The Mist and the Lightning. Part 18
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“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.