Work Text:
The White Witch had accidentally starved the human creature again. It was so easy to do. It needed fed so often, and now it was older it didn’t cry and beg for it.
She still seethed at the ruination of her plan. When she realised her powers had weakened she’d taken ther human prisoner Between the Worlds instead of confronting Aslan. There they had wandered for a long time, visiting this pool or that. She no longer knew how long. She didn’t age of course, but the human…
The Witch looked at it as it swayed on its feet and felt a surge of rage. Somehow, during their wanderings, the human creature had grown older. It was full-grown now, and had needed a new suit of clothing. She had provided one, and a new collar too, ugly and just slightly too tight. She had meant him to look ridiculous, but there was something kingly in his bearing that she could not quite suppress however she had him dressed, and it angered her.
She should have killed him long ago, but the idea of using him had grown and grown in her mind. As a bargain, as a puppet king controlled by her. Anything to defeat that prophecy and Aslan.
She had found her way to the Garden in the end, the call of it nagging at her as it always did. She had toyed with the vague idea of making the human creature immortal. That would surely break the prophecy in some way and they would rule all Narnia once the other humans died.
She had found the tree, dragging the human behind her. It seemed more terrified here than it ever had been with her, and that was enraging enough. And now it was all taking longer than she had hoped. She had tried forcing an apple into its mouth, but it only gagged and spat, which disgusted her. She hit it - but not too hard, because it had a pleasant enough face - and when it had woken up from that, she tried again.
It would eat the apple in the end, this Son of Adam. It was starving and desperate. She only had to wait.
Xxx
Edmund sat under a tree and watched as the Witch set off through the garden. He was too weak to move and the ache in his stomach made it hard to stand. He had been bleeding, but it had stopped, though he felt too dizzy to ever stand up again. After she’d tried to force him to eat the apple she’d hit him a few times then tied the chain firmly to a tree. Edmund knew without trying that he wouldn’t be able to unfasten it.
He wondered if she would feed him soon. She usually did in the end. He was – for now – worth more to her alive than dead. He felt a helpless surge of anger with himself and with everything. His mind dwelt again on the ruined prophecy of Cair Paravel. Were Peter, Susan and Lucy kings and queens anyway? He had grown, but were his brother and sisters still children back in Narnia? Or had they aged too while he’d been dragged from world to world?
The Witch left an apple within his reach, the scent of it terrifying in its sweet lusciousness. She had smiled at him; one of those slow, sultry smiles which had bewitched Edmund in the first place. They sickened him now.
“I have business here,” she had said. “I’ll return for you.”
She had disappeared a while ago. But yet, Edmund felt that strange prickly sensation of someone watching him.
He sat very still and waited. After a moment the clump of trees near him swayed and parted, and a young man appeared.
Edmund knew in an instant this man was a God. Not because he was fearsome and terrible, but because he was more beautiful than anything Edmund had ever seen before. The chestnut curls, the strong lean body and his crown of vine leaves gave him the look of a tree sprite, but there was a wild, wicked edge to him that unsettled Edmund enough to make his breath come faster.
And he was looking at Edmund, his dark eyes sweeping him from head to foot and back again.
“I know you,” he said. “What is your name here, Son of Adam?” He walked gracefully across the forest floor and sank down beside him.
“Edmund,” Edmund said, feeling silly and very young. He should have a heroic name for a moment like this.
The young man repeated it a couple of times, rolling the name around his mouth. “Yes. I am Bacchus, or Dionysis. Or…” He leaned forward, intimate. “Some call me the Ram.”
Edmund swallowed.
“Why do you have this?” Bacchus said, rubbing a thumb across the collar.
“I’m a slave. I belong to a witch,” said Edmund shivering a little at the touch. “I was to be a great King. But I betrayed...well. I’m a traitor so I belong to her now.”
“The Witch of Winter,” Bacchus said to himself. “She has you. No wonder I could not see you. You have been between the worlds then?”
“Some of the time,” Edmund said. “Look here, how do you know me?”
“I am looking here with great pleasure,” Bacchus said, a dimple showing in his cheek. “But you seem…” he ran a finger down Edmund’s face and then his neck, parting his shirt and revealing the painfully prominent collarbones. “You are wasted away.”
“I’m hungry,” Edmund said faintly.
“You must eat,” Bacchus said, all concern.
“She won’t feed me anything but the apple. And I don’t want to eat it. It’s wrong, it’s even more wrong than the wrong things I’ve already done.” This Edmund knew more deeply than anything.
“You will live forever if you eat it,” Bacchus said smiling, his white teeth a contrast to the brown of his skin.
“I should hate it.” Edmund felt a lump in his throat as he said it, like the sulky child he had been before all this.
“Immortality is not the worst thing,” Bacchus said, frowning a little. “And you are not well. I mislike it.”
He held his cupped hand to Edmund’s mouth. It had filled with luscious-smelling wine. “Drink. Quickly now.”
Edmund wanted to, his whole body crying out for it. But... “Is it magic?” he whispered.
“It is not made by a mortal. But not bewitched. I am the one bewitched,” Bacchus said with a merry laugh, and a long look at Edmund.
Edmund, dazzled, opened his mouth and Bacchus tilted his hand and poured wine onto his tongue. It was rich and restorative and better than any meal Edmund had ever had. He can feel himself healing and strengthening with every swallow. He brought his hands up and grasped Bacchus around the waist, not wanting it to stop, his tongue lapping at the palm of Bacchus’ hand. Bacchus’s full lips were apart and his breath was coming fast, and Edmund couldn’t help but be aware of lithe muscles and the warmth of his body only inches away. The Ram , Edmund thought. Oh, god . And all the strange feelings he has ever had surged up in him as though he’d never managed to suppress them at all.
He stopped drinking at last and wiped his mouth and they looked at each other.
“Why do you think you know me?” he asked again in a low voice.
“I have known you a long time,” Bacchus said. “Old and young, in this world and that. But no matter. You feel it though?”
“I don’t know,” said Edmund, though the feeling that he knew Bacchus was unfolding inside him; comforting and exciting at once. “Are you sure you mean me?”
“Why else would you come to be here?” Bacchus said, as though this was the simplest thing in the world. “And now you have drunk my wine, in this place. This is important. Now you have a choice.”
“What sort of choice?”
Bacchus shook his head. “It is not for me to say. But you can eat this apple if you wish,” he waved a careless hand at it. “This temptation is not important any more. But now – to another. I liked your hands upon me, Edmund.”
It was not quite a command; Bacchus' face was too merry as he said it. But there was an urgency and a want to the words which made Edmund recklessly put his hands back around the young god’s naked waist.
“Like this?” he said, his chest rising and falling.
Bacchus inclined his head in a small nod and leaned forward. “Like that. But tighter,” he said, and kissed him.
Edmund’s fingers tightened convulsively on Bacchus’ warm skin as he gasped at the touch. It was a lingering kiss; firm and practiced and gave Edmund just enough to long for more. And then he remembered.
“It’s you,” he said, eyes wide with wonder.
“It was always me,” Bacchus said. “Though I do not know how glad you should be.”
Edmund jumped as some birds rose from the trees nearby, cawing.
“She’s coming back,” he said. Bacchus placed one last tingling kiss on his neck, just above the collar.
“Be strong Edmund,” he said. “Winter is always defeated by Spring.” And with a wink, he melted back into the trees.
Edmund wiped a hand across his lips in case any sign of the wine or the kiss remained. He felt energy fizzing in every limb. He saw the Witch appear. As she approached she smiled, and he saw her bared teeth stained red.
Xxxx
Since Bacchus had fed him, Edmund was more resistant to her treatment of him. He was still low, but not despairing any longer. He was weak, but not wasting. He held the secret of Bacchus tightly to him, but he wished desperately for him to come back.
His memories of Bacchus were still fragments, as though he couldn’t quite manage to get his mind to accept anything about it. But Bacchus had been the jolly gardener’s boy he had spoken to on lonely days at school when he’d hated everything and everyone. He’d been a childhood friend who’d appeared when Edmund had rowed with Peter and Susan (and Lucy had been too young to play with). He’d been there between the worlds too, though Edmund couldn’t quite catch the memory of where. He would have a choice, Bacchus said, and he hadn't sounded very happy about it. But what could be worse than this?
The Witch was restless again, Edmund sensed it. They had stopped their travels for now, and were back in the wood between the worlds. She’d disappear for hours. Sometimes he’d overhear her repeating some bit of magic over and over, and growing angry when it didn’t work. He could feel Narnia pulling at him, not in the way the Witch dragged him by his chain, but like an exciting ache. He wondered if she felt it too. It made a change from being so jolly miserable and frightened that he could hardly think.
One day (although what was a day in this place?) she disappeared into a pond for an age and came back triumphantly with a book and what looked like a compass. Edmund tried to crane his neck to see what they were, but received a tug of his chain for his trouble, leaving him gasping, his eyes tearing. After that he only watched quietly, on his knees where she had left him. She was weaving some magic around the compass, but every time it pointed North.
North.
“We will return to Narnia,” she said, at last. Edmund thought she looked afraid.
xxxx
It was the end of summer in Narnia when they arrived, though which summer, Edmund couldn’t tell.
But the Witch and her slave found out all they needed to know from the chattering Narnian birds. The High King and the two Queens had taken their thrones, but the fourth sat empty, even ten years on. The prophecy hadn’t been fulfilled, and though they reigned fairly and the era had been named the Golden Age, there were murmurs in some dark corners that they weren’t the true Son of Adam and Daughters of Eve that they had been promised.
The Witch smiled horribly to hear this. “We could take two of the places,” she said to Edmund, yanking him close to her by his collar. “Which of your sisters do you prefer?”
“You’re not a true queen of Narnia and never will be,” Edmund choked, and was hit for his trouble.
Afterwards the Witch blinked angrily at the sun. “Enough of this Golden Age,” she said, and they began to walk.
Edmund could see signs of a ripe harvest in the small homesteads they passed. Little ripples of music and laughter reached him. The Witch’s hold on Narnia was thoroughly gone, and had been for a decade. She had made a terrible mistake in leaving with him instead of staying and facing Aslan, that was clear as the blue sky above them. His spirits rose.
They reached the top of a gentle hill which looked down upon a forest glade.
“Hmmm,” the Witch said, holding her wand aloft and sending out an answering stream of music that made Edmund flinch. But although it quieted the birds briefly, it had no other effect. The Witch glared around her.
“He is here somewhere,” she said.
Edmund heard his approach before he saw him. The sound of “eu-oi-oi-oi” floating towards them and a carpet of vines was all of a sudden beneath their feet. And then Bacchus was there, surrounded by his followers. His lips were reddened with wine, and there were flowers among the vine leaves in his dark hair. He was so wildly pretty that Edmund felt an ache - that mysterious horror he had felt before, but this time mixed with longing.
Bacchus’s dark eyes sought Edmund’s and Edmund looked back helplessly. Bacchus gave him a slight nod, and turned to the Witch.
“What’s this?” he said.
“A Sacrifice,” she said with a cruel laugh.
Edmund thought his heart would stop.
“For what purpose?”
“To place me where I should be - on the throne,” she returned.
“Why would that follow?” Bacchus said.
“You leave. The harvest spoils,” she said. “Winter returns, and Narnia starves. Their young King and Queens will have failed their country, the prophecy is proved false - and I will rule.”
“And what does this gain me?” Bacchus said, his voice a little dangerous.
“This is a King,” she said, dragging Edmund forward. “We take it to the Stone Table and kill it there - you know what that means. And for Narnia...well, the prophecy is broken.”
Bacchus looked at her silently for a long moment. To Edmund it felt like being observed by a wild animal who might pounce.
Then to Edmund’s terror, he nodded.
The Witch shoved Edmund forwards, making him stumble. He felt dizzy with fear.
“The Sacrifice is unwell,” the young god said, looking Edmund over. “You have treated him ill.”
“What does it matter? It is only to die,” the Witch said.
“Still,” Bacchus said. He turned to the assembled crowd. “We will revel for three days and three nights!” he announced.
“And then?” said the Witch, furious with impatience.
“And then the Ritual,” Bacchus said. “Now, leave him. He is for me now.”
The Witch hesitated. “You will kill it,” she said, but there was a question in her voice. She wrapped Edmund’s chain around her wrist.
“If you want the Harvest to fail, you must give me this Sacrifice. You cannot have both.” Bacchus gives her a long look. “He has a far greater claim to the throne than you.”
She shrank back a little, though she raised her chin defiantly.
“I will stay till it’s done,” she said.
Bacchus gave a small shrug, as though this was of the least importance. His follower surged forwards, forcing the Witch to back away. She flung the chain as hard as she could, trying to strike Edmund, but Bacchus caught it in his hand instead. Then she walked away quickly.
Edmund stood still, trying to breathe. His mind whirled through a million possibilities. How would he kill him? It would be bloody, he thought, but perhaps not cruel. Bacchus took hold of the chain tightly and Edmund closed his eyes, waiting for him to yank on it, but Bacchus merely turned the chain to leaves which blew away in the breeze. He did it casually, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and as though Edmund’s whole body wasn’t shaking. He felt tears of relief thicken in his throat and made a small, strangled sound for he hated to cry.
“Here,” Bacchus said, and turned Edmund to face him. He rang a finger along the collar, which turned to a spray of ivy and fell away.
Edmund let out a shaky breath of relief. Bacchus stroked the tender skin throat where the collar had been, making him tremble even more.
“You’re afraid. You’re right to be,” Bacchus said.
“Are you going to kill me?” Edmund burst out.
Bacchus took hold of Edmund’s shoulders to steady him. He looked directly at him.
“You will be the Sacrifice,” Bacchus said. “But this is magic she cannot understand. But there will be the Ritual, and it is hard for humans to bear.”
“You do know how to reassure a chap,” Edmund said, trying to smile.
“Do I?" Bacchus said with a merry look. He glanced up at the trees around them.
“You must rest beforehand. You will sleep and recover here. I shall make you a bower. Sit - watch me. I like to be watched, and I think you like to look at me too.”
Edmund did, sinking gratefully to the ground. He watched as Bacchus bent the branches of two birch saplings, weaving their branches together. It was soothing to watch him. Ivy grew over the arch of branches, making a roof to the shelter which let in dappled light. The floor of the bower was layered with fine, soft earth, and Bacchus summoned two of his followers with soft blankets and pillows.
“Here you will regain your health, Edmund,” Bacchus said. “Please be at ease here.” He helped Edmund into the wonderful safety of the shelter he had made. Edmund sat down on the softest fabric he had ever felt. Bacchus looked down at him.
“Don’t go away yet,” Edmund said without thinking, and Bacchus gave him a smile that made Edmund’s stomach flip, and sat down beside him.
“I am at your disposal,” he said.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Don’t you care that I’m a traitor?” Edmund said abruptly.
Bacchus shook his head. “I am not a God of vengeance or forgiveness. The treachery hurts you, not I. But tell me of it,” he said. “It will help you, I think.”
So Edmund did, and as he spoke it felt like having the poison drawn from a wound. He could see what he’d done, but for the first time, he could also see the boy who had done it. A boy brutalised by school, frightened and lashing out. Not an excuse perhaps, but a reason.
Bacchus said nothing afterwards, but wiped the tears from Edmund’s cheeks with his thumb and kissed the places they had been. Edmund wondered why it was so easy to let him.
“Can you tell me what the Ritual is?” Edmund asked. “I haven’t any idea.”
Something flared in Bacchus’ eyes that made Edmund’s throat constrict - whether with fear or excitement he couldn’t quite tell.
“I must have you before my revellers,” he said, his voice low. “You are Innocent, which is all the better for the Ritual. But I am not sated easily, and I hope you can endure it.”
“Have me?’ Edmund said, turning over all the meanings of ‘ innocent’ he could think of.
Bacchus leant over him, placing a hand lightly at the base of Edmund’s throat. He swept it down his chest, over his stomach, then pushed it between his legs. Edmund’s heart stuttered and he let out a little moan of surprise.
“Have you,” Bacchus said. “Here.” He pressed his hand hard against Edmund, making no mistake of what he meant. “I will try very hard not to hurt you.”
A memory came to Edmund of a library book at school about the ancient Greeks. There had been a depiction of a grecian urn, “Bacchus and a satyr” which the enterprising librarian had pasted a chaste square of paper over. Edmund had picked and picked at that bit of paper for days until eventually he had peeled it away and was able to see the lewd, beautiful, terrifying picture of the two male creatures, doing something Edmund didn’t want to understand and yet wanted desperately to do. If the drawing had been correct, Edmund thought, almost laughing in his nervousness, then he’d probably die from Bacchus’s cock anyway.
Despite everything, he felt himself harden under Bacchus’ hand and Bacchus smiled again and kissed him. Edmund pulled away, embarrassed of his arousal, and Bacchus moved his hand away.
“Wait,” Edmund said, somehow not wanting Bacchus to retreat.
“My touch is welcome, then?” Bacchus said, and Edmund felt himself blush furiously. Instead of replying he kissed Bacchus again, mostly to hide his flaming face. Bacchus kissed back, deep and long, until Edmund was gasping and arching underneath him. But Bacchus gently stopped things.
“I must begin the revels,” he murmured against Edmund’s lips, pulling away.
“Shall I stay here?” Edmund said breathlessly.
“Yes. You are a most welcome temptation,” Bacchus said. “But I must resist until the Ritual. Please be at ease here. You will be fetched when you are needed.”
With that he dropped a kiss on Edmund’s forehead and left the bower.
And so for the next two days, Edmund found himself left alone. Not in a vile sent-to-Coventry way, but a sort of luxurious, beginning of summer holidays way. He watched the revels from a distance. He was brought food and drink. He slept a good deal, and walked in the forest. He looked out at the view and wondered if that great Palace was where his brother and sisters were.
The bone-deep weariness from being afraid all the time - of the Witch, but also from before that, when he had been at the school he had hated, with the promise of violence just beneath the skin of every interaction. That furious, defensive terror began to dissipate.
If it wasn’t for the matter of being the Sacrifice.
The third night of the revels arrived and Bacchus’ maenads came for him. He’d heard the singing and the drumming for hours, and it had reached a climax when Edmund realised they were at the doorway.
They led him gently through the glade to an open space where the stone table stood. It made Edmund shiver to look at it. This was where the Witch had planned to take him and kill him before, of course. He remembered his brother and sisters talking about it with the Beavers - he could almost taste the nasty lingering flavour of the enchanted Turkish Delight as the memory flooded back.
There were crowds more revellers here now and a forest of nymphs and shadowy creatures just outside the reach of the firelight. Lanterns were strung everywhere over the vines, and he tried desperately to see Bacchus, but couldn’t. He wanted to bolt back to the safety of the bower. But he kept walking forward, and when they told him to undress, he did. And when they told him to lie on the table, he did that too, staring giddily up at the stars. He could feel the carvings on the table press into his naked skin.
Immediately his wrists and ankles were held by vines. Not in a way where he felt imprisoned, oddly, but just a gentle, firm hold to keep him in place. He took a breath and looked around him.
Edmund realised that not all the maenads were girls. Some were boys, just as beautiful and wild, with long hair and bared limbs and hips wound around with vines. They surrounded him and attended to him, oiling his skin, painting his eyes, crowning him with leaves. One boy unwound the cloth at Edmund’s waist and bared him entirely. Then he oiled Edmund everywhere, Edmund’s cock hardening at his touch.
“Lift up,” the boy said, his green eyes darting to Edmund’s, shaking back his long black hair. Edmund lifted his hips not quite understanding.
The boy began to stroke him in places he could barely think about. His finger circled Edmund’s hole, pressing in a tiny bit then withdrawing, and stroking all around again, before repeating it. It was maddening. Every muscle in Edmund’s body was tensed, his breath coming in gasps. More oil was poured over him, and then the boy gave some light strokes to his cock before stopping and concentrating his touches between Edmund’s legs. It was far too much.
“Stop,” Edmund managed. “Please. Or I’ll…”
“You are the Sacrifice. You must be ready,” the boy said, his hands relentless. Edmund squirmed and let out a moan. “Try to be calm.”
But then the boy slipped an oiled finger inside him. Edmund’s whole body clenched around it, and he cried out and came over his stomach in streams. The boy laughed with delight, though not unkindly. Edmund closed his eyes in shame.
“What’s this?” he heard someone say. Edmund opened his eyes again, breathing hard.
“I barely touched him,” the boy said, his face merry. He was speaking to a satyr. “I was only making him ready.”
The satyr smiled at the boy, playfully cuffing at his head. “Be more careful then,” he said. “Now make him clean. And not like that!” he said, as the boy bent to lick Edmund’s stomach.
The boy smiled and bit his lip. “He’s beautiful,” he said.
“And he’s for Bacchus,” the satyr said, just a tiny bit dangerously. He wound his hand in the boy’s long dark hair and pulled. “Come away.”
The boy pouted a little but did not seem disturbed by this rough treatment. He wound his arms around the satyr’s neck and let himself be lifted up and into the dance.
Edmund wondered if Bacchus would pull his hair like that when he took him and flushed red at the thought.
Another maenad came forward to clean him, and Edmund closed his eyes and willed his body to behave. His cock was still relentlessly hard when she’d finished and the combination of his restraints, his nakedness and the anticipation of what was going to be done to him kept him that way.
The noise of the drums and dancing had quieted. An excited hush had fallen over the revellers and Edmund opened his eyes again.
The crowd had parted and two satyrs approached holding lanterns aloft. Just behind them was Bacchus, walking with his usual easy grace. But there was something else in the way he held himself; he was more god-like than Edmund had seen him. He was familiar and terrible and strange all at once. Edmund watched him approach from between his own oiled thighs, gleaming in the lamp light.
He sprang up onto the Stone Table and stood above Edmund, looking down through a tangle of curls.
Edmund tried to hold himself still under this gaze but could not help a squirm. The crowd cheered at this but Edmund paid little mind - he couldn’t look at anything but the young god above him. Before Bacchus he’d never thought of another man as beautiful, but that’s what Bacchus was. His dark skin was gilded with firelight, every muscle picked out in light and shadow. There were gold-tinted vine leaves wreathed in his hair, and his lips were full and reddened with wine. He held a knife loosely in one hand, and his Thyrsus in the other.
Bacchus’ eyes were dark and impenetrable as he looked back at Edmund, examining him from top to toe. He placed the knife he held on one edge of the table and his Thyrsus on the other. Then in one movement he tore away the cloth at his own waist, and Edmund saw what he would have to take. He swallowed, hard, and stared. Bacchus ran his own hand over his cock, making it stand up even harder, if that was possible.
Edmund dragged his eyes up to Bacchus' face and saw his pleased expression before he knelt, pushing Edmund’s thighs apart.
“They have made you even more beautiful for me,” he said.
“Oh...oh do dry up,” Edmund gasped.
“Dry up? Whatever would become of my wine?” Bacchus replied with a laugh. Then he wrapped his hand around his great, hard cock and pushed forwards.
Edmund moaned and struggled as the head of Bacchus’s cock began to breach him. A drum beat had started up, and the dancers were in motion, their strange song filling his ears. He felt the vines wind more tightly around his ankles and then around his thighs, holding them wide. He panted, trying desperately not to cry out.
He dared to glance up at Bacchus.To Edmund’s shock he looked vulnerable, his face open with pleasure and desire.
“I have wanted this,” Bacchus gasped. “You cannot know how much.”
Bacchus' naked want for him changed everything. Edmund moaned again, but from pleasure this time. Bacchus was still pushing into him, but his body was taking it, his own cock hardening against his stomach. He tilted his hips, trying to spread his thighs as wide as the vines would allow. Bacchus slid all the way in with a gasp and Edmund rocked his hips again.
“You…” Bacchus began, and Edmund kept moving because it felt wonderful, and Bacchus drew back and then thrust in again, matching his rhythm. The drum beat matched both their movements and the dance around them got faster and faster until they couldn’t keep up.
Bacchus began to pant, his dark curls falling across his forehead. “I...cannot…” he ground out suddenly, then thrust hard a handful of times and stopped with a cry.
A roar went up as a vine burst from the earth, arching up over the dancers and plunging back down on the other side, laden with fruit.
“Bacchus, it was Bacchus first!” came the cry, followed by laughter and more cheering.
“It cannot have been.”
“It was, it was! Look at the vine!” There were more howls of delighted laughter.
Bacchus, who was still panting against Edmund, began to chuckle too.
“What is it?” Edmund managed.
“I am the Ram,” Bacchus said, looking down at Edmund with a bemused smile. “I do not finish first. Not ever. Everything is different with you, it seems.” He bent down, giving Edmund another thrilling, tender kiss.
“Am I not tending to you, Edmund?” he said in a low voice that Edmund could feel deep in his own body. “You have not reached your climax. What is it you want?”
“K-kiss more more,” Edmund stammered. “I want...that’s what…” He could feel Bacchus’s cock swelling and hardening against him. Again, so soon? Bacchus pushed back inside him and Edmund twisted against his bonds.
“You must continue,” Bacchus said, stroking his hair gently, but keeping the full length of his cock deep inside him. He rolled his hips and Edmund felt his body accepting him all the way.
He began to kiss Edmund, his tongue slipping into Edmund’s mouth, tasting of the sweetest wine. He matched his kisses to the movement of his hips, penetrating Edmund’s mouth as deeply as he was his arse. Edmund’s cock was catching against the muscle of Bacchus’ stomach in the most tantalising way and he groaned at how good it felt.
“What noises you make,” Bacchus said, thrusting hard. Edmund couldn't stop watching him, with that full mouth and the curls falling over his face. He was leaning back a little now, his cock pressing on a spot inside Edmund which was driving him wild. He could hear himself making little sobbing noises and knew he was pushing back onto Bacchus as hard has Bacchus was pushing onto him, but he was so close...
Edmund threw his head back with a cry and climaxed hard around Bacchus’s cock.
The fruit on the vine burst with a shower of wine, and the dancers ran to play underneath it, whooping and crying out thanks to “The Sacrifice.”
“There you are,” Bacchus said a little smugly, rubbing Edmund's spend over his stomach. Edmund couldn’t speak at all, not even to respond to such cheek.
Bacchus withdrew his great cock from Edmund only to flip him onto his hands and knees and begin again. Edmund gave a whimper of protest and felt Bacchus’s hands firm on his hips.
“I am so sorry my dear,” he said, kissing a little path down Edmund's back. “I told you it would be hard to bear. You must go on. It will continue until dawn.”
With that he began to thrust inside him in a much rougher way than he had before. Edmund braced himself and took it as well as he could manage, but on all fours like this he was so much more aware of the crowd and how on display he was. He closed his eyes as Bacchus finished again, his come beginning to leak from Edmund down his thighs.
And it went on. Bacchus took him again on hands and knees. Then Edmund was on his back again, legs hooked over Bacchus’s shoulders. Another climax. Another celebration from the revellers. Two maenads came over and held Edmund up so that he could seat himself on Bacchus’s cock as Bacchus lay underneath him, and it was so, so much that Edmund made a huge deal of noise and came hard over Bacchus’ chest in only a few seconds, to Bacchus’s great delight. Bacchus went on to climax twice more that way, his hands cupped beneath Edmund’s arse, driving up into him.
The revellers had taken their cue from the god and his Sacrifice, coupling all over the hillside, tangled in vines, crying out with pleasure, or crying out for more wine.
"Can we stop?" Edmund begged. "Just for...just a few minutes."
“You know we cannot. Here, like this,” Bacchus said gently, arranged Edmund back on his knees. Wrapping a strong arm around Edmund’s chest. Bacchus pushed back inside him, reaching beneath to pull at his soft cock.
“I can’t again…” Edmund moaned. “Please.”
“Till dawn,” Bacchus said, and kissed the nape of his neck. Then he pulled Edmund back onto his cock until he was fully impaled, before beginning to fuck again. Edmund was too far gone to do anything but hold on and whimper. He glanced up at the sky, which was lightening at last. His whole body was trembling with exhaustion. He barely noticed the satyrs drawing close.
“We want his mouth now,” they said to Bacchus. “It’s time.”
“You will not,” Bacchus said, voice dangerous. Edmund felt glad he couldn’t see his face. “Not this one.”
Most of the satyrs drew back, but one bold one drew his thumb across Edmund’s lips. “Just once,” he said. “He has a wonderful mouth.”
“Not. This. One,” Bacchus said in a voice so terrible it shook all the fruit from the vines above them. The satyr stumbled backwards and disappeared into the crowd. Edmund caught a quick glimpse of the Witch at the edge of the crowd, watching intently.
Bacchus withdrew from Edmund once more.
"Hold still," he said, pressing two fingers inside Edmund where his cock had just been, and making him moan. "You are open enough now I think."
He reached for his Thyrsus and Edmund began to breath hard in anticipation. There could be no doubt what was coming and the revellers knew too, pausing in their own debauchery to watch.
Bacchus laid a hand on his back. With his other hand he lifted the staff topped with ivy leaves and a pine cone. Throwing back his head he gave a shout which was echoed across the revels and vibrated right through Edmund's body. He screwed his eyes shut and concentrated on not panicking. Then he felt the first cold nudge of the staff at his entrance and gave a small cry.
"Be calm, dearest," Bacchus said. "It will not damage you. But we must do it."
"There's no 'we' about it," Edmund ground out, before being unable to speak at all. Oh, it felt so big. It might not damage him, but it was stretching him so wide that all Edmund could do was moan and beg deliriously. He couldn't possibly take it, it was so cold and hard and...he felt his body give way as the top of the staff push all the way in, his body gripping it, and his soft cock spurted with a strange half-climax as it did.
"Oh!" he managed.
"You are very beautiful," Bacchus said a little breathlessly. "Now hold it inside you. Do not let your body release it."
Edmund managed to look up at him, his arms and legs trembling. Bacchus' eyes were dark with desperate arousal, his cock hard and dripping. He pushed the head of it against Edmund's lips and Edmund opened up and accepted it as though he'd been ordered to. It stretched his jaw wide and he swallowed helplessly as Bacchus began to thrust into his mouth. The staff began to slip and he clenched down on it, causing his cock to jerk again with another small climax. He moaned and Bacchus gave a great groan and pushed in deep making him choke and grab at Bacchus's thighs. He couldn't imagine how debauched he must look with the staff deep inside his arse and a cock deep in his throat but his press of it inside him kept his body in a constant state of climax. He came endlessly in wave after wave as Bacchus held him by the hair and fucked his mouth. Then Bacchus gripped his hair tightly and cried out, his cock pulsing in Edmund's mouth, spilling his come over his tongue. Edmund swallowed and swallowed, holding the Thyrsus inside him with all the strength he had, even though his body tried to push it out.
Bacchus's cock slipped from his mouth, soft at last. He knelt, reaching over and pulling his staff gently out of Edmund’s aching body. Edmund's arms gave way beneath him and Bacchus pulled Edmund against him. "The sunrise is here," he said quietly, kissing Edmund's temple. Edmund saw the first finger of sunlight rise over the horizon and let out a breath of utter relief. He would be content to lie in Bacchus's arms for days.
But in one horrible movement, Bacchus reached for his knife.
"What are you doing?" Edmund said. "What..."
"I'm sorry," Bacchus said.
“No,” Edmund croaked, trying to move away.
Bacchus held up the knife, weighing it in his hand. “We must finish it."
“Don’t,” Edmund begged, tears starting in his eyes. Bacchus gave his head a tiny shake and the vines sprang back to restrain Edmund. The crowd had risen to their feet, watching and waiting, the Witch at the forefront.
“Please - don’t,” Edmund begged.
“Remember what I told you,” Bacchus said softly. “Remember the garden.”
But Edmund was too panicked to remember anything. He fought the vines, cried out as loudly as he could. He heard the Witch laugh loud and long.
Bacchus placed a kiss very gently on Edmund’s forehead and Edmund felt tears escape the corners of his eyes at this horrible tenderness.
Then he drew the knife across Edmund’s heart.
Edmund couldn’t even take breath to scream before Bacchus slashed the knife across the palm of his own hand, blood and wine spilling from the wound. He placed it against the cut on Edmund’s chest, their blood mingling.
“This is magic she does not know,” Bacchus whispered as Edmund stared up at him, panting for air. His head cleared for long enough to realise that the wound on his chest was only a shallow one, before Bacchus swiped a finger in their blood and began to draw.
He swiped symbols across Edmund's torso, around his nipples, on his stomach. He drew in blood on Edmund's forehead and Edmund could feel it run into his hair.
"Now you," Bacchus said, releasing Edmund's wrists. He pressed Edmund's fingers against his bleeding hand, then pushed them against his chest. "A circle. Another. Keep going," he said as Edmund obeyed in terror. As he closed the third blood-wine circle, he felt the magic flow into him.
He felt possessed, in every meaning of the word. He was not in his own body and yet he felt as though his own body belonged to Bacchus now in the most profound way. And yet, Bacchus belonged to him too. Everything fell away, and was just the two of them, together, with nothing entwining them but the magic. He knew everything Bacchus knew, and Bacchus knew all of him. It was too much, like falling at a thousand miles an hour, but Bacchus caught his hands held him close, and with a surge of happiness, Edmund kissed him.
The Witch screamed horribly and fell to her knees.
Bacchus gave Edmund the knife and suspended as he was between Bacchus’ thoughts and his own, he knew what he had to do. He swiped the tip of it in both of their blood.
“For Narnia,” he said as he stabbed the knife deep into the carvings of the table.
The Witch screamed again. She staggered to her feet and began fighting her way through the crowd who made no attempt to stop her, before disappearing into the depths of the forest.
Edmund collapsed against Bacchus and things became a blur for a while. He felt Bacchus swing him up into his arms and carry him away from the remains of the revels. Then he was him back in the bower and laid him gently down there. He was sticky and stained with Bacchus’s seed and blood and oil, and more exhausted than he’d ever felt in his life.
But the feeling of misery didn’t last long. He felt himself being cleaned with soft cloths, his wound tended to, and the bright eyed maenad from before even taking time to smooth salve inside him which stopped a lot of the ache. And best of all, Bacchus hadn’t disappeared. He stayed with Edmund, holding him, talking in a low voice, telling him how brave he'd been and how strong. Edmund’s head was spinning with it all.
As the followers melted away into the forest, he lay back beneath the branches and stared up at the rising sun, and Bacchus who was looking down at him.
“A bower quiet for us, and a sleep; Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing,” Edmund said. “Goodness, where did that come from?”
“Then let us sleep,” Bacchus said, lying down beside Edmund and drawing him close. Edmund felt a different ache then; one of the deepest affection he had ever felt.
“Look here though,” he said. “I mean…” He wasn’t sure exactly how to put it into words. Instead he took Bacchus’ hand and placed it over his heart. “Do you feel it too?”
Bacchus nodded. He looked at Edmund, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “I have always felt it.”
“But what can we do about it?” Edmund said a little desperately.
“As much or as little as you wish,” Bacchus said, though he looked sad as he said it. “Even though we are so entwined, it is your choice. I have no claim to you. You can live as a man, if you wish. My wine is in your blood, and you will live a long life for a human - but you would still be human nonetheless.”
Edmund looked at him carefully. “But if I chose that, would I see you?” he asked.
Bacchus was silent for a moment, then shook his head.
“It would be hard for me, Edmund,” he said. “I have loved a mortal before and swore not to again.”
He loved him. That was something to think about.
“I can’t not see you,” he said.
“The Ritual forced this on you, don't forget,” Bacchus said. "You may not feel so close to me by the time the sun sets. And you are still much more human than immortal yet."
“We were close long before the Ritual,” Edmund argued. “You said so yourself. Even if I can't remember, it seems I have jolly good taste.”
Bacchus laughed and he looked so pretty that Edmund kissed him. And went on kissing him for rather a long time, until he interrupted himself with a yawn.
“You need not decide now, when you are so exhausted,” Bacchus said, pulling him gently against him. “You will have many things to decide in the coming days.”
Edmund tried to think about the terrible things he’d have to do, like facing Peter and the others, and getting crowned in front of a great crowd of Narnians who knew what he’d done to his siblings, and might very well know what he’d done tonight too. He decided he didn’t want to think about any of it while Bacchus was wrapped around him. He nestled his head against Bacchus’s neck.
“I am tired,” he said. “And I ache in places I don’t want to mention. Gosh, those Greek urns really got it spot on, size-wise.”
“Got what spot on?” Bacchus said.
“Never mind, I don’t want to inflate that head of yours any more,” Edmund said, wrapping his arms around him.
“You have the most strange way of talking, Edmund my dearest,” Bacchus said. “It is just as well your face is so charming.”
They lay in silence for a while, thoughts of the future, his duty, his responsibilities and possibly his penance rattling around in Edmund's head. They'd have to find the Witch of course, and make sure she'd left Narnia if she hadn't already. And that would be up to him, of course. It all felt overwhelming.
“If I’m crowned I don’t see why I shouldn’t just do as I please, as long as I make amends and do all my royal duties,” he burst out, his thoughts getting too much.
“And what would please you?” Bacchus murmured into his hair.
“You of course," said Edmund. That, at least, he was something he was sure of.