Bull
A single beam of moonlight shone down from the open hatch door, spotlighting Theseus as he arose to his feet. Seven virgin girls and six other boys, all from Athens, had made the same involuntary entrance and now also found themselves buried in this tomb. As the hatch door slammed shut, Theseus stood alone in the hash pattern of the remaining light. The others in their panic all had scrambled from this revealing illumination, preferring instead the relative security of the shadows. But Theseus stood clenching his sword, the article of his security. As prince of his homeland, he still wore his stately battle helmet.
With eyes adjusting to the depths of darkness, the cavernous surroundings revealed the past horror to which they had born witness. The splinters of bones, the gruesome splatter marks, and, most inescapable of all, the smell of stale death all left no illusion. As had happened nine years before and nine years before that, King Minos' bull, the Minotaur, would bring an end to the tormented imprisonment of the Labyrinth.
Against the silent stillness of these underground coffers, each step Theseus took echoed vibrantly against the cold stone walls. But his own heart beat much more loudly. Around any corner, from any direction could come bludgeoning, trampling, slashing, or being bitten, or gored. Each step revealed itself, at the cautious pace of anticipated ambush. Yet, another sound soon revealed itself. Deep, slow and regular, it was the sound of breathing. And a stealthy peek around the final corner yielded the source. The monster lay asleep. His grotesque head of a bull was perfectly proportioned for his large and muscular frame, with moist nostrils flaring at every breath. The hair of his face was matted, and the skin of his body was dirty and course. But most peculiar of all were the scars across his chest and along one arm, in a strange splatter pattern, not unlike the patterns of blood stains covering the walls.
The awe over the sleeping creature was at an end, and the job was clear. Holding his breath in both fear and silence, the hero crept upon his pray. Could it really be this easy -- that the Minotaur could be slain helplessly in his sleep? It was the only option. Theseus cocked his sword and swung. The blade found its mark, slicing deeply into the neck of the beast. Through skin and sinew, blood spurted out from the wound. Raising the sword, Theseus swung again. The body convulsed under the merciless attack, as each successive swing tore ever deeper into the torrent of blood.
With the head severed, Theseus reached down to claim his prize. By one horn, he snatched the monstrous trophy and began the march back toward his hidden compatriots. Step by step, he retraced his path, leaving a fresh trail of footprints in blood.
Once in the meager light penetrating the hatch door, Theseus demonstrated his success. His raised the mutilated monster's countenance against the inky background. With the full attention of his shadowy brethren, he prepared to proclaim his victory. Squeals and cheers of delight began to emerge from the blackened surroundings. This disembodied exuberance soon showed its flesh, as girls sprightly emerged for a taste of affection while boys flung fists and shouted in vicarious triumph.
But something was not right. The conqueror's words failed him. He only choked and wheezed. And splattered in the evil blood of his prize, his skin burned. The victor finally collapsed to the ground. The attitudes of his audience similarly turned. They flocked to their fallen hero. The one who saved them was now writhing on the vile ground, unable to guard the group against further danger.
Despite the wild wailing and frantic futility of his caregivers, Theseus finally succumbed to what he had done. The life finally fled from his body, and the only motions left were the jerks and jostles from those around him. His head arose, as the target of their panic turned to removing his battle helmet. It was sloppily yanked from his body, letting his head flop to the ground. Suddenly all commotion stopped. Theseus' grotesque head was perfectly proportioned for his large and muscular frame, and his moist nostrils began flaring at every breath.