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Blackberry season has been very abundant this year. Dave’s basket is practically full and he’s only been out for an hour or two. Sarah has plans to make him a grand feast with his favorite crumble as dessert, a last hurrah to see him off before he reports for his conscription in the King’s army.
He’s deep in the forest when he comes upon a sun dappled grove. The trees are thick here, the underbrush a rich and prickly carpet. He is surrounded by a calming, silent green. No birds. That’s... odd.
Not as odd as the sear of sunlight across his eyes, blinding him. He stumbles into a bramble, thorns halting his path. When his eyes clear, he looks up to see a patch of clear blue sky revealed through a mess of broken, bent branches. Something has crashed here in a rather unforgiving landing. He can see a scattering of feathers. The scent of blood is in the air. No wonder the birds have fled.
Dave peers deeper into the brambles to make out the form of the creature that now calls this it’s final resting place. It’s... a man. A beautiful, naked man, skin of his back burnt black and cracking between a leather harness. He now notices the mismatch of the feathers: some brightly colored, some white as snow, long as a peacocks, soft as a doves, the worst soaked through with blood or charred to dust, all coated with a melted waxy sheen.
Dave has heard of the Icarus, prisoners of the King so desperate to be free from capture they fashion themselves an escape of flimsy wings to fly away. There is even one who lives in the village. She’s a commanding woman, ethereal and powerful without uttering a word; the price of her voyage in the clouds was her voice.
This Icarus has paid with his life. Dave feels his eyes well up, in sorrow for the forlorn body before him and also himself. This is his future, capturing poor souls in the name of a pointless conflict, dooming them to a fate that makes such a gamble seem wise. Or... death. His own death awaits him on the front lines, too. He is sure of it. Nothing to do for it but savor his sister’s blackberry crumble one last time and give a tear filled eulogy for this fellow casualty of the King’s folly.
He has just finished his silent memorial when the body gives a jerk. He watches in horror as it slowly reanimates, blistered skin turning shiny and knitting anew, twisted limbs cracking straight. The man pulls himself up from his waxen grave. Their eyes meet. Dave is swallowed up in green, a lively shade that dances in mischief.
“Well, I guess that’s one way to do it,” says the impossible specter. “When they say ‘don’t fly too close to the sun’ they fuckin’ mean it.”
Dave stutters out the beginning of fifty different questions without managing to finish a single one. He feels impolite. He should— he should go check on him? He rushes into the thorns.
“Woah, buddy! Don’t cut yourself up for my sake. I’m fine, promise,” the Icarus says while flapping his hands at him. He has a gorgeous, broad smile, unselfconscious in his completely naked and newly undead state. The wax dripping from his wings has dulled many of the thorns around him, and he moves to Dave mostly unscathed.
“Hello, I’m Klaus,” he greets.
“D-Dave,” he returns with eyes still wide and disbelieving.
“You wanna get out of here, Dave?”
In this secret, shady hollow with magic standing before his eyes, Dave can finally admit that yes, he does.