Disclaimer: Nothing for this entire challenge will be mine. I'd rather not come up with a new disclaimer every day, so this should suffice for all of them. I don't own Narnia, and though it's a dream I'll probably never let go of, I really don't expect to own it anytime in the future either.
"This always happens," Edmund grumbled, ducking behind the banquet table. "Every single time we—" Something heavy thudding into the table cut him off.
"If Your Majesty would please focus on the problem at hand, instead of grumbling?" Leo asked from his perch. He'd jumped up one of the pillars and steadied himself on the red cloth draped from pillar to pillar. Keeping his eyes fixed on warriors across the hall, he grimaced. "Her Majesty Queen Lucy is already very involved."
"She's what?" Edmund popped his face above the table, only to duck down again when another missile sailed past his head. "Lucy!"
"I'm too small, they can't hit me very well!" his sister called back, voice barely carrying over the voices of the fighters. "And I found a basket of apples!"
"Then bring them over here!"
"That would expose her as she crosses the hall, Your Majesty," Leo warned.
"She's enjoying this enough, she deserves to get hit! If Susan were here, she would have stopped the argument before food began flying!"
"But that would not have been as much fun," Lucy said from right above him, and Edmund reached up, grabbing his sister and pulling her behind the table with him. He ignored the sticky residue on the back of his hand from where a pudding had hit her dress, grabbing an apple from the very large basket she had over her arm.
"Fun," he repeated, crouching so he could stand up quickly. "Oh, yes, fun. I always want to turn over a table while I'm eating, wasting all the cooks' excellent work—"
"The Owls say it helps our guests vent their aggression without injuring anyone," Lucy reminded him. "And they're not throwing food that would hurt" as a piece of bread went sailing above their heads. "I barely felt the pudding."
"They're going to feel the apples. But we've got to stop them before food gets on the tapestry, it took Mrs. Beaver two months to sew it and she'll be heartbroken." Taking a deep breath, an apple in each hand, Edmund flinched as a slab of gravy-covered meat landed beside him.
"Oh. Oh, I hadn't thought of that." Another apple left the basket, cradled in Lucy's ready hand.
Before either monarch could throw their improvised weapons, however, a voice boomed through the hall. "Stop this now."
"Orieus," Edmund murmured in relief. Standing, he got a clearer view of the hall. "And Peter and Susan."
A single squawk broke the silence as one of the erstwhile Goose warriors cleared his throat. "We had a disagreement over whether the soup or the pudding was traditionally eaten first."
"And you found it necessary to spoil all the food to prove your point?" Peter asked, voice dry.
"My apologies, Your Majesty. We—got caught up." The Goose bowed his head. "Since Your Majesties outlawed the pond fights—"
"After six Geese were maimed," Edmund muttered under his breath.
"—we find ourselves…easily caught up."
Looking around at the mess, Peter sighed. A glance at Edmund let the Just King know the punishment was up to him.
"Those who joined in the fight are responsible for cleaning up the mess, and also in working to help clean Cair Paravel for a week. Those who did not join in the fight," and Edmund inclined his head to a small family where the father had his wings protectively spread over his wife and two Goslings, "may join the kitchens and be chefs, if they so choose."
"OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!" came from all the Geese.
"Working in the kitchens?"
"Making decisions about food?"
"I want to do that! I would make the best rice pudding ever eaten! Even better than the one I threw!"
"I would make a cake taller than an Elephant!"*
"Working in the kitchens and competing in what you cook is a privilege to be earned," Edmund said sternly. "You earn it by learning to master yourselves, so we may not worry about our kitchens becoming a battlefield, and our guests having no supper."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the Geese replied in chorus, and then they began shuffling about, picking things up with their beaks and sliding them back in place with their long necks. It did not take long, and then they tromped out as flock to go find washcloths and water. Edmund, realising he still had an apple in each hand, looked over at Lucy. She still had an apple too. And currently the hall was still a mess.
"I dare you to throw that at Oreius," he whispered in his softest tone. Oreius had excellent ears, even if he was currently talking to Peter. Edmund had meant it as a joke, something to make his sister smile, but as she looked at Edmund and then at Oreius and then raised her hand to throw, Edmund grabbed her wrist. "I was joking!" he flashed out, still in that whisper.
Lucy, her wrist still in his, looked over at him with a smile that filled him with alarm. "I double dare you to throw yours at Peter."
Well.
In fairness to Lucy, Edmund had started the daring. And Peter wouldn't be happy, but he wasn't quite as inventive as Oreius at punishments. Worth it, Edmund decided. Letting go of Lucy, Edmund took quick aim and whipped his apple at Peter.
Oreius caught it, red and small in his large hand, without ever looking over at the two. "Your Majesty, I think someone just tried to continue the food fight."
"I do believe you're right." Edmund felt a trickle of alarm when Peter didn't look at him. That usually meant Peter's sense of humour—which wasn't nearly as funny as Peter thought it was—was about to come into play. "Tell me, Oreius, what was the punishment for a food fight? The one we just heard?"
"To clean the banquet hall and then to help clean Cair Paravel for a week."
"It would only be just to give that punishment to all food fighters, wouldn't it?"
Edmund's stomach dropped. Cleaning? On top of everything else he had happening that week?
"I would agree, Your Majesty."
Lucy's hand slipped into his empty one; the other still had an apple. "I know where the washcloths are." Her voice, no longer a whisper, dissipated some of his dread. After all, he hadn't spent much time with her recently. And he had just continued the food fight.
"Lucy, you didn't—" Peter began.
"I dared him to throw the apple at you."
"Oh." A glance between Peter and Orieus, and Peter shrugged. "Go off with you then."
With Lucy's hand still in his, Edmund began the walk down the banquet hall, carefully avoiding spilled pudding, round buns, and squishy vegetables. Passing Peter and Oreius, he gave a slight bow, and kept going till he was just beyond them. Then he tugged Lucy's hand, and indicated the second apple he still held. Her eyes went wide, and he grinned, whipped around, and threw it at Peter. It hit the King's shoulder with a satisfying thwack!
"Since I'm already being punished, I might as well use all my ammunition!" Edmund yelled, dashing out with Lucy's hand still in his, hearing Peter splutter behind him.
A week later, on their last day of scrubbing the tower stairs, Edmund sat with a sigh against the wall. The back ache would go away in an hour, he knew by experience now.
Lucy sat down beside him and handed him an apple. "Done!" Taking a bite out of the other apple she'd kept for herself, she admitted, "I'm glad to be done."
"Agreed." But as Edmund tossed the apple from hand to hand and remembered hitting Peter, he couldn't stop the grin from spreading over his face. "Still worth it though."
My nieces and nephews might be utterly enthralled with The Great British Baking Show, and that might have somewhat inspired this silly story.
Prompt: A King, Queen, or warrior of Narnia is forced to improvise a weapon.