All I have is myself. All I need is myself.
Until now.
I follow my routine before bed. I must. Routine keeps me alive. But after stretching out inside my sleeping bag, I hesitate before closing my eyes. I can feel the library breathing around me; the labyrinth with its endless maze of books like a forest overhead. Wilderness bound, with my back against the ground. I search within my heart for the roots of the home I have made. Look deep inside, for comfort.
I close my eyes and fall into sleep. Fall some more, into the oubliette.
This time, there is no door of bones. Just the darkness and shreds of light, playing against muscles smooth and hard as stone. A dream, I tell myself, but this time I know it is a lie, though not how or why. Nor does it matter. I am here, standing in front of the Minotaur, and the air is hot and the sand is soft and I can feel sweat trickling between my breasts, above my pounding heart.
“You came back,” says the Minotaur, as quiet as I remember, deep and rough and rumbling.
“I didn’t think I had a choice.” I remember his touch, and stand very still.
Shadows shift; light plays over a sinewy shoulder, the edge of a strong jaw. The Minotaur moves closer; a gliding motion, impossibly graceful. “There is always a choice. If you had fought me, in your heart, I would not have been strong enough to bring you here.”
“Here,” I echo. “Where is here?”
“It is a place with no name.” Closer still he moves; I imagine a growing heat in the air between us. “No name, ever. Only, we are at the heart of a maze, a house of halls and riddles. One way in, no way out.”
The Minotaur does not stop moving. I steady myself, refusing to back away. I glimpse only fragments of his body, but that is enough. He is very large. I can see his horns.
“What are you?” I whisper. The Minotaur stops, but not entirely. I stifle a gasp as he takes my hands, his fingers huge and strong. He gently, slowly, raises my arms. I almost resist, but I have been thinking of him all week—perhaps forever—and though I fear him, I have in my life feared more than the Minotaur, and I can suffer the unknown for my curiosity.
“I am a man,” he says softly. “Though I have been made to live as a beast.”
He places my hands upon his head. I close my eyes as he forces me to touch him, and I see with my palms a hard surface, unnatural.
A helmet. A mask, even. Made of bone and steel and hide. A terrible thing; terrifying. I feel straps run down the sides, behind, all around, holding it in place. I cannot imagine wearing such a device.
The Minotaur releases me, but I do not stop. I do not want to. My fingers explore and connect with flesh, a jaw, his lips. A flush steals through me. I pull away, but again the Minotaur catches my hands. His mouth moves against my fingers as he speaks. It feels like a kiss.
“A moment,” he whispers, as his breath flows over my skin. “Just one moment, please.”
I give him his moment. I cannot help myself. I feel in my own heart a pang of longing, a sympathetic echo, and it cuts. I live in my own oubliette, my own labyrinth. I am a forgotten woman, invisible as the Minotaur to eyes beyond this dream. I cannot remember being anything else. I cannot remember being held, ever.
I rest my forehead against his broad chest, pressing close to stand between his feet, seeing him with my body, feeling him lean and strong. I listen to his breath catch, and inhale a scent of sand and rock and something sharper still.
“I did not bring you here for this,” whispers the Minotaur.
“I did not come here for this,” I reply. “I do not know why I am here.”
“A selfish reason.” The Minotaur’s fingers tighten, briefly. “To save my life.”
“I don’t save lives. I barely have my own.”
“You live in darkness. Amongst the books. You go there in the night to hide.”
“You’ve watched me.”
“You know I have. You have felt me.”
“Yes,” I breathe. I have felt him for a long time. My watcher, my only friend in the catacomb darkness, who has always felt more real than imagination should allow. Now, here in the flesh. Perhaps.
The Minotaur loosens his hold, his hands sliding away even as my own fingers trail down his throat, soothing a path along his shoulders. His skin is warm. His hands are warm, as well. He touches me again, palms resting against my spine. I am wearing very little. As is he.
I open my eyes and tilt back my head, trying to see the Minotaur. I cannot. The fleeting light is gone. His face is lost. I am afraid that I am lost, as well.
“Why me?” I ask him. “Why?”