“Nik, do you agree to accept treatment from doctor Cassiel? Can he give you injections of drugs?”

“Vitor, as you say…” Nik barely uttered in confusion, and hearing this answer, the doctor nodded in satisfaction.

“And what about the eye?” Kors specified. “Will you let you close it? After all, then, while your right eye is recovering, you will become practically blind.”

“I see with it…”

“So what? Do you agree?” Kors asked again.

“If you think this is right, Vitor… but only… let you do it. Can you…”

And doctor Cassiel, who was listening attentively to their conversation, smiled understandingly and condescendingly:

“Your ward commander of the unclean ones trusts you, sir Vitor Kors. I will explain to you what needs to be done. This is not difficult.”

“Okay,” said Kors.

“Order him to close his eyes.”

Nik looked at Kors with the eyes of a loyal dog and closed them. Kors’ hands trembled slightly as he sealed his eye in several layers tightly with strips of black plaster.

“Open your eye,” he ordered, finishing, and Nik opened his right slightly slanting eye, “look at me, can you see me?”

“Yes,” Nik quickly looked at Kors, “yes. Everything is fine.”

“Roll up your sleeve.”

While heading to the doctor, Kors assumed that Nik would need an injection. However, he didn’t want Cassiel to stare at Nik’s hands, battered by old ulcers, examining his stupid tattoos of monsters, frozen in a grin, so he wrapped them with black strips of cloth, like bandages, from the wrist to the very elbow. One could only slightly open the desired area of the arm, pushing the fabric apart, and make an injection. Nik obediently pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and shirt, and Kors, having only slightly parted the fabric, quite professionally gave him an injection.

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