The Testimony of Asterion
Possibly you have not heard of me, or my fame may have spread through the ages to give a distorted and disfigured account of my actions. I do not write well, and the darkness does not help me in this, but I find that it dispels, to a small degree, the darkness in my heart. My quill scratches shapes upon this leather that I would rather scratch into the walls.
The rooms of the labyrinth squeak with beeswax and feminine care, but not so down here. I have witnessed the terrors of the light. From a low window I have seen a man butchered for fighting only in a way that is uncustomary. And my own body burns on a pyre - no, I must not lie. But you may think it understandable that the greatest concern of the keepers is that a Herculean creature retains his self-control; that he will serve his mistresses uncomplainingly and can be trusted to adhere to custom. They are becoming frightened of me.
And with good reason. Many generations ago, travellers returned from the far north with tales of Centaurs, savage men with the swift feet of horses. It was perceived that a great threat hung over the civilised world. To match this threat, a race was founded, to breed a man to match this horseman. A race to make a thoroughbred man; a man who would be the glory of Hera. Such was the confidence of those who bred cattle and sheep. They have made me, and now the threat comes from within.
When the girl stood in front of the shrine of Potnia at midsummer and my madness overtook me, a madness that forces me even to kill my own children (my own - ha! - not my own!) her face was so expressionless that I thought she was preparing to sing. And as I approached her with the mistletoe, she turned to me and smiled. But her eyes revealed her terror. And as I thrust the mistletoe spike into her heart, she made no sound; and then...
It is I who scream for her now.
In the darkness I can forget what I am, but in the light...