The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19 - стр. 16

“What are you looking for?”

“Water!”

“What?”

“Just water. I’m thirsty, my throat is dry.”

“Have some wine.”

“I don’t want wine!”

“Vitor, stop your whims.”

“I just want to drink a couple of sips of clean water, do you think this is a whim?”

Nik somehow wearily sighed, but didn’t answer. Kors realized that he was mentally calling his Verniy, because very soon he stumbled into their tent. His cloack was wet as the rain still hadn’t stopped. The dog’s head was covered by a helmet. Ver didn’t take it off, he stopped at the threshold. Kors saw his bestial eyes gleam in the narrow slits of his helmet.

“Ver, Vitor needs water,” Nik said without even looking at his unclean habir. He turned his hand palm up, and seemed to carefully examine the inside of the wrist.

The dog turned to Kors.

“What kind of water do you need, sir? Should I bring a bucket of water for you to wash up?”

“Is there any drinking water?” Kors asked.

“I haven’t gone to the spring yet. But the buckets have stood in the rain all night, they are full. Can you bring rain water? She is clean.

“Pour it into the kettle and boil it properly,” Kors ordered, “I won’t drink raw water from a dirty bucket!”

“Okay, sir,” and Ver turned around and left.

“Though I can wash myself, too,” Kors muttered. His mood didn’t improve, and he thought he could still smell the scent of Arel’s body on his skin. The smell left over from the prince’s strong embrace and his hands. It remained on Kors’ body, on his back, his shoulders, his chest. Everywhere that Arel had touched him. Kors looked at Arel. He was half lying relaxed on the trestle bed, the golden blanket almost sliding down to the floor, exposing his muscular torso, his oblique abdominal muscles, and part of his thighs. The prince had another bottle in his hands, and he took a sip from it.

“Arel, don’t mix up the bottles,” said Kors, “I put that one away, of course…”

“Very funny,” he snorted indifferently, and lazily tousled a long lock of his smooth dark brown hair back out of his face.

“Well, I’m just not sure you’d know the difference, it’s just habit, you know…”

But Arel only smirked indulgently with his lips covered with a thick layer of black dye, glinting in contrast with the white jagged edge of a chipped front tooth. He took another sip from the bottle and gave an audible burp, unresponsive to Kors’ jabs, but still as gorgeous and uncommonly attractive as ever.

Kors shook his head judgingly, but habitually:

“A descendant of royalty, indeed.”

He involuntarily continued to admire Arel, knowing that he didn’t give a damn about the impression he was making on those around him.

Kors glanced at Nik. Strongly tightening his forearm with a black cord, he somehow miraculously found a living vein on his arm and managed to inject himself, injecting the drug just below the elbow bend.

“Nik, maybe you can lie down with Arel, cover yourself with a blanket?” Kors suggested. “It’s cold on the floor, I feel it with my feet.”

“I don’t feel cold. I’m not cold,” Nik said. Kors called him Nik, but he didn’t correct him.

“Just because you don’t feel cold it doesn’t mean you have to lie in a draft.”

“I don't feel cold,” Nik repeated, leaning toward his box again.

So he took care of his slaves in their still human bodies, put them gently on the bed and covered them to keep them warm, but he didn’t care about his own body, just lay down on the floor, on the skins.