Narnia fic: Tame
Feb. 14th, 2003 03:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ivyblossomTitle: Tame
Rating: R
Pairing: Edmund/Bacchus
sequel to: Turkish Delight
A/N: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
joyouschild for her enthusiasm and encouragement, and to ashkitty for weeping with me and checking on the ending. All errors still mine. Mine, I tell you!
Warning: This is ANGSTY. weep weep weep! It's also the second of a set of three. I can't remember when Narnia got so sexy but I can't write Bacchus as anything other than a sexy, sexy guy. Go figure.
Tame
Bacchus didn't realize Edmund was gone until much later that night, so late the sky had started to turn pink at the edges. He had been dancing with the satyrs and naiads, drinking wine from stone cups and dancing until the valley grew sleepy and quiet. Before Edmund he would curl up between the roots of some friendly tree when the dancing petered out, he would make a pillow of moss and sleep until the sun was high.
He told once Edmund that he could not be tamed. It was at a great feast years before, when Edmund was still young and feral. They would meet at revels and dance together; he the only human who could find them in the dark valleys of the Narnian forests. He had an ear for Bacchus' pipe, he could follow it from miles away. And Bacchus always welcomed him with wine and and a garland of flowers.
"I'm not a man," Bacchus had said as Edmund's wine-soaked tongue worked its way around his ear. There was a jealous edge to his grip, the way his eyes burned and his mouth twitched when the dryads reached for his furs and tugged them off his hips. "I'm not a man, I can't be tamed the way you can."
Edmund laughed. "I've heard that before," he said, "I know it's true. But I am a man, and I can't not want you." Bacchus was charmed. He was like a predatory mate who had fallen into the wrong den; a wolf that falls in love with an swan. But still Bacchus played his pipes a little too loud, cooled his heels on the dewy grass and waited until he could hear Edmund's footsteps in the distance, leading him like torchlight to their revels. He would strip Edmund naked and cover him with flowers, get him drunk on wine so rich and thick he wouldn't need to eat for days. They would dance together in darkness and in moonlight, and make love until dawn.
After a time Bacchus began following Edmund back to his castle by the sea. It was a beautiful place, but Bacchus could not be contained within stone for long. He would creep into Edmund's bed with him, taste him and caress him until Edmund collapsed into sleep, and then climb through the window into the branches of the linden tree. Sometimes he would doze off there, leaves curled around his toes.
He could not be tamed, he would not wake up bound in cotton sheets. He could not do as Edmund did and read reams of foreign paperwork, sit at a desk and solve political problems, entertain dignitaries and conference with giants and dwarves and other, stranger creatures. They didn't speak the same language during the day; it was as though they lived in different worlds. But still he found himself climbing that linden tree after sunset, or leaving a trail of leaves behind him from the front doors of Cair Paravel to Edmund's chambers, carrying an open bottle of wine, a fistful of violets and the marks of dryad lips on his stomach.
His brother and his sisters looked askance, but who were they to complain. Lucy had her fondness for the cloven-footed and Susan couldn't stay clear of the naiads with their wet, transparent skin. Peter, that stalwart captain that he was, kept his fetishes to himself, but Bacchus had heard enough rumours to know that Edmund was perhaps the least wild of them all. Perhaps this is what attracted Bacchus to him, his staidness. His persistence. His jealousy and devotion. Edmund was beautiful and earnest and Bacchus couldn't seem to get to the end of that cup. There was always more he wanted from Edmund, and so he found himself leaving revels and heading for Edmund's bed, to rest his face against Edmund's chest and smell the woodsmoke-clean scent of him. Human. So unique, so mortal.
A few nights before Edmund disappeared, they had found each other between the lantern waste and the river. Bacchus sat back against the trunk of an old willow tree and played on his pipe. Edmund looked tired then and Bacchus noted it. He was man, after all, and men do not live forever. He was not young the way he used to be, his energy was not boundless and all this running in the woods made him tired and sore. Perhaps it was a premonition, an intimation not of Edmund's mortality but of his foreignness, his imminent release back into the world of Man. He was melancholy for a moment, looking up at Edmund, seeing eventualities written in sweat on his forehead. He set his pipe aside and Edmund collapsed into his arms.
His immortal breath was part of his appeal, Bacchus knew that. When Edmund was with him, he became more than a mortal; he could dance for days with the right wine, with Bacchus' breath in his lungs. If he sang the right song, Edmund would not be sore or tired or sad, he would be filled with joy and peace. They would dance through the night again, as they often did. He stroked Edmund's back, he whispered into his ear.
"You," he said softly, like a lullaby, "you could tame me, if you wanted to." He kissed Edmund and breathed youth back into him.
"I don't want to," Edmund whispered back. "I love you."
There was something devastating and ridiculous about the love of mortals. For people who die, they love so solemnly and completely, as if in their loving they could create something that wouldn't perish along with them. They were like miners, searching for gold to cast into their names, something that would remain after them. Edmund loved him so earnestly Bacchus imagined that he could feel the gold pour out of him, forming his initials on Bacchus's stomach: E. P. Love Never Dies. He found it sweet, he whispered those words back. I'll love you forever meant something quite different for Bacchus than it could for Edmund, but Bacchus said it anyway.
Edmund hadn't come to the revel that night, but Bacchus wasn't surprised. His sisters and his brother had invited him to go hunting the white stag. Bacchus knew he would be late at dinner at Cair Paravel, and would probably be too tired to hear Bacchus' pipe. He went alone and danced with centaurs, fed the fawns with kegs of cream and loaves of bread; a dance of plenty for those who would never know want.
But there was tension in the dancing that night, a tremour of something in the air, a misplaced note. He danced savagely, kissed the Maenads around him, and didn't think of Edmund. There would be time enough for the mortal man and his earnest love; there was no end of words Bacchus would whisper to him later when he found him asleep in his stone house. The naiads pulled Bacchus under the water to dance with him, blowing air into his lungs and playing with his hair. He was joyful.
Bacchus arrived at Edmund's chambers just before dawn, expecting to see him sleeping peacefully there. One arm thrown above his head, sheets twined around his legs, his smooth, bare skin so clean and pure, the mortal heat of him pulsing under Bacchus' fingers. He came with violets and wine, but Edmund's bed was empty.
Bacchus was not a man, he was not tame. He was only an immortal, and no great lion would come to him from over the sea to explain. For weeks he combed through the forests, the valleys, the foothills. He climbed mountains and played his pipe, hoping that Edmund would hear him and come running. Bacchus would feed him, nurse him back to health, breathe life back into him. If he found Edmund dead Bacchus even knew how to ressurect him; he had the knife in his pocket, his blood was ready to serve. But he found no trace, no echo, no rumour. He sought out an old Dryad, a seer; she had visions from time to time and Bacchus didn't know who else to ask.
"Yes, he is gone," she said. "He has returned to his people." Bacchus bowed his head. "He will return three times; the first time, he will be a child and will not remember you. The second time he will come to this world but will not set foot in Narnia. The third time he will come back and he will remember, and he will love you. But the third time will come at the end of the world."
Bacchus had always known that one day the mortal man would die, that he would have to live on without Edmund. He had watched countless loved ones die before him, it was the way of their people and Bacchus found it a solemn moment. But Edmund, great King that he was; somehow Bacchus believed without ever thinking about it that Aslan would come to Edmund on his deathbed and make him young again, over and over, so that he would remain mortal but would live forever. He had not imagined that Edmund would vanish.
The old Dryad saw his distress and offered to make him a draught. Willow bark and anemone, werewolf blood and flax. It would make him forget, purge him of his pain. He took the draught with him and went to Cair Paravel, wrapped himself in Edmund's sheets and stared at the bottle. His maenad friends found him there days later, the bottle shattered against the floor and a black puddle among the shards of glass. One is not made immortal to forget, but to remember.
His whispers to Edmund, spurred on by those frantic I love yous, became promises he could not break. I will love you forever is a difficult vow, but Bacchus fought to keep it. He danced, he drank wine and celebrated the joy of plenty, he kissed the maenads and dryads, he made love to the naiad women who dragged him underwater. But when he slept, he slept for weeks at a time and dreamed of mortal flesh, violets, and the feel of linden leaves in between his toes. He became a child on the brink of adulthood, his face still smooth and his hair thick and glossy. Some evenings he curled himself between the roots of ancient trees and played his pipe, waiting for the sound of Edmund's footsteps in the distance.
He didn't count the years, because immortals don't.
Rating: R
Pairing: Edmund/Bacchus
sequel to: Turkish Delight
A/N: Thanks to
joyouschild for her enthusiasm and encouragement, and to ashkitty for weeping with me and checking on the ending. All errors still mine. Mine, I tell you!Warning: This is ANGSTY. weep weep weep! It's also the second of a set of three. I can't remember when Narnia got so sexy but I can't write Bacchus as anything other than a sexy, sexy guy. Go figure.
Bacchus didn't realize Edmund was gone until much later that night, so late the sky had started to turn pink at the edges. He had been dancing with the satyrs and naiads, drinking wine from stone cups and dancing until the valley grew sleepy and quiet. Before Edmund he would curl up between the roots of some friendly tree when the dancing petered out, he would make a pillow of moss and sleep until the sun was high.
He told once Edmund that he could not be tamed. It was at a great feast years before, when Edmund was still young and feral. They would meet at revels and dance together; he the only human who could find them in the dark valleys of the Narnian forests. He had an ear for Bacchus' pipe, he could follow it from miles away. And Bacchus always welcomed him with wine and and a garland of flowers.
"I'm not a man," Bacchus had said as Edmund's wine-soaked tongue worked its way around his ear. There was a jealous edge to his grip, the way his eyes burned and his mouth twitched when the dryads reached for his furs and tugged them off his hips. "I'm not a man, I can't be tamed the way you can."
Edmund laughed. "I've heard that before," he said, "I know it's true. But I am a man, and I can't not want you." Bacchus was charmed. He was like a predatory mate who had fallen into the wrong den; a wolf that falls in love with an swan. But still Bacchus played his pipes a little too loud, cooled his heels on the dewy grass and waited until he could hear Edmund's footsteps in the distance, leading him like torchlight to their revels. He would strip Edmund naked and cover him with flowers, get him drunk on wine so rich and thick he wouldn't need to eat for days. They would dance together in darkness and in moonlight, and make love until dawn.
After a time Bacchus began following Edmund back to his castle by the sea. It was a beautiful place, but Bacchus could not be contained within stone for long. He would creep into Edmund's bed with him, taste him and caress him until Edmund collapsed into sleep, and then climb through the window into the branches of the linden tree. Sometimes he would doze off there, leaves curled around his toes.
He could not be tamed, he would not wake up bound in cotton sheets. He could not do as Edmund did and read reams of foreign paperwork, sit at a desk and solve political problems, entertain dignitaries and conference with giants and dwarves and other, stranger creatures. They didn't speak the same language during the day; it was as though they lived in different worlds. But still he found himself climbing that linden tree after sunset, or leaving a trail of leaves behind him from the front doors of Cair Paravel to Edmund's chambers, carrying an open bottle of wine, a fistful of violets and the marks of dryad lips on his stomach.
His brother and his sisters looked askance, but who were they to complain. Lucy had her fondness for the cloven-footed and Susan couldn't stay clear of the naiads with their wet, transparent skin. Peter, that stalwart captain that he was, kept his fetishes to himself, but Bacchus had heard enough rumours to know that Edmund was perhaps the least wild of them all. Perhaps this is what attracted Bacchus to him, his staidness. His persistence. His jealousy and devotion. Edmund was beautiful and earnest and Bacchus couldn't seem to get to the end of that cup. There was always more he wanted from Edmund, and so he found himself leaving revels and heading for Edmund's bed, to rest his face against Edmund's chest and smell the woodsmoke-clean scent of him. Human. So unique, so mortal.
A few nights before Edmund disappeared, they had found each other between the lantern waste and the river. Bacchus sat back against the trunk of an old willow tree and played on his pipe. Edmund looked tired then and Bacchus noted it. He was man, after all, and men do not live forever. He was not young the way he used to be, his energy was not boundless and all this running in the woods made him tired and sore. Perhaps it was a premonition, an intimation not of Edmund's mortality but of his foreignness, his imminent release back into the world of Man. He was melancholy for a moment, looking up at Edmund, seeing eventualities written in sweat on his forehead. He set his pipe aside and Edmund collapsed into his arms.
His immortal breath was part of his appeal, Bacchus knew that. When Edmund was with him, he became more than a mortal; he could dance for days with the right wine, with Bacchus' breath in his lungs. If he sang the right song, Edmund would not be sore or tired or sad, he would be filled with joy and peace. They would dance through the night again, as they often did. He stroked Edmund's back, he whispered into his ear.
"You," he said softly, like a lullaby, "you could tame me, if you wanted to." He kissed Edmund and breathed youth back into him.
"I don't want to," Edmund whispered back. "I love you."
There was something devastating and ridiculous about the love of mortals. For people who die, they love so solemnly and completely, as if in their loving they could create something that wouldn't perish along with them. They were like miners, searching for gold to cast into their names, something that would remain after them. Edmund loved him so earnestly Bacchus imagined that he could feel the gold pour out of him, forming his initials on Bacchus's stomach: E. P. Love Never Dies. He found it sweet, he whispered those words back. I'll love you forever meant something quite different for Bacchus than it could for Edmund, but Bacchus said it anyway.
Edmund hadn't come to the revel that night, but Bacchus wasn't surprised. His sisters and his brother had invited him to go hunting the white stag. Bacchus knew he would be late at dinner at Cair Paravel, and would probably be too tired to hear Bacchus' pipe. He went alone and danced with centaurs, fed the fawns with kegs of cream and loaves of bread; a dance of plenty for those who would never know want.
But there was tension in the dancing that night, a tremour of something in the air, a misplaced note. He danced savagely, kissed the Maenads around him, and didn't think of Edmund. There would be time enough for the mortal man and his earnest love; there was no end of words Bacchus would whisper to him later when he found him asleep in his stone house. The naiads pulled Bacchus under the water to dance with him, blowing air into his lungs and playing with his hair. He was joyful.
Bacchus arrived at Edmund's chambers just before dawn, expecting to see him sleeping peacefully there. One arm thrown above his head, sheets twined around his legs, his smooth, bare skin so clean and pure, the mortal heat of him pulsing under Bacchus' fingers. He came with violets and wine, but Edmund's bed was empty.
Bacchus was not a man, he was not tame. He was only an immortal, and no great lion would come to him from over the sea to explain. For weeks he combed through the forests, the valleys, the foothills. He climbed mountains and played his pipe, hoping that Edmund would hear him and come running. Bacchus would feed him, nurse him back to health, breathe life back into him. If he found Edmund dead Bacchus even knew how to ressurect him; he had the knife in his pocket, his blood was ready to serve. But he found no trace, no echo, no rumour. He sought out an old Dryad, a seer; she had visions from time to time and Bacchus didn't know who else to ask.
"Yes, he is gone," she said. "He has returned to his people." Bacchus bowed his head. "He will return three times; the first time, he will be a child and will not remember you. The second time he will come to this world but will not set foot in Narnia. The third time he will come back and he will remember, and he will love you. But the third time will come at the end of the world."
Bacchus had always known that one day the mortal man would die, that he would have to live on without Edmund. He had watched countless loved ones die before him, it was the way of their people and Bacchus found it a solemn moment. But Edmund, great King that he was; somehow Bacchus believed without ever thinking about it that Aslan would come to Edmund on his deathbed and make him young again, over and over, so that he would remain mortal but would live forever. He had not imagined that Edmund would vanish.
The old Dryad saw his distress and offered to make him a draught. Willow bark and anemone, werewolf blood and flax. It would make him forget, purge him of his pain. He took the draught with him and went to Cair Paravel, wrapped himself in Edmund's sheets and stared at the bottle. His maenad friends found him there days later, the bottle shattered against the floor and a black puddle among the shards of glass. One is not made immortal to forget, but to remember.
His whispers to Edmund, spurred on by those frantic I love yous, became promises he could not break. I will love you forever is a difficult vow, but Bacchus fought to keep it. He danced, he drank wine and celebrated the joy of plenty, he kissed the maenads and dryads, he made love to the naiad women who dragged him underwater. But when he slept, he slept for weeks at a time and dreamed of mortal flesh, violets, and the feel of linden leaves in between his toes. He became a child on the brink of adulthood, his face still smooth and his hair thick and glossy. Some evenings he curled himself between the roots of ancient trees and played his pipe, waiting for the sound of Edmund's footsteps in the distance.
He didn't count the years, because immortals don't.
