thefuturemayyetbewon asked:

Susan Pevensie

  • Why I like them: She thinks of the practical things! She remembers to take coats into the land of forever winter. She very reasonably asks why the beaver is talking. 
  • Why I don’t: She doubts. Honestly, Susan has always made me a little uncomfortable because I see some of my traits mirrored in her. She is quick to skepticism, dismissiveness, and snark. 
  • Favorite line: It’s a line from Lewis, in one of his letters. 

“The books don’t tell us what happened to Susan. She is left alive in this world at the end, having by then turned into a rather silly, conceited young woman. But there’s plenty of time for her to mend and perhaps she will get to Aslan’s country in the end… in her own way.” 

  • Favorite outfit: Her dresses in the movies!!
  • OTP: Susan/a kind, warm young man who understands her
  • Brotp: Susan/Peter
  • Head Canon: I don’t think she feels that close with any of her siblings. She leaves for America before the siblings can really grow and connect with each other as young adults.
  • Unpopular opinion: Ohhh ho ho. First of all, I think many fans misunderstand why Susan was not a “friend of Narnia” at the end of The Last Battle. We must remember several things:

    1) Susan doubts easily. We have seen that, even when surrounded by Lucy’s faithfulness, Susan cannot bring herself to trust in faith alone. She’s weak - like most of us! 
    2) The Pevensies didn’t understand Susan well. 
    3) The Pevensies were in the “new Narnia” at the end of TLB because they died. Susan was still living. Of course she wouldn’t be there.

    Susan falls away from the Faith as a young adult. That’s it. That’s the case for many of our family and friends, I would imagine. Her siblings, who have never had patience with her shortcomings, instantly misunderstand and dismiss her as being obsessed with nylons and lipstick and invitations. That is a symptom of worldliness. Susan’s trying to fill an emptiness in her heart. Her siblings should have tried to reach out and understand her. Susan, since she is still alive at the end of TLB, can come back to Narnia. That’s the entire point of salvation. 

    Who says the condescending lines about Susan forgetting Narnia? Peter and Eustace. 

    Who says “Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia”? Aslan. 

    I’m going to trust the creator of Narnia, thank you very much. 

  • A wish: I wish Philip Pullman didn’t have an unfortunately placed stick in him about Lucy and Susan. I wish J.K. Rowling and Neil Gaiman would use critical thinking skills to understand that nylons and lipstick is about vanity and worldiness, NOT SEX. I wish everyone would stop being idiots about this. 

    I wish he and other fans understood that Susan forgetting Narnia/falling away from the Faith represents an extremely common event for Christians. It’s not the end of the world. 

    Honestly, if you think that a) Susan never comes back to Narnia, and/or b) Lewis’ treatment of Susan reveals his dislike of women or his anti-feminist whatever, that ensures that I’ll never take you seriously. 

  • An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: stop kissing Caspian
  • 5 words to best describe them: Thorough, skeptical, lonely, practical, inconstant
  • My nickname for them: Susan

spiritypowers said: omg tell me more

Okay, well, I re-watched The Silver Chair again last week, and the more I think about it, the more I do like the idea of them ending up together, even though there’s not really anything in the books or adaptations that says whether or not they do. But I mean, I can totally see it happening, plus in the BBC adaptation I liked the part where they were arguing over whether or not Jill should have a bow and arrow over a knife, that was pretty funny.

I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking a lot about Narnia recently, lol. Not that I’m complaining about that.

The other related reason is that I do like how Jill, Eustace, and Puddleglum interact on their journey; basically, I just think they’re fun to read about/watch, lol.

anonymous asked:

Maybe some time you could talk about Susan and what it would be like if she didn't desert Narnia

How about we talk about what might have happened if Narnia hadn’t deserted Susan?

What if, instead of sending a stag to lead them astray, the Pevensies had been given time to end their first rule– to have finished their reports, their negotiations and treaties, that letter in the bureau Lucy was half-done penning to Mrs. Beaver to thank her for the fruitcake and to ask about her grandchildren. 

They had lived there more than a decade then, grown from children to kings and queens, to brave young adults with responsibility heavy on their shoulders. They had lived through storms and wars, peace and joy, lost friends to battle and old age and distance. They had made a home. What if they had been given time to say good-bye? 

What if we didn’t tell Susan she had to go grow up in her own world and then shame and punish her for doing just that? She was told to walk away and she went. She did not try to stay a child all her life, wishing for something she had been told she couldn’t have again. 

There is nothing wrong with Lucy loving Narnia all her life, refusing an adulthood she didn’t want for a braver, brighter one she built herself. But there is also nothing wrong with Susan trying to find something new to fall in love with, something that might love her back. 

You can build things in lipsticks and nylons, if you don’t mind getting a few runs in them. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be pretty, especially when pretty is the only power left to you. 

Let’s talk about being the last one left. No, really, think about it. You get a call in the middle of the night, in the little flat you can just barely afford, and you are told there has been an accident. 

Think about it, that moment– you scramble over everyone you know, everyone you love, and try to figure out where they all are that night. There are things rushing in your gut, your fingertips, your lungs, your ears– there are words in your ears as the tinny, sympathetic voice starts to tell you: it is everyone. 

They were on a train. Something went wrong. They probably died instantly. A rushing sound. A bright light. (You try to imagine it, for years. You try not to think about it. You imagine it, for years–a rushing sound, a bright light.)

Your little sister, who you always felt the most responsible for, who you never understood, really– Your big brother, who disapproved of your choices but loved you with a steadiness you could never regret leaning into– Your little brother, a smug and arrogant ass except for the days when he drowned in self doubt– Ed was going to go far and you knew it, were waiting for it, were shoring up your defenses and your eye rolls for the days when he’d think he ruled the world–

Your mother is gone. Your father, with his stuffy cigar smell and big hands and the way he got distracted telling stories– he is gone. Your cousin Eustace, who suddenly lost that stick in his ass one summer. That friend of his, Jill, who you’d never actually quite met. Gone. A rushing sound. A bright light. 

Go on. Walk through this with me. You can’t sleep all night long, because you still can’t understand it, still can’t quite breathe in a world where you are the last Pevensie. You finally fade sometime between midnight and dawn and when you wake up you don’t remember for half a second. You think ugh and you think sunshine why and then you remember that you are an orphan, an only child. You remember there probably isn’t anyone else to handle the funeral arrangements. 

Get up. Make tea. Forget to eat breakfast and feel nauseous and empty all day. Call the people who need to be called. Your work, to ask for the time off. The mortuary, to ask about closed caskets. Distant relations. Friends. Edmund’s girlfriend and Peter’s boss. You listen to Lucy’s friends weep hysterics into the phone while you stare out the kitchen window and drink your fourth cup of tea. You call Professor Diggory, out at the old house with the wardrobe that started it all, and it rings and rings. You don’t find out for three days that he died in the train crash too. When you do, you stare at the newspaper article. You think of course

You are twenty one years old. You have ruled a kingdom, fought and won and prevented wars, survived exile and school and your first day as a working woman. Nothing has ever felt worse than this. You have a necklace in your dresser you meant to give your mother, because she loves rubies and this glass is painted a nice ruby red and it is all you can afford on your tiny wages. 

Excuse me, a correction: she loved rubies. She is dead. You never wear the necklace. You cry yourself to sleep for weeks. The first night you don’t cry, the first morning you wake up rested, you feel guilty. You wonder if that will live in the pit of your stomach all your life and you don’t know. The years reach out in front of you, miles and eons of loss. You are on the very shore of this grief and you do not know how you will survive feeling like this for the rest of your life. But you will survive it. 

Get up. Make tea. Make yourself eat breakfast. Make plans with a school friend to do lunch. Go to work and try to bury yourself in the busyness of it. Remember that you’d promised to lend Peter a hand with some task or other, but you don’t even remember what it was– Collapse. Hide in the bathroom until you’re breathing again. Redo your makeup and leave work the moment your shift is over. Drop your nylons and your sweater and your heels in the apartment hallway. Fall into bed and pull the covers over your head. 

Get up. Make tea. Eat. Don’t think about them for weeks. Don’t feel guilty when you remember. Feel proud. Spend an indulgent weekend in your pajamas, reading Lucy’s favorite novel and making Ed’s favorite cookies and remembering the way your mother smelled and how it always made you feel safe. Love them and miss them and mourn them. Keep breathing. Cry, but wash your face after in cool water. Wake in the morning to birdsong and spend three hours making breakfast just the way you like it. 

Imagine the next birthday, the next Christmas, the next time you hit one of those days that herald the passage of time, that tell you how much you’ve grown and how much they haven’t. 

Lucy, Peter, and Edmund will be at the same height for the rest of your life. Lucy will always be seventeen for the second time. You see, you think you know, when you lose them, what the dagger in you feels like. But it grows with you, that ache. You grow with it, too, learn how to live with that at your side but it grows, that ache, finds new ways to twist– 

At the first friend’s wedding you go to, you cry because it’s lovely, those two smiling and promising and holding hands– but you also cry because you wonder what Lucy would have looked like in white, joyous and smiling and promising the rest of her life to a boy who deserved her. 

Go on. You tell me if Susan deserted a world or if a whole life deserted her. You tell me who was left behind. 

So yes, let’s talk about it– what if Narnia hadn’t deserted Susan? What if lipstick and nylons were things worn and not markers of worth? 

What if we had a story that told little girls they could grow up to be anything they wanted– all of Lucy’s glory and light, Susan’s pretty face and parties, the way Jill could move so quiet and quick through the trees? 

Because you know, some of those little girls? They were the little mothers, too old for their age, who worried and wondered, who couldn’t believe like Lucy or charge like Jill. Susan was reasonable, was hesitant and beautiful and gentle, was pretty and silly and growing up, and for it she was lost. She was left. And when Susan was left, so were they. 

The little girls who worried louder than they loved, who were nervous about climbing trees and who would never run after the mirage of a lion, who looked at the pretty women in the grocery store and wondered if they would grow up pretty too– some of them looked at their little clever doubting hands, after they read Peter and Eustace and Jill scoffing at Susan’s vanities, and they wondered what they were worth. 

Imagine a Narnia that believed in all of them. Imagine a Narnia that believed in adult women, lipsticked or not. Imagine Susan teaching Jill how to string a bow, arms straining. Imagine her brushing blush on Lucy’s cheeks, the first time Lu went out walking with a boy she was considering falling in love with. Imagine that when the last door to Narnia was shut, there was not a sister left behind. 

anonymous asked:

what about susan who got married and had a child while in narnia, and then returned to england as a child, a whole life and family left behind?

That Susan? That Susan does not embitter herself, does not brick her heart off, does not doubt like it’s a lifeline– not yet. She yanks open the wardrobe’s doors as soon as she finds her balance, shoves through the fur coats and mothballs, and slams into the solid back of it. She shuts the wardrobe and opens it; locks it and unlocks it; throws all the coats on the floor; gets wood splinters under her fingernails from trying to get through the back of it. 

It is one things to lose a home, and it is another to lose a child. I don’t think she would ever stop looking. 

Her little girl couldn’t have been more than four or five. Did she have Lucy’s cheeks? Edmund’s wit? Peter had been her favorite aunt or uncle, because he had been so patient with her. He had been teaching her to read. 

Susan dredges up every arcane idea she’d ever heard whispered in Narnia, about its magic, about its origins, anything that might lead to a way back. She researches the wardrobe, its make, its history. She drags its purchase papers out of a sympathetic Professor Diggory, who has never had children and who does not understand, especially not with Susan’s present pubescent face glaring up at him. 

When they send her back to her parents, when the war ends, she kisses her mother on the cheek and then runs away from home, to go find the wardrobe manufacturers, to find supposed occultists in cheap little flats that smell of garlic, to bury herself in library stacks. 


And what about the child? Her mother, aunt, and uncles all gone on a single afternoon. Susan’s daughter was just learning to read, and now she is crowned princess heir. She has beaver nannies and centaur tutors, and she has stories about how beautiful her mother had been. 

The last thing she had seen of her mother had been her riding away through Cair Paravel’s gate, long dark braid whipping behind her. She is afraid of horses all her life, but she rides them anyway when she is old enough. It would not do for a queen to seem frightened. 

Her father is the sort of verybminor foreign royalty who had farmed his own little plot of land way out in the backcountry. They had needed to make an alliance, but for all Susan’s practicalities that was one place she remained– what was it exactly? Faithful. Childish. Stubborn. She wanted to marry for love, and she had. 

But Susan disappears, the queen and king and high king with her, and her husband gets pulled out of tending his private vegetable garden to be his only daughter’s regent. He tries to keep her separate but teach her what she needs to know, all at once, so Susan’s child grows up with that weight on her shoulders early. 

She does not know it, because the court artists always painted her mother smiling, but those stiff shoulders are one of the best connections she will ever have with her mother– Susan had been made the little mother too early, too, the one relied upon, who worried and herded and doubted because no one else was going to do it. Her child is a little queen, looking out and out over the acres of land and knowing what she owes this quiet piece of the world. 

She rules in peace and in war, neither Gentle or Valiant but instead Wise. Her name is spoken with love and praise, and she raises her own children to be just, to be valiant, to be gentle, to be magnificent. 


Susan has still not given up looking when her own horn calls her home to Narnia. It has been more than a year for her. It has been hundreds for her home. Cair Paravel might be overgrown, unrecognizable. It might be recently abandoned. It might still be thriving, vibrant, alive. 

But this is what matters: Susan walks up to a high green hill and all the old standing stones propped up on its ridge.

She finds her husband’s name and drops wild daisies on his grave. She finds her daughter’s grave. She traces the dates of her rule, of her life, and she drops down and weeps. 

They save Narnia, again, from invaders and war, and Aslan sends them back to England. 

When she forgets about Narnia, seventeen and widowed, seventeen and her child grown and buried and unknown and decomposed– when Susan forgets about Narnia it will be, more than ever, an act of self defense. 


Alternatively: Susan manages to shake news of the rings out of Professor Diggory. 

She and whichever of her siblings wants to most stumble back onto Narnian soil: Peter wouldn’t leave the two younger kids alone in England; Edmund loves Narnia as much as anyone, still feels like he’s repaying it debts that it’s already forgiven him for, but Lucy has been crying since she crashed back down on her skinny knees on the upstairs bedroom floor in the Professor’s old country house. So it’s Lucy and Susan who take the rings, then. They kiss their brothers, their co-monarchs, on their cheeks and they go.

The girls hike with younger, childish muscles to Cair Paravel, their limbs growing and strengthening in the Narnian air, remembering themselves. They will not reach their exact old heights, not for years, but they are home and that is enough to send them sprinting and dancing and crying as they travel old known paths. 

Susan is smaller and her child is older, closer to grown, but they slam into each other’s open arms as soon as they see each other in that royal courtyard– however close in size they get, her mother’s arms will always be the safest place she knows. 

Lucy and Susan retake their crowns. Susan curls up in the warmth of her husband’s arm, buries her face in his shoulder, and tries to inhale every year she missed. He gives them to her in stories at the breakfast table for years, in ecstatic descriptions of carrot crops missed out on and fields of grain unseen. Narnian agriculture has seen a boost in the years of his regency. 

There are years of Susan’s daughter’s life that she missed, and she grasps what she can of them in recollection and anecdote. She tells them about the desperation, much more amusing now, with which she searched for them. She and her daughter build something new between them, these two daughters of Eve. Lucy still gives the best piggy-back rides even when Susan’s daughter is almost of a height with her. 

Lucy and Susan reign well–valiant and gentle, blinding faith and practical doubt. When Susan’s daughter is old enough, Lucy and Susan forfeit her their crowns and stay on as advisers. They never hunt stag again, but even as an eighty year old Lucy hobbles her way down to Mrs. Beaver’s daughter’s little house for tea and to hold baby beavers in her wise old lap. 


When Peter and Edmund get yanked back into Narnia from a train stop, Susan’s old horn is not being blown by a Calormene named Caspian. 

Susan is buried on a high green hill, Lucy on one side and her husband and daughter on the other. Their granddaughters and grandsons are scattered over the hill, and Peter and Ed do not even know their names. 

The stones are worn by strong wind and long decades. They are overgrown with small white flowers. The boys will go up there, later, and they will cry like the earth is still dark and fresh over each of those graves. For them, it is. 

But Cair Paravel is not overgrown, destroyed, or forgotten. It is centuries older and Peter and Ed do not recognize the new additions, the court fashions, or even some of the words whispered by the gathered crowd. 

They do recognize the crinkled eyes on the young queen standing crowned and patient before them, a horn in her hands. She has Edmund’s best quirked grin, and they will learn she has Lucy’s talent at speech-making and Peter’s at tactics. They recognize her long dark hair. 

anonymous asked:

do you think you could write something about peter pevensie? i feel like his worst fear would be disappointing people (narnia, his siblings, his parents, etc.)

Let’s talk about being the eldest son. Susan was more sensible than him, Lucy braver, and Edmund more clever. Peter had never been able to see what he gave to this family. 

He didn’t ask, because that would be fishing, but Edmund told him one day anyway. “You’re our rock, Peter,” Ed said and laughed, a boy, a king, a repenter. “Get it? Peter: it means rock, right? From the Latin? Or the Greek, I forget.“

When Aslan told him and Susan they could never come back to Narnia, Peter’s first thought was what did I do wrong?

Peter thought yes sir. He thought of course, of course, this isn’t the sort of place someone like me belongs. 

(He thought, what should I have done better? Tell me, tell me, tell me, I will do anything)

Susan squeezed his hand and he did not ask her what she was thinking. He assumed it was sorrow. He assumed she would take it with grace, with worries, stiffness, and lists, like Susan did with everything. He did not think she would forget. 

(She did not forget. She walked away. There is a difference.)

Edmund and Lucy and little awful cousin Eustace fell through a painting and landed in a sea. 

Peter sat through a drizzling summer in the Professor’s country house while his little sister and brother touched the salt-strewn edge of the world. He got letters from Susan, her penmanship blithe and elegant in a way he did not recognize as desperation.

The Professor taught him advanced Greek, dead Latin, and Peter thought about how trees could talk– the lisp of the lilac and the croak of the old oak– what it had been like to help make a treaty between the willows and the creatures that nestled in their branches.

Birds shrieked in the trees out the Professor’s house. Wolves howled and the neighbor’s dogs, out of sight over the hill, howled back. Peter’s hands itched the write dispatches, pen proposals, to right conflicts. He had had war at his heels once, peace in his hands. The fields had been his to watch, to worry over, to defend. Now, he walked them on long afternoons, empty hands in empty pockets.

He did not know the power he had here. He knew the weight on his shoulders of a kingdom left behind, but he did not know the kingdom he stood in. All the same, when he found boys scuffling in the dirt when he went to fetch the week’s groceries, he pulled them apart, settled it out. He brought the housekeeper tea and biscuits, did her bookkeeping because her eyes were getting old and tired, and his were younger than they had been in years. He went out walking, spine straight, gait steady, and learned the rise and fall of this land every bit as well as he had known Narnia.

The wardrobe in the Professor’s house remained a wardrobe only. Peter did not open the door and push through the moth-balled coats and check, but sometimes he knocked on the wood and listened for echoes.

Cousin Eustace came back sun-bronzed, steady, having shed layers and pounds of bitter scales. When he came to visit his older cousins that winter, the warmth hadn’t faded yet from his skin. Eustace shook Peter’s hand, met his eyes like they shared something beautiful, and Peter tried not to be jealous of the things the boy had seen from a ship’s deck built with good Narnian timber. 

Eustace touched his upper arm occasionally, like it ached. Peter noticed, because he was Peter. Edmund told him the story (greed and growth), later; so did Lucy (dragons and mercy), who liked to come sit on Peter’s bed on nights when she was restless, hearing dryads where there were only trees. 

Eustace told him, too, years later, when he was as far from Narnia as Peter was– when Eustace told it, it was about a boy, silly and blind and selfish, almost lost. It was told lovingly, it was told laughingly, and Peter kept trying not to be jealous.

Let’s talk about being the eldest son when you are stranded in an impossible world. Lucy had the strength to believe, to go chasing down canyons on faith, but she also had the opportunity– Peter had to think about safety and madness, where they would sleep and how to keep the younger children close. 

That was where he and Susan met, again and again– they turned games into spelling practice, thought about logistics and sanity, worried. When they lost Susan it made him wonder if doubt lived in his gut too.  

He could not save Susan. So what did he give to this family? 

He could not save any of them. (When they stepped into the light, at the end of everything, he was still counting, murmuring, trying to remember all the things he’d done wrong, left behind, let fall). 

(But they stepped into the light–Lucy laughing, sprinting; Jill barefoot, lanky, never fully grown. Edmund grabbed his big brother’s hand and dragged him forward into a new country.)

(Susan buried them, but that was another story. She buried them, packed her bags neatly, took a boat to a new country. 

She left her blinds open, all her life, and let the sun wake her in the mornings, soft and blinding and real, lighting up the sky except on the cloudiest days.

She did not regret. She did not repent. She was not lost.)

Peter grew tall. He did not grow old, just a gangly boy– but he was always the oldest of them, you see. It did not matter that his beard was only just learning how to come fully in the day the light found them. 

He was the High King, even when Edmund finally grew taller than him. He was their rock, even when Lucy was the one who knew what to do. He led them, even when it was Jill who could find her way through the trees.

He did not understand what it meant– that Lucy curled up at the foot of his bed when she wanted to feel present in this world but undoubted in the impossible things she dreamed/believed/knew she could still hear; that Edmund looked to him when old, icy things stirred in his gut, calling to him on winters’ days; that Susan, lipsticked, nyloned, looking for a place in the world that no one could forbid her from, still called him up on sad Saturdays. 

Narnia had loved Susan, had forgiven Edmund, had known Lucy–but Peter was followed, looked to. He did not know, because he so rarely looked behind him, except to check if everyone back there was okay, well-watered, rested. He did not look down to meet anyone’s eyes. He knelt. 

People looked to him, all his life– kids on the schoolyard and his friends in university, strangers on the street. When things went wrong, back in England– a car accident, a towel caught on fire in his dormitory kitchen, a death in the family– faces turned his way and people he’d never really talked to asked him, "What do we do?" 

And Peter would breathe in, lift his chin, settle his shoulders– and try to answer them.

A lion breathed on him once. A lion called him magnificent. But for all it felt traitorous to doubt, Peter never believed him, not for a single day of his short/long life.