Chapter 1
My story begins with death.
The death of a monster.
The Prince of Crete was a Minotaur. Was. He was killed by a creation made by my father, Daedalus. That is why we were imprisoned in the labyrinth. That is where the beginning of my death started.
My father was a man devoted to the Gods. To the Gods and his tinkering hands. I had spent years watching those same hands build and carve, fixing every imperfection his eyes caught.
The sound of clinking and clanking, of his chisel and laboured breathing, were a second heartbeat of mine. There is not much room for music or prayer in this labyrinth. Only the sound and presence of two people— and only one of them was old enough to remember what freedom felt like.
Having spent years stumbling through the odd twists and turns, I could no longer fathom that there existed a world beyond this prison. A world that sung praise to Zeus, and worshipped at the feet of Poseidon.
My father told me the legends in odd bits and ends when he was between ideas— so rarely. I had taken to filling in the blanks on my own. In my version the Gods were kind and merciful. They had placed us here to protect us from the pain of the world. That had to be the truth. Anything else was inconceivable to my mind.
These stories, these idol Gods, kept me company. The labyrinth is quiet. There was only the sound of my father breathing, my own heartbeat, the rustle of the wind, and his tools. That was all. There was nothing for a boy. No stories, no books, nothing to offer as sacrifices to the Gods who I had believed were merciful.
The maze was a tomb. For us. For the birds who shed their feathers there.
The day I grew closer to Death, my father had collected the rumpled feathers. His worn hands smoothing them down, melding and stitching them with wax, oddly shaped wings emerging from his mess. It was not unusual for my father to try to fix whatever oddities dropped themselves into our home.
What was unusual was when he knelt before me, his eyes dark with something that might have been love.
“My son, I have deigned today to show you the world that our Gods have made for us,” His voice was low, his eyes darted to the walls as though he were afraid someone could hear us.
His hands shook as he placed the wings on my shoulders.
“Not too high lest the sun burns the wax. Not too low lest the sea spray wet the feathers,” Father warned, as he shrugged on his own wings.
The details are hazy. Lost to time and the cruelty of history. But there are parts I still remember.
“This be my penance, son. I pray the Gods forgive me for allowing my son a life devoid of their beauteous world.”
And those were his last words to me.
The wings rustled as I pushed off the ground, the feathers loud in the startling quiet. And then I was flying. The air whipped my hair and stung my eyes, but my heart was beating with a joy that was entirely unfamiliar.
Blue. All around me was just blue. The sky endless melting and sinking into the glittering oceans. This was the gift of the Gods.
The sun was warm. Warmer than any night and any day that I had ever felt. My mouth turned upwards and I shrieked a sound that I hoped Elysium would hear.
Up. Up. Up.
I was alive. For a few moments I could feel the blood in my arms and the air in my chest.
And then I was falling. The world rushing up at me, my hair tangled in the breeze. I was alive.
The water was cooled, the salt of it fresh on my tongue. Even the glittering eyes of Poseidon as I passed by seemed kind. Waves crested upon my body, rocking me even as my chest finally stilled, my life finally gone.
I was alive. Right up until Hades took me, I was alive. Even if just for a single day.
I was alive.
My name was Icarus.
Now, history knows me as a cautionary tale.
