Without needing to say it, Demeter knew Hestia wanted to take her to the Oracles of Delphi. Built over the mouth of Gaia, the mystical religious capital once possessed rare trees whose whispers were her words to her many children.
But after the Titans' War, everything changed.
Gaia appointed Apollo, the young Olympian god of arts, as her successor. Under his rule, trees dissolved into mist, and prophecies now passed through the mouths of women.
Raised in barren homes, those priestesses only wore rough linen wrapped around their untouched skin. Nothing was taught to them save to repeat a god's words.
Only on his mortal day of birth—the seventh of every month—did Apollo visit his sanctuary. During that time, mortals, nymphs, and even goddesses lined up for prophecy.
Hestia, though, never queued. She slipped in through a door none could see, crafted for her by Apollo himself. He gave her the privilege of an instantaneous consultation with their most famous and first-ever priestess, Pythia.
They had to leave Arion behind. The hidden staircase was too narrow for him to enter. Still, Demeter glanced back, uneasy, before his muzzle pointed forward for her to chase after her destiny.
Drips of water echoed with their every step, creating music within the dense quietness.
Arm lit like a torch, Hestia led the way. "Pythia, the one who will tell your future, may seem illiterate to mortals but to Apollo, she is the reincarnation of Python: the fearless she-dragon who once guarded this temple."
As they arrived, Hestia's flame was extinguished by the divine light ahead.
Apollo. A tall god with short auburn hair of leaves. Bark clothes, rough, thick, and smooth patches of fabric in different shades of green covered him. In some parts, moss kept him warm, while lichens provided a shelter for a myriad of crawling creatures to wander over his chiselled body.
Yet, Apollo was a thinner tree than his sister, Artemis. A shrub cut a long time ago and whom she held on and fed ever since. They shared that same viridescent eyes, plum-rounded lips, and face. Gender seemed only a flicker between them, nor did it make them inseparable, as they were humble, simple deities of wildlife, blind to any wealth.
Standing on his balcony high above, Apollo watched over Pythia's trance, his gaze distant until it met those of Hestia. A smile lifted Apollo's lips as she approached while a blaze kindled within Hestia's eyes.
Something invisible but present bound them together. Demeter wondered if there were more between them than laughter and entwined hands.
Without a word, Hestia turned, cheeks flushed, and pushed Demeter forward to the edge of the balcony. Apollo offered a thin-lipped grin, his stare cast away the moment it landed on Demeter's. She crossed her arms. Neither spoke, their discomfort clear to anyone apart Hestia.
She bounced on her heels, hands clasped beneath her chin. "Pythia is almost done, then it will be your turn, Demeter!" She squealed, grabbing Demeter by the shoulders. "She just predicted the woman will be pregnant soon. After eight years! A soul from the Underworld has finally been granted to be a part of her family."
Demeter blinked. "The Underworld has this kind of power?"
"After judgment, a soul drinks from the Pool of Memory to forget its past life. Then, it bathes in the waters of the Isle of Blessed to be reborn." Apollo answered, his tone was deep and sure, not to be challenged. He downed his cup in a single motion, tossed it behind him, and in that same breath, another appeared in his grasp. He handed it to Demeter with a new smirk. "Ambrosia?"
Demeter took a sip from the cup, lips pressed together, doubtful. The beverage tingled down her throat where a question emerged to her mind.
"I don't understand." She shrugged, setting her cup down. "If you're here in body, why ask diminished women to confer your words?"

Were powerless trees and uneducated women the same to him?

Apollo took another taste of Ambrosia, annoyed, then heaved a sigh. "Too many voices all at once... become noise." Then his head snapped at Demeter.
"And besides," he paused. "They speak with Gaia's breath, not mine. I'm only here to ensure the silence between her words isn't lost."

Was his answer enough to fill Demeter's hungry mind?

Hestia let out an unexpected shriek, then slapped both hands over her mouth. "Pythia was the one who guided me to Zeus," she said between giggles. "She gave me the courage to claim my destiny."
Just as her last syllables echoed, the final supplicant emerged from the shadows below. Tears shimmered on her cheeks, along with a wide beam. One hand hovered over her belly, guarding the child not yet conceived.
Apollo, on his balcony, let out a loud whistle. Pythia lifted her head as he pointed towards Demeter.
Before she could say a word, Hestia shoved her down the first steps of a spiralling staircase. "Go now; she awaits you."
Descending, Demeter finally met Pythia. In front of a gurgling, putrid-smelling blood fountain, only the longevity of their lives separated both women. Without looking up, Pythia bent forward and plunged her face into the crimson water, holding it there with both hands.
Black snakes slithered into the tangle of her hair, coiling around her shoulders until the fountain erupted in flames. Blood turned to steam. Iron and rot clung to the air. The cave pulsed into heat and red light before Pythia rose again. Her irises vanished and her mouth then parted as if something else was breathing through her.
Demeter's chin quivered. For a moment, doubt coursed through her. She glanced back at Hestia, searching for reason. But Hestia only gave a reassuring nod.
Facing Pythia again, Demeter exhaled. "Why did Zeus deny me the right to be a virgin goddess?"
Pythia winced. Her head jerked sharply, and a scarlet stream spilled from her lips before a sound emerged from her throat, not hers, but many at once, hollering through her: "Goddess of Harvest, you are anything but barren. Four children will come from your womb. Two sons, two daughters. Only the firstborn will be the most powerful."
Demeter furrowed her brows, hands clinging on the fountain's edge. "What will set my firstborn apart?"
The blood-inebriated Pythia threw her head backward towards Apollo, seeking permission.
He nodded.
Pythia turned back. "Your child will be blessed with great beauty," she hissed, "but also... two shadows."
The words froze Demeter on the spot.

Two shadows?
No living creature cast more than one.
Helios only shone once.
No one was brighter than him.

She swallowed the enigma but not her hunger for more. "Who is her father?"
This time, Pythia grinned, cryptic, before collapsing, her voice gone, limbs slacked across the stone floor.
Demeter rushed forward through the fire and knelt beside the priestess. "No, don't leave now, tell me!" She slapped her gently, then harder. "Speak! You haven't answered!"
"Demeter, restrain yourself!" Hestia's warning reverberated down the stairs.
Pythia's head fell, lifeless.
Never before had Demeter felt such cold.
To know her future, a soul had been taken to the Underworld.
Pythia never woke up from her final prophecy. The brutal invocation of Gaia had torn too much from her.
While everyone was too busy celebrating the new Chosen One, the vessel now carrying the soul of Python, Demeter slipped away. She went out instead, searching for Pythia's corpse through the night. The trees guided her to the bottom of a pit of mud where an inert body remained alone.
They abandoned Pythia there. Body twisted, eyes still open to the sky, now fixed on Demeter.
Used. Discarded. No funeral rites for Apollo's priestesses.
No one else lamented the soul of a woman so abruptly killed.
Only Demeter.
Her knees buckled beside Pythia and her lips pressed on her forehead.
But that wasn't enough.
With a touch of her hand, Demeter turned an old, sick nearby tree into a grave. She fitted Pythia into its now hollowed trunk. Over her crossed arms, she placed one of Apollo's bronze cups. An empty shell for a woman who no longer had a voice.
Leaning close, Demeter whispered into Pythia's ear: "To Charon, my friend, please take her with you."
Demeter then laid a golden token over Pythia's blue lips before covering the tomb with white lilies, sprigs of sage grown and torn from her flesh.
Demeter then summoned fire.
She stood and watched as the tree ignited. Her eyes never left Pythia, even when the smoke stung her throat. She rooted herself there until it all became ash.
By morning, Arion and Hestia found Demeter asleep in a pile of dust. Hestia woke her, and they mounted Arion.
None saw what had been left behind in the dried ground:        
The golden token, still gleaming, untouched by flame.
Charon still refused Pythia.