Kors, in a fit of feelings, pressed Arel’s head to his chest, pressing on the back of his head in the same way as he often did with Nik, and said with the same passion:
“My poor boy, you didn’t tell me anything during the interrogation, you didn’t confess.”
“You weren’t particularly interested in him.”
“Yes. Everyone believed that he burned down in this chapel. Nobody thought of you. But what about Valentine, Arel?” Kors returned to the beginning of their conversation. “Let me see, maybe he doesn’t look so much like Chester?”
Arel, and Kors noticed this with pleasure, with some regret pulled away from his hand and, taking out the key from his pocket, looked at his frozen slave.
“On your knees! Crawl over here!” He ordered, and Valentine immediately collapsed to the floor.
The helmet completely covered his head and wrapped around his neck, it was tightly laced up and additionally closed at the back with a lock so that Valentine could under no circumstances take it off on his own. However, Valentine would never have dared to do this even without these tricks. Moreover, on his throat an iron slave collar was put, very similar to the one that Nik once wore. Wide and heavy, tied tightly, it covered his neck, resting the upper edge against the chin, not allowing Valentine to fully turn his head.
To remove the helmet from Valentine’s head, Arel first had to loosen the lacing a little. After unbuttoning the lock, he finally pulled the edges of the helmet out from under the collar with some effort.
“Lift your face and look at sir Kors,” he ordered, opening his slave.
Valentine’s face was dirty, because on the campaign Verniy had no time to take care of the boy properly. And Arel rarely gave him the key. But despite the dirt, deep streaks of scars on his cheeks and the absence of one eye, poor Valentine’s clear resemblance to Chester was evident, and no injury could hide it.
Kors shook his head in disappointment.
“Yeah… Arel, it looks like you were right. Damn it! He is practically his copy!”
Arel was silent.
“Maybe we should dye his face with black paint?” Kors suggested thoughtfully, meticulously examining Valentine, who was grimy and pale with fear. “Rub in the dye the way Nurhg does with her slaves? You can ask the unclean ones for paint, for sure they have not only blue, but also black one. Rub it with black paint and hmmm… cut off his nose,” Kors smiled cheerfully at his idea, imagining disfigured Valentine. “With a black face and no nose, he will cease to be like Chester. No, nevertheless an artist died in me, I have this talent, and I passed it on to my son, not Iness,” he laughed smugly.
Arel said nothing, just rolling his eyes slightly. He had heard these endless self-praises of Kors so many times in his life that he had long been accustomed to letting them pass by.
“I’m just kidding, just kidding,” Kors continued as if nothing had happened. “What’s the point in cutting off his nose? You can’t hide his height, but he will be taller than you, and maybe then me. Arel, he has absorbed the best features of true blacks! You look like a mother, you are all like her. And he… This is unacceptable! Wouldn’t it have been easier to get rid of him immediately and quickly and painlessly, since Chester didn’t have time to do this?”
“Yes, he didn’t have time, and I… I just didn’t know about it. When I arrived at the Estate, Valentine was small, sweet and smart. I became fond to him, and then in the Limit, Verniy began to feed him, heal him, and now…”
