Chapter 273: Demeter
Demeter stood barefoot in the soil, her emerald robes brushing against stalks of golden grain. Normally, her presence calmed the land—her heartbeat aligning with the roots beneath, her breath calling forth blossoms. But not tonight.
The soil was dry.
Not the dryness of neglect, nor the dryness of drought. This was something deeper. The roots trembled. The veins of earth recoiled as though whispering a truth Demeter had no wish to hear.
The sea was rising, and it was poisoning the ground.
Demeter closed her eyes, placing both hands on the earth. Immediately, visions surged through her mind—fields flooding, villages drowned, granaries collapsing as waves devoured farmland. Her temples, once places of worship and thanksgiving, now echoed with fear as crops were washed away in Poseidon’s tide.
Her jaw tightened.
The others might call him a threat to Olympus itself, but for her, the danger was personal. Where there was no soil, no harvest could grow. Where the sea claimed land, she became powerless.
And Poseidon—no, the new Poseidon—was not merely stirring waves. He was reshaping the balance of life and death.
---
The Council’s Call
"Demeter."
The voice pulled her from her visions. Turning, she saw Hera approaching, her golden diadem catching faint starlight. Hera’s steps carried the authority of Olympus, but Demeter noticed the faint unease in her gait.
"The council convenes again," Hera said, her tone clipped. "Zeus demands your presence. The drowned god grows bolder."
Demeter’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Boldness? Or inevitability? I feel him in the roots, Hera. Even here, in Olympus, the soil recoils at his touch. He is not sending waves merely to destroy. He is seeding the world anew—with his dominion."
Hera’s eyes narrowed. "You sound as though you admire it."
"I do not admire," Demeter replied coldly. "But I understand. Poseidon has ceased to be merely god of the sea. He is expansion itself. He claims what should never have been his. And unlike the others, I see how this war ends if we misstep."
"And how is that?"
Demeter turned her gaze toward the horizon, where faint storms flickered on the edge of Olympus’s veil. "With the earth barren, and all of us kneeling beneath tides that never recede."
---
Seeds of Dissent
Later, in the great council hall, Demeter stood among the gathering gods. Marble pillars loomed overhead, engraved with constellations, while firelight danced across their polished surfaces. Zeus sat on his throne, thunder rumbling faintly from his shoulders. Athena stood sharp and ready, her bronze armor gleaming. Ares leaned lazily against a pillar, eager for war. Apollo’s golden light flickered with unease, while Artemis lingered in shadow.
But Demeter noticed who wasn’t there.
Hades.
The thought chilled her. The lord of the underworld rarely joined these councils, but Poseidon’s ascension was not a threat confined to seas. Even death itself could be unmoored by tides that drowned entire nations. His absence spoke of deeper currents moving unseen.
Zeus’s voice cracked through the chamber like lightning.
"The mortal harbors fall. Cities drown. Poseidon no longer hides his hand. He claims dominion beyond his right. This is war."
Murmurs broke out, some eager, others fearful.
Athena stepped forward. "We must act with precision. To charge blindly against him is to drown in his home. But if we sever his hold upon the mortal realm—cut the foundation he builds—his power will falter."
Ares scoffed. "Coward’s talk. I say we march with fire and spear. Gods do not scheme in shadows. We crush rebellion."
Demeter’s voice, calm but cutting, sliced through their bickering.
"You speak as though he is a rogue mortal, or a titan broken from chains. But you are wrong. Poseidon does not rebel. He reclaims. And every tide he sends is not a battlecry—it is a seed. A seed that spreads his will through soil, through blood, through our very dominion. Even if you strike him down, his roots are already planted."
The hall fell silent.
Zeus’s eyes narrowed, stormclouds gathering in his pupils. "Are you suggesting there is no victory to be had?"
"I am suggesting," Demeter said carefully, "that we cannot treat him as a threat to be slain. We must treat him as a force to be outgrown. For if we cannot, then every ear of corn, every stalk of wheat, every mortal prayer for harvest will turn from me... and toward him."
Her words were dangerous—nearly heresy—but she let them hang. Because they were true.
---
Whispers of the Forgotten
After the council adjourned, Demeter retreated once more to her gardens. But she was not alone.
From between the olive trees, a shadow stepped forward. A woman cloaked in night, her eyes twin pools of shifting void. Nyx—the primordial night itself.
"You sow dangerous truths," Nyx whispered, her voice older than the stars.
Demeter tensed but did not step back. "I speak what the others will not admit."
Nyx’s lips curled. "And for that, you will be feared. But perhaps also needed. You see, Demeter, Poseidon is not the only one planting seeds. The Forgotten stir. The tides he awakens are not only his own."
"The Forgotten?" Demeter’s brow furrowed. She had heard whispers—ancient beings cast into the abyss, older even than the Olympians. If Poseidon’s rising tides broke their seals...
Nyx leaned closer, shadows coiling around her like serpents. "You wish to preserve the soil, the harvest, the mortal prayers. But what will you do when the very ground splits beneath you, and the fields grow only salt? What bargain will you strike then?"
Demeter’s heart pounded. Bargains with Nyx were never simple.
"I will not see the mortal world perish," she said firmly.
"Then perhaps, Daughter of Earth," Nyx murmured, "you must decide whether to stand with Olympus... or with the tide."
---
The Withering Grove
That night, Demeter dreamed.
Her sacred groves stood before her, wheat fields golden and endless. Children laughed in the meadows, their baskets overflowing with bread and fruit. But then, a shadow fell across the sun.
The fields darkened. The soil cracked. Water seeped upward—not rain, not storm, but the slow rise of a tide that glistened silver in the moonlight.
The wheat drowned. The orchards withered. The soil became silt.
And in the reflection of the water’s surface, Demeter saw him.
Poseidon.
Not as the brother she once knew, nor as the rival of storms. But as something vaster, deeper. His eyes glowed with abyssal hunger, and yet—somewhere beneath—the faint flicker of sorrow, of humanity, of the vessel he had once been.
"Choose," his voice echoed through the dream. "Soil or sea. Roots or tide. But know this, Demeter: all grow from water in the end."
She awoke with sweat soaking her robes, the scent of brine in her nose, and the sound of waves echoing faintly in her ears—though Olympus was far above the seas.
The next morning, Demeter stood once more among her gardens. But now, the flowers looked pale, the fruits tasted of salt, and the vines trembled at unseen currents.
She closed her eyes, fists tightening.
The council would march to war, blind and arrogant. But she... she would not.
She would watch. She would listen. And if Poseidon truly reshaped the world in his image, she would not fight him blindly. She would be ready to strike a bargain.
Because if Olympus fell, someone must ensure the harvest survived.
Even if it meant kneeling to the tide.