narnia sideblog of @madnessiseverything; atlas; ao3; ko-fi. my pevensies are written as fae beings, which influences all my posts about them. most stories can be taken as literal as possible. they are not metaphors.
thinking about helen pevensie and the thing wearing her daughter's skin she's let into her house. there is something cruel in those eyes, and something entirely too cold about that mouth. in the rain, it moves wrong. in the fog, it goes grey.
this is a porcelain doll, painted to look like susan would have, if she never cried. if she never bled and never raged.
if she never screamed.
if she was perfect, and without blemish, without heart.
thinking about helen pevensie and the loaded gun she scruffs daily by the collars of shirts he has long since grown out of. thinking about the trigger under her fingertips that she can't even make out the shape of. thinking about the safety clicking and the careless pointing
thinking about the fights peter pevensie, once upon king and grown man, gets into with english schoolboys, who do as boys do. it is 1941 and the world is on fire.
Your face is a blank slate. Susan's mouth and Peter's eyes. Lucy's nose, and the cut of Edmund's cheekbones. Or, perhaps: Lucy's cupid's bow. Peter's Adam's apple, Susan's tongue. Edmund's teeth.
Do you spare the rod, do you spoil the child?
Do you use the belt, buckle first, on just the boys?
Did you stitch men together or did you render boys apart, those years you spent shaving shrapnel in the middle of a horror that looms ever worse?
Your hands are as steady as they've ever been. They shake so badly that your wife's pen is your own.
The sight of your eldest, with his gunmetal eyes and that world-weary mouth does not phase you. He reminds you of that commanding officer who never yielded.
When you watch your daughter, the elder, arrange herself into a neat pile of limbs and a neater pile of correspondence, do you think, suddenly, violently, of the way Helen's grandmother once looked at you, when you asked for her hand? Were you just a lad, then, or already a grown man?
Was she pregnant yet?
(An aside: Do you creep into that bed like it's something to conquer, or do you sink into it as though it was something to share?)
Are you deep-chested and charismatic, would you, too, stay the line against a wolf as long as you are tall? Broader, too. Are you a graver and quieter man than that, is it your tongue Edmund carries in the hollow cavity of his mouth?
Was it you who soothed upset tummies and teething gums? You, who dripped condensed milk by the dropful into Susan's little mouth when she wouldn't take to the breast? Was it you who shaped something sharp and unforgiving in your children?
You, who gave to them the shape of an alysum to drape over Lucy's shoulders?
You might be the most doting of husbands, the most loving of fathers. You might not know your children enough. Have they changed? Christ, Helen, they're children. They're fine. You might leave too early, and stay out too long.
You might wear your wedding band, and turn it over in your hands until it is smooth and shining. You might have dropped it into your wife's jewellery box in 1926 — or seven — and never touched it at all.
Have you realised yet?
It does not matter. You are, truly, window dressing, and who cares for the exact shaping of the lace curtains that need laundering and bleaching twice yearly? They're there. That's all that matters.
You are husband to Helen Pevensie. You have, perhaps, fathered four children. You served in the British Army during the second World War. When you returned, you returned to a changed home.
"if you need a hand, im here" + edmund, please! i absolutely adore your writing
Brother, sweet. Brother, dear. Mind not the trembling of your hands or the soft points of your shoulders where the skies drip into your flesh. The blood running from the crown of your head to the swell of your mouth is just blood. It's just water and salt, sugar and iron. Can you pick out the taste, still, or does your spit run pink, by now, when you part your lips for the dictation?
Your hands are shaking, brother. Your brow lays, heavy and wet, atop sky-blown eyes, and that nose that never healed quite right. Your muscles are waning, brother, and in the night, the stars gather in the slack you leave between slumped shoulders and measured breaths.
Come, now. Let me be your breath. Give me your words, and your ink, and the cruelty we have both inherited from a smear of a mother we can barely remember, and a sister whose eyes are sharp, and bright, daily. Mind not the stiffness of the paper and the wetting of my lips. It is not pity.
It is sympathy.
I am your flank. I am the quiet, steady foundation for your knees to rest on. If you let me, I will make the softest of places for you to land on. You have handed me gavel and quill, and my life in Lucy's iron-wet hands, so I will unhinge my jaw and the petulant, spitting thing I still nurse in the darkest corners of myself, and-
-put down the grinding skies for a moment, Peter. If you need a hand, I'm here.
I look forward to the day when we can meet one another in our true nakedness, stripped free of unresolved emotions, pain-induced projections, the distortions of duality. For too long we have been on opposite sides of the river, the bridge between our hearts washed away by a flood of pain. But the time has come to construct a new bridge, one that comes into being with each step we take, one that is fortified with benevolent intentions and authentic self-revealing. As we walk toward one another, our emotional armor falls to the ground, transforming into the light at its source. And when we are ready, we walk right into the Godself at the center of the bridge, puzzled that we ever imagined ourselves separate.
Constantly obsessed with the concept of a man forced to be a myth. What do you do when every step you take is embedded into the text. Every word you say prose to read. You're part of something bigger than yourself. The narrative tugs you along like water currents. There is no time to rest, to be human. You must be great, you must be legend
helen pevensie: the children you sent away are never coming home. (inspired by @quecksilvereyes)
"winter love" h.d. // the chronicles of narnia: the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe (2005) // the pietà, michelangelo // an oresteia, trans. anne carson // @/eternaldroplets // "two minutes" the amazing devil // stranger things 1x03 // jeremiah 31:17 // "slipping through my fingers" abba // bed of oyster shells, hollis brown thornton // the haunting of hill house 1x09 via personallbest // "good bones" maggie smith // the chronicles of narnia: the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe (2005) // "chords" the amazing devil
the thing is—well. there are too many things, susan thinks. far too many, in fact.
there is their mother's watery eyes, her nervous wringing of hands until her knuckles are rubbed raw; all because lucy had looked at their newly returned father and asked him his name with a bright smile.
there is their father's tight smile, the way his jaw shifts over and over again while he darts his eyes around for anything that might remind him of how things used to be; all because edmund walked right past him to hug peter first.
there is the persistent itch on her fingertips, a distant pain that keeps sending needles through her skin; like her memory clings onto phantom callouses that she will never gain in this grey prison.
there is lucy's tangled hair and her mother's scissors resting on the living room cabinet, neither in sight as she kneels on the floor and picks up the pieces of porcelain that broke between lucy's temper and her mother's desperation.
there is the drawer of knives that edmund makes sure to lock every night while peter's back is turned to pour their parents tea, and the tightening of their mother's grip on the table cloth when she catches him.
there are the dreams; the nightmares full of blood, of a valley full of bodies, of crumbling stone and her siblings sobbing; all followed by the knowing yet confused look in their father's eyes whenever one of them screams themselves awake.
there is their mother, twisting susan's hair into curls that susan's hands forgot how to form while susan hides her tears from the woman who looks too much like susan's reflection ought to; the way susan's nails dig into her palm every time their mother marvels at the young woman she is turning into as though susan has not done this all before and isn't itching to tear her own skin apart to reveal the adult beneath.
there is lucy and edmund, heads shoved together and lips pressed into thin lines while they recover from their father's new haircut; there is the way that she sees peter like he ought to be out of the corner of her eye and brief elation quickly turns sour in her throat when their father stands in the door instead. there is their father's poorly hidden hurt every time they look at him and apologise halfway through a sentence meant for their brother.
there is the fact that susan can no longer bear the taste of certain fruits, all stale compared to what she wishes she could place in lucy's open palm; the fact that everything feels like ash on her tongue and she has to leave family meals once a day to scrape it all off her tongue. the fact that the only tea she still can bear is the one served from her brother's shaking hands and with her sister's soft humming mixed into the sugar.
there is the way susan can never get warm, no matter how long she curls up in the wandering path of england's wrong sun; the way lucy gets restless the longer she remains locked away from her sea, or how edmund refuses to stop climbing the trees and falling asleep in them. there is the way peter shrinks in on himself, carrying a sky not made for his frame.
there are just so many things. susan hopes her mother doesn't find the lists she keeps of it all; of the slip-ups, of the coping mechanisms, of the belts full of teeth marks and the shattered mirrors, of the nighttime pleas—susan keeps it all.
the how is quiet, a deserted place full of dust and low-burning fires, the cheer of hard-won battle left lingering on the threshold of this ancient place.
in front of a long-cracked stone, caspian falls to his knees before the high king of old. he breathes narnian wine out into the dim light, and stares up into amber-blue eyes that hold every shade of the narnian sky.
freshly calloused hands reach out to hold up his chin, to push back at his hair. the very life of narnia hums where kingly skin meets his, where fingertips brush over bruised jaw and cheek, over cut and bleeding lip. a soft smile with the very world in the corners of a cracking mouth lets the fires around them burn anew.
"you must learn to stand rather than kneel," peter says, amusement a melody that burns caspian's skin. "a king cannot stand on buckling legs at every turn."
"i will learn," caspian whispers, too afraid to break whatever spell has come to rest on them. "i swear."
sword-weary hands tug at his head, then brush down to his shoulders to pull him up. "then you ought to start tonight. the throne does not wait."
peter's voice is gentle, yet feels like teeth atop his ribcage. caspian wishes nothing more than to be pried open by the king-turned-boy and back again. he wants nothing more than for narnia to consume him, heart and all. but he is afraid.
"can't i start with the rising sun?"
peter laughs, turns them ever so slightly, and pushes caspian to sit where the legends saw aslan sacrifice his body to the creeping ice. caspian's body turns tense, awe a potent paralysis, when his tired, wine-drunk eyes watch a myth come true slowly get on his knees before him.
"what are you doing?"
peter's night-and-morning eyes crinkle at their edges. his teeth seem bloodied and sharp. "you must learn to be kneeled to."
caspian wonders if his heart will break through his chest like the fleeing bird it seems to be. "i have been kneeled to my whole youth."
peter shakes his head, reaches out a hand to settle on caspian's shaking knee. "it is not the same."
and caspian knows it can't be, because there is a weight pressing down on his shoulders that he's never felt before. suddenly, it feels as though an enormous beast is bearing down on every inch of him, snapping teeth at his neck and talons digging into his thighs. caspian gasps. in front of him, peter looks on with a smile.
"learn to stand," peter repeats, his voice a blade beneath caspian's chin, "weather the strain." his mouth is stretched wide with teeth that do not belong to the image of a boy, his presence a wall before caspian's trembling body. there is blood where his eyes ought to be. his stare remains unrelenting.
a beast in front, and a beast behind. caspian shakes. "it is too much."
peter laughs, then, still kneeling but looming above like an ancient tree, a cavern stretching far beyond what caspian can see. "stand," he commands again, his voice coming from all around. "stand, caspian, or fall."
there are fangs scraping down caspian's spine, something hard prying its way beneath armour and skin. he takes a breath. something growls.
when he stands, his legs tremble. he doesn't dare to take a step for fear of losing his balance on what suddenly seems like a sword's edge beneath his feet.
but he stands. he doesn't fall.
when peter laughs this time, it is a soft, comforting thing, like the setting sun over the laughing crowds outside. his eyes are once again blue-amber in the firelight, his teeth sharp but human where his lips pull back.
"there you are," he hums, pride and satisfaction louder than the words themselves. caspian laughs full of relief, his eyes wet with unshed tears.
he stands where he was kneeling, and he doesn't fall. he holds out shaking hands and twines them in golden hair. "thank you," he says, even as his shoulders burn under the weight.
peter—the very weave of old narnia, a king of times long past and yet breathing the same air as those that only know him from washed-out carvings and whispered songs—only smiles.
why do people always view her "returning to the faith" as the be all end all of susan's growth and life. she has legitimate grievances and problems with both aslan and narnia as well as her siblings. a telling where she stays an atheist and either doesn't "go back" or goes back and is welcomed ANYWAY because hey. once a king or queen of narnia. always a king or queen. is infinitely more interesting to me.
susan was thrown into this world at 12 years old, yanked out with no warning at 27, pulled back in at 28/13 and then told that she could never come back. too used up. no longer a tool for us. narnia has taught you all it can. bye-bye.
only. what did it teach her? what did it give? it forced her and her siblings into war just as their mother tried her best to shield them from it, it took their childhoods and sacrificed it for leadership. it killed her brother.
she loved it and it kicked her out. twice.
what is there to return to that isn't her siblings? susan's always been the most pragmatic of the bunch. if she won't be let in, why bother?
shouldn't she make a life worth living for herself? why does it have to include a priest?
i have this vague headcanon that peter as high king, grown into an adult, looks an awful lot like their father did before the war. they don’t remember that, not in any detail save for a few moments where they feel like they’re looking at a dream-like memory.
but then they’re back in england and their father returns from the front and it’s strange, to look at a slightly distorted mirror image of the peter they had grown to know in narnia. there’s plenty of frozen silences when the wrong name slips from an absent-minded mouth, tension they can’t quite figure out how to explain to their parents.
there’s been plenty of bits about mrs and mr pevensie looking at their children a little like ghosts, or in similar ways. but the concept of it being the other way around, of susan, edmund and lucy glancing up and freezing because for a second they’re back in cair paravel enjoying some time together near a fireplace, only to blink and realise that they’ve been staring at the father they had forgotten they even had.
not to mention how weird this must be for peter, as well. not only not seeing the version he remembers of himself in his own reflection, but seeing it sit at the kitchen table reading the newspaper instead, removed from him entirely.
the thing is—well. there are too many things, susan thinks. far too many, in fact.
there is their mother's watery eyes, her nervous wringing of hands until her knuckles are rubbed raw; all because lucy had looked at their newly returned father and asked him his name with a bright smile.
there is their father's tight smile, the way his jaw shifts over and over again while he darts his eyes around for anything that might remind him of how things used to be; all because edmund walked right past him to hug peter first.
there is the persistent itch on her fingertips, a distant pain that keeps sending needles through her skin; like her memory clings onto phantom callouses that she will never gain in this grey prison.
there is lucy's tangled hair and her mother's scissors resting on the living room cabinet, neither in sight as she kneels on the floor and picks up the pieces of porcelain that broke between lucy's temper and her mother's desperation.
there is the drawer of knives that edmund makes sure to lock every night while peter's back is turned to pour their parents tea, and the tightening of their mother's grip on the table cloth when she catches him.
there are the dreams; the nightmares full of blood, of a valley full of bodies, of crumbling stone and her siblings sobbing; all followed by the knowing yet confused look in their father's eyes whenever one of them screams themselves awake.
there is their mother, twisting susan's hair into curls that susan's hands forgot how to form while susan hides her tears from the woman who looks too much like susan's reflection ought to; the way susan's nails dig into her palm every time their mother marvels at the young woman she is turning into as though susan has not done this all before and isn't itching to tear her own skin apart to reveal the adult beneath.
there is lucy and edmund, heads shoved together and lips pressed into thin lines while they recover from their father's new haircut; there is the way that she sees peter like he ought to be out of the corner of her eye and brief elation quickly turns sour in her throat when their father stands in the door instead. there is their father's poorly hidden hurt every time they look at him and apologise halfway through a sentence meant for their brother.
there is the fact that susan can no longer bear the taste of certain fruits, all stale compared to what she wishes she could place in lucy's open palm; the fact that everything feels like ash on her tongue and she has to leave family meals once a day to scrape it all off her tongue. the fact that the only tea she still can bear is the one served from her brother's shaking hands and with her sister's soft humming mixed into the sugar.
there is the way susan can never get warm, no matter how long she curls up in the wandering path of england's wrong sun; the way lucy gets restless the longer she remains locked away from her sea, or how edmund refuses to stop climbing the trees and falling asleep in them. there is the way peter shrinks in on himself, carrying a sky not made for his frame.
there are just so many things. susan hopes her mother doesn't find the lists she keeps of it all; of the slip-ups, of the coping mechanisms, of the belts full of teeth marks and the shattered mirrors, of the nighttime pleas—susan keeps it all.
snowghoul
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
jacobvanloon
