Artemis – The Carving Witch

shanastoryteller:

Artemis is born first. She’s a babe for only moments, springing into gangly-limbed childhood between one breath and the next.

Her mother is red
faced and sobbing, prostrate on the ground and reaching for her. “He’s
too big,” she sobs, “He won’t come out – I’ve failed! Hera has won and I
have failed!”

There’s blood, too
much blood, blood that she herself is still slick with. “No,” she says
firmly, kneeling in between her mother’s legs, “We have not failed.”

It takes too long, too much blood and screaming, but hours later Leto sleeps, exhausted and pained but alive.

Her brother does not
grow as she did, and she cleans him and swaddles him and hold him
against her chest. There is too much intelligence for a freshly
born-babe in his eyes. She pets the soft golden curls on top of his
head.

She looks to Leto,
bloody and torn and nearly forced to die with her son inside of her, and
decides that her mother’s fate will never be her own.

The only man she’ll ever love is the one currently in her arms.

~

Apollo grows, faster
than he should but slower than her until they match, until they are
not-quite adults, beautiful adolescents in a godly package.

Her brother worries her; sometimes he reminds her too much of their father and she fears for him. She’s never afraid of
him, her golden twin brother, but in that regard she thinks she may be
alone. He’s too smart and not careful and feels as if every beautiful
thing is his to possess.

The first time he
forces himself on a mortal woman, she shoots a silver arrow through his
shoulder. It bleeds, an arrow shot by her, more than it would if any
other goddess had done it. “They are mine,” she declares, standing in
front of the scared girl with her torn clothes, “You will not touch what
is mine.”

Apollo says,

“Very well, sister,” slick with blood, and she wants to go to him, to heal him
and take care of him as she has their whole lives, but she stands her
ground. In this she will not be moved.

He leaves, and when she turns to comfort the girl she’s already gone.

~

Her brother doesn’t
touch any other unwilling women after that, although there are still
plenty of willing women. And why shouldn’t there be? Apollo is gorgeous
and strong, brave and just when he forgets to be selfish and petty.

There are men,
however, whom are not always so willing. Nothing so harsh as that first
time with that girl, nothing that dramatic – but enough that it pains
her to see the callous way her brother treats them. Artemis stays silent
on that. She is not the patron god of all of humanity, and she can’t
hoard them all.

Her brother is a
warrior and a poet and harnesses his chariot to the sun so that he may
bring light to all the world. She loves him, but sometimes – sometimes
she hates him. She is a huntress and a midwife, a bringer of life and a
taker of it, and there is something terrible in her power. She thinks
this is what Persephone must feel like, as the goddess of spring and
queen of the underworld. It’s intoxicating. But it is a quiet sort of
power, a harder one.

He is the sun and
she is the moon, and there are times she fears that is all she is – a
reflection of her younger brother’s brightness, cursed to be nothing
more than a poor imitation.

~

She’s fully grown the first time it happens, older than many cities and twice as beautiful as her brother’s sunrises.

She’s sweat soaked
and blood covered, but the mother and her sons sleep soundly and safely
after the difficult birth. If she were to tell the other gods this they
would not believe her, but being the goddess of childbirth is her
hardest job by far.

“Come,” the sister of the mother says, a pretty young thing with large eyes and a wide mouth, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Artemis could clean
herself up just fine, but allows the young woman to lead her to her
room, to remove her blood stained clothes and run a warm cloth over
limbs that are sticky with dried sweat. The woman goes to her knees
before Artemis, running the cloth over her legs, and then the woman
touches a place no one has ever touched.

Artemis jerks with
surprise, looking down, her mouth agape. “My lady goddess,” the woman
murmurs, parting her wide mouth and licking her lips, “I would thank you
for aiding my sister, if you be willing.”

There’s a low
curling heat in the pit of her stomach and something fluttering high in
her chest. It’s something she hasn’t experienced before. “I am to remain
a virgin,” she says, blank, because many men have looked at her like
this woman and she was revolted by all of them. She’s not revolted now.

“Virginity is a
man’s invention and a man’s concern, my lady,” the woman says
dismissively, beginning to move her hands in way that makes Artemis
flush all over, “There are no men here.”

That’s the last bit of talking they do until morning.

~

Artemis has many
more eager women coming to her, offering to worship her. She accepts,
again and again, and there’s never anything more than temporary sparks
of desire, yet she enjoys all the women who seek her out, is delighted
by them and seeks to delight them in return.

She is bathing in a
lake one evening, golden hair having grown longer than she usually keeps
it and brushing past her shoulders. She’ll have to cut it soon. She
ducks beneath the serene, smooth lake, and when she pops her head up
there’s the sound of rustling and footsteps, then clothing being shed.

There’s a man dipping his toes into the lake, and Artemis rises, ready to kill him for his insolence.

Then she meets his
scared eyes, and she’s done nothing to provoke his fear, not yet. Then
she has to look again, eyes raking over his naked body, and this person
certainly looks like a man. Yet –

“Who are you?” she demands, hands on her hips.

“Sipriotes, miss,”
the person says, and bends to pick up the discarded clothes. “Apologies,
I did not expect anyone to be here. I’ll go.”

“Why?” Artemis asks, taking a guess, “There’s plenty of water for two women to share.”

She knows she’s
guessed right when Sipriotes’s mouth parts in surprise, and then widens
in a pleased grin. “Thank you, lady,” she says, dropping her dress back
at the lake’s edge and stepping into the water.

“Your hair is a mess,” she observes, looking at the tangled bun on top of Sipriotes’s head, “Let me help you with that.”

“It’s okay, miss,” she says politely.

Somehow this woman
hasn’t figured out she’s a goddess yet. Artemis is in no rush to tell
her – she’s scared enough of her as it is. “I insist,” she says,
swimming over and twisting Sipriotes around so her back is to Artemis.
The woman’s muscles are tense, and Artemis runs light fingers over the
pale, criss crossed lashing scares. Artemis is smart, so she doesn’t
ask the obvious, stupid question and undoes the woman’s bun. Her tangled long
black hair tumbles down to her hips. “What a mess,” she says quietly,
not explaining whether she talking about her hair or her back.

Sipriotes relaxes, tilting her head forward as Artemis gently untangles her hair until it lies smooth.

~

Artemis tries, but
she can’t get the woman from the lake out of her head. She lives alone
at the edge of the village, doesn’t bathe with the other women because
they don’t welcome her. They don’t shun her, but they don’t wash her
hair or her back and it makes Artemis’s blood boil.

She expects better from those she has claimed as her own.

The sun’s just
setting when her brother appears at her side, watching her watch
Sipriotes gather water from the well. “He’s not your usual type, is he?”
he asks, leaning against her and tangling his fingers in hers.

“Yes,” Artemis says, “she is.”

~

For the first time in her life Artemis feels uncertain, but kicks at the door anyway.

It opens. The wariness on Sipriotes’s face is replaced by confusion. “Hi,” Artemis says, “Do you like bear?”

The creature is
slung over her shoulders. She’d just killed it, and it occurs to her too
late that a normal woman wouldn’t be able to casually hold a bear
across her back. “I like you,” Sipriotes says, stepping aside to let her in, “you can bring the bear if you like.”

She offers Artemis
warm wine and insists she sit as she skins the bear, sticking chunks of
it on a spit and salting the rest of it. This time she keeps up a steady
stream of conversation, eyes warm and smile soft, and Artemis wishes
she could blame the wine for the heat on her cheeks.

“I like your shoulders,” Artemis says, watching her finish up preparing the bear meat.

Sipriotes pauses and
turns to Artemis, eyebrow raised. Her dress is stained red with the
bear’s blood and her silky black hair is braided to the side. Artemis
wants to run her fingers through it. “You do?”

She stands, moves
slowly in case this isn’t what Sipriotes wants, and presses her hands to
her back the same way she had in the lake. “Yes, they’re broad. Strong.
Like mine.”

Sipriotes turns, and
Artemis trails her hands from her shoulders to her face, pressing her
thumb against Sipriotes’s bottom lip. “The bear will burn,” she says,
eyes dark.

“I’ll bring you
another one,” Artemis says, walking her backward until they reach the
bed, until Sipriotes’s knees hit the edge of it and she falls back,
until Artemis can climb on top of her and straddle her waist.

Sipriotes holds up a
hand, and Artemis captures it in her own and turns it so she can leave a
butterfly kiss on each knuckle. “I know who you are, Artemis,” she
whispers, “Are you – are you sure? No man can touch you.”

Artemis leans down, pressing more kisses across Sipriotes’s collar bone, and says, “There are no men here.”

That’s the last bit of talking they do until morning.

gods and monsters series, part v