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Edmund waits.
He waits all winter for Bacchus.
The god can appear in Narnia at any time, really. He's not bound by any timelines or seasons, but Bacchus likes to appear after winter ends, at the height of the Spring Festival.
Bacchus also likes to make Edmund wait.
Edmund thinks, by this point in his life, he should know better than to get involved in the affairs of immortal beings.
Edmund also thinks he'll never learn. So he waits.
***
The Spring Festival is a week-long celebration in Narnia. Days are spent with rituals meant to invoke a successful and fertile season. There are blessings over fields and gardens, the woods echo with the songs of dryads as they come into bloom, there are games, and sports, and feasts, and the whole of Narnia turns out to participate.
Nights are spent celebrating fertility in a different sort of ritual entirely, and it's during those nights that Narnia is truly at its wildest.
It's always during the night when Bacchus first appears.
The Maenads arrive first, signaling the start of the bacchanal. With them comes music and dancing, as the Narnians celebrate the true end of winter. It's a wild romp and it can be dangerous, but Edmund lost his fear of it long ago.
Edmund waits, leaning against a tree in a clearing, listening to the sounds of celebration all around him. Satyrs and nymphs chase each other through the woods, Animals choose their mates, and the fauns dance with Maenads, all drinking wine from cups and bowls that never empty.
The night is dark but the moon and stars are bright, and Edmund can see the celebrations and indulgences all around, and his body tenses in anticipation. Though it's a spring celebration, there's a heady feel of summer in the air — flowers in full bloom, the scent of grapes heavy on the vine, and a warmth that makes it feel like a midsummer night.
Bacchus is near, so Edmund waits.
***
Vines start to climb and circle the tree he leans against, and Edmund knows the god has finally arrived.
Bacchus steps out from the trees and smiles at Edmund, lips full and dark as if stained by the wine that flows so freely in his presence. He's tall, taller than Edmund by a few inches, well-muscled where Edmund is lean and wiry. He's clad only in a loincloth and his dark curls are woven with flowers and stems — all tousled and messy, as if he's already been in indulging in the sensual delights of the bacchanal. His eyes are a bright piercing green, and as he locks eyes with him, Edmund thinks those eyes can see straight through him, can see all of his deepest, darkest desires.
He doesn't think it's some fancy — Bacchus has always had a way of knowing exactly what Edmund wants.
"Hello, my king." The god's voice is deep and rough and wild, and as he approaches, Edmund knows both the thrill of arousal and the thrill of fear. A wiser man might listen to that fear, but as smart as Edmund considers himself, he's always been simple when it comes to Bacchus.
It boils down to one thing: want. Bacchus has always given Edmund exactly what he wants. Even before Edmund could voice, or even think about, those desires, Bacchus has always delivered.
"About time you showed up." Edmund's voice is soft and steady, but his body betrays him — his cock is already straining at his breeches and he knows Bacchus can see the shiver that runs through his body as he stands before Edmund, so close that Edmund can feel his breath warm against his skin, so close that those dark lips are close enough to taste.
Bacchus' laugh is as deep and rough and wild as his voice, and gods, Edmund aches at the sound, aches for his touch, his lips, his hands, his cock. "I think someone is impatient to begin the celebration."
The god snaps his fingers and the vines that circled the tree now twine around Edmund, holding him tight and still. He touches a fingertip to Edmund's shoulders and his clothes fall away, leaving the Just King naked and ready, his cock eager for the pleasures that brief, delicate touch promises.
"Someone has been waiting an entire winter."
The god leans in and kisses Edmund, as fierce and wild as might be expected, all teeth and tongue, and Edmund moans, tasting the heady sweet wine that is the kiss of a god.
"Then I must not keep the king waiting any longer." With that, Bacchus goes to his knees and Edmund watches, panting, as those wine stained lips part and close around his cock, sucking him down deep enough to make Edmund see stars.
He's bound to the tree but if he weren't his hands would be fisting in Bacchus' curls, tugging carelessly. His hips would be bucking, pushing his cock roughly into the god's mouth, with no grace at all. But he's bound so all he can do is moan, sounds spilling from his lips, deep and primal and incoherent .
Edmund had waited through a very long winter, and he cannot wait any longer. Bacchus glances up at him, piercing green eyes full of amusement, and he hums — a wild, high-pitched sound like bees buzzing — around Edmund's cock, and Edmund spends with a wordless shout into the mouth of the god.
His knees go weak, he's panting like he's just run a race, and the vines are the only thing holding him upright when Bacchus lets Edmund's cock slip from his mouth and licks those wine-dark swollen lips. "Now the festivities can truly begin."
Edmund no longer has to wait.