Nobody's Soldier
Pairing: Minotaur! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader
Word count: 10.4k
Synopsis: Tossed in the Labyrinth, you have no choice but to survive.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Minotaur AU, Greek Mythology AU, TW blood and injury, CW violence, CW death, CW food mentions, angst.
Special thanks to @sluggyboiyo for the idea! And also @hyperfix-wip ❤️
Navigation
You can still taste your own blood in your tongue. The dark encapsulates around you, cold walls digging into your skin and through your ripped clothes. There's nothing you can hear beyond the four walls, just your heaving breath and your own beating heart. It's been a minute since they dragged you inside and dropped you off into a small pit, where you're now standing. At first you thought they kindly granted you mercy, that your crime of stealing a loaf of bread is small enough to warrant a slap on the wrist. If a slap on the wrist entitles you to be dragged behind a chariot in the plaza while people either look at you with pity or with disdain as they throw rotten fish and meat at you. Dying in a cold cell, laying there forgotten as you wait for trial sounds better than what they've given you— death by Minotaur.
You've heard of the stories, sharp horns, a bull’s head charging at you at full speed, and angry red eyes that strike fear in the hearts of mankind. Out of all the stories, you've only heard one that didn't make you cower in fear, a story of a child thrown in the middle of a maze, a child whose only crime was to be born to the wrong woman. Still, none of the stories were good, nor kind.
Suddenly, a slither of light peeks from above, and the opening where they threw you in slides open. It's your final chance to plead innocent.
“Please! It was just a loaf of bread! I was starving, you have to understand!” Your voice bounces off the cold walls as you squint at the looming figure. “I won't do it again. Just let me go, please.” Your tone is small, tiny as you hear your own broken words.
Not even a nod or a grunt heads your way, but they drop something long towards you, and you instinctively dodge it. It lets out a metallic clatter that makes your ears ring. With a tentative hand, you pick it up. The dagger is nothing special, just a plain blade with a leather wrapped hilt.
“What— what is this?”
“To fight with, you filthy harpy.” They say through clenched teeth before sliding the trap door closed and you're met with darkness once again.
Fight, you've done nothing but fight all your life. Will you die fighting here without feeling the wind against your face ever again? The most cruel thing is that you'll never feel the sun's warmth on your wings. Or your sisters’ embrace.
They clipped your wings a long time ago. Not a single feather left on your back, just sharp bone protruding from your flesh. You are nothing, a bird without its wings to fly away with. You'd give anything to fly again, to reach for the clouds with your sisters once again. But you were too slow, captured, cut, degraded and left to starve. Nothing, just like the same people who threw you in here like a piece of rotten meat.
You hold back your tears as you grip the blade tight in your hands. Trying to recall the stories, you remember how they told you that the labyrinth is confusing with its twists and turns. You never really paid attention to the story of how it was built or who even built the monstrosity. But you know who asked for it, and you know what or who lies in the middle of the dreaded place.
The wall behind you creaks and slides to the side, dust and debris fall on your head as you wave it away from your nose. As your eyes adjust to the bit of light, you also hear the sounds of coughing and sneezing beyond the twenty foot walls surrounding the labyrinth.
“Hello?!” You yell, exiting the small confines to walk towards the nearest wall where shadows dance along the edges of the stone barrier. “Is anyone else here?”
“Shut up! You'll wake it up!” A gruff voice says on your left.
“Do you know how to get out of here?” You immediately walk towards the sound. “Please, we can all stick together and help each other—”
“I said shut up!”
“No offense, girly,” another says to your right, “it’s every man for himself in here.”
“What if we could—” you start.
“Shut it!”
That has you grimacing. Fine, if they don't want your help, then you'll have your own back. You can't trust humans, not again, not after last time.
A roar echoes from within the labyrinth, and the flickering torches on the walls dance in the light breeze as if his breath reaches for you. Then you realize, if there's wind, there's an opening and a way out. The walls are tall and imposing, stretching far and wide, expansive as far as your eyes could see. There's rushing footsteps around you, and before you bolt away, you mark the wall on your right with the dagger, drawing a simple x.
As you run away from the guttural roar, you follow the wall on your right, keeping it in your line of sight in hopes that the simple trick you learnt from playing in bush hedges with your sisters would help. This time it's not a flowery bush or your sisters waiting for you at the end. Just miles upon miles of walls and a minotaur chasing you.
Your wobbly legs carry you to nowhere, right palm running along the smooth frozen wall. As you get further and further into the labyrinth, the stench of blood and rotten guts gets heavier in your nose. You're not looking at your feet while you run for dear life, and your toe gets caught by something and you clatter to the ground with a harsh thud.
Chin and chest hurting from the fall, you look back to see a bleach white skeleton that's broken into pieces. No doubt that you disturbed its last resting place. You don't have a single drachma on you, but even if you had some, it'll be too late for the poor soul to pay to cross the river styx. You've abandoned the gods and their will a long time ago, but you still believe that there's something waiting for you in the underworld— whether good or bad, you could only hope that it's good.
Saying a muffled apology to the dead, you stand back up, marking the wall to your right with another x and then continue your sprint.
They said that the labyrinth has to have an end, that there's an exit somewhere in the dreaded place. There's still a chance for you as the screams around you get louder and louder as your feet pitter patter on the cold floors.
The cold is replaced by warmth, wet and slippery as you hold onto the wall beside you to keep balance. Your eyes drift down to the substance, expecting water, but as you stare at the flowing crimson, blood stains your sandals, soaking through the slender rope.
Your hand immediately flies to your mouth, tamping down your screams as you look towards the source of the flowing river of blood.
There, in the dim and flickering light of the torches, is a man floating, body held up by lithe hands, nails digging into flesh. The corpse's feet still twitch while his lifeless eyes bores into your own. The minotaur stands above, half bull, half man. You can't see his face as he eats through the man's chest cavity, or that's what you think he's doing, but you can see his hooves and threadbare clothing that blows in the wind.
The sound of tearing flesh and guts falling down on the ground prompts you to run away, but you use your head. If you run away now, the sounds of your bounding feet would have the Minotaur's attention towards you and come for you next. So with careful steps, you grip the dagger tightly, clutching it against your chest as you ease yourself around the corner and towards another hallway. Your eyes don't stray too far from the minotaur, you don't breathe even when you see a glimpse of his side profile. He has hair that reminds you of a willow tree, long and dark as it's piled on his head. The horns on the side of his head are curved, darkened and ridged. When the light hits it, it shines, almost like there's silver weaved around it. It's hauntingly beautiful in its own macabre way. His eyes are closed, mouth dripping with ichor. Claws sharp and digging into the corpse, you use the opportunity to make a break for it.
Once you're far away from the blood, you take a breather and mark the wall next to you in quick succession before looking and checking behind you. To your surprise, you don't see the looming minotaur. So you keep running, making sure that there's enough space between him and you. You're still following the right wall, with hope in your chest, because that's all you have— you keep running.
A stitch forms on your side, knees aching and ankles screaming for you to stop. You're parched and starving, skin turning clammy as your sweat drenches your clothes. Turning a corner, you collide with someone. Fearing the worst, you hold up your dagger towards the figure.
“Fucker.” The person gasps, mirroring your form as you're both laying on the floor. “What do we have here?” He smiles, showing his bloodied teeth.
You don't take a chance on this man as you get back up to your feet and run. With your luck, he manages to grab you by your heel and brings you back down on the ground with a sickening thud.
Thrashing and kicking, head spinning, you feel him grab your legs together. His dagger shines in the torches as he raises it up— aiming for your heart.
You shield yourself with your arms, but the knife doesn't pierce your skin. Your breath sticks to your throat. Looking through your arms, the man is nowhere to be seen but his shadow looms over you, darkening the room.
Right above you, he gasps out a breath, legs kicking about, body rising up to meet with the Minotaur's eyes. Amber, the half man half bull's eyes are liquid gold, a sea of golden light that could bring king Midas down to his knees.
With a crunch of bones, the Minotaur cracks the man's neck in one squeeze. He tosses the limp body to the side, it thuds sickenly against the labyrinth walls. You're frozen on the spot, mouth agape as you lay on the floor, waiting for the fates to cut your string.
He gazes down at you with his golden eyes, a crown of light illuminates his form, drenching him in fiery light. The horns shine, sparkling like stars in the darkest sky as it both protrudes from the side of his head, curved inwards, like tree branches while vines grow along its sides, leaves cascading around him like a veil of undergrowth. His fists unclench and clenches beside him and he huffs above you, puffs of air escaping from his nose.
You lay there, still as a rock, breath stuck in your throat and a bead of sweat dripping down your temple. The knife sits just a few ways next to you, and yet you don't reach for it or even look at it as the torches flicker and shine on his face. Handsome, that was your first thought when the light hit his cheek. Chiselled jaw— carved by the gods. A human nose in place of a snout like people have gossiped about, lips that remind you of a lost love. And eyes that are as warm as the sun itself. He's human half peeks through, in the slumped shoulders that bear the world, and a stomach that has felt hunger. Grief and sorrow woven to his very bones. Then there's his hooves, where feet would reside, hooves thump against the ground, as if he's about to charge at you.
There's no sound in the whole labyrinth, no birds chirping outside nor the hustle and bustle of the marketplace that you're used to. Nothing but a slight buzz in your ears and your own heart beating rapidly.
He just stands there, bathed in light and blood, hands still dripping with ichor and mouth stained with red.
For a moment, the two of you just gaze at each other, waiting for the other to move but you're frozen in time and he's an unmovable mountain.
His eyes flick behind you, and yet you still don't move. As you blink, he's walking back to where he came from.
When his shadow fades away, and with his departure the scent of dried blood goes with him.
You can finally let out a breath as the back of your head hits the floor. Laying on the cold ground, you even out your breathing, watching the ceiling as you count each second that passes.
A minute goes by, and you sit up, running your palms along your legs to wake it up. Your eyes glance over to the body that the minotaur tossed over his shoulder, its neck is bent at an angle and his eyes lack light as he lays motionless.
With wobbly legs, you head towards the body and search it for anything useful. You only found a single pomegranate in his pocket, it's a miracle that it wasn't smashed from the impact. The fruit is soft, an indication that it's going bad. You might need to eat it sooner rather than later. Before you stand up, you grab both daggers and head towards the different direction from the minotaur.
As you walk and conserve your energy, you still follow the right wall and leave notches every twenty steps. It gives you time to think, to think why the minotaur with his sharp claws and strong hands that could snap your neck didn't kill you. Did it not find you worthy of his hands? Did he pity you? Is he even capable of thinking when all he ever knew were the walls of the labyrinth and the chaos and violence within its winding walls? Your questions might be left unanswered as you trudge your way towards the so-called exit. The place isn't alive nor infinite, there has to be an end or a place where you can squeeze yourself out of and into freedom.
Your throat is dry, lips cracking and eyes drooping when your thirst and hunger grows unbearable. It's been hours since your last encounter with a breathing being. Or maybe it has been days, the winding halls and similar walls has your mind swirling, as if you're under water, drowing. The deeper you go further inside the labyrinth, the more dense it becomes. The air sits heavy, and the walls are moist with vines running along its smooth side. Bones and tunics lay scattered on the ground, death itself has been here, and it hasn't left since then.
Swallowing down thickly, your vision starts to betray you when you see a glimpse of wings rounding the corner. Breath stuck in your throat, and in your delirium, you run after it.
“Wait! Stay with me!” The sounds of slapping footsteps echo around you, ringing in your ears as your mind wanders back to the memory of playing tag with your sisters. “Please!” Hands outstretched, fingers brushing along the feathers, you hit something rough head on as you collapse on the ground.
With a groan, you lift your head up, eyesight returning normally as you see a large twisting tree trunk that's curled around the wall, hugging it and slowly crushing the stone under the tree’s strength.
Blinking, you think that you're seeing things again when you realize the kind of tree it is. You remember it during your journeys, and you're sure it's the very same one and not just some cruel joke. A grin slowly appears on your dry cracked lips, and with a silent prayer to whoever’s guarding the tree, you plunge the knife into the trunk.
Removing the blade and yanking it away, water immediately flows out of the wall. Without wasting a moment, you put your mouth under the makeshift spout and drink your fill. The cold water hits your throat and you feel like you're alive again. It grants you reprieve from your thirst, chugging it all down greedily.
Cupping your hands together, you collect water in your palms and use it to clean the grime off your face. The water's refreshing against your warm and clammy skin. The flow doesn't seem to end as you clean in between your nails and your neck. In your bliss, you don't notice the form looming behind you.
Noticing the sudden darkness, the large shadow dances in the flickering torches. Slowly, fear etched in your bones, you look behind you.
The Minotaur has found you again.
He huffs, knuckles cracking as he balls his hands into fists. Blood and gore still mar his chest, dried and caked all over his skin. His eyes briefly glance over to the water before returning to your shivering form.
You look back at the flowing water, and you once again gather it on your palms. Gently turning back to the Minotaur, you offer the water up wordlessly, like an offer to the gods to spare you from death.
His amber eyes glow, softening as he looks down at the offering. Kindness, it must be rare here as he slowly kneels down, leveling with you. Hand trembling as they hover around your own, as if he's afraid of touching your flesh. You're frozen as you watch the Minotaur, inch by inch, he leans towards your hands. The light illuminates his face as his lips kiss the pads of your fingers— eyes never leaving yours as he drinks from your hands.
You can't believe your own eyes, you've brought down the minotaur down to his knees. All without violence, just kindness. Your eyes briefly glance over to the fallen blade right next to you, and yet you don't reach for it as he finishes his drink.
“Better?” You ask in a crackly tone. Clearing your throat, you take him in. His eyes could rival the goddess of beauty herself, and the softness around them could not be compared to any other. “Do you want more?”
With a deep inhale, he answers. “Yes.” His voice rattles the labyrinth, and your chest fills with pride that you got a word out of the feared minotaur.
A smile curls in the corner of your lips. “I'll get more then.”
You help him drink and after that you rip a fabric from your tunic and drench it in the clean water. Squeezing it, you hand it over to him. He's still kneeled down in front of you, eyes magnetized to your face, watching your every move with curiosity.
“To clean up.” You explain, handing the cloth to him.
He stares at it heavily before grasping it in his hand, careful of his own strength, and careful not to touch your skin. While he wipes the blood away, you take the pomegranate from your pocket and easily crack it open with your fingernail. The seeds are still plump, and you hear him swallow at the sight. Adam's apple bobbing up and down, sweat dripping from his brows.
“It's a pomegranate.” You explain kindly, breath hitching in your throat whenever he flicks his amber eyes on your own. “Do you want some?”
Huffing, the labyrinth rumbles again. “Is it safe?”
His words struck you, is it? The fruit looks alright, slightly more ripe as the skin squishes against your fingers. Then you realize why he asked you, and it's not because he's worried that it's poisonous or rotten— he has never seen anything like it. It's not just the unusual look of the pomegranate that he's afraid of, it's the fruit itself. He has never had it, or probably any fruit for that matter. It's beyond cruel, to be deprived of something saccharine and mundane.
To prove that it's safe, you pluck a single red seed and pop it in your mouth. It bursts into juice on your tongue, a sweet and tangy taste spreading inside. He tilts his head at you, still crouched down, clean hands hovering around your own and horns glimmering as shadows dance along his handsome yet imposing face. Behind the scruff and scars, there's a boyish curiosity behind his eyes. Curious about the outside world, curious about you, who doesn't balk nor try to strike him while he's vulnerable. No, you understand him, and somewhere deep within his scarred chest, his heart understands you too.
After a moment, you smile at him and offer him the fruit. “It's good, sweet. And it's safe.”
“It's safe?” He utters the word like he couldn't believe it himself, that he has been granted safety for the first time.
“Yes,” you nod, patient with him. This is the beast they fear— the one the king fears. Body slouched in front of you, amber eyes soft as he gazes at you. And hands gently cradling the red fruit in his hands while you pass it to him. Like a babe that he's putting to sleep, or a droplet of the purest nectar in his palms. “You're safe.”
Just as you say it, he lifts his head up, and his eyes tear up, glimmering under the firelight. “Safe.” He whispers, brows furrowed, lips wobbling as he gingerly takes a single seed, copying you and popping it in his mouth. His eyes close at the taste, as if he has tasted ambrosia on his lips.
“You can have all of it if you want.”
With your approval, he eats it fervently. Red juice instead of blood drips down from his forearms, and you can't help but smile as he gorges on the fruit. If only you had more, you'd give it to him even when your own stomach is grumbling. There's a sense of kinship between the two of you, a couple of beasts that were shunned from humanity, clipped, stabbed and left to be forgotten in a dark and damp place. You don't say it outloud, but you know that he feels it too. You may not look like a harpy anymore— or like your sisters, but he senses it, through the bruises on your flesh, the darkness under your eyes and the scars hidden under the tunic— you've experienced the same sorrows, the same hurt. Just as he had, still does, inside his stone cage.
As he eats his fill, you lay your back against the twisted tree, eyes half lidded as you watch him gently smile while lapping at the juices in his cupped palms. You yawn, the fatigue and adrenaline fading out of your veins like steam.
The Minotaur looks at you, the same amber eyes that seem to have gotten brighter since he ate the fruit— softens at the sight.
“Come with me?” He asks, not a command, but a request.
“My sisters once told me not to leave with someone that hasn't given me their name yet.” You stare at him as he rises to his feet, looming over you but not as intimidating as before. He inhales deeply, contemplating inside his mind. Your expression flickers to sorrow when a thought passes by— he may not have a name. “Do you have a name?”
“H—” with a clear of his throat, he stretches his fists and releases his bundle of nerves. “Hobie. My name's Hobie.” They've given him that much, nothing more, nothing less.
And in return, you give him yours with a small smile aimed at him. He tastes it in his tongue, just like how he did with the tart pomegranate. This could be the very first time he has heard of someone else's name, or the first time that someone has willingly exchanged names with him. Once again his amber eyes glow in the dark.
“Where do you want me to go then, Hobie?” You lift back up on your shaky legs, back sliding up on the rough tree trunk as you pocket the knife. His breath gets stuck in his throat from the first time someone uttered his name without malice.
There's surprise flickering in his stance but he doesn't let it show or linger. “Home.”
—
You've come to a realization as to why no one has escaped the labyrinth. The rumbling and the trembling sounds were the labyrinth itself. It moves, and it's alive. Breathing, expanding, its voice echoing out in bouts of air and loud thumping of mechanical cogs hidden behind the thick stone. The walls move on their own like clockwork while Hobie guides you to his ‘home.’ He whispered it with slight fear in his tone, an act of defiance against his maker, and the inventor of the labyrinth when he has made his prison— his cage into a home worth living in.
He doesn't look back towards you to check if you're still following him or not, the sound of your footsteps were enough indication that you are. His hulking form towers over you, but his shoulders are slouched, fatigued and filled with hidden sorrows stitched in every scar and muscle in his body.
Whilst you follow, the dagger is still in your pocket, but not a single intention of using it on him. You're afraid of getting lost in the swirling walls of the maze, so every so often, you take out your dagger and etch the same mark on the wall. You follow him closely, not too close to startle him or have him lunge at you from his suspicions, but far enough to give him space.
The smell of death and moisture fades away from your nose the further you walk behind him. More and more of the trees blend in with the walls, allowing fresher air the deeper you get inside the labyrinth. Your footsteps echo around you, and your ears pick up the faint sound of waves.
Hobie pauses, the muscles on his shoulder flexing as his neck cranes to look behind you. His golden eyes flicker, as if he was surprised that you were still behind him, as if the sound of your footsteps were just an echo of the past— a cruel joke played just for him.
“Home.” He grunts out, and enters an arched doorway that looks worse for wear.
With careful steps, you enter his abode. Your eyes immediately notice the child-like drawings on the walls— drawn by charcoal, and small hands. There's a scene on your right where a little minotaur holds a woman's hands, her crown glowing with small lines around the jeweled crown. While the little minotaur grins, and his horns are barely peeking through his curls. Beside it is a child's drawing of a bull, smiling, and its horns are the same ones he has, curled inward like a heart.
There are etches of hands around the walls, some are in different sizes, mostly small, a child recording his own growth. On your left are more drawings, a chicken running around with its chicks right under a black and white rainbow. And a fox curled around itself, snoozing away next to a lady bug. They all seem to inhabit the labyrinth, or outside of it as the drawing of a sun is painted above it and the fields of grass sway in the imaginary breeze. A palace looms over them, its spires tall and imposing, but within the windows are people, all smiling happily towards you. And right on top of it is a baby minotaur with a toy sword and shield, grinning down at the drawn animals.
You don't realize that you're in tears.
As you roam around the space, the walls are cracked with jagged lines striking the stone. There are holes in various places, all shaped like fists— his fists. Tears flow out as you choke on a sob. More and more children's drawings appear around you the longer you stay. A river with flying fish, fishermen grinning beside their sons. Birds flying high with their flock, and flowers, hundreds of them as they dot around the walls. Hyacinths, roses, daisies as far as you can see. There's a painted market on the far wall, depicting what a typical day would look like in a busy place. The different faces of people shopping around the drawn market are all different, different builds, different clothes. There are stalls of vegetables, meat and fruits all lined around as he kneels before it and takes a charcoal stick, painting the very pomegranate you two shared.
“Y–Your home is beautiful.” You could barely make it out when you spot a makeshift bed made out of sparse hay and a single faded blue blanket spread across it— it's a baby blanket, still bearing the marks of birth on its cloth. Stained by afterbirth and a mother's sorrow.
Hobie hums in reply as he finishes the drawing. You can tell which ones he has drawn more recently by the shading.
In the far wall, there's a large hole, larger than a fist but smaller than a person's head. Sunlight and sea breeze filters through the hole as the sound of waves lap over stone takes your attention. You slowly walk over it, tears still clinging to your lashes. Peeking inside, you take a deep breath of the salty air, letting the warmth of the sun bathe your skin.
Hobie tugs the hem of your tunic, and he looks up at you through big amber eyes. “Sleep.” Gesturing towards the bed made of hay, he tugs once again.
“Can I?” You kneel in front of him, taking his hand before he flinches away from your touch. His calloused palm brushes along your own, feeling all the scars left on the rough skin, and he immediately looks away from your gaze as if he's not worthy of your touch. “You're not going to hurt me, right, Hobie?”
He meets with your eyes with a frown, noticing the tears brimming in them. His brows furrowed like he's unsure himself. Looking down, he stares at the back of your hands, scarred like his own.
“You're not going to hurt me. I know you won't.” You nod, tone soft as you duck to meet with his downturned eyes. “You'll protect me while I sleep, yes?”
Inhaling, he lets your scent waft over him. “Yes. Rest.”
With a nod, you move to pat his hand but retract your hand away before standing up and walking over to the thin bed. As you lay your head on the hay, the baby blanket barely covering the pointed straws, you wonder if he has been alone this whole time. A baby laying in the exact same place you are, wailing and crying for his mother.
A minotaur born out of punishment, survived despite the odds, lived when nobody wanted him to live. The drawings on the walls has you hugging yourself, curled over the bed, mind painting a scene of a lone child in the room with nothing but himself as company— with nothing but the empty labyrinth as his home.
—
Your eyes open to darkness, save for the perpetual light of the single torch on the far wall, you could barely make out Hobie's hunched form in the corner of the room. His legs are tucked, face hidden on top of his knees while his arms embrace his body, the only warmth he has from the cold harsh stone around him. He looks small in your vision, no longer the terrifying minotaur of the labyrinth. Just a man seeking comfort, just a man trying to live.
Lifting up your head, elbows helping you sit up, you ignore the fatigue in your body as you call his name in the dark. “Hobie, do you want to join me?”
At first you thought he would be asleep based on the silence, but his hoof twitches, pinky closing around itself. So you try again, patting your side as the sound of hay rustles underneath you. “I'll help keep you warm, just as you keep me safe here.”
Hobie finally looks up, peeking over his arms, and his deep inhale rumbles the labyrinth. “Why?”
“Why not?” You say with no ounce of ire nor hatred for him. “It's the same reason why you let me sleep on your bed. And it's the same reason why you kept me alive this long.”
“What would be the reason then?” He asks, tone determined. “Kindness? There's no such thing ‘ere.”
“Me being here proves that there is.”
Hobie abruptly stands up, back straight, eyes staring at you with uncertain emotion swirling inside. For a moment you thought that he'd strike you down right there and then, until he sits down beside your head, legs stretched in front of him and fists unfurling.
Gazing at him, the veil of vines around him makes him look ethereal in the moonlight. His eyes flick towards you before shutting his eyes, breathing in and out.
You don't say anything as you lay back down, the crown of your head brushes his leg, and he doesn't flinch away this time.
—
You wake up to the sound of tearing flesh. Instead of the dark greeting you, sunlight peeks through the cracks in the wall. The window shines a light towards a crouched Hobie. His lean back is turned away from you, scarred skin stretched upon sinewy bones, raised flesh littered all over it, canyons and peaks of skin— both fresh and old.
“Hobie?” You call for him groggily as you rise up by your elbows. “What is that?” Fear encapsulates you for what the source of the flesh is.
He finches at the sound of your voice, so used to the dead silence, used to being alone. “Chicken.”
Relief washes over you. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of eating something fresh. “Can I have some?”
Hobie looks over his shoulder, wiping the blood on his mouth. “I forgot.” I forgot about you for a minute. I forgot that I'm not alone anymore.
“It's alright.” You smile and as he turns around, you flinch at the sight. He has plucked the feathers off, but it's clearly uncooked as blood spills over his hands. Instead of running away or telling him off, you wonder if he doesn't know that he can cook it. No one taught him how. “Can I teach you something?”
“Teach me what?” There's apprehension in his voice, but there's also curiosity laced in it.
“To cook it. It'll taste…” your eyes flick at the meat in his hands. “...better, and it'll be safer to eat.”
His ear twitches, amber eyes blinking as he tilts his head. “This isn't safe?”
“No, eating raw meat isn't safe.”
Hobie scrunches his nose at the bits in his hands. “Make it safe then.”
You can't believe that he's even listening to you in the first place. Maybe he just longs for someone, a companion in the lonely labyrinth, just someone to show him how to live, not just to survive. “Thank you. Can you gather some dry wood and dry leaves? I'd do it but I might get lost.”
With a grunt, he leaves the chicken in front of you, its beady eyes staring at you blankly.
—
Hobie returns with bundles of wood and dry leaves. You have no idea how he even managed to chop the wood but from the splinters in his hands, you have an idea how.
Grinning at him, you show him your appreciation. “That's plenty, Hobie, thank you.” You swear you saw him smile through the bundle of wood. “Maybe after I can tend to your hands?”
“My hands?” He drops it to the ground, kneeling down to make the pile neater by stacking them up by size.
“Yes, you've got splinters, they look like it hurts.”
Flipping his hands, he stares at his palms where splintered wood peeks through the calloused hands. “‘m fine.” He then purses his lips together and glances briefly at you before continuing to stack the wood. “Maybe later.”
It's a victory itself. “Good, I'll be careful with it.” Nodding, you grab a pile of wood in front of you and some dry leaves to lessen the smoke. Then you stop for a second, the broken down rocks in the corner catch your eyes and you stand up to fetch them, coming back to the campfire to place it all around the tinder. Hobie watches your every move. “Shit, I need something to light it with. Do you have a flint and stone perhaps?” You ask him and his ear twitches in reply. “I joke.” You nervously chuckle.
He shows you his palm, calluses and more scars right on his skin. You furrow your brows as he stands up and picks up a piece of wood from the pile. Walking towards the torch on the wall, he points at it. “We've got fire right ‘ere.”
A smile spreads across your cheeks. “I'm an idiot, yes, please go ahead.”
Hobie places the branch right on the torch, lighting it on fire within a second. The flames illuminate his face, brows knitted in concentration, tongue peeking out in between his lips. You let him carry the fire towards the makeshift hearth you made and it slowly spreads from wood to tinder. Lighting the whole room up, and warming your bones.
Smiling, you gaze at Hobie through the orange embers and see him stare at it with wonderment. Eyes glimmering, fingers flexing as if he intends to touch the embers.
“Now, I will cook the meat.” You prepared the chicken in advance, cleaned it with the water provided by the trees, and cut it with your knife. It wasn't easy when the only cutlery you have is a blunt knife that could barely cut through skin. “We have to cook it through or you'll get sick.” You say while you skewer the meat in the dagger and place it above the fire, careful not to singe your skin.
“I've been fine without it.” He utters, eyes skimming around the meat you're twisting around.
“Your stomach is coated in bronze then.” The smile you have on wavers. “You've probably gotten used to it.” Your eyes glance sadly at him. It's barbaric, what they've done to him. They managed to belittle him and turn him into this, some sort of savage for their own pleasure. The king must pay for this.
His chin lays atop his knee, eyes remaining on your hands.
After a minute of silence amidst the crackling of fire, you speak. “Where'd you get the chicken, Hobie?”
“The same place where you came from.” Looking up, he points at the ceiling and you know what he meant. “Once every day, nothin’ else.”
“They make you catch it?” You ask through gritted teeth. Angry for what they've done to him, what they've made him to be. In another life, he could've been frolicking in the same place you have, even became friends.
Gazing at you softly, the corner of his lips curve up, chest inhaling deeply. “Yes, why are you angry for me?”
“Because!” You clear your throat, reeling it all in. “Because you don't deserve to be treated like this. No one deserves to be treated like this.”
“Like what?” Hobie sits up, looking at you as he raises his chin. “Like a beast?”
“Yes—”
“I am.”
“No, you're not.” His face falls at your words. “If you are then so am I.” You eye him through the flames, hand tightened around the dagger. “You're being treated like one but that doesn't mean that you are one.” Handing him the now cooked meat, you nod at him. “Take it, please.”
His hand brushes against your own for a moment as he takes the dagger. Sniffing at it, he glances at you apprehensively. Swallowing, he finally takes a bite. He chews, then takes another, and another as he groans appreciatively at the taste.
Once again you smile at him, “it would taste better if I had some salt and pepper with it. Or maybe some herbs to stuff it inside the meat.”
“Stuff it?” He asks, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. After taking another bite, he gives you the rest and you thank him.
“Yes.” You excitedly say as you tell him all the wonderful food you have come across during your journeys. Both savoury and sweet, with honey and with paprika. It intrigues him as you go on and on about bread and hearty stew, and the two of you find yourselves sitting around the fire until night-time as your hands gently comb over his palms.
“You've done this before?” He asks, eyes glancing at how careful you are with his splinters.
“I have, my sisters, they're a rowdy bunch. Always falling into rose bushes or crashing into log piles.” Your smile shines and he can't help but smile back.
“D’you miss them?” His tone is low, still curious but careful to not hurt you with his words.
“A lot.” You blink, washing his hands with clean water from a dented copper cup. “You would've loved them.”
Hobie shakes his head with a soft smile. “If they're anythin’ like you, then I might.”
You hide the giggle crawling from your throat. “I didn't know you were such a charmer.”
“Jus’ sayin' what I have in my head.”
Finishing his hands that are free of splinters, you gently run your thumbs over the calloused skin, staring at him with the same tenderness he gives you. Your hands run cold against his own, a reprieve to the fire raging inside him.
“They would love you.”
“Like you have?” His golden eyes shine, a boyish wonderment weaves through the molten gold.
You inhale, squeezing his hands in your own, feeling the flames in your closed palms. “Perhaps.”
While you gently clean his hands with the very cup you two drink out of, with the same flowing water that sustains you, he barely felt the sting at all, but your words— your words have given him something, hope, and excitement. And as the two of you fall asleep in the same position as yesterday, with your head on his lap this time, he finds himself dreaming of the outside world like he had once when he was just a boy who yearned for his mother.
—
It's been three days since you were dragged to the labyrinth as punishment. As far as punishment goes, it's been calm inside the space Hobie built. The seagulls squawk outside the window, you lay your head on his threadbare pillow, and now he has learned how to cook for himself. He's a fast learner, and he has kept his promise to protect you. Every morning he brings a bucket filled with clean water straight from the trees, and the smell of cooked meat fills your nose. At first it was burnt, but in time he learned how to make it, in his own word— ‘safer’ for you.
On day ten you've fallen in step with him, everytime the same thud of the labyrinth echoes through it, he pats your head and heads off towards it— to hunt. You've tried to stop him before, but he just looks at how you hold his hands gingerly, expression apologetic and goes towards the yelling. It'll take some time, more than cooked food, or clean water and your hands could manage to change him. It's ingrained in his mind, in his muscle and bones— all that violence and blood drilled into him since he was a little boy. While he hunts, you stay inside the middle of the labyrinth, in his home to keep away from the yelling or you might get caught in the crossfire.
After all the screaming and bloodshed has come and gone, you help him clean it off his skin gently, like an acolyte wiping at her god's marble statue. Careful, and yet filled with fondness as you kneel before him with a clean cloth. He watches on, hands on his sides, chest still heaving from the adrenaline. And yet his eyes are soft and golden as he gazes down at you with the same fondness.
One day you wake up to him whispering, “for the pretty bird.” Whilst he makes another bed beside the one you're on. It's covered in an abundance of leaves and various put together cloth from tunics. You decide right there and then that you'll escape the place together with him. Even if it means your death, he deserves freedom, to feel the waves lapping against his legs, to hear the birds singing, to smell the flowers and to see the world outside of the walls of the labyrinth.
He notices your eyes on him, and he pats your head again, telling you to go back to sleep. He lays down beside you, blue cloth wrapped around his arm as his body shields you from the cold. Then you eat the meat again, and he hunts, and you clean him up. Everyday it's the same, everyday you become more comfortable with him, endeared with his reactions as you tell him tales of the outside world. And everyday, the smile on his face lasts longer, the creases in between his brows lessen, and his fists unfurled as he runs it across your temple every night.
He comes home with a bag slung over his shoulder, hooves quiet as he makes his way towards you. Your back is turned away from him as you hum and draw an island from memory.
The sudden jolt of warmth on your back makes you jump away, panting with fear as you meet with his eyes.
“Hobie.” You breathlessly say, hand tightened around the charcoal. “I didn't hear you.”
The Minotaur crouches down, bag falling on the ground as his jaw tightens. “What’s on your back?”
Your breath gets stuck in your throat. “Wings.”
His amber eyes swirl like a sandstorm threatening to pull you in. “Did they take it from you?” With a hand, he breaches through the trepidation and holds your cheek.
“Y–Yes.”
For the first time, he opens his arms for you, and you immediately embrace him. His hands hover briefly across your back before letting them fall, palm spread, careful of the raw skin where your wings were.
He tells you about a golden winged man that passed by his window years ago. How he watched on with glee as the golden wings spread across the sky and above the blue sea. How Hobie's face fell when he saw the man fall from the very sky he was just touching, wings melted off as he plunged into the bitter blue. He could still hear his screams, pained, longing, fear— he has felt them before. And as he watches the waves, air stuck in his throat, his hope for freedom is dashed away. If that man cannot leave, with wings and all, then how could he?
“Icarus.” You whisper to him, face hidden on his neck, as the vines flowing around his horns hide you from the rest of the labyrinth. “That was his name. You saw Icarus, Hobie.” Leaning away, your hand cups his cheek, stubble brushing along your palm as he gazes down at you.
“Did he get to live?” He holds you against him, careful of his own strength as his arms wrap around you like a blanket on a cold morning.
“I don't—” you decide to spare him the details. “I don't know.”
“Does everyone outside have wings like yours?” His fists are closed, a quiet anger raging inside him as his knuckles run along your spine.
You shake your head. “No, just a few of us now.”
Hobie exhales, a puff of smoke billowing out while he stares at the wall, right on the drawing you've made of him. He's smiling in it, eyes full of life and hands free from crimson. Is this how you see him?
“Can we take it back from them?” His tone grows quiet, brows furrowed as you shake your head once more. “Then why—?”
“Hatred, prejudice. A lot of things, but that doesn't make it alright for them to take it.” You calm him down with your hands on his cheeks, thumb rubbing away the glare in between his eyes. “We can't take it back, Hobie, we can never take it all back. Staying alive despite it, living despite the lack of it, that's how we win against them.”
He sniffs, fists uncurling as he holds onto your waist. His shoulders slump as you place your forehead against his own. Inhaling your scent like you have before placing a heavy kiss on the crown of his head, right in between his horns.
“Do you want to leave this place?” Your heart thuds loudly at the prospect of him saying no, of leaving him behind.
“Yes.” He says through unshed tears. “I want to live.”
“You will. I promise you that.” Even if it kills you.
—
You hum an ancient tune, a song of protection as you braid his hair out of his face. The vines are weaved around it, tiny flowers curled around his dark hair. The sound of metal against stone rises above your humming as he sharpens your dagger.
Three months have passed, and you've prepared for this day, the day you two escape the dreaded place, to leave behind death in the hallowed walls. Makeshift weapons are spread around you, a bow made by the same tree you first struck, partnered up by arrows all sharpened at the tips by Hobie. Spears with daggers tied around it, all collected from the dead. Everything came from them, the same ropes that used to tie their tunics, feathers that decorated their hair. It's as if they're with you, enacting their last revenge on the labyrinth. He hasn't killed in a long time, leaving the survivors alone deep in the labyrinth.
Beside you is a crudely made shield made from a tree's bark, it's not strong enough to stop an oncoming sword, but it's adequate to stop an arrow. You just hope it works, that Hobie can finally feel the sunshine on his skin without the echoes of the labyrinth behind his back.
The walls of the room you've called home are plastered with a map of the labyrinth. All painstakingly made by you and Hobie during the small excursions at night. You tried to explore other plans that didn't involve fighting, or the prospect of him getting hurt, but it all came to a dead end. Even with him charging and breaking the window through didn't work when he almost fell off the cliff that overlooks the sea, and at the bottom lay jagged sharp rocks that not even a Minotaur's strength could endure.
As you finish with his hair, you place a kiss on his nape that sends shivers down his spine. And then you tuck in the flint and steel left by a rotting corpse inside a braid. You stand up and he twists in his seat, looking up at you as fear shakes his being, fear of losing, fear of your death.
“You'll be alright, Hobie.” Your hands cup his face, letting your touch ease him even if it's only a small reprieve.
“We'll be alright,” he corrects you, amber eyes gazing up at you with reverence. Instead of standing up, he wraps his arms around your waist, bringing his face to your stomach as he holds you against him. “You'll fly again.”
His murmured words reverberated in you like a desperate prayer. Your hand finds the top of his head, fingers grazing around his horns, trying to rein in your own thoughts and fears. “Once we're out, don't look back, keep running.”
Hobie squeezes you, nose nudging you. “No,” craning his neck to look at you, his eyes pleading with you. “We get out together.”
Nodding, you quickly wipe away a fallen tear. “Together. It's now or never, Hobie.”
The familiar rumble of the labyrinth echoes as a breeze rushes past the two of you.
Hobie doesn't know much about love, but he feels it now as he holds you against him for what could be the last time. And as you kiss his forehead, right in between the permanent crease of his brows, you feel it too. Love may not help you in escaping, but it will be the driving force that will fuel you both.
He stands up slowly, kneeling and still holding onto you until he's towering over you. His breath catches as he sees you in the morning light, and the walls of the labyrinth reflect in your eyes. Even if it kills him.
As he grabs the weapons and hands you the bow and arrows, he sees a glimpse of a drawing he did of you last night, how he sees you in his own eyes. With you flying above the labyrinth, above him as he waves at you with a smile.
You follow his gaze, and you take his hand in yours, gazing at his scarred knuckles and placing a kiss with every thud of your heart. Even if it kills you.
“Let's go, Hobie.” You don't tug at him, instead, you wait for him to walk together with you.
He leaves behind everything, the baby blanket— the only reminder of his mother. The childhood drawings on the walls, his only companions— the fox, the chicken with her chicks. And the sea where Icarus lies.
As he guides you to the same place you entered all those months ago, he starts to run. With every second that passes, his heartbeat rises, flicking his golden eyes over to you every now and then while he leads you out of the labyrinth.
Hobie watches for the notches on the walls you've made, small x’s written in your hand, your way of getting back to the outerwall.
“Keep going.” You encourage him gently, hand tight around his own.
He nods, craning his head towards the rumbling sound of the doors sliding open. “There!”
You let go of his hand as he throws the shield between the door before it could close, startling its latest occupant.
“What the—!” The stranger's eyes are blown open, gasping at the charging minotaur and a wingless harpy.
“Get out!” You shoot an arrow right between their trembling legs. “Now!”
The stranger shambles out of the small space, and Hobie immediately puts himself in between the door to let you pass. He strains from the weight of it, veins popping from his arms while you frantically get inside.
The wooden shield cracks from the pressure and the second you slide inside the niche, it breaks in half.
“We did it.” You heave at the familiar darkness, almost immediately, you feel his arms wrap around you, relief spread through his embrace. “We're alright,” you pat his back while your face nudges his chest. “We need to continue.” Even in the dark, you can see his amber eyes aglow. Your guiding light.
“Safe.” He takes your face and presses a kiss on your cheek, slightly missing your own lips by a few inches.
You resist the urge to kiss him back. “Yes, safe, for now.” Your hands find the bundle of arrows strapped to your hip and you take the odd one out with a bundle of rope drenched in olive oil as he brings the flint and stone from his hair. “Take a deep breath, Hobie.”
He inhales as sparks fly. It doesn't immediately work as the small space lights up with every strike. It's cramped now that the two of you are inside, chest to chest, you can feel his frustration wave through him when the arrow still doesn't light up.
You grab his wrist gently, fingers kneading at his skin. “You'll get it, strike like how we practiced.”
Hobie's breath fans your cheeks as he huffs, and with one strike of the flint, it lights up the arrow, and with it illuminates the small area. He grins victoriously, mirroring your own.
Quickly, smoke fills the space, and as the two of you look up, just like how you predicted, it rises up towards the opening and out of the crack.
You cough out, covering your nose with your arm as he gazes at you with concern. The sliding door still doesn't open, and you fear the worst— vision filled with your bodies slumped together after dying from suffocation.
But as his ears flick and pick up the subtle sound of scraping, he folds his knees as much as he could in the space. The second the light enters and the smoke escapes, he leaps up, taking a screaming soldier down with him.
All you could do was listen as screams echo outside, and the sound of breaking bones makes your heart leap, fearing that his face won't be the one that will peek down. As blood drips down from above and into the space like a waterfall, there's nothing but silence above.
“H–Hobie?” You cry out, “Hobie!”
You hear panting above, and he finally appears in all his glory.
“C’mon, pretty bird.” He extends his arm, and you immediately take it. Lifting you up and away from the labyrinth, you hold him. “Safe.” He echoes out, cradling you against him as the pool of blood drenches your knees.
“Safe.” You take a deep breath, and kiss the underside of his jaw as thank you. Your palm grazes a cut on his chest and you gasp out in worry.
“‘m alright, we have to continue.” Hobie smiles at you, helping you off your wobbly legs.
The room is sparse, sunlight filtering through the cracks in the walls. It looks like you're in a barn with hay, and chickens running around in their respective pens. As you look down, you see seven square shaped notches on the floor, the place where they drag and drop down their prisoners. It wasn't as grandiose as you thought it was, thinking that the labyrinth is under the palace, right under the king's feet. But with your swirling head back then, you never noticed the room they brought you in.
“We need to run, Hobie.” You take a look at his soot and crimson covered face. “And keep running.”
“I know, together.” With a nod, the two of you bolt right out of the barn.
Immediately screams from guards follow right behind you. You let out a volley of arrows without missing a beat, thanking all the lessons your sisters gave you. While he charges at men who tried to stab from the front, impaling them with his horns or throwing spears at them. And as fate would have it, the two of you enter a garden, encountering another labyrinth made out of rose hedges.
With nowhere else to go, all sides blocked by armed soldiers, you lead him towards the labyrinth. Your footsteps match with his own, hooves hitting the grass, your foot accidentally stomping on a rose. As the two of you head deeper inside, guards close in on you, yelling obscenities, blades crashing against their armour. As the two of you continue to sprint, you realize that this labyrinth and the real one are one and the same. From the curves to the long winding hallways, it's the same layout, down to the middle of it where a bronze statue of the minotaur stands high.
Hobie pauses at the sight, but it's not his own face staring down at him. This one has the face and legs of a bull, the body of a man, and its horns are curved outwards, pointed at the end. There's a swishing tail, and as anger wraps around him, you grab his hand and take him towards the end of the labyrinth where a balcony overlooking the sea greets the two of you.
Sea breeze hits your face, and for a second you're back at home— not the one where your sisters lie, but where Hobie lived, where he held you in his arms as you cried the night away. Where your chatter and his chuckles fill the cold air. Where his drawings and his face are the first thing you see in the morning. It's as if you can't truly escape the labyrinth.
Hobie is awestruck by the open sea, feeling the sun warm his flesh, and by the time he notices an archer aiming right at his head, it's too late as he pushes you aside, aiming back with his spear. He hears you nock back an arrow but it doesn't fly overhead, just as his spear meets the soldier's stomach. He looks back at you, triumphant but his face falls when he sees the arrow that was meant for him is now pierced in your chest— right in your heart.
His guttural scream sends the men backwards in fear.
You gaze at Hobie, determined that the last thing you'll ever see is his face in the backdrop of the blue sky where you once flew above. Your legs try to hold you up but you end up keeling over, falling right in his arms.
You want to say something— anything, but only blood comes out of your mouth, crimson flooding out of your chest. So you take his cheek, trembling hand brushing along his jaw one last time.
Even when a volley of arrows hits his back, he holds you in his arms. The pain is nothing compared to feeling your blood soak his hands.
He shields you from the arrows, tears streaming down his amber eyes as it falls on your cold cheek. His warm blood coats your front, mixing with your own.
“D–Don't go. You promised.” Was the last thing you ever heard from him before meeting with the ferryman himself. You're happy that it was his voice.
With one last ounce of his strength, he lifts you up from the bloodied marble floor, and rises up to the balcony with strained effort. The last arrow hits the small of his back and he plunges down on the cold depths just like Icarus did.
He did promise you that you'll fly once again.
For a moment, he sees you fly in the backdrop of the same sky you longed for. And as the water swallows him, arrows protruding from his back, he melds with you. Together, he said, so together you two shall go down into the depths.
Support banner by @/cafekitsune
A/N: Please consider reblogging if you liked it!! Thank you for reading ❤️
