AN: I am in a state of sugar-imposed silliness at the moment. Apparently, drinking half a bottle of coke will have that effect on you. Now, about the story. I was listening to the LWW Commentary earlier, and William Mosely mentioned his love for tea (while Lucy voiced her preference for hot chocolate). That in mind, this rather silly story was born. I hope you like it, as it was a lot of fun to write.
Warning: Extreme OOC ahead.
Disclaimer: Not mine ... yet. ::laughs sinisterly::
Peter liked tea.
No, scratch that, Peter loved tea. If you saw a list of things that Peter couldn't live without it would go as follows.
1)Family
2)Crown
3)Tea and cream
4)Mr. Snuffly, his teddy (but Peter would kill you with a look if you even suggested that you knew of Mr. Snuffly's existence.)
Tea was to Peter as chocolate was to Edmund. And, if you saw the way Edmund hoarded his chocolate, you would understand what I am talking about.
Edmund and Lucy abhorred tea. Fragrant and sweet, Edmund couldn't stand the taste. Whenever Peter, in a mood of uncharacteristic mischief, dared to place the offending item under the Just King's nose, Edmund would respond with a show of gagging and a waving of hands in front of his dainty nose. Peter would then laugh and make a big show of drinking his beverage.
One morning, at breakfast, Edmund and Lucy stared in unconcealed shock at their older brother, who was up to his eighth cup of strong tea mixed with exactly four tablespoons of sugar. Susan, on her second cup of very weak tea, gave her younger siblings a disproving glance for their shocking table manners, before looking aghast at Peter, who, in the space of ten minutes, had just consumed his twelth cup.
"Just what are you trying to prove, Peter?" she snapped, very displeased at his show of gluttony.
"Nothing, Susan!" shouted Peter, ending with a girlish giggle. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes from crossing.
"P – Peter?" ventured Lucy, as her brother shot her a cheerful smile.
"Are you old right, old chap?" Edmund managed to say, watching Peter warily as he rose from his chair.
"I – feel – fine!" squealed Peter, spinning rapidly on his toes to prove his point. He tiptoed merrily down the length of the table to Lucy's chair and, grabbing the back, tipped her out of it.
"Let's sing!" he exclaimed, striking a dramatic pose and flashing a smile. He grabbed her hand, turned a deaf ear to her protests, and dragged her to the foot of the table. Clambering up (with Lucy still in tow), he began to tap dance on the table.
"I'm a little tea POT!" (His voice cracked dreadfully on the last note as he began to juggle the teapot and teaspoons to prove his point.)
"Short and Stout!" he paused, clearly upset by something. "I'm not really short or stout," he added, his voice slightly high and whiny.
"Here is my handle!" One hand curved to his waist.
"Here is my spout!" He threw his other hand into the air. In doing so, he let go of Lucy's hand. With a sigh of relief, the Valiant Queen jumped down from the table and ran to the opposite end of the table where she crouched in absolute terror at Peter's antics. Oh, if only Narnia's enemies could see him now! They'd either take the opportunity to storm the kingdom, or Peter would single-handedly defeat all Narnia's enemies as they would, unfortunately, die laughing.
"When I get all steamed up!" Peter started to make a noise like a kettle boiling.
"Hear me shout!" Pretty self-explanatory as to what Peter's actions were when he sang this phrase.
"Tip me over, pour - me - OUT!" Peter, leaning sideways to demonstrate a kettle being poured, leaned a bit too far, and fell off the table, landing on his rump. He immediately began laughing.
"Ah ha, did you see that Susan? Lucy? Ed?"
His siblings were gazing at him in unconcealed shock.
"Peter?" said Susan cautiously, "Are you - alright?
"I feel GREAT!" shouted Peter, leaping to his feet again.
"Peter, I think a little nap would be a good idea."
"Nap? Nap! The Great High King Peter needs neither food nor sleep. He is sustained entirely by the wonderful thing known as... Tea!" He made a grab for the teapot. It was a futile effort, however, as Edmund, thinking quickly, managed to snatch it from his grasp.
"Peter, I think that you've had enough tea for today."
"Tea, tea, tea, tea," chanted Peter, clapping his hands. "Wheeeee!"
"What in Narnia is wrong with him, Susan?" whispered Edmund, in a sneaky side whisper. "Did the strain of ruling finally go to his head?"
"I'm not sure, Ed," whispered Susan in return, casting a quick look of horror at their destroyed breakfast, which had been crushed to tiny pieces under the merry feet of King Peter. "We'd better think of something -"
Crash! Peter managed to tear the tablecloth from the table, scattering dishes right and left. He tied it around his neck and ran around the room, screaming at appropriate intervals that he was either an "Air-plane" or "Little Red Riding Hood".
"Fast," finished Susan, her face flushing pink as she noticed some of the Palace Guards chuckling madly behind their paws. One outspoken fellow even had the nerve to mutter quietly: "What in the blazes was Aslan thinking crowning that loon? The lad's a nutcase!"
Gritting her teeth angrily at the guard's rude comment, Susan ran after her screaming brother who had been let loose on the unsuspecting world. He was running wildly through the halls, sliding on bannisters, throwing busts to the ground, and making himself a general nuisance.
"Hey!" cried a breathless voice behind Susan. "I'm supposed to be the annoying one!"
Turning to find a red-faced Edmund hot on her heels, Susan allowed herself a grim smile. "Believe me, Ed," she said, cringing as the sound of ripping cloth met her ears, "when we find and sedate Peter, I'll be more than happy for you to take over your role as annoying younger brother once more."
"Really?"
"No," was the curt response.
Grumbling softly about lying older sisters and hyperactive older brothers, Edmund rounded the corner a little too quickly and bumped straight into Susan, who had also stopped abruptly.
"My poor, poor eyes," Edmund heard Susan mutter. Peeking over her shoulder, he burst into a fit of chuckles.
There was Peter, flushed and happy, sitting side-saddle on a decidedly cross Orieus. Peter was too busy plaiting Orieus's hair French Style to notice his siblings arrival and Orieus - well, Orieus was trying to figure out if kicking a certain sugar-loaded lad into Archenland would be considered acceptable.
Just you wait until I get you into training, My King, was the Centaur's grim thought. Then shall you know the meaning of pain!
A sharp yank on the loyal subject's tail, and all the Centaur's thoughts went out the window, making room for another, more murderous one.
Kill! Kill!
Fortunately for Peter's well-being, the young King chose that moment to jump lightly from the "Nice Horsy's" back, and run screaming through Cair Paravel once more.
Susan and Edmund, still intent on saving at least some of their brother's dignity, picked up their skirts and gave chase. Well, Susan picked up her skirts ... Edmund picked up his tights, which were sagging uncomfortable around his ankles. Running always had that effect on his clothing.
"Charge!" yelled Edmund. The cry was taken up by a (dare I say it) very pretty Orieus, who's face was blood red, and who's eyes looked ready to start out of his head.
"Charge!" he cried, repeating Edmund's command. The terrible trio ran wildly down the halls, past a startled Lucy who had just finished a delicious breakfast in the kitchen, and into the wing of Cair Paravel where the weapons were kept.
"Oh, dear Aslan," muttered Susan, in real dismay, "no! Not the weapons!"
The door was locked.
"Maybe," said Edmund, in a hopeful voice, "he's calming down."
Crash! Smash! Zing!
"Or maybe not," said Edmund, shutting his trap.
Susan marched over to the door, studied it intently, and pointed an imperious finger at the hinges.
"Orieus!" she shouted, in a voice of thunder. "Break down this door!"
Three times Orieus, intent on some sort of revenge, rammed; and, on the third try, the door snapped like a stick of candy. It was an imposing spectacle. The strapping, bow-adorned Centaur; the fire-eyed, red-cheeked Susan; and finally, the impish face of one Edmund Pevensie, who was wishing that he had a painting of "Bowed Orieus" in his study – to laugh at.
Peter looked up when they entered; and smiled a tired, confused smile. Weapons littered the ground. Snapped arrows, bent swords, and a broken mace lay near Peter's feet.
"Um," said Peter, scratching his head, "I think that I have a lot of explaining to do, huh?"
"Yes," spoke up Orieus, shaking his long hair meaningfully, "you do. Not here, though, in the training fields." And without another word the tall Centaur strode from the room. Only Edmund caught a glimpse of his sinister expression. Yes, Orieus was going to listen to Peter's explanation... while beating him to a pulp. Poor Peter! How was he supposed to know that even under the influence of a sugar rush, touching a Centaur's precious locks is strictly forbidden?
Peter, turning to follow the General, was stopped by a timid hand on his arm.
"Are you sure you're okay now, Peter?" said Susan, with a smile.
"I feel fine," Peter, with a little less enthusiasm. "But I don't think that I will drink twelve cups of tea in one sitting for a couple of years. I've got a splitting headache!"
Hearing the sound of Orieus bellowing, Susan could only give her brother a sympathetic glance. Peter's headache was about to get a whole lot worse!
Pretty please review? I want to know if I should do another one-shot about Edmund's love for chocolate.