Monster

Summary*

The world speaks of the exploits of Theseus, son of Poseidon, as he accomplished six major labours, and finally killed the Minotaur. What if the Minotaur wasn't really a monster? What if he was just a man pushed beyond his limits?

It was never his fault. After all, he didn't choose his mother's actions, nor was it his idea to anger the gods. Then why is it that the world chooses to punish him? He knows that the world is cruel, yet this is too harsh a reality. Any child is born to be loved. No child is born a monster, and no one is born evil. It's the circumstance that makes them so. No one loved him. He was rejected. His own parents treated him like a beast, and then as a pawn. The very people who should have nurtured him starved and abused him. Was it his fault that he still turned out the way he did?

It began with his father, who refused to sacrifice the majestic bull in Poseidon's honour. It wasn't his mother's fault, at she paid for it. He was born Asterion, yet that was not what they called him. Ever since birth, he was treated as an anamoly, all because his father could not stand the shame his actions had brought upon him. His name was almost as ironic as that of Heracles himself, for they called him the Minotaur- bull of Minos- ironic because Minos didn't want him. What was worse was that Deadalus, Minos' advisor, suggested to use him to help Minos rise to fame.

If he was a monster, it was because they made him that way. No one ever disputes that Deadalus was a great inventor, yet what gave him the right to fashion a deadly maze whose sole intent was to keep him in? What father commissions such a project to trap his own son? What father sets a bounty upon his son's head? His half-sisters and half brothers detested him. After all, who can love a monster who eats men? Could they really blame him, though? They starved him, and the only ones he saw were men. When it is a matter of life and sustenance, can one really blame him for eating humans out of desperation? Somewhere within the monster, the man still lives. He's captive, yes. Captive and scared, but he is not dead.

The first time the humans were led into his lair, he was revolted. He shrunk with distaste and tried hard to wait it out until he had no choice but to kill them. As time passed, he grew more sure of his inhuman strength, and each life he claimed, he thought as a message to the man who should have been a father. Violently did he kill them, each time hoping instead that it was his father who was at his mercy. Killing his victims became a pleasurable and satisfying task as the monster within him festered and fought for control. This went on for many years, each one no different from the other.

Over time, this fire died down too. He was repulsed by what he had become. When had he decided that innocent lives would make a difference to the man who cared nothing for his own flesh and blood? He grew tired of being forced to kill. He resented the gods for the fate that was wrought upon him and yet, there was no way out save death. There was a time when he hoped that someone would put him out of his misery- that someone would kill him and leave him in peace, yet it would seem that such a hope would always go unfulfilled. Each time a man fought him, his monstrous instinct would kick in, and the red in his vision would clear away to reveal a dead man. Then, there were the times when he didn't want to die, for he held no trust for Hades' judgement.

He knew the gods cared nothing for him. For all he knew, he would still find himself in the Fields of Punishment. That's why he continued to fight for his own life, yet he still waited for the day someone would best him. That's when the group of sacrifices from Athens came. Seven men and seven fine women- all sacrifices as retribution for the death of Crete's eldest prince. Fourteen men he met by such way, yet none there were who could best him. Finally, upon the twenty seventh year did one such man arrive, and therein was his only hope.

Among those men was one he could easily recognize as a powerful young man. Dark was his hair and brown were his eyes- in them was a fire, and at that instant he knew that this would be a brave man indeed. Strong was body as was his mind, for he did not cower at the sight of him. He could detect his scent even before he saw the man before him. Adorning him was a great sword, yet he brought a ball of yarn too. The man must have won the favour of one of his half-sisters, for they alone, disciples of Deadalus, would know the way out. The man must have been confident indeed to be so sure if his return the way he had come. There was no fear in him, only power and anger. He must have been a hero- a son of a mighty Olympian no less.

He was not any less intimidating to see. Years if fighting had hardened him. Where his head should have been was a bull's face and horns. The rest if him looked like any other human with barely veiled strength. Where Theseus had a sword, his bare hands were weapon enough. He was both bull and man. He had both their strengths and almost none of their weaknesses. He would still fight. He would not give his life up to any undeserving warrior. With each passing moment, the strength drained from him, but even with his mounting anger, his hope grew too. It was all a flurry of movement to him- hands, legs and horns with flashes of the silver that stung every time they broke his skin. Finally, he was downed, yet as the blade came down, as it cut his throat, and as the blood gushed forth freely, he hoped with dying breath that after aeons of struggle and waiting, it had all come to an end.