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"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.
“Daddy, would you like an injection?”
“N-no-no, thank you, please don’t! I'm fine.”
“Okay. Then go back to bed. And try to sleep.”
Kors groped his way back to the trestle bed, took off his camisole and shirt.
So far, they didn’t bother him. He warmed up under the covers, and the wine he drank made itself felt, giving some peace of mind.
Suddenly, Kors heard Nik make a strange sound. He seemed to sob, groaning softly, as if in pain, and his quiet moan turned into an equally quiet hissing.
“Ver!” He called loudly, and, apparently, having remembered himself, he added already in his mind, “Bring me this damn plaster and cotton wool,” and then again cursed out loud in unclean language.
“Nik! What happened to you?!” Kors shouted excitedly. Jumping up abruptly, he sat down on the couch.
“What’s the difference to you?” Nik answered coldly. “After all, I’m a piece of shit in a dirty candy wrapper.”
Kors froze ashamed:
“Why do you need cotton wool and plaster? Doctor Cassiel warned that when the poison finally begins to leave your scar, inflammation may begin. In recent days, the skin around was very reddened, did the inflammation intensify from shaking on the road? Yes? Just don’t put the steel brackets in again, I beg you!”
“That’s not your business! I will do what I want!”
“Nik, please! You are offended and angry with me, I understand, but be reasonable.”
“Don’t call me Nik again! For you, I’m Nikto! And I’m not offended and not angry with you, daddy master!”
Kors was well aware that Nik was mocking him, calling him daddy, but he didn’t want to give up so easily:
“No, no. Nik, please! I never really got mad at you. Were you listening to my thoughts on the road? My memories of you?”
“It was hard not to hear you jerk off incessantly to my human appearance in your head.”
“No! I didn’t jerk off… you have misunderstood…” Kors heard Verniy run into the tent. Nik began to mentally communicate with him and was distracted from the conversation with Kors. It pissed him off. “Nik, I was wrong, I admit it…”
“Fuck off and shut up now,” Nik hissed softly again. Kors suggested that he applied cotton soaked in a healing agent to an inflamed scar.
“Son, it’s my fault, I thoughtlessly started treatment and irritated your old wound. Let me help you,” pleaded Kors, he was madly worried that the Demon would completely disfigure the face of his son.
“No!”
And Kors couldn’t resist:
“You're ruining everything now! You won’t be able to apply the medicine properly! You don’t know how to do it! Stubborn idiot!”
“Ah, look, you washed me again and didn’t dry me! But I’m not going to sit and cry anymore after you yelled at me! Mister daddy, shut up, I said, otherwise now I’ll put a plaster on your mouth, and not just on your eyes! And if you want, I’ll fasten it with a steel bracket so that you will completely shut up!”
Kors froze and fell silent. He was very worried that Nik would spoil all the treatment without supervision now.
Nik walked over to him.
“Don’t talk to me. I forbid you to talk, you understand? Everything you wanted, you already told me in the Fort.”
Kors remained silent, not knowing what to do, whether he could answer or not. But he involuntarily mentally said: “Son, what’s wrong with your face?”
Despite the prohibition, Kors didn’t dare to call him Nikto.
“What’s wrong with my face? Nothing. It’s covered in black scales, you know,” Nik answered aloud. “Don’t address me mentally! And now I will touch you with my nasty paws, and you will wet your pants from fear, right, daddy?”
Kors grabbed his head.
“Forgive me, forgive me. I will try to accept your essence and this image of you, in our world you are in merger with my son, and…”
He “heard” how Nik abruptly closed his thoughts from him, as if loudly slamming the door, and moved away from him:
“Sleep!”
Chapter 3
Skid Row – Wasted Time
Kors is locked up again in some empty and dark cell with no windows. Is this a dream? Or is he “catching” Nik’s memories again? Kors has already understood that as soon as dark holes, low ceilings, cells, basements, unpleasant sensations of tightness in a closed space and darkness appeared in his visions, these were the memories of his son.
Darkness and limited space. Kors is no longer afraid, he doesn’t experience panic attacks and claustrophobia any more. He separates from Nik’s consciousness, in which there is emptiness and no thoughts and emotions, as if he is dead. Kors separates because he wants to see him from the side. There is no light source here, but Kors “sees” anyway. Nik is so small! Shit! Kors, as always, falls into Nik’s childhood memories.
He is too small, he is probably not yet five years old. Maybe a little more, but even for five years he looks small and thin, and the expression on his face is so serious and adult, not at all childish. Cheekbones are clearly distinguished on a thin face, there is no roundness and plump cheeks that are often inherent in babies. Pale face with harmonious features. Nik is very handsome, despite the fact that his face is grimy, as if smeared with earth, and his lower lip has already been ruined, rings stick out of it. His lips are black, also in soil. Did he eat soil? Nik’s hair is not cut or combed, it’s tangled and dirty, however, as always. His crown is also dirty with soil. He is badly dressed. He is wearing a short jacket and torn pants. This is frank rags, so old that it seems decayed. Nik is sitting on the bare dirt floor in this crypt-like closet where there is nothing else but him. He sits alone, dirty, covered in soil, thin, lonely. Kors involuntarily remembered Shagezh’s childhood memories. Zaf also always kept him in a closet. What kind of wild methods of upbringing do you unclean ones have?
Or do you only treat the “wrong” children this way? Like Shag and Nik? Nik’s hands are tied wrist to wrist. His hands are brought together, palm to palm, he somehow strangely presses them to his chest, and then the rope goes to the ring in the wall. Why did the witch tie a small child in a dark room alone? Why did she tie his hands together? “She didn’t treat you that well, Nik!” – Kors thinks bitterly. But his son never said a bad word about her, and always called her “my foster mother”, or simply mother. He didn’t say “witch”, didn’t call her by name, he said – my mother. And Kors sees now that Mara clearly didn’t deserve this title.
Nik shudders a little, as if he is listening carefully to something, but total silence reigns around. Shaking his head slightly, he removes his hands from his chest and suddenly begins to scrape the dirt floor. The floor is hard, but Nik must have had enough time, because the hole he scratched in the floor is quite deep. He slowly and somehow mechanically stupidly scratches the ground with his nails. There is neither a mug of water nor a bowl of food nearby. Maybe the poor boy really its soil. Nik scratches, scrapes the ground, and, as if angry, in some desperation raises his hands tied at the wrists, clenches his fists and nervously taps them on the top of his head. How familiar is this movement to Kors! Son, why are you digging the soil? Are you trying to dig a tunnel? To dig your way to freedom? Kors is overwhelmed with emotions of love for Nik and resentment for the witch. How could she treat his son like that! Animals are better treated, and he was a child! Kors’s heart is filled with such pain that he can no longer look at this simple and at the same time unbearable picture.
“Gods, son! Son!” he screams in some kind of frenzy and sees that Nik is shuddering, raising his pale face, his empty eyes staring into nowhere. His lips move barely perceptibly, not a sound comes out of them, but in Kors’ head it clearly flashes: “Father?” It's like Nik is putting it right into his brain, without using his voice or language. Only emotions. Again and again, with such surprise, he seems to ask: “Father? Father?!"
Kors freezes in surprise, emotions overwhelm him, and he begins to “fall out” of the past. The picture gets blurred, but he still manages to hear a sharp cry: “Dad, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!"
And Kors falls out of his strange state. He wakes up, realizing that he is lying on a camp bed in a tent, but in his head, full of despair, it still continues to sound:
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave…”
No, it couldn’t happen! It just couldn’t happen! Nik couldn’t feel him there at that moment and hear him, because Kors was just seeing through t the past. And the witch couldn’t treat his son so badly, she needed the child. She herself bought him for the Demon to share his body. So it’s not even the past, but a bad dream. It’s just a nightmare. Just a bad dream! Bad. Dream. Forget it!
What time is it now? His eyes were still tightly covered with plaster. But usually Kors always woke up early, only recently in the Fort his unchanging schedule has gone astray. It probably isn’t even nine in the morning yet, thought Kors. He heard the pounding of rain on the roof. So it hasn’t stopped raining yet, it’s been raining all night? Behind him lay Arel. Kors had no doubt that it was him. The prince was lying very close, clinging tightly and, as usual, placing his relaxed and therefore heavy arm on Kors. He pressed his face against the back of Kors’ head, and he felt his warm, measured breath on his hair. Kors didn’t remember how he fell asleep, didn’t remember when Arel lay down next to him. Most likely, Nik, using his power, put Kors to sleep, just knocked him out, and Kors was offended by this. “Why, like this, without asking, against will, put a person to sleep? Without asking even my desire? He treats me like a thing!” Discontent and irritation were rising in him more and more, and his mood was shitty since the very morning. He was unbearably infuriated by the plaster on his eyes, the sticky layer was pulling his skin, and in general, waking up in the morning, he just wanted to open his eyes, rub them, but Kors couldn’t do this. The way Nik had treated him yesterday was terribly upsetting now, too. Not only did he make him humbly kneel at the threshold, shivering from the cold, but he also blinded him. “I don’t want you to see my face! You won’t see my human face again!” What a crazy idea? Another stupidity in which there is no point, except for humiliation. Senseless humiliation. However, this is absolutely in their style – to humiliate for no reason and cruelly, always the same thing, nothing new. Lis has to be painted like a jester, I have to be blinded. And Nik does this not for the first time, Kors remembered how for several days he was forced to wear uncomfortable shameful glasses in which nothing was visible, and now even worse, Nik just plastered his eyes over. Silly games of an eccentric, cruel boy. “I don’t punish you, daddy.” Hypocritical rubbish, what else are you doing! You allowed me to be beaten! Kors preferred to believe that it was not Nik himself who hit him, but the prince. And then he simply ordered “sleep” and knocked him out.
Kors felt heat from Arel lying next to him. Their camp bed was not wide at all, it was uncomfortable to sleep on it together even in an embrace, and the heavy brocade blanket with which they were covered with their heads now also was annoying Kors. Under it, together with Arel, it was stuffy and hot. Stuffy, hot and cramped. Kors rather rudely threw off the prince’s arm and sat down. Getting out from under the warmth of the blanket and Arel, he immediately felt the damp coolness of moist air. Down below, a draft blew across the wooden flooring, chilling his bare feet uncomfortably. There was a strong smell of tobacco, yesterday’s lamb, sweat from clothes and unwashed bodies, but the smell of cigarette smoke still reigned over all the rest.
“Nik…” Kors called, but immediately stopped short. “Nikto! Son!” He added cautiously. “Can I address you? I really have to!”
“Hmmm…” Apparently, Nik was lying very close, from the side of Prince Arel, and, it seemed, right on the floor:
