Peter Pevensie - Blog Posts

The Guardians of Narnia Update!

Hey Guys! I decided to move my Guardians of Narnia over to Wattpad, and Chapter 2 was just updated! 😁

Please give it a looks and remember to Vote, Comment, and Share!

Also be on the lookout for FAQ's and artwork about our new Guardians!👀

Can't wait to see you guys in the next chapter! ❤️

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

Same

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

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

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.

I'm torn between a desperate want for the Pevensies to have lived out their lives in Narnia air fad, and the absolute beauty people come up with when writing about their return to earth. This is brilliant. Everything I love!

thoughts on the Pevensies returning home

Peter Pevensie was a strange boy. His mind is too old for his body, too quick, too sharp for a boy. He walks with a presence expected of a king or a royal, with blue eyes that darken like storms. He holds anger and a distance seen in veterans, his hand moving to his hip for a scabbard that isn't there - knuckles white. He moves like a warless soldier, an unexplained limp throwing his balance. He writes in an intricate scrawl unseen before the war, his letters curving in a foreign way untaught in his education. Peter returned a stranger from the war, silent, removed, an island onto himself with a burden too heavy for a child to bear.

Only in the aftermath of a fight do his eyes shine; nose burst, blood dripping, smudged across his cheek, knuckles bruised, and hands shaking; he's alive. He rises from the floor, knighted, his eyes searching for his sisters in the crowd. His brother doesn't leave his side. They move as one, the Pevensies, in a way their peers can't comprehend as they watch all four fall naturally in line.

But Peter is quiet, studious, and knowledgeable, seen only by his teachers as they read pages and pages of analytical political study and wonderful fictional tales. "The Pevensie boy will go far," they say, not knowing he already has.

His mother doesn't recognize him after the war. She watches distrustfully from a corner. She sobs at night, listening to her son's screams, knowing nothing she can do will ease their pain. Helen ran on the first night, throwing Peter's door open to find her children by his bedside - her eldest thrashing uncontrollably off the mattress with a sheen of sweat across his skin. Susan sings a mellow tune in a language Helen doesn't know, a hymn, that brings Peter back to them. He looks to Edmund for something and finds comfort in his eyes, a shared knowing. Her sons, who couldn't agree on the simplest of discussions, fall in line. But Peter sleeps with a knife under his cushion. She found out the hard way, reaching for him during one of his nightmares only to find herself pinned against the wall - a wild look in Peter's eye before he staggered back and dropped the knife.

Edmund throws himself into books, taking Lucy with him. They sit for hours in the library in harmony, not saying a word. His balance is thrown too, his mind searching for a limp that he doesn't have, missing the weight of his scabbard at his side. He joins the fencing club and takes Peter with him. They fence like no one else; without a worthy adversary, the boys take to each other with a wildness in their grins and a skillset unforeseen in beginner fencers. Their rapiers are an exertion of their bodies, as natural as shaking hands, and for the briefest time, they seem at peace. He shrinks away from the snow when it comes, thrust into the darkest places of his mind, unwilling to leave the house. He sits by the chessboard for hours, enveloped in his studies until stirred.

Susan turns silent, her mind somewhere far as she holds her book. Her hands twitch too, a wince when the door slams, her hand flying to her back where her quiver isn't. She hums a sad melody that no one can place, mourning something no one can find. She takes up archery again when she can bear a bow in her hands without crying, her callous-less palms unfamiliar to her, her mind trapped behind the wall of adolescence. She loses her friends to girlishness and youth, unable to go back to what she was. Eventually, she loses Narnia too. It's easier, she tells herself, to grow up and move on and return to what is. But her mourning doesn't leave her; she just forgets.

Lucy remains bright, carrying a happier song than her sister. She dances endlessly, her bare feet in the grass, and sings the most beautiful songs that make the flowers grow and the sun glisten. Though she has grown too, shed her childhood with the end of the war. She stands around the table with her sister, watching, brow furrowed as her brothers play chess. She comments and predicts, and makes suggestions that they take. She reads, curled into Edmund's side as his high voice lulls her to sleep with tales of Arthurian legends. She swims, her form wild and graceful as she vanishes into the water. They can't figure out how she does it - a girl so small holding her breath for so long. She cries into her sister, weeping at the loss of her friends, her too-small hands too clumsy for her will.

"I don't know our children anymore," Helen writes to her husband, overcome by grief as she realizes her children haven't grown up but away into a place she cannot follow.

THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA

caspian

nothing here yet…

peter pevensie

nothing here yet…

edmund pevensie

nothing here yet…

“to the glistening eastern sea, i give you queen lucy the valiant”

“to the great western woods, king edmund the just”

“to the radiant southern sun, queen susan the gentle”

“and to the clear northern skies, i give you king peter the magnificent”

I rewatched the Narnia movies and they have me so fucekd up like what do you mean they ruled Narnia for like 50 years and then on a random day had to go back to school in Englad AS CHILDREN I WOULD LOOSE MY MIND they would have to send me to an institution because what the hell

𝐀 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Pairings: Peter Pevensie x Reader.

Warnings: None.

Genre: fluffy(?) A bit cliffhanger-ish.

The grand hall is quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the faint metallic clatter of Peter's armor as he strides in, weary from battle. His blonde hair clings to his forehead, sweat mingling with streaks of dirt and blood. He winces slightly as he pulls off a dented gauntlet, revealing a fresh gash along his forearm.

“Xia,” he calls softly, his voice hoarse yet commanding. “Come here.”

You step forward, heart racing as your gaze meets his intense blue eyes. He's every inch a king — regal, formidable, and breathtaking, even in his battered state.

“I need your help,” he admits reluctantly, gesturing to the wound.

“It seems I got a bit careless.”

His attempt at humor does little to mask the pain he's in. You nod, guiding him to sit by the fire. Your hands tremble slightly as you gather water, cloth, and salve from the nearby table.As you kneel before him, your fingers brushing against his skin as you clean the wound, the air between you thickens. Peter's sharp intake of breath isn't just from the sting of the salve — it's from the closeness of you, your touch both gentle and intoxicating.

“You're always so careful with me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

“Even when I don't deserve it.”

Your eyes flicker up to his, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The firelight dances across his features, casting shadows over the hard lines of his face.

“You're my king,” you whisper, voice wavering. “It's my duty.”

His hand cups your chin, tilting your face up to his.

“Is that all I am to you?”

The unspoken question hangs heavy in the air, daring you to cross a line that can't be uncrossed.

homeless | poetry by @pencap

homeless | poetry by @pencap

Peter and Edmund from Narnia have the same energy as Thor and Loki

So i couldn't remember if the 2nd and 3rd Narnia movies were real or not so I rewatched them. So now i have adorable modern au headcannons:

• Lucy steals her brother's sweatshirts constantly. She wears almost exclusively leggings and her brother's hoodies. They would be mad at her for it, but they're not b/c it's Lucy.

• at one point Edmund hides all his and Peter's sweatshirts as a prank. He hides them in Susan's room so that Peter has to awkwardly try and get his sweatshirt out of Susan's room without her knowing

• Eventually she steals Caspian's hoodies sometimes too, but that's usually Edmund's job

• Edmund is addicted to iced coffee and Lucy always tags along and gets him to buy her Starbucks.

• Lucy has a following on tik tok. One of her tik tok series is Starbucks with Edmund.

• During VoDT when Lucy wakes up Edmund that scene is followed by them watching vines together until 3am

• Peter is insta famous. Why? How? Nobody knows he just is

• Lucy adds Caspian and Eustace to the family group chat. It's chaotic

Dirt on My Face Chapter 2: Unbelievable

Chapter 1

I was woken by the cold shock of snow being tossed in my face. I spluttered and sat up in the crook of Malic’s branches. “Malic!” I whined “what was that for?”

The tree laughed with a shake, his branches clattering with each other. One branch swooped down toward me. I ran a hand along it and on it’s end formed a beautiful red apple. I plucked it delicately.

“Well I guess breakfast makes up for it” I muttered. I bit into the apple and savored the sweet taste.

Few trees in the orchard produced apples to share anymore. The only reason they had before was because of the dryads of the village enriching them with their magic. Now after years of that magic’s absence many of the trees had returned to their quiet fretting.

Once I was done eating I climbed down Malic’s branches, my feet splashing up some snow with my landing. “Alright I’m off to the beavers then” I told him. “I’ll be back later” I lifted a hand to his trunk and felt his warmth run off on me. With a smile I hurried off into the woods.

The natural order of the woods was to move fast and keep hidden. This was especially certain for dryads. The Witch hated our natural magic that could make things grow. Beaver supposed that was why she destroyed the village when I was younger. I wasn’t as sure.

My father had been well known in The Wood. He spoke out against the witch and wasn’t afraid to fight for what was right. The Beaver’s don’t really talk about it but I knew that any resistance that might have formed when I was younger had been squashed upon his and my mother’s deaths. Despite this I still held hope that things would get better.

I was pulled from my thoughts when I heard the familiar bark and trample approach of the secret police. You couldn’t be seen by the secret police. My heart rate picked up and a jolt of fear shot through my veins.

I scrambled over to a nearby tree nearly face planting in the dirt. After placing a dirty hand to his trunk I was granted a hiding place up in his branches. I prayed the wolves would pass by below without an issue.

Unfortunately my luck is horrible. Two patrols met and stopped to compare notes right below me. I took this as a spying opportunity though, and tried to hear them below. Making sure to keep out of any kind of line of sight were they to look up. I shifted on the branch and accidentally banged my forehead into a higher limb. I held on and made sure not to fall or make too much noise. Holding a hand to my head I forgot they were covered in mud. Further attempts to clean my now dirty face failed.

"What did you find?" said a gruff voice I knew as Maugrim head of the secret police. If he was here then whatever was going on had to be serious. I abandoned trying to wipe my face clean and listened intently.

"Not much sir the trees aligned with us don't have much recollection of an event such as that." Spoke one of the wolves from the other patrol.

“Of course, not many here support her majesty." Said his companion

"This isn't good her majesty will not be pleased" stated the wolf with Maugrim

"Do any of you really believe that these rumors are true?" the first wolf spoke.

"Quiet don't speak like that" the second scolded.

"This is the fifth time we've gotten such an accusation in the last couple days." he argued.

"Silence" Maugrim snapped. "Do not question the Queens orders or I'll gut you myself on her command"

"Yes sir" the wolf out of turn whimpered.

"Now back to work" the wolves headed off at Maugrim’s command.

I listened for their sounds to fade before climbing down. “Thank you” I whispered to the tree before heading on off to the Beaver’s.

“Beaver! Beaver!” I called crouching down to knock on the door. “You’re never going to believe this.”

The door opened and Mrs. Beaver gave me a questioning look. “Arbor? What in heaven’s name are you screaming about and look at your face it’s covered in dirt”

I scrambled into the house. Breathing heavily. “Maugrim was in the woods” I explained “he said they got a report of something.”

“Maugrim?” Beaver inquired, hobbling out of a back room “where in The Wood?”

“Will you both keep your voices down” Mrs. Beaver scolded lightly. “The last thing we want is someone over hearing you”

“Out near Tumnus’s and the lamppost. They said they were getting reports about something in the woods and something about rumors” I told them taking a seat at the table.

Beaver sat across from me and leaned in speaking in a low voice “rumors? Tumnus’s? You know Badger told me something the other day-“

“Oh now don’t go sharing it with her” Mrs. Beaver interrupted quickly. “It could be dangerous. She’s only a child”

“Hey I’m not that young” I objected “I can take care of myself”

Mrs. Beaver huffed “you are indeed a child and you have no business getting mixed up in all this”

“What even is this?” I exclaimed.

“Aslan is-“

“Beaver!” The woman of the house silenced her husband.

“She deserves to know! Just think of her parents” Beaver told the Mrs.

“Her parents?” Mrs. Beaver sighed and lowered her voice “and just look what happened to them”

“They fought against the White Witch” I spoke up “and I want to as well”

“Now you listen here child” Mrs. Beaver gave me a motherly stare. “I don’t want you getting wrapped up in any of this. You understand me?” She walked over to the counter and collected some berries and biscuits into a little box she closed and shuffled back over to me “now you take these and go home to Malic. Go. Go on” she showed me to the door.

“I’ll be back tomorrow with your box” I told her grumpily. “And more information”

“You better now off with you” She pestered me along. “And don’t be causing anymore trouble”

“Bye” I waved one last time before turning and dashing off into the snow.

“Be careful!” I heard Mrs. Beaver's final call.

The Beavers have been taking care of me ever since my parents died. Them and Malic. They were my family here in the woods.

I ran through The Wood weaving among the trees. The box Mrs. Beaver had given me clattered in my jacket pocket. It was fun to just run free.

Then I heard the sleigh bells. I stopped in my tracks. Frozen, I listened. There was the sound of trampling feet and I ducked behind a rock not long after the Witch’s sleigh came rocketing past. I stayed very still watching it go before getting to my feet.

As she disappeared from view I felt a breath leave my lungs I hadn’t realized had been stuck. My luck really stunk today. First the wolves then the Witch’s carriage herself. I took another deep breath and turned to continue on my way when I froze. Standing not too far off was a boy.

He was dressed in blue with dark hair and eyes. A light dusting of freckles on his face and slippers on his feet he was roughly the same age as me. He looked completely out of place here in the woods. “Wh-who are you?” he asked, a rustling went through the trees and I realized very quickly that they didn’t know him. He wasn’t a dryad like me. He was a human. “Who are you?” he repeated again.

I opened my mouth to respond a little shocked just looking in his eyes. “Edmund!” There was an exclamation and the boy turned toward the voice. Without thinking I quickly ducked behind a large oak and was gifted up into his branches. Crouching there hidden.

A girl had appeared from the woods and greeted the boy. She was dressed in pink with short brown hair and more freckles. They talked for a moment. They were talking too softly for me to hear with the exception of a whining the boy made rather loudly when he shoved the girl away from him.

She turned and began to lead the way back to wherever they were from. I watched them go and saw the boy look back to where I had been with a perplexed expression. It felt weird knowing he was thinking of me.

Once they had vanished from sight I slid down the tree and felt my heart start pounding in my chest. Two humans were in the woods. Two more and we would have the entire prophecy. Spring was going to come. Narnia was going to be free. I let off an excited giggle and turned, making to head back to the Beavers with my news.

I began to run but was stopped when something leapt into my path. I slid on the snow and fell. Looking ahead I saw a wolf stalking around blocking my path. “Well, well, well, look what we have here” I turned to see Maugrim stalking forward behind me. “The rumors might not have worked out how we thought, but we still got something for our trouble. A lone little dryad”

I scrambled onto my feet looking between the two wolves and the woods. “Try it” the second wolf snapped menacingly.

I glanced between the wolves one more time before steeling myself and dashing forward. They were right behind me howling and barking and chasing. This was just a game to them. One grabbed my heel and I fell forward into the snow. Fighting against them a clawed paw tore at my arm ripping the fabric of my jacket and stinging my arm with pain. “Stop struggling we’re not going to kill you.” Maugrim growled as I gripped my arm tightly “her majesty would like to meet the last of the dryads”

I felt my heart beating in my chest. This was not good.

Life Series Book 1  Chapter 1: Broken Peace

“Arbor Eliffe! You get back here young lady!” I ran at top speed as Mrs. Greenwood yelled after me brandishing her woven basket over her head. 

I laughed like a maniac as I happily got away with the pockets of my jacket stuffed with cookies. However I hadn’t quite reached the woods when a hand reached out and pulled me back by the collar of my coat. 

I turned and smiled sheepishly at my father. He didn’t say anything as Mrs. Greenwood caught up to us. “Burian she’s done it again” the woman huffed her breath making little clouds in the cold air with each exhale. “Stole the whole tray the little troublemaker” she prodded me in the stomach with her basket which made me squirm from where my small frame was still being held up by my father gripping my collar. 

“I’m sorry Lavender, I'll have Camella bake you a fresh batch if you would like” my father offered.

I looked up at the adults talking over my head. “Hey I still have ‘em here in my pocket” I explained. Reaching in I pulled out a handful of crushed cookies.

My father sighed and Mrs. Greenwood let off a noise that sounded an awful lot like a growl. “I’ll be waiting for your wife’s delivery,” the woman declared turning on her stubby legs and hobbling back to her little cottage. I stuck my tongue out at her back. 

“Arbor” my father spoke scoldingly. 

“What?!” I exclaimed “she’s a mean old woman!” 

My dad let off a breath “that’s not-” he was cut off by a tearing noise and in the next moment my butt was in the snow. I looked up to see the torn collar of my coat in my father’s hand. “Let’s go home,” he declared defeatedly. “We’ll talk there” 

I followed my father through our small village. Cradled in a little glen it was a peaceful, wintery world all to our own. It was mostly filled with Dryads like my family and Mrs. Greenwood but we had the occasional animal friend who came to say. The Beavers who lived in the nearby dam came over every once and awhile to buy some things and a family of deer had a hollow down the road. 

It was a calm place most of the time. However there were times when we would hear the bells of the queen’s carriage or the pounding feet of the security police pack and would have to go inside. Those times me and mother would wait in the back room until father came and got us. To tell us things were safe. 

When me and father got home the first thing he did was take my coat and dump the pockets into the trash bin. Which I felt was a great waste. Then we headed into the kitchen where my mother was cooking. “Darling is that you?” she called over her shoulder. 

“It’s both of us” my father replied “someone got in trouble with Lavender Greenwood again” 

“Hey she’s the one that hordes all those goodies she bakes” I argued “and I’m not the only one who steals them” 

“Yes you’re just the one who gets caught the most” my mother chuckled turning around. She came over to the pair of us “i’ll make Lavender a new batch of cookies” she looked down at me squinting her eyes “oh look you’ve got dirt on your face” she murmured raising her apron to wipe my cheeks. 

“Mom” I whined. “It’s just a little dirt from Mrs. Greenwood’s garden.” she continued to scrub at my face “why are you making her cookies anyway? She’s the mean one who’s always glaring” 

My mother sighed, apparently giving up on getting my face clean. “How about I double the recipe then and we can keep the extra batch?”

“I quite like that plan” I smiled as she stood. 

“Oh so you’re rewarding our little thief here now are you?” my father inquired of my mother with a smirk. 

“Well Mrs. Greenwood is quite the grouchy old woman” mother pointed out. I gave my father a proud smirk having said something very similar earlier. 

“What am I to do with you two?” the man of the house sighed. 

“Love us” I cheered. 

“I quite like that answer” mother laughed lightly. Then she noticed my father holding my coat. “Oh what happened to your coat?” she inquired coming over. 

“Dad ripped it” I pointed up at the man quickly. 

“Nice” he grumbled down at me. 

I shrugged “it’s the truth” 

“Alright well we’ll get this fixed up then” the woman declared taking up the torn fabric. She sat it off to the side and returned to making dinner. 

“Come here kid” my father picked me up and sat me on the table. “We have to talk about all this stealing you’ve been doing. Mrs. Greenwood’s cookies, yarn from Mr. Orchard.” 

“It’s not stealing” I objected “it’s borrowing” 

“Do you return it?” my father inquired. I didn’t answer because I knew he was right “exactly now you can’t do that alright. Your five years old Arbor you have to understand. People work hard to make or earn the things you just take.” 

“But I work hard to take them,” I explained. “I had to wait for an hour outside Mrs. Greenwood’s window for her to place the cookies out and then even longer for them to cool off.” 

I heard my mother chuckle and my father sighed “listen Arbor things have value beyond just the work you put into them. Things like the value of promises and hope and love” my father sighed and sat down. “Here I’ll tell you a story. There once was a great king of Narnia. A king by the name of Aslan back in a time when our people would dance and bloom. Green grassy hills and fields filled with colorful flowers, petals drifting on the wind. Great celebrations with singing and dancing with the fauns and centaurs and all the other creatures of the wood.” 

“That sounds incredible,” I explained. “You would dance outside in the snow?” 

“There was no snow then” the man objected “Before this eternal winter there was once the four seasons. There was spring where things would grow and bloom and we’d have rainy days to splash in puddles. Summer where it would get so hot in the day we would all relax in the shade and play music, we’d have bonfires and tell stories. Autumn when all the trees would turn beautiful colors and we would harvest the fields preparing great feasts and parties. Then when winter would come it would be a short time where we’d go sledding, build snowmen, snuggle inside with warm drinks, and give gifts to one another” 

“Wow” I exclaimed in awe imagining such a world “what happened?” 

My father’s joyous smile faltered “it was stolen away from us by the White Witch.” my father explained he glanced over at my mother who had been watching us as she cooked. Her face heavy, and rigid in concern and sadness. “She came and she stole and she destroyed, Arbor. She took our joy and our happiness she took all the magic from our beautiful world and filled it with winter and sadness and fear” 

“That’s awful” I murmured looking out the window at the white snow falling outside.  

“She stole Arbor and she destroyed this entire land do you understand now why you must never steal what belongs to another?” he asked. 

I nodded quickly “but there has to be some way to end this winter? I want to see spring, summer, autumn” 

My father smiled warmly. Then looked around as if he expected us to be overheard before scooting closer. “There is a prophecy left to us by Aslan.” he cleared his throat dramatically before continuing “it goes: When Adam’s flesh and Adam’s bone sits in Car Paraval in throne the evil time will be over and done.” 

“Wow” I breathed, keeping my voice low in a mirror of his “what does it mean?” 

“It means that one day two sons of Adam and two daughters of Eve. In other words two human boys and two human girls will come into this land and vanquish the White Witch restoring all we once had to Narnia” 

I let off an excited giggle “they’ll bring spring back?” I questioned loudly. 

“Shh shh” my father hushed lightly “yes they will.” he sighed and reached a hand out to touch my cheek “oh and my dear Arbor I hope you get to see it” 

There was a moment of silence in the house before mother sighed “alright you two enough story time” she decreed. “Burian I need you to go pick me some more apples for the crumble” 

“I can do it mom” I exclaimed jumping from the table. “I want to go see Malic” 

“Oh alright but your coat is torn” my mother observed. 

“Here she can borrow mine, it's not that far to Malic’s orchard,” my father offered. He picked his jacket from the back of his chair and wrapped it around me. It smelled like him, warm and comforting. Like pine needles and old wood. The jacket was far too large for me made of brown leather, however it didn’t drag on the ground and I could move in it. “There that should suffice for your small journey” 

“Here” Mother handed me a basket. “Alright now it’s getting late so off to Malic’s and then straight back here for dinner” 

“Yes ma’am” I nodded in agreement as I shuffled to the door. “I love you!” 

“Love you too darling” father replied. 

“Love you” my mother also voiced kissing my forehead and then ushering me out the door. 

I ran down the snowy lane. Weaving past ice patches and giving an extra big smile to the glowering Mrs. Greenwood as I passed by her Cottage. Entering the woods I navigated among the trees with practiced ease. I reached my destination with a happy squeal. 

“Malic!” I greeted the aged apple tree. He rustled his branches in greeting. I reached up and placed a hand to his trunk leaning in. I felt the life rushing below and within his bark. I felt a weight hit my arm and looked to see an apple had fallen into my basket. “Oh thank you mother sent me to collect some for a crumble she’s making.” I explained. 

Malic reached down with his branched and I climbed up among them. I loved going high up into the air and looking out at the woods. Sitting in his branches I began to pick offered apples and tell him the grand story my father had told to me. Malic allowed me to jabber at him for a long time before I finally realized the sun was setting behind me and it was getting dark. 

“Oh I have to go, my mother said to be back quickly” I told the tree. “I’ll be back tomorrow though” I promised. Malic let me down from his branches and I began to run back toward the village waving goodbye to my friend. 

I weaved among the growing shadows of the trees, my feet crunching in the snow. I was nearly out of the woods when I was brought to a stop as a scream split the air. Fear suddenly shot through my veins as my breathing picked up. I started forward again slowly as firelight came into view. I entered the glen and dropped my basket with a gasp at the sight. People were running around madly two of the houses of the village burned and another began to catch. 

Statues that looked a lot like people I knew stood along the street in frozen images of terror. Shielding themselves from whatever was about to attack them. Standing there in the middle of it, just as frozen as the statues around her, crystal white with a gleaming scepter in her hand admiring the chaos with a look that could only be described as a chilling evil. The White Witch. 

I stood there staring as screaming was all around me just looking at her. Then someone grabbed my arm. I turned to see the panicked eyes of Mrs. Greenwood. “Arbor, come this way quickly!” she whispered urgently and dragged me off toward her house. We came inside and she pulled me over to a place on the floor. Lifting a hatch she rushed me down into the little crawl space below. “Stay here” she whispered hurriedly looking over her shoulder. 

“Where’s my mom and dad?” I asked desperately. 

“Shhh” she hushed me quickly. “Just stay quiet and stay hidden. Arbor please stay here until everything is quiet please promise me”

“I promise” I agreed, too terrified to do much else. She closed the hatch and I heard what sounded like her slapping the carpet back over it. The small space suddenly became very dark. I curled up into myself and listened.

There were screams and crashing and yelling and the roar of fire and things falling more screaming. I covered my ears and rolled on my side burying my head into my father’s jacket. Praying for peace. 

It was a long time before there was finally peace. I remained hidden in the darkness long after there was silence listening in fear. However, eventually I rose from my place on the floor and pushed on the hatch with my shaking hands. Slowly it creaked open. Climbing out I looked around. The house above was trashed, the table overturned and the door crashed in. Gentle morning light was pouring in from every crack in the walls and through the shattered glass in the window. 

Slowly I walked forward. Every step sounded far too loud in the chilling quiet. I exited the house and looked around in despair. Half the village was burned to the ground. The street was empty. I walked on down the road heading for home. Praying that it was safe hoping my parents were there waiting for me. Hoping they would be there to tell me everything was alright. The more I thought of them the faster I went until I was running around the corner to my house. 

I stopped dead in my tracks. It was gone. The entire home was ruble. Burnt to a chard crisp. I felt tears threatening my eyes as I looked around and didn’t see anyone. “Mom? Dad?” I called into the silence. There was no response “Mom?! Dad?!” I called louder. Still nothing I called again and my voice broke as my knees buckled. They were gone. 

The Life Series

This is a series I'm doing that's going to chronicle the Pevensie's lives if they would have stayed after the Prince Caspian movie. Starting with a young dryad growing up in the White Witch's reign. To the Pevensie's triumpant return to fight the telmarines. Moving on to an awkward courtship, a small expedition on the high seas with pirates (or maybe two expeditions), a king determined not to fall in love, and then a new generation carving their own stories into the Narnian world. It's the life of a family and of a nation and it's just like any life should be: A grand adventure!

It’s here: Book 1- Chapter 1