Rotten Mazes

[Content Warning: Blood, Murder, Drowning]

There is a curse upon this land, slowly rotting its heart. The curse guards the maze that holds the ever-hungering beast - half man, half bull. A monster so fierce that most mortals' wills fade when forced into its presence. Listen closely, and you can hear it whine and growl. Is it out of hunger or hatred? Perhaps both.

Muses do not sing tales of monsters, at least not any that paint them in a favourable light. Yet, the stories still spread as the King who rules Crete fans the flames of fear. Why should he not? Trading a monster of a son to be feared by every kingdom under the Sun seemed more than fair. The annual sacrifices that came with it only served the fear and his ego.

Until a young prince.

This is how the story is supposed to go. A brave prince from Athens is sent by his people who beg him to save them and end a cycle of violence. He, though not the brightest man history has seen, more than makes up for it in his strength and sheer stubbornness. The allure of glory is what truly calls to him. He will be hailed a hero, not only at home but all over Greece. What more could a young man want?

He is not bad-looking either - a muscled lean frame and dark hair and eyes have earned him praise. He can charm a lady or a man with little effort. This is what a great deal of his strategy relies on. He knows the fearsome king who rules Crete has an equally cruel wife - it would be hopeless to try there - but their daughter is quite the opposite of the two. She has a gentle heart, and it is to be assumed, that she did not inherit her parents' cunning as she's sneered at for calling for mercy for a creature who would happily guzzle her down given the chance.

The hero supposes it cannot be helped - she is a woman and he is her brother after all. This might give him an advantage.

She even looks the part. Braided brown hair and a simple yet elegant white chiton, robed by a golden belt.

He speaks to her quietly, in hidden corners where even the thinnest rays of light don't dare creep in. Mercy, he agrees, is what her brother needs. And mercy, as you see it, would be in his death.

The princess watches him, eyes unreadable as she purses her lip. She takes the prince's hands in her own and whispers something under her breath in a language the prince isn't familiar with. He hesitates before he finds her staring back at him, tears in her eyes.

“Be gentle with him,” her voice shakes. “He deserves that much at least. I will find you a ball of thread. With it, and the spell I placed on you, you will find what you need.“

A soft, bleeding heart.

The prince accepts, smiling.

The next day, he walks in with thirteen of his people. They are meant to be victims, but he's going to make sure all of them get back home safely. The Gods never made a monster no one could ever slay. They could be difficult to kill, but never impossible. If it were so, it would leech the fun out of watching. The Gods liked a story with a heroic ending, and a hundred men dead before one managed to even scratch a monster was a blink of an eye to them.

The maze closes behind them.

The prince turns to his people. His demeanour alone calms them, but the fear stays.

“Stay here,” he says, gesturing towards the now-closed entrance. “I shall kill the beast and be back soon.”

Someone protests. The prince shakes his head and offers a polite grin in return. Boldness and a show of teeth accomplished much when you were royalty.

The prince hands a maiden the end of the ball of thread. She is to hold it and not let go. With that, the prince wanders, off to find the final piece of his story that seals his glory.

Left, left, left.

That is another instruction the princess had whispered.

Always turn left.

The maze is alive. It grows with every step, blocking off the meagre rays of sunlight that lit the way ahead. The scanty light has turned a pale red.

Sunset.

How long has he been walking for?

The prince is beginning to wonder if she'd misremembered the way - after all, she'd never been here, how would she even know? - he finds it. Or rather, he hears it first.

A cry broke into the air like it had been festering in the maze for centuries. It shakes the maze, and the prince almost loses his balance.

There, standing before him is the minotaur.

Bull of Minos.

His eyes meet the beasts'.

For a moment, he continues to stare. If he had to describe them, he'd say it was like the blood at the altar, slowly seeping into the pristine marble until it was forever stained with the flow of a life ended. He'd call them strangely beautiful.

That is, until the creature charges.

He barely manages to dodge, and unsheathes his sword, managing to get a hit at the monster's forearm.

The cut is deep.

It bleeds red.

It's mortal.

The prince feels his breathing getting quicker, and the world around him narrows to himself and the beast. He surveys him for a moment and crouches, waiting until it is in front of him that he slides down between its legs.

The prince bounces to his feet, plunging the sword in its back, driving it in as its howls quickly turn to whimpers.

The prince breathes hard, walking to face the monster. He kneels and smiles sadly. What a waste to let him rot like this.

The monsters' bull eyes seem pleading.

The prince pats its nose before pulling the sword out. He slices its horns in two quick slices.

The holler the monster lets out is its last.

The pool of blood begins to spread, and so does the stench of iron. The ball of thread that had fallen during the fight rests against the floor, coated in dust.

The prince stands and his knees buckle as his vision blurs. For a moment he can hear screaming again, and every muscle in his body is set on fire.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

The screaming gets louder and only when his throat begins to hurt does he realise it is his own voice.

His legs give out, and he curls up, clutching the ball to his chest. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

He hardly registers his consciousness slipping. The fleeting respite of darkness is welcome.

He wakes up.

Exhausted, but still whole. His body feels heavy, but he manages to walk. The ball of thread is still in his arms. He doesn't think.

He walks.

Whatever happens, it will be better dealt with outside this maze.

He fails to notice the minotaur and its blood are gone. Not dust, not ash, not anything that could've once existed.

The walls seem to grow smaller. The sun is gone, replaced by the stars of the heaven - spirits sent to the stars, as punishment and as a reward.

He is tired.

He walks.

When he sees the first of his comrades he had left behind, he smiles. He spreads his free arm, a pose of glory and valour.

She stares at him for a moment before letting out a shriek.

He doesn't get a chance to even open his mouth before he feels a blade pierce through his stomach. The aim is weak, but the girl is stubborn and drives it in again and again until she's shaking over your body.

She whispers as he fades.

“You killed our prince.”

He wakes up.

He breathes hard.

You killed our prince.

Something is wrong. His pace is quicker when he walks through the maze, thread abandoned this time.

He does not even reach the entrance when he finds one of his people. A handsome tall, young man with fair hair and the sky reflected in his eyes. He looks scared.

He reaches a hand forward.

He does not even get a moment to think - not that he was doing much of it.

The blade pierces his chest, and blood blooms and spurts.

He wakes up.

He screams and pounds the ground with his fist. He breathes hard and repeats this meaningless gesture until he does something that he has not considered doing until now - he observes. He processes. He thinks.

His hands look like his own, but they are bigger now, a rickle of fat on his muscles. He is taller - or is the maze now smaller? That one remains to be seen.

He runs a hand over his face. Bigger nose - an elongated one, rougher at the tip. His cheeks are hairier - his beard had only started to grow when he'd left his kingdom.

There are stumps on his head where his hair should be.

His knees tremble.

He looks around wildly. Water. If he can find water - a reflection would be all he needs. The monster needed something to drink, there had to be water nearby.

He runs.

He finds another one of his people. He screams and pulls out his sword, but he is not fast enough. It takes a simple punch before his name is written out of history for the failure to have been anything.

He does not look back.

He smells it before he sees it.

Water.

The small pool glitters, the pinpricks of the sky reflected in it. Their shapes warp and laugh at him. The colours around him are muted, but he sees enough.

The head of a bull. The body of a man.

The prince pulls back as if the water stings him with that image. His breathing quickens, sweat dripping down his temple despite the cool wind.

He does not even see me.

It is quite easy to catch an unsuspecting monster. Even easier to drown them when the sight before them is more of an illusion than it realises. The depth of a body of water is frequently a trick of the light. You will never know if you are about to drown or crack your skull.

He chokes and sputters, but strangely makes no attempt to swim up. I had supposed that a prince would have been taught better. Perhaps he thinks it is a dream. A fatigue induced hallucination possibly.

That would be kinder.

He wakes up.

He is always on the ground, gasping for air. He slows every time he dies.

I smile at him.

His eyes widen. His mouth tries to make a noise but his throat is not of a human's anymore.

I get the idea.

“I'm glad you remember me,” I say, sitting down. I pat the ground in front of me. He obeys. “Do you remember my name?”

The question is more for my amusement than his. He does not. He never asked me.

I was another bleeding heart maiden to him.

“Ariadne.”

He stares at me.

“I asked you to be gentle,” I continue. “You are not a very smart man.” The anger has long left me. It has been years since I gave up on screaming and crying. It never did me any good. To my parents who would happily scheme their lives away, tears were nothing but an irritation.

Theseus was not the first man to ask for my help. He was not the first I damned to this fate.

My brother died a long time ago. Killed by a prince who took his place. And so has it gone for years.

And now it is his turn.

I get up, smoothing my skirts. From its folds, I draw a blade. H tenses, but I do not need any more bloodshed as of now. It can wait.

I throw the blade his way. It clatters to the ground, coming to rest near his feet.

“You will die again and again at the hands of others.” I gesture to the dagger. It is simple, with plain gold plating the hilt. “You will end your own misery. Then, you can be killed for a final time. Some poor sod will take your place.”

His head jerks up, eyes pleading. I can interpret what he wants to say.

I understand now. I know what I did wrong, if you let me go, I'll change things. I will marry you, make you my queen, and you can do what you like. All your dreams can come true, all who wronged you will tremble and be punished.

It misses the point.

They always do.

I look up at the stars.

“You can look to them for company. Goodbye, Theseus.”

I crouch, letting the blade he inevitably throws sail over my head.

“Maybe use the time you have to improve your aim.”

I walk before I test him further. I've said what I need to.

Almost.

“Astarion.” I turn for a moment. He freezes. His eyes are not the same. My brother's were soft, the gentle kindling of wood burning with its warmth. I would sit with him when he was younger and hungry and unruly. Theseus' eyes are the same as the blood he spilt.

“My brother's name was Astarion. You will find him in the stars. Say hello if you get lonely.”

There is a curse on this land, and it rests in the hearts of men who do not hesitate to use innocents for their own means. Hubris and greed have always been their downfall and always will be. I am content to wait and watch, and provide a nudge if necessary.

-By Saraswati S.