Narnia - Blog Posts

Narnia : the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

I was like 8 and it was so beautiful !

what's the first movie you remember seeing in theaters? don't try and be all edgy and cool and say like tetsuo: the iron man. be honest.

Go!!

what's the first movie you remember seeing in theaters? don't try and be all edgy and cool and say like tetsuo: the iron man. be honest.

Go!!

As opposed to hundreds of years later... when you're younger.

Don’t worry, he’ll catch you when you fall.

Guardians of Narnia Now Updated!

After months of putting it off, I finally updated The Guardians of Narnia and you can now read Chapter 1 on AO3! Take a look and let me know how y'all like it!

Also, stay tuned for what our guardians look like!

What did the Pevensie’s eat when they ruled/where in Narnia. Were they strictly vegetarian or what pls someone give me head cannons this is driving me crazy

I'm a mix of hogwarts and neverland myself :)))

-,’ types of people ,’-

hogwarts: bloody noses, always trying their best, warm sunsets, late summer nights, sharing secrets, messy hair, movie nights, stargazing, wanting to explore the world, standing up for friends, dogs, loud laughs, fuzzy sweaters

narnia: pale white snow, red cheeks, hot tea, fantasy stories, neat notes, big scarves, early morning walks, soft smiles, cute coffee shops, calming energy, cold hands, friendly eyes, wanting to learn more, astronomy geeks

middle earth: ancient souls, coffee, old bookshelves, history nerds, loves mythology, feels at home in the forest, always up for an adventure, oversized hoodies, high grades, striving to be the best version of themselves, cats

neverland: believes in fate, doesn’t care about opinions, flower fields, standing up for what’s right, honey, photography, amazed by the universe, kind souls, often lost in their own thoughts, friendliness, loves the stars, artistic

Based Off one of my favorite movies from my childhood "Lucy" from narnia

Don’t you just love it when you’re reading a prince Caspian fanfic and the oc is Andrew fucking Garfield so it’s like a non wolfstar, wolfstar fic because I fucking love it

Threw together a silly little video mainly to show off my interactive drawings. If any of you guys is on YouTube I'd really appreciate it if you left a ❤️ or subscribed (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

Inktober, Day 16- Grungy

💜🩷🤍"A mysterious old wardrobe"🤍🩷💜

So though it is true that Narnia and Tolkien do have Christianity written into them, the main messages are not inherently religious. The ideas of good and friendship and fighting for what you believe in, whether religious or not, are for everyone, not just christians. I am an atheist and I still relate to the main themes in these works because even if I don’t believe in god I believe in other things such as love and loyalty, which are also themes in these books. So even if the authors were christian, the stories can still be relevant and relatable to all.

So stop gatekeeping. The stories do not belong to a specific religion and can be enjoyed and interpreted by all.

Non-Christians should not be allowed to touch Narnia or Tolkien/LOTR. Those were made for us and belong to us.

Same

It's been god knows how many years and I'm still on my Caspian/Peter bullshit

"Fantasy"

There’s a world between the day and the night,

Where armies of darkness battle guardians of light,

Where weak and wounded, the smallest stand strong,

Alone and outnumbered, yet they still soldier on.

A world of ‘what-if’s and ‘what-might-have-been’s,

Where we rise and we fall, and get back up again.

It holds far-off futures, long-ago pasts,

And all of humanity in a looking-glass.

A world conceived in thought, and shaped with words,

Where our yearnings, where our dreams, catch fire and burn,

Where valor and honor hold their heads high,

And rallying, we turn the darkest of tides.

The dark that dwells here is loathsome and fierce,

But by the slightest of sparks is stricken and pierced,

One truth dealing death to thousands of lies,

Goodness will conquer, beauty will survive.

We hold this world close, deep within our hearts,

It’s too tender a dream to bear harsh remarks,

It’s our work of art, it’s our own story,

Our creation, our comfort, just a fantasy.

I've dabbled in poetry. I'm not very good, but I thought this was ok.

back in my narnia era what even is the timeline

Into The Wardrobe Headcanons

Into The Wardrobe is a Edmund Pevensie fic that I'm currently writing. Had some litte ideas, so here they are! (OC's name is Vanessa Kirke)

Nicknames

Peter-

Calls her the usual nickname she goes by: 'Nessa'

Majority of the time however, he calls her 'Kirke'

Sometimes calls her 'Your Majesty' as a joke because she severely dislikes people addressing her formally

In retaliation, she calls him by his full royal title

He hates it but it's so funny

She also calls him 'Pete' as a normal nickname

Susan-

Susan usually calls her 'Vanny'

She also calls her 'Goldie' in reference to the color of the younger girl's powers

Vanessa calls Susan 'Susy' or 'Su'

'Bookworm'

That one that appears when Susan starts spending more time in the library at Cair Paravel, reading all sorts of Narnian stories, fictional or non-fictional

Edmund-

He calls her a large variety of nicknames, but usually sticks with 'love' or 'darling'

'Sweetheart'

'My dear'

'My darling'

Edmund is the only one who is allowed by Vanessa to call her anything pertaining to her royal title

'My Queen'

She calls him basically all the same things, but 'My King' instead

'Love'

'My love'

'Eddie'

'Nessie'

Lucy-

Lucy is the only one who gets to call Vanessa 'Nessie'

Apart from Edmund

She also calls the older girl 'Ness' on occasion

Vanessa calls her things like 'Sunny'

'Soldier'

'Little soldier'

'Strawberry'

Names that sound like small things

Lucy loves it

Characters that gave me gender envy when I was a kid because I wanted to share

ok, like I get that casting Meryl Streep as Aslan is a weird choice and, perhaps, even a bit troubling, but I truly don’t believe that the most important qualification for an actor voicing Aslan is “have a penis”. Not overjoyed about it but also I know the movies will not stand or fall based on this one casting decision

“O negócio é este: quando a gente quer se fazer de tolo, quase sempre consegue.”

- As Crônicas de Nárnia: O Sobrinho do Mago

Increible how a media will destroy me emotionally and probably also possibility mentally, and five mins later i'll be seeking the tag in ao3 to read some good ass crack silky angst about it

Turns out people really like me waffling about Narnia on Twitter.

So here’s a more hopeful spin on Susan Pevensie. (From the author’s pen to your eyeballs.)

Storify link.

My Favourite Book Adaptations

1. Harry Potter I love Harry Potter. That’s all I really have to say to be honest

2. Maze Runner I don’t think Scorch Trials could be one this list if you know what I mean

3. A Series Of Unfortunate Events I don’t know whether it’s an effect of nostalgia but I love this movie even with all its mistakes

4. Narnia I have watched these so much when I was younger and they are still some of my favourite movies

5.Hunger Games To be honest I have no good reason for putting this last but I don’t like it as much as the others. Is it still amazing? Yes

Finally weekend, time to escape!!

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I outgrew Harry & Ron & Hermione… And Alisa Seleznyova… And the Pevensies… And Kalle Blomkvist…

*sheds a tear*

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

Susan did not see Peter in battle for years—arriving to his stand against Jadis almost too late, catching up while he picked himself up from the torn earth, on the other side of the conflict when the remnants of Jadis’ army tried their luck at the Cair. Sure, she knew he fought and killed, just as she did, just as Edmund and Lucy did—and oh, how Susan loathes that last part, but Lucy had been the one to find the first assassin in their halls and there was nothing to be done about it now. There was entirely too much death in their first year, Susan thinks, the fairytale shine of Narnia soon breaking apart and leaving a country and people in desperate need of rest and time behind. It took her days to get the blood out underneath her and Lucy’s fingernails, and she knew Peter had just as bad a time with Edmund next door. With a lump in her throat, Susan wondered often if this was to be the rest of their lives: washing themselves clean of battles that were forced upon them by a world far too big for their hands to hold. But even then, with the bloodied waters between them all, she never truly saw Peter in battle. A slain Maugrim who had about as much a part in his own death as Peter’s shaking sword did, a witch that Susan never saw die, assassins that ended up on the moth-eaten carpets she had found in old storage rooms; things that should give her pause but she simply couldn’t consider for long with all there was to do. They had killed to end up where they were, and Susan knew deep down that they would have to kill to stay, too. Now, standing with her bow held tight and a quiver empty of arrows, a sword at her side she has yet to finish learning how to swing, Susan finds herself in a pocket of tar-slow time. Here, she stands with a muddied hemline and their castle once more under siege—unknown foes, but foes all the same—and there, across the way, with his hair longer than Susan has ever known him to have, Peter lets out a roaring laugh. Rhindon is far out of sight, a glaive taking its place in Peter’s steady hands. Even from afar, Susan feels it in her bones when Peter’s swing launches an enemy’s torn body across the field. There are bodies, horror-frozen faces, the stench of blood and bile. The steps to the Cair will perhaps forever bear the stain of this assault. They have lost people they held dear. Susan has wept enough to fill an ocean. And Peter laughs. With storm-eyes, bloodied tongue, and bared teeth, her older brother wages joyous war.

High King Peter the Magnificent; War; Sword of Aslan; the Boy-King; the Once-And-Future-King

before, in the shadows of a life that has long ceased to be your own, war was suits and uniforms, severe men and overworked mothers. war was looming large, approaching fast. war was terror lurking in the skies, a constant fear of the open air. war was everywhere; your brother and sister forever slighted by all things turned into luxury inside your home. and sure, you only remember the before once it turns into the after, but war—no matter the where of it all, you remember war.

war: standing tall, standing straight, standing with the weight of worlds borne on youthful shoulders; war: a shadow, a streak of vivid red and vicious gold; war: a man-turned-boy-turned-man.

war: steady arms that cling with welcome desperation, a rallying cry that makes your heart burn bright; war: a stumbling boy bearing skies that turn red before they ever find their blue. war: familiar like no other, from cradle to your shaking adult hands.

before-turned-after, you hear your mother—unsweetened tea, old perfumes, and factory oils scrubbed out with rationed soap—whisper to her friends about war. you sit on wooden steps—not stone, never stone in the after—and dig your nails into your shins. war, forever burning bright, sits at your back with the skies and the sword's edge. you lean to feel the shift in his breath, to remember that with everything lost, war remains.

she let the war in, your mother says in words tinted with war-weak drink. she lets war sleep on the same floor as her children, she confesses, like a wolf amongst sheep. you dig your nails deeper. war, his forehead against your back, sighs.

you know war best, cradle to the here and now. he wipes your tears with too-soft hands until you miss the swords and bows like the air inside your lungs. he brushes your sister's hair, listens to your brother with intent. war holds it together in the cracked marble that you've all become. war, warm and familiar, holds on tight.

when you start to wear your mother's old dresses, outgrowing your own, when you start to paint your lips a new shade of red, war's reflection almost cracks the fragile glass of your composure. he watches, looming, bearing the crimson skies like a gift rather than the curse it grew to be. his eyes—blue still, too blue for england clouds and england air—carry even more, a looking glass for worlds long closed to you and him. the curve of his smile makes you ache for string and wood, makes your fingers crave the weight of pulling it all taut. his shoulders are broad, his hands calloused again.

over your shoulder, your mirror shows a sword stained beyond repair. you ache with the wish for the battlefield. you fear it as you always did, even when you called it home. war, a rag in hand and shoulders straight, hums in tune with the memory of arrows loosened from your gentle hands.

you leave before the blood can reach your polished shoes.

——susan pevensie learns of ares, of atlas, of war on a horse. she weeps for the brother she finds in them.

THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA

caspian

nothing here yet…

peter pevensie

nothing here yet…

edmund pevensie

nothing here yet…