The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19

"I’m going to take off my mask,” Nik explained calmly, “you won’t see my human face again.”

“What?!”

“Now remember my black scaly face. Both me and Arel are no longer people for you.”

“A snake and a bat?” Kors chuckled, but his grin was unconvincing. Inside, he was frightened and disoriented by being blinded.

“Not a snake and not a bat, but okay, so be it,” Nik agreed, “you are approximately right.”

“But I’m the same as you!” Kors exclaimed desperately. “You said I had horns.”

“Yes.”

“So, it turns out, I’m a goat?!”

“A goat, a snake, and a bat,” Nik summed up, and Kors heard him and Arel laugh softly, “take off your wet clothes,” Nik ordered, and his voice became serious again, “it needs to be hung out to dry.”

“How can I hang my clothes to dry if I can’t see anything!” Kors was outraged.

“Ver will take care of your clothes.”

“Well, of course! He doesn’t understand anything! He will hang it too close to the fire. He will ruin expensive leather. My clothes require special care!”

Kors received a blow to the head, unexpected and so strong that he flew against the wall and fell on his side. He didn’t even understand who hit him, Nik or Arel, but it was very painful. There was ringing in his ears, and he just by some miracle didn’t lose consciousness.

“Please, don’t do it!” He shouted humiliated. Kors was afraid of them and knew that they felt his fear. “I’m worse than Adrian, I’m just as much of a coward!”

“Take off your wet clothes, Ver will take care of them,” Nick repeated without much intonation.

Kors wanted to think that Prince Arel had hit him after all, but he couldn’t know for sure, and their thoughts were hidden from him. He began to undress, afraid of getting another blow. Maybe you should have taken your clothes off faster?

Having completely undressed, he remained on his knees. They didn’t hurry him, didn’t hit him, and didn’t tell him anything. Kors heard Verniy approach him. He recognized him by his breath, by the way Ver sniffed like a dog, and now by the disgusting smell of a wet dog. Kors was cold, his skin was covered with goosebumps, he was shivering slightly, the air in the tent had not yet warmed up at all. “Gods, if only they didn’t leave me to sleep like this at the entrance, or at least give me some kind of skin, or rather a blanket.” He felt a chain being fastened to his golden collar. Nik did it, Kors was not mistaken, because Nik told him:

“Get on all fours and crawl after me,” and he pulled on the chain.

Kors slowly moved forward, afraid to hit the trestle bed or the table. Now he understood Nik very well with his poor eyesight and involuntarily thought: “Gods, how did he endure all this throughout his life?”

Stretching out his hand a little, Kors helplessly explored the space in front of him and stumbled upon a wooden leg.

“Lie down on the bed,” Nik said, “cover yourself, get warm, I don’t wish you harm.” There will be dinner soon.

“Thank you,” Kors barely whispered. Feeling the surface of the trestle bed with his hand, he got up from his knees and carefully lay down on it, wrapping himself in a blanket, feeling how big and soft it was. “It’s their duvet covered in gold satin and brocade! They slept under him in the palace of Ore Town. So, Nik ordered to pull an expensive thing out of the wagon, like this, right on the march, in the middle of the road? He ordered to cover a camp bed with a luxurious blanket? However, what was the difference now? The main thing was that it was warm. Kors covered even his head and lay there, trying to stop trembling and not think about anything, not analyze anything. Someday Nik will change his anger for mercy, Kors believed in it. In the end, Kors himself is to blame. He dimly heard their movements around the tent, but they said nothing.

“Vitor. Get up! Hold it, put it on.”

Nik pushed him in the chest with something soft, Kors realized that it was his white cambric shirt with layered lace on the collar and cuffs and a velvet camisole with gold embroidery on the lapels, his suede pants. All these things didn’t fit together, and moreover, wearing them now, in a camping tent, was absurd, but Kors didn’t object. Without saying a word, he put on what he was offered. He imagined how stupid he looked with plastered eyes, disheveled wet ponytail, chain hanging down from the collar, and at the same time in expensive lace. Nik gave him his most beautiful clothes, well, in Nik’s opinion, of course, but it was respectful, maybe… or vice versa, it was a mockery, Kors didn’t understand.

“Let’s go to the table,” Nik said and pulled the chain.

“Should I crawl on all fours again?” Kors said.

“No, just follow me carefully.”

On a chain, like a dog, making very small steps, Kors obediently followed Nik. Nik led him slowly, not hurrying, only guiding him with the tension of the chain.

Finally, touching the edge of the table with his slightly outstretched hand, Kors asked:

“Can I sit down?”

“Yes, of course,” Nik replied, “daddy, I’m not punishing you, understand it.”

And Kors heard him pull a chair close to him.

Kors sat down neatly, and Nik placed his hand on the wooden table top. Kors immediately stumbled upon the fork, felt the edge of the dinner bowl. By the sharp specific smell, he realized that there was lamb meat in the bowl. He had no appetite, and not even because the meat stank. During his time with the unclean ones, Kors has generally become accustomed to their dirty food. Pulling his fingers away sharply from the food, Kors continued to run his hand across the table more confidently, and, as he had hoped, found a goblet of wine on the side of the bowl.

It was better that way. He immediately took it, and, forgetting to ask Nik’s permission, took several large sips, almost draining it to the bottom.

“You need to eat,” Nik said.

“I can’t… a piece won’t go down my throat,” Kors justified himself, and he didn’t lie.

“No, that’s not good,” Nik disagreed, “you need to eat, daddy, I’ll feed you myself.”

“Nik…”

“From my hand, from my fingers, will you take food?”

“Nik…”

Kors felt a hot piece of meat touch his lips. Involuntarily, he tried to push it away from him. Trying to remove Nik’s hand from his face, he accidentally touched his wrist just below the bracelet. Now that all of Kors’ senses were sharpened to the limit, he very clearly felt the thin dent of the scar under his fingers. It was rope trace. Kors ruined his son’s wrists, constantly tying his hands tightly for the purpose of treatment and education, and, being carried away in the process, tightened it so that the rope literally dug into the skin. Tattoos, as always, helped to hide the abrasions, and Kors didn’t think about the consequences. He instantly remembered how Nik, in those moments when his hands were free, tried to rub his stiff fingers, grimacing from the pain of rubbing his wrists, on which deep grooves from the cord remained. And in the Ore Town, Kors tied his hands behind his back with a thin iron wire. What has he done! Now the same marks on his hands were waiting for him, Kors no longer doubted it. And yet, without knowing why, he was sure that after dinner Arel would fuck him, or he would suck him off. Nik was cunning, daddy Kors was punished. But for how long?

“Eat!” Nik hurried, pressing the piece of meat to his lips again.

And Kors doomedly parted his lips. The piece of lamb was small but very hot, burning the palate and tongue. Opening his mouth, Kors took a deep breath, trying to cool his food:

“Hot!”

“Forgive me, hold it, drink it,” Nik lightly pushed him with a goblet in the chest. Kors seized the goblet and drank the contents frantically.

“Another bite,” Nik touched his lips again, and Kors dutifully took the meat from his fingers.

On the fourth or fifth piece of lamb he pleaded:

“Nik, please! I can’t take it anymore! It makes me sick, I feel nausea.”

“Okay, I won’t do it anymore,” Nik said to Kors’ delight, “I have poured you more wine.”

Kors drank it.