#yeah. it was narnia

[mydnyteraven]

Reaches for my very very old neopets account slowwwwly.

god i wish i wouldn't have to explain the intricacies of the neopets economy to you guys to give the full context for this but. the new neopets team that took over from jumpstart pledged that they were going to curb the inflation of rare items, which is great because a lot of rare items are worth literally hundreds of millions of neopoints, they are unbuyable unless you've been playing actively for 20 years. they did this earlier with a site festival that included random loot boxes, some of which had Unbelievably Fucking Rare And Precious items worth 200 million neopoints apiece.

well.

today they have gone a step further. by releasing this year's trick-or-treat bags. and having the trick-or-treat bags be stuffed to the brim with unbelievably fucking rare stamps, weapons, paint brushes, defense magic, and other unbuyables. (all prohibitively expensive and in-high-demand types of items.)

jellyneo, the premier neopets website, has recorded prices of some items plummeting from 2,000,000 neopoints to 4,000 neopoints IN THE LAST THREE HOURS. this is when most people haven't even heard about the event or OPENED THEIR BAGS YET.

and of course. cherry on top. 20-year-old account holders are crytyping on the site events neoboard about how mean and cruel it is to make rare stamps part of the prize pool, because their entire identity hinges on being part of the neopian bourgeoisie, and they are having MELTDOWNS over their assets being devalued until they're part of the lowly proletariat.

this is a children's game for children btw.

none of the money is real.

i'm having such a good time.

[tending-the-hearth]

the pevensie siblings find, when they return to england after being in narnia for so long, that it's not the fact that they're twenty years younger that is the most difficult to adjust to, but the clothes.

not in a "i wore expensive fabrics and jewels and silks and velvets for twenty years and now i have to go back to wearing inexpensive fabric?" way but in a "i spent twenty years wearing layers of comfortable heavy clothes and cloaks and soft fabric that didn't scratch and the feeling of loose clothing is a sensory nightmare" way.

edmund, who is perpetually cold, and always had at least three layers + a cloak on, and who the narnian tailors learned preferred inner linings of velvet because any other fabrics let too much of a chill in, and cloaks made of a study fabric meant strong protection against the elements

lucy, who can feel every little scratch and out of place tag in her clothes, always having narnian clothes fit her just right, made of soft fabric that never scratched her skin, and the narnian tailors knowing exactly what to use, and how to stitch the clothes so no loose threads ever bothered their beloved valiant queen

susan, who hates being restricted by her clothing, who loved the looser, softer-fitting arms of her gowns, because it meant that she could draw her bows faster, and tailors being able to pick which fabrics were the sturdiest and could withstand susan's draw, while still giving her the gentle appearance that perfectly hid her true abilities

peter, who can't stand anything tight around his neck, who only wore close-collar shirts when he had to, and who the narnian tailors knew to make the shirts a little looser around the neck, making sure that nothing closed too tightly, and making sure that his battle wear, though protective, never felt too constricting

and lucy and susan begin wearing headbands when they're back in england, every single day to mimic the comforting sensation of wearing their crowns that they're desperate to maintain

edmund and peter missing the weight of their shields on their backs, so they carry their school bags around as long as they can just to feel more balanced out as they walk alongside their sisters back home

just all four of them growing so accustomed to the weight of their narnian clothes and gifts and crowns, the lengths and layers of fabric, that when they are back in england, their old clothes are the biggest sensory nightmare to all of them, and they're just desperate to get their comfort back

[ravxe3n]

true james mcavoy brainrot...

bonus asriel for a request

[margindoodles2407]

It's about Edmund Pevensie. It's about how he was a greedy, selfish brat of a kid. It's about how he allowed himself to fall into sin. It's about how he was willing to sell out his own siblings for a position of power. It's about how he became enslaved by the White Witch. It's about how he almost died in sin. It's about how Aslan died in his stead. It's about how Edmund felt true shame for his actions. It's about how Edmund repented. It's about how Edmund, the greedy, selfish brat of a kid, repented, and came back from sin, and it's about how he couldn't repair his relationship with his siblings or the damage he'd done, but that wasn't the end because Aslan did it for him. It's about how Edmund, the greedy, selfish brat of a kid, grew up and became a King of Narnia, known as the Just, because he knew what it was to act unjustly and decided he wanted no part of that ever again. It's about how Edmund the Just, a King of Narnia, came back to earth, but he wasn't a greedy, selfish brat of a kid anymore, because he who is once a King of Narnia is always a King of Narnia. It's about Edmund Pevensie, and why he's my favorite of the Pevensie Children.

[itsybitsybatsyspider]

is this a Narnia Au?

yes it is

[queenlucythevaliant]

Okay but I do get really tired when people rag on Narnia's Biblical parallels for being too overt. Like, yeah dude. It's written for kids. Most kids don't do subtlety. I knew my Bible better than probably 95% of third graders, and yet my parents still had to clue me in. I've talked to people who grew up secular and didn't realize Narnia was Christian until well into adulthood. The Christian parallels in Narnia are at a pretty perfect level for most kids, and the fact that we as adults continue to get new spiritual meaning from it as we grow is a real testament to the depth of Jack's writing.

[zannolin]

narnia movies + text posts (part 11)

[plumsodapop]

The fact that there were humans living in the countries adjacent to Narnia the whole time makes me wonder if they knew about the prophecy, but also about the witch and the eternal winter and just opted to stay out of it

Some random witch reappearing after a few centuries: AT LAST NARNIA IS MINE

Calormen and Archenland:

[freakcliff]

prince caspian is one of the 'i cant think about this too long or ill go insane' books of all time. you and your siblings spent fifteen years ruling a country before getting spat back out to your own world where no time has past and you just have to be children again as if nothings happened. 1 year into this you get brought back to the country you ruled but its been ONE THOUSAND YEARS!! and you all are only LEGENDS. not only this but you have been called here via a magical artifact that one of YOU used to use to get help in times of great need . and you were called because your country has been colonized ! by invading forces that have nearly eradicated the original people from it and ruined the land . im insane. so many implications of that not explored because this was a 200 page childrens book written by

[rainintheevening]

Part I – Part II ... Part XVII – Part XVIII

They don't set out to become the kings of St. Maurice’s School for Boys, it just sort of happens.

Peter's not trying to be a king so much as be King Peter, not trying to lead so much as care for others, but it feels so natural to speak up, to step forward, to give orders and receive respect. He doesn't ask to be called ‘sir’, as the younger boys do when he scolds them, and he feels embarrassed when he hears other boys say, “Here comes His Majesty.” He's not the king of this school, he's not even Head Boy. He's just… Peter Pevensie. And yet, somehow, he knows he's High King Peter too, he remembers being that, and it lingers in his body and mind, sinew and soul altered in ways he cannot take back. He wouldn't take it back even if he could.

It's easier for Peter to see the little things in Edmund than himself: the way he laughs freer and brighter, even as he studies harder and deeper; the calmness with which he takes insults; the concern with which he addresses people in the wrong.

Peter finds himself instinctively turning toward the sounds of shouts and fists, finds himself leaping to either halt or join the altercations, depending on their nature. He's quick to see who's at a disadvantage, quick to pick a side if there's a clear one. Ed has similar tendencies, though he's sharper with his tongue, prefers to break up fights with some pointed words, and only the threat of fists, unless his brother is already embroiled.

Peter's ear seems specially tuned to his brother's voice, easily picking it out of any row, no matter how many boys may be shouting, and he is never surprised to discover Edmund at his side in the thick of it. They look after each other, guard each other's backs as much as possible, fight for each other when they must.

By the end of the winter term, they are both widely accepted leaders across the school, Peter on a level with Head Boy Wollers, and Ed as something similar among the lower forms, who consider him more accessible than Peter.

He picks out a pattern in the whispers: If you want protection, go to Peter; if you want clever ideas, go to Edmund. And it makes him smile, another echo of their kingship and the roles they'd taken while ruling from the Cair.

They stop bullies, and lift spirits, and it's all good, it's right, it's what Aslan would want, Peter's certain.

And then they go home.

Home for the Easter hols, home to Finchley for the first time since they left it in the autumn, when the bombing had only begun, and they sit silent on the train drawing them into London, dragging them out of the near-dream they suddenly know school to have been.

They have to change trains twice, because the lines are knocked out, and slow-rising tension crawls up Peter's spine, works knots into his shoulders.

It comes in flashes between the stretches of unspoiled land: the edge of a city bombed into jagged walls against pale sky, someone's kitchen gaping open to the air like a wound, a funeral procession down a country lane.

Closing in on London in the evening, the ragged grey look of everything increases, and silence settles in their compartment. They come into Tottenham Station minutes before blackout descends, and disembark into the brokenness of patched up walls, and boarded up windows. Their train is late, no one is waiting, they'll have to walk all the way up Tottenham Road to take the Tube from Euston. Even in the station their breath makes clouds before their faces.

Outside, the cab stand is empty, and they say nothing, hoisting trunks up to their shoulders, Edmund his shadow as he turns down the street. The edge of the heavy trunk digs into Peter's shoulder, it is deucedly hard to balance with his suitcase dangling from one hand, but he breathes, walks, one foot in front of the other.

It's hard to breathe, hard to see, they are walking through wounds, great gaping wounds bleeding fire and stone, city skin torn open to vital parts, and Peter does not know this London. He walks as if in a dream, slow and stunned, only the occasional knock of Edmund's arm against his reminding Peter he is in fact awake.

Halfway there, Edmund is forced to rest; he's smaller, not as strong as Peter, but his trunk weighs nearly the same.

Ed sits on his trunk, panting, and Peter says nothing, because there is nothing to say, just stretches his back, trying to stand tall, peering up into the blackout murk, searching for the sky.

Chilly, twilight air hangs heavy with smoke and dust, sharp, angry smells that send memories flickering through Peter's head like a faulty film reel at a picture—smoke above trees, smashed stone walls, reek of blood, red streaked down Rhindon's silver blade, giant's club smashing down on Edmund, shout burning in his throat, Erah's face coated in scarlet dried to rust, stern sorrow for destruction, Ed's pale but smiling face…

“Peter? Pete!” Tugging at his sleeve, and he starts, looks over into his little brother's worried eyes. “Are you alright?”

“It's wrong.” Peter waves a hand around them, ember broke to flame in his chest. An old woman limps past, head down, torch pointed at the ground to see her way. She doesn't even glance at them. “All wrong.”

And he reaches for Rhindon, but finds nothing, his hands are empty, he's in his school uniform not armour, he's a boy alone in the streets of London–

The air-raid sirens blare.

Fear gives them strength, and the world blurs until they tumble down the steps to the underground station, trunks and all.

Packed in with the hundreds of others sheltering there, they surrender the preferred positions on top of their trunks to older folk with bad knees, and huddle beside them on the cold concrete platform, Edmund pressed close enough for Peter to hear his whisper: “I wish we'd never come back.”

A little boy with a sticking plaster on his chin is squirming in an older girl’s arms, querulous with his need for the toilet, and an old milk bottle gets passed over.

Peter is trying not to breathe too deeply, the reek of the sweaty, fearful crowd nearly enough to make him gag. He doesn't know if Ed means back from school or back from Narnia, but he agrees with either.

“I hate bombs.” He rests his head against Ed's, sticks his nose into his brother's hair that still carries a hint of Yorkshire moor mist, closes his eyes. “Rather catapults, or even a dragon.”

The fire in Peter’s heart burns there, gnaws at his breastbone, his lungs. His hands keep clenching into fists, before the ache of his muscles catches his attention and he forces himself to relax.

The ground beneath them shivers, the lights flicker.

A baby cries, a dog whines, someone begins to sing, and Peter feels as if the concrete roof has already caved in on him, he is trapped, squeezed, he can't move, he can't do anything.

Oh, for a sword, an army, for Aslan! But Peter can't imagine the great Lion in all His beauty here, in this dingy foul smelling crowd. He closes his eyes again, wraps an arm tight around Ed.

Ed sings softly with the others: Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…

It's after 11 by the time they drag up the steps of their home, and no light escapes at any window, they cannot tell if anyone is even there. The girls have been delayed letting out thanks to a suspected case of the measles, and sometimes Mother works very late…

A light is on in the kitchen.

In the front hall, Ed drops down on his trunk, wordless, but Peter halts one step into the living room.

The fire in the hearth has burned down low, but there is enough light for him to see the woman lying across the sofa, still in her factory overall, so heavily asleep two boys blundering in with their luggage could not wake her.

Behind him Edmund starts to speak, but Peter turns, grabs Ed’s arm to tow him in his wake as he fumbles blindly into the kitchen.

He thinks his heart is breaking.

He sees the table set for three, supper gone cool, everything waiting for them, she must have fallen asleep waiting, and Peter… he thinks he's going to cry.

He doesn't.

His voice sounds odd and crackly as he tells Edmund, “Go and wake her gently. I'll reheat the soup.”

Peter comes awake in his own bed, sometime early morning, perhaps when he usually rises to go out to the stables, but he lies in complete darkness, listening to mother quietly moving about the kitchen, the door shutting behind her as she leaves to catch her bus to the factory…

And then he hears the air raid sirens very faint and far away, somewhere to the west, and he doesn't know why exactly but he is crying.

He rolls over to bury his face in his pillow, muffle the sobs, but they break out hard and fast, like the wild fire in his chest has become a bird beating its wings against his ribcage, and there is no escape, there is nothing he can do. He is nobody here, nothing, he doesn't count. He is small and trapped, and wild for open sky and the woods and the great moor rolling away and a fresh horse under him.

He thinks of the boy with the sticking plaster, the girl with the glasses, the great jagged wall that had once been a bakery! he suddenly remembered, with the most delicious cinnamon stickies one could imagine. And Mother, oh, Mum, it's not fair, you shouldn't have to work like this, it's all wrong, wrong!

He is weeping, broken open with a kind of hopeless fury for the pain around him, sobbing in the dark.

A patting hand finds his head, his shoulder, and Peter catches his breath, feels Edmund's weight dipping the mattress, a fumbling offer of comfort the way he knows Peter receives it best, and Peter… Peter cannot bear it, he flinches. Sob strangling in his throat, and he jerks back from the touch, curls away from the loving warmth of his brother, covers his mouth with a hand.

He does not want to be seen or heard, not like this, so wrecked and vulnerable, so weak and useless.

Hasty, fierce, he swallows the heaving, stamps out the fire, chokes down the tears, wrestling his body into a trembling, sniffling quietude.

“The only place you're useless is in the kitchen making tea.”

He stiffens at Edmund's hard-edged words, unbalanced by the wondering of how much he may have said aloud, or how much Ed might have guessed.

Edmund stands, moves away. “Come on, it's nearly six, and I'm starving—let's get breakfast.”

And then he's gone, creaking down the stairs, and Peter lies still, a few more tears making their way down the side of his face to the pillow. There is a cold space at his back, he is empty inside, hungry and weary in equal measure.

He does not understand. Any of this. Or so he tells the shadows.

He only understands that it hurts.

Next

[nothinggold13]

Netflix acknowledging Narnia as a primarily Christian series & suggesting they’re approaching it with that background IS single-handedly keeping my hope afloat in this hurricane of Narflix fears, actually. 🙌🏻

[mervynbunter]

What I returned to Narnia for, and took back with me, was a large number of powerful images and set-scenes: Edmund in the snow, stubbornly trudging towards the castle of the Witch. The feast at the end of Prince Caspian. Eustace turning into a dragon, and [the] agonizing return to humanity. The horror of the Island of Dreams. Getting lost in the blizzard outside Harfang, and the stench of “burnt Marsh-wiggle” during Puddleglum’s triumphant defiance. The tunnel between Polly’s and Digory’s attics, and the horrid sweetness of the bell that awakened Jadis in Charn. The poor imprisoned Dwarfs after The Last Battle, and Time squeezing the dying sun like a rotted fruit between his fingers.

The Question of Susan

[queeringclassiclit]

Edmund Pevensie

from The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis

[sparks-chaotic-cove]

being a wolf in Narnia is so fun because I just be like "my motivation is I WANT THEM KIDS DEAD"

[wiitzend]

we've been making fun of edmund for years for selling out his siblings to the white witch for turkish delight but neglect the fact that lucy went with mr. tumnus to his house alone after five minutes of meeting him because he offered her sardines.

[queenlucythevaliant]

So um. Anybody want to explain to me why the White Witch's name is Jadis when there's a perfectly good Green Witch elsewhere in the series? Or am I gonna have to go talk to Jack myself?