(This poem appeared in an early draft of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. After Aslan told the children that he had another name in their world, Lucy would ask him "Who are you?" and Aslan would respond in verse.)
@englishboylover: "a first request ; I want Peter Pevensie to be a father. actually it's not a want, it's a need."
Pairing: Peter Pevensie x fem!reader
Little note before you read: Okay so this is my first one shot ever so keep that in mind while reading this. Feedback (within kindness and reason) is always welcome.
Narnia’s golden age, as they were calling it, thrived on. Never had the people known a better life nor rulers. The Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve were bringing joys Narnia hadn’t seen before. Queen Lucy the Valiant was the kindest of souls that seemed to emit delight that was certainly contagious. Although she was no longer the small sweet child, the beautiful young woman had the heart of an angel and couldn’t help but be adored by the people. Now King Edmund the Just was without a doubt not the foolish boy he had once been. He was a soldier and one of the best at that who led Narnia away from harm and the unjust (see what I did there). The ever-lovely Queen Susan the Gentle was engaged to be married. Even the most patient Narnians couldn’t wait much longer to see the celebration and the Queen wed. The High King’s wedding was something ingrained in their minds even though it had been a few years back.
They remembered y/n of l/n, well now Queen y/n, in the most elegant dress made by the lovely nymphs. They remembered the flower garlands that lined the streets and paths. They remembered the celebration after-the music, dancing, and smiles.
Now King Peter’s queen had just given birth to her second child. The people of Narnia were happier than ever to have two heirs to the High King. First a daughter and now a son! How simply wonderful for the future of Narnian rule.
Peter had been so incredibly nervous for this moment. He hadn’t known why, he’d done this before and little Hazel. The shaky hands in response to his wife’s cries of pain. The overthinking of everything. He sat outside the bedroom on the floor. He wished he could have been in there holding y/n’s hand and telling her how strong she was for enduring this pain for the both of them. Little Hazel was in his arms. Her tiny feet standing on his thighs with her hands playing with his face. He smiled at his little girl and held her arms-one in each hand-moving them around his neck so he could hold her properly. Hazel let out a small giggle as she let the weight of her small body off her legs and onto Peter. He kissed her round cheek, “Hazey, could you please stay this small forever? It’s very endearing.” He laughed at his own comment forgetting his wife’s pain for a moment.
Hazel babbled a bit so Peter sat her on his lap facing away from him wrapping his arms around her middle. Her tiny hands held onto his forearm.
“Do you think you’ll get a brother or a sister?” Hazel babbled her own language as a response. “You don’t know! Well I don’t either but I do know for a fact you’ll be a wonderful big sister.” More babbling. “Yes sweet Hazey, the best.”
After a few hours of waiting Peter was awoken by a fawn who had helped deliver his second child. She had lightly shook the king awake and smiled at him, giving him the assurance he needed to know that he could see his wife and baby.
He scooped Hazel up and carried her into the bedroom stopping at the beautiful sight of y/n holding his child. He smiled big walking over to his wife.
“Do you want to meet your son?” y/n asked. Peter’s eyes went wide. He had a son. It really didn’t matter to him which one they had, but knowing now that this was finally time to meet the little human that his wife had been keeping safe the last nine months. Peter nodded and then remembered he was holding Hazel. y/n noticed the panicked expression Peter had and laughed lightly, “Peter give me Hazel, you hold your son.”
Peter without hesitation swapped children with his wife (that’s a weird sentence but you understand). He held the small bundle that was his son. His son. That’s right! So peaceful he was and small. He was bigger than Hazel had been but still baby-sized.
Peter brought the small bundle to his face, his eyes crinkling with joy as he rubbed noses with his son. y/n smiled at the adorable sight of her husband playing with their baby, “What will we name him?”
Peter pulled away from the baby to examine him, “I don’t know y/n, what does he look like to you?”
“I like the name Lucas.”
“I do too.”
Peter sat down next to his wife and kissed her. He couldn’t have asked for a better family or life.
Have you read Past Watchful Dragons, the book about C.S. Lewis? There's a fragment of an unpublished Narnia book transcribed within! I didn't know it existed until today. It's available on the internet archives.
Yes! The Lefay Fragment! Sometimes when I'm doing a writing-order read through of the series I slide it on in there before MN. I find the rest of the book kinda ehhh as a Lewis biography, but the Lefay Fragment is awesome. I had no idea it was on the internet archives! Everyone go check it out!
you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.
without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.
your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.
your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.
your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?
your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.
your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.
who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?
You know how in Lord of the Rings and Narnia and other films shot in New Zealand, the scenery looks like it’s got a big sparkly filter added over it in editing? Yeah well went to a river yesterday and it actually just looks like that