Artemis Phoebe The poets call me.
The bringer of light among the darkness. The curer of women's pains of childbirth. The shooter of moonlight among the sleeping mortals and creatures. Nourisher and nurturer of all young maidens. Divine midwife. Protector of women. Silver Lady. Virgin and Maiden. Unattainable Moon princess.
I sighed and ran a hand through my long silky pale-blonde hair falling to my slender waist and gaze at my reflection in my silvery mirror in my vanity embedded with moonstones and pearls—my own sacred gemstones. I was never a vain goddess. I never cared much for my appearance unlike that—oh THAT vermin APHRODITE I spat venomously in my head. Vermin of a goddess who obsesses DAILY over her looks or stealing my nymphs away from me and encouraging lustful, idiotic MEN to pursue them despite my wrath and the doom that awaited them. I did care to look divine and presentable but only for meetings on Olympus or banquets.
Beauty what a fleeting, foolish thing mortals care for that they use mirrors called "vanity tables" to devote themselves to on a daily basis. I rolled my eyes as I brushed my long hair with my favorite silvery comb decorated with pearls. I cared about spreading light among those who cannot see or determine their innermost essence. I care about shining light to the young women lost in a superficial world devoted to only marriage, beauty, and snagging a husband. I will show them the way out of this nightmare of a society they are a part of and unable to break free of.
It was truth, courage, compassion, intuition, and sisterhood that was true beauty in this world. This cold, fruitless world. Yet they call ME cold—gods and mortals alike called me "cold and unfeeling" Artemis. "Far-Distant" Artemis. Men would swoon over me and pine over my unattainability.
Fair Cynthia, fair as the moon.
Just as bright and unattainable.
Just as beautiful as the richest pearl in the cosmos.
Suitors would chant and sing poems and proses wishing for me to descend on them like I descended on Endymion, whispering into THEIR ears when they slept. I rolled my eyes scornfully. DREAM ON. Endymion was my secret. How DARE they try to compare themselves to Endymion?! These pure mortals who slept was only diminutive as the universe they lived in while Endymion was blessed. Did they think the mercy of the gods was so great that their mortality would be taken away and all would be like Endymion?
Again. Beauty—the fruits of the tasteless of silly, vain mortals who desire nothing other than beauty and pleasure and eternal youth that splinters like dewdrops against sands of time. Well they know what they say about those who climbed too high and flew too close to the sun. Or in this case, the moon. Pining for the moon only leads you to insanity, foolish mortal. You'd do well NOT to infuriate ME of all goddesses.
I gaze slightly at my reflection in a pool outside my palace and see a silver, glowing goddess gazing back. A goddess unfazed by lush riches, lust of gods or mortals, heartbreaks of love most of all. A pure white jasmine flower. Not as fragrant or voluptuous as a rose like Aphrodite but a pure white, crystal clear jasmine flower that her own scent-however mild.
She blossoms not under the sun, but in the night where she offers her scents to the lost, oppressed, to the lonely, to the vulnerable and the young. She'd always offer her scents of comfort. I am Phoebe Artemis. I am the moon. I am your shield at night.