I'm back. Sorry for taking so long, to some, and to others, sorry I've returned. :) Something ate my password, I think, and I had a serious amount of issues trying to get back here. So now: Updated story, as well as the chance to go and review all of those lovely stories everybody's been writing! I've read them, I've loved them, and now I can go and tell you guys how much. Yays!
Anyway, here's Chapter Three. Enjoy, or go rushing to the nearest toilet. This is still slash, even if there isn't much in this chapter. It's very simple: If you don't like slash, I don't care. Write your review, whether you liked it or hated it, but don't complain to me for writing it. That's all. Secondly, to my dear flamers: How terribly original. I'm glad you took time out of your clearly busy schedule to go all over this place and tell everybody off for writing stories about a story. It's great. I love getting laughs early in the morning as I check my e-mail.
The fury came hurtling around the corner, all teeth, claws, and pointy bits. Jaws snapping wildly, it let out a horrific scream, arching its back and spreading its shadowy wings across the span of the hallway.
Edmund didn't so much as bat an eyelash as he raised Petey the Potted Plant high above his head, and brought it crashing down. On the door. Which buckled and splinted, releasing the ankle of the High King.
Ed whirled on the monster, still clutching Petey in one hand. The fury reared, the stink of copper, rot, and something akin to moldy eggs filling the hall. Edmund raised an eyebrow, still crouched low, and he snatched the plant by the roots, and swung wide. The pot smashed across the monsters face, and it's head was knocked to the side.
There was a pause as the fury seemed to consider this fact: two living things that did not seem to be either A.) roaches, or B.) rotten, had just wandered oh-so-helplessly into his domain, which he had been keeping rather nicely, thank you very much, and whilst trying to partake in a decent meal for the first time in ages, one just whacked him round the head with what seemed to be nothing less than a decrepit potted plant.
The fury blinked. Edmund blinked. Peter blinked from the heap he was in on the floor.
Then it all began again. The fury reared back, bringing its snapping jaw down upon Edmund, who sprang from where he was crouching and rolled swiftly to the side. Too slow in realizing that its lunch was no longer where it was supposed to be, the beast warbled into a nose-dive, its snout crashing into the floor right next to a yelping Peter.
But Peter, as damp, cranky, and put-out as he was, wasn't High King just because he was handsome. Stretching his arm behind him, he took the moment where the fury seemed to consider that it was also now nose-first into the floor with its hindquarters up in the air in a rather ungraceful fashion, and rolled and grabbed for the knife Edmund had dropped. His fingers just grazed it the first time, the blade mere inches from his grasp. Just as the fury decided he had had about enough of these two meat-bags, Peter lurched himself forward, fingers wrapping around the knife, and he sprang around, facing the monster with little more than the equivalent of a Narnian butter knife.
If monsters could have giggled, this one would have.
But monsters generally can't, and as such, the fury, scraping its toes along the floor, launched itself forward, ramming Peter in the stomach with its own long head. Peter grunted, but managed to grab hold of the fury by the horns.
The next second, the fury had reared up, snarling, and the High King of Narnia found himself upside down, looking down a scaly back of spikes, topped off with a couple of wings attached just for good measure. Not exactly what he wanted to be doing today.
"Hanging in there, Peter?"
The words that next came out of Peter's mouth were some that should never, ever be repeated in the company of anyone. Ever. Edmund, however, would later give kudos for the eloquence and creativity of them. (It is said that the game 'Peter's Fancy', which involves a group of people, several pints, possibly a few shots, any socks on hand, and the seediest tavern to be found has its origins in the re-telling of this tale.) It was a moment before something more…printable was spoke.
"Ed, for the love of it all, do something useful!" He yowled, legs kicking in the air.
Edmund stood, hand on his chin, surveying what he had at hand. The mental list ended up as this:
A potted plant.
His brother, although, this was currently upside down on the back of a scaly, smelly, and rather pointy beast.
Said beast itself.
Making a rather foolish dive in between the legs of the flailing creature he grabbed the torch.
Rolling onto his back, Edmund jabbed upwards. He didn't aim, but it hit the creature in a rather sensitive spot nonetheless. He winced for the fury.
"Eargh." Peter added, eyes wide.
The fury, after a rather painful pause, reared horribly, crunching Peter against the ceiling. The young king yelped, letting go of one of the horns, and swinging the knife blindly downwards. A nasty squelching noise, followed by a screech that filled the entirety of the corridor, making the dust on the floor vibrate and Edmund clap his hands over his ears.
Peter had stabbed it in the eye.
The fury reared back in agony, limbs and wings flailing madly, sending Peter flying off its back and into a heap up against the wall. Edmund glanced briefly back at Peter, who was blinking dazedly, before turning back to the flailing fury. He watched as it jerked and screeched in it's death throes, and he felt oddly sympathetic for it: but survival was survival, and keeping him and his brother safe was top priority for the moment.
Him, his brother…and Petey!
The potted plant was laying helplessly on its side, right in the middle of the fury's thrashing limbs. Taking a deep breath, Edmund knew what he had to do. He ran full-tilt into the fray, stooping just long enough to grab the poor plant and run back out, jumping through legs and arms like some deranged game of hopscotch. He slid along the floor, crashing into a Peter who was trying to stumble to his feet (only to be knocked down again,) and held Petey to his chest, watching wide-eyed as the monster gave one final gurgle, before finally flopping still.
"…Wow." Ed assessed.
"I like pancakes, mummy." Peter warbled from his heap on the floor.
Edmund arched an eyebrow, looking from the heap o' monster, to Petey, to Peter, then back to Petey again.
"You know," he addressed the plant solemnly, "I don't think Orieus would much approve of Peter laying around after battle with his bum up in the air."
"My nose hurts."
"Took one to the conker, did you Peter?"
"That's a horribly offensive word, you know."
Edmund laughed, causing Peter to wince as tried to figure out how to simultaneously rub his nose and the back of his head without looking like a complete moron. So far, he was having little luck.
"You look like a complete moron, Peter."
"Thank you, Ed. Love you too."
"Petey loves you too."
"I'm gonna take Petey and shove him where the sun don't shine, Ed."
"That's not grammatically correct, you know."
"Neither is my foot up your arse, but that isn't gonna stop me."
Peter continued to grumble, his stomach joining in, as Edmund held out a hand to help him sit up. (The other hand being occupied with holding the potted plant.) Peter gratefully took it, lurching to his feet in a rather ungraceful fashion.
"Now then," he said, brushing himself off the best he could. "Where were we?"
"I do believe we were on a quest to the kitchens, really."
Peter nodded, before pointing his finger in a vague but dramatic pose.
"In that case…onward!"
"Isn't that my line?" Ed asked, not moving.
Peter didn't move either.
"If you don't start walking in the direction this kingly finger is pointing, I'll eat that mangy plant of yours."
"Onward!" Edmund cried, pointing along and marching purposefully into the dark.
A/N: Short, but there's a reason. :) I'm still writing more, have no fear. Or fear. Whichever you prefer. Tell me whatchya think!