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.