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Morning finds the camp still half-asleep into their rations.
The only one who looks even vaguely awake is Wilbur, deep already into his fourth cup of washed out tea as he scribbles away into a ragged notebook, but the rest looks still more asleep than awake. Tubbo, wearing his shirt backwards, has fallen into his bowl of gruel more than twice, hair clumping with the soggy remains of the food.
Fundy has already fallen asleep into his, thankfully empty, bowl, completely sprawled onto the grass with no care whatsoever about how he's staining his previously clean clothes. Eret's no better by any means, the wither hybrid tucking his head so close to the bowl that it looks as if he has fallen asleep too. The only sign of his awareness is the fact that he keeps one hand extended, holding onto the back of Tommy's shirt, the sole reason as to why the teenager hasn't nodded off and fallen into the campfire in front of him.
The quartet had gone to sleep far too late yesterday, too busy with helping the foot soldiers with digging the trenches near the northwest sector of the camp, yesterday's rain only helping to make the already grueling task even worse, as mud formed beneath their fraying boots and shovels. It's an honest blessing that today is sunny, some god probably taking pity on their pathetic forms for sure.
"Alright boys!" Wilbur suddenly says, snapping his notebook close and choosing to ignore the way everyone startled, "We have lots of things to do today, so we better get a move on."
"I thought," Eret's gets interrupted by his own yawn, as he slowly gets up, having fallen off his seat at Wilbur's voice, "I thought today we didn't have much to do? We have a supply check, no?"
"Technically, yes, that was what was supposed to happen today," Wilbur has, at least, the grace to look sheepish at the indignant look both Tommy and Tubbo throw at him at the news, "However, the rain last night… Modified the plans. Just a little."
"Fuuuuck," Tommy drawls, rubbing a hand over his face, "Come on, man, today was supposed to be a light-duty day."
"The supply check can be done other day," Wilbur grimaced, "Today we have to help out with the harvest."
"Bet you I can harvest more shit than you, bitch," Tommy mock-whispers to Tubbo as everyone else scowls at the announcement.
"You're fucking on," Tubbo instantly agrees, "Loser has to give their portion of dessert to the other."
"What?" Fundy sits up, glaring, little strands of grass stuck in his fur and ignoring the duo beside him, "The harvest was supposed to be like, in a few more days!"
"Yeahhh," He grimaces, "But I was talking with Jenna —The sheepling in charge of the farms, Fundy— and they told me that we're gonna be having a massive storm soon, the rain last night was just like, a warning. By the time it leaves, the wheat will probably get ruined with mold or some shit."
Eret looks up, sunglasses almost sliding off his face, staring at the clear skies. For patience, to check if it truly looks like it will rain, Wilbur is not sure, but he feels attacked by the gesture nonetheless.
"It won't be that bad!" He rushes to defend himself, "It's just farmin' and shit, how hard can it be?"
"Have you ever harvested anything in your life?" Eret asks, not bothering to look away from the sky, voice dry and somewhat amused.
"I've harvested carrots," Tommy offers, as if that's something comparable.
"I've done honey," Tubbo adds in.
"Honey is not equivalent to harvesting shit," Fundy quickly points out, starting the useless task of trying to pick the grass of his fur, "Honey comes from bees, not plants."
"Technically it comes from plants since bees gather the pollen from the plants—"
"Oh fuck you it absolutely counts!" Tubbo cuts off Eret, voice rising with indignation and hurt, "It absolutely does!"
"No it doesn't," Fundy rolls his eyes.
"It absolutely does!" Tubbo insists, "Why else use the word harvested to say it! You don't fucking, fucking say "Oh I picked up honey from the beehive" do you?"
"You can say that, you literally can say that," Fundy says, opening his mouth to continue defending himself and quickly cut off as Tubbo throws himself at him.
The two roll around the dirt, shouting at each other, tugging at the horns or fur as if they were toddlers. Tommy, as useful as ever, stands to the side, shouting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" at the duo and cheering at every punch and tug that looks particularly painful.
Eret and Wilbur stare at them for a few minutes, neither lifting a finger to try and stop them.
"Are you sure you want them helping harvesting the wheat?" Eret asks, weary at the mere idea.
"It was either that or helping with mucking the shit of the cows," Wilbur smiles pleasantly, as the other blanches at the idea, "The rain spread it everywhere, from what I heard."
"Harvesting wheat, wow, what a delight," Eret says, closing his jacket firmly and pushing his sunglasses up, smiling nervously, "I'll go talk with Jenna to see we have enough equipment. Yep. See you there!"
And in less than a blink, the wither hybrid quickly disappeared deeper into the camp, hurriedly walking away as if Wilbur would change his mind if he didn't hurry, leaving the General behind with the still bickering trio. Wilbur looked at them, just in time to see Tommy jump in and try to hit Tubbo with his elbow, only to slip up and almost eat shit as he slammed face first into the floor.
Wilbur breathed in. Out.
It was just the morning. It would get better.
It would get better, he tried to convince himself, as he continued watching the teenagers try and fail to hit each other.
Surely.
The fields near the camp were absolutely flooded.
Wheat stretched almost as far as the eye could see, the golden strands waving with the wind, perfectly hiding the quagmire beneath. A few people were already inside, looking for some strange reason extra small, dull scythes rhythmically cutting through the dried stems. There weren't as many workers as usually it would have, counting Wilbur and the others, it meant there would be at maximum only fifteen people tackling on the harvest.
A harvest that usually took around forty people and some more.
"A lot of folks had to go and help with the cows," Jenna mentioned upon noticing Wilbur's bewildered gaze, "And Mia asked for help, the river is getting closer to overflowing near the south of the camp, they're moving a lot of tents and crates just in case the worst happens during the upcoming storms."
The sheepling then paused, and looked up and down at the group.
"Why are you still in your uniforms." She said, tone so dry and done, it didn't even come out as a question, "Why the hell are you wearing that shit."
"Hey!" Fundy said, almost indignant, "These are nice uniforms!"
Jenna looked at the grass-stained uniforms, which had holes and what looked very close to washed out blood and gunpowder staining them, and then looked at Wilbur.
"Do you," Wilbur grimaced a smile, "Do you perhaps have some clothes we can borrow?"
"Best I can do is some boots," She pointed with her chin towards the nearby shed, "But it isn't gonna help you much, to be honest."
"I'm sure it's not that bad—" Wilbur got cut off as one of the workers gave a yelp and disappeared underneath the mud, people nearby tried to help them but they all just sinked more into the mud, "Oh."
"Yeah," Jenna rolled her eyes, "Eret already has the tools, so grab some boots and get to cutting."
Before Tommy or Tubbo can even protest, Wilbur quickly drags them towards their remaining member, ignoring the way Jenna looks amused at his plight. Eret, had changed into an older uniform of his, the colors a bit washed out and with clashing patches to sew whatever holes laid beneath.
"Here," Eret gives them the sickles, looking as if he were giving them weapons of mass destruction rather than simple farming tools, "They're not that sharp, so this will probably take some time."
"Why are we using this bitch?" Tommy asks, swinging the sickle as if he were using a baton, "I'm a big man, the biggest man if you will, can't we get one of those big boys instead?"
He points towards the shed, where a pile of scythes lay on the muddy floor.
"Not if we actually want to get out grains," Eret rolls his eyes, somehow, despite wearing sunglasses, "The entire field is mud, we use a scythe, everything falls into it. And I don't think anyone should trust either of you with a scythe."
He kicks some of the empty baskets laying on the floor toward them, already holding one in one hand, easily ignoring Tubbo's and Tommy's complaints.
"For the wheat," He explains upon noticing Fundy's confused look, "Otherwise it gets too much."
As the two teenagers continue to complain and whine over not being given access to the larger sharp objects, Eret looks towards Wilbur, somehow managing to convey pleading eyes despite the sunglasses. With a sigh, Wilbur manages to drag them away and convince the two to actually start doing their work, much to the relief of the wither hybrid.
Almost ten hours later, Wilbur has grown a new appreciation towards hating wheat.
The wheat ears are somehow sharp, and more than once he gets tiny cuts over his hands, not too dissimilar to paper cuts. The sickles are dull, which means he has to put extra strength into trying to cut, which often lead to him almost losing his balance and falling into the mud below. And that's not even mentioning how little pieces of the spikes go everywhere, sticking to his clothes and poking him sharply whenever he moves.
It's awful work, even more with how bright the sun glares overheard.
The others hadn't fared any better. Tommy has been swallowed up by the sludge below their feet more than once, same as Tubbo, the two looking closer to mud monsters than two teenagers. Eret and Fundy haven't fully fallen into the mud as well, but enough of it covers them that it seems like it.
The only saving grace is that what remains to be harvested can be done by the other workers. If they're being shooed off because of how miserable they look or how awful they were at this, Wilbur doesn't know, and doesn't particularly care about learning which of the two it is.
Not defeated, but something close enough to it, the quartet drags themselves away from the farm, covered in more mud and wheat that they have ever in their life.
Muddy uniforms are left to soak in a nearby wooden bucket for later cleaning, as they rush to wash themselves to try and combat the chill slowly seeping into their bones. Metal buckets filled with water left near the fire are quickly used to try and clean themselves with rags, before the temperature descends too quickly.
The first one to be done is, unsurprisingly, Eret, who is mindful enough to put dinner to cook on the fire —Some kind of soup as that's what's usually for dinner in the camp— while he starts setting up the tents for the night.
Technically, they could all sleep in the camarvan. It is their vehicle, kind of.
But considering it is currently filled to the brim with all the essential supplies that the camp cannot afford to let get wet (such as papers, seeds, vegetables, clothes and a million other little things), they are left to settle under the same tents everyone else has. They're thankfully big enough to host almost all of them, and they're no strangers to sharing beds despite how much some blond teenager may kick in his sleep.
By the time night falls, the entire quartet has finally changed into clean clothes and are relatively clean. More or less. All close to the campfire, almost enough to burn their eyebrows, they eat in pure exhaustion and silence.
"My clothes are never gonna get rid of that spiky shit," Tommy laments, once he finishes inhaling his dinner, staring yearningly at his dessert which Tubbo is currently eating, with perhaps too much gusto. "I'm gonna get fucking poked for all eternity. This is bullshit."
"Your clothes are never gonna get clean?!" Fundy scoffs, orange fur peppered in strands of yellow, "I'm never gonna get clean of this shit!"
"Sucks to suck, bitchboy," Tommy yelps, leaning back to evade the swipe Fundy throws at him, "Woah! Hey! Back off! Wil, Wil! Control your fucking son!"
Eret puts down his bowl and sighs, looking up at the now dark skies as if praying for patience again. Very few stars twinkle up above, only the brightest ones visible. Eret squints at the night sky, confused. It's late. It's kind of very late, actually, and yet, for some reason, there are barely any starts up above.
It almost looked like they were disappearing.
"Hey guys," Eret starts, "I think we should get inside the tents."
Fundy and Tommy continued fighting, this time Tubbo joining them as he had finished his justly won dessert. Wilbur, who looked half a second away from either strangling them or going to ask for a smoke to the tents nearby, looked up at Eret with a frown.
"What?" Wilbur tilted his head, confused, and barely not shivering as a gust of frigid air passed by, "Why?"
Eret, still looking up at the skies, pointed upwards as he slowly started to get up.
Wilbur looked up.
"Oh fuck," He breathed, "Boys, we should get back insi—"
His words, this time, were not cut off by the others fighting but by a grand echoing sound. Barely a second later, heavy rain fell over them, as the skies ruptured into an early storm above them. It fell so harshly, it left Wilbur almost hunched from the force.
Spluttering, he pushed the now wet hair off his face, staring wide-eyed at the others, who looked as caught off as him. Silence stretched for a few seconds, only broken by the heartfelt curses of others in the camp that had been similarly caught off-guard.
"Well. I tried," Eret shrugged, looking far more like a drowned ferret than a wither hybrid.
Wilbur blinked the water out of his eyes.
"… Dibs on the towel." Wilbur said and turned to get to the tent, only to get jumped by everyone.
Spluttering as he tried to push off the others, he couldn't help but internally sigh in exasperation.
He couldn't wait until they won the war and he could finally have a house alone and away from these lunatics.