Demeter

Bio written by stringworms from their shop


From birth, Demeter had been different. Not the bad kind of different, but the kind of different that turned heads nonetheless. It plagued her. Her mother was a respected wolf, high ranking in the pack and the center of attention when it came to politics. However, when six months came and went, and no gift had shown its face, she was beginning to worry.

She felt the eyes on her when she walked through her pack, heard the whispers that followed in her wake as she walked past. She could tell her mother was worried, as well. The wolf tried to hide it but Demeter could hear her up late at night muttering, sometimes to herself and sometimes to others.

It was all the pack could talk about; how could someone with her lineage be born without a gift? Demeter, who turned heads wherever she went. Demeter, who is born of importance. Demeter, who was turning out to be quite the disappointment.

Demeter wanted nothing more than to make her parents happy. She hounded down the gifted wolves of the pack to ask them how they got their gifts to work.

"You need to focus, control your emotions!" one told her.

"No, you let your emotions control your powers, or it won't work!" another protested.

"You're both wrong," interjected a third, "your power is an entity completely separate from you, you don't try to control it, you just point it somewhere safe when it decides to show its face," they instructed.

Demeter was more lost than when she began, by the end of it. So many conflicting ideas and advice, and none of it seemed to pertain to her! It was…frustrating. Disheartening. For a second, she thought that maybe she just hadn't been given a gift. That the gods had skipped her, for some reason.

That night, Demeter sneaks out of her den long before her mothers muttering starts up, slipping out into the night and finding a secluded spot high in the mountains, as close as her little paws could get her to the moon.

It stares down at her, bright and full, illuminating everything around her. She feels so small in comparison, empty and devoid of any gift with which to bring light to her pack. She was Demeter; she was born of importance, and she turned heads. And it was all for nothing.

A wolf cannot cry, the way other animals do. They do not have the tear ducts needed to produce true tears. It was a sign of their perseverance and bravery; a wolf does not cry; they get back up and they deal with it.

But now, her inability to cry makes her feel even worse. How is she supposed to get back up after this? How is she supposed to face this? She is so small compared to her problems, and they hang over her like the moon in the sky.

Sometimes, Demeter does not feel like a wolf at all.

Sometimes, just like this night, she feels like a puma; she feels like she could just open her mouth and scream and scream until her throat is raw and her gift is forced to show itself. Sometimes she feels like a bird; feels the urge to fly away from all her problems and leave it all behind.

But Demeter is not a puma, and she not a bird either. Demeter is a wolf, and wolves do not cry.

So she does not scream, and she does not fly away. Instead, she gets up, and she turns around so her back faces the moon, and she closes her eyes. Demeter sits there for hours, taking deep breaths, focusing all her thoughts on the oddities inside her, the things that turn heads, and she urges it forward.

Flowers follow in her wake, as she races down the mountain, forcing rocks out of the way so that they might thrive. They follow her through the middle of the camp, bursting forth from the dirt into full bloom as she passes until their whole camp has been turned into a garden that would have taken years to grow.

Yellow roses spring under her feet, and orange tulips follow closely behind, lighting up the clearing as if it were day. The others of the pack begin to stir as the sun peaks over the horizon, bathing her creations in the dawning light.

Demeter skids to a stop in front of the alpha's den, tail wagging behind her excitedly as she waits to show off her new power. The gods had not overlooked her, she is not a waste and she was meant to turn heads!

"What is all this?" the grey wolf asks, as she steps out of her den. Demeter's heart plummets, and her tail slows to a stop. Why was her alpha not overjoyed at the latest gift the gods had given them? Was she not impressed?

"It's my gift," Demeter says, voice almost a whisper. "I made all this, I did this. I am not worthless. I have gifts I can contribute to this pack" She is almost pleading for the wolf's validation now, eyes wide and ears pressed to her head.

"What use are flowers?" Zinnia asks, tilting her head. "There must be something more to your gift. Flowers cannot be the only thing the gods have given us! Look deeper, find something worth having," the alpha urges.

And Demeter tries, but there is nothing more to be found. She has discovered this amazing part of her but it is not enough.

Demeter returns to her mother for the day, head hung low. As she passes, the grass around her wilts, and the dirt becomes lifeless and brittle, crumbling beneath her paws. Gone are the oranges and yellow and pinks of the flowers before, now only dull browns and greys trail behind her, empty and lifeless as she is now.


That night, she grows a new type of flower; The petals are a soft purple, and pointed at the tips, and smooth black berries grow from it's branches where the flowers won't bloom. Demeter looks at it and she knows she isn't worthless. She is belladonna; beautiful, and deadly when she so chooses.