The Labyrinth of Aegean

[the_wolfs_howl]

Author’s Note: This is a work-in-progress; basically I just had to get my thoughts written down on the culture and setting of the story. When/if I get around to writing the actual story, the culture will be explained by showing, not telling. The Labyrinth of Aegean was inspired by reading the tales of Daedalus and Icarus and The Minotaur for English class. Also, in an abstract way I'll never be able to explain, it was inspired by: the video game Shadow of the Colossus, Ursula K. LeGuin's book The Tombs of Atuan, and C.S. Lewis' book Till We Have Faces. Enjoy.

A girl born on the isle of Aegean was born into a sad future. Boys had their freedom, but we girls – we were the slaves. The high priest would often say that “females were a necessary abomination upon our people, and he looked forward with great eagerness for the day when that need could be eliminated altogether.â€

[the_wolfs_howl]

Yet I must continue, for I cannot even begin the whole of my tale without first explaining what would happen to us girls when we came of age. Unlike boys, when all the girls in the temple born in the same year came of age, the high priest would decide our fate. It involved some complicated sort of drawing of lots and numbering system. Only the high priest understood it all, so we were always surprised to hear what was to become of us. To my understanding, half of the girls were chosen to be mothers, selected by the young men to ensure the future of our people; half were chosen as various types of priestess.

Those chosen to be mothers probably had the best of it. They had to marry the man that chose them, and they were required to continuously give birth until they no longer could. Every female child born to them (and there have always been more Aegean women than men) was to be given to the temple, but they could keep their sons. They could pamper them and give them as much freedom and happiness as they could so the child could know something of joy before he was enslaved once more. And while the mothers were only considered fruitful if they were with child every three years or so, while they had to endure the pain of childbirth over and over again and give up their daughters again and again and again, they were given their own small amount of freedom as well. Their husbands could do what they wished with them when they came home from work, whether that was kissing them and speaking quietly with them or shouting and beating them. Still, all throughout the day the mothers could do as they pleased. They could speak with one another, though they still could not go into the presence of a man not their husband, and they could wander about the free hills if they so pleased. All throughout my childhood, I longed to be chosen as a mother, for that would mean I could know a taste of the freedom that Aegean knew.

The high priest always announced those who would be mothers first, so they could be sent down to a special wing where young men would choose one for his bride. I was not among them. We girls who remained were to remain in the temple as priestesses. There were two major classifications: priestess and cleric. Priestesses carried out duties very similar to the girls’, from cooking to sewing to cleaning to gardening. It was a dull life, but a very familiar one, and the less adventuresome of us wished to be chosen as priestess if only for its familiarity. Clerics were slightly higher in rank, and spent nearly all their time in the main temple area, watching the temple flame and praying to the god. What exactly they spent their days doing was not widely known, and they were known to seclude themselves in darkened rooms for hours on end, coming out looking wide-eyed and pale. Needless to say, clerics were not one of the most wished-for occupations.

On the day that I came of age, the high priest read out the names of those who would be mothers, and they were sent away to be kept sheltered till they were chosen to be wives. I was not among them, and this saddened me, for I had just lost the last hope of ever knowing freedom. The high priest read out the list of those who would become priestesses, and I was shocked once more when I did not hear my name called. Then I was to be a cleric, I thought to myself. I didn’t want to be a cleric. I didn’t want to spend my days in hushed silence, no longer allowed to speak even with my fellow females at night. The only words I would be allowed to utter were those in whispered petition to the god in the main temple area, and I would wear my knees out on the stones and lose my voice entirely from never using it and my skin would be pale from not seeing the light of day and…oh, life was cruel! I felt ready to cry, but no one was allowed to cry unless they were in physical pain, and even then the pain had to be very great for tears to be justified and accepted without penalty.

I listened numbly as the high priest called out the names of the new clerics, but once more I did not hear my name called. I could not understand it. Surely there had been some kind of mistake! How could my name not have been called for the mothers, or the priestesses, or the clerics? The high priest turned to face me and said in his loud, clear voice, “Ariane. You are to be the sacrifice.â€

[Esoteric]

Yes, I can certainly see the influences from the inspirations mentioned. I see a lot of potential for your story. With further development of the culture and characters I think it could be a very enjoyable read. (of course, I'm also a bit partial to your sources of inspiration. ) I hope you can pursue this further.

[the_wolfs_howl]

[quote="Esoteric"]Yes, I can certainly see the influences from the inspirations mentioned. I see a lot of potential for your story. With further development of the culture and characters I think it could be a very enjoyable read. (of course, I'm also a bit partial to your sources of inspiration. ]

Thanks for the encouragement! I'm not exactly sure what's going to become of this, if anything. I haven't really touched it since I first wrote it, which was several months ago. I'll be sure to post anything up here if I do write more though!

[bigsleepj]

Ooh, excellent story! I'm quite amazed by the depth of your imagination (even if it is a tad dark ) But this story has a lot of potential!! I suggest you keep up developing it. I can certainly see the influences of Till we have Faces, a favourite of mine.

Just out of curiosity, have you ever read any of the works of Jorge Luis Borges? Borges was an Argentinian short-story writer whose works involved complex labyrinths of different sorts. His short story, The Library of Babel, tells of a universe created in the form of a library, which is a labyrinth despite the fact that its construction is consistent. His other story, The Garden of Forking Paths, tells of a labyrinth hidden in plain sight, and The House of Asterion (which your story reminds me off) gives us the point of view of the Minotaur. You might find them fascinating, or you can use them to put yourself to sleep.

He's difficult to read at times and very much an agnostic, but still his writing is fascinating. I should point out though that they are not really driven by plots (except maybe a few) or action or even characters but singularly by overlapping ideas. They are mostly designed in the forms of essays and memoirs and they exist solely to make the reader think, or at least intrigue them. But you might find them interesting. There are a few of his stories on-line (though I could not find The Garden of Forking Paths, unfortunately).

The House of Asterion
The Library of Babel
The Circular RUins

[the_wolfs_howl]

Ooh, excellent story! I'm quite amazed by the depth of your imagination (even if it is a tad dark ) But this story has a lot of potential!! I suggest you keep up developing it. I can certainly see the influences of Till we have Faces, a favourite of mine.

Just out of curiosity, have you ever read any of the works of Jorge Luis Borges? Borges was an Argentinian short-story writer whose works involved complex labyrinths of different sorts. His short story, The Library of Babel, tells of a universe created in the form of a library, which is a labyrinth despite the fact that its construction is consistent. His other story, The Garden of Forking Paths, tells of a labyrinth hidden in plain sight, and The House of Asterion (which your story reminds me off) gives us the point of view of the Minotaur. You might find them fascinating, or you can use them to put yourself to sleep.

He's difficult to read at times and very much an agnostic, but still his writing is fascinating. I should point out though that they are not really driven by plots (except maybe a few) or action or even characters but singularly by overlapping ideas. They are mostly designed in the forms of essays and memoirs and they exist solely to make the reader think, or at least intrigue them. But you might find them interesting. There are a few of his stories on-line (though I could not find The Garden of Forking Paths, unfortunately).

Thank you kindly for your criticism! I know the seems dark and depressing, but if I wrote the it out all the way, it would end up a bit happier. I only have a vague-ish idea of what might happen, but I don't think Ariane would be around to tell the story if she died, would she? In that respect, anyway, it would end happily.

Anyway, I'll definitely have to check out this Borges guy! I haven't read any of his writing before, but he sounds kinda like Annie Dillard. Have you read any of her essays? She's kind of agnostic as well, but her writing is wonderful (at least I think so). She makes interesting observations and draws parallels you wouldn't normally think of. Her essays also usually have some sort of story, but the only to illustrate her point.

I might not have time to check out those links, but once I have I'll tell you what I think, 'kay?

[the_wolfs_howl]

Wow...I just read those three Borges stories. I really liked them, despite their rather hopeless overtones. His writing is exactly what you said it was: fascinating. I've never really read anything quite like that. Works of writing such as those both humble and inspire me to no end. I want to become a better writer now because of those stories. Thanks so much for telling me about them. They've also encouraged me to finish this story. If I ever need inspiration, I'll just read Borges

My favorite of those three stories was the Library of Babel. I don't even know why; it's so hopeless and meaningless. Maybe reading about hopelessness reassures me because I know I have hope...or something like that ^^'

[bigsleepj]

I'm glad you enjoyed them. Borges is truly one of the most under-rated short-story writers out there. Many of his fans (casual and obsessive) tend to agree that he's one of "the best authors never to win the Nobel Prize." That said many modern authors (both "serious" and science fiction / fantasy ones) admit they enjoy his works immensely. I don't think any person who seriously wants to write fantasy these days should avoid reading at least one of his stories.

My favorite of those three stories was the Library of Babel. I don't even know why; it's so hopeless and meaningless. Maybe reading about hopelessness reassures me because I know I have hope...or something like that ^^'

The Library of Babel seems to me the reflection of how certain kind of agnostics can see the universe. A place seemingly constructed as if by an Architect yet with no meaning or exact vision of the Architect. It's sad that Borges could never become a Christian (but who knows on his deathbed...) because he had a real love for Christian and Judaistic theology and many Christian and Jewish writers and theologians, even if he did not believe it. Borges was a Librarian and ran the National Library of Argentina for several years, though bizarrely he was during this time as director blind (his eye-sight deteriorated highly during his 40s). There are two excellent collection of his works (which tend to overlap in published works) called Labyrinths and Ficciones (Fictions). Both are available if you wish to explore his works.

One paragraph of warning though: I do suggest you give The Three Version of Judas a skip if you buy these books. I feel I have to mention it. It's hard for me to disapprove entirely of this story despite the fact that it reasonably and rationally depicts a heresy in the basic tenets of Christian faith. The thing that stops me from entirely disapproving of the story and it's heretical content is the fact that I know that Borges (unlike Dan Brown and The Da Vinci Code) doesn't believe it or insist it to be true (that is, it's just a story for him and not meant to "reform" or "demolish" Christianity. Still it has the quality to truly freak you out spiritually, so I suggest you only read it when you have fully matured in your faith. Heck, I consider myself matured and it freaked me out. I doubt I'll ever read it again.

[the_wolfs_howl]

Okay, thanks for the tip. I'll see if I can get ahold of more of his works. Now, if schoolwork permits, I'm off to try to finish The Labyrinth of Aegean!

[bigsleepj]

Okay, thanks for the tip. I'll see if I can get ahold of more of his works. Now, if schoolwork permits, I'm off to try to finish The Labyrinth of Aegean!

Excellent! Keep us posted on your progress (if any). Good luck!

[the_wolfs_howl]

Author's Note: Well, I've got another section written up for this story. I had to chop it up into two pieces so it would fit, but here it is. I'm expecting one or two more sections till the end of the story, but you can never tell when it comes to writing a story.

I remember little of the following month, as preparations were made for the sacrifice. I was in a state of shock. I mutely, blindly, numbly went about the ritual daily cleansing every day of that month, not noticing the pleasantly warm water caressing my hardened skin, softening it until I was as smooth as a newborn babe. I hardly realized that for the first time in my life I smelled pleasantly, like lilacs or roses or some mixture of the two. I didn't even realize that for once I ate the choicest meats, the ripest fruits, and the freshest breads our small village had to offer. I suppose that I ate better than the high priest himself. I was not required to say my prayers (after all, I was to house a demon, was I not?), but I did so mechanically every night before going to bed. I had been moved to the special room in the temple set aside for the sacrifice to spend her final month in. I slept longer and sounder than I had all my life, in a real bed with a feather pillow and a mattress with real springs in it. There was even a thick blanket to cover myself with. A shame that I found no enjoyment in these final comforts.

About a week before the day of my sacrifice, I woke from my stupor. That morning, I opened my eyes and experienced a sudden, unexpected wave of panic, so strong that my eyes filled with tears and spilled over. I sobbed uncontrollably into my pillow, unable to stop myself. The knowledge that I would not now be punished for these unwarranted tears did nothing to comfort me. I cried for hours, until a cleric came into my room to lead me to the cleansing tub. She seemed a little surprised to see me in such a state, but naturally she was not allowed to speak one word to me. Doubtless she thought the demon was taking stronger hold of my body; her round, fearful eyes said as much.

The warm waters of my bath soothed my sore eyes and calmed me somewhat, so that when the hour-long cleansing was through and I had donned my clothes again, I had the strength to descend to the main temple area. Several priests and priestesses were there, offering up murmured prayers, but when they heard my footsteps and saw who it was, they hastily cut themselves off and made a swift retreat. I found myself alone in that great stone room, alone save for the holy fire and the god himself. I knelt before the rough statue suggesting the form of a man with the head of a bull, and began to petition the god for...I know not what. Deliverance, perhaps, but I had little hope of that. Had not the god selected me himself? Had he not cursed me from my birth, chosen me to be the one that he would devour?

After an hour of confused prayers, I gave it up and returned to my room. I looked out the window there, a large window that let in the light. It faced north, towards the mountains. I could not see the village or the harbor, or any signs of life at all. I could only see the mountains, the wretched, horrid mountains that formed the backbone of the island. Somewhere, off in the east of those mountains, was the Labyrinth itself. Only a select few actually knew where the Labyrinth was, for we were forbidden to go venturing into the mountains ourselves. Even if it was not forbidden, I doubt any of us would be brave enough to go there and risk stumbling upon the Labyrinth by mistake.

I hardly knew what to do with myself in that final week. I was no longer given any tasks to accomplish, and every time I began a prayer to the god I remembered how he would surely not listen to me no matter what I said. So I alternated between weeping inconsolably and shivering with a chill I could feel deep inside me. And I slept. I slept more than any other time in my life. I hardly dreamed, and when I did it was of eagles and bulls and splashes of foam that whirled around me and engulfed me.

[the_wolfs_howl]

And then the fateful day dawned. I was woken by a cleric, who motioned me towards the cleansing tub one last time. I seemed to notice everything about my surroundings: the steam swirling in small eddies about my body, the press of sweet-smelling water against my legs and stomach and chest, the dampness in my nostrils, the added weight of my wet hair. I noticed how the water poured down my body as I stepped out of the tub, and how the towel scratched against my bare skin. I was given a plain white gown even thinner than my usual garments. It felt like cobwebs, and I could almost imagine I could see my skin through it.

I was not given anything to eat that morning, but I am not sure if I would have been able to keep it down anyway. The cleric sat me down on a chair and proceeded to cut my hair. Women were never allowed to cut their hair, for to do so was to be cut off from humanity. I understood the symbolism all too well as I felt clumps of my own hair leave me to fall to the floor. I knew those tufts of my hair would be carefully swept up and burnt as soon as the job was done. The cleric who had cut it would have to go through a cleansing herself, and her garments would be burnt as well, lest any stray hair of mine had brushed off on her. For if any part of my body was left in the village, it would become a foothold for the demon inside me.

As the cold blades of the scissors came ever closer to my scalp, I wondered: When would this demon invade my body? Would it wait until I was in the Labyrinth? Or what if it had already invaded, and I had simply not noticed? An even worse thought was that what I considered to be my soul, my self, my identity, had been the demon all along. How could I be sure?

The cleric began to shave my head completely bare. I felt the cold blade scrape across my skin, making it tingle in the anticipation of possible pain. I reflected on how my entire life had been shattered. Once, I had had the fleeting hope of being free. All my hopes had rested on my being chosen as a mother. If I had been a priestess, my freedom would have been found in the nightly visits of my fellow priestesses. If I had been a cleric, my freedom would have been grounded only in the freedom that comes with death. I would have waited for the time when I could soar happily over this island, completely free at last, as free as Aegean himself. But since I was the sacrifice, I had no freedom, nor even any hope of it. For if my body housed a demon, if I was a demon, I would find no pleasure in death. I would continue to exist, somewhere, in whatever horrible place demons come from. I would never be free.

But for some reason I found myself clinging desperately to the life that was swiftly fleeting away from me. As I was flanked by masked, hooded priests who led me out of the temple with ceremony, I found my bare feet walking ever slower on the cold, hard stones of the floor. The priests, of course, had to walk at my pace, for they could not touch me nor speak to me. So they were forced to bear with me and my reluctance as I strove to clutch at life.

I could feel the cold wind sweeping across my bare scalp as we crossed the courtyard in front of the temple. It felt odd, not having any hair. There was no covering to hide my head or my face, and even though no men were about to see me (other than the priests, who averted their eyes), I still felt naked and ashamed. My dress offered no protection from the chill wind; it would have made little difference had I not worn anything at all.

We made our way down the main road of the village. No one was about; everyone had secluded themselves in their homes, closing the shutters and barring the doors. They would be huddled in the middle of the house, the farthest they could get from the walls, shivering in a tight circle, waiting for the high priest to stride down the street, calling out that the sacrifice had left the village. I remembered the times of sacrifice, the times when the sacrifice had been someone else, someone I did not know. I remembered huddling fearfully in a room with the other girls of my age, my head resting on my knees, until an acolyte banged on the door to tell us the danger had passed.

How different it all was from this perspective! When it had been another girl, it had been a little frightening, but not overly so. It was a reason to sit and rest instead of breaking my back scrubbing the floor or bursting the blisters that came from sweeping when I washed dishes. But now! Now I was the sacrifice, and it was no longer any relief.

The journey to the Labyrinth was long and monotonous; once we had left the village behind there was nothing but the rutted path that meandered over the hills and led to the mountains in the distance. I trudged between my silent escorts, my feet plodding on automatically. Shivers kept rushing down my spine and along my skin; I was cold all through and so frightened I couldn't feel it anymore. We walked all day, until finally in the late afternoon we were walking on a path of hard little stones, winding in a gully between two mountains. The path was so narrow we had to walk single-file. Suddenly the priest in front of me stopped, and I came to a halt as well. The feet of the priest behind me crunched to a stop.

The priest in front of me pointed at the rock face to our right, and I turned to see what he was pointing at. What I saw made my heart leap into my throat, stoppering my breath. Right before us was the rough mouth of a cave, pitch black and impenetrable in the falling dusk. Above the lopsided entry, carved deeply into the stone, were strange, crude symbols much different from our writing. They looked almost like pictures, pictures of a bull-headed man chasing after a girl with no hair. I felt my stomach clench and heave, and if I had been allowed to eat that day I would have found it all about my feet. As it was, my stomach was empty and I gagged on air. The priests flanking me pointed remorselessly towards the mouth of the cave.

It never entered my mind to resist, to refuse to enter, to push past the priests and flee to the mountaintops. I had known, ever since the high priest had spoken the condemning words, that one day I would pass into this abyss - my doom. So I did not resist. I did not refuse, or falter. I stepped forward, shivering all over, and entered the eternal blackness of the Labyrinth.

[bigsleepj]

I'm still amazed at how good your writing is. I'm intrigued to see what would happen next! Keep up the great writing!

[Esoteric]

Yes, you write extremely well...the wording is wonderful and rich. Encore! More!

[the_wolfs_howl]

You guys are so nice!

Right now I'm battling over whether I want to go all allegory with the ending (I haven't written up to that point, but I like planning it all out before I write), or whether I'll just make it a story with little intentionally-hidden meaning. What are your personal opinions? Do you like stories that can be read as allegories?

[bigsleepj]

:hug: You guys are so nice!

Only because we want personalised autographed copies. Mwahahahaaa! ]Right now I'm battling over whether I want to go all allegory with the ending (I haven't written up to that point, but I like planning it all out before I write), or whether I'll just make it a story with little intentionally-hidden meaning. What are your personal opinions? Do you like stories that can be read as allegories?[/QUOTE]

I don't like the idea of writing allegories, but if it is well done and complex than I can find reading an allegory to be quite fun. Especially if they are nuanced and complex, but that's just me. But not everybody likes them. In the end the choice is yours and you should do what you feel is right for the story and what would serve it best.

[Esoteric]

Only because we want personalised autographed copies. Mwahahahaaa!

Ooh, yes, good idea bigsleepj!

Hmmm, I must concur that it's your decision to make. However, I will say that if you want to make the story allegorical, it should be hidden (obvious allegories are usually a bit like Aesop's fables: "And the moral of this story is..." etc.) In the end though it's whatever works for the story, and you can always rewrite the ending later too, if the first one just doesn't work.

[the_wolfs_howl]

*pulls out pen and starts signing*

Okay. I'm not sure if I can even do an allegory, but I know there's going to be some kind of hidden meaning stuck in there at some point (though I suppose you could just read it as a story too). I guess I'll stay away from black-and-white "Ariane stands for this" or "the Minotaur is supposed to be that."

I've actually been thinking about this story so much in the past few days that yesterday night I actually had a dream about it. I was put into a big house (New England style), and the front door was locked behind me. I was nervous, but to keep down my fear I decided to explore. But then I found that every floor was exactly the same. No matter if I went upstairs or down, every floor looked exactly the same. I looked out the windows, and the view was always the same. Each floor had the stairwell, with a flight leading up and a flight leading down, and there were great windows on the opposite wall, shrouded in lacey curtains (as soon as I had gone up or down the stairs, the front door had disappeared and I was never able to find it again). There was also a door on each of the other two walls of the floor. One was an open doorway, leading into a living room-type place; the other was a large, reddish wooden door with many intricate carvings on it (like the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe movie). There was also a key in the lock. I was nervous; the quiet was beginning to get to me, but I decided to see what was in this room. I turned the key in the lock, and saw a large bedroom - it looked somewhat like a hotel room. There were clothes strewn about, and papers and books. It looked very lived-in, so I decided to see if the room like this upstairs was empty so I could use it. But halfway up the stairs I remembered that it would be exactly the same, so I sank down onto the stairs, bereft of hope.
I think that dream was influenced both by this story and The Library of Babel.

[bigsleepj]

I think that dream was influenced both by this story and The Library of Babel.

Hmmm. Indeed, it does have striking similarities. I'm sorry if my reading suggestions induce creepy dreams.

I had a similar dream when I first made my way through the works of Borges, though it was not quite a house. I dreamt I was walking through a desert-like terrain, similar to a large salt flat we have here in South Africa called Verneukpan, only it was shrouded in fog. In the distance, beyond the fog I'd see large mountains, yet when I approached them they'd dissolve in the fog and cease to exist.

Whether or not it's a coincidence that I had this dream at the same time as reading his works I integrated the dream into a story and it gave a very creepy feel to the story. I suggest using the memories and emotions of this dream to envoke the experience of being lost in a labyrinth for the main character of your story. I mean, how many have gotten lost in labyrinths like that? See your dream as a gift for the improvement of the story, that's my suggestion.


Verneukpan in all its glory.

[the_wolfs_howl]

Author's Note: Thanks for the tip, bigsleepj. Here's the next bit of the story. I'm not sure if I like the third-to-last paragraph; I don't know if I need to be/should be that blatant. What do you guys think?

The darkness was all around me, all through me. The stone was cold beneath my feet, the air still and cold. Time, place, reality - all was frozen into the measured steps I took down the passage into the Labyrinth. I hardly knew whether I breathed, or blinked. All I knew was the nothingness surrounding me. The only thing that told me I was not simply floating in midair was the regular presses of cold against my bare feet as I walked forward. There was no sound, no light, no smell, nothing but cold stillness.

I must beg your forgiveness if I sound redundant. If I repeat the same things over and over, it is only because that was what the Labyrinth was like: monotonous, unchanging. It might have been hours that I walked down that passage. It might have been days, or only minutes. But suddenly I was burst from my stupor, as I crashed right into something cold, hard, and solid. Such was my surprise that I stumbled back and landed hard on my rear. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my nose smarted with pain. Slowly, I got back to my feet and reached out with my hands to feel what I had bumped into. I felt rough stone, and realized it was a wall. Then I realized the passage I had gone through had only been the entrance. The Labyrinth had only now begun.

I trailed my hand along the wall as a guide and walked to the left, entering a new monotony. Now there was another source of rough cold, and something else to tell me I was still real. At long last, I felt the wall turn a sharp corner. When I rounded the bend, I saw - far, far off - a tiny pinprick of light. Filled with a new purpose, I hurried towards this light. For a long time, it did not seem to grow nearer at all. But suddenly it seemed to leap before my eyes, and before I knew it I stood in the pool of light cast by a steadily-burning torch. Ahead of me were more torches, set at regular intervals that shed light throughout the passage. The fire and light warmed me. At an earlier time, I might have smiled, but my face seemed frozen into place.

I walked farther down the passage, till I came to a place where it broke off in three different directions. Choosing one of the adjoining hallways, I continued on my way. The halls grew greater in number, twisting and joining and doubling back, no longer straight and regular. They meandered up and down, sometimes steep, sometimes so undulating I could hardly see two feet ahead of me before it turned another bend. I grew hopelessly lost, choosing intersections at random. My dazed eyes forgot the kiss of the sun, the blue sky overhead, the faces of the villagers and the priests. My world was contained in those stone passages, in the ever-present torches and clinging cold.

I was long past afraid, long past weary, long past myself. I was nothing but a wraith, a shadow of the girl I had once been. Perhaps that was the demon. Or was the demon already inside me, turning my body to its will? And if I was the demon, was this not my will? Perhaps I had no will. Perhaps it was the god who was directing my steps, ever closer to him. To devour me. I was not afraid, but I was not alive. If anything of me had existed before then, it was either gone or smothered.

I might have been sleeping while I walked, for it seemed I suddenly opened my eyes to find myself in a large, square chamber. Destroying the monotony of the endless passages, it told me better than any signpost that I had come at last to the very center of the Labyrinth. Torches were set in brackets on the walls, and the floor was littered with a disgusting mixture of bones, scraps of cloth, and refuse. I walked partway into the room, till the smell of the place caused me to stop. I could barely breathe. The chamber smelled like livestock and rotted flesh. Once more, my empty stomach heaved to no result.

Something moved in the darkness of the middle of the chamber. I could hear the sound of heavy footfalls and loud, hot breathing. The numbness that had allowed me to make it this far now fleeted away, and I began to tremble violently as a humped shadow rose up, blocking out the torches on the far wall. My legs failed me, and I dropped to the ground, gaping up at the hideous beast who approached me. Words fail to describe the grotesque Minotaur, with its head of a bull and body of a man. If I attempted to explain how its hairy head rests upon its burly shoulders, even the horrifying image that would conjure would not do the reality justice.

So this was the god. This was the being who had chased after our hero Aegean, killed him, and devoured his wayward wife. This was the one who had ever after enslaved our people; this was the one who had commanded the sacrifice. And had he not the right to? Stealing another man's wife was an offense that required nothing less than death for recompense. And to steal the wife of a god.... Was that not a thousand times worse? It was justice, what the god was doing to us, and I could not argue against it. However, though I knew all this, I was surprised to find something in my heart that resisted against him. Not against his justice or his power.... I know not what it was, but I discovered that I could no longer worship him.

I was confused, but I was so frightened that I could not sort my thoughts out. My heart still pounded with fear and my limbs remained limp. I could no more move than I could sink through the floor. And the Minotaur towered over me, reaching out for me, grunting in what might have been satisfaction or pleasure. I stared up into its large, unintelligent eyes and watched my doom slowly approaching. I could feel its breath on my face. I could smell the horrible stench that clung to its body. And I could hear its large tongue licking its teeth in anticipation.

Its hands were nearly upon me when it suddenly stopped, grunting and grimacing as best as its bull's head would allow. It blinked blearily, falling with a crash to its knees, and the tip of a sword burst out of its chest. It coughed, and with a horrible splattering sound I felt its blood drop from its mouth onto my hairless head. The blood was warm as it trickled down my face. The Minotaur toppled to the side, where it lay motionless. I caught a brief glimpse of someone standing over me with a sword before I was swamped in darkness.

[bigsleepj]

I'm not sure if I like the third-to-last paragraph; I don't know if I need to be/should be that blatant. What do you guys think?

I don't know. Maybe you can just have her being horrified and have this epiphany later when she's thinking her time in the labyrinth over. But the choice is still yours on what to do.

[the_wolfs_howl]

Here comes the battle between the characters and the author.

Ariane: Yow! It's like a hulking big man with a bull on his head!

Me: Dude, it's a Minotaur. Chill.

Ariane: But, it's like a huge scary monster! Aiieee!

Me: Remind me why you're the main character again?

Lol. Hopefully, the last section of the story will be up soon. And hopefully Ariane will last till then, because it would be exceedingly weird if she was dead when she's telling her story

[bigsleepj]

There's nothing wrong with a character being a bit cowardly. I think "heroes" should be a bit reluctant. And maybe you should remember what Umberto Eco said: "The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everybody else."

Just a late thought: the Minotaur as a monster have been done before. Maybe you should try to give a different take on him. Remember the depiction of Borges' Asterion where the Minotaur is more pathetic and confused than actually ferocious. I'm not saying you should maybe make him overly sympathetic, but maybe Ariane can realise that he is as much a prisoner of the all-consuming labyrinth as she is. Maybe the people died not because it tried to eat them, but because it wouldn't let them go and they died of hunger (bedazzled by the "offerings' beauty" it supposed them to be goddesses without hunger or something). Just a suggestion.

This is just a suggestion: in the end it's still your story and you make the decisions.

[Esoteric]

Actually, I didn't have a problem with the minotaur being a 'hungry monster'. Admittedly that's a very traditional role (most fairy tales have a hungry monster!) Yes, you could go a more sympathetic beast, but if you are trying to instill the hidden meaning I think you are, that wouldn't work so well.
I don't think the third to last paragraph was too blatant, however, I think her thoughts require a bit more clarification.
She has learned that the god is to be respected, feared, worshiped. She now encounters the god. Fear would be the dominating emotion, and perhaps even a respect for it's tremendous size and power. These two she could easily feel, but she could be confused by something in her which refused to 'worship' it...that is, to like what she had found. Do you get what I mean? It's godlike in it's power, but not in it's nature. And, should you decide to alter the minotaur's motives as bigsleepj suggested, you could even work that in with some dialogue. I dunno just my thoughts.

[the_wolfs_howl]

This is getting harder and harder.... Usually the ending is one of the easiest parts to write in a story, because I think about it so much. Now I'm not sure what I really want to do. Probably what I'm going to do is just sit down and write and see what comes out. After all, the characters are what drive the story.

Thank you so much, you two! I really appreciate your thoughtful suggestions! Today's my brother's birthday, and I think we might be going to see a movie to celebrate, but I'll try to get something written. I'll at least edit that one paragraph, to clarify her thoughts as recommended. Please look over that when I have and tell me what your thoughts on it are.

[the_wolfs_howl]

Author's Note: For the beginning of this section, I kind of used my experiences of strep throat and back surgery. Not fun I don't know if you guys are like this, but I find that for certain stories I write, I have to listen to certain songs or kinds of music to keep me in the right mood. For this story, I listened primarily to a CD called "Legacy of Runes: Falcon Wild" (it was a CD I got with a puzzle, of all things). I also listened to the track "Epilogue: Those Who Remain" on the Shadow of the Colossus soundtrack. They seemed to capture the right feeling for me. Well, here's the last installment of the story. I'd really appreciate it if you'd tell me what you think; I ended up putting a lot of imagery into it.

Fire. That was all I knew. My blood boiled within my veins. My skin seared like a pan atop a fire. Fire was in my lungs, fire and smoke, that billowed out with every exhalation, and then I breathed it in once more. My muscles burned, steam rose from my skin in a cloud, and flames licked me from the inside out.

I knew what this was. I was, after all, a demon. I had died, that much was obvious. My brain seemed melted into a sticky mass of jumbled throughts that molded together till I could not tell where one ended and another began. I was running through the halls of an oven, trailing my fingers along the walls and burning my fingertips. Everything was red, everything was pounding, in my head and in my heart. My eyeballs were bulging with the heat, threatening to burst. My skin was pulled tight across my body, as though my innards were balooning outwards, filling with the heat that I breathed.

It was unbearable, that heat, that pain. I was so thirsty, so hot, so filled with pain! I wanted everything to end, but a current ran through my wayward thoughts: I could not escape. I was trapped forever, trapped within the labyrinth of my torment. I ran through the halls, halls lined with torches whose waves of heat wavered in the heat waves that came from shimmers of heat. I turned down passage after passage, seeking the center. Every passage led towards the center. And once I reached the center, the Minotaur rose up before me, mouth open wide, and swallowed me whole. But as soon as he had, I found myself once again at the start of a tunnel lined with torches. I raced through this labyrinth as well, looking for the center. Yet once I had reached it, the Minotaur devoured me again and the cycle continued. I was racing through a labyrinth of labyrinths, a labyrinth that never ended, an eternal maze. I wanted to scream, but I had no breath left. I wanted to cry, but my tears were gone. No moisture, no life, was left in my body. I was but a shell, housing a demon. I was a demon, and this was a demon's fate. In my heart, I begged for someone, anyone, to save me. But who would? Or could?

Gradually, my steps slowed in their mad scramble for the center of the Labyrinth. My eyes closed, and I sunk under wave after wave of darkness. A blessed coolness, like the wellspring of life, touched my burning forehead. That same coolness was applied to my cheeks, and my neck, and my hands and feet. Hands filled with gentleness and care brushed over my entire body, bringing coolness and comfort. Gradually, my breathing slowed and the fire left my body. Blessed rest, blessed sleep, comfort and care, these were what I knew.

Then at long last, I opened my eyes. I could see the stone ceiling above me, and knew that I was still in the Labyrinth. I was confused and disoriented, expecting to begin that headlong plunge towards the center again. But I did not. When I was finally convinced that the endless torment was finished at last, I struggled to sit up. I found that my body was weak, as though I had been deathly ill. My arms shook as I pushed myself up, and for a moment I was afraid that I would drop back onto the ground. Suddenly a strong arm was around my shoulders, supporting me and helping me lean up against the cold stone wall. I looked over in surprise, and saw a man kneeling beside me.

Shame overwhelmed me, and I searched desperately for something that would hide my face. There was nothing, however, so I used my hands instead. My entire face was burning, almost with the intensity it had before. A man had seen my face! I would hardly have done worse had I ripped off my gown. To my surprise, the man placed one of his hands over mine, and said softly, "You need not hide your face from me."

His voice, and his eyes.... They seemed to wrap around me like loving arms, caressing me, holding me close. I found myself lowering my hands, which he then clasped in his own. His hands were warm, and gentle, and so much larger than my own. And then he smiled at me: such a smile that I had never seen. It seemed to me like a ray of sunlight or a drop of gold. I couldn't understand why he would smile at me; smiles were so rare except among boys playing on the hills or girls gathered together at night. And his smile was nothing like the smiles I had ever seen. It made me wonder why I hardly ever smiled, and I found my lips curling upwards as well.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice a hoarse rasp that I shuddered to hear.

"People refer to me as Theus Icarus, but those who know me call me Theus."

"You saved me," I whispered. "You saved me from the Minotaur...and the demon. Thank you! How could I ever repay you?"

"You could not," Theus replied, and he put his arm around me again. "Ariane, you should rest now. You have been ill for a very long time now, and it will take some time to recover."

"H-How do you know my name?" I asked in surprise as he laid me flat on my back again.

"I have known you for a very long time," he answered, pulling a blanket over me and tucking it around me like the father I never knew. And though I could not understand what he meant with these strange words, I discovered that it hardly mattered. What mattered was that I knew he would be at my side as I slept, and he would be there when I woke.

[the_wolfs_howl]

And he was. The first sight that met my eyes upon waking was Theus Icarus. I realized I was not afraid of anything or anyone, not with Theus at my side. After all, had he not slain the Minotaur? Had he not expelled the demon from within me? He looked up, saw that I was awake, and smiled again. He brought me a bowl of broth, and at the aromatic fumes that swirled up from it, my stomach gnawed so fiercely with hunger that I was afraid it might devour me whole before I could swallow any of that broth. I had not eaten for a day before I entered the Labyrinth, and who knew how long it had taken to reach the center, or how long I had lain ill under Theus' care.

I drank the broth so eagerly it dribbled down my chin, but Theus wiped it away. I finished the broth in a trice, and he handed me a larger bowl filled with delicious stew, as well as a hunk of beautiful white bread. In the village, our bread had always been coarse and brownish, grainy and tough, but this bread almost seemed to be made from the very clouds of the sky. I used it to push juicy chunks of meat and crisp vegetables into my mouth, and I am sure I had never tasted anything so wonderful as that. I discovered that the food nourished me much more than anything I had eaten before. I could feel the strength spreading through my body. And instead of feeling sleepy after having eaten, I felt wider awake than ever before.

I looked around as Theus took my bowl again. I saw that we were in one corner of the center room of the Labyrinth. To my surprise, I could not smell any of the foul stench I had smelled earlier, and the air seemed much less close than it had. The torches burned on, undaunted by the mass of hair and flesh that spoke of the end to all sacrifices. Then Theus turned to me and said, "The cold air of this place will do no good to your health. We should leave immediately."

"But can we?" I asked in surprise. My voice was nearly back to normal.

Theus smiled and took my hand, pulling me to my feet. "Let me show you," he said. He began to walk towards a passage that led out of the central chamber, but when I tried to follow, I found that my legs were weak and shaky. He stopped and put an arm around me. "Lean on me," he said. "If you attempt to make it on your own, you will only fall."

He led me to the opening of the passage, and bent down to pick up the end of a long piece of twine or string that led off into the darkness of the passage. "This will show the way out," he said, beginning to roll the string into a ball as we started down the hallway.

Something that puzzled me was that the journey out of the Labyrinth seemed a hundred times faster than the one into it. Perhaps it was because on the way in, my feet had been slow and hesitant as I approached what I thought my certain doom. Perhaps this time, I had a warm presence forever at my side that banished all thoughts of the Labyrinth not being real. This time, I was warm; this time, I was not alone.

I felt a fresh breeze running through the passage from far up ahead. My hair had hardly begun to grow yet; it was still only prickly shoots like the beginnings of spring grass, but I could still feel the wind blowing through it, and it made me smile. At last I fancied I saw a patch of light up ahead, very far, very distant, nigh unreachable. Instead of the flickering orange glow of a torch, however, this light was almost white. It had a very...outdoors sort of look to it. Even that faint and far-off sight filled me with hope - a hope I hadn't felt since the morn of my coming-of-age, when I dared to believe that I might be made a mother.

And as with the torch, the white patch of light ahead seemed forever distant until suddenly we were stepping into it. My bare feet felt the change from cold, hard stone to rough dirt and grass. My eyes were dazzled by the light. The warm sun kissed my cold skin, and the free breeze whistled in my ears, whipping the skirt of my gown all about. As my eyes grew accustomed to the brightness of the sun, I looked about me and discovered that we were on a cliff high above the sea, which crashed against the rocks far below. Behind us were the mountains that made the spine of the island, and before us was nothing but the sun, the sea, and the sky. I realized that we were on the eastern edge of the island, the one part no one ever dared to go. Not even fishermen cast their nets in these waters. We villagers had been afraid, but I saw now that there was no reason to be afraid. That place was beautiful, with the warm morning sunlight, the grass beneath my feet, and the harmless mouth of the Labyrinth at my back. Had I stood in that same place but a short time before, I would have shivered to know that such a black pit yawned behind me, like the mouth of the Minotaur itself. But not even that could frighten me as I stood there with Theus.

Theus waited until I had drunk in all the sights and turned my gaze back to him. "I am going to take you away from this island," he said. "I will take you to my homeland, where you will know freedom such as you have never dreamed of."

"Freedom...." I whispered with longing. Freedom was everything I had longed for all my life. It had consumed my heart and those of the other girls. It had dominated the tales we told one another. It had sustained us till the day we had come of age. It would hold up all the others as they lived out their lives in the positions that had been chosen for them. I had thought freedom was not meant for me, yet here was this man telling me that I would know freedom, real freedom. Not simply the permission to do what I wished, but the freedom to be with this man, this Theus, forever. I did not fully understand that at the time, but I could see some of it in his eyes as he looked at me.

But then a thought occurred to me. "How are we to reach your homeland? Have you a boat of some kind?"

At this, he laughed such a rich laugh that it made my very bones tingle. "Nay, Ariane, not a boat." He flexed the muscles of his back, and out of two slits in the back of his shirt stretched two beautiful, enormous white wings. They were like the wings of an eagle, and they were so white they almost seemed to glow in the sunlight. They stretched so wide they seemed like they could envelop the entire world.

"You have wings...." I murmured in surprise, reaching out and touching the tip of one. The feathers were very soft, like down. I was reminded of the tales of Aegean's coming to this little island. They say he tied wings to his arms, sealed them with wax, and flew thus to a place where he imagined himself to be safe. Theus' wings, however, were not fake. They were not made of wax and string; these wings were real.

"Everyone has wings," Theus replied, gesturing behind me. "Though many have never been told how to use them."

I felt behind me, on the back of my shoulders, and I thought I felt something brush against my fingers: something soft and warm, like a pillow. But when I looked over my shoulder, there was nothing there. "How am I to use them?" I asked.

"I will show you." Theus wrapped his arms about my waist, and his wings beat the air, flattening the grass all around. Soon we were in the air, soaring above the mountains and the cliffs. He turned in several gentle circles, then set off over the sea, which suddenly looked very far away.

"What if I fall?!" I cried, clutching at the arms still encircled about my waist.

"If you fall, then I will catch you."

With these comforting words lingering in the air, I slowly relaxed in his arms. I watched the sea skimming away beneath us, and looked up as a flock of birds passed us, calling out their greetings in singsong voices. "What of the others?" I asked presently. "The priestesses, the clerics, the mothers, the men, the children.... They should know freedom too."

"Fear not, Ariane," Theus said. "We shall return soon, and when we do you must tell them all your story. Are you willing to do that?"

"Yes." As my heart filled with the wonders I was experiencing with Theus, I knew that every Aegean must experience those same wonders. I knew that I would tell everyone in the entire world, everyone I came across who did not know. I knew that the wings I began to stretch out to the wind would carry me far and wide, and I knew that one day, I would tell this story to you.

[Esoteric]

I enjoy mood music as well, and Shadow of the Collosus has some of the best soundtrack scores EVER in my opinion.

All right, so we have a happy ending, yay! But, I actually felt that everything was resolved too quickly. I was left wondering things...like why did Theus rescue her(as opposed to the previous sacrifices)? Why are the wings kept secret? How will she be received when she returns(since such a thing would be unheard of)? It feels like the surface has just barely been scratched and then everything is wrapped up nice and neat. I can see the allegory though...it's simple and straight forward. It's good, but with polishing and a bit more complexity, I think it could be awesome.
Perhaps you should take some time away from the story and come back to fresh in a few months. Maybe then some different ideas will strike you. But again, I think you write beautifully and I enjoyed reading this story a great deal. I loved the suspense and atmosphere you created. Kudos!

[the_wolfs_howl]

Thanks, Esoteric! I have to say, I am more grateful than I can say that you didn't simply tell me it was great and leave it at that. It's more flattering to be criticized, I think, because it shows that the reader cared enough about the story to take the time to find problems. So thank you very much!
I think I'll take your suggestion and leave this story completely alone for a few months. I'll try to not even think about it *tries really hard* *fails* ><
I wasn't sure how to explain things and keep the allegory - because I kind of really wanted to make it be an allegory. For a while I was going to have Theus be all awkward and embarrassed, but then I decided to have him be this way instead.
Maybe I'll try writing more when I'm in another rather melancholy mood. I tend to have these periods of time where I feel like I have to write something melancholy. Not tragic, but just sort of subdued and sad, like this one. I actually have another short story I'm writing that has a similar mood to it. But I think I might be kind of over my current melancholy mood, and I have no idea when the next one will come. Anyway, I'll stop my rambling. If I don't hit another melancholy mood, I'll try coming back to this around the end of the summer, perhaps. That should be enough time for me to be completely disgusted with my own writing Till then (or maybe sooner)!

[bigsleepj]

Man, I'm late with my comments.

Overall the writing was good and fluent in the end. You've created a fairly tangible and interesting world and it was fun to explore. Your writing is excellent and you should continue experimenting with it.

Anyway, I've got something of a problem with this ending, mostly because I could not help but feel that this would make a good start for a longer story rather just be the end of a short one or the blue-print for a longer version. I mean, Ariane has spent her whole life isolated and mentally abused and finally given the ultimate rejection by her peers, only to learn something new. The best advice I can give is that you should use this as a start for a journey novel, where Ariane begins a long journey (maybe lasting years) towards her final destination. I know you have an allegory, but allegories can be fun when they are more complex, nuanced and expanded upon. I'm thinking specifically of GK Chesterton's The Man who was Thursday, which has a heavy, complex Christian allegory that is rather hard to decipher (though that's half the fun; the other is just reading it). I feel your character of Ariane is now setting off on an incredible adventure, one where she learns that life is not such a dour situation as it had been before she entered the Labyrinth. The best adventures have always been those of personal discovery and emotional journeys. It's one thing to learn you have wings, it's another to decide where you'll go with them.

Sorry if I'm being contrarian.