So my sister had me watch a movie called Big Hero 6 with her, and I was looking at Honey Lemon's bag during the montage.
Girl has the periodic table of elements on her bag, which she uses to mix the components of her balls! Do you realise what that means?
It means this girl is undoubtedly the most powerful member on the team, but she holds back. Probably because she doesn't want to kill anyone, which she absolutely could do.
Let me be clear on this. Honey Lemon has the ability to create a hydrogen bomb at her fingertips (assuming she can also use neutrons to split the atom). She could create mustard gas. She could create dimethylmercury. She could create hydrofluoric acid. Hell, she could blend a simple mixture of raw sodium and water and:
For Peter, Narnia was soaring towers and summer blue skies. It was the smell of horses and fresh bread and polish and leather. It was the wise murmuring of centaurs, the laughter of dryads, the wild dances of the fauns, the haunting melodies of the naids. It was silken, billowing tents of royal purple and lion gold, the clash of steel on steel, the smoky-sweet smell of a campfire. Narnia was racing through a forest, faster-faster-faster, heart thumping, blood rushing, wild glee bubbling up behind your throat. Narnia was flags flying, lions roaring, the distant beating of drums, the joyous satsifaction of knowing you've won - the image disappears and he's back home but Peter is beaming.
For Susan, Narnia was starry nights and crystal caves. It was tracing unknown constellations Tarva-and-Alambil and charting unknown seas. It was delegations and dignitaries and the grandest of balls and feeling oh so grown up. Narnia was running barefoot through stone corridors, the smell of perfume all jasmine-and-myrtle-and-nighttime-mist, secretive smiles and laughing eyes, a myriad of unexplored chambers, the flickering light of a fiery torch, the fairy-light touch of curling vines on her bare shoulder, the softest of fabrics pooling around her, falling to the floor, emerald green vivid against the warm buttery stone. Narnia was the straining pull of a bow string, the gleaming tips of arrows, the reassuring weight of an ivory horn in its place at her hip. Narnia was wind and winter bringing far-off friends to her doorstep. Narnia was crossing mountains and oceans and visisting exotic lands and learning foreign tongues. Narnia was dancing away the night with her dearest friends, swaying and twirling and spinning-spinning-spinning, the refracted light of the chandeliers scattering broken rainbows like beads- the memory fades and she's back home but Susan is shining.
For Edmund, Narnia was wet earth and dappled sunlight and fresh grass. It was picnics in golden fields, hanging upside down from aging rafters, cool water soothing wounded hands, four well worn coats folded in a trunk. It was obsidian chess pieces and marble chess boards, curling silver and intricate gold crowns, whorling patterns carved into leather saddles, a single lone lantern rising high above the surrounding forest. Narnia was magic and enchantments and making the impossible seem easier than breathing. Narnia was plumes of coloured smoke and sparks of metallic fire and the birth of hope and light. Narnia was ice and snow and an oppressive castle with sharp towers and terrible smiles and cruel whips and loss and loneliness and quiet sorrow Narnia was summer and life and Lucy playing the pianoforte in the evenings and Susan and Peter sparring in the mornings and Edmund buried under stacks of old books from dusk till dawn and Phillip scolding him for not getting enough sleep in one breath and badgering him for apples in the next- the dream is broken and he's back home but Edmund is laughing.
For Lucy, Narnia was a world in a world in a world. It was flying higher and higher and higher on the backs of griffins, and falling down down down to swim with the merfolk and going three rounds at the Battle of Beruna and emerging victorious, hair sweaty, face flushed. Narnia was ruby-red-umbrellas and coal-black-horses and crystal-clear-oceans and bright-joyful-laughter. Narnia was strong, supple boots and flowing white dresses and soft pink flowers caught in riotous golden curls. Narnia was dancing flames and fauns playing flutes and the softest golden fur imaginable. Narnia was home and hope and unconditional love and- the door opens and she's back home but Lucy is smiling.
Whenever Netflix gets around to doing something with the rights to the Chronicles of Narnia, I want them to know one thing:
We don’t want remakes of the original films. What we want is a series about the Golden Age.
One that begins right after the Pevensies’ coronation, and ends when they accidentally stumble back through the wardrobe.
We want episodes about adjusting to the responsibility of being rulers.
We want episodes about Peter subconsciously using WWII tactics when fighting the Giants in Ettismoor to the north, and being horrified with himself when he realizes.
We want episodes about how the Pevensies earned their titles—the Magnificent, the Gentle, the Just, the Valiant.
We want episodes about Susan receiving her first offer of marriage from a suitor, and struggling with the idea of ever leaving her siblings—even for love.
We want episodes on how Archenland was rebuilt, and about the disappearance of Prince Cor.
We want episodes about Edmund having chronic nightmares for their first couple of years in Narnia and trying to hide it, struggling to learn to forgive himself as Aslan forgave him.
We want episodes about how the apple orchard came to be.
We want episodes about the wars with Calormen.
We want episodes about Lucy getting tired of being cooped up in Cair Paravel and deciding to go on an adventure of her own—only for Peter to comedically misread the situation and believe she’s been kidnapped.
We want special episodes about the Horse and His Boy from the Pevensies’ point of view, possibly even tying in with a Horse and His Boy movie.
We want episodes where, matched in a battle of wits with a neighboring princess, Edmund is too busy trying to verbally destroy her to realize that he’s fallen head-over-heels in love with her.
We want comedic episodes where Peter and Edmund test their sisters’ suitors.
We want episodes where it becomes painfully obvious that Lucy is Peter’s favorite sister.
We want episodes where, when a sudden sickness strikes the land, Susan abandons all caution to help nurse her people, and all learn why she is called the Gentle.
We want episodes where the Pevensies first come to the Lone Islands.
We want episodes where, when visiting a neighboring country, someone in court is abruptly murdered and Edmund plays detective for an entire arc.
We want episodes where Lucy saves Peter in just the nick of time with a force of archers during one of the battles with Calormen.
We want episodes about Narnia healing from its time under the White Witch.
We want episodes about how much their people loved them—and how distraught they were in the aftermath of their disappearance.
here’s some cryptid pevensie headcanons because the idea lives rent free in my head:
🙧 the first year in narnia, peter quickly learns to be careful of his own strength. at thirteen years old, he can summon up the strength of a fully grown man. it’s humorous at first when he accidentally breaks a glass or throws a battle axe through the target, but as he grows older, his strength grows with him; golden hair and a blue-sky smile belie the strength of river-gods and wolf jaws. it is said that he can best the giants in sheer physical strength, and that the bones of narnia’s enemies seem to crack in two in the high king’s grasp.
🙧 it’s little children who first begin to giggle that queen susan can tell what trouble they’re going to get into before they even start it. they talk of how her eyes seem to cloud over like the the sky before a rainshower and her voice turns firm and unfinching as oak wood, giving them a little fright until she shakes her head and laughs her sunshine laugh, reminding them not to swim very far across the river. mothers know the look in her eyes; soldiers learn to watch for it, to mark the moments where disaster may come swiftly and they must trust in the gentle queen’s uncanny vision.
🙧 it starts out as a game, as a wine-drunk faun sends a goblet flying off the table at a feast one night. edmund catches it without looking, without spilling so much as a drop. at first, he favors it as a party trick, something to make his siblings laugh - he can catch anything with ease, even with his eyes closed. but as he grows older, the quiet king’s eagle-keen senses grow ever sharper. soldiers will sit around their campfires and tell tales of the just king who parries the fastest swing of an enemy’s blade and catches flying arrows by the shaft before they hit their mark.
🙧 lucy learns a language that no one in narnia knows besides the land itself; she learns to speak the language of the trees and the rivers and the sea. she does not realize when she switches tongues; when she first learned to speak it, her siblings feared she was going mad. now all of narnia knows that when the little queen hums and trills in strange, wild tones, the very earth will respond; narnia’s enemies become wary of the ground the walk on and the sea that takes them home, lest the valiant queen speak it to life and bid it swallow them whole.
I. Stories of the High King Peter are myth more than anything else; the proof is in the name. It’s confusing at first glance. After all, the great feats attributed to him during his reign – the glorious Golden Age – are often true; the desperate victories, the plentiful feasts, and the seemingly endless balls all can be said to have really happened. The falseness lies underneath; the High King himself is the myth. That is the great secret: the High King never was, at least not in the way he has been painted. There never was that fearless, infallible, fiery king. The so-called “Magnificent” bled in battle. He fell quiet under the weight of the winter, silently praying for spring again. He laughed and shook and trembled. Somehow Narnia forgets this; somehow Narnia forgets the child, the son, the brother he really was. Peter the High King was always better known as Peter.
II. The Gentle Queen has become an interesting mix of truth and fiction. Too much about her was dutifully recorded, and her actions could never be fully lost; history remembers her grace and her duties in near-perfect clarity. However, in more wistful places, she has become the heroine of odd stories, and the villain of stories odder still. In the great cities beyond the desert, she has been turned into an enchantress known for stealing the hearts of men and then chaining them to their temples. Beside the quiet streams of her beloved Narnia, they whisper that the Queen Susan’s beauty was so radiant that few could bear to look directly at her. In the island marketplaces, it is said that her presence once brought great fortune to those who saw her. Every false legend is a funny twist on a simpler truth; a tale grown out of a friendly smile. In honest history, Susan is still truthfully remembered.
III. There are few lies to tell about the King Edmund, and few people who would risk the dishonour of lying about one once called “Just.” Instead he remains a quiet figure, written into history with all the other names and dates and details. Narnia remembers that a traitor may mend; Narnia remembers that a traitor may be just a child; Narnia remembers that a traitor may be just a boy in need of love and light and truth. Edmund is remembered in all of this, just as he remembers it himself. His feats are well-recorded; his battles and judgements and decrees and decisions pass through history relatively unscathed. His wisdom and passion are engraved within it; remembered long after he is gone. In the dark, he is a true tale of hope. In the light, he is still Edmund.
IV. The stranger the tale about Queen Lucy, the more likely it is to be true; the actuality of her being rivals even the most outrageous fictions. Valiant though she be, Lucy rarely went looking for trouble; she sought only the company of Adventure, and both joys and troubles lined her path. And so they say she is both fire and gold; they say she dances with wild folk, and swims out much too far, and laughs long after others have forgotten the joke. All of this is true. They say she is sharp in battle and gentle in wit. This is true, too. She used to wander into Cair Paravel barefoot, trailing sand beneath and behind her, and years later when sand blows in the open castle doors, they still say that the Valiant Queen must have let it in. This is home to Lucy, and she makes her home in the stories, so long as she can remain there.
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?