Madi had brought home wheat.
After the initial shock of Madi being able to even find wheat in the middle of Shallow Valley had worn off, and Madi did her excited little dance, they were left staring at the bundle of wheat on the counter, as they had contemplated what they wanted to do with it.
And fine, it wasn't exactly intended or expected. But they couldn't exactly just shrug Madi off, especially not when she looked at them so damn expectantly, so Clarke, Lexa, and Luna had ended up going through the process of crushing the wheat seeds in between stones in an attempt to turn it into flour, and then maybe hopefully bread, even though Clarke had no idea how that would happen. Frankly, unless they could cook flour from Praimfaya heat, well...
And though yes, they were supposed to be concentrating on the menial task, and yes, it was hard work and yes they could probably make flour from it, but they found themselves... well...
''Clarke!'' Lexa had gasped out as Clarke stifled some laughter from the back of her throat, her fingers toying with the wheat she had in hand. ''We do not poke each other with wheat!''
''Oh yeah?'' she had said, the challenging grin worming its way into her features, her fingers spinning the wheat grain round. ''Don't think there are rules in this household.''
And from there everything had exploded.
Clarke had poked Lexa in the armpit with the wheat. And when there was a quick jolt back, and a death glare that would've melted armies of soldiers but had melted Clarke's heart, Clarke was feeling very triumphant—because she'd just learnt that the Commander of the 13 Clans, the Enokomwor, the Wanawauder, the Heda was ticklish—until, of course, she had received a not-so-kindly poke back.
And there was war.
Oh, so much reckless, pitying war.
Luna had deliberately tried to ignore them, as they fought out an all-out battle with swords of wheat and pinches of flour, as she worked on her own wheat-things—but tried was not enough for the influence of their war was great; too great, that even those who wished and yearned for peace was dragged in.
And soon, Luna — armed with two hands coated with a paltry amount of flour and a slightly unhinged expression on her face, had joined in the bitter strife.
From there produced insanity. There were stalks of wheat being used as poking and tickling weapons; unnecessary hand-touching (mostly when regarding two particular Natblida) and a fair amount of high-pitched squeaks; lots of wheat grains thrown into various directions; and cries of indigency after one were struck down by such a random speck of projectile that seemed to come from nowhere. There was war; a war that was greater than any of its pasts, a war that, once started, could only snowball from then on out.
But it was well worth the cost. Well worth the pain; the torture that they had to endure, the sacrifice of a promise that never was. Future generations would call it a bitter war; useless strife; needless waste of food and lives, but the thing was—it wasn't. Wasn't a bitter war; not when it involved a girlfriend and someone who was her child's sister, and a whole lot of wheat.
They had been so engrossed into thus a bitter affair that they did not even notice a child, that burst into the abode with glee on her face and a yell that had left her lips—and when they had turned, caught in their war red-handed, the child had seemed bewildered—and their eyes had travelled from the child itself to the bundle of wheat she had trapped in between her hands, a shop, a supply, and their vigours and courage both renewed—
One could only guess what happened since then.
It had started so innocently at first; and now, it was a full-blown mass of war, where even children and trebuchets were involved. Such a pity; such pain and life and food lost, such needless children and dangerous wooden war machines that were caught in the web of it all, that had flung flour in spastic bunches that was the source of freaking out for all—and the worst of it was—they could not stop.
