The Mist and the Lightning. Part 18

In frustration, Nik reached for the bottle on the table.

“Eh, no! Give it back!” Kors jerked the bottle out of his hands.

“Vitor, give me a drink! I’m tired!”

“Of course you’re tired! Who made you fight?! You don’t need this final and prize money, you don’t need it all! I will give you as much money as you want! That’s it, Nik! Relax, you don’t need money anymore, you have a rich father who will give you everything! And when we return to the Black City, I will buy you many of the best clothes and cure you with the best doctors. You will no longer fight in the Colosseum and risk your life for the amusement of the crowd. Forget it!”

“I’m not poor myself!” Nik shouted. “I have enough money! I just had fun!”

“I understand, and I didn’t interfere until I saw that it would end badly for you now!”

Nik sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and looked at Kors:

“Please give me a drink.”

Kors stood up abruptly and poured him a full glass.

“Here it is!”

Nik immediately drained it in two gulps, and Kors involuntarily winced and lit a cigarette:

“Take this as well!”

Nik took it.

“So, was I wrong now?” Kors asked again.

Nik smoked in silence.

“How tired I am!” Kors tugged at his hair with all his might, forcing him to close his eyes in pain and almost drop his cigarette. “What’s in your head? And on the head?! I explained to you how to comb your hair! When are you going to behave well, Nik?”

“Never,” Nik muttered.

“What?!” And Kors hit him again, so that Nik dropped his almost smoked cigarette, and Kors rudely extinguished it, pressing his boot into the expensive carpet:

“No, you will!” He grabbed his bangs, strongly throwing his head up so that Nik would look at him.

“You will obey me, because it is right, and you need to learn to behave normally in order to advance further in your Mission, therefore you obey me! You understand that I am right and that you need it!”

“I don’t need anything! I obey you because I love you! And I don’t want to upset you!”

“I love you too,” Kors slowed down and let him go, “so I do all this and take care of you.”

“I understand,” Nik said.

“Show me your lip. Oh fuck! You ruined your beautiful face again!” Kors clasped his head in his hands in absolutely genuine despair. “What is it!” He grabbed a small round mirror from the table and handed it to Nik:

“Look! Look what’s wrong with your lips! My beautiful, lovely lips, what have you done to them… damn…”

Nik completely indifferently looked in the mirror at his now crooked and swollen lip, which slightly turned upward from the incipient edema.

Kors tossed the mirror aside and thrust the opener into his hand.

“Take out the rings!”

“Why? It hurts,” Nik disagreed.

“You have edema, they interfere, don’t you see?!”

“It happened a hundred times, it will subside and everything will be fine a bit later.”

“Get it out, fuck!” Kors growled with such anger that Nik immediately grabbed the unclamping instrument, hastily removing the jewelry from the purple lip.

“You ruined your tender lips, you don’t take care of your beauty at all!”

“What’s the difference? I’m not a piece of cake for everyone to lick at me.”

“What does this have to do with it? How stupid you are! You don’t know how to use your advantage. Good looks, correct posture, unaccented speech and noble manners – that’s it! You are sitting pretty!”

Nik shook his disheveled head a little.

“I’m not a girl! I fought and they broke my lip a little, what’s wrong with that?!”

Kors looked at his beautiful face, like a girl’s, and involuntarily smiled, realizing that Nik had completely misinterpreted his phrase “you are sitting pretty”, and seeing also Kors’ condescending smile, he literally burst inside with indignation, but endured and kept silent.

“You misunderstood me a little,” nevertheless tried to explain Kors, rather not because he felt that Nik was unpleasant, but simply because he loved to teach:

“To be sitting pretty” – this is a phrase from a game on a chess board, you can still play a simpler game of checkers, and if a checker crosses the entire field and has not been eaten…

Nik looked up at him.

“Maybe it’s enough? Please…”

“Nik, you don’t understand your advantages and don’t use them. You have not only a beautiful appearance, but also a good voice, I am not kidding. In fact, you have a beautiful voice.”

Nik looked at Kors dubiously.

“I speak seriously. Yes, your voice is low and hoarse, but there is something exciting about it. If you remove gross mistakes in words, it will be very good.”

Kors calmed down a bit:

“What will your unclean ones think now? I yelled at you in front of them, won’t that hurt your reputation as a commander?”

“They won’t think anything, everything is fine…”

Zaf came to them, he grinned like a satisfied cat:

“What, my Lord, are you getting away with your greyhound daddy?” Zaf, unable to resist, laughed. Kors froze.

“No,” Nik said.

“I left to feed Barla,” Zaf continued, “and when I returned, I saw that you were not there, and they told me how dad yelled at you and took you away.”

Zaf turned to Kors:

“You did everything right. I never fight for fun, combat is not a game! And you?”

“Never! And I won’t let him anymore!” Kors replied sharply.

“If only he still listened to you,” Zaf smiled again, “he doesn’t listen to anyone.”

And Nik, as if confirming Zaf’s words, showed Kors a tattooed finger with the image of an inverted ace of spades on the “ring”.

“And what does it mean?” Kors asked with a grin. “That you didn’t have enough money for real jewelry, and that’s why you drew them for yourself?” He looked at Zaf. “Nik is just not used to obeying. I was not with him, and no one raised him. But I’ll catch up. He will stop behaving like a thoughtless boy and become a worthy warrior, become a truly great, powerful Demon, the way he really is! I will grind this rough diamond into brilliant! I will put the best in him!”

Zaf shook his head, and Nik sat down and was sad and silent.

“Vi-i-tor,” Zaf suddenly said tenderly, as he did in the Limit and in the Ore Town, slightly stretching the vowel, and after “v” he did not insert this rough sound “kh” into his name, as did Nik. Zafa managed to pronounce the name of Kors softer, almost correctly. And Kors froze.

“You are beautiful,” said Zaf, and he didn’t need to say that already. Kors understood everything perfectly, he was shaking, unconsciously and even in some kind of panic. Kors mentally darted to Nik: “What should I do?”

“Whatever you want,” Nik responded immediately, “you are free in your manifestations”.

And Zaf was already unbuttoning his fly. Well, what else had Kors hoped for and counted on, if he himself allowed him in the Limit to do with him everything that Zaf wanted? And now it was not surprising that Zaf continued to consider him his. Kors wanted to refuse him, but how? After Kors crawled at his feet like an obedient slave, and after everything that took place in between? Of course, Zaf considered Kors his own, he was sure that Kors liked him, and there was mutual sympathy between them. Now he could take the refusal as an insult. And Kors didn’t want to aggravate relations with Zaf at all, so he went up to the unclean one and knelt in front of him, trying not to think about anything.

“I missed you,” said Zaf, taking out his decorated scion, “my beautiful greyhound, polish my diamond too…”

And Kors took his cock in his mouth and sucked Zaf, and he didn’t even imagine what it cost him. Zaf contentedly snuffled his disfigured nose and gently stroked Kors along the white strand, as before, being touched by its unusualness among the dark hair. Kors now hated that white strand of his because it attracted unclean ones so much. But when Zaf was already ready to come, he pushed Kors’ face aside and sprinkled cum on the carpet next to him, without staining Kors and not pouring into his mouth.

“Handsome black,” he said, carelessly patting Kors on the cheek, “why do I like you so much?”

And Kors thought that, not aggravating their relationship, he did the right thing.

“I’ll give you expensive jewelry,” Zaf continued, he looked very pleased.

“Zaf, I’m not a whore to pay me,” Kors replied, perhaps even too arrogantly and pretentiously, but he still hadn’t quite come to his senses, “I am free in my manifestations and do only what I myself want.”

“I know,” Zaf answered and laughed, and for some reason Kors didn’t like his laugh.

Chapter 8

“When would you want to go to the doctor, today or tomorrow?” Kors asked.

“Tomorrow,” Nik replied immediately.

Kors thought for a moment.

“No. You know, I thought we were going to the doctor today. This will be better.”

Nik froze in some confusion, and Kors added:

“I have made this decision.”

“Why are you asking me then?”

“Silence! I know what is best.”

And Nik said nothing.

Kors tormented Nik for a long time. He took him to the bathroom and washed him, because no matter how much he did it, Nik still seemed dirty to him, and, as Kors believed, he smelled like unclean ones. He poured water on him endlessly. He didn’t like the way the scar looked – it seemed that the crack on his Nik’s cheek was clogged with dirt, and Kors kept rubbing and rubbing his face with a washcloth, lathered with soap, until his cheek noticeably reddened. He washed and dried his hair again, and Nick probably hadn’t washed his hair as many times in his entire life as Kors had washed it for him lately. Carefully combing the tangled strands, Kors made Nik a tail “like black ones wear” and pinned the regrown bangs up from his forehead with thin hairpins. He once again refreshed the tonal dye on Nik’s forehead and cheekbones, hiding the tattoos, and, on the contrary, lined his initials, making them stand out more. Kors smeared the healing ointment on Nik’s still slightly swollen lip without the usual rings. Kors squeezed him, fiddled with him, and tried his own clothes on him for a long time. Finally, he put a bunch of his own clothing on Nik: underwear, an expensive cambric shirt, pants, jacket and boots. Kors threw away his rough boots of the unclean ones and gave him a pair of his own. He also ordered him to throw away Prince Arel’s jacket and gave him his own one. It was a bit large for Nik, but Kors tightened the lacing on the shoulders, sleeves and sides, and buttoned the high collar all the way to the top, so that Nik’s tattooed neck was as closed as possible. The fact that the jacket was a bit too long for Nik even seemed beautiful to Kors. He put his expensive fine leather gloves on his hands. Nik was a warrior, and therefore in most cases, even in a peaceful environment, he wore ammunition, often armor, and always weapons. Therefore, over his jacket, Kors put on his chest and back a protection of hard thick leather, decorated with rows of precious metal plates. There was no need for it now, but Kors just knew that then Nik would inevitably keep his back straight and not slouch as usual. He strapped on his engraved steel shoulder pads, forearm shields, and tied it up with his a pile of belts. Everything to the smallest detail – both clothes and ammunition – belonged to Kors, and he didn’t leave Nik any of his personal belongings, except for the mask. Finally, he was more or less satisfied with the way his son looked. At the same time, while Kors was washing, combing and dressing his Nik, he hugged him every minute, kissed and cuddled him, then rudely calling him “stupid featherhead”, then tenderly calling him “his most beloved, his precious”. It seemed to Kors that at such moments Nik seemed to fall out of reality, and he was not with him at all and was not even in this world. There was no human, no Demon, no one. Still, Nik didn’t resist at all. He was silent and obeyed his father unquestioningly, got up, sat down and turned around as he was told, and for Kors it was decisive. He dressed him up, and finally he put a mask on his face anyway. It was Nik’s mask, which, upon returning to Fort, Kors immediately returned to him. From the very beginning, black glasses were inserted into the slits for the eyes, so that one didn’t have to put on black glasses on his face first, and only then the mask. Kors looked skeptically at his son, who had become faceless, and, after thinking a little, nevertheless took off his mask. He adjusted the hairpins that held his bangs once more.

“You don’t understand, Nik, how much I love you!” He said with inspiration in his voice. “After all, love is not only sex. Love is also tenderness and care, compassion for the feelings of a loved one and a desire to support him in everything.”

“Vitor, will I go without a mask?” Nik asked, seeing that Kors put it aside.

“Yes.”

“Then I need black glasses, it’s too light outside.”

“No.”

“Vi…”

“I said, no! That’s the limit! It’s ugly, shameful and doesn’t suit you!” Snapped Kors.

“But it’s hard for me without them,” Nik tried to argue, “from the bright sun my eyes hurt later. I have altered eyes…”

“Shut up, I don’t even want to listen to it!”

“To me sunlight is as if hot sand is thrown into my eyes. Then it hurts for a long time, and I can’t see well…”

“It’s not sunny at all,” Kors looked sideways at the window, seeing that behind the loosely covered shutters the bright sun was shining, “we won’t walk for long, bear with it.”

Nik fell silent in frustration, and Kors scrutinized him for the hundredth time.

“If not for this damn scar, now everything would be fine!”

“I…” Nik hesitated, crouched, lowering his eyes, the corners of his lips involuntarily crawled down, and a slightly swollen lower lip protruded forward amusingly, and Kors was invariably touched by this display of frustration: how cute, according to Kors, Nik pouted. Therefore, unable to restrain himself, Kors involuntarily laughed, this laugh forcing Nik to make a sad grimace even more.

Continuing to watch his son so sincerely upset, Kors swallowed as if he had swallowed something pleasant to him, tasty:

“Gods, how funny it is,” continuing to smile, Kors came close to him, and taking him by the forearm, lifted him from the chair, lifting him. Nik stood up immediately.

Hanging over him, Kors grabbed him by the face with his free hand, squeezing him tightly, digging his nails into his cheeks so that Nik’s lips protruded ugly forward.

Kors let go a little:

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, and Nik parted his lips immediately.

“Wider!”

Nik opened his mouth wider, and Kors could now see the ball gleaming in his tongue. Kors admired this and thrust his fingers into Nik’s mouth, pulled the ball up with his nails, so that the bar on which it was wound became visible. Kors pulled the jewelry towards him, and Nik shook his head a little, emitting a low, indistinct hum. Not paying any attention to this, Kors continued to pull, and Nik, due to the metal rod threaded through his tongue, inevitably had to reach for Kors’ fingers and almost stick his tongue out of his mouth.

“Do you love me?” Kors asked, continuing to pull on the piercing. Since Nik didn’t answer, he hastened him:

“Answer me! Immediately!”

“Hmm…”

“What? I haven’t understood! When will you learn to speak normally?”

“Y-yes…” by some miracle, Nik managed to pronounce. And Kors, smiling, let go of the jewelry, but didn’t remove his fingers, spreading Nik’s mouth to the sides with them, stretching his lips strongly, so that Nik felt pain again and closed his eyes. Kors, with pleasure that only he could understand, stuck his finger into the hole in the place of the knocked out tooth on Nik’s lower jaw, closing his eyes and as if remembering the moment when he knocked it out to his son. Removing his finger, he tugged at the nearby teeth, feeling how much they were loose. All this time Nik stood meekly in front of him with his mouth open, allowing Kors to touch his face, put his fingers in his mouth and pull his tongue, loosen his teeth. Finally, after playing enough, Kors pulled his fingers out of his mouth. Squeezing the base of Nik’s tail at the back of his head, he threw his head back, pulling him up so that Kors himself with his tall stature was more comfortable. Bending slightly, he pressed his lips to his, passionately kissing Nik and thrusting his tongue into his mouth. Nik immediately responded to his kiss, pressed against his father, hugging his waist. Kors continued to pull his hair up for his convenience, and Nik had to get up on his toes. Kors was the first to break the kiss and took his son by the chin, not allowing him to lower his thrown back head:

“Don’t you dare pout your lips and take offense at me, do you understand?” He pressed hard on his swollen lip, feeling that Nik hurt and he was contracting inside with pain, but endured. “I look forward to hearing.”

“Yes, yes,” Nik almost closed his eyes so as not to meet his father’s gaze. Kors finally released him. He looked pleased, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went to the closet, opening it with his key, took out a bottle of strong alcohol, poured and handed Nik a glass:

“Here it is. Drink!”

Nik looked up at him in surprise, but immediately took the offered drink.

“How do you look! There is something animal in you, this look…” whispered Kors.

“Why are you giving me a drink? Do you reward me for obedience?”

“I just have nothing else to do. I noticed that you come alive when you drink. Then you are not silent, not so constrained, it seems to you that you become interested, but only as long as the alcohol is in you, and the rest of the time, as if nothing is interesting. As if it doesn't matter. But life is interesting! Or not?”

“Yes,” said Nik and drank the contents of the glass in one gulp.

“Too little?” Kors asked, watching him closely.

Nik glanced at Kors in disbelief, but nevertheless answered cautiously:

“Yes.”

“There was exactly one hundred grams there.”

“Can I have some more?”

“Isn’t this enough for you?”

Nick said nothing, but everything was clear without words.

“I know you won’t even feel anything now,” Kors remarked sadly, “as if you hadn’t drunk anything. This addiction is very bad… you drink every day, every day… And I’m afraid not to let you drink, because abrupt refusal from alcohol can lead to bad consequences.”

Kors poured him the same amount:

“Come on, drink. Gods, what am I to do with you…”

“Thanks,” Nik said and drank.

“There have never been drunks in our family,” Kors shook his head, “and you are a drunkard.”

“Don’t you drink your own wine yourself? You love it so much and you drink it every evening…”

“Nik, better shut up!”

And Nik immediately fell silent.

“Cassiel is a very experienced doctor,” Kors changed the subject, “he will help you, as he did last time.”

“Casi…” Nik frowned, he literally shuddered, “here are these names again…”

“Yes. He is of noble birth, but not as upstart as this red Cartmer.

They went to that part of the Fort, which was occupied by black mercenaries, and where the doctor received his patients in a small two-story outbuilding near the field hospital.

At this midday time, the sun was at its zenith, and not a single breath of breeze disturbed the sleepy haze that enveloped the buildings and squares of Crimson Rock. The parade ground in front of the barracks of the black mercenaries was completely empty, and even from the nearby forge, the familiar sound of a hammer couldn’t be heard. There was dead silence, and there was not a single living soul around.

Kors turned impatiently to Nik.

“Can you not limp like that? You barely hobble behind, gods, don’t be so nervous!” He frowned in displeasure and annoyance.

“I’m somehow not at ease here…”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” Kors turned away, continuing to walk a little ahead of him, and Nik, trying to keep up, looked at his impeccable posture and firm gait, at how confidently Kors walked through the cobbled courtyard of the Fort, all in black and hung with a weapon that slightly tinkled on his belt when walking. Nik looked at his polished boots with a small square heel, which made the already tall Kors even taller. And at the way how a thick black and shiny ponytail length up to the waist lied on his proudly straightened back. Kors’ ponytail was straight and smooth, like silk, not at all the same as Nik’s, without torn strands sticking out in different directions and without the tip curling upwards, and the white strand of hair, so clearly visible on Kors’ forehead, was lost in this luxurious tail… Nik sighed involuntarily, and Kors, hearing this, turned around. He silently waited for his son to approach, and, taking him by the forearm slightly below the steel shield, squeezed him tightly, as he liked to do, and led him next to him. They approached the outbuilding. Climbing the porch, Kors knocked hard on the door with his fist, although there was a bell nearby. Doctor Cassiel very quickly jumped out to meet them, wiping his hands with a not quite clean towel. He began to bow and crumble in front of Kors in the greetings traditional for true blacks. With a satisfied smile on the corners of his lips, Kors nodded condescendingly and went inside, looking around the room. He saw the door ajar, and the room smelled strongly of medicines.

“Do you keep ill people here? Are they contagious?”

“No, no,” the doctor was frightened, “I dare to assure you of absolute safety.”

And at that moment from the half-open room came the prolonged and agonizing groan of a creature suffering unbearably from pain, and Kors changed in his face, ceasing to smirk smugly. The doctor rushed to the door, hastily closing it.

“What the hell is going on there?!”

“Nothing. Treatment. This is a hospital, sir Kors.”

“Is that Kamiel Varakh?”

No, no…”

“I want to see him!” And Kors, without waiting for permission, pushed the door open with his foot, entering a small room. There was a bed on which the man was lying, but it was immediately clear that this really was not Kamiel Varakh, because this man’s hair was red, bright, it was scattered on the pillow, casting blood red in the sun. There were also bloody spots on the white sheet that covered his body. Kors, clearly not expecting to see something like this, froze in some confusion.

“Sir Kamiel Varakh is in another room, I will take you to him,” the doctor said hastily, trying to go around Kors and enter. Kors interfered with him, blocking the doorway.

“Have mercy,” the red one whispered weakly with his lips. “Kill, I beg you…”

And the doctor, finally jumping into the room, stood between him and Kors, blocking the patient from his gaze.

“What an abomination,” Kors said barely.

“This is not what you thought… I just care… Sir Zagpeace Gesaria asked me to take care of his… mmm… ward, he got a little weak on the long journey…” Doctor Cassiel babbled.

“Ward?” Kors asked skeptically. “You mean this captive red? Call a spade a spade, doctor, I don’t like it when people start playing with me in conversation.”

“Y-yes…”

“I see, Peace is having fun.”

Kors turned his gaze to the metal table where the surgical instruments lay: scalpel, clamps. Everything was dirty and splattered with blood.

“And what organs have you already cut out of this unfortunate man?” Kors asked.

Doctor Cassiel stood before him with a pale face and was silent.

Kors chuckled.

“Don’t be so scared, it doesn’t bother me at all. I brought my… hmm… ward, and you will now take care of him. And Zagpeace’s ward will wait!”

And to the doctor’s relief, Kors turned and went out.

“Yes, yes, please come to my office,” Cassiel said somewhat belatedly and indistinctly.

Kors and Nik followed the doctor up to the second floor and entered his office.

Kors nodded to the chair.

“Nik, sit down.”

And he immediately sat down in the place indicated to him, clutching the belt on his waist with his fingers so as not to make involuntary movements.

“Your ward looks good,” said the doctor. He had already come to his senses a little after an unpleasant incident and looked at Nik, and he dropped his eyes and froze.

“I need medications for hepatitis, something else that restores, useful for an exhausted body,” said Kors in the peremptory tone of a man who understands everything and knows perfectly well what he needs. He slowly walked through Cassiel’s office, scrutinizingly examining the cabinets and shelves on which the medicines were placed.