The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19

Kors really liked that, in spite of everything, Nik answered him, it was enough to address him and ask a question. Sometimes in monosyllables, but he answered. And it seemed to Kors that even if Nik himself didn’t want this, he seemed to be unable to help answering. Kors didn’t fully understand the reasons for this behavior. Either this was the law of the Demon’s interaction with people, or obedience hammered into the subcortex of Nik’s brain in front of true blacks. But Kors already understood that he had to turn to Nik, call him by name and then ask a question. Then, realizing that the question was asked to him, Nik couldn’t help answering, couldn’t get away. Yes, he could not even continue the conversation, but he couldn’t but answer and not remain silent. And if he said: “Nik, I asked you a question, answer me…” and then asked, Nik, no matter how he evaded before and tried to remain silent or snap back, answered. And he answered truthfully. It even seemed funny to Kors how the Demon always reacted to the appeal to him — “Nik”, clearly without a doubt considering him his name in this world, although Kors himself didn’t like this name very much. It was too short, like most commoners’, consisting of only three letters, and immediately made it clear that Nik was not from the master race. At times, Kors was angry at Arel for calling his son that, a primitive shortening of the name. But Nik himself, unlike Kors, seemed to be happy with everything.

“Take off the bandages!” Kors asked.

“Are you kidding me? For all this to flow onto my chest?” Nik answered irritably, continuing to press his hand to his face. He swore in unclean language, clearly indicating how tired he was of all this.

“Gods…” Kors was discouraged, “forgive me for my stupid treatment. How to stop it now?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Nik opened his mouth, trying to take deep breaths through the gap cut in the bandages. “It’s hard to breathe…”

Kors was really excited. These last warm days were really unbearably stuffy, and Nik, under his bandages, must have had a really hard time.

“Take the rings out of your nose,” said Kors, “they prevent you from breathing normally.”

“No. Leave me alone!”

“Nik, I want it to be the best, to make you feel better! Pull out the ring!”

“I said no! If you need it so much, pull out your own one, and leave me and my rings alone!”

Kors grabbed his nose with his hand, touching his fingers to a thin ring that fit snugly against his nostril:

“Can I?”

“Ask Arel!”

“Aaah, I see,” Kors removed his hand from his nose in annoyance, “nothing new, just your usual play on weaknesses. So, you know, I won’t even ask the prince, let alone plead! Because of you, I am tattooed, painted with strange signs, all in punctures. You let the prince mark me as a thing. And now you’re teasing me!”

“You are beautiful. You are one of us, and you are beautifully decorated,” Nik answered without responding to the accusations.

“Your father is the marked thing of Prince Arel! And you allowed it to happen!”

“There is nothing wrong with that, and Arel loves you very much.”

Kors just waved his hand in annoyance.

“It’s useless to discuss…”

Nik also didn’t continue the conversation. He sat hunched over with his tightly wrapped head bowed low. It was clear that he wasn’t in the mood to talk right then. He was breathing heavily through a parted mouth, and a thick shiny ring with a black bead strung on it stuck out from under the bandages under his nose. Without waiting for any more reaction from Nik, Kors involuntarily shifted his gaze to Valentine, who was curled up in a ball nearby. The poor guy in his helmet felt obviously worse. His mouth was covered with a wide leather shield, and the holes under his nose were very small. Valentin sat crouched, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Verniy, tightening the lacing at the back of his head, always left his thin, funny braid outside, and Valentine constantly fiddled with its tip.

This habit had formed since the gloves were put on him, and he could no longer scrape and comb the skin with his nails as before. But Valentine found a new way of distraction, now constantly nervously tugging at his already fairly grown hair.

“Here’s another unfortunate one,” Kors remarked, “but at least he is tormented not by his stupidity, but by the stupidity of his master, who had bricked him up.”

And Nik didn’t object to him and was not indignant. But Valentine’s situation was more hopeless, because sooner or later Nik could remove the bandages, and Arel was not going to remove the helmet from Valentine. The prince just at that moment approached them, finally distracting himself from his horse, and before sitting down next to him, for no reason, he perceptibly kicked Valentine with his foot, knocking him over backwards. Noticing Kors’ gaze on him, Arel arrogantly asked:

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Kors, shaking his head, “nothing.”