The Mist and the Lightning. Part 15

“Hello, Vitor,” said Nikto and his voice was calm and cheerful.

“Glad to see you, my Demon,” Kors replied, kneeling down.

“Hey, get up, come on without ceremony,” Nikto smiled, “I love you as a noble master who made me first a slave, and then his lover and his thing.”

Kors only smiled bitterly, he no longer believed Nikto. And yet, when he knelt on these black floor slabs, he was almost on a level with Arel and involuntarily noticed that his lower lip was strangely pushed forward.

“Make yourself comfortable, Vitor, make yourself at home, sit down at the table, pour yourself some wine, if you want – smoke,” said Nikto, getting off the bed and going up to him. It was unusual for Kors to see him so, not crippled, not lame, but because of his thinness, even somehow graceful, like a weasel. And still, despite the fact that Nikto was in good spirits, Kors involuntarily shook as Nikto approached him.

“Vitor, what’s the matter? Why are you so afraid of me?” Nikto asked, even somehow a little surprised.

“What about Arel?” Kors tried to avoid answering.

“Eh?” Nikto turned to the prince, “Arel, raise your face!” he ordered, and Arel immediately followed the order.

Kors saw that something big and thick had been threaded into his lower lip – a bottle cork!

“What is it?!”

Nikto laughed:

“I made a small cut and stuffed a cork into it. It suits him, right?”

“But why?” Kors was shocked, and Arel with a protruding lower lip didn’t look good at all.

“The unclean do this, they insert a cork into the lips of inveterate drunkards as punishment. It's funny, and it's immediately clear who is in front of you.”

“But you yourself allow him to drink, give him wine!”

“Well, what remains for me if he cannot live without it? I did it to him just like that, for nothing.”

Kors looked at Arel. With a ring in his nose, a hole in his cheek and now with a disfigured mouth, he looked really bad. Arel's eyes were not overshadowed, but he didn’t raise them and did not look at Kors.

“You know, Vitor, why I called you?”

“No,” and now Kors was really scared.

“I'll decorate you now,” said Nikto, and Kors shrank inwardly.

“Your dye is almost erased, I'll paint you again, better. Get out your jewelry,” Nikto took out a box with jars in which there was paint, “I will make it more beautiful, with shadows. You will see how good it will be for you.”

“Who cares, nothing’s going well with the dye,” said Kors grimly. “This is a shameful make-up, no matter how beautiful it is.”

He didn’t dare to disobey and twisted three thorns from under his lower lip.

“Don't move, you will get used to yourself like that.”

“I won't get used to it.”

“So what? When we return, will you go to Zagpeace, will you ask to cancel the punishment? Will you repent, crawling on your knees at his feet? Will you disown me? Will you disown the shameful connection with a filthy half-blood?”

“No. How could you think that?!”

“I caught your thoughts.”

“It was just a momentary weakness, I cannot control my every impulse. But I won't do that.”

“But you suffer no worse than your slave Adrian, he is also sad that he has become a slave, and every minute he reproaches himself for his cowardice”

“Don't compare me and a slave!”

“Yes, you're right, Adrian doesn’t hope for forgiveness, but you do.”

“I don’t hope for anything either, Demon who hides his true name and only pretends to be a pathetic half-blood.”

Nikto chuckled:

“You tried to read Zagpeace’s thoughts, what he thinks, but you failed.”

“It didn't work,” agreed Kors, “probably because he is not connected with you. And I can only “hear” those who belong to you.”

Nikto just smiled slightly and dipped the brush in gray dye. Not a single thought in his head contained even a hint of his conversation with Peace, and Kors didn’t “hear” or know anything. He couldn’t even imagine that Nikto and Peace had agreed on something.

Nikto painted Kors’ face with all the diligence, as he could, beautifully shading the cheekbones and making the facial features more expressive. Kors looked at himself in the mirror.

Nikto really emphasized his beauty, made him “mysterious”, but Kors was not at all happy about it, because he hoped so much that when the dye disappeared from his face, he would not have to apply it anymore. He hoped that Peace and his former comrades-in-arms would not find fault with him, and that his rash offense would be forgotten.

“I'll replace your jewelry,” Nikto said, appraisingly examining his work.

Kors was depressed and silent.

Nikto inserted a complex decoration into his punctures. The silver peaks in it were much longer and more massive than the previous ones. The central one bifurcated at the base, and its upper part was like a sharp spike, and the lower arc descended downward and, like a hook, clasped his chin.

Now, when Kors lowered his gaze, he could easily see them, and the hook, digging into his chin, prevented him.

“Gods,” he whispered, “for what?”

Nikto heard him:

“I'm not punishing you, it's beautiful.”

“They bother me.”

“Well, not as much as Arel’s cork, you will get used to it.”

“Now I have to wear a mask in the Fort.”

“Go to Arel!”

Kors looked at his tormentor in confusion.

“Come on, go! Sit next to him!”

And when Kors hastily got up from his chair, walked over to Arel and knelt beside him, Nikto said:

“Kiss!”

But neither Kors nor Arel could do this because of their “jewelry”. Kors only rested his spikes on Arel's lip, and Arel couldn’t move his mouth at all. Kors saw now how the round top of the cork rested on his lower teeth and Arel couldn’t properly close his mouth and from this the upper lip is deformed too.

Realizing that they couldn’t kiss each other, Nikto smiled smugly, and Kors, looking at him, saw with what a mischievous and triumphant shine his eyes burned, like transparent glass.

“Take off your clothes and go to the bed,” Nikto ordered him.

Nikto gathered them all in the living room again:

“I will leave for a while, literally for a couple of days,” he anticipated the question, ready to break from the lips of Lis, having understood everything by the expression on his face. “Relax, don’t be bored. I will come and we will return to the Fort.”

Lis turned away in frustration.

And Nikto left them.

“I can no longer sit here, as in a cage,” said Lis, “it's unbearable!”

“Well, what can we do?” Remarked Kors. He carefully and with some anxiety watched Lis, trying to determine what he thought about his painted face and the pikes sticking out from under his lips. And waiting for his reaction. Would Lis say some humiliating joke, would he make fun or just rudely insult him? After all, Lis himself was in perfect order. Kors was very offended that the Demon had ennobled Lis’ appearance, and, on the contrary, had lowered his one.

But Lis it seemed, was not going to do this, as if not noticing neither the changed appearance of Kors, nor the cork in Arel’s protruding lip. Did he care? Or was he used to the Demon’s amusements? In any case, he didn’t bother Kors in any way, with a gloomy look he sat down at the table in his place next to Karina, who was still wearing a cape.

“I can't stand this inaction any longer,” he said.

“Alis, you are here not for the first time, tell me, how these holiday at the Demon are conducted? You’ve probably already been to a similar event? Maybe you remember something?” Kors asked cautiously. The thought of what was happening to them on the “holiday”, as Nikto put it, also haunted Kors, and seeing that Lis didn’t not seem to intend to offend him and was behaving adequately, Kors decided to ask.

“Yes, I’ve been,” answered Lis quite calmly and lit a cigarette as usual.

“And what happens there?”

“He erases memory.”

“It’s a pity,” said Kors, upset.

“But I remembered a little last time, and I can roughly imagine how everything happens.”

“How?!”

“He’s got a big throne room down there, huge. He sits on the throne, next to his unclean bitch. They are like a king with a queen. And the unclean and all sorts of beings from other worlds come to him, bow down. He is not very simple, our Demon, and he is respected. When I first saw this, I was amazed. I was kneeling beside his throne. He simply puts or places his slaves next to him. I'm sure he put us in the same order as the fingers of a fist: me, Karina, you, Arel, and showed everyone.”

“You're right! I had some similar memories, everything is so… I very vaguely remember… I remember the presence, Karina is near, but I don't remember Arel, although I have to stand between them.”

“Last time he sat Arel at his feet right next to the throne. And I was on the side of the throne.”

“What else do you remember?”

“Nothing good, Kors. Then they have fun in another large room, everything is in carpets and pillows. They are having an orgy. They fuck their slaves and swap them. Or they force slaves to fuck each other for the amusement of others. They could do whatever they wanted with us.”

“But they could not have done? The demon said that he would not give us to anyone.”

“Then why did he erase our memory?”

“He explained, because of creatures too alien for us.”

“Soothe yourself with this, yes…”

“I admit that we were on our knees at his throne, and he boasted of us, as he always does, but the fact that he gave us to be torn apart by his spider-like unclean – no!”

“Kors, don't be a naive idiot, eh?”

“Alis… but why are you starting again?! Is it possible to talk to you normally for more than five minutes?”

“If you don't like it, don't talk!”

“I am tired of your arrogant tone and insults!”

“I don’t give a fuck what you are tired of.”

“I don’t intend to endure your rudeness any longer!”

“Yes, you endured in life, Kors,” the Lis laughed, “he does not intend to endure, look.”

“Alis… I warn you one last time, change your tone, otherwise I will not answer for myself!”

Lis put out his cigarette and looked defiantly at Kors with his yellow eyes:

“And what will you do to me? Well?”

“The demon only tried in vain, ennobled your disgraceful appearance, inside you remained the same uneducated red-haired half-blood!”

“And you are still haunted by my appearance. You don't think I notice how with a disgruntled face you always look at me. Are you jealous?”

“Pf… what am I jealous of? Your peasant roots?”

“Or do you like me now? Do you want to suck on my peasant root?”

Kors’ hands involuntarily clenched into fists, but he restrained himself and, turning away with a contemptuous look, went to the exit from the living room.

“It's all? And where are you going, old fuck?”

“Well, that's enough for me!” And, before reaching the door, Kors turned sharply and rushed at Lis, who seemed to be just waiting for this. They clashed fiercely, and Kors was no longer the noble black who had been struck by the poke of a half-blood commoner. He was embittered by previous humiliations and now made it clear that he also knew how to defend himself and fight for his place under the sun. He – Vitor Kors – was a true black, despite the nobility and spoiledness from a prosperous, calm life, he was still not a weakling and not a rag about which anyone with brute force would wipe their feet. Throwing away all his good manners and no longer thinking about them, he beat with all his might and was in no way inferior to Lis. They rolled on the floor, grappling like two animals, like two commoners from the filthy pub in the Lower City. Kors was taller and stronger physically, because initially he grew up and lived in more favorable conditions, and Lis was still weakened and didn’t fully recover after being healed. Moreover, Kors rejected all the rules and decency, letting go of his nature, which had long demanded an exit and from the inability to respond to the Demon's humiliation only accumulated, now reaching a boiling point and exploding. Karina realized with horror that her father was killing her Lis, and he couldn’t do anything, obviously underestimating the enemy. But she didn't know how to intervene. Kors threw Lis away so that he crashed into a wall with shelves, knocking them down, and old books and bottles of some kind of potions and dye rained down on him. They smashed against the stone floor with a clang, splattering Lis with specks of paint. A massive brass candlestick was the result of their fight, falling down from above and hitting Lis right on the top of the head, so that Lis lost consciousness.

Karina, screaming, rushed to her beloved:

“Father, stop it!” she cried, falling to the floor near her Lis and lifting his head, peering into the whitened face and trying to see through the dense fabric hoe he felt.

Kors moved away, straightening his hair, his chest was shaking, he was breathing heavily and he was shivering.

“Lis?! Lis!” Karina called, but Lis didn’t move, his face was deathly pale, a thick dark-burgundy trickle of blood flowed from under the roots of his hair onto his forehead.

Karina turned to her father:

“What have you done?! You killed him!”

Kors himself seemed frightened when he saw such unusually motionless Lis, but he stirred with a groan and opened his eyes.

“He has nine lives,” Kors said as he walked up to them and abruptly lifted the upper part of Karina’s cape to reveal his face.

There were tears in her eyes full of reproach:

“You crippled him!”

Lis raised himself awkwardly, leaning his back on the smashed closet, looked with a slightly dull look at the candlestick lying next to him, and, slightly bending his head, put his hand on which drops of blood fell. He unconsciously put his hand on the top of his head smashed by the candelabrum. He looked up at Kors, trying to understand what had happened now and why this noble weakling had managed to beat him.

“Lis, honey, how are you?” sobbed Karina.

Lis looked at her, then back at Kors.

“Don't you dare touch her,” he said quietly, but still defiantly, “she is no longer yours!”

Kors looked at them with contempt.

“I just wanted to make sure her face wasn't broken again. But now! Go both to hell! Do what you want!” He turned away, walking away from them to the table.

"Do you think I'll leave it to you like that?" Lis tried to get up, he was shaking, the blood was already flowing in a stream, pouring over his face and dripping onto the floor.

“Gods, we must call at least Verniy! Verniy! Verniy!” Began to call Karina, Lis looked at her so that she, catching his gaze, froze and hastily covered her head and face with a cape.

Lis, limping and crunching the fragments of the bottles with his boots, hobbled to the table, on the way he came across Arel, who was indifferently sitting near the chair of Nikto.

“Go away from here!” Lis snapped, but Arel didn’t move.

“Oh, you, another noble creature!” Lis growled and, from where the strength only came, grabbed Arel by the hair and poked his face on the floor, dunked it directly into the black puddle of the spilled dye. Arel clearly didn’t expect this, and Lis, not sparing his hand, dipped it in paint and roughly pushed Arel across the face. Arel tried to push him away with his hands, the skin on his face turned black, the dye hit his eyes, making him hiss in pain.

“What are you doing?!” Kors threw away the glass of wine, which he calmed down, and again rushed to Lis, pulling away from Arel:

“You’ll burn out his eyes, you idiot!”

“Nothing will happen to him,” snapped Lis, he looked at his now black hand and walked away.

Kors jumped to Arel, removing his hands from the black face, the whites of the prince’s eyes also turned black.

“Everything is correct, it serves him right!” Said Lis. “This is your true face, Kors! It smells of both of you so much that you will live forever with soot on your face! Noble blacks!”

“Your head is out of order, Alis! You are dangerous to society!”

“Get away from me and Karina!”

Verniy ran into the living room, he saw bloodied Lis and said with emotion:

“Sit on a chair, quickly, I'll take a look.”

Kors pulled Arel’s forearm:

“Let's go from here, prince, we have nothing to do among half-bloods and dregs.”

And Lis followed them with a long, hard look.

Chapter three

Kors brought Arel to his room and sat him on the bed. Arel was silent, he lowered his head and covered his stained face with his palms, on which there was paint as well. Kors felt his pain, the way the dye was now stinging in his eyes, like soap had gotten into them. These sensations were so vivid that tear began flowing from Kors’s eyes involuntarily. He was surprised that Arel didn’t twitch, didn’t rub his eyes and didn’t ask for anything. Kors rushed to his bag, where the first-aid kit lay, found an anesthetic and moistened several pieces of gauze with it, having previously cut it with a knife, making something like tampons. He put them to the prince’s eyes, gluing them on top with wide strips of black plaster, feeling how the pain in Arel's eyes passed, releasing him.

Kors gently ran his hands over his head.

“You will feel better now. The burning sensation will pass.”

Kors sat down on the edge of the bed next to Arel and hugged him, Arel didn’t move away. Kors stroked him, caressing and undressing him carefully. He wanted to kiss his prince, but the piercing prevented him, long spikes didn’t allow him to touch Arel’s face. Kors covered them with his palm, pressing the hated jewelry tightly to his chin, which made his lip curl down a little. So he touched Arel’s lip, in which the cork was sticking out.

It was only a pathetic resemblance of a kiss, but Kors hesitated to pull out the plug. He just shook it slightly, realizing how tightly it was inserted into the incision and fearing that even if he managed to pull it out, he would definitely not be able to insert it back. Kors feared taking out the “decorations” of the Demon, he feared that he would take his actions for willfulness and insubordination. So, kissing awkwardly, Kors tried to console disfigured Arel, who, due to the evil act of Lis, had completely lost his human appearance.

“Everything will pass,” whispered Kors, gently running his fingers along his back, stroking the painted black wings, gently running his fingernail between the shoulder blades, noticing how Arel involuntarily arched a little in pleasure, apparently without even realizing it. But Kors saw that the prince reacted to his touches, and they were pleasant to him.

“I think that in a couple of days, vision will be restored,” said Kors, continuing to gently stroke Arel.

With a black face, a deformed mouth and nose, blinded by the dye, Arel was silent. Accustomed to being mute, he only breathed, opening his mouth, and Kors involuntarily touched the ring in his nose, feeling how deeply and tightly it was thrust in, blocking the air and slightly widening his nostrils. Still holding his jewelry with his hand, Kors continued to gently touch the prince’s face with his mouth. Arel tried to respond to his light and gentle touches, he didn’t succeed either. Kors pulled away in frustration.

“Arel, do you love me?” He asked quietly. “Answer, you can speak now, don’t be silent.”

“Yes,” Arel answered simply.

And Kors gladly hugged him:

“Forgive me for throwing you away. Forgive me for not appreciating your love,” Kors squeezed him more and more in his arms, “forgive me…”

Arel pulled back and lay on his side on the bed:

“It's all in the past,” he said slightly nasally, from behind the ring. “Don't ask for forgiveness, words don't matter, nothing else matters, and I'm not human anymore.”

“No! You are human! And now I understand what it is like to be rejected, to wear shameful makeup on your face. How did you manage to withstand it all these years? I can't imagine.”

Arel was silent.

“And still you were a handsome prince. Always. Everyone called you that.”

Arel smiled slightly, his spoiled lip getting in his way:

“Stupid handsome prince,” he said, “that's what they used to call me.

Kors sadly walked away from him, looked at himself in a large mirror: Nikto strongly blackened the skin around his eyes, on his cheekbones and chin, seemingly carelessly smeared light gray and dark gray dyes on his face, roughly, as if he was not painting with a brush, but with fingers, but Kors couldn't help but agree that at the same time it suited him. It didn’t spoil him, and in spite of everything, he looked albeit creepy, but at the same time impudent, very brutal, a gloomy dangerous warrior, and… still noble. The ideal features of a born sir couldn’t be distorted by any paint. He was an outcast warrior, mysterious, dark, dangerous. No, nevertheless, Nikto really had the talent of an artist, however, his canvases were human bodies, but Kors almost resigned himself and didn’t fall into such a panic about his spoiled body as before. He undressed slowly, examining the bruises. Lis beat him quite harshly, and it looked like Kors dislocated his arm. His back and scapula ached unbearably, radiating into the sternum, and this made Kors feel as if his heart ached: “I need peace, just a little peace,” he thought. “Too often I have been experiencing physical pain and discomfort lately. My body is constantly being rudely used, I began to live on wear and tear. I was recently beaten by the Demon, and here it is again… if it continues like this, I won't be all right until the age of eighty as I planned. From all this beatings and fights, drugs and strong stimulants, I will become weak and turn into a wreck. Such a life is not for me.” Kors felt uncomfortable, at the same time offended and ashamed for succumbing to Lis’ provocation, acting like a stupid boy. Lis was simply toiled with boredom and wanted to let off some steam, and Kors took everything seriously, pounced on him like a madman. After all, Lis could kill him, on his belt, as usual, knives and weapons of the reds hung. If only he wanted to! But Lis didn’t even think to do this, he just wanted to fight, not seriously, and Kors almost killed him! And if he killed Lis?! What would he tell the Demon? After all, they are one whole. As Lis says, fingers of a fist. And Kors was such an idiot! He just had to leave, and not butt with an inadequate half-blood. Who, by the way, perfectly controlled himself and didn’t inflict serious injuries on Kors, and Kors… at that moment he forgot about everything – about the Demon, and about the Mission, and about the fist. He wanted to tear Lis to pieces for real, and now he was ashamed of it. He just joked about him, teased him, and he threw himself into a fight like a fool, and now burgundy bruises were again filling his body and his arm hurt unbearably. How to fix it?

Kors went into the adjoining room, there was a small stone pool. Knowing Kors’ love for cleanliness, Nikto put him in rooms with a beautiful bathroom, and Kors was pleased. Karina had a balcony in her rooms, and he had a pool, and this was more desirable for him, one can do without a balcony and windows, especially in a world where there was not a hint of heaven. He turned on a tap of warm water, took a few bottles from his first aid kit, and poured the contents directly into the water.

He returned for the prince. He was still lying on the bed without moving, his face with his eyes glued to the pillow. But Kors no longer felt his pain. He touched him gently:

“Come on, it won't hurt you to take a medicinal bath either,” he said, and taking Arel by the hand, he carefully lifted him out of bed and led him away. Arel didn’t object, and Kors noted to himself that he followed him quite confidently and calmly. Had he accustomed to being blind?

“Be careful, there is a stone side,” warned Kors, “come down.”

He took him by the braid, holding it. When Arel plunged into the water, leaning his back against the wall in the corner of the pool, Kors put his braid on the slabs near the edge, so that it would not end up in the water, thinking that if Arel got it wet, it would be difficult to dry his hair, and it would take a lot of time.

Kors went down to the pool and, approaching Arel, gently ran his hands over his chest and shoulders. He felt now a light, but pleasant tingling in those places where his body was injured – this was the effect of drugs dissolved in water. The water was warm and soothing. Kors tried to kiss Arel again: