The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19. Ви Корс
Hearing the creaking of the floorboards, Kors jerked himself up on the bed and stubbornly repeated:
“I’m not a cigarette to leave me to each other! I. Am. Not. A. Cigarette!”
“Yes?” Nik asked, as if a little surprised, and pulled Kors by the chain dangling from his collar. “And it didn’t bother you before. Even if we… mmm… smoked you alone for two or at the same time.”
“You loved me then, but now you humiliate me!”
“It seems to you,” said Nik, and Kors felt him pulling him by the chain harder, forcing him to lean forward a little, touching his face and ripping off the plaster with a sharp jerk.
“Oh!” Kors covered his eyes with his palms. “You could be more careful! Not only you have eyelashes!”
He looked up, and when he saw Nik, he literally froze in shock. Nik was not wearing a mask, but his face was tightly bandaged with wide strips of black cloth. He wrapped his head in the same way as Kors once wrapped it, with the only difference that Nik left a narrow gap for himself at eye level, and he also cut the fabric at mouth level, just as Kors did. He looked with horror at the shiny ring sticking out from under the strips of fabric under his nose, at the wrapped chin and the top of his head, on which white hair stood up a little between the bandages. Nik wrapped himself around both the way Kors wrapped him and the way Doctor Cassiel had done in Prince Arel’s estate. The side of Nik’s neck was plastered over.
Kors swallowed hard, clutching his throat, unable to utter a word. Nik was almost no different from Valentine now. He looked frankly bad and pathetic. Nik unfastened the chain from Kors’ collar and walked away, returning to his couch of skins, laid right on the floor. He obviously didn’t intend to fuck.
Kors, still silently, looked at him. He saw how hard Nik was making his steps, how he barely hobbled to the skins and sank heavily on them. Realizing that he was no longer going to be used, Kors hurriedly pulled on the trouser leg he had taken off from one leg, pulling up his trousers and buttoning his fly.
“Son… what’s the matter with you?” The way Nik looked was depressing. He seemed to break, in an instant, overnight. Kors was discouraged. And this strange dream!
“Nothing,” Nik said. Head low, he rummaged through his bag, and Kors knew what he was looking for there.
“You look terrible. Why did you bandage your face like that?” he asked.
“Well, how? That’s what you did when you treated me.”
“But I…” Kors stammered, he couldn’t tell him now: “But I didn’t really treat you, and there wasn’t a need for such treatment, I just satisfied my vicious fantasies with you a little.” Does Nik really think this is how he should have been treated? Is he so naive that he didn’t understand that Kors wasn’t healing as much as actually playing with him? Limiting him, reveling in his power. Did Nick take everything in good faith? Did he trust Kors? And so, left alone, he repeated the treatment exactly, not realizing what could be done differently? No-o-o! It can’t be! Well, the Demon can’t be so stupid, Kors won’t believe it anymore! Or could it be so? And Nik doesn’t know how to do it in another way, he only knows what his father showed him? Kors tried to quickly analyze the situation logically. Previously, this always helped him in his professional activities. Everything had to be sorted out.
First, his son is in symbiosis with a demonic essence, and this symbiosis is broken and doesn’t bring any benefit to either one or the other. They can harm each other.
Secondly, his son is a man undeveloped and naive, and really may not understand anything in the treatment.
Thirdly, it was forbidden to the Demon to heal and restore the human body of its owner, this is part of the punishment, and Kors understood this. But the Demon could accept treatment from others if they themselves offered. And Kors offered it to him, and the Demon accepted it.
Now he treats himself. But he repeats the actions of Kors and Cassiel! Can he repeat the way others treated him? Reflect their actions? Not anything more?
And Nik trusted Kors. He believed in his authority and accepted treatment from him. And here is the result of the irresponsible actions of Kors! Now Nik is treating himself wrong!
“Son, let me do everything differently now!” Kors exclaimed ardently, overshadowed by his conclusions. “Let me see what’s wrong with you, and now I’ll do everything right. I will choose the right treatment, and then you yourself will repeat after me, as needed, and not as it is now. Let’s fix it, make everything right.”
“I can handle it myself,” Nik answered indifferently, without even looking at his father, and pulled out his black box from his bag.
“Let me order to call Doctor Cassiel…”
Nik just chuckled and shook his head.
“He won’t come.”
“He will!”
“They are three days ahead from us, people have gone far ahead,” Nik opened the box and took out a small metal cylinder from it. Smooth, it gleamed silver in his black fingers, and Kors knew full well what Nik kept in that case.
“He’ll come!”
“No, he won’t. In the Fort, he still tolerated you, but now he is not at all obliged to go to the camp of the unclean ones on the orders of the disgraced black to treat his lover,” Nik unscrewed the lid of the protective case and carefully took out his syringe from it, attached the needle to it.
Kors clenched his teeth.
“I’ll go after him myself and drag him here by force!”
“Zagpeace will quickly put you in a cage there. You’re not going anywhere, and I don’t need any doctor,” leaning heavily towards the box, Nik slightly rattled the bottles of drugs, sorting through them.
“I…”
Nik raised his voice.
“Calm down!”
Kors froze: “I can’t show that I’m afraid.”
Frustratedly turning away from Nik, he took off his cambric shirt and elegant doublet from the back of the chair – the things that Nik had given him yesterday in exchange for wet clothes. Well, what else was left for him? It was cool in the tent, and there were no other clothes nearby. Having dressed, Kors approached the table. The dirty countertop was covered with spilled wine, there were unwashed plates with the remains of meat, pieces of bread were scattered on the table, the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. Kors took the jug and, bringing it up to his nose, sniffed its contents. Again wine, as in a couple of unfinished bottles, and as in a goblet. Well, what a morning! All was going wrong! Kors slammed his goblet on the table with an already barely concealed irritation.
And Nik, who was concentrating on filling the syringe with the drug from the bottle, involuntarily shuddered and turned to him:
“What are you looking for?”
“Water!”
“What?”
“Just water. I’m thirsty, my throat is dry.”
“Have some wine.”
“I don’t want wine!”
“Vitor, stop your whims.”
“I just want to drink a couple of sips of clean water, do you think this is a whim?”
Nik somehow wearily sighed, but didn’t answer. Kors realized that he was mentally calling his Verniy, because very soon he stumbled into their tent. His cloack was wet as the rain still hadn’t stopped. The dog’s head was covered by a helmet. Ver didn’t take it off, he stopped at the threshold. Kors saw his bestial eyes gleam in the narrow slits of his helmet.
“Ver, Vitor needs water,” Nik said without even looking at his unclean habir. He turned his hand palm up, and seemed to carefully examine the inside of the wrist.
The dog turned to Kors.
“What kind of water do you need, sir? Should I bring a bucket of