this may start out with stardust, but of course it ends with narnia

[bedlamsbard]

I just watched Stardust, and aside from being highly amused, my main thoughts revolve around the following:

Ben Barnes is Dunstan Thorne, a.k.a. CASPIAN is Dunstan Thorne. (Although. He looks younger here than he does in PC. *flaps hands*)

Does this mean that Charlie Cox is Rilian? (I mean, really, he bears a strong resemblance to Ben Barnes in PC.)

...personally, I'm starting to think that Rilian may have taken after his mother. In other words, I think Rilian was white-blond and looked nothing like Caspian at all, and there was a lot of rumor about whether Queen Star's Daughter had been messing around behind the king's back. I don't think Rilian wasn't Caspian's son, I just have this theory that he didn't really look like Caspian at all. Not that this relates to Tirian being a redhead or anything, three hundred years down the line.

Thoughts?

The other Narnia-related thought I had was how fashion might have changed in three hundred years. *facepalm* Chances that contemporary pre-Calormene Narnian fashion might have resembled turn of the century Western? Because I'd be down with that. I mean, chances are it will never come up in Dust, but you never know.

I would say that I think about things other than Narnia, but it's really not true at this point. The only difference is which particular part of Narnian history I'm thinking about, or if it's one of the AUs.

Comments

[caramelsilver.livejournal.com]

One day you are gonna write one hell of a book!

You're right the styles would've changed. Damn, I like the Narnian clothes. (As in the movie.) How would it look? Would there be corsets involved?

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

It's worse when I'm doing it for an original. Trust me here; I have to come up with every. single. detail. and I can't even gallivant off with the werewolves for a bit. Throwing myself headfirst into Narnia was my recovery from working on nothing but my original novel for about eight months.

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

Er. And then I remembered there was a second part to your comment. I'm thinking equivalent to somewhere in the eighteenth century? Pirates of the Caribbean type clothes. (Look, apparently by "turn of the century" I mean, "I have no idea about anything concerning fashion.") Somewhere around this period (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1750-1795_in_fashion)? *dubious*

Which means yes, there may be corsets involved.

[caramelsilver.livejournal.com]

That's... Frivolous. And probably very painful for the ladies. Of course they won't be dressed like that camping out in the woods? And would the Narnians think the Pevensies were dressed strange then?

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

No, after five years of living in the woods they're not exactly at the height of fashion. I wish I'd thought about this when I was writing Dust 1, I would have put in a bit about how Tirian thinks the Pevensies are oddly dressed, considering they're basically wearing hunting/scouting clothes from the Golden Age. (This will also be explained at some point.)

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

I have contemplated in the past writing Dunstan Thorne/Caspian set in Aslan's Country. 'Cos all you have to do to find anyone or anyplace is go further up and further in, and there London is just across the gorge from Narnia anyway. Aslan's Country, it's like a crossover portal, except you can only write about dead people, and no one's allowed to be angsty.

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

Personally, I feel that one could write Narnia being just across the mountains from Stormhold, and sometimes traders from Narnia come in, and perhaps one of the Pevensies or Caspian is there for whatever reason, and should happen to cross the Wall...

I wonder what the chances are Professor Kirke's house is somewhere 'round there? *thoughtful*

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

that too! there just seems to be something in every fantasy story that can serve as a crossover device. and why WOULDN'T his house be somewhere round there.

and, yvaine and ramandu's daughter THROW DOWN.

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

wandering from narnia to stormhold to england -- or from england to stormhold to narnia? edmund and susan crossing the wall from england and wandering through the market town, seeing the narnian traders! "we can never tell peter," susan says, swallowing hard and fingering a piece of dwarf-made jewelry, a string of pearls from galma. edmund strokes two fingers down the hilt of a sword and doesn't say anything.

yvaine would totally win. ramandu's daughter is a pushover.

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

i like the crossing over from england, the bittersweet rediscovery. excitement and trepidation, and maybe a little like being caught red-handed because they thought they weren't supposed to come back ever. one says it's getting late and the other replies yes it is. but they linger.
we should go back and there's a hesitant pause before the reply because: back to where? which?

totally. she didn't even warrant a name!

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

and edmund points out that it's not technically narnia, so maybe it's all right. and they say, just one drink won't hurt, right? and go into the inn. the gossip is about the treaty with narnia, about rilian's wedding and caspian's death.

"how long," susan wants to say, but she holds her tongue.

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

later edmund tells her, "he came back to our world, you know."
"what?"
"caspian, after eustace and jill rescued rillian. just for a little bit though, not too long. just enough to show teach those brats at the experiment house a lesson."
a pause as susan registers that she isn't as surprised as she feels she ought to be. "what did he think? of our world, that is."
"i don't know. eustace didn't say. rather sounds like he and aslan just came to shake up the bullies, and then they went back."
"tell me about it."
edmund smiles. "you didn't want to hear about it then."
"no... i suppose i didn't, then."
"anyway, that's all there is to tell."

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

peter sits outside the inn and drinks. "studying with the professor, are you?" someone asks, settling into the seat next to him, and peter turns to see the dark-haired man there. there's something familiar about his face.

"that's right," peter says, and holds out his hand. "peter pevensie, at your servce."

the stranger doesn't give his name. "do you know why this village is called wall?" he asks.

"i hadn't given it much thought." the hair on the back of his neck is standing up. he puts the mug down on the bench beside him and slips one hand into his pocket, curling his fingers around his pocketknife.

"a few miles that way," says the stranger, waving southward, "there's a wall. they say it divides england from another world, a magical world."

"sounds like nonsense," peter says, ignoring the way his breath catches in his throat and his fingers tighten on the knife. "you're just having it off with the city boy, aren't you?"

"see for yourself, peter pevensie," says the stranger, smiling. it's the kind of smile that used to make peter reach for rhindon. "about a hundred years ago, a boy from this village crossed the wall -- and vanished. might be interesting to see, don't you think?"

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

it's night and they're still there, so they stop talking about how they should go back. maybe time runs differently here too. maybe back in wall, it is still afternoon approaching dusk.

here, the stars are out. they are large and brilliant and don't form the same constellations they did in england. edmund, who kept late hours in narnia and went seafaring with caspian, scans the sky for the leopard, the ship, the lady alambil, when susan whispers, "look," and points.

"the gryphon constellation," she says, pointing to the corner of the sky between two mountain peaks. "there."

"it's not," edmund replies. "it's missing a star from its left wing."

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

HOT DAMN. (i, uh, phrase of the week?) also OH SHIT PLOT.


"i'm sorry," peter says, smiling disarmingly. "i don't want my fortune told."

the fortuneteller catches his arm nevertheless, pulls him down insistently into a chair. "The resurrected king," she says as she lays out cards. ""The queen of stones. the four of stars. the knight of ships --"

"really," peter says again, "i don't want my fortune told. i've had it done before."

"hands then," she insists, and peter holds them out reluctantly.

"your life line splits," she notes. "how many lives have you lived, peter pevensie?"

he tries to jerk his hand back, but her grip is strong as iron. he hasn't told her his name.

"king you were, and king you will be again," she murmurs. "and a warrior always. but your country needs you."

"i know," peter says. "i'm joining the raf."

she slams his hand down against her table and peter bites off a cry. "what price your country's life? what price your honor? what price narnia?"

"i don't know what you're --"

"the wall is closed to you," the fortuneteller says, and her features flicker to reveal a sharp-faced young man, oddly familiar. "the lion's face is turned from narnia. he will not see you."

"what do you mean?" peter says before he can help himself.

"do you think it a fair trade? your word for your country, peter the magnificent, high king of narnia?"

peter jerks his hand back and springs to his feet, but the fortuneteller has practically shouted the words, and the entirety of the market is staring at them. "i have to go," he says.

the fortuneteller rises. "at sundown, the wall is closed to you," she says.

peter runs.

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

OH NO DUCK. maybe if you pretend you don't see it, it won't see you!


they find their way to the open sky. through a combination of bartering, sleight of hand, and offering their manual labor, edmund and susan find themselves aboard one of the large ships that sail the skies. when asked where they are headed, they say, "we are going home." when asked where home is, they answer, "it lies over the mountains."

"by the eastern sea," the young man adds, and his sister is quiet, as dark as he, and twice as beautiful, with the same air of close-handed observance.

"it is a long and treacherous journey to travel through the mountains," says captain lysander aminzade, a weathered old man with skin and comportment as tough as leather. "what takes you so far from it in the first place?"

edmund spins a tale of traveling merchants, peddling knickknacks that were bought cheap here, sold at twice the price there. trinkets bought cheap there, twice the price here. he speaks of caravans and wandering bands of brigands, the wiles of the fey folk who love nothing more to enchant the wits out of honest men. it has been full of challenges, an interesting journey that has taken a toll on them both.

"our feet and hearts are weary," susan adds, "and our home is calling to us."

it is the longest string of words she's put together in aminzade's presence so far. edmund raises an eyebrow at her, not without a small smile on his lips, but susan has lowered her eyes again, turned her face away.


it has been a long day. their muscles ache and they are light-headed from high altitude, but neither can sleep. it is strangeness that keeps edmund up, and familiarity that troubles susan. (strange for edmund that he should be in an other world and yet not narnia, which he remembers so clearly; familiar for susan, who has begun to forget and is remembering only the shocked giddiness of having adventure thrust upon you.) they find each other on deck, each wrapped in a blanket for it is cold above the clouds. edmund tries to keep his teeth from chattering.

"'our home is calling to us'?" he echoes at her.

she smiles. "did you like that line?"

"did you mean it?"

"oh, edmund." and susan says nothing more, only wanders to the side of the ship to take in the sea of clouds beneath them. edmund follows, wraps his arms and blankets around her from behind.

"oh edmund what?" he asks.

"who knows what i mean," she murmurs, leaning back into him. "who knows what is calling to me, out here. is this even the lion's land?"

"all lands are aslan's lands."

"yes, but i thought that's just something one says, you know. like 'the sun never sets on the british empire', or something like that."

edmund turns his face into the dark curtain of his sister's hair, cold though it is and damp with cloud condensation. he kisses her scalp, and she sighs, and he asks her, "are you wishing we had gone back across the wall instead?"

"why would i do that?" she answers distantly.

behind them, a stirring of voices had become louder and more excited, expanding from an excited babble in a corner to a commotion that slowly permeated the ship. edmund turns his head. men begin to spill out onto the deck with ropes and casks and telescopes, shouting instructions, shouting in joy.

"what's happening?" susan asks.

"what's happening?" edmund demands at aminzade, who strides past with a telescope.

the captain's eyes gleam as do his teeth in the moonlight, and he waves his telescope in the air as if in victory. "why, my boy. the bosun's seen eyeful of a most glorious and profitable thing."

"and what is that?"

aminzade's grin stretches. "a storm, boy. a storm! and we're going to catch it!" before edmund can ask him whether he's mad, the captain exclaims, "you, have you ever fished for lightning before?"

"no," susan firmly replies, for the both of them.

"well," says aminzade. "would you like to try?"

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

OH MY GOD. *clutches* i will write mine if you will write yours!


there is no cleft in the wall. peter runs his hands over the weathered stone and looks up, tries to climb, but his feet slips and he falls on his back.

you are forbidden he hears ago in memory, but he turns back.

it is nearly midnight when he returns to the market town. the fortuneteller is still there, throwing bones for a blushing maid and her handsome young man, and peter slips into a vacated seat once they've gone.

"they will be married within the month," the fortuneteller says, "and she'll be dead before the year is out. childbed. he'll raise the twins alone."

"did you tell them that?" peter asks.

"why would i do that?"

"because they asked, didn't they?"

the fortuneteller only smiles. "couldn't make it across the wall, could you, peter of narnia?"

"what do you want?" peter asks. "aslan said --"

"this is not the lion's land, however much he would like it to be believed, and your land is home to many gods." the fortuneteller lets her -- his -- mask slip. it's the sly-faced young man again, red-haired, with one blue eye and one green.

peter's back straightens. "trickster," he breathes.

"i thought you might recognize me," says the trickster. "you're one of mine, you know, not his. he may have given you narnia, or told you he did, but you've been one of mine since you stepped across the border all those years ago. it means i have a few tricks i can play before the lion realizes he's been -- shall i say it? -- tricked. here," he adds, "a few gifts for your journey. it will be long, i'm afraid; i cannot meddle in narnia."

"what's happened in narnia?" peter asks, his voice sharp with strain. she's caspian's land now.

the trickster just smirks. "here," he says, and reaches beneath the table. he pulls out a sword scabbarded in battered green leather, trimmed with faded, stained gold. "smith-forged starsteel, won from my brother in a game of cards two thousand years ago."

peter draws the sword. "i've seen this before," he says. "this is mathin's sword -- mathin, captain of the red company!"

"he was one of mine," the trickster says. "didn't you ever wonder why a mercenary bowed to the trickster instead of the warrior? gamenung isn't your rhindon, but i can't touch narnia directly. and there's this."

peter sheathes gamenung and picks up the battered box the trickster sets on the table. "it's a compass," he says, questioning.

"it will point to your heart's desire," the trickster says, and then, "or wherever i think you should go."

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

i don't even know what mine's about! what is yours about? are we writing in the same 'verse and the three of them gonna meet up? right now it's just edmund and susan sort of heading to where their hearts say narnia is, but will it be there in the end? i'm not sure, or at least not in the same form (it never is -- in narnia you never come back to what you last remember). they can be like in the odyssey, blown hither and thither by winds, omens, and adventures for ages and ages until the very idea of their destination, of narnia, is abstracted, and the only thing real to them is this anomie.
"maybe it's time to go back."
"we are going back."
diaspora: it enshrines and destroys the concept of home.

they sleep on cold ground, on soft leaves, on springy grass, and they wake with the dawn light. they learn to recognize and avoid the territories of the fey folk, after that incident where they woke up and realized months had passed in their sleep.

there were calluses on edmund's hands though he could not remember wielding a sword, and a cut on his leg that was almost healed. on susan's cheek was a faint scar and there were what looked like old burns around her wrists though she could not remember fighting. they found in susan's pack was a folded parchment upon which was written, in the most delicate hand, "thank you & apologies." there was no signature, only what was either a smudge of blood or picture of a rose. neither susan nor edmund knew who wrote it, nor what had happened to them in the intervening time. they walked around the area, trying to coax out fairies and spirits in the ways they knew, but there was no answer, no one to ask questions. there was only the twittering of birds, and susan finally said we should go. there is no use for this commotion we are making, if they (whoever they are) don't want to found.

so they left, the both of them unsatisfied, unsettled, feeling like they had been cheated. they had been robbed of days, months. edmund kept on shooting glances over his shoulder at the treeline. susan did not, and wished she could hold edmund's hand or link their arms together for reassurance, but edmund, when he is jumpy, doesn't like to be touched. she was glad they were walking through an open glade, where the afternoon sun gilded everything, and the only shadows were their own (and the gaping hole that someone or something had left in their memories).

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

mine is, uh, peter. and the Trickster! because we do need to see the other gods in the narnia 'verse, and the trickster has (using warsverse canon) a firm hold on peter. and he does NOT agree with the tricks aslan's playing, and wants a hand in. of course, mine is during votdt and i think yours is later. *shrug* but TIME IS ONLY RELATIVE in other worlds.

of course, this could be peter after he's come back from burma, and is staying with the professor in the country to recover/get away from the city/find peace. that works too. *nods* i feel they should meet up, just for the shock value. also, OH MY GOD SUSAN AND EDMUND WITH THE SIDHE.


the other five gifts the trickster gives him are: a long, curved dagger that he hangs on his belt, half of a black candle, a telescope (just as battered as gamenung's sheath and the compass), a full wineskin, and a deck of tarot cards. "i don't read," peter says when the trickster passes these across to him.

the trickster winks. "maybe you'll learn," he says, and then he's the old woman again. in her voice, he adds, "maybe you already know." just like that the trickster is gone, and the old woman gathers her cards in front of her and says, "maybe you'd best be going, lad, it's getting late and these old bones need sleep."

peter swallows, pays her three copper pennies, and gets up. too restless to sleep, he wanders through the market (still bustling even this late), looking at the stalls and ignoring the vendors' cries. gamenung bangs at his hip, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. the balance is wrong. she's a hand-and-a-halfer like rhindon, a bastard sword, but a little slimmer and a little longer. the grip feels odd in his hand. not wrong, just...odd. he stops at a streetlamp to frown at the pommel. not a lion (of course) but a golden wolf with emerald chips for eyes. disquieted, he continues on.

"you look a bit lost, lad," says a merchant in a big red wagon, gaudily decorated with birds and flowers. "something in particular you're looking for?"

"i'm not sure," peter admits, and then looks at the wagon again. she's got the three horses, and quite a lot of goods. "i don't suppose you want a hand?"

she frowns at him. "i don't suppose you can use that sword on your hip?" she asks. "because my last guard ran off with the innkeep's daughter."

"i fought with a merc company for a few years," peter says. once in natare; once in burma. he can't look at the RAF as anything other than a job for pay. "will that do for references?"

"until we reach the next market at the least, then," the merchant says. "after that, well -- we'll see. i'm monette."

peter takes her proffered hand. "peter breakneck," he says.

[starsimpulse.livejournal.com]

*buts in*
Well, (in movieverse) they wore corsets during the Golden Age, too. at least they did in LWW & PC because I remember Anna talking about wearing corsets during filming. They were talking about the scene in the woods where she kills everyone and is awsome and she said something along the lines of that it was harder to aim when wearing a corset but it makes her have good posture which looks good cinematicaly. But thier clothes were from thier chests which they had in the Golden Age, so...

[lassiterfics.livejournal.com]

breakneck! <3
and ya! i'm still not sure whether, during their lost days, they had agreed to memory erasure at the end of the deal (for su and ed's own good? for the fey folk's own good?), or whether it was forced upon them.
hmm, BACK TO THE LIGHTNING SHIP.


the city where they touched down was perched precariously upon a ledge and, indeed, part of it looked as if it had been carved from the canyon rock itself.

"that'd be a correct observation," said the bosun, who was older still than aminzade, whose voice whistled between his broken teeth, who had caught the most lightning in their voyage through a dozen stormclouds. "before it was a city, it wanted to be a castle belonged to a prince--"

"twas a duke!" interrupted a sailor, slapping the bosun's back on his way to the prow.

"--who thought it might be grand to carve his home straight into the side of a mountain. he was of blue blood, whether prince or duke, and well-moneyed, so no one ever told him he couldn't do it. he sent all manner of men and beasts to hollow out a mountainside, carve out bedchambers and ballrooms and libraries and parlors. but it takes years and years, making mountains into molehills, and he died before he could ever see it finished. it's like a warren in there, is what i hear, being as that they gave up building it as soon as they heard he's gone. left everything half done."

"do they still use it?" asked edmund.

"it is part museum," answered the bosun. "part funhouse, and part storage of bureaucratic files. on tuesdays they do tours."

the goodbye process was prolonged. many of the young men kissed susan's hand, and a couple of the older ones too. a few offered her small casks of lightning, the most blinding bolts they had caught. susan would say, "oh, that's very kind-- but i couldn't possibly... you were so proud of this bolt!" and edmund would nod his head her, saying, "take them, su. they might come in handy later." so she did, smiling in a flattered sort of way, which made her all the more lovely for it.

"where are we going to put these?" susan wondered as they made their way through the city's tight and maze-like streets, keeping an eye out for an inn. "i confess, after that first storm, i could barely sleep the next night for thinking of all the lightning bolts being kept in the hold. they make me uneasy, ed."

"we'll trade them for supplies tomorrow," said edmund. "you'll have to put up with them for the night. but the day after that, however..."

"the day after that," said susan, "we go east."

[muridae-x.livejournal.com]

I suspect there weren't any corsets in the bookverse though; I half-remember a line about "in Narnia your best clothes were also your comfortable clothes" which doesn't suggest there was boning involved.

Narnian fashion is tricky because of the long periods when there weren't any humans living there. The talking animals don't wear clothes (Reep's feather aside), and the dwarves seem to dress differently, a bit more homespun than royal court attire. Probably the Pevensies coronation wear harked back strongly to whatever was fashionable at the time that Frank and Helen's line died out, and then Golden Age fashion gradually got influenced by what was being worn in Galma and Archenland as the years went on and they travelled. They'd have reverted back to those early days again in PC though, because the other stuff wouldn't fit, particularly for Lucy and Edmund.

(I'm now having visions of older siblings borrowing clothes from the younger ones: "I always really liked that dress, and it won't fit you again until you've grown at least another foot. Can I have it?")

Telmarine fashion is fairly different, from what we can see, so unless there was a retro-Golden Age fad during Caspian's reign in honour of the Kings and Queens odd clothing, that's probably what would have evolved into Tirian's time and Dust.

At least by then the Pevensies would fit into the rest of the Golden Age clothing in their chests.

[burntcopper.livejournal.com]

Well, considering a corset is also pretty much your only option for decent support if you're not wearing a bra, particularly supportive clothing or chest binding of some sort...
Thing to note : Corsets weren't that uncomfortable to wear until quite late on, when they got that obsession about making your waist tiny (or the Gibson Girl era, when it was all about making your entire body fit into a particular really fucking stupid unnatural shape). You can wear them all day without much of a problem.

Booksverse, probably not, since all the illustrations look like Plantagenet-ish.

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

"on tuesdays they do tours!"
i feel they should meet up...now-like!


he gets back his own skill by exhibition-fighting. his own skill, and the gift of knowing his blade, because gamenung isn't rhindon and doesn't fit naturally into his hand. it's a damn good sword, though.

monette likes to show him off, make a little money on the side from running bets. he gains a little bit of a reputation over the weeks it takes them travel north and east, until they are in a city in the mountains, an odd collection of buildings clinging to the stone.

"step right up!" monette cries as peter sets up the stall and unloads the wagon, lips quirked in amusement and back turned to the market crowd. "a wizard with a sword if you've ever seen one; bring your best man!"

"it can't be you she's talking about!" someone cries. "just a boy, monette, where'd you find this one?"

"try him then," monette invites, and peter hears the rasp of steel.

"i'll send him back crying to his mother," the stranger promises.

peter keeps his back turned until the last moment, and then he spins with gamenung in his hand, laughing ats the swords clash. "what makes you so sure?" he asks.

there are three more swordsmen and one swordswomen before a boy steps out of the crowd, dark-haired, with a girl behind him. peter feels his eyes widen in amazement, but raises his sword anyway.

edmund grins. bows once, mocking, like they'd done during fencing class, and then they're at each other.

[caramelsilver.livejournal.com]

But are we suppose to know that she wears a corset? I mean, doesn't it say again and again in the books how comfortable the Narnian clothing is?