Ok but I’ve been binge watching the Narnia movies again, after not having seen them for a long ass time, and now, being a little older and (hopefully) a little more mature than I was when I first saw them, I always feel physically sick when I see the Pevensies being children after The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe because they just aren’t anymore and I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like, to grow up as kings and queens, respected and important, and full of duty, only to go back to being 8 years old (in Lucy’s case).

They didn’t remember England, or the wardrobe, or their old lives, they were Narnians and they were pushed back, not only into a world that was bound to make them miserable, but also into bodies that couldn’t reflect what they’d been through.

Just imagine Peter, waking up in the morning, not remembering that he isn’t the Magnificent anymore, imagine him subconsciously reaching for something to trim his beard, only to remember that it isn’t there anymore, to expect old battle wounds to hurt until he realises that they can’t because he doesn’t have them.

Or Edmund, who left England a stubborn selfish little boy who only wanted his mummy back, and came back the Just, the redeemed traitor, the diplomat, the man, having to resort to being ten years old and probably not even allowed to peek at a newspaper because he’s just a child after all. He plays chess, incredibly well, he doesn’t mock his siblings anymore and all the friends he knew when he was still a boy are either irritated at his behaviour or too childish, too selfish for somebody who knows very well just what selfishness can do, who has a part of the White Witch in him, always.

Susan forgets, we all know that. She must’ve lain awake at night, remembering just what it felt like to cover pain and viciousness and gore with a smile and a blush, remembering being the Gentle, but never in war. She must’ve cried for all the lost years, for all that she learnt and that she can never forget, for all that she has accomplished, that will bring her nothing in this world that doesn’t feel like hers. So she sits down in front of a mirror, talks herself out of believing, telling herself that it wasn’t real, that it was just a dream, that this Narnia her siblings talk about is nothing but a game.
The truth is too terrifying, to devastating to face.

Lucy, little Lucy, who grew up under Mr Tumnus’ smiles and Aslan’s approving gaze, who was loved by all, who did learn how to rule, how to negotiate but who never forgot just what it means to be a queen of Narnia, this girl who matured into a woman, who had a woman’s mind and body and a queen’s grace, she who they called the Valiant, the lion’s daughter, she shrank into herself, into a child, younger than even her siblings. She remembers, clearest of them all, she is the only one who still knows Mr Tumnus’ face, still knows Aslan, but she is just a girl, a pretty little thing who will never be the queen she was, who will never be the woman she was because queenship forms a person in ways no schools can.

They must’ve been devastated when they tumbled to the floor, short and small, and there’s a war they have no control over and Lucy is small, Edmund is skinny, so skinny and Peter and Susan have lost their glow and they’ve changed, they’ve changed so much. (The first time, somebody calls them by just their names, they feel invalidated and small. And offended. They’re kings and queens, they’ve earned their titles and now they have to sit in a dim room filled with children and listen to teachers, have to allow themselves to be insignificant and nothing more than what they were when Lucy first stepped into Narnia - frightened children in the middle of a war they wish was never there in the first place)

  • Lucy: Either you leave Narnia of your own accord, or I use my dagger to forcibly expel you from Narnia, followed by all of your organs shortly thereafter. Got it?
  • Jadis: Oh, please. You wouldn't hurt a fly.
  • Lucy: You're right. Because a fly is an innocent creature that never knowingly did anything to anybody. You, however, I would maim.
  • Something politically or socially crappy: *happens*
  • Me: This would never happen in Narnia under the rule of King Peter the Magnificent, Queen Susan the Gentle, King Edmund the Just and Queen Lucy the Valiant or under Caspian X
English Oak

Title: English Oak
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia
Summary:  Lucy goes back to school wearing human skin and stumbling through a language only her child tongue can remember. She talks to the oak tree.
Warnings: None
Genre: Angsty Fluff
Word Count: 802
A/N: /

When you first see Lucy talk to the great oak tree in the school’s backyard, you give the little girl a letter, folded in perfect thirds, and say: “Please give this to your mother, my dear.” Lucy cooks her head, as if there was something curious in your speech, then she smiles, a patchy kid smile, gaps between her little teeth and she nods. “Yes, Miss Johnson”, she says and caresses the oak’s bark.

The next day, she gives you a letter from Helen Pevensie, in letters that look almost painted. She’s a child, the woman writes, she’s small and a girl, too. You send little Lucy to her seat, next to the girl she bonded with so beautifully before the bombs started falling, and you wonder idly if she treats her boys the same, if her response had been the same, had you talked about her eldest.

“I don’t understand them”, Lucy says and you hesitate, your hand hovering over her shoulder. “They are all so strange here, always touching, always lying.” She runs her hand over the bark. “Mother took my knife. Edmund said to take it back but I cannot reach the drawer and all the others are away.”

“Lucy”, you say. “Lucy, who are you talking to?”

Little Lucy turns around and laughs. “I’m playing”, she says. Then she leans close to you. “I’m pretending there’s dryads in the trees.”

You hum and lead her inside. It must be the country. They all came back different from the country, wilder, almost strangers to their own parents.

“Sometimes”, you say, when your mother asks what you are fussing about, “sometimes I think she’s a fairy wearing human skin. But then she speaks of talking lions and I think myself silly.”

She doesn’t react to her name, sometimes, stares out of the window longingly as if she didn’t belong within walls and you stop calling on her and write another letter. She’s distant, you write, she’s distant and I am worried that she thinks of too many adult things, sometimes.

Helen Pevensie answers, in that unsettlingly perfect writing. She is just a child, she writes. She’s just a child and we are at war. She might remember the bombs.

“Do you like my dress?”, one of the girls asks and Lucy hums.

“Oh, it’s most wondrous. But it cannot be very comfortable.”

The girl furrows her brows. “I want it to be pretty, not comfortable. One’s best clothes are never comfortable.”

Lucy sits on her desk, legs swaying back and forth. “They can be”, she says and grins, her teeth look too small for her jaw.

I am cold”, Lucy says and the wind whispers through the oak’s leaves. “Mother sent Edmund Turkish Delight. I wish I could warn him, but I cannot reach the phone, high up on the wall. And letters are too slow.” She sits down on the wet grass. “How I wish Aslan was here. His fur could warm my freezing bones.”

Your child is miserable, you write, and bend the tip of your pen. Your child is miserable and she’s small and cold and homesick for a place that is not London.

She is a child, Helen Pevensie writes, she probably misses the country.

“Mother took my knife.”

“Peter says Edmund weeps whenever he sees snow fall softly to the ground.”

“I am cold.”

“I am so much too small.”

“I miss Tumnus and the woods.”

“Susan’s hair will never grow back. She says it is silly to mourn such a thing but she keeps attempting to braid it and there’s never enough of it.”

“Mrs Pevensie, I am sorry to bother you”, you say when she opens the door. “But I have to talk to you about Lucy.”

Mrs Pevensie smiles. “Oh”, she says. “Please come in.”

You sit on the uncomfortable wooden chair at the kitchen table, a cup of tea before you. “I didn’t announce myself and I apologize for that, but I think Lucy is truly miserable without her siblings.”

Mrs Pevensie leans against the table and sighs. “I know”, she says. “She is as bright and lovely as ever, but something happened on the country that made them all cling to each other for dear life. If she weren’t so young I’d have sent her to school with Susan.”

She doesn’t mention the letters.

The next school year, Lucy’s chair is empty and the headmaster receives a letter, much less perfect than any of the ones you’ve written, informing him that Lucy would attend the same school as her sister Susan.

When you teach future classes filled with girls about fairy tales and myths, you think of an eight year old and her patchy child smile talking to the great old oak tree as if it was a dear friend.

I am a warrior, a queen of Narnia, and you will never defeat me. 


Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,

When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.

When Adam’s flesh and Adam’s bone,
Sits at Cair Paravel in throne,

The evil time will be over and done.

the kings and queens of old, adam’s flesh and bone

  • Eustace: Imagine if someone handed you a box full of all the items you’ve lost throughout your lifetime.
  • Lucy: Oh wow, my childhood innocence! Thank you for finding this.
  • Susan: My will to live! I haven’t seen this in 15 years!
  • Peter: I knew I lost that potential somewhere!
  • Edmund: Mental stability my old friend!
  • Eustace: Guys, could you lighten up a little?