Chapter Text
Chapter One
The heavy iron barred gate lowers shut behind him with a rattling thud, and John grips his sword tighter in his hand. Already, he can smell it. Beyond the dusky earth under his sandals and the fire off the sconces on the wall, the dried salt of sweat and sea on his skin. Blood, death, the animal hiding in the dark. A dampness, a musk. Nothing like cattle.
It was here, not long ago. Maybe it's still nearby. Either way, it will have heard his arrival.
But John sees nothing here now, and turns back to tie the end of his only other aid, a spool of thick, red yarn, around the gate to help him retrace his steps. Prince Thomas gave it to him, but his help was far from selfless. The reason John is down here, his back now to the gate again, his eyes still adjusting to the dark, to the flickering light.
A famous tale, told far and wide, shock and awe, gently as he drowsed. Of the Gods and sacrifice, like they often are. True or not, it wasn't something John concerned himself with once he grew older. He may be from the island, but he spent most of his childhood in Athens. For all the stories of virgin sacrifices, he's not heard or seen anyone being taken. The smell of death here suggests he was wrong, or he's not the first Thomas promised clemency to.
His life was to be forfeit regardless. Here, he stands a chance. Slay the beast, return with proof—it's head, but any part will do—and his crimes are forgiven. Thomas can take the crown from his father, since the monster trapped here keeps it on his head. He said it's to put it out of its misery, but all it feels is rage.
The first of two born at once. Discarded like a spare for power. Both bull and man, though worse than both, as the tale goes. Terrifying and gruesome, cruel, even as a child. It wasn't one, a creature kept in a cage until they built it a larger one.
And John will finally slay it. Or die in the pursuit. It's the only way he'll be let out. Once a day, Thomas or one of the servants he trusts—John met them briefly, kind eyes filled with pity, the other's knowing and lined—will return here with food and drink. Once a day for seven days. Beyond that, he's alone.
All the more reason to do this as fast as possible.
John isn't concerned with the reasons, the story, what is and what isn't true. The labyrinth is vast and elaborate, winding and twisting, one true way to its centre, one way back out. One task.
A second chance, though John stands by his crime. Orders are orders, but sometimes they're wrong. Admittedly, he thought they were wrong often, for things that didn't matter quite as much. His regiment's general had full authority to sentence him and carry it out personally. Instead, he was shipped home to a home he hasn't set foot in since he was little more than a babe. If he could even walk when his mother took him away. The memories are muddy and unimportant here and now.
He walks now. Thomas couldn't tell him much about these corridors, never having been in here himself, never having attempted what John will, never even sparing him much of a look. Shame, perhaps, or indifference.
The stone walls are cold when he trails a hand over them, though the air is warm even here. They’re wide, too, wider than he'd pictured as they descended. They don't rise all the way to the ceiling carved into the rock, massive pillars stretching up to meet it. Too high to climb, triple his height at least and likely more, by John's estimate.
He hooks the spool to his belt, takes a breath, and sets off in the only direction he can. Forward, until he finds it.
What he finds first, the moment he turns the corner and the gate disappears from view, is bones.
They're old, dry and dusted with sandy soil, broken — John can't tell for sure if they're animal or human, but if the stories are true, they're human. He wonders what it eats. It can't be only virgins or convicts before they're convicted, or even volunteers, sacrifices to keep the beast from bellowing. If it's as large as he's heard, it'd decimate the population. Unless they bring it slaves from other places. Unless the tales are true, and it's not just virgins coming of age, but the island's unwanted children.
Then again, it wasn't born, but created. A child's life offered to and claimed by the Gods. Transformed into monstrosity, its father's greed for power transferred and turned to hunger. To violence. As the story goes. Truth or cautionary tale.
Before him, the passage stretches, then turns again, sharply this time, and John walks slowly, quietly, ears trained for any sound but his own footsteps. His own breath, his own heartbeat. He's not afraid, but not foolish enough to hasten without care. Somewhere in this place, around any corner, the monster waits, or rushes to meet him. He hears nothing. Sees nothing but stone and flickering fire, more scattered bones. A tomb, if they are human.
John thinks they might be, at least some of them, rounding the next corner and finding a half-crumbled rib cage. It's what he sees next that shocks him more.
The path opens into a sizeable chamber, wide and circular. John halts, pressing his back to the stone. This can't be the central chamber; the path continues past it, and even with its relative size, it hardly seems large enough for the creature to make its home in. Then again, this whole place is. And it's far larger than John imagined, listening to the story.
But the smell is heavier here. Animal. Dry rot. Disturbed dust. A trap, surely. Entering means only one way out, and John doesn't hear the beast, not past the quickening of his heartbeat, instinctive to the scent filling his nose, but it has to be near. He watches flames dance on the wall, watches for a moving shadow. It can't be behind him, but for all he knows, it's right around the next corner, listening for him, too.
Why it doesn't just attack, he doesn't know. If it's here.
John checks the spool, thread still attached, still leading the way back—though it’s neither far nor hard to find from here—and grips his sword tighter. Keeps his back to the wall, arm raised.
Fear won't serve him, but caution might save him.
He moves to the opposite wall, swift and silently, from where he can not only look into the chamber, but at least has a vantage around the corner, too. For all the good it does him; he sees now that another follows not too much further in, leading right again.
But still, John hears nothing but himself and licking fire — how do these stay lit? Magic, perhaps. It's not beyond the realm of possibility. Not here, but John has seen things he would not believe himself if someone told it to him elsewhere, too. Grandiose and small alike. Not often, but enough to know, enough not to question. It looks to him, from what little he can see above him before the dark overtakes and hides the ceiling, that they burn throughout the labyrinth. Few and far in between, but at least there is light to see by.
In front of him, the round chamber is lit up, too. Its entrance is wide, wider than the path on either side, two sconces at the front, and two along its walls. No monster within, but what is, is monstrous.
Bones, though not all devoid of flesh. Or attire. Ratty bits of tunic, a torn open breastplate like made of straw instead of metal, spears, swords, bracers and sandals. John takes in the sight, the amount of them, but does not attempt to count the skulls.
His breath catches at eyes watching him, but they see no longer. This man looks to be the freshest, though not recent. Dried blood still on his face, but little else to make out, thrown in, discarded, sunk into the pile of others before him. John sees only a few helmets, and none elaborate. It's too dark to make out much without entering, but even used to the stink of death, with danger lurking at his back, he won't risk joining the pile. Not yet. He doubts all of them were slain here.
Which begs a question. Does the monster think, or is this only instinct to bring them here? They're not the first bones John encountered, but he hasn't ventured far. There could be more such places throughout the labyrinth. Whoever they were, not all were fighters, that much he's sure of. Yet killed the same. Sustenance or sacrifice.
No point lingering here.
John doesn't shy from danger, though this—if the myth holds true—is unlike any he has faced.
He turns away from the chamber with one last glance, listening for sounds in the distance. If only he could scale these walls, perhaps wide enough to walk on, search for the beast from up high instead of expecting it just out of sight. If it doesn't find him first, if it's in the centre as told, he has a lot of walking to do. Walking will also be the least of his problems.
But John hasn't met something that can't be killed by a sword yet. No man, no beast. Battle is what he's good at. His blade hasn't failed him yet. A parting gift from his mother. Inexpensive, but strong, swift, righteous. It was Thomas who insisted he got it back when the ship docked in the black of night, only hours ago. The moment John knew a different kind of judgement was coming.
He adjusts the clasp of his tunic over his shoulder, and heads left, down the corridor, then right, starting down the next when he's sure he's alone. Bereft of the beast, at least. More scattered bones, though the path isn’t filled with them.
The corridor leads past the back of the chamber he was just at in a wide, long curve, and he can't see the end of it, can't see unless he keeps walking along it, keeping to the left wall for a small advantage, silent as he can.
Not to avoid the creature hearing him, it can't have missed the echoing rattle and scrape of heavy iron against stone, but to hear it. Without seeing it, all he has to go on is tales. And the tales say, no one who enters here, comes out. But they also say it's massive, and impossibly strong. It carries a labrys, the double-edged axe a symbol of not just the palace, but throughout Crete, though it doesn't need anything but its hands and horns and teeth to maim, then kill. Then eat.
If none who enters survives, John wonders to himself, how much truth can there be to it? If no one but the people that were its family and servants saw the monster before it was locked down here, not yet grown, tales can only be tales. For all John knows, all that's down here is a particularly ferocious bull.
But John also knows that if the myth exists, it might well have passed from the lips of the very God or Goddess who struck the deal.
He'll find out soon enough. Once he finds the Minotaur, or it finds him. Named for its father, to carry his shame. King Minos does not seem ashamed. And true enough, he leads his army, he fights valiantly, conquers with force, rules with an iron fist. His people prosper. Whoever would dare question his legitimacy meets his end by the king's sword, and no one else's.
John reaches the end of the corridor, having seen nothing, heard nothing, and takes the corner after a beat to listen. Back the same way, curving wider, following the shape of the chamber in a ripple outwards. How far, he has no way of telling. As told, he hasn't come across a dead end yet. No need then for the spool of thread, but there must be a reason Thomas gave it to him. It doesn't get in the way, so John will carry it until it runs out or until he finishes his task.
His last—not last, latest, even if the look on the servant's face who brought it to him showed plainly he does not expect him to return—meal sits heavy in John's stomach. Not from fear, but the smell down here. Something just left of blood in the warm, dry air, occasionally. Sandalwood and dried flowers, vaguely.
And that same musk. Danger, tension, anticipation.
There's a fight on the horizon. And unless he wins it, John won't see dawn again.
When he finally reaches the end of the corridor, he expects it to turn right for another wider curve outwards, but the wall straightens out. Ahead is another sconce, and nowhere to go but left, a sharp corner, and another wall opposite.
He maps it in his mind, from the long descending steps carved into rock, the gate, the relatively short distance to that chamber. Two curves out, and now turning back in. In the dark, nothing but few beacons of light and scattered bones to mark his bearings, maybe the thread isn't as pointless as it seems. Whatever lies ahead promises to get more complicated.
John waits, listens, breathes slowly. One thing he knows, unless the beast can scale these walls, it's not behind him. He looks up, follows them into faint light, into the dark, and hopes that's not the case. It would have to be at least thrice his size to even try. Without a place to climb, it seems unlikely. But he's not far into the coiling shape of this place. Has no idea what else waits for him. And it has lived down here for a long time.
It has to have heard him. The sound of the gate echoing through this place is one of the few things that gave John a clue to its size. And it has to have been near, too. The scent is less strong now, but still here, still in the air, in his nose. Less death makes it more — John isn't sure. Full, perhaps. Strange. It pricks something in the back of his skull.
Danger, that he recognises. That, if nothing else, he trusts. His instincts have always served him well. Then again, his instincts brought him here. John stands by it.
He takes the corner, and the next one, and the next. A square serpentine of them, the path between not short, but much shorter than the curves from before. It's warmer here, too. Deeper, if his gut is right.
Up ahead, flames dancing over it from a nearby sconce, the wall curves again. Smaller than the path was; another chamber, maybe.
Approaching slowly, silently, listening for any movement, a shuffle, a breath, John hears nothing. And then — a scrape. Metal on stone. His breath hitches in his throat. It's here, beyond this wall. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, a chill down his spine that's only in part the knowledge. It's death, too. Stronger again. Fresher.
All that's between him, and it, is this wall. If it's as thick as the others, thrusting his sword through wouldn't be enough to reach it. Impossible, too. He'll have to circle around to find the entrance, and the Minotaur waiting for him. Or meeting him on the way.
But the path leads left and away instead of following the wall. Ahead, another sharp turn. John steels himself, casting a look over his shoulder as he turns to keep walking. Silent as he can, as though it matters. It knows he's here and heading its way; there is no other. He's close.
The path disappears around another sharp, square corner, right, and hopefully leading him in the right direction once more. John expects another long curve, like before, but it remains straight, only a few sconces on the wall to light his way. Less death again, but his skin remains pimpled with gooseflesh. Nearly there, he can taste battle in the back of his throat. Fight, survive, kill. Its head for a trophy, and John walks out of here a free man. Free to find a new purpose, a new life. To go somewhere he's needed.
Wanted is another matter, but John can, has, will prove his worth. Someone will take him, they always do.
He follows the path forward, spool still secured to his belt, thread still running over the dusty soil covered rock behind him, but the next turn is left instead of right. Further away instead of closer. John grits his teeth in annoyance, but makes no sound. He's tempted to turn back, though there'd be no point to it. This is the only path he can take. This, or back to the gate. He won't be let out. It won't open until he's done. Food, once a day, but the bars are wide enough to place it through, and — it's unlikely he'll make it that long. If he does, he'll have to travel a long way, if not far.
Without the sky overhead, John has no way of telling time. For now, his body holds the concept of it, but it'll fade and distort. The journey over sea won't have helped, nor did starting here in the darkest hours of night. Seven days, if he lives to see any past this night, might feel like seasons passed unless he returns to the gate each day. It's not something to concern himself with, not for now, but there's little to do but think while he walks, while he pauses to listen, while he prepares himself for the fight ahead.
Left, for a short while, then right once more. John stops. Another chamber. Mentally, he goes over the path he followed. This can't be it, unless he got disoriented. He should have turned right again, even if the path didn't repeat the curve from before.
Even so, with no idea as to how far that one is from this one, or at least its open side, the beast could have moved, too. He hasn't heard it again, despite listening carefully, expecting it to meet him at any point, around each corner.
John approaches slowly. He can't see into the entire chamber from here, but he sees the path turn right once more, past the entrance. Most of it is hidden beyond the left wall of this corridor, and he won't have much safety — he has none, anyway. His best bet is staying calm, not rushing into its maw, and that goes for both this room and the creature roaming this prison. He's tired, from the journey here, the walking, but most of all, from expecting a fight that hasn't come.
Kept on edge, watching shadows, mapping his way in case he loses the thread, preparing himself for the sense of dread this place brings. Misplaced or not, there's no shaking it. But something killed those people, and discarded them like filth to be disposed of. Warrior or peasant alike. John will put a stop to it, and save his own life in the process.
First, he has to find it.
He keeps close to the left-side wall, cold stone under his fingertips, hot flames dancing over his skin as he makes his way to the edge of the chamber. At the entrance, wide as the other was, he listens closely, hears nothing. Not from within, and not from around the next corner. No smell of death here, either, at least not more than ever-present.
Carefully, he looks inside.
No piles of bones, no bodies, no dead at all. Apart from the sconces on the curved wall, it's nearly empty. But not entirely.
In between the dancing flames, in the shadow like trying to stay hidden, is a small tarp, two ends affixed to a crack in the wall, and two others kept in place on the floor by rocks. John can't see what it hides, can barely see it at all. It looks like someone may have sheltered here. It's not ripped, but it is frayed and old. Has the beast not seen it, or — that's the only explanation. Animals do not care, have no wants and needs or dreams past food and water, a place to sleep.
In those regards, they're alike to people. But a person can't shred through armour with their hands or teeth or horns. Not without aid of the Gods. John wears none but his vambraces and greaves, and his shield is on a distant shore now. It's him and his sword in here, but John beat worse odds.
He leaves the safety off the wall for the chamber, gooseflesh back on his neck, his arms, yet when he looks behind himself at the feeling of being watched, he remains alone. As alone as he has been since stepping foot through the gate, which is to say, not at all.
The beast and the dead. One of them will join their ranks.
John approaches the tarp to look under it, expecting another body, more bones, but not his fellow prisoner. If it's as large as they say, it won't fit in the narrow haven. He finds…nothing. No bones, no corpse, just a thin bedroll covered in dust and sand, an empty skin of water beside it.
Whoever slept here is long gone, but John knows they won't have walked out of here. Why the spot remains, he doesn't know, but he might make use of it himself, if there's need. If it's gone undiscovered this long, maybe it will grant him a few hours of rest. Or it's a trap. He keeps his eyes on the open part of the room, yarn leading back one way, the other path clear, and wonders. Two rooms he's seen, one he knows of, and where he heard the beast. Where he heard something. For all he knows, there are others down here, people trying to win their lives, or wandering the halls like cattle to be slain themselves.
He can rest once he's done. The spool seems no thinner, but if it's magic, Thomas didn't tell him. The prince told him nearly nothing. His mission, his reward, the danger. Tread lightly, be swift. Seven days.
Time will lose all meaning here, and John must continue to follow the hallways where they lead him, or go back and cower at the gate. Fear hasn't led him yet, and he won't let it now.
Before he goes, he takes the waterskin, empty though it is, and hangs it from his belt. Vain hope to come across a place to fill it, but the monster must drink, too. Unless it does not, and blood is enough to sate its thirst. John's throat is dry, but he won't be down here long enough for thirst to pose a greater danger than the Minotaur.
Onwards, then. He leaves the dwelling behind, turning left, and left again shortly after. More distance between him and that noise. And once more, the walls curve around the chamber. As wide as before, and John walks on, steps light but faster.
Inside his mind, he sketches the map of where he's been so far, though it's difficult to say with any certainty if he gets it right. The gate, the first chamber, two curving corridors around it before leading inwards, square. The other chamber, then this one now.
The air grows slightly colder as he follows the way, moving outwards instead of where he needs to go, and John wonders how many more such rooms he'll find. He blinks dry eyes at the fire light, trying to fill in what the rest of this place might look like. If it's like before, he'll turn the corner to repeat the journey outward, then back closer to the centre. If that was the centre at all.
He's right about the next, wider curve, but wrong about turning inwards once more.
John pauses, rubbing a hand through his partially-shaved hair. The walls stop curving to lead straight ahead, too far to see where the path will lead. And still, no sign of the beast. Almost no bones here, either. No one made it this far, or they were dragged to the pile, a burial mound deep below the palace.
"Fuck," he softly curses to himself, but wonders if it might be better to yell out, tell the beast to come to him.
Not that it'd understand, but making noise surely would attract it. Then again, the gate went ignored. Then again, it could be just out of sight. John doesn't like this. If it's as large as he's been told, the smaller passages and even the curved, gave him a slight advantage. Here, there's room for the creature to pick up speed, and none for John to dash behind a corner. Just past where he can see, it could be waiting for him to get close.
"Don't you fucking dare," he whispers to himself, at the beast, and shakes his head.
Losing his mind already. John takes a breath, and heads onwards. Listens, smells, but the walls stretch out in front of him with each step, darker, darker, and then approaching the next beacon of light again, walking from sconce to sconce, slow and steady.
Nothing but more of the same appears in the distance. No smell in the air, no grunting breath, no hooves on stone, no second scrape of metal. Just his own breath, his own heart, his own footsteps, soft crackling fire — and water.
It's faint, but John thinks it's water. He sees none, nothing but earth-covered stone floors, stone walls, flickering light, but it gets louder as he keeps walking onwards. His throat grows dryer at the idea of it, the prospect of drinking, with no guarantee that he hears right or will even be able to find it. Or access it. He doesn't need it, not yet, but it propels him onward anyway.
Not without caution, he's no fool — most of the time, he's no fool, but in a way, it's the first sign of life he's found. Not found, not yet, but a break from thinking only about how far he's walked, how far to go, and when he'll finally come face to face with the monster hiding within these confines.
Which remains his primary focus, but the distraction is welcome nonetheless. John doesn't know how long it's been, but it feels like hours. That could be his exhaustion speaking, could be the darkness, could be the tension of expected battle stretching. No sun, no moon, no stars. No commander, no brothers waking, no cooking food outside the tent he shared with those five other men.
He'll miss them. It's not something he contemplated, not even on the journey here, put to work in his shackles, but he won't see them again. They won't be the first he's lost, but the first that will go on without him, instead of the other way around. Alive or dead, he won't return. One of them — it's too late now. John still stands by what he did. So would he, if he knew.
John is, was, a good soldier. Not high ranking, never has been, too impulsive, too reliant on instinct and feeling over rules, but good. Meant for it, his mother said, when he talked about searching for purpose. Like his father before him. John never met him, and his mother did not talk about him often, his skill as a warrior is one of the few things John knows about the man. Not if he was kind, or good, or just. If he's alive or dead.
His mother's love was enough, but he did wonder. Less and less as he grew up, became a man himself, let his own spirit lead him. But he did wonder.
Ahead, the straight line of the walls turns left—further, again, and John does not like this—but into another curve leading right. Which could mean nothing, or it could mean another chamber in the maze. Could it be the one he saw? No thread leads here but behind him, steadily unspooling, but that means little. He could be walking in circles, could have, somehow, missed a turn.
And still, no sign of the beast.
'A ghost', the younger of the servants whispered to him, but did not explain his meaning.
It may haunt these halls, but if the stories are true, it's no shade, no wispy apparition. John will soon find out. They can't pass each other, can't take a different route through the labyrinth. Unless he's wrong, and it's behind him instead of ahead. Stalking him in the dark.
Thinking it, John can almost feel its breath on the back of his neck. But of course, when he checks behind himself, he remains alone. The half-circle of the corridor leads to another straight section, but the wall ahead of him curves again, smaller and tighter than the large, winding path he followed. It turns right, and so does John, trailing his hand over the stone.
He stops in his tracks at the next thing he sees.
Past the curve of the wall, it straightens out, leading to another corner. But that's not all. The entrance of another chamber, as he thought, and as it sounds, the source of the water. He can't see inside, not from here, but John hesitates walking closer for another reason than the monster it could hide, from not just sight but sound and smell as well.
To his right, for the first time through the entire path he followed, meekly as an animal to slaughter, the walls open in another direction to choose. This is not in any of the tales. Then again, he found them conflicting. Turning and twisting, losing bearing, losing sight, that makes more sense now that there's more than one path to follow. He's grateful, more grateful now, for the spool of red, thick yarn.
Finding his way back here will be easier for it.
John leaves the right turn for now, leading away into another circle around the chamber, off to Gods know where, and chooses the path ahead, to the source of water, instead. He's thirsty, but walks slowly, listening for any movement past the sound of flowing water into more. The monster could come up behind him now, once he passes the other direction, and John watches his back as much as he can, stepping around more bones — animal, these. Animal and broken, shattered in parts to little more than dust. After or before death, he does not know. Judging by the evidence of violence he saw before, both.
In front of him, on the right side, the wall opens to reveal the third chamber, and on the other, the path continues left. Two directions from which the beast can trap him inside, but John's thirst outweighs his caution. He'll be quick, fill the skin, head onwards.
The chamber is as large as the others, but where one was empty but for the tarp and one filled with the dead, this one is much different. Lit by the same sconces on the wall as everywhere else, but about half of the room, in a semicircle, is underwater, the back wall uneven instead of smooth.
Water cascades from a crevice near the back, and steam rises above the pool, but it doesn't look to get full. Somewhere in there, underwater, it must drain out again. John approaches the edge to see steps lead down, but he does not enter. Does the creature bathe here, or just kneels to drink? There is no way to tell if it's safe without drinking, though it looks clear. No rotting corpse, animal or human, flows in it or lies near, but there's no telling what's on the bottom, or how deep it might be.
There's also no way to reach the stream without entering and possibly even swimming over to it. The steps suggest it's not that deep, but John won't risk going in.
What he does risk, throat dry even in the damp heat encased here, after checking over his shoulder, is getting to one knee, sword safely in hand, to test the water with his other.
It's as hot as it looks, but not unbearably so, not scalding. It feels just like water, and when he brings his fingers to his nose, has no smell. Carefully, checking once more behind him, John cups his hand in the water and brings it to his lips.
A small sip, no taste, only relief at wetting his mouth. He drinks the palmful, but no more. If it doesn't hurt him, he'll drink more from the waterskin he fills, and if it does — he's more worried about the monster than a stomach ache. It'll kill him long before bad water can. It helps him feel less tired, even this small bit of moisture, helps his eyes and throat feel less dry after walking in the heat of the sconces for hours, his progress slow, perhaps too careful, too cautious, too weak. But while John does not want to draw this out, it's better to take care than to rush blindly ahead.
He has to be close now, John thinks. If the Minotaur drinks or bathes here, the centre can't be far. More comfortable as this place is than any other area of the labyrinth he's seen so far, he won't sit around and wait for it to come to him. He wets his hand again to rub the dust off his face and dampen his hair, and rises back to his feet.
Outside the chamber, he chooses the path forward instead of back to loop around it, but comes to a stop again as soon as he turns past the wide edge of the wall. The path splits again. Straight ahead and left, or left here. If he chooses wrong, he can retrace his steps easily with help of the thread.
John chooses the closer left, and thinks he chose right. Once more, the walls curve, and it has to be around the central chamber. He approaches the right wall, fire dancing on his skin, and presses his hand to the cool stone as if stroking a horse's flank, listening. He hears nothing, but though the wall remains solid, motionless and massive, it's almost as if he can feel it breathe against his palm.
As if it's alive. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is a place of death.
It's warm here, warmer than the other time he reached this place, possibly from the pool which was warmer still. But the air is dry again, and smells of nothing but dry soil and stone and his own sweat. No, there. That same musk, that hint of wildness, somehow the very scent of violence. Animal, but not.
By now, John looks forward to seeing this creature. Seeing how it lives up, if it does, and then doing as he came to do.
"See you soon," his words are no more than a breath to the wall, its stone unhearing and unanswering.
Its inhabitant is not.
It can't have heard him, and John can't be sure it's the Minotaur at all, but a low, rumbled growl reaches his ear as if it's close, right behind or next to him — not through the wall, but over it, all the distance that it is.
Maybe his words travelled the same way. John steps away from the wall, heart beating loud. It is in there. And it waits for him. Why, John can't explain, but the knowledge strengthens him, lifts the veil of exhaustion. The excitement of a fight. If any of the tales are true, it promises to be a hard one. A good one.
Worth it regardless, of course. But John walks on with renewed vigour, nose searching out more of its scent. Not something he wants to smell, but it means getting nearer, it means facing the beast, it means—hopefully—his freedom. His life. A fresh start, somewhere far away. It means out of the darkness, and it can't come soon enough.
John follows the curve of the wall, by his estimate twice the size of the other chambers, but comes to a stop when it's intersected by a straight one again. It leads left, and just at the end, he can make out that it turns left again. Back in the direction he came from. Further instead of closer. He could go back, try the right side, at least to see if it does the same in the opposite direction.
A map would be more useful than some string. It's useful in its own right, but where there was only one path to take, now there are three. The one near the — spring, well, he's not sure what to call it. The water. That path he discards for now, but John retraces his steps to try the other side before he commits to either.
He comes to the other side of what he still assumes is the central chamber, the other wall making straight lines to follow it instead of curved as well, and when he follows the path to where it leads away again, it's a shorter corridor than the other. With a frustrated huff and no way to tell which is the right choice to make, John follows it.
Away from the chamber, then right, left, right again, left again before a longer way to walk. Less quiet, less careful, though the beast could still be on its way to meet him. He wishes it would, had enough of the twisting and turning in the dark, had enough of feeling like a lamb lost in the woods. He's the hunter, not the other way around. A bull is not a wolf. It does not stalk, John does. No matter how long it takes, he will find it, and take its head back to the gate. Whatever comes after is not his concern.
The longer corridor turns right, and John turns with it, sees it longer still. But also sees, if he makes it out right, that the wall turns into a curve again. John clenches his hand around the hilt of his sword. If anything of his sense of direction remains, he just walked in a circle. A square, winding circle, but a circle nonetheless.
Once he gets closer, his suspicion is confirmed by the sound of running water splashing into the pool, and John casts his eyes to the pitch-black cave ceiling in frustration.
"Fuck me and what remains of my life," he sighs, picking up the pace again, "what's the point of this? 'One way in, one way out', my arse."
Complaining won't help, but also can't hurt much. The beast knows he's here, might be on its way, might be waiting in its hole, but any tension towards the coming fight is seeping out of his body to be replaced by irritation. Any apprehension he felt upon entering the labyrinth, upon finding the room of bones, the scattered ones throughout, the small, secret sleeping place of someone that came before, none of it holds much weight at the apparent lack of danger.
John hurries along the path around the pool chamber and, as he knew, finds the thread again, exiting through the path he passed up to continue onward. It's one big loop, pointless apart from distraction and disorientation. At least, he supposes, it wasn't a dead end. There is only one way forward, though this is not what he expected when hearing that.
He follows the thread and his own footsteps back to the left side, ignoring the pool once he notes that it remains empty, but stopping for a moment and the central chamber again. He should trust his instincts. They haven't failed him yet. Logic is useful, but it's not what saved his life more than once.
Then again, he wouldn't be here at all if he chose to follow that instead. Heart over head. Not always, but often.
John takes a deep breath, following the curved wall to where he turned back, but doesn't touch it, doesn't speak this time. He grits his teeth, and sets off straight ahead, away from where he needs to be.
More than once, John wonders if he has made a mistake, if he missed another path, a different corner, a shortcut, anything at all. By now, he lost track of the amount of curving, then straight, then curving once more paths he took. Except it is all one path, one way in, even if the curves get wider and longer — outwards, not in. Not cold, but colder.
John has walked for a long time, but has no way to tell how long. He's tired, and frustrated, and all he can do is keep walking or sit down and wait.
More than once, just as he was about to do that, he caught a whiff of that same scent, penetrating, but not pungent. More than once, he thought he saw another shadow on the grey, smooth stone. A trick of the eye, or a trick of the monster.
It keeps him on edge, and John is not afraid. He's grateful. True or not, it helps him push on.
Calling out to it did nothing, but talking to himself helps, too. Every path is the same, every turn, every sconce, and if he didn't know better, John would think this is a nightmare he can't seem to wake from. Doomed to walk endlessly, looping and looping, chasing nothing but his own shadow like a dog chasing its tail until it falls over from exhaustion.
He clings to the hope that he will only have to repeat this once. He'll find the beast and slay it, drag its head all the way back to the gate, and to freedom.
This wouldn't be as terrible with the sky overhead, daylight or not. Something to guide him, remind him which direction he came from and where he's headed. The map in his mind is a jumbled mess of lines. By his count, and only going on the ripples of the path around them, there are four of these chambers, and one in the centre. But John has no way of knowing that he hasn't been circling that one, too.
"Making me walk all this way. If you do eat people, I'll be skin and bones by the time I find you," he mutters to himself, to the beast, to a shadow that's no more than a trick of the flickering light and tired eyes.
"And if it's you that dragged all those bones there, you could have spared us both the effort," he adds, a little louder but still mostly to himself.
"Or is it that you're afraid? I don't blame ye, I've killed my share. Animal or man, it makes no difference to me. You make no difference to me."
As if it could understand him. A dog might, in its own way, a horse, too. But not this creature made of greed and violence and rage. A child transformed into a monster. When John was a child himself, he felt bad for it. Not from the other stories, but from how his mother told it. She had a way of that, telling the myths from another perspective. Not soft-hearted, she was never that. John hasn't seen her in years. The last time was when he left their home to board a ship, pretending to be braver than he was at fourteen summers, another fourteen past. But she shed no tears, either.
He turns the corner, air growing warmer again, just as dry, and stops in his tracks. That scent, a shadow, but his heart beats loudly at the footsteps stopping a bare second after his own did. It's here. It's exhaustion, or it's here.
He grips his sword tightly. "Face me, beast. How much further must I walk?"
No response comes, and John did not expect one. He swallows, throat dry again, no idea of the last time he sipped from the waterskin. One step. Echoed a split second after, so softly he may have imagined it. John doesn't dare blink, waiting for another shifting shadow, waiting for the monster to rush towards him.
Its musk carries on the air, as does the sound of — a flick, he thinks. A tail. Another step, so soft he barely hears it himself, but the Minotaur does the same. It's baiting him closer. Not the behaviour of a bull, but of a predator. His breath picks up with anticipation, and John suppresses a shiver as the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He's hunting it, but it's hunting him as well.
He takes two steps in quick succession, and more recede around the curved path until he's alone again. John sighs, disappointed, but doesn't break out into a sprint to catch up. It knows these halls, and he does not. He's a good fighter, does not question his skill, but that includes not playing into the enemy's hands. Or hooves, as the case might be. It didn't sound like hooves.
And if it wasn't his mind playing tricks on him, those shadows he saw on the way, it's been with him, waiting, leading him for ages now. Chasing and stalking, John understands. Wolves, lions, people, they hunt like that. But what animal baits like this, endlessly? It's toying with him, or scared. John doubts the latter, but can't explain the former.
He keeps walking now, steady, prepared, but no other sound comes, no other hint that the beast is waiting for him. He's not fool enough to believe it, but no coward, either. At least his blood runs hot through his body now, prepares him for a fight again, sharpens his senses, edges out the exhaustion dulling them.
He's awake, and he's ready.
But the end of the curving path makes him pause once more. On this entire journey, ever since he left the centre—what he presumed to be the centre—a curve led to a straight path led to another curve, then another, then straight again. This time, he's faced with a wall and the path turning to curve inward again, not straight ahead. Unless he miscounted, this is new. Unless he's wrong, he's getting close again.
By now, John knows better than to assume he can make sense of the path. By now, John craves the fight. He hungers for it like a man starved. Feels his senses sharpen, his muscles prepare, his breaths deepen. Not yet, but soon. He hopes it's soon.
John turns the corner, half expecting the beast to be waiting for him, but he finds it empty. He does not stop walking.
The curve is tighter now, circling another chamber, he's sure of that. But not that it's the right one. It feels too small, compared to the dimensions he walked when he heard it before. If he heard it, and not something, someone else. There are no bones here. Nothing but the fire on the walls, the rock beneath his feet, the warm, dry air. And the swelling sense that he's close. More sounds or not, soon he'll be face to face with it. Blade to blade, if it does carry one.
At the end of the curving path, it straightens out, and John walks on, light on his feet, expecting to be rushed at any moment. Dodge, cut, turn and strike before it can correct course to meet him head on. Finish this quickly, leave for the light.
A left turn, further inwards, and in front of him, John sees a curved wall again. This has to be it.
He breathes quietly, listening for anything, but doesn't stop walking. No opening to it, and the path turns away again, but John remains alert, remains optimistic. He nearly saw it. After walking for so long, it's here they'll fight, it's here he'll slay it. He just has to follow the rest of the path, trust his instincts.
The walls remain straight here once more, left, right, and — straight, but to his right is a dead end. Why, John doesn't know; he can see it plainly, would not, even in fear, make the mistake of turning into it. But in front of him, the path splits into two.
No sight, no sound of the beast. One direction—to John's right—is another straight path. The other leads to another chamber, though its entrance is partially walled off. It looks too small to be the one he's in search of, and in the wrong direction besides, but that doesn't mean the Minotaur isn't lying in wait there, letting him pass to attack from behind.
A risk to look, but a bigger risk to ignore it and walk on.
John checks his right side, but finds the corridor empty as far as he can see down it—to the end, he thinks, but there's a sconce missing in the ever-repeating pattern—and carefully listens, hand pressed on the wall to his left. Nothing. From either side.
The chamber is as empty as it sounded when John steps around the wall. Same size as the others, but only the fire from outside shines in, no sconces, nothing else to illuminate it. No water, no bones, nothing but bare stone and a pile of sand in the corner. Another dead end, then. A place for victims to run in panic, only to be trapped and killed. John won't run. He won't need to.
With a last glance at the pile of sand in the corner like it might hold a secret, and then the rest of the only truly dark area he came across, John leaves the chamber behind. Not a secret, since there's no one to keep it from, but John realises this must be where it sleeps. It's not a place to trap, but to get away from the eternal flickering light, dim as it may be in the places between sconces. Even monsters need a place of respite, though John assumed—if he thought about it at all, which he hasn't, not until now—that if it slept, it'd be in the main chamber.
The path turns right, and there, at the end of it, through a colossal stone archway like the entrance to an arena, is the Minotaur's true dwelling. John does not see it, but he does not stop walking. He grips his sword tightly, his blood flowing hot through his veins, senses narrowing down to his goal.
Just before the entry is another side path to a dead end, which he notes, but pays no mind. There is only one place he needs to go.
It's hot here, dry in his throat and on his eyes, and John breathes deeply. Smells fire and earth, smells his own sweat. Smells the beast. That same distinct musk, animal and alive, that he's been chasing through this cage, that's been leading him here, baiting him, making John feel as if it's him that's the animal. It won't be him that dies. Piles of bones and tale told far and wide or not. They'll tell a new one. One act led him here, and another killing will lead him out.
John approaches the entrance slowly, sword raised, sweat and gooseflesh both on his skin at once. This entire place feels unnatural, but never more than now.
He stops in his tracks when the beast steps into view, into the centre of the chamber. Into the arena.
It's — John heard the tale countless times. But none of the images it conjured came close to this. Curved, large horns, the bull-head of myth, a large ring through its flat nose, its thick neck seamlessly flowing into broad, bare, human shoulders, a small blue pendant around its neck. Human arms, human hands, labrys grasped loosely in one. All the rest of it looks like a man, only massive, clad in only a loincloth, vambraces and greaves like John, but bare, human-looking feet on the sandy stone floor.
Its tail swishes, its eyes follow when John's legs start moving again, and it huffs a low, growled breath, shoulders raising. Fire dances over its pale skin, its pale fur, curly and much too soft-looking for the monster it is. Not just from sconces on the walls, but braziers — John might use them, if only as a distraction. The beast is twice as wide as his own form, and much taller, though how much he won't see until he gets closer.
"Gods, you're a big one," John finally steps into the chamber, pulse rising but deep, steady as his voice, "was all this theatre necessary? I suppose you want your end—"
The beast launches forward, massive and barrelling John's way, cutting his words off. He dashes aside, but doesn't manage to strike a blow to its back before it turns and attacks again.
This time, John rolls out of the way, dusting up the thin layer of sand in his wake, a brush of air past his cheek from the double-sided axe swung his way. It's faster than it looks from the sheer size of the beast, but John is fast too. Quick on his feet, and he rises to them before the beast can attack again.
"It's rude to interrupt a man when he's talking," he grins, not out of breath but slightly breathless, making a show of dusting his tunic off.
He expects it to lunge again, but instead it circles him, grunting a noise that travels down John's spine. As if responding to him. He knows better, knows there's no thought behind those eyes but the urge to kill, tear him apart, likely eat him.
They circle each other, far apart, keeping distant, weapons raised, and he has no intention of dying here, but dying to a beast like this would be worth it if he could tell the tale. Its chest heaves with breaths, covered in hair, too, but not like its head. Or its tail, flicking behind it, strong, muscled thighs flexing with each step.
"Taking that big head of yours back will be a bigger task, beast. Do you make every challenger walk all this way, or am I special?"
It can't understand him, yet grunts, fury in its eyes boring into John's. But the flick of its tail gives away the next attack, and John dodges, finally landing his first blow. If he can call it that. His sword barely connects with its arm, though blood seeps from the small cut. If it'd live, this would be another scar to add to the constellation of them marking its skin, but it won't get time to scab, let alone heal.
It's not overconfidence speaking, but determination.
This time, John attacks first, sprinting at it only to dart past the moment it swings its axe, but his own swing misses, and his second is blocked. It grabs him before John can dodge, and throws. He rolls thrice before managing to stop his momentum, gasping in pain, but he holds on to his sword and springs back to his feet in time to dash aside when the beast rushes him.
They clash again, sword to axe, and John's own strength is no match for the Minotaur, bull head close to his own for a moment before it grabs him by the throat and tosses him aside as if he's light as a feather. He lands on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs, legs sprawled wide. It steps in between them, axe raised but not yet coming down. Eyeing him, nostrils flaring, low, grunted breaths and tail swishing in anger. John swallows, dust in his mouth along with blood from biting his cheek on the fall, but he stays motionless.
Not defeated, but awaiting the animal's next move. He can't win on force alone, and even relying on his speed might not be enough, but he can think, while it only relies on rage.
The beast raises its axe, and John kicks at its knee, scrambling away as it buckles — and roars after him, so loud it rattles through John's bones. He catches a glimpse of its teeth, not blunt like any cattle he's seen, but with large incisors, spit flying before it snaps its maw shut again.
John grits his own teeth as he dashes left when it swipes at him with its axe, and he's fast enough to cut a large slice into its shoulder. His sword comes away dripping blood, but the beast only gives a grunt of pain, swivelling after him without pause. It strikes at him with its off-hand, dodged, but his block against the follow-up with its axe is broken easily.
He staggers back, arm shaking from absorbing most of the force, but John ducks low when it swings at him again. His slash to its leg is slow, still recovering from its brute force, blocked with ease, and the beast kicks him with its greaves-covered shin as John tries to straighten up and dart away. Right to his ribs, sending him flying again.
John rolls with it, dizzy from the pain, trying to create distance, catch his breath, regain — not the upper hand, but balance, find a better point of attack. He needs to let it come to him, save his energy for when he's sure to use it well, not match its tactics. 'Tactics'. He'd do well to remember that part of it only looks human. But even its size tells him otherwise, and that not speaking of its head, its tail, its raw power.
And yet, it does not fight like an animal. It sounds like an animal, but it waits, it watches, and rage is not all John sees in its eyes, nor is it the fire that dances in them like they do on the sand-rough stone, or his own reflection when they come in close before he scrambles out from under it.
He's not fool enough to think it couldn't have killed him yet if it wasn't playing with its food. One throw of that axe, one pounce, and it could snuff out his life like the weak flame of a candle. How long must it have been since the last challenger came all this way? This isn't the time to ponder it, but John's exhaustion threatens to overtake him as much as the beast could at any moment, his mind struggling to stay on task as his body struggles to keep the fight.
But losing is not an option. Losing means death. John does not long for it. His time has not come, and he refuses to be the last in an endless pile of bones. Refuses to be discarded so easily.
He keeps to the edge of the chamber, the arena with no audience, no cheering crowd, no clamour for the final blow. Most of his fights outside battle did not take place there, but in taverns and alleys, brawling with fists instead of weapons, and losing meant no more than a sore ego or a broken nose.
John fought for his life often enough, and it won't end here. He tightens his grip on the pommel of his sword, slick with sweat, the beast in the centre, him with his back to the wall. All he needs is to wait for the right moment and take advantage when it comes. Let the creature charge and commit to its path, time his strike.
To the neck if he can, bleed it like any sacrificial bull, but taking it out at the legs first works just as well.
Its legs. John notes the tangled string of the yarn over the floor as he keeps walking. If he can get the Minotaur to step just right, he could use it to his advantage. Get it down, plunge his sword deep, end this.
Even at a distance, it looms. It turns with him while John circles it, leaving a trail of the red thread behind himself, and pretending to pay it no mind. Far too wide to use as a trap, but the spool never thins, and the more of it that surrounds the beast, the easier it'll be to — it launches at him, John dodges, circles, hand on the spool to keep the string tight, to gain the leverage he needs.
The swing of its axe barely misses him, but it's not John the beast tried to strike. It caught on to his plan.
One strike to the thread, just as John pulls it tight, and he flies backward at the loss of tension, legs over his head in a rolling momentum before he regains control.
"Oh, you bastard," he pants out, still on one knee but rising to his feet, "I'm not walking out of here without your head. Offer it to me, or I take it by force!"
The beast…it's not a laugh, it's an animal, it can't laugh, but the heavy snort it huffs is paired with a shake of its shoulders, of its head, and John dodges away when it barrels towards him again. Maybe it does understand him, maybe there is some form of consciousness behind those eyes, but there is no point to humanising something he'll slay without remorse.
Human as its form looks aside from its head—and tail, and size—it isn't, and if it was, it would make no difference to his task. John has killed more men than animals, and not often felt anything about either. Sustenance, sacrifice, his life or theirs, it makes no difference. Work to do, and John lifts his sword now, as he always has.
He needs to end this before exhaustion sets in, before the creature tires of toying with its meal.
John rushes forward at the same time it attacks again, doesn't block but dodges the wide, brutal swing of its axe, and slices at its leg, leaving a large cut in its thigh on his way past. Blood gushes from the wound, and the beast's bellow rattles through his body, echoing off the walls as John swivels and prepares to strike again. The beast is down on one knee, but rises to its feet again, blood spilling down its leg, and its next blow knocks John's sword from his hand.
It clatters to the stone, and John tries to dodge away, tries to circle around the beast to take it up again, but it catches him by the throat, and throws. Again. He lands hard, sliding nearly to the wall, scraping his skin on the stone under his back, gritting his teeth through the pain. The beast is on him only a moment later, but John rolls out of the way when it strikes its axe down, and spots his sword, metal glinting in the dancing light.
Without it, he stands no chance of winning. With it, his odds are low. But John beat worse than these, even if never a creature like this.
He scrambles to his feet, out from the next blow, and runs as fast as his tired, aching feet will carry him, the beast hot on his heels and so close that John feels its breath on his neck and bare shoulder. It could strike him down, but must be lost to the chase, unthinking as it is, and he reaches his sword, scraping his knuckles on the stone as John takes it up again.
In the same moment, he turns to face the animal again, planting his feet and bracing for another blow, sword raised between them to deflect it, heart pounding wildly — it grabs his sword arm in a grip so tight that John feels his bones grind together, and kicks his legs out from under his body to force him down.
Crumpled and on his knees, with the beast looming over him, John struggles to free himself, to get away, and for the first time, real fear swells in his chest, choking up his throat and stealing his already panted breaths. It could end his life in seconds, but watches him squirm and pull at its arm, unwilling to drop his sword again, and bends lower, wide nostrils flaring — not on panted breaths like his own.
It's sniffing him. John struggles harder, throws his entire body into the effort to free himself, trying to stave off panic at being seized up for dinner, but he can't look away from its eyes. There is more than blind fury in there, or it would've torn him to shreds. It still will, John does not doubt it, sees its hunger, sees it take him in, and he can't feel his hand.
His sword drops from it, and the beast raises its axe with a huff of breath over his face as it stands tall again, bringing it down at the same time as John stops pulling at its arm to stick his fingers in the gash on its thigh. Deep as he can get them, squelching in blood and flesh with a cry of desperate rage, met by a roar from the beast's broad, heaving chest. It tosses him aside, axe glancing off John's shoulder in a flash of blinding pain, vision clouding — his numb fingers scramble for his sword, find it, but he has no strength to wield it.
John's instincts take over, and he runs. With the last of the fight's thrill coursing through his blood, he runs.
Behind him, the beast bellows his ire, but John does not look back at the sound of running feet on stone, pounding after him. He dashes through the massive archway on unsteady legs, blood pouring down his arm, mind blank on anything but getting away, even knowing there is nowhere to hide, no place this creature doesn't know and can't reach faster than he could ever hope to. He'll die a coward's death, but he has no fight left. Running is his only hope.
The string got cut, but still lies over the floor as John runs down the hallways, leading the only way there is, only useful if he ever makes it back to the looping section near the pool. Hours from here, while he is seconds from capture. From being torn into and eaten like a ripe summer fruit instead of a man.
He darts through the corridors, past the false path, the chamber where it sleeps, and still it has not caught him. John hopes the wound on its leg slows it down, but its feet follow behind him, its stride long and heavy, grunting so close that John swears he can feel its breath on his neck. He leaves streaks of blood on the wall, first by crashing into it as he tries to take the corner, then from his hand when he pushes off again, and if this was anything but one way, John would mind not to leave a sign of his direction in the vain hope to get away. But there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nothing to do but keep going until he can't, or turn around and die with dignity.
John feels it close, like jaws snapping at his heels, and runs onwards, through the curved path around the chamber it sleeps in, knees buckling under his weight. It has to end here. He shouldn't have run, there's no other way this ends then here and now, but he has the slight advantage of being smaller, manoeuvring more easily. He throws himself to the next wall opposite him when he reaches another corner to take, and instead of pushing off, rolls with it to keep momentum as he faces the monster that owns these halls.
It's on him an instant later, breathing hard, axe to John's throat and his sword pressed into its belly.
But not in.
Just as the beast doesn't chop into his neck, nor tears him open with the hand it uses to keep him pressed to the wall. Between two sconces, their faint flames dancing over its bull face, its deep brown eyes, and John feels small like he has never before.
"I have you," his voice comes out a rasp, throat dry and chest heaving for air, as he presses his sword forward, piercing skin and nothing more.
It does the same with its axe, a small cut to his throat, fingers flexing on John's chest, nostrils flaring on its heavy breaths. If this is his end, it's the beast's, too. John searches its eyes for understanding he already feels, but dares not trust.
It lowers its axe and head at the same time, and John could strike, could pierce, but a hot, wet, thick tongue licks over the cut on his throat, a scrape of hungering, predator teeth steals his breath from his throat, and then, as quick as it followed him here, the Minotaur retreats around the corner. Leaves him alive, sword still raised, frozen against the cool stone, blood pumping hot through his veins, streaking down his arm.
He should follow it. Should gather himself, finish what he started, should sink his sword in deep and — John can't make himself. Not now, his muscles trembling, aware of the strange truce they cast. It's only an animal. It's…it's much more than that. It let him go. It wanted to eat him, yet let him go.
No animals would hesitate or even grasp that the kill would mean its own death, too. No animal has ever looked at him with human eyes.
John listens to its receding footsteps, not quite even, and wonders what it's thinking, if it's capable of thought at all.
It's not until John peels his body from the wall that he notices the throb between his legs, and shame burns fiery hot on his face. He did not enjoy that. Can't still feel the danger, or its warm, strong, massive hand on his chest. It’s teeth, soft lips, its tongue tasting his blood and the salt on his skin.
He's no more than a meal to it, and the beast no more than his way out.
What kind of man — John shakes himself off. Excuses nor reasons nor blame nor judgement hold meaning here. He needs to return to the gate for food, needs rest, and needs to repeat the journey, or wait for it to meet him on the way. If he's to have a second chance, he can't stay here.
John takes the skin of water from his belt, undamaged by sheer miracle alone, and drinks more greedily than he should with how far he'll have to travel to fill it. Slowly, his heart and lungs steady, though his legs feel less sure. It's a natural reaction, he tells himself even if he meant to let it go, not to the beast but to the danger and its touch. Misplaced, but he too is animal.
"Gods…" John mutters to himself when his erection doesn't wane, but tries to pay it no mind.
Instead, he pours some water in his hand to clean his face of sweat and the dirt sticking to it, then some more over the cut on his shoulder. It stings as furiously as the beast swung its axe, and John grits his teeth through the pain, strong enough that his body finally understands the gravity of this. He needs to start walking, but John sits down for a moment, less from the ache and more to gather himself.
The beast is still near, and he still smells it not just on the warm, dry air, but on his very skin, still feels that tongue on his throat, wet with saliva. Tasting him, and — John does not know. Perhaps it wasn't knowledge that it'd die with him, or be gravely injured at least, instead deciding John isn't up to its palate. He doubts that, but he also did not think it possessed thought. Evidence suggests that it might, unlikely as it seems.
It didn't fight continuously, it stopped, it considered, it looked at him, with more than a predator's eyes. John doesn't know why it matters. It does not. Nothing but ending its life does. Nothing but getting out with his own.
He leans his head back against the cool stone, lets the heat seep from his body, and sighs to himself. He knew better than to think it would be easy, but he trusted himself to make a better attempt. Be a worthier opponent to this creature of myth, the subject of so many bedtime stories.
John did not believe them to be true, not once he grew up, but there's still a sort of nostalgia in revisiting them, knowing, having seen the creature. Touched it.
It's still nearby, and John has to move from here before it decides to finish their fight. His mother told him it had a name, once. Before it was cursed into its title, more than a sum of its parts.
He pushes the thought aside as he rises to his feet, turning his left shoulder and arm to the light of a sconce. The wound’s bleeding slowed to a seeping, though it's deep and throbs with pain. Maybe, if he's very lucky, he'll meet one of the servants at the gate, and they might spare him a poultice to stave off a fester. Unlikely, but John will be grateful to find some food there.
One thing he's still fairly sure of; the Minotaur may give chase, but it won't be in front of him on his way back. That's not necessarily a comforting thought, but the danger remains in one direction only. He's safe until it gets hungry enough to eat even him, displeased with his taste as it may have been.
John attaches the waterskin back to his belt, next to the spool of seemingly endless yarn, though he won't need that now. It might still be of use, not for finding his way but fighting the beast.
He sets off on weary legs, grateful to live, but swallowing the disappointment of his failure.