Artemis – Cracks in the Vow
The Hunt was restless. Her maidens whispered, sensing their goddess distracted. Wolves growled at shadows that did not exist. Artemis moved with them, bow in hand, but her mind wandered elsewhere.
When she shot, she missed—an arrow veering wide, something that had not happened in centuries. She told herself it was the wind, the shifting of branches. But she could still feel the warmth of a hand brushing her wrist, the steadiness of a voice whispering, Life is worth more than victory.
At night she climbed to the highest branch, moonlight wrapping her in silver. She stared at the sky and tried to remind herself: she was vow, she was chastity, she was untouched. Yet her chest ached like a wound unhealed.
Her Huntresses saw the change. Some grew worried. Others suspicious. One dared to ask, "My Lady, what troubles you?"
Artemis dismissed her with a glare. But when she was alone again, she touched the place on her wrist where time itself had once stopped—and whispered into the night, "Why him?"
Athena – The Silence Between Words
Scrolls piled high. Lamps burned late. She told herself she worked harder now because mortals needed her wisdom more than ever. Yet when her quill scratched parchment, she kept hearing another voice: calm, patient, neither challenging nor yielding.
When she argued with her philosophers, they seemed shallow. Their questions predictable, their answers brittle. She found herself cutting them short, dismissing them with impatience.
One evening, in her olive grove, her owl perched on her shoulder and hooted softly. Athena glanced at it. "You sense it too," she murmured.
The owl blinked. Athena sighed. She had always prided herself on clarity, on reason. But no theorem explained why silence with him felt more satisfying than a thousand victories in debate.
She dreamed again—of the olive tree, of starlight, of a hand reaching across marble. She woke with the taste of wine on her tongue though she had not drunk. For the first time in an age, Athena admitted fear. Not of war. Not of defeat. But of longing.
Artemis and Athena – Parallel Ache
Neither goddess spoke of it aloud. But their temples grew heavy with tension. Artemis' Hunt carried her through endless forests, yet her eyes always sought a shadow beside her. Athena's city glittered with wisdom, yet every argument felt hollow without the quiet counterweight of his voice.
Each told herself it was weakness. Each vowed to resist.
And yet… in the stillest moments, under moonlight or starlight, they both whispered the same thought into the silence:
Time does not bend for gods. Why, then, does he bend for me?