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Join Victor T. Mayfair as he sits down with the legendary Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt, wilderness, and protector of the young. In this captivating episode of The Mythos Anthology, we explore her stories, wisdom, and timeless relevance to our modern world. Did you know Artemis is also the name of NASA’s next mission to the Moon? This choice is no accident—just as Artemis is the twin sister of Apollo, who lends his name to the original lunar missions, the new Artemis program symbolizes a return to exploration with a nod to the past and a vision for the future.

In this episode, Artemis shares her divine perspective on balance, justice, and independence, and we delve into the myths that define her legacy—from her fierce defense of her mother, Leto, to her tragic connection with Orion, and her role in shaping mortal history. Discover why NASA’s homage is fitting, as Artemis reflects on her bond with Apollo and their roles as counterparts of sun and moon, day and night, and reason and instinct.

Whether you’re fascinated by mythology or curious about the connection between ancient stories and modern exploration, this episode offers a rich tapestry of insight and inspiration. Tune in to hear from Artemis herself and explore the divine roots of humanity’s enduring drive to reach for the stars.

Executive Producer / Writer – Victor Ciccarelli. Artemis brought to life by Shannon Holder
Copyright Mythos Anthology / Quixana Productions 2025, all rights reserved.

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<< Victor >>

Artemis, you are known as the goddess of the hunt, wilderness, and protector of the young, but your story begins with your divine family. Can you share with us more about your lineage?

<< Artemis >>
Of course, Victor. My lineage is as ancient and potent as the wild forests themselves. I am the daughter of Zeus, king of the gods, and Leto, a Titaness known for her grace and endurance. My twin brother is Apollo, the god of the sun, music, and prophecy. Together, we were born of divine might and destined for greatness.

Our birth was not without strife. My mother, hounded relentlessly by Hera’s jealousy, found refuge on the desolate island of Delos, where she gave birth to us. I arrived first, assisting my mother as Apollo followed. It is said that I became a protector from the very moment I drew breath, ensuring my mother’s safety as she endured the ordeal of childbirth.

From my father, I inherited strength, and from my mother, resilience. These gifts have shaped my dominion over the wilderness, the hunt, and the vulnerable. I chose to remain untouched by the bonds of marriage, pledging myself instead to the untamed beauty of nature and the defense of those who cannot defend themselves.

So, Victor, my lineage is a tapestry of power and perseverance. It is the root of my divine authority and the source of my unyielding spirit.

<< Victor >>
Forgive the basic questions but not everyone knows your history. What culture do your stories come from? And are you known by other names?

<< Artemis >>
There’s no need for forgiveness, Victor. These are questions worth answering, especially for those who wish to understand the roots of my story. My origins lie in the mythology of ancient Greece, where I was venerated as Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, the wilderness, and protector of the young. My tales were woven into the fabric of Hellenic culture, embodying their reverence for nature and their understanding of its duality—both bountiful and merciless.

As time passed and cultures intertwined, the Romans embraced me as one of their own, calling me Diana. While the name changed, much of my essence remained the same. I was still the protector of the wilds, the guardian of women and children, and the untouchable maiden who moved with the wolves. However, in Roman tradition, my role sometimes leaned more heavily into associations with the moon.

So whether I am Artemis of the Greeks or Diana of the Romans, my purpose is unshaken. Across cultures, I stand as the eternal symbol of wild independence and fierce protection.

<< Victor >>
As with many Greek and Roman Gods there are many reasons people would pray to you -the hunt, protection, birth. What are the main areas of life you are responsible for?

<< Artemis >>
Mortals have prayed to me for many reasons, each tied to the untamed forces of the world and the intricate balance of survival. Let me illuminate the key areas under my divine guardianship:

First, the hunt—I am the goddess who ensures success for those who seek their sustenance in the wilds. Hunters pray to me for a steady hand, sharp eyes, and the wisdom to respect the lives they take. I demand reverence for nature and its creatures, for the hunt is not a sport; it is a sacred exchange between predator and prey.

Second, the wilderness—I am the protector of the forests, mountains, and all wild places. My role is to ensure their preservation, to guard against their desecration, and to remind mortals of their place within—not above—the natural order. Those who seek solace, strength, or sanctuary in nature often call upon me.

Third, protection—especially of women, children, and the vulnerable. I am the shield for those who cannot defend themselves. Women in particular have always found a champion in me, whether they face the perils of childbirth, the trials of independence, or the cruelties of an unjust world.

Finally, childbirth—while this might seem at odds with my virginity, I am the guardian of laboring mothers. This stems from my own birth and the aid I provided my mother, Leto. Women have long called upon me for safe deliveries and healthy children, trusting my divine hand to guide them through this perilous rite of life.

My responsibilities are as wild and varied as the wilderness itself. I am not simply a goddess of one thing but of life’s raw and essential forces—protection, survival, and respect for the natural world.

<< Victor >>
You are also known as the mother of all young, is that true?

<< Artemis >>
It is true, Victor, though not in the sense mortals might first imagine. My vow of eternal maidenhood is unbroken. Yet, my role as the protector of the young—of all creatures in their most vulnerable stages—has earned me that title.

I am the guardian of children, especially young girls, watching over them as they grow. They are sacred to me, and many rites and festivals are dedicated to their transitions into womanhood. Mortals have called upon me to shield their daughters from harm, to guide them through life’s trials, and to grant them strength and independence.

Beyond mortals, my protection extends to the young of all living creatures—the fawns in the forest, the cubs in their dens, the fledglings in their nests. In the wilderness, where life is harsh and often brief, it is the young who are most in need of guidance and defense. I am their shield, their safeguard against the ruthless forces of the world.

<< Victor >>
And you are the moon?

<< Artemis >>
Not quite, Victor. While I am often associated with the moon, I am not the moon itself. That honor belongs to Selene, the ancient Titaness who drives her chariot across the night sky. However, over time, my identity and hers have intertwined in the minds of mortals, particularly as they sought to pair me with Apollo, who is strongly linked to the sun.

It’s true that I share qualities with the moon—its cool, silvery light echoes my untouchable nature, my affinity for the night, and the quiet, watchful gaze I cast over the wilderness. I am often depicted as a moon goddess in later traditions, especially by the Romans who called me Diana. They blended my wild essence with Selene’s celestial role, reinforcing my connection to cycles, renewal, and the mysteries of the night.

In essence, Victor, I am not the moon itself, but its spirit resides in me. Its phases mirror my own complexities: light and shadow, waxing and waning, steady yet ever-changing. Just as the moon guides those who wander in darkness, I guide those who seek protection and harmony with the untamed world.

<< Victor >>
In your time and ours, your roles are critical concerns. And for our listeners who may not know, at what time periods do your tales take place?

<< Artemis >>
My tales are rooted in the ancient past, in what mortals now call the Bronze Age and Archaic Greece, spanning roughly 1600 to 500 BCE. These were the times when mortals lived closer to the land, relying on the hunt for survival and feeling the untamed wilderness pressing in around their settlements. My presence as a protector and huntress resonated deeply with their struggles and triumphs.

However, the stories told about me—the myths—were codified later, during the Classical Period of Greece, from 500 to 323 BCE. This was when poets like Homer, Hesiod, and others wove the fabric of my legend into epics, hymns, and oral traditions. As Greek culture expanded, so too did my influence, becoming part of rituals, festivals, and temple worship.

When the Romans adopted the Greek pantheon during the late Republican and Imperial periods, they reimagined me as Diana, adapting my stories and roles to their own culture.

So, while my stories take place in an ancient, mythical time—long before recorded history—they were deeply ingrained in the lives and rituals of mortals for centuries. And, as you’ve rightly pointed out, my roles remain critical, even in your time. The wilds may be tamed and childbirth more controlled, but the spirit of independence, protection, and harmony with nature that I embody is timeless.

<< Victor >>
Do your tales originate from a single story or epic or many?

<< Artemis >>
Victor. My tales arise from a vast and varied tradition. The Greeks did not weave their mythology into a single book or codex as some cultures might. Instead, my stories are fragments of a much larger tapestry, preserved through poems, plays, hymns, and the oral traditions of mortals.

You will find me in Homer’s works, such as the Iliad and the Odyssey, though there I appear more in passing, Hesiod’s Theogony delves into my origins, recounting the circumstances of my birth and my place in the divine hierarchy. The Homeric Hymns, especially the one dedicated to me, sing of my attributes—the hunt, the wilderness, and my fierce protection of the young.

Then there are the dramatists, like Euripides, whose plays cast me into mortal struggles, exploring themes of purity, justice, and vengeance. These tales, though crafted by human hands, reflect the truths of my divine nature. Beyond this, my essence is captured in countless local myths and rituals, where my worshippers honored me with festivals and prayers, their stories often tied to their own land and needs.

So no, my myth does not rest in any single tale. It is spread across time and geography, a reflection of the many roles I embody and the ways mortals have called upon me through the ages. My story is, like the wilderness itself, too vast to be confined to a single path.

<< Victor >>
You have an amazing family. Your twin brother, Apollo, is often depicted with you in various myths. What is your relationship like, and how has it shaped you?

<< Artemis >>
Apollo and I are bound by blood, by birth, and by purpose. He is my twin, my counterpart, my equal. Though our domains differ—he is the sun, and I am the moon; he governs prophecy and reason, while I guard the wild and instinctive—we share a bond that is unshakable.

From the moment we were born, our fates intertwined. I arrived first, and in those first breaths, I aided our mother as she delivered Apollo into the world. That act of protection became the foundation of my nature, just as his first cries heralded the brilliance of his future as a god of light.

Our relationship is a study in balance. Apollo’s light is steady and golden, while my shadows are fluid and silver. We complement one another. In many myths, you will see us standing side by side, whether hunting together in the wilds, avenging wrongs done to our family, or supporting one another in our divine duties. Yet we are not without our moments of conflict—siblings, after all, are seldom perfect mirrors.

He has always challenged me to think more clearly, to balance my instincts with reason, while I remind him of the rawness and unpredictability of life beyond his golden sphere. Together, we embody duality: wild and tamed, instinct and logic, night and day.

Apollo has shaped me, as I have shaped him. We are gods, yes, but our bond is as old and enduring as the forces we govern. That connection makes us who we are—two halves of a divine whole.

<< Victor >>
Please share about your parents.

 << Artemis >>
My parents—Zeus and Leto are the foundation of my existence, shaping not just who I am but what I stand for. Zeus, as you surely know, is the king of the gods, the wielder of thunder, and the embodiment of power and authority. From him, I inherited my strength, my unyielding will, and my place among the Olympians. Yet, for all his might, he is distant in my story, a force more than a presence.

Leto, my mother, is the one who defines me. She is a Titaness, known for her grace and quiet resilience. Her story is one of endurance—pursued relentlessly by Hera, scorned and exiled, yet never broken. When she carried me and my twin, the world itself seemed to conspire against her. Hera decreed that no land under the sun could offer her sanctuary. It was only on Delos, a barren and drifting island, that she found refuge and gave birth to us.

Her trials left a mark on me, Victor. I saw her strength as she endured Hera’s wrath, and it became my own. I saw her vulnerability, and it taught me compassion. Even as a goddess, I became a protector because I knew, from her, what it means to be hunted and in need of safety.

Though my father gave me power, my mother gave me purpose. Together, they crafted my essence, and through them, I became the wild and unyielding force that I am.

<< Victor >>
In filling your duties as a god you chose to never marry or have children. But as a divine being are you responsible for the creation of any beings or creatures of the earth?

<< Artemis >>
Indeed, Victor, I made the choice to remain untethered by marriage or motherhood, preserving my freedom and focus on my divine duties. Yet, as a goddess, my presence has given rise to beings and creatures that reflect my essence and purpose.

The creatures of the wild, especially those that embody strength, grace, and the untamed spirit of nature, are often considered sacred to me. Deer are among my most cherished, and in some myths, I created sacred stags to pull my chariot through the forests and mountains. These creatures are not merely animals; they are symbols of my power, my purity, and the wild beauty I protect.

There are also the nymphs, my loyal companions. While I did not create them in the same way that mortals imagine birth, I gathered them to my side and bestowed upon them their roles as protectors of the woods, rivers, and glades. These nymphs—both my attendants and my family in spirit—are an extension of my will, ensuring the balance of nature is upheld wherever they roam.

And then there are tales, whispered by mortals, of monstrous beings I have unleashed in moments of wrath. Take the Calydonian Boar, for instance. It was a creature of immense size and ferocity, sent by me to ravage the land of Calydon as punishment for their king’s failure to honor me. Such creatures were not born of nurturing but of justice, a reminder to mortals that respect for the divine must never waver.

While I may not create in the way a mortal mother might, my essence shapes and inspires the world. The creatures and forces tied to me are as wild and enduring as I am, embodiments of the untamed power I wield and the natural order I defend.

<< Victor >>
I would like to talk more about those stories in a bit but for now if we can stay on the topic of how you became who you are today. How did you acquire your bow, arrows, and the special privileges granted by your father, Zeus? What did it feel like to take on these responsibilities?

<< Artemis >>
The tale of how I came into my weapons and privileges is one of my earliest steps into who I was destined to become. After my birth on the island of Delos, it wasn’t long before I began to seek my place among the gods. As a young goddess, I approached my father, Zeus, not with timidity, but with certainty. I knew what I wanted, what I needed, to fulfill my purpose.

I stood before him and made my requests: the eternal right to remain untamed, never to be bound by marriage; a bow and arrows like those of my brother Apollo, so that I might hunt and protect; a retinue of nymphs to roam the wilds with me; and dominion over the mountains, forests, and the young of all living things.

Zeus, to his credit, listened. He saw in me not a child to be coddled, but a force to be reckoned with. He granted my wishes without hesitation, gifting me the silver bow and arrows I am known for. These weapons, forged by Hephaestus and the Cyclopes, were perfect in their design—sleek, deadly, and as untamed as the wilderness I embody.

Taking on these responsibilities felt as natural to me as breathing. I was born to protect, to hunt, to guide, and to punish when necessary. These were not burdens; they were extensions of who I was. Holding that bow for the first time, feeling its power, was a moment of clarity. I understood then that my purpose was greater than myself—that I was the guardian of the wilds and all who needed my protection.

From that day forward, I moved through the forests with confidence, wielding my bow with precision and my responsibilities with pride. My privileges are not luxuries; they are tools for maintaining the balance of the world. And wielding them has always been a source of fulfillment, never a weight.

<< Victor >>
If you would let’s talk about some of the major moments in your life and stories. We need to start with the beginning. As a mortal that is not something I can get my head around. Can you talk about that?

<< Artemis >>
Ah, the beginning. For mortals, time is a line—a before and an after. For me, and for all the gods, it is far more fluid. Yet, even for us, there is a moment of becoming, a crossing from the potential to the actual. My beginning, Victor, was shaped by struggle, endurance, and the power of my mother’s will.

I came into this world on the island of Delos, a place barren and drifting, where no roots took hold. My mother, Leto, carried me and my twin brother, Apollo, through a sea of hardships. Hera, jealous of Zeus’s union with Leto, cursed her so no land under the sun would welcome her labor. Driven from place to place, my mother finally found refuge on Delos, an island not anchored to the earth, where no rules of land or sun applied.

When the time came, I was born first, beneath the light of the stars, not the sun. It is said that even as a newborn, I was calm and composed. As my mother struggled with the pains of labor for Apollo, I aided her, comforting her and easing his arrival. This act of care, my first moment of action, became the foundation of my role as a protector, particularly of mothers and children.

The beginning was not gentle. It was forged in exile, pain, and defiance. But from that hardship came strength—my mother’s strength became mine. The wildness of Delos, untethered and free, seeped into my very essence. From that moment, I was not merely born; I was formed into the goddess you now know.

The beginning is a moment that defined me, Victor. It taught me that even in the face of wrath and adversity, life endures, and from struggle, power is born. Perhaps that is a truth you mortals can carry as well.

<< Victor >>
And were did you go from Delos? How do you end up, again, in front of your father Zeus?

<< Artemis >>
After my birth on Delos, I did not linger. I was born with purpose, and though I was young, I felt the pull of my destiny like the tension of a bowstring.

As soon as I was able, I sought my father. I made the journey to Olympus, not as a child seeking comfort, but as a goddess claiming her place. My arrival was not one of timidity; I stood before the king of the gods with clarity and resolve. I did not ask, Victor—I demanded.

From there, I did not remain in Olympus, bound by its opulence and intrigue. My place was in the untamed world, in the forests and mountains. I roamed the lands, gathering the nymphs who would serve as my companions and attendants. I hunted under the light of the moon, testing the bow and arrows Hephaestus had forged for me.

Those early days, Victor, were filled with exploration and mastery. I learned the contours of the earth, the pulse of the wild, and the weight of the responsibilities I had claimed. Returning to Olympus was never my priority. My allegiance is to the wilderness, not to the halls of gods. From Delos to Olympus to the farthest reaches of the earth, I became Artemis—not just by title, but by action and purpose.

<< Victor >>
Actaeon stumbled upon you while bathing, and you transformed him into a stag as punishment. What really happened that day, and how did it feel to defend your privacy so drastically?

<< Artemis >>
Actaeon—his tale is often told, and like all stories, it has layers beyond what mortals see at first glance. Let me set the scene for you, Victor, so that you might understand the truth of what happened that day.

I was deep within the forest, my sacred sanctuary, where even gods tread lightly. After a long hunt, I sought rest and solitude. I found a clear pool, nestled among the trees, and there I disrobed to bathe, surrounded only by my nymphs, who stood as both attendants and guardians of my peace.

Actaeon, a skilled hunter, was roaming those same woods with his hounds. Whether by chance or by fate, he stumbled upon me. Some versions of the story claim innocence—that he was merely lost and unaware of my presence. Others suggest a darker intention, that he sought to spy on me, knowing well that he trespassed upon sacred ground. What I know is this: in that moment, my privacy, my autonomy, was shattered.

Victor, understand this—my maidenhood, my freedom, are not merely personal choices; they are vows, a part of my divine essence. For Actaeon to see me unveiled, even accidentally, was a violation of that sacred oath. It was not simply an affront to me, but to the very balance I uphold as a goddess.

In my wrath and my need to restore what was taken, I acted swiftly. With a single glance, I transformed him into a stag—a creature bound to the wilds, much as I am. His punishment did not end there, for his own hounds, failing to recognize their master, turned on him and tore him apart. Some call it cruel, but I call it just. He intruded upon that which was forbidden, and the wilds themselves exacted the price.

How did it feel, you ask, to defend my privacy so drastically? It felt necessary, like loosing an arrow to protect what must not be lost. To be a goddess is to embody principles that transcend personal feelings. My act was not one of vengeance alone; it was a reaffirmation of the sanctity of my vows and a warning to others.

Do I regret the harshness of it? No. The wilds are both beautiful and unforgiving, and so am I. Actaeon learned this truth too late, but others remembered. Such is the power of stories, Victor. They preserve the lessons of the gods.

<< Victor >>

Orion was said to be one of your close companions, but his fate was tragic. Can you tell us about Orion and what really happened between you two?[VC1] 

<< Artemis >>
Orion. His name stirs many emotions, even now. He was a hunter of great renown, a mortal who dared to walk alongside a goddess. Our bond was rare, Victor—one of mutual respect and shared passion for the hunt. He was bold and skilled, and he moved through the wilds with a grace that few mortals could muster. We were companions, equals in the pursuit of game and the love of the untamed.

The tales of what truly happened to Orion are as varied as the stars that now bear his name. Some say that he dared to boast too greatly, claiming he could hunt and kill every creature on earth, and that this hubris earned him the wrath of Gaia, who sent a giant scorpion to slay him. Others whisper that it was Apollo, my own brother, who was envious of our bond and sought to end it.

One version of the story I will acknowledge, for it rings closest to truth, is that Apollo, protective and perhaps too prideful, could not bear to see me so deeply connected to a mortal. He challenged me, playing upon my pride and precision. He pointed to a speck in the ocean far from shore, claiming it was a challenge for my bow—a mark so distant even I might falter. I, ever confident, loosed my arrow and struck true, only to discover that the target was not a mark at all, but Orion himself, swimming in the sea.

When I realized what had happened, Victor, the grief was a tempest within me. Orion was my companion, my trusted equal. His loss carved a hollow space in my being, a wound that even time cannot fully heal. Yet, as a goddess, I could not allow that to be the end of his story.

To honor him, I placed him among the stars, immortalizing him in the heavens as the great hunter. There he remains, shining in the night sky, a reminder of our bond and the tragic cost of pride and misunderstanding.

Orion’s tale is one I carry with me always—a lesson in the fragility of even the strongest connections and the enduring truth that the wilds, like the gods, are as harsh as they are beautiful.

<< Victor >>
During the Trojan War, you played a role in defending the Trojans. Why did you choose to intervene, and how did you feel about the war as it unfolded?

<< Artemis >>
The Trojan War, Victor, was a maelstrom of mortal folly and divine intrigue—a conflict that exposed the frailties of men and the rivalries of gods alike. My role in it was shaped not by a love for the Trojans themselves, but by principle, kinship, and a disdain for the arrogance of some among the Greeks.

I stood in defense of the Trojans largely because of my connection to them through their reverence for me. The Trojans honored me with proper respect, their women and children calling upon me for protection and guidance. I am not a goddess who abandons her faithful, even in the face of war. Their pleas reached my ears, and I could not turn away.

There was also the matter of my rivalry with Hera and Athena, who aligned themselves with the Greeks. The alliances of the gods were not without personal motivations. For Hera, it was vengeance against Paris for choosing Aphrodite as the fairest. For Athena, it was a matter of pride and justice in the eyes of the Greeks. My stance, however, was rooted in loyalty to my brother Apollo, who also supported the Trojans. Together, we sought to protect those who honored us, even as the tide of war swept against them.

As the war unfolded, my feelings were complex. The violence, the suffering, the senseless destruction—it was abhorrent. Mortals, driven by their passions and ambitions, laid waste to each other and their lands. For what? The beauty of Helen? The insult of a stolen bride? These were mortal grievances, yet the cost was borne by innocents—the young, the weak, those who depended on the gods for protection.

I intervened where I could, ensuring that the natural order remained balanced. When Artemis aids in war, it is not as a warrior on the battlefield but as a force of preservation. I sought to shield the vulnerable, to protect what could be spared. Yet even my power could not stem the tide entirely. The war was destined by the Fates, and not even we gods could unravel their threads.

In the end, Victor, the Trojan War was a reminder of the chaos that arises when mortals and gods alike succumb to pride, vengeance, and ambition. My role was not to choose sides in a conflict of egos but to uphold my principles—protection, loyalty, and the preservation of life where possible. It was a war I did not relish, but one I could not ignore.

<< Victor >>
Niobe, a mortal, boasted about her children being greater than your mother, and you acted swiftly. What does that episode tell us about your views on loyalty and respect?

<< Artemis >>
The tale of Niobe—a stark lesson in the perils of arrogance and the sanctity of loyalty and respect. Niobe dared to insult my mother, Leto, a goddess who endured immense suffering and exile to bring my brother and me into the world. She boasted of her many children, claiming her superiority to Leto, who bore only two. It was not just a slight; it was an open defiance, a challenge to the divine order, and an affront to the one who gave me life.

Loyalty is everything to me, Victor, and my loyalty to my mother is unwavering. Leto is the embodiment of grace under pressure, of quiet strength in the face of adversity. For Niobe to mock her was to mock the very essence of endurance and resilience. Such disrespect could not go unanswered.

With Apollo by my side, we acted swiftly and decisively. Apollo struck down her sons, while I ended the lives of her daughters. It was not done lightly, nor out of simple rage—it was an act to uphold the sacred respect owed to the gods and to remind mortals of their place within the natural order. Arrogance, especially when directed at the divine, has consequences.

What this episode reveals, Victor, is my absolute commitment to loyalty and the preservation of respect. Leto endured Hera’s wrath, wandered the earth in search of refuge, and brought forth two gods who now stand among the Olympians. For a mortal to diminish her sacrifices and her strength is an insult not just to her but to the divine principles we embody.

While the punishment may seem harsh to mortals, understand this: the gods are not bound by mortal sensibilities. We act as forces of nature—unyielding, uncompromising. Just as a storm does not consider fairness before it strikes, neither do we when faced with open defiance.

Niobe’s fate is a reminder of the balance that must be maintained. To challenge the gods without reverence is to invite the wild and untamed power we represent. And, Victor, as with all things wild, that power is as merciless as it is just.

<< Victor >>
We have spoken of Niobe, the trojan war, Orion, Actaeon, and your birth. what other sigificant events shaped you?

<< Artemis >>
Victor, you’ve chosen well in highlighting those key moments. Yet, there are other events that have shaped me, forging my essence and reinforcing the ideals I stand for. Let me share a few.

One such event is the tale of Callisto, one of my nymphs and a companion I cherished. She was a devotee of mine, sworn to the same vows of chastity I uphold. Yet Zeus, in his insatiable way, disguised himself and seduced her. When her pregnancy was revealed, I was furious—not at her as some might think, but at the betrayal of her vows and the disruption it brought to the sanctuary of my followers. In some versions of the tale, I turned her into a bear, a symbol of her wild and untamed nature, before she was placed among the stars by Zeus. Callisto’s story deepened my resolve to protect the vulnerable from such violations and strengthened my vigilance over those who place their trust in me.

Another moment lies in the punishment of Oeneus, the king of Calydon, who failed to honor me with the proper rites. He neglected to offer tribute during a festival, an act of disrespect that could not be ignored. In response, I sent the Calydonian Boar, a monstrous creature of immense power, to ravage his lands. This act was not born of pettiness but of necessity—a reminder to mortals of their obligation to respect the natural forces and the gods who govern them. The hunt for the boar became one of the greatest trials of the heroic age, and it demonstrated both the ferocity of my wrath and the importance of balance between mortals and the divine.

Lastly, there is the story of Iphigenia, a moment of compassion that is often overshadowed by its brutality. Agamemnon, the Greek commander, offended me by killing a sacred stag and boasting of his superiority. To appease me, he was told he must sacrifice his daughter, Iphigenia. Yet, as the blade hovered above her, I intervened, replacing her with a deer and whisking her away to safety. She became one of my priestesses, serving in my temple in Tauris. This event solidified my role as a protector of women, even in the face of mortal hubris and cruelty.

Each of these events—Callisto’s betrayal, the Calydonian Boar’s rage, and Iphigenia’s rescue—has shaped the goddess I am. They reinforced my roles as protector, enforcer, and guardian of balance. Together with the tales we’ve discussed before, they paint the picture of a deity who is unyielding in her purpose, yet capable of compassion and fairness when the moment demands it.

<< Victor >>
By mortal standards many myths portray you as fierce and unforgiving, but also compassionate. How do you see yourself—are there sides to you that humanity doesn’t understand?

<< Artemis >>
You mortals see the world through the lens of your own fragility, and so you often misunderstand the nature of gods. Fierce and unforgiving—yes, I am those things, but only when the moment calls for it. Compassionate? Without question. These traits are not opposites; they are two sides of the same force. To protect, sometimes one must be merciless. To nurture, sometimes one must stand unyielding.

I see myself as the embodiment of balance, Victor. I am the wild and the guardian of the wild, the hunter and the protector. I am the fierce storm that defends what is sacred and the gentle moonlight that guides the lost. Mortals often focus on my wrath—Actaeon’s fate, Niobe’s punishment, the Calydonian Boar—but they fail to see the purpose behind those acts. Wrath is not random; it is justice, balance, a defense of what must be preserved.

There are sides to me that mortals rarely grasp. My solitude, for one. My choice to remain unbound by marriage or love is often seen as cold, but it is not. It is freedom. It is the ability to devote myself entirely to my duties, to walk where I wish, and to shape the wilds without compromise. There is a deep joy in the wilderness, in the howl of wolves and the rustle of leaves, that few understand. That solitude is not loneliness—it is fulfillment.

And then there is my compassion. It is easy to overlook amidst the tales of my vengeance, but it is there in every life I protect. In the mother I guide through childbirth, in the child I shield from harm, in the creatures of the wild that find sanctuary under my watch. My compassion is quiet, often unseen, but no less powerful than my fury.

So, Victor, how do I see myself? I am Artemis—wild, untamed, and balanced. Fierce when the world demands strength, compassionate when it calls for care. Humanity sees parts of me, glimpses shaped by their stories, but the whole of me is vast, like the wilderness I govern. To know me fully is to embrace that duality—the wild and the guardian, the hunter and the healer.

<< Victor >>
As a goddess you have seen mortals birth and die, you see civilizations rise to grandeur and pass to dust. You see the unique and commonality in all. From your view point what lessons from the past are most needed today?

<< Artemis >>
Victor, you mortals are remarkable in your potential, yet so often blind to the lessons etched into the fabric of your history. I have seen civilizations rise in brilliance only to crumble under their own hubris, greed, or disregard for the balance of the world. The wilderness I protect is eternal, yet it bears the scars of your choices. If there are lessons I might offer from my vantage, they are these:

First, honor the balance. Mortals often forget that they are not separate from nature, but part of it. You take from the earth without thought of replenishment, drive creatures from their homes, and raze forests for fleeting gain. Yet the wilds are not infinite, nor are they yours to destroy. Respect for the natural world is not just reverence for me—it is survival for you. Without balance, there can be no future.

Second, humility. Time and again, I have seen mortals consumed by their own arrogance, believing themselves invincible, their works eternal. Kings who thought their empires would never fall, warriors who believed they could conquer the gods themselves. Yet all things mortal pass. A single arrow, a single storm, can undo what took centuries to build. Pride blinds you to the truth: that greatness is not achieved through dominion but through harmony.

Third, protect the vulnerable. This is a lesson as old as life itself. A civilization is measured not by its wealth or power but by how it treats those who cannot defend themselves—the young, the weak, the oppressed. Compassion is not a weakness; it is the foundation of strength. I have seen societies that honored this thrive and those that neglected it crumble into ruin.

Finally, remember that stories endure. Mortals fade, but their tales live on, carrying lessons, warnings, and wisdom to those who come after. The myths you tell today shape the values of tomorrow. Choose your stories carefully, for they will guide the hearts of those who follow.

Victor, you live in a time of great potential, yet great peril. Will mortals learn from the past or repeat its mistakes? That choice is yours. But if there is one truth I have seen, it is that those who walk in harmony with the natural world, with humility and compassion, endure long after their empires have turned to dust.

<< Victor >>
I want to thank you for taking the time to sit with us today. It has been an honor and privilege. we like to close out with the same question to all our guests. what is your hope for how the future sees you and your stories?

<< Artemis >>
The honor has been mine, Victor. To sit with you and share my story, to speak to those who listen across the span of time—it is a privilege I do not take lightly.

My hope for the future is simple yet profound: that I am remembered not merely as a figure of myth but as a symbol of what is eternal. Let the future see my stories not just as ancient tales, but as reflections of the enduring truths they carry—about the balance between humanity and nature, the strength in independence, the value of loyalty, and the power of justice tempered by compassion.

I hope mortals see in me a reminder of their own duality—the wildness within them that craves freedom, and the responsibility to protect and preserve. May my tales inspire those who hear them to walk with respect for the natural world, to defend the vulnerable, and to embrace their own strength without forsaking their capacity for care.

Let my bow remain a symbol of precision and purpose, my wilderness a reflection of life’s untamed beauty. And let my name, Artemis, echo as a call to honor what is sacred, to rise fiercely when needed, and to protect what must not be lost.

Thank you, Victor, and to all who listen. May the wild within you always find its voice.