━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

As spring melted into summer, the world seemed to come alive with fire. The sun rose higher in the sky, its rays golden and intense, drenching the fields and forests in warmth. The days stretched long and heavy, the air thick with the hum of cicadas and the scent of wildflowers in full bloom.

But as summer grew hotter, so did you.

What had once been quiet curiosity and gentle observation began to shift. The innocence that had defined your earlier days now gave way to a growing sense of restlessness.

The world beyond the boundaries of the meadows and fields seemed to call to you, louder than ever. You longed to wander farther, to see what lay beyond the hills, to feel the wind against your skin in places you had never been.

But Demeter wouldn't allow it.

Her love for you, once a source of warmth, had become suffocating. She refused to let you out of her sight for too long, her protectiveness intensifying with each passing day.

"No," she would say firmly when you asked to explore the forest's edge. "You stay where I can see you." Her voice carried a quiet fear, one that tightened her jaw and furrowed her brows. She would not speak of it openly, but you knew what she feared.

Another Persephone situation.

Her daughter had been taken once, spirited away to the Underworld, leaving Demeter to mourn her absence for half the year. She would not risk the same with you, no matter how ridiculous it sounds.

"You are safer here," she would insist, her hands gently brushing your hair or adjusting the flowers on your crown. "The world beyond these fields is unpredictable. I cannot protect you there."

You nodded, obedient on the surface, but inside, frustration simmered.

Her care felt like a cage, her love a wall that kept you bound to a life that felt too small.

So, you began to push back, subtly at first.

You lingered near the edges of the meadow, your gaze fixed on the horizon. When she called you back, you hesitated, your feet dragging as you returned.

"____, I told you not to wander," she would say, her tone firm but laced with concern.

You said nothing, only lowering your gaze, but the ache in your chest grew heavier each time.

The more she pulled you back, the more you longed to break free.

And the more you felt, the more the summer intensified.

The air grew hotter, the sun harsher, the earth beneath your feet dry and cracked. The plants, once lush and green, began to droop under the weight of the heat, their leaves curling at the edges.

It was as though the world mirrored your emotions, responding to the fire building inside you.

.☆.
     .✩.
         .☆.

As the days passed, the restless tension inside you grew unbearable. You'd always been calm, quiet, observing the world without complaint, but now, something inside you had shifted.

You were different now—older, stronger, more aware of the boundaries that confined you. Your body had matured again, and at 16, you stood taller, your limbs more defined. Your features had sharpened, your skin carrying a deeper, sun-kissed hue, golden undertones gleaming as if the sun itself had left its mark on you.

Your hair had grown longer and fuller, its natural flow entwined with streaks of sunlit gold, the blooms within it now fully vibrant and alive, their petals reflecting the bright hues of summer. Your eyes, once soft and muted, now burned with an intensity that hadn't been there before—a reflection of the fire stirring in your chest.

The summer heat seemed to cling to you, amplifying the energy you couldn't contain, and it all came to a head one evening as you stood before Demeter.

"You can't keep me here forever!" you shouted, your voice trembling with frustration as it echoed through the cottage.

Demeter stood across from you, her golden robes flowing as though the wind carried them, though there was no breeze. Her face was calm, but her eyes burned with a fierceness that matched your own.

"I'm doing this for your safety," she said, her voice steady but firm. "The world beyond these fields is dangerous, ____. You're not like Persephone or me. You're not a god."

Her words hit you like a blow, but you didn't falter.

"So what?" you shot back, your hands clenching at your sides. "I'm not a god, but I'm not weak either! You can't expect me to stay holed up here forever!"

Her jaw tightened, her hands gripping the edge of the table beside her. "You don't understand," she said, her voice rising slightly. "There are forces out there that would take advantage of you, hurt you. You're still growing. You don't know your limits."

Your chest heaved, your frustration boiling over. "And how am I supposed to learn anything if you won't let me try? How am I supposed to grow if I'm stuck here while every other spirit around here gets to live?"

Demeter's eyes flashed with something between anger and fear. "Those spirits are not like you, ____! They were born of the earth and trees. They are tied to this world, yes, but they do not carry—" She stopped herself abruptly, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

"Carry what?" you demanded, stepping closer, your voice sharper now. "What is it about me that makes you so afraid? Why can't you just tell me the truth?"

Demeter's silence was deafening, her gaze dropping for the briefest moment before meeting yours again.

"You don't need to know," she said, her voice quieter but no less firm. "What you need is to listen. The world is not kind, ____. I'm trying to protect you from it."

Your hands trembled, your frustration turning into something hotter, heavier. "It's not fair," you said, your voice cracking. "Other spirits can visit the domains of other gods, can explore and see the world. I'm the only one kept locked away like this!"

Demeter stepped closer, her voice rising with her frustration. "Because they are not you!"

Her words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding.

You stared at her, your face a mixture of anger and hurt. "And I'll never get to be anything but this if you don't let me live," you said, your voice trembling.

As the argument raged on, the heat in the room seemed to intensify.

The air grew thick, stifling, the temperature rising unnaturally. Outside, the sky burned brighter, the sun's rays unrelenting. The fields, once vibrant and green, began to wilt under the oppressive heat, their leaves curling at the edges.

The rivers, so full and lively just days before, began to dry, their beds cracking under the weight of the summer's intensity.

Across the world, the heatwave spread, its effects devastating. Crops withered, animals sought shade in desperation, and the air became heavy with the scent of parched earth.

And still, neither you nor Demeter noticed.

Persephone, standing at the edge of the field where she had been gathering flowers, felt it.

Her gaze turned to the horizon, the oppressive heat making her skin prickle. The air was wrong, too heavy, too still.

She glanced toward the cottage, where raised voices echoed faintly. Your voice. Her mother's voice.

Her mind turned over the whispers of the nymphs, the stories they had told about you, the way the world seemed to respond to you.

A thought crept into her mind, one she couldn't shake.

It couldn't be... could it?

But as she stood there, her flowers wilting in her hands, the first seeds of doubt began to bloom.

She didn't have all the answers yet.

But she would find them.

☆
✩
☆

The days following the argument passed in tense silence, the oppressive heat lingering over the land. The air was thick, the rivers still low, the crops still struggling. Persephone had watched the world closely, the cracks in its rhythm becoming impossible to ignore.

She could feel it—the subtle hum beneath the earth, the way the seasons seemed to shift not naturally, but reactively.

Her gaze often lingered on you.

You, who had grown so quickly. You, whose moods seemed to ripple into the very fabric of nature.

She pieced together the whispers of the nymphs, the fragments of your story, the truths Demeter had shared and the ones she had not.

The timeline didn't make sense.

Tree spirits did not grow this fast. They did not affect the world around them so strongly. They did not carry the kind of weight that you did.

The more she thought about it, the more the truth became clear: You weren't just a tree spirit.

Persephone stood alone in the meadow one evening, staring at the sky as the sun dipped below the horizon. She took a deep breath, the weight of her realization heavy in her chest.

She had to confront her mother.

The cottage was warm, the firelight casting a soft glow over the wooden walls. Demeter sat at the table, her hands busied with weaving garlands of wheat and flowers. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air, a reminder of her constant care.

Persephone stepped inside, her footsteps soft but purposeful. She stood for a moment, watching her mother's steady movements, before finally speaking. "Mother, I need to talk to you."

Demeter glanced up, her expression warm but wary. "What is it, my flower?"

Persephone hesitated, her hands clasping in front of her. She knew this would not be easy.

"It's about ____."

Demeter's hands stilled, her golden eyes narrowing slightly. "What about him?"

Persephone approached the table, her voice gentle but firm. "I've been thinking... and I don't think he's just a tree spirit."

Demeter frowned, her brows knitting together. "Persephone, we've discussed this. He's a unique spirit, yes, but—"

"No, Mother. I don't mean unique. I mean... something else. Something more."

Demeter blinked, her hands slowly lowering to her lap. "What are you saying?"

Persephone took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "The nymphs told me how he was born. From your emotions, your longing for me. That's not how spirits are made, Mother. And then there's his growth, his presence—" She gestured toward the window, where the distant fields seemed to shimmer under the fading sun. "He's not just existing. He's... influencing the world."

Demeter's expression hardened. "Persephone, don't be ridiculous," she said, her voice laced with disbelief. "He's just a spirit. A reflection of my love for you, nothing more."

"No, he's not," Persephone pressed, stepping closer. "He's been unknowingly dictating the seasons, Mother. The heatwave last week? It wasn't random. It started the moment he and you argued. Don't you see it?"

Demeter stared at her daughter, her lips parting slightly, but no words came.

"You weren't paying attention because you love him," Persephone continued, her tone softening. "And I understand that. But Mother... ____ wasn't born like other gods or spirits. He's a force of nature, bound to an eternal cycle. He's not meant to just exist. He's meant to change. To evolve endlessly."

The room fell silent, the weight of Persephone's words pressing down like a storm cloud.

Demeter slowly sank into her chair, her hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table. Her golden eyes shimmered, not with anger, but with the glint of unshed tears.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "T-That can't be true. He's... he's my ____. My little one. How could I not have seen—"

Persephone moved to her side, kneeling beside her, her hand resting gently on her mother's arm. "It's okay, Mother," she murmured. "No one could have known. He's something new, something none of us have seen before. You were blindsided. We all were."

Demeter pressed a hand to her forehead, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. "What does this mean for him? For his future? What kind of life will he have if this is true?"

Persephone squeezed her arm gently, her voice steady. "It means we'll need to protect him. But it also means we'll need to let him grow, Mother. We can't keep him caged."

Demeter's shoulders sagged, her head bowing under the weight of her worry. "I just... I just wanted to keep him safe."

"I know," Persephone said softly, her hand moving to her mother's shoulder. "And you've done everything you could. But now, we need to figure out how to help him become who he's meant to be."

For a long moment, they stayed like that, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire.

Demeter closed her eyes, her voice barely a whisper. "What if the world isn't kind to him?"

Persephone leaned closer, her own voice quiet but firm. "Then we'll make sure he's strong enough to face it."

Persephone's words hung in the air, their meaning stretching far beyond the walls of the cottage.

Outside, the night was still, the only sounds the distant hum of cicadas and the faint rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. But the stillness was deceptive—it carried a tension, a weight that pressed against the earth itself.

You stood just outside the door, frozen in place, the faint flicker of firelight escaping through the cracks in the wood casting long shadows over the ground.

You hadn't meant to overhear.

You'd been on your way back to the cottage, your resolve shaky but present. It had been a week since the argument with Demeter, a week of uneasy silence between you.

You'd spent much of that time with Persephone, walking through the meadows and talking in quiet tones. She'd been gentle, careful, nudging you to understand the depth of Demeter's fear without invalidating your feelings.

"She doesn't mean to stifle you, ____," she had said one evening as you lay on the soft grass beneath the stars. "She's afraid. Afraid of losing you, just like she's afraid of losing me."

You hadn't wanted to hear it then, hadn't wanted to accept the truth in her words. But as the days passed, the edge of your frustration dulled, replaced by a quieter ache.

Tonight, you had finally gathered the courage to speak to Demeter again, to apologize—not for how you felt, but for how you had expressed it.

But now, as you stood outside, listening to the conversation unfolding within, you felt the world shift beneath your feet.

You heard every word. Persephone's quiet, insistent voice. Demeter's disbelief, her worry, her fear.

The pieces fell into place like the final strokes of a painting, revealing something you hadn't seen before—something that had been hidden in the spaces between what you knew and what you felt.

You weren't just a tree spirit.

You were something else entirely.

The truth was clear, but your mind didn't race. Your heart didn't pound.

You felt... nothing.

The information settled into you quietly, like a stone sinking into still water.

Your hand hovered just above the doorframe, but you didn't open it. Instead, you turned silently, stepping back into the night.

The cool air brushed against your skin as you made your way across the field, your steps light, your mind a careful blank.

You reached your tree without realizing how far you had walked, its familiar spiral trunk glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Without hesitation, you began to climb, your hands finding the grooves you knew so well. The bark was warm beneath your palms, a quiet comfort as you ascended to the hollow space at its center.

The hollow had always been your sanctuary.

The place where you had first emerged, where the cocoon had unfurled to reveal your form to the world. The space was smooth, shaped by time and nature into a cradle that fit you perfectly.

You curled up into a ball, your arms wrapped around your knees as you pressed yourself into the hollow.

The walls of the tree surrounded you, the scent of sap and earth grounding you, the faint hum of its energy lulling you into stillness.

You stared out at the moonlit world beyond the tree's branches, but your mind stayed fixed on the words you had heard.

"He's a force of nature, bound to an eternal cycle. He's not meant to just exist. He's meant to change. To evolve endlessly."

At first, you didn't react.

You didn't cry or scream or even think. You simply accepted the information, letting it sink into you like rain soaking into the earth.

But deep inside, a small crack began to form.

It wasn't visible, not even to yourself, but it was there—a fracture in the quiet certainty you had carried since the day you were born.

You'd always been different. But now, you knew you were something more.

What that meant, you didn't yet understand.

All you knew was that the world you had accepted as your own no longer fit.

And as you sat there, hidden in the hollow of your tree, the weight of that truth settled over you like the first chill of autumn—quiet, inevitable, and impossible to ignore.

A/N: will post the remaining chapters in an hour or two, finishing up any errors etc.