Ви Корс - The Mist and the Lightning. Part 15

“Kors, don't be a naive idiot, eh?”

“Alis… but why are you starting again?! Is it possible to talk to you normally for more than five minutes?”

“If you don't like it, don't talk!”

“I am tired of your arrogant tone and insults!”

“I don’t give a fuck what you are tired of.”

“I don’t intend to endure your rudeness any longer!”

“Yes, you endured in life, Kors,” the Lis laughed, “he does not intend to endure, look.”

“Alis… I warn you one last time, change your tone, otherwise I will not answer for myself!”

Lis put out his cigarette and looked defiantly at Kors with his yellow eyes:

“And what will you do to me? Well?”

“The demon only tried in vain, ennobled your disgraceful appearance, inside you remained the same uneducated red-haired half-blood!”

“And you are still haunted by my appearance. You don't think I notice how with a disgruntled face you always look at me. Are you jealous?”

“Pf… what am I jealous of? Your peasant roots?”

“Or do you like me now? Do you want to suck on my peasant root?”

Kors’ hands involuntarily clenched into fists, but he restrained himself and, turning away with a contemptuous look, went to the exit from the living room.

“It's all? And where are you going, old fuck?”

“Well, that's enough for me!” And, before reaching the door, Kors turned sharply and rushed at Lis, who seemed to be just waiting for this. They clashed fiercely, and Kors was no longer the noble black who had been struck by the poke of a half-blood commoner. He was embittered by previous humiliations and now made it clear that he also knew how to defend himself and fight for his place under the sun. He – Vitor Kors – was a true black, despite the nobility and spoiledness from a prosperous, calm life, he was still not a weakling and not a rag about which anyone with brute force would wipe their feet. Throwing away all his good manners and no longer thinking about them, he beat with all his might and was in no way inferior to Lis. They rolled on the floor, grappling like two animals, like two commoners from the filthy pub in the Lower City. Kors was taller and stronger physically, because initially he grew up and lived in more favorable conditions, and Lis was still weakened and didn’t fully recover after being healed. Moreover, Kors rejected all the rules and decency, letting go of his nature, which had long demanded an exit and from the inability to respond to the Demon's humiliation only accumulated, now reaching a boiling point and exploding. Karina realized with horror that her father was killing her Lis, and he couldn’t do anything, obviously underestimating the enemy. But she didn't know how to intervene. Kors threw Lis away so that he crashed into a wall with shelves, knocking them down, and old books and bottles of some kind of potions and dye rained down on him. They smashed against the stone floor with a clang, splattering Lis with specks of paint. A massive brass candlestick was the result of their fight, falling down from above and hitting Lis right on the top of the head, so that Lis lost consciousness.

Karina, screaming, rushed to her beloved:

“Father, stop it!” she cried, falling to the floor near her Lis and lifting his head, peering into the whitened face and trying to see through the dense fabric hoe he felt.

Kors moved away, straightening his hair, his chest was shaking, he was breathing heavily and he was shivering.

“Lis?! Lis!” Karina called, but Lis didn’t move, his face was deathly pale, a thick dark-burgundy trickle of blood flowed from under the roots of his hair onto his forehead.

Karina turned to her father:

“What have you done?! You killed him!”

Kors himself seemed frightened when he saw such unusually motionless Lis, but he stirred with a groan and opened his eyes.

“He has nine lives,” Kors said as he walked up to them and abruptly lifted the upper part of Karina’s cape to reveal his face.

There were tears in her eyes full of reproach:

“You crippled him!”

Lis raised himself awkwardly, leaning his back on the smashed closet, looked with a slightly dull look at the candlestick lying next to him, and, slightly bending his head, put his hand on which drops of blood fell. He unconsciously put his hand on the top of his head smashed by the candelabrum. He looked up at Kors, trying to understand what had happened now and why this noble weakling had managed to beat him.

“Lis, honey, how are you?” sobbed Karina.

Lis looked at her, then back at Kors.

“Don't you dare touch her,” he said quietly, but still defiantly, “she is no longer yours!”

Kors looked at them with contempt.

“I just wanted to make sure her face wasn't broken again. But now! Go both to hell! Do what you want!” He turned away, walking away from them to the table.

"Do you think I'll leave it to you like that?" Lis tried to get up, he was shaking, the blood was already flowing in a stream, pouring over his face and dripping onto the floor.

“Gods, we must call at least Verniy! Verniy! Verniy!” Began to call Karina, Lis looked at her so that she, catching his gaze, froze and hastily covered her head and face with a cape.

Lis, limping and crunching the fragments of the bottles with his boots, hobbled to the table, on the way he came across Arel, who was indifferently sitting near the chair of Nikto.

“Go away from here!” Lis snapped, but Arel didn’t move.

“Oh, you, another noble creature!” Lis growled and, from where the strength only came, grabbed Arel by the hair and poked his face on the floor, dunked it directly into the black puddle of the spilled dye. Arel clearly didn’t expect this, and Lis, not sparing his hand, dipped it in paint and roughly pushed Arel across the face. Arel tried to push him away with his hands, the skin on his face turned black, the dye hit his eyes, making him hiss in pain.

“What are you doing?!” Kors threw away the glass of wine, which he calmed down, and again rushed to Lis, pulling away from Arel:

“You’ll burn out his eyes, you idiot!”

“Nothing will happen to him,” snapped Lis, he looked at his now black hand and walked away.

Kors jumped to Arel, removing his hands from the black face, the whites of the prince’s eyes also turned black.

“Everything is correct, it serves him right!” Said Lis. “This is your true face, Kors! It smells of both of you so much that you will live forever with soot on your face! Noble blacks!”

“Your head is out of order, Alis! You are dangerous to society!”

“Get away from me and Karina!”

Verniy ran into the living room, he saw bloodied Lis and said with emotion:

“Sit on a chair, quickly, I'll take a look.”

Kors pulled Arel’s forearm:

“Let's go from here, prince, we have nothing to do among half-bloods and dregs.”

And Lis followed them with a long, hard look.

Chapter three

Kors brought Arel to his room and sat him on the bed. Arel was silent, he lowered his head and covered his stained face with his palms, on which there was paint as well. Kors felt his pain, the way the dye was now stinging in his eyes, like soap had gotten into them. These sensations were so vivid that tear began flowing from Kors’s eyes involuntarily. He was surprised that Arel didn’t twitch, didn’t rub his eyes and didn’t ask for anything. Kors rushed to his bag, where the first-aid kit lay, found an anesthetic and moistened several pieces of gauze with it, having previously cut it with a knife, making something like tampons. He put them to the prince’s eyes, gluing them on top with wide strips of black plaster, feeling how the pain in Arel's eyes passed, releasing him.

Kors gently ran his hands over his head.

“You will feel better now. The burning sensation will pass.”

Kors sat down on the edge of the bed next to Arel and hugged him, Arel didn’t move away. Kors stroked him, caressing and undressing him carefully. He wanted to kiss his prince, but the piercing prevented him, long spikes didn’t allow him to touch Arel’s face. Kors covered them with his palm, pressing the hated jewelry tightly to his chin, which made his lip curl down a little. So he touched Arel’s lip, in which the cork was sticking out.

It was only a pathetic resemblance of a kiss, but Kors hesitated to pull out the plug. He just shook it slightly, realizing how tightly it was inserted into the incision and fearing that even if he managed to pull it out, he would definitely not be able to insert it back. Kors feared taking out the “decorations” of the Demon, he feared that he would take his actions for willfulness and insubordination. So, kissing awkwardly, Kors tried to console disfigured Arel, who, due to the evil act of Lis, had completely lost his human appearance.

“Everything will pass,” whispered Kors, gently running his fingers along his back, stroking the painted black wings, gently running his fingernail between the shoulder blades, noticing how Arel involuntarily arched a little in pleasure, apparently without even realizing it. But Kors saw that the prince reacted to his touches, and they were pleasant to him.

“I think that in a couple of days, vision will be restored,” said Kors, continuing to gently stroke Arel.

With a black face, a deformed mouth and nose, blinded by the dye, Arel was silent. Accustomed to being mute, he only breathed, opening his mouth, and Kors involuntarily touched the ring in his nose, feeling how deeply and tightly it was thrust in, blocking the air and slightly widening his nostrils. Still holding his jewelry with his hand, Kors continued to gently touch the prince’s face with his mouth. Arel tried to respond to his light and gentle touches, he didn’t succeed either. Kors pulled away in frustration.

“Arel, do you love me?” He asked quietly. “Answer, you can speak now, don’t be silent.”

“Yes,” Arel answered simply.

And Kors gladly hugged him:

“Forgive me for throwing you away. Forgive me for not appreciating your love,” Kors squeezed him more and more in his arms, “forgive me…”

Arel pulled back and lay on his side on the bed:

“It's all in the past,” he said slightly nasally, from behind the ring. “Don't ask for forgiveness, words don't matter, nothing else matters, and I'm not human anymore.”

“No! You are human! And now I understand what it is like to be rejected, to wear shameful makeup on your face. How did you manage to withstand it all these years? I can't imagine.”

Arel was silent.

“And still you were a handsome prince. Always. Everyone called you that.”

Arel smiled slightly, his spoiled lip getting in his way:

“Stupid handsome prince,” he said, “that's what they used to call me.

Kors sadly walked away from him, looked at himself in a large mirror: Nikto strongly blackened the skin around his eyes, on his cheekbones and chin, seemingly carelessly smeared light gray and dark gray dyes on his face, roughly, as if he was not painting with a brush, but with fingers, but Kors couldn't help but agree that at the same time it suited him. It didn’t spoil him, and in spite of everything, he looked albeit creepy, but at the same time impudent, very brutal, a gloomy dangerous warrior, and… still noble. The ideal features of a born sir couldn’t be distorted by any paint. He was an outcast warrior, mysterious, dark, dangerous. No, nevertheless, Nikto really had the talent of an artist, however, his canvases were human bodies, but Kors almost resigned himself and didn’t fall into such a panic about his spoiled body as before. He undressed slowly, examining the bruises. Lis beat him quite harshly, and it looked like Kors dislocated his arm. His back and scapula ached unbearably, radiating into the sternum, and this made Kors feel as if his heart ached: “I need peace, just a little peace,” he thought. “Too often I have been experiencing physical pain and discomfort lately. My body is constantly being rudely used, I began to live on wear and tear. I was recently beaten by the Demon, and here it is again… if it continues like this, I won't be all right until the age of eighty as I planned. From all this beatings and fights, drugs and strong stimulants, I will become weak and turn into a wreck. Such a life is not for me.” Kors felt uncomfortable, at the same time offended and ashamed for succumbing to Lis’ provocation, acting like a stupid boy. Lis was simply toiled with boredom and wanted to let off some steam, and Kors took everything seriously, pounced on him like a madman. After all, Lis could kill him, on his belt, as usual, knives and weapons of the reds hung. If only he wanted to! But Lis didn’t even think to do this, he just wanted to fight, not seriously, and Kors almost killed him! And if he killed Lis?! What would he tell the Demon? After all, they are one whole. As Lis says, fingers of a fist. And Kors was such an idiot! He just had to leave, and not butt with an inadequate half-blood. Who, by the way, perfectly controlled himself and didn’t inflict serious injuries on Kors, and Kors… at that moment he forgot about everything – about the Demon, and about the Mission, and about the fist. He wanted to tear Lis to pieces for real, and now he was ashamed of it. He just joked about him, teased him, and he threw himself into a fight like a fool, and now burgundy bruises were again filling his body and his arm hurt unbearably. How to fix it?