The Verse:
Two trees in bloom,
Heavy-hanging fruit above the ocean.
The Vision:
Atlas and Goliath going into bloom at the same time. It’s spring, even if it isn’t. Then I’m in my room, and it’s morning, almost afternoon. Patrick is standing at the window. There’s something different about him; part of his sweetness has ripened into strength. He takes my breath away.
Commentary by Archbishop Co’oal Venesti:
A vision of new life, innocence and rebirth. The foretelling of a sublime new role for the prince.
Commentary by Elma, High Prophetess of Skarsia:
Why would Tara include this in a book of prophecies? She must get off on publicizing Ashtara’s flagrant sexual deviancy.
Commentary by Archbishop Seth:
For additional information, reference “Healthy Sex Fantasy and Fetish amongst the Cu’enashti Nau’gsh” an article published by Tarlach Tadgh that originally appeared in the Journal of Nau’gsh Psychology 11:3 (3609) and was reproduced in the book Eden Blues (3611). Additional information can be found in the subsequent article “Quadruple Fertilization in the Cu’enashti Nau’gsh,” published by Tarlach Tadgh in Xenobotanical Notes 151: 10 (3612).
Commentary by Prince Patrick Fitzroy:
It had been quite a while since I last emanated. First, there was the Combine meeting and the incident with Lilith, then Tara spent a considerable amount of time with Daniel, and after that there were a number of Goliath emanations that she wanted to get to know better. But one evening, she took the amrita, and announced that she’d had a vision, and she’d need Patrick the next morning. Apparently, I and I agreed.
So now, as the sun rises, she sleeps in my arms. She stirs into awakening, smiling. “Good service, for a change,” she says.
“It must be important,” I reply. “What do you need of me?”
“Fuck me,” she says.
I can feel myself flushing. She’d quite possibly had a whim she wanted to indulge before we got down to business – although it certainly wasn’t beyond I and I to emanate just because He wanted to get laid. In fact, considering that I’m part of a tree, sexual motivations are a lot more natural than political ones. Perhaps we’d gotten so wrapped up with humanity that we’d lost sight of the truly important things. Well, whatever the case, I certainly wasn’t going to oppose my wife in this matter.
I kiss her, sliding on top of her, feeling that familiar sensation of being overwhelmed by the joy of her presence. But this time, something is different. Or rather, I notice something I’ve never noticed before. Or rather, I notice that I notice it.
It’s Jack. Usually, at some point, during sex, I think about Whirljack. I’ve always dismissed it as my need for his encouragement. Jack is very sensual – I’m more of a romantic.
Now, however, I can’t help but remember that paper Tarlach wrote. The reason I’m thinking of Jack is because Jack is…suddenly I feel it in my body. I feel it in my branch. I can feel the tiny grains of pollen gathering at the tips of Whirljack’s anthers. He intends to have me, and my stigmata moisten in response.
I can’t help myself. It’s so hot. I’m so hot. I’m a branch on fire. I’m out of control, thrashing in the sheets. Tara feels it too – I’m forcing her metabolism.
“Holy shit, Patrick, what’s gotten into you?” Tara says, rolling on top of me. “Making me come hard and sudden, that’s something Cillian would do. Usually you’re more subtle.”
I can’t catch my breath. “I was thinking about…I was…” I can’t say it. It’s too embarrassing. Too personal.
“Patrick! You’re blushing! What was on your mind?”
Come on, tell her, says Cillian. She’ll think it’s hot. You know she will.
It’s perfectly natural, says Tarlach. Nothing to be ashamed of.
“It’s just…it’s just that…” I blurt it out like an idiot. “Whirljack’s pollen is all over me!”
And then Tara is laughing and laughing, and she says, “Oh my god, Patrick, you’re still hard.” And she sits up and she straddles me and…
I feel it. And it isn’t just Jack. Tara made a joke once about Cillian getting himself off because he would want everyone to see his cock, but that isn’t what happens at all. What happens is that when we become aroused, Callum desperately needs to be dominated, and Cillian is the natural dom. Right now, Callum’s head is between Cillian’s legs, and he’s deep throating. And this happens all the time, but we never really quite pay attention.
No, Cillian isn’t getting himself off, it’s Lorcan in the corner, getting himself off. This is so, so…
Just relax, says Tarlach. It’s all right. Pollen has to come from somewhere.
Relax? With Tara riding me like an antigrav monorail, and this cloud of pollen descending? I’m thrusting so hard, I have to plant the seed into Tara, beautiful Tara who is the center of the universe, my wife whose breasts are hanging into my face, my woman who needs to be taken. I have never felt so completely masculine, and yet my flowers are spreading themselves like little whores, and a fine dust is covering the stigma, pushing its way down the pistil, and I’m passive, receptive, completely a woman being taken by Whirljack and Blackjack and Cillian and Lorcan and Ari. There’s nothing to do but surrender to it.
This time, I feel it through my whole body. It’s never been so good, a rush of energy from the tips of my toes to the top of my head and out through my trembling petals. Tara bends down to kiss me. “Mmmm, that was so good. Exceptional. At this rate, you’ll give Ailann a run for his money.” She rolls off of me, nestling against my chest.
It was. It was really exceptional. My branch will be covered with fruit. It will be bending under the weight, and everyone coming down the strand will notice that the longest branch hanging over the sea is abnormally heavy with fruit, and will know what a slut I am.
In fact, it’s certain to be a memory played over and over again by Tommy and…
And all of them. I’m going to be their sex fantasy. Probably all night tonight, when Tara is asleep, they’ll be rooting around in my branch. Not that I haven’t done it before myself, I mean, I’ve occasionally relived some of the memories in Jack’s branch. I love the feeling of Jack making love to Tara. Come to think of it, I’ve probably pollinated him.
Oh.
Oh oh.
I can’t believe this. I’m budding out.
“Patrick! You’re hard again. Are you trying to kill me?”
“No! Of course not. I just…” But my body is moving without me, and I push myself on top of her. She laughs, and wraps her legs around me.
It’s weird, though, says Tarlach. You were absolutely right. Ari was excited. All of the Goliath emanations were excited. But they’re on another tree. They can’t possibly pollinate you.
Arousal without pollination?!? I knew this would happen if I gave in to my lust. I’ve become a total pervert.
No, says Aran. I’m going into bloom, too. I can’t help myself. There’s too much pollen in the air.
Fascinating, says Tarlach. Your sexual abandon provoked a collateral response from Goliath in your brother’s branch. I’m going to have to write a paper about this.
A small part of me is saying no, nononono, I’m going to die of embarrassment. But Tara is moaning and clutching at me, and now everyone is pollinating, and I’m ready to come like the volcanoes of Volparnu for the third time this morning, and that part of me is saying, go for it, Tarlach, publish whatever you want. Tell everyone in civilized space that PRINCE PATRICK IS THE SLUTSTUD OF THE UNIVERSE.
We may have created a monster, squeaks Evan.
I laugh. Because no matter what Evan says, the little bitch is pollinating, isn’t he?