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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I can’t even tell you how much I love this. Edmund Pevensie and his redemption story has always been important to me, just like Sam Winchester. I just...I can’t even describe the love I have for this.
Memories and Wishes
Also on AO3 Rated: General Audiences Fandom: Narnia
Susan was the smart one, the sensible one, the rational one. So how could she forget?
As a child, Susan remembered. It was one of her talents, the one she was most proud of. All her tests were returned to her with perfect marks and kind comments, her mother could always count on her to remember which groceries they had to buy and her father was always grateful when Susan found the item he had lost, for she always remembered where he put it. As a Queen, Susan also remembered. She remembered the faces of her subjects, the reasons they had come before her, the solutions she had given them. When she met them years later, she would enquire if the problem had indeed been permanently fixed, and they would praise and love her for remembering them. Peter always wondered how she did that, how she managed to figure out who this specific bunny was, as they all looked alike. Susan would sigh and point out the little spot of white on the left ear, or the spot on the nose, or the way the eyes looked. Peter then proclaimed that he could never remember small details such as that, and Susan just smiled. She could remember, that was her talent.
You tell me I am Lucy -
You tell me I am Lucy - I take you through the Wardrobe to a land far from your own filled with wonders and possibilities - but all I hear is that you are Susan so much prettier kinder more beloved than I You tell me I am Valliant - I inspire you to do great things, to make friends and hold on (hold on for dear life) when things go wrong - but all I hear is that you are Gentle surrounded by people that love and adore and feel safe with you whilst I? I wield my dagger, stab, and run You tell me I am the Glistening Eastern Sea - warm waters, the door to adventure and new (endlessly new) worlds - but all I hear is that you are the Radiant Southern Sun, giver of beautiful days and light and life that I (throwing my angry waves over the edge of the world) take with me to the darkened depths You are beauty incarnate, kindness itself, ruler of the heavens and I - I am plain and small, a hunter ready for the kill and I, oh, I just wish (oh, how I wish) that I - if only for a single afternoon - could be you
Waiting at the Lantern Waste
Also on AO3 Rated: General Audiences Fandom: Narnia
Summary: Philip was a loyal horse, and King Edmund had told him to wait. So, when the four royal siblings disappeared in the woods behind the strange tree that lit the forest around him, that was exactly what he did.
He was waiting. He was old, and his legs hurt, and it was getting dark, but he kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting. For he knew for sure, for sure, that his King would return.
They had gone out for a hunt, to find the White Stag, the one rumoured to grant wishes when one caught it. Edmund had cancelled his meetings, he had told him, to ride out with his siblings. And, as ever, he had chosen him, chosen Philip to carry him into the unknown. It was an honour he thanked Aslan for every day of his life, to serve one of the True Kings of Narnia, and to call him his friend. So, Philip waited. And waited. And waited.
They had gone into the forest none of them knew. Not that they worried, for the nymphs in the trees would be able to lead their way back if they ever got lost. They feared no danger, all threats were eliminated from the great kingdom a long time ago, when his Kings and Queens were still young, when he was much more agile. And indeed, they had gotten lost, the White Stag had disappeared somewhere between the green, lush trees. That is when his fellow riders had spotted the weird tree, the one on fire. The one illuminating the now rapidly approaching dark, dark night whilst Philip waited. His Kings and Queens had looked in awe at the wonder of nature, the strange, overgrown thing the youngest Queen, after some consideration, had quietly called a ‘lamp post’. Edmund had told him to rest, promised that he would return. So Philip waited. And waited. And waited. Darkness came and went, but his King had not returned.
Life Without Narnia
Also on AO3 Rated: General Audiences Fandom: Narnia
Summary: It was not just their time in Narnia that changed the Pevensie siblings. It was life without Narnia that changed them too.
Lucy avoided mirrors after she had come back from her last trip to Narnia. She avoided Susan too, although she hated herself for it. Susan had come home from America with stories of skyscrapers, bars and dates with pretty boys, but when she asked Edmund and Lucy how their time in the Scrubb household was, she did not believe them. She didn’t remember Aslan, or Reepicheep, or Caspian. She didn’t remember Narnia at all. She had only laughed and said it was very nice of them to include Eustace in their play, before regaling another colourful account of a date gone wrong. It was, however, not just Susan’s contempt for Narnia and their adventures there that caused Lucy to avoid her older sister. The true reason was that every time Lucy looked at her sister's brown, curling hair and gorgeous tanned face she was reminded of the Gentle and desired Queen she once knew. And every time she saw Edmund and Peter laugh at another one of Susan's escapades, she was reminded of that horrid, horrid spell she had cast, of that awful visit to that awful world where she, Lucy Pevensie, did not exist.
There I have another name.
Rated: general audiences Words: 603 Also on AO3
Summary “I am [in your world].’ said Aslan. ‘But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”
There I have another name
Rated: general audiences Words: 333 Also on AO3
Summary “I am [in your world].’ said Aslan. ‘But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”
More than Beautiful
in which susan pevensie is happy with her life and spends her days gardening and traveling the world, and her nights dancing and eating good food, and eventually dies with lots of friends around her who see her as the wonderful woman that she is (so, just a little blurb I came up with)
Everyone always assumed Susan was proper, delicate, elegant: the epitome of the perfect woman. They saw how she floated on the ground, her skirts swishing around her ankles in circles and her laugh dissipating into the crowd. When she smiled, her pale skin would turn rosy pink and she would bite her lip out of habit and bring attention to her red lipstick. Other women (in Narnia and England) envied and loved her, wanting to be her and kill her.
The reality was somewhat different. In the mornings, the young queen would descend to the gardens. She would take out a watering can, a shovel, a rake. Her fingers deep into the earth, dirt would cake under her fingernails and the crevices in her hands. Pieces of hair would come out of her braid, and as the sun rose higher in the sky, the tendrils would frizz up and stick to the back of her neck with sweat. When she knelt, brown stains were left behind on her skirt, and the hem of her dress would be damp with dew. While her sister knew how to heal soldiers, stitch up wounds and make tourniquets, Susan knew how to heal the regular people. She tended to the daisies when they grew up amongst the other weeds, then cut up the flowers to make hot herbal tea when her brothers would get sick with a cold. Her aloe vera plants were often used to treat basic burns, while her sister would take a tonic of lavender when she couldn’t sleep after a long day of meetings. When dignitaries would come to visit, they would marvel at the beauty of the rose bushes or the cherry blossoms in spring, but few noticed the carefully laid plots of land that held blooming onions, carrots, and dill.
In England, although she didn’t have the space or the resources to have the same garden she did before, she still grew basic herbs and flowers in the backyard, spending hours under the sun. Although she didn’t excel at school like her siblings, she found her intelligence among the plants, where she could differentiate between the different grasses and stalks and pinpoint their uses. Certainly, Susan was praised for her beauty, but that was not her defining virtue: it was her patience to wait for results. If anything, she was more misunderstood than her brothers and sister, who shone under the gaze of professors, classmates, and parents. Peter had his leadership, while Edmund had his intelligence and Lucy her passion. But Susan? She was more than beautiful; she was radiant inside and out.
When she became alone, Susan sold her family’s belongings and took up traveling. She recalled her trip to America, long long ago, and knew that England was not the place for her and never would be. She sat in the red leather seats on the train to mainland Europe and watched the passing landscape: green hills with cows grazing turned to the churning navy waters of the channel to the sandy beaches of France. From there, she grabbed her few belongings and took up shop in a small village, where only the baker knew English. She got a job as assistant, and she spent half her days her hands coated in white flour and the other half her hands wet and blistered from spending hours holding the small shovel. In the mornings, she would read the paper despite it being in French and chew on bread and butter, before she headed out for the day working on Main Street. Locals would come in, asking for scones and ointments in the same breath, before waving goodbye. Here, she no longer wore her red lipstick, and she was called lovely not beautiful by the older women that would drink coffee in the seats by the window.
She headed south to Spain to a city that hugged the coast. This time, Susan worked in a market that looked over the bright blue ocean, except she was told not to talk to anyone. Instead, she laid out the day’s merchandise, from the oranges and melons to almonds and cashews to tomatoes and eggplant. Eventually, she began to sell her own herbs to neighbors. However, while in France her days were marked by mornings, in Spain her days were marked by her nights. She would go out dancing in the streets to the lilting guitar melodies. Her skirts did not spin in circles around her ankles and her laugh did not dissipate into the crowd; instead, she was breathing heavy as she tried to keep up with the fast-paced music. She would fall onto the rickety wooden chairs, and her friends would laugh, only to pour her some more wine and pull her back into the crowd. Susan was neither beautiful nor lovely; she was passionate. Here, she felt imbued with her younger sister’s spirit, who would have enjoyed the almost dryad-like dancing in the streets.
She spent years doing this. She travelled to Venice and Rome and then dipped into the cool waters of Greece. She slept on boats bobbing on the canals in Amsterdam and crunched her way through snow in Switzerland. Eventually, when she tired of Europe, she took a boat to America, passing her way from New York to San Francisco. Susan found love in Mexico, and again in Bolivia. She was all of her siblings, wise and passionate and brave, and yet at the same time, none of them. For once, she left behind the previous preconceptions that she was beautiful and found herself in the alfajores of Argentina and the Italian gelatos. While she indulged, she discovered more herbs, more plants: olive leaves in Greece and ginseng in China. The smell of nature—growth and decay—tantalized each of her senses, reminding her of a past she had lost. Although at first Susan traveled to run away, now she traveled to run towards something, snatches of a past that were as fleeting as they were important.
When she sat in Paris drinking black tea, Susan thought of her siblings, imagined Ed reading a paper in front of her with Lucy chattering away of a Monet exhibition and Peter sipping coffee. But, she also thought of her other friends, like Charlotte who had a grandmother living in the 12eme arrondissement, Isabel who would be sketching Susan, and Amalia who would be begging to visit Moulin Rouge. She would pass by parishes and churches, and recalled a time when she too had been pious; but now, she had reconciled her faith, and decided to believe in herself.
In this post-war, post-death world, Susan was alive. In another post-war, post-death world, she had been alive too, amongst the lush hills and mountains, where the sun always shone and magic was in front of one’s eyes. Here, though, although the sun did not always shine, magic was still present, in the clicking of her heels on cobblestones while dancing, the aroma of baking bread, the feel of crumbling dirt between her fingers, and the bitter after taste her tea left in her mouth. The world was not something to be conquered and dreaded, but a dear old friend.
She never did marry or have children, but Susan did die with friends around her bed, toasting her 82nd birthday with Italian wine and scones. A bouquet of flowers was at her head, a mixture of daisies and lavender and cherry blossoms.
When she woke up, she was laying under an ash tree, a spade in her hand. A freshly turned plot was at her feet, and as if she had merely nodded off in the warm summer air, Susan returned back to planting aloe vera for the castle infirmary and basil for the local markets.
