The Minotaur counts the days by the scratches on the wall. When he wakes, he rubs his horns against the cold stone. Powdery flakes fall off each time, fragments of both bone and rock; his essence mixing with the skin of the labyrinth. Their fates are bound together; without one, there cannot be the other.

There are thousands of gashes in the stone now; scars that would take a god's power to heal. It gives him a small sense of satisfaction to deface Daedalus' prized creation. To think, this is all that gives him even a taste of pleasure now.

He finds it ironic that the world calls him a monster. If anyone deserved that title, it's the twisted man who designed this more twisted prison. This sunless, cold maze that has held him against his will for decades.

He spends his waking moments wandering the hallways. It first took him months to orient himself, but now he's able to navigate with his eyes closed. He knows every turn, every small change in incline, every tiny imperfection in the stonework of the floor.

He used to look for an escape, hoping against hope that the architect had overlooked part of the design. There was none. The only way in or out is a locked oak door, two feet thick. It is too strong to break, even for one with the strength of ten men.

Once a year, this door creaks open. Fourteen shaking young tributes are forced inside: seven boys and seven girls. He doesn't know why the king chooses to sacrifice so many of his own kind. He would have thought the senseless torture of one being would satiate his bloodlust. He kills the young men and women quickly as a mercy. The alternative is for them to die the slow, agonizing death of starvation.

When he closes his eyes, he hears their screams.

While the Minotaur is sitting in the center of his prison, the oak door opens and a man steps inside. He knows it is a man before he lays eyes upon the stranger. His steps are even, determined. Nothing like the panicked shuffling and scratching of the tributes.

He doesn't know why they have sent a man this time. Nor does he care. He waits, leaning against the wall, listening to the patter of the intruder's sandals echo through the halls. They grow softer and louder, as the man loses his way then finds it again.

At last, the footsteps are right around the corner. A moment later, the man appears.

He is wearing a tunic that appears grey, but would probably be blindingly white in the light of the Mediterranean sun. His left hand holds a spool of string that he has unraveled behind him. In his right hand, he grasps a mighty sword.

His face is handsome, that of a hero. Perhaps even a demigod. It is a face that sculptors dream of, one they save their purest block of marble for. A face that would be remembered for generations to come.

And yet, mingled with the godlike beauty, there are the traces of a mortal man. The man is still young, but his eyes bear the weariness of one who has seen many battles. Taken many lives. Some of these lives were likely taken unjustly. His sword trembles ever so slightly.

The man gazes in confusion at the Minotaur. He takes in his great horns that are now whittled down to mere stubs. His once muscular body that is now emaciated, every rib visible beneath mottled brown fur. His hooves are cracked and overgrown, barely able to support his weight.

"What has happened to you, great beast?" The man mutters to himself.

The Minotaur trembles for a moment. Then, he begins weeping softly. It is the first question anyone has asked him since he was imprisoned.

"I am no beast," the Minotaur manages at last.

The man's eyes widen. He did not expect to receive an answer to his question. He clears his throat, collecting himself, then proclaims, "Beast or not, I am Theseus, and I have come to slay you!" He raises his sword above his head.

"I would like nothing more." The Minotaur replies.

Theseus lowers his sword in confusion. "Will you not fight me, oh Bull of Minos?"

"No."

"But I have traveled from afar. It is my destiny to defeat you in single combat."

The Minotaur shrugs his broad shoulders, not caring to argue. Theseus raises his sword again, then lowers it a moment later. He peers down at the Minotaur.

"I cannot leave here without fighting you. Is there anything I can give you in return?"

A small spark ignites in the Minotaur's weary eyes. "If I fight you, will you take me out of here?"

"That I cannot do," Theseus replies. "Is there anything else?"

The Minotaur thinks for a moment. Then he says, "Tell me about the world outside of these walls."

"What would you like to know?" Theseus asks.

"Everything."

So Theseus begins. He tells the Minotaur of great battles fought for gold and glory. Of a man so strong, he strangled a ferocious lion with his bare hands. He speaks of the bickering of the gods, and the plights of foolish mortals who crossed their paths.

When he finishes, the Minotaur is silent for a moment. Then he says, "These are fine stories, but they are not the ones I wish to hear."

Theseus looks at him in confusion. "But these are the stories that will be told for thousands of years!"

The Minotaur sighs, a gentle rumble. Theseus flinches ever so slightly.

"I want to know about the parents of the tributes," the Minotaur says at last. "The ones that were sent here."

Theseus's eyes dart to the small skeletons piled in the corner of the chamber.

"They have moved on with their lives," Theseus begins. "Their wheat needs to be sowed. Their fishing nets need to be cast. Their gods worshipped." He pauses for a moment. "But they have not forgotten their lost children. They wait to be reunited with them in the afterlife."

The Minotaur nods slowly. This is better news than he expected. "Come, hero," the Minotaur says, slowly getting to his feet. "Let us have our fight."

The Minotaur lowers his horns, and Theseus raises his sword. A moment later, the fight is over. As the Minotaur lies on the floor, dealt a fatal stroke, he closes his eyes. The pain is excruciating, but he welcomes it. It means he will soon be free of his prison.

A sudden thought occurs to him, and he opens his eyes, fighting against the darkness already beginning to dull his senses.

"Will you tell the families I am sorry for the lives I have taken?" he asks weakly.

Theseus shakes his head. He already hears the songs and poems that will be sung and recited in his honor in Athens. In all of Greece. Maybe even the whole world. "That would not make a very good story," he tells the Minotaur.

The Minotaur groans. These words sting much more than the bite of sharp bronze. He has one final question. "Will there still be tributes sent here after I am gone?"

"No, there will not." Theseus answers. "That debt has now been paid."

The Minotaur opens his great mouth and bellows. The cry echoes throughout the labyrinth. Theseus tightens his grip on his sword, as he does not know the bellow is one of joy. A moment later, the Minotaur closes his eyes for the last time.

Theseus takes his string and departs from the labyrinth. He doesn't look back. Not once. He is eager for the world to learn that a hero has rid the world of one more monster.