#golden age of narnia

[softlyblues]

so in my dream narnia that has nothing to do with real narnia, there’s a city that clumps up beside cair paravel, because although i get the agrarian fantasy it’s just not realistic not to have a bustling city beside the docks!

the city is called pavilions in my head, because it’s built sort of clinging onto the cliff that the cair is built of, on these little raised platforms and pavilions. (hah!) and it starts as a sort of shanty town, because oreius and peter lead the army to the cair after the big battle and the coronation and hey! a lot of these people haven’t got homes to go to anymore, but they do have fuckloads of sturdy war tents!

so for the first year or so, they call it pavilions and wait for it to be deconstructed, but it never is. peter gets a bit worried and asks oreius if the army is waiting for any reason, but here’s the thing - when an army hangs around for longer than about nine months, it stops being an army and starts being a sort of mobile town. there are definitely babies. hell, oreius’s army has been around for a hundred years. there are KIDS raised in that warcamp, and they don’t particularly want to go back to long-defrosted burrows, no thank you!

so eventually lucy decides she needs a crusade, and she gets a whole pile of courtiers and hangers-on to make pavilions a bit more official. they make a main street (maybe it’s called broadway, or lions path, or something) and a few branching streets, mostly officialising what’s already there. some of the tents have already turned into wooden shacks, and so lucy and her badgers and beavers and otters and foxes and ducks and (weevils) do a bit of construction, get some of their dwarvish friends to quarry rock from the nearby deposits, and help build a lot of the central buildings. the pub, a few houses of dubious repute (ik its a childrens book but listen), a few market stalls get shoppified. 

lucy doesn’t commission them, but they crop up anyway. four statues, made of quartz-veined marble, and very admirable likenesses they are too, because narnia is full of craftsmen. but because pavilions is a piecemealy sort of city, there isn’t room for the four of them together, and they become squares and circles and gardens. queen lucy way. queen susan avenue. king peter road. the statue to edmund is beside a black dwarf bar on the outskirts of pavilions, and occasionally gets egged in the night, and edmund never goes to see it. there’s an official king edmund street, because lucy made the maps, but it’s more like an alley really, the back of a few market stalls and some crooked houses. 

[fyeahedmundpevensie]

Insomnia is plaguing me horribly again. Thinking about spending my nights reading in little nooks of Cair Paravel. Or quietly singing lullabies to myself on the beach under the castle.

And Edmund would often be slightly roused by me crawling into bed around 4 or 5 in the morning, only to hold me close and when he wakes for good he'd find me sleeping soundly in his arms.

[quality-street-rat]

Narnia HC

After the Pevensies were crowned, Edmund avoided Tumnus for a long time. When Lucy confronted him about it, Edmund broke down and confessed that he felt so ashamed of telling Jadis that Tumnus had met Lucy, that he was sure Tumnus hated him, that he didn’t feel worthy of Tumnus’s friendship or forgiveness. 

So Lucy dragged him down to talk to Tumnus about it. Tumnus assured Edmund that he didn’t hate him, that he didn’t even blame him, because Jadis had drugged and manipulated Edmund, that it wasn’t Edmund’s fault what she had done.

Ed and Tumnus actually became very good friends.

[xslytherclawx-writes]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Peridan/Edmund Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie & Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie/Original Male Character(s) Characters: Edmund Pevensie, Peridan (Narnia), Lucy Pevensie, Susan Pevensie, Peter Pevensie, Various Narnian Characters, Eustace Scrubb, Jill Pole, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Golden Age (Narnia), Post-The Silver Chair, Pre-Book: The Last Battle (Narnia), Spare Oom, Boarding School, Explicit Sexual Content, Period Typical Attitudes Summary:

Two glimpses into Edmund's life - one in Narnia, and one in England.

[fairmerthefarmer]

My take/designs on the pevensies! (They’re definitely heavily inspired by their looks in the movies.)

Beginning of the lion, the witch and the wardrobe

End of golden age-ish

I’d call this a WIP but it’s not really, mostly once we get into designing clothes in fantasy settings I feel very out of my depth, but I wanna practice more. I’m the most happy with Lucy’s but that’s also cause I most heavily referenced with hers.

Im mostly still just figuring out the clothes design for when they’re in narnia. I want brighter/more jewel toned and warmth to contrast with the more muted London clothes. And for the clothing design I want embroidery, but other than that I have no idea how I would make the designs of the narnian style in this era cohesive.

I also have vague main colours for each of them, lucy green, secondary red, edmund blue secondary brown, Susan purple secondary blue, Peter red secondary purple, and all of them use gold as well.

[quecksilvereyes]

sometimes i think about narnia and i vibrate out of my skin like...

you walk into a world you cannot understand, frozen and dying, and it is you who thaws it. you who kills the witch, you who breaks the stone table, you who slays the wolf. it is you who is crowned and it is you who wails for two worlds when the wardrobe doors shut behind you.

your skin never sits quite right and your teeth are too dull. there are wars in your bones and decades in your eyes before you can reach the telephone on the wall.

you are king. you are queen. they won't let you read the newspapers at breakfast.

it calls you back from beyond a train and from within paint. begs with bloody palms and salt-crusted cheeks. takes from you all that you can give - and sends you back.

you watch your sister fade.

you are a child twice and an adult once. and when you stand in your home again, with crushed bones and the smell of coal still in your nose, you watch them sneer at your sister.

your sister is the sun above you. she is, beautiful and stone-cast, alive in a world you could never stomach. she smiles, still, and stretches her skin over human bones.

she is no longer a friend of narnia. do you tell them it is her who has to bury you all and the stars that are falling from the skies in shards?

[livelaughlove-write]

So...if we can get a Lord of the Rings show, I think that we should also get a show about the Golden Age of Narnia, and they should recast the original siblings, because they are now the appropriate age of when the golden age took place. Just putting that out there...

[quarter-lif3crisis]

The Horse and His Boy | C.S.Lewis (1954)

[pevensiegiigi]

The Pevensies with Lucy would be something like:

Peter: He doubts a lot, but the possibility that this is so is raised.

Susan: He's completely hesitant, but he doesn't say it outright.

Edmund: Believe every word that comes out of Lucy, even if it's in jest.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

This is the story of an adventure that happened in Narnia and Calormen and the lands between, in the Golden Age when Peter was High King in Narnia and his brother and his two sisters were King and Queens under him.

"The Chronicles of Narnia: The Horse and His Boy" - C. S. Lewis

[softlyblues]

Burrowing, Burrowing, Burrowing - Part One - an Edmund Golden Age Fic

Maithas Bristlebrow rubs his hand down his face and wishes, very fervently, that he was dead. "Tell me again," he says evenly.

The two dwarflings, holding hands and trembling in the face of their fearless leader's reaction, press together. Someone - possibly them - has braided their beards together, so every time one of them moves the other one wobbles and they both have to screech and windmill their arms to stay up straight. "Um," says one.

"It's the burrow," says another.

They both look at each other. Neither of them are old enough to remember last year, never mind before it was winter; to them, this spring is more terrifying than anything else they know. "It flooded," says the first one timidly.

Maithas buries his head in his hands and bites down hard on the meat of his thumb.

It doesn't work.

He's still screaming.

In the aftermath of the White Witch's death, the sudden restoration of Spring leads to some unexpected issues. When the Bristlebrow burrow floods, Maithas Bristlebrow - now Chief due to the death of his brother in the final battle - reaches out to his new monarchs for aid. King Edmund the Just is quick to respond.

read on ao3

The days after the coronation are exhausting; Edmund has never felt more alive.

For one thing, Cair Paravel is mostly in ruins around them. The four Pevensies sleep, therefore, underneath their regal cloaks on the floor in front of the thrones, using their arms and each other for pillows, and wearing and wearing again the clothes Aslan gave them to be crowned in. The party attendees have slept off the wine and wandered (or run) back home, for the most part; Oreius, who Edmund had come to see as part of the furniture, has returned to the remnants of the camp at the Stone Table, giving no word of return. Maybe he won't. Maybe he was a winter general, and now Spring has come he has no intention of doing anything but... whatever it is centaurs do, in their spare time.

Edmund wanders outside onto the first pavilion. His shoes are hurting him. They're uncomfortable Sunday shoes, because he'd been saving his best boots for exploring the woods in the Professor's country, back a hundred years ago (a week? two?) before he came here. Now his other hurts have gone, his shoes are back to being his primary worry, and worry he does; what if there are no shoemakers in Narnia? What if none of them want to make him any shoes?

Inside Cair Paravel, Lucy and Susan are exploring what remains of the basements. Peter is down on the beach, poking into caves, having decided that there must be smugglers somewhere. Edmund kicks listlessly at the grass. Do the other three feel as he does? They walk with a lot more purpose, even Lucy. She's found a leather belt for herself, and has looped the little vial into a free hook, draping it over her waist. It sloshes when she walks.

Edmund does not like feeling sorry for himself.

The pavilion is a pretty place. Maybe once it was roofed, but he suspects not; the tiled floor has mossed and grassed over, and the pillars are blue with salt from the sea and general neglect, but it's still a place someone loved, once.

"Oh, bally it all," Edmund mutters, kicking off his shoes. The knots have swollen with river-water, and are now impossible to unpick; he tosses them into the long grass on the other side of the pavilion and then gets down to his hands and knees, beginning at one corner, wresting thick moss and wildflower stems from between the tiles, pulling them free of the ceramics and throwing them the same way as the shoes.

It's a picture!

Tasked now, Edmund works with a frenzy for hours. Certainly long enough for the sun to rise to an apex in the watery blue sky, and set again - begin setting - with the sort of premature joy a Springtime sun feels, as though it hasn't realised yet that winter is over.

It's a picture!

When dusk is well and truly upon them, and the voices of his siblings are chattering in the Throne Room again, Edmund stands. He brushes his earthy palms against his thighs. He'll have to get up high, to properly see what the picture is.

Perhaps it's a bad idea, but he doesn't put his shoes on. He heads right for one of the curly apple trees on the edge of the pavilion, an old thing long beyond flowering, and clambers up.

"Pretty, that," says the magpie on the branch beside him, in a conversational sort of voice.

Edmund falls out of the tree.

His head aches, but not as bad as his back, where he's landed flat on a gnarled root. His heart is thundering a horse-race in his chest, and he feels stupid and afraid. "Ow."

The bird in the tree flutters down to the rock beside him, and cocks its head. It's a magpie, but it's definitely a Talking Magpie - Edmund is beginning to recognise the hallmarks, the sheen to the feathers, the size of the animal, the intelligence in the beady eyes. "You one of the yoo-mans, then?" The bird asks, still looking at the pavilion, "Damn odd thing for a yoo-man to do."

"I'm human," Edmund says. He's still lying, looking up at the stars. God, his head throbs.

"You one of the Kings or Queens?"

Edmund nods and instantly regrets it. "Queens are girls," he explains, "Kings are boys. I'm a King."

"How in damnation am I to know whether you're a girl or a boy?" The Magpie scolds him, cackling deep in its throat, "You ain't no pretty bird, so who's to tell?"

"I can't tell with you," Edmund says with considerable injury.

"Well!" The Magpie preens, looking as offended as a bird can get, "Well! That's a fine thing to say to a body, and a body what's your loyal subject and all!"

"Oh." Edmund thinks about that for a second, "Yes. Sorry. That was rude. Sorry."

"Hmph."

After a while, Edmund feels safe enough to sit up; he leans against the trunk of the apple tree, surprised enough to see the Magpie still beside him, perched on a log. "I don't want to climb up again," he confesses to the bird, "Will you... what's the picture?"

The Magpie quirks its head. "It's a pair of yoo-mans," it says, "Looking real fine. Wearing pretty feathers. Got gold and stuff on their heads, and a Pegasus with them."

"A Pegasus?"

"You dunno what a Pegasus is? Hell, maybe you is simple."

Edmund doesn't say anything. He isn't sure what to say.

"'S a flying horse," the Magpie says sullenly, after a few moments, "And I'm Maulkbone. And I'm a boy Magpie, so don't go making no assumptions, you."

"Oh," Edmund turns and grins, unable to help himself, "Maulkbone - it's lovely to meet you - I'm Edmund."

"King Edmund," says Maulkbone with a grin in his beak, "Not Queen Edmund?"

For the first time in several days, Edmund laughs and means it.

Maithas Bristlebrow still wishes he was dead, because being dead - surely, surely - would be less hassle than this.

"We have to camp, Granny," he repeats for the fiftieth time, "Because the burrow is full of water."

Granny Bristlebrow folds her arms over her chest. "I amn't going," she declares, much to the amusement of the various Bristlebrows witness to this argument, "And you amn't gonna make me, Maithas, Chief or no Chief!"

In the hours since the Bristlebrow clan has been flooded out of their burrow, a sort of refugee camp has grown in the forest near the river, higher than the floods can possibly reach. We hope. Dwarves are always prepared and many-layered; a mish-mash of tents made out of jackets, half-tanned leather, trousers, jerkins, shirts, towels, and blankets has become a sort of aboveground burrow, where Bristlebrows of all sizes now sit, feeding babies and sharpening shovels and braiding hair and generally looking about as displaced as Maithas feels. Dwarves are not made for sitting around.

"Granny," he tries again, lowering his voice, "C'mon, please. People're starting to watch."

Granny Bristlebrow just cackles, her walking stick brandished like a weapon. "I'm staying on this bank until Winter comes back or you dig me a new burrow," she says. "Yessir, Chief Bristlebrow, Sir!"

Maithas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His ribs are still bruised. "Granny," he says, "Until you move, we can't start digging you a new burrow."

Some murmurs of admiration among the gathered Bristlebrows at this new piece of diplomacy.

Granny Bristlebrow nods her head in acknowledgement, like a master chess player impressed at a reckless move from a rookie. "Fine, then," she says, and holds out her hand, "You can carry me up the hill if you truly must, but I ain't moving any further than that!"

Thankfully, Granny Bristlebrow weighs about as much as a sack of spuds, and Maithas is strong even for a dwarf. She still beats the backs of his knees with her stick as he walks, but that's just to keep him on his toes. "I'll kill her!" Granny says cheerfully, swinging with every step Maithas takes, "She'll die!"

"Pretty sure she died already, Granny," Maithas says, depositing his grandmother at the mouth of one of the first tents. The Bristlebrows have dispersed again, back to their pasttimes, Maithas's entertainment having left them, "I should know. I seen it, didn't I?"

She pats him on the head with her free hand. "Everyone's seen it."

"Sure, but I was there."

"I know, son," Granny Bristlebrow keeps patting him. It makes Maithas feel very young, and very un-Chiefly, "Was it that brave Son of Adam what did it?"

"No," Maithas admits, "It was..." And he finds he can't remember. He'd been Captain of the Black Dwarf team, a group of about twenty Bristlebrows, Blackbanes, Beardbraids, Ballangers, and Bluebanders; by the time the news spread, Maithas had still been wrestling with a particularly savage Red Dwarf from the other side (hence the bruised ribs, he remembers with a wince).

Granny pats him on the cheek again.

When Maithas stands, knees cracking, and surveys the hill, his heart sinks. There are maybe three hundred Bristlebrows currently lying in the woods - the burrow that flooded was the central campment, and that's not counting the cousins, uncles, aunts, siblings and distant relations still returning through Narnia. In a week, he will have five hundred dwarves to house, and nothing but watery soil to house them in, should they miraculously learn how to breathe underwater.

He wanders up the hill, lest Granny start giving him advice again. He's been Chief for - Aslan's Mane, how long ago was the battle? It can't be a week, can it? - and already he can feel the grey hairs in his beard.

"Caw! Caw!"

Stopping just below a tree, an Aunt of his - Charia Bristlebrow - and her fourteen children stirring a stew pot, Maithas squints up. The voice is familiar. "Maulky?"

Sure enough there's a Talking Magpie in the tree, although when Maithas meets his eyes the bird flutters down onto his shoulder. One of Charia's children, a little dwarfling not much older than a year, giggles.

"Pretty pickle you're in here, Bristlebrow," Maulkbone Magpie says. He chucks, an instinctive noise in the back of his throat, and starts to preen his feathers.

Maithas slumps. "I know," he says. Charia very kindly turns the children back to the stew, to let him have his breakdown in peace. "Ye gods, Maulky, what am I going to do? My burrow's flooded, and Matthein is - Matthein is-"

Maulky pecks fondly at Maithas's ear. "Sorry," he coos, "Sorry-sorry-sorry. Pretty pickle you're in here, all the same."

The dwarves up the hill a bit have started singing a mournful gold chant. So many men and women have not returned; the Bristlebrow clan is either very very young, dwarflings without hardly any beard, or very very old, hobbling around on two sticks. The very first thing Maithas has done, on becoming Chief, is make the whole bloody lot of them homeless.

Ye Gods.

"I know summat that could help," says Maulky thoughtfully. Well. Pretend-thoughtfully. The sort of thoughtful he says, sometimes, when he's scheming.

Maithas both hands on his eyes and presses until he sees stars. "What? What could possibly help?"

Magpies can't grin, but Maulky does a damn good approximation of one. "You ever make it to that funny coronation up the country, in the end?"

[fyeahedmundpevensie]

Horny Edmund thought of the day: 

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

My brain is on overdrive thinking about thigh-riding........Edmund’s arms wrapped around my waist while I cling to his shoulders and just mindlessly rut

[valquiria3000]

I love it whenever I come across a post about how the pevensies are holding up when they return to England or how other people notice they have changed, it just feel so nostalgic and makes me feel connected to them in another level

So if anyone writes something like that, please do tag me, I’ll be delighted to read it

[macedraws]

golden age edmund 🗡️

idc if it isn't canon give me a 7 season show about the pevensies during the golden age

[fairmerthefarmer]

One time for character design practice I decided to draw Captain Drinian and also give him a sister except I’m not much of a writer so I don’t even have a name for her, all I know about her is that she’s an asexual lesbian, and like super strong or something.

Also I just want to believe that Lucy wasn’t the only woman on that ship the entire time.

[visualsandvoices]

Do NOT insert modern social-political conversations into Narnia. Please. We don’t need radical feminism bashing us over the head. A subtle nod is acceptable, nothing more. Stick to a plot that doesn’t concern modern politics. I beg you. Indulge in the fact that fantasy can mean escapism.

I wanna see the kings and queens at the height of their rule and you can do so much with like trade negotiation, relations with tashban and clash in two differing religions, resources and local economies, the fact that giants and talking animals very much exist???? like you can world build without woman vs man, gender roles, who’s tough and who’s allowed to display emotion. It’s getting old. Give it a rest.