work:narnia

do you love peter pevensie? are you disappointed when you see a lack of him in the narnia tag? or, even worse, when you see people putting him down? if so, then this network is definitely the one for you. 

hey, we’re the Peter Pevensie Defense Network, and we’re a cause dedicated to supporting the severely underrated oldest Pevensie.

how to join

  • mbf this trash
  • check out my primary blog maybe?
  • reblog this post (likes only count if u wanna bookmark it)
  • this post has got to get over 20 notes or else this is a bust and i’m going to delete it out of shame
  • track the tag #ppdefensenet

what i’m looking for

  • clean, friendly blogs (can be multifandom or narnia-only, everyone’s invited) with a deep love for the adorable and v underrated king
  • people who are fairly active on tumblr/in the narnia fandom
  • pretty much anyone who loves peter pevensie a lot and wants to spread that love around

what u get by joining

  • a friendly community of fellow peter lovers
  • a positive place to share your gifs, edits, headcanons, AUs, overall fangirly admiration, etc.
  • a spot on the network page
  • basically a i-love-peter-and-nobody-ever-talks-about-him-as-much-as-they-should support group

submissions close July 23rd! sometime shortly after July 23rd there will be a post announcing our members. shoot me an ask if you have any questions. best of luck to you all! 

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:

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.