause. Perhaps he’s thinking about how to answer, or maybe the topic of Xavelor is still too difficult to discuss. Then, Ronan’s hand grips my shoulder. I twitch at his sudden warm touch. I’ll need to get used to that, or maybe decree that any and all interactions with me must first be introduced verbally. How pitiful and hilarious would that be? Rami, I’m going to hold your hand now. Ramiel, I’m going to slap you. I cringe inwardly at my inconveniencing suggestion.

“Xavelor used dark magic of his own volition, and he was aware of the price he’d have to pay. I was there to help him with each use took a toll on him. You’re different, Your Highness. You aren’t using that tainted energy,” Ronan answers. He takes a deep breath, then sighs as though what he says next is painful to voice. “Xavelor was a skilled swordsman and excelled at using magic, but he couldn’t sense energy, and he wasn’t diplomatic. In his world, it was killed or be killed. There was no alternative.”

I stay quiet for a moment, honestly unsure of how to respond. Xavelor’s death clearly bothers Ronan. A part of me regrets accepting him as my aid based on my brother’s wishes alone. Does Ronan truly want to serve me? Even now, when I’m unable to move without stumbling over my every step?

Ronan coughs. “I’m sorry to change the subject, Sire, but there is something you should probably know, as it pertains to your personal boundaries and interest as a member of the royal court.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, prompting him to continue. I’m also thankful he’s moving the conversation along.

“After you were bitten, Ether transferred the klopse’s magical core into you. That’s what kept you breathing until the mages intervened,” he explained. There’s a lick of amusement in his tone, contrasting his rigidness from before. “Do you know how a magical core is transferred?”

I shake my head, and then before I can process what happens, two fingers pop against my mouth, almost making me lose my balance. A fire grows in my chest and my eyebrows poise themselves high in alarm.

“She did that,” he snickers, “but with her lips."

“She—” I reach to my mouth, slowly, and touch my lips. My jaw is trembling. “She didn’t,” I say against my fingers. She... kissed me?

“Not with that intent, no,” Ronan chuckles, and I kind of want to slap him. No one has ever desired my kiss—everyone has always pined after Xavelor, the famed “handsome warrior.” And they weren’t wrong to want him: he had been dashing from a young age.

My hand drops to my side and my arms fleck with sweat underneath their sleeves. “Right, of course not,” I say shakily. Ether is beautiful—ethereal—like her name. But we hardly know each other. Of course she wouldn’t kiss me like that!

A thought creeps to mind, and a cruel one at that: I have an advantage over my dead brother. The elf has kissed me, not him. The feeling is gross, yet it fills me with triumph.

Ronan nudges me with an elbow. “That’s all I wanted to say. The elf certainly wouldn’t have admitted it. Now, if you would, please take my arm and we can meet your master for breakfast.”

My heart flops to my stomach, then grows wings and flies to my throat. We’re going to see her now, whether I’m ready to or not. That kiss may not have meant anything her, and I may not even remember it, but...

I place a hand on his arm and Ronan covers it with his other hand. “There’s nothing to worry about, Ramiel. Ether knows her boundaries. She did what she had to in the moment to save y—” His voice cuts off with a gag, as though something is stuck in his throat.

“Are you alright?” I lift my arm from him, unsure if I’ll need to help dislodge whatever is causing his coughing fit.

“Yes, fine,” he grumbles through his gagging. Finally, he clears his throat. “Sire, pardon my manners, but do you replace that elf... endearing?”

My face goes hot. Perhaps its color has changed, too.

“Nevermind, please don’t answer that. I might be sick,” he says, choking on his words.

Perhaps the talk of kissing has grossed him out. He really is quite childish, just like I remember him from our younger days. It’s relieving to know at least some things remain the same even after much time has passed.

He nudges me with his arm again and I take it.

“Forget I said anything,” he says. “Just have a good breakfast and try not to think too much.”