All that I loved is dead.

 

My island? Turned to ash, entombing buildings and people alike.

 

My family? My mother's wisdom was long forgotten, my brother is remembered as a monster, I myself a lovestruck fool.

 

My world? No one remembers my culture, no one can read what I wrote, no one can understand our art and our souls barren in it.

 

Even our deathless gods are shadows, living only as whispers within the Olympians.

 

Mine was a great culture, where wisdom and passion held such a sway that there was no war.

 

Mothers were the highest authority, poverty did not exist and all were free to dance and to sing and to love as they saw fit. Our murderers would call us decadent, but in the end our values were restored, and yet none credits us.

 

For endless history we rot.

 

It was a volcano that burned and starved us, but it was the Greeks who killed us. Our priestesses were replaced by cruel kings, our freedom was overturned by crushing tyranny.

 

Our wise gods were reimagined as cruel despots, and our nation became remembered as ever-prideful Atlantis.

 

What they didn't take they tainted, and we became the anthesis of the so called enlightened, pious western world.

 

Even the dignity of my family was taken from me.

 

I am not Theseus' infatuated pet. My brother, so named after the stars, was no monster, and my mother was the sun. My story is a small thread, but one I am weaving once more, and soon you will remember a great goddess.

 

The world is ever shifting, but tyrants are no longer accepted and for that justice was brought back to my beloved land of palaces and mazes.

 

If only the youths turned away from Hades fanficion to learn about me...