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A clay tablet depicting a crime against divine order.
To no mortal is given the right to remove the eternity which the Olympians granted. He who rises against divine order is cursed with a fate most foul.
The tablet is adorned with the depiction of an old man’s face.
The artist tried to make his eyes peaceful, but the process of cooking the tablet gave him a horrified expression, befitting of the curse unleashed by his killing.
The tablet reads:
His name was Tithonus, he was my father.
At the apex of his life, when I was at the cup of my manhood,
father was spirited away by Eos, witless goddess of dawn.
Zeus made him undying, but not forever youthful.
His mind withered, his body dried into a husk,
yet Thanatos would not embrace him, nor would
Hermes Psychopompos lead him to the shore of Styx.
With his husk strapped to my back I crossed the sea to the land of Crete
where a crescent moon even the Fates feared was hidden.
The labrys’ guardian found us inside the home of Daedalus,
he nursed us back to health despite his fear of the axe.
I persuaded him into granting my father mercy
for only those with a touch of the divine may wield the Thread-Cutter.
At the heart of the labyrinth was a shrine to the gods and
for over seven winters a fire burned inside it, on a wide basin.
The flame I vanquished with my words, and seven nights later
we placed father’s neck at the basin’s rim.
The labrys cracked the stone like thunder shakes the mind
and so it cut my father’s thread, the one which the Fates would not touch.
His abandoned vessel leaned sideways, like a child seeking a mother’s shoulder
to drift off into sleep during a long carriage journey.
In his old age my father loved the scent of saffron, even if his appetite had nearly ceased.
Honey would make him smile, at times laugh. When I held his hand
his fingers would intertwine with mine even if his mind was gone.
A black ichor flowed from his wound to the basin. There we made his pyre.
As the flame licked and kissed father’s abandoned vessel
the hybrid hummed for his lyre no longer had the strings to sing.
The fire did not cleanse the basin, nor did it heal its cracks.
The shrine took on an indelibly fetid stench, inside it nightmarish shadows
would crawl at night, moaning and laughing.
“The shrine is profaned,” said Asterion while I made preparations for my departure.
“It is no longer a place for worship or sacrifice. And the Labrys,
that which I was sworn to protect, Tithonus blood washed not from it.
What shall I do, Laomedon, how may I wash this blasphemy from my hands?”
I had no answer for him and no sweet words of mine could distract him.
When I left the labyrinth’s heart he stayed behind,
“I shall wait my redeemer then, as the Fates have woven.
Still, will you visit me, Laomedon, to keep my loneliness at bay?”