Page 209 of Seer Prophet

Well. Some of it, at least.

He left some of it to play in the sand storm, dancing in the wind and light, casting shadows across dunes as heat created mirages of mirrored lakes inside dimpled strips of desert.

The seer looking at him exhaled, his eyes and voice still patient.

“Are you still trying, brother?” he asked gently. “As we discussed?”

Feigran felt something twist into a different shape around his living light, a broken, snaking current like a hose shooting water, no hands to hold the squirting end.

Perhaps that part of him was thirsty.

Perhaps it needed a drink.

His mouth and face bent into the expected positions.

“Of course, father.” He smiled, bobbing his head. “Of course.”

The tall, skeletally-thin seer watched Feigran’s face.

He didn’t change expression.

Feigran felt the scrutiny though, the skepticism. He flinched where it touched him, his light flickering around that of the skeletal male as he made his demeanor as submissive as he could. He would be easy. Pliable. Squishy and soft to make shapes for the pleasure of the father. He would do whatever the father wanted.

He would do anything, really and truly.

Waggy tail, happy dog…

He smiled wider at the seer with the skull-like face, the long, iron-gray hair.

Waggy, smiley dog. Doggy will do anything, anything, anything master. Doggy will lick your cock and fetch your slippers and wag his tail and bark when you say bark, as long as you don’t smash him. As long as you don’t set him on fire…

Menlim let out a patient-sounding sigh.

“Do you have everything you need here, brother?” the old seer asked.

Feigran looked around where he stood, confused by the question.

He looked at his leather couches, his sunken living room, the fireplace that needed air conditioning to balance its heat, the original paintings and glass sculptures. He knew servants waited for only the touch of a button––servants he knew he could call in here to suck his cock, or beat one another to death, if the mood struck him.

There was a jacuzzi bathtub with lots of bubbles.

A modified guest bedroom in the suite served as his walk-in closet––now filled with racks of designer garments and shoes.

Looking at the solid gold wall-hanging of the sword and sun over his bookshelf of original books, with leather spines and real paper pages, Feigran smiled, gesturing fluidly with one hand across the expanse of the high-rise apartment.

“What is there to need, father?”

“Do not humor me, Terian,” Menlim warned, gauging Feigran’s amber-colored eyes. “This is too important.” He paused, his voice growing more meaningful. “I will deny you nothing, my brother, as long as you retain your loyalty to me.”

Feigran smiled wider.

Smiley, waggy dog…

“You wish them back, do you not?” Menlim said.

His words broke into Feigran’s light, scattering the sunshiny trails.

“Your sister, War. Your daughter, little Kami.” Menlim studied him with those lifeless, yellow eyes. “…Your brother, the Sword. You want him back perhaps most of all, yes?”

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