Daydreamy Fanfic Thinking
Or, What Comes Of Reading Narnia Fanfic and Watching Merlin in the Same Day, While Running on a Lack of Sleep
Merlinarnia. (Is that the term? Or do I have it wrong somehow?)
Anyway, I made a new personal canon in my head today. It goes something as follows:
During the Golden Age, while the Pevensies forget Spare Oom for the most part ("it became as a dream to them" etc), they don't quite forget everything, including stories they most likely would have heard as children in Britain.
Peter falls into the inevitable trap most people call love (I say inevitable based on all the fanfic out there right now - kidding!) and has a son. This son is named Arthur, after the stories of the greatest king who ever lived.
- - Think about it. If Peter remembers stories of King Arthur, it makes a whole ton of sense that he would name his son after him. It's either that or his dad. - -
Four kings and queens fall out of Narnia.
Somehow, in the course of his life, Arthur becomes best friend etc with a talking bird. The bird becomes closest confidant, etc. Aaand you guessed it - the bird is, of course, a merlin. (Seeing as in LWW, the beavers are known as Mr and Mrs Beaver, I wouldn't be surprised if the merlin was actually named Merlin, either.)
And, well, that's about it. I can definitely see Arthur, son of Peter (Ooo what a strong sound THAT name has) becoming nearly as great a ruler as his father and aunts and uncle and continuing the Golden Age for a good while. I say NEARLY as great a ruler, because of course, no one can beat the Pevensies.
And, well, that's about it. Except I'm waiting for the rest of Merlin 3.02 to load, so I may as well have some fun with this:
The sunlight is just beginning to pass through the drapes that hang over the window, the sounds of life just beginning to drift from the courtyard below. Arthur squints up at the ceiling of his bed, blinks once, and decides with sound decision that today is a day of rest. No waking up, no dressing for court, and absolutely no work. He can spend the entire morning in bed, and in the afternoon he'll steal down to the stables and ride into the woods alone. It has been absolute ages since he went riding alone, no giggling princess hanging off his every word, no councillors nagging at him over the latest issue - just him, his mount, and the woods.
The thought is quite comforting, and Arthur settles back beneath the covers of his bed, searching for the warmest spot as he tried to lose hold of consciousness once more. Guilt does prick his mind for a moment, before he stills the internal voice with a firm, "But I do my duty every other day!" The words don't sound quite as decided when mumbled, but he understands his own meaning completely, and thus comforted, slides back into slumber.
It is a sharp prick of the back of his hand that awakens him again. Arthur yelps and swats at whatever the annoyance is; there is a squawk and a sudden, hard breeze on his cheek, and when Arthur peers through his lashes, he sees blue-grey feathers and a stubby beak and two oh-so-familiar accusing eyes.
"Decided it was a day of rest, sire?" the hawk asks snidely, and wisely leaps out of the way as Arthur bats his hand in the bird's general direction. Upon missing, Arthur decides upon the much more diplomatic approach of talking - this has less to do with being diplomatic, and more to do with a desire to do as little moving as possible.
Licking his dry lips before speaking, Arthur fixes his assaulter firmly in his sleepy gaze and declares, "I'm prince and you aren't - clearly it's my choice." Unfortunately, having only just woken up, this comes out a lot more like, "Mrinsen narn. Eary-ism oice."
"Pardon, me, sire?" the hawk replies calmly, winging his way to the window and using his claws to pull open one side of the drape. Arthur groans and dives for cover.
"Ge-out, Merlin!" he shouts, his words slightly more coherent now.
The bird disregards the order completely, pulling open the other side of the drape before perching on the back of Arthur's desk chair. Settling his feathers in a calm manner, he states, "Your mother desires your presence for the morning meal."
"Tell 'er I'm busy," comes the muffled reply from the lump in the blankets.
Merlinarnia. (Is that the term? Or do I have it wrong somehow?)
Anyway, I made a new personal canon in my head today. It goes something as follows:
During the Golden Age, while the Pevensies forget Spare Oom for the most part ("it became as a dream to them" etc), they don't quite forget everything, including stories they most likely would have heard as children in Britain.
Peter falls into the inevitable trap most people call love (I say inevitable based on all the fanfic out there right now - kidding!) and has a son. This son is named Arthur, after the stories of the greatest king who ever lived.
- - Think about it. If Peter remembers stories of King Arthur, it makes a whole ton of sense that he would name his son after him. It's either that or his dad. - -
Four kings and queens fall out of Narnia.
Somehow, in the course of his life, Arthur becomes best friend etc with a talking bird. The bird becomes closest confidant, etc. Aaand you guessed it - the bird is, of course, a merlin. (Seeing as in LWW, the beavers are known as Mr and Mrs Beaver, I wouldn't be surprised if the merlin was actually named Merlin, either.)
And, well, that's about it. I can definitely see Arthur, son of Peter (Ooo what a strong sound THAT name has) becoming nearly as great a ruler as his father and aunts and uncle and continuing the Golden Age for a good while. I say NEARLY as great a ruler, because of course, no one can beat the Pevensies.
And, well, that's about it. Except I'm waiting for the rest of Merlin 3.02 to load, so I may as well have some fun with this:
The sunlight is just beginning to pass through the drapes that hang over the window, the sounds of life just beginning to drift from the courtyard below. Arthur squints up at the ceiling of his bed, blinks once, and decides with sound decision that today is a day of rest. No waking up, no dressing for court, and absolutely no work. He can spend the entire morning in bed, and in the afternoon he'll steal down to the stables and ride into the woods alone. It has been absolute ages since he went riding alone, no giggling princess hanging off his every word, no councillors nagging at him over the latest issue - just him, his mount, and the woods.
The thought is quite comforting, and Arthur settles back beneath the covers of his bed, searching for the warmest spot as he tried to lose hold of consciousness once more. Guilt does prick his mind for a moment, before he stills the internal voice with a firm, "But I do my duty every other day!" The words don't sound quite as decided when mumbled, but he understands his own meaning completely, and thus comforted, slides back into slumber.
It is a sharp prick of the back of his hand that awakens him again. Arthur yelps and swats at whatever the annoyance is; there is a squawk and a sudden, hard breeze on his cheek, and when Arthur peers through his lashes, he sees blue-grey feathers and a stubby beak and two oh-so-familiar accusing eyes.
"Decided it was a day of rest, sire?" the hawk asks snidely, and wisely leaps out of the way as Arthur bats his hand in the bird's general direction. Upon missing, Arthur decides upon the much more diplomatic approach of talking - this has less to do with being diplomatic, and more to do with a desire to do as little moving as possible.
Licking his dry lips before speaking, Arthur fixes his assaulter firmly in his sleepy gaze and declares, "I'm prince and you aren't - clearly it's my choice." Unfortunately, having only just woken up, this comes out a lot more like, "Mrinsen narn. Eary-ism oice."
"Pardon, me, sire?" the hawk replies calmly, winging his way to the window and using his claws to pull open one side of the drape. Arthur groans and dives for cover.
"Ge-out, Merlin!" he shouts, his words slightly more coherent now.
The bird disregards the order completely, pulling open the other side of the drape before perching on the back of Arthur's desk chair. Settling his feathers in a calm manner, he states, "Your mother desires your presence for the morning meal."
"Tell 'er I'm busy," comes the muffled reply from the lump in the blankets.