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His father dripped the candle wax onto the fathers, slowly, careful not to waste a single bit of what they had.
Meanwhile, he collected feathers, more and more until the narrow halls they tried to navigate looked bare and unalive; like they had never seen the light of the sun chariot nor the depths of tartarus before that moment.
When they had started, Icarus, with his determined face, with his unready body, looking almost childlike, was set on helping his father escape. Not for himself, but because his father deserved so much better than that King with no kindness left in his heart. So he collected feathers upon feathers, in the dark of the night and in the brightness of the day; he pulled on the tails of seagulls and on the wings of doves, desperate for even a single feather more.
His father worked tirelessly for days, maybe even weeks, eagerly, achingly, trying to construct the wings. He pulled the leather off his own sandals to make holds for their arms and hands, and he stubbornly refused to accept Icarus’ offer of his own leather straps.
“My dearest, you need your sandals to collect feathers for me. I do not want you to have blisters and cuts on your feet,” he’d explained, pushing the sandals back into Icarus’ limp hands. “That’d slow your feather collecting!”
Icarus laughed weakly and unconvincingly at his father’s joke. His father smiled, as if he’d never noticed the flicker of desperation, hopelessness, on his son’s face.
So Icarus kept collecting. He clutched onto seagulls, suffocating them and offering their meat and feathers to his father. His father eats, desperate for even a bit of food to quench his ever growing hunger. The seagulls obviously didn't do.
“Are you not going to eat yourself, my son?”
“I’ve already eaten, worry not about me.”
Icarus lied to his father. He’d frightened off most of the birds that surrounded and frequented the labyrinth, which his evil clutching and feather stealing. He hadn’t been able to get but one, and he would sacrifice everything, including himself, for his father’s sake. Everything was less than his father.
At one point, Icarus had seen a dove, and he could have caught it. He should’ve, and he should’ve killed it and ate it with no remorse, none at all. But doves had always been his mother’s favourite bird, back when she was there with them. She’d sing and dance to them, treat them with utmost respect and dignity.
She had prayed to Aphrodite a few days before her death, and the Goddess had blessed her with flowers and love and nothing but happiness in the afterlife, she’d told Icarus, on her deathbed. Doves were a symbol of Aphrodite. So Icarus let the dove be, and he’d let it go and bless someone or another with love.
So when his father had deemed the feathers enough, more than enough, due to Icarus’ anxious collecting, Icarus sat and watched his father work. For hours on end, never taking a moment’s rest. His father carefully dripped candle wax, which they had been saving, onto feathers to bind them together. The feathers were all mismatched, clearly never the same size and not even the same colour. Dove whites, seagull greys and raven blacks all binded, indiscriminately, to the same row, working together to create a wing strong enough to lift Icarus’ frame; and then, his father’s own frame.
Icarus watched his father for an entire day, occasionally glancing up to see the sun make its way, in an arch, across the being of the sky. When it became much past sunset, and Icarus grew weary and tired, unable to keep his eyes open in the flickering light of the stub of the candle his father was using, he suggested sleep.
“Gods forbid, no,” his father had answered, his old, swollen eyes never leaving his almost withered hands, which worked endlessly on the wings, perfecting them so there would be not a chance they could break and fall apart mid-flight. “I am so very nearly done, I can finish them tonight, I’m certain of it,” his father placed his hand on Icarus’ cheek, his fingers blistered, “Rest, now. Tomorrow we will leave Crete at the first shard of daylight that hits us, and we will never look back into the eyes of the King.”
Icarus considered it for a moment, maybe wanting to tell his father that he shouldn’t tire himself before their long flight. But his father will never listen, so he just kept the protests building up in his throat at bay.
He took his father’s hand, and kissed the back of it, gently, kindly. He was telling his father to be careful in his own way.
“May your sleep be dreamless and swift,” his father told him, like he always had.
Then he had smiled at him, then he turned back to his work, their wings, and he was engrossed in the craft yet again.
Icarus smiled, then moved a bit away, laying down on the hard floor. They had found no grass, no soft ground, so they settled where they could.
Icarus closed his eyes, very aware of his father working behind him, and the candle wax melting, and the creatures of the night coming out for their food. He was aware of the cold that wrapped his legs, and face, and arms. He was aware of the pebble that rested in front of his face, and the pebble that rested under his thigh. He was aware, until he drifted off to a slumber deeper than he’d had in weeks.
But his slumber was not dreamless, nor swift.
He dreamed of himself among the clouds, yet with no wings beating by the help of his arms, and his father was nowhere to be found. The clouds drifted, seemingly unaware, or uncaring, of the fact that Icarus stood in between them, as one with their ethereal bodies. Cloud and wind nymphs passed by him, engrossed in their own worlds, completely unaware of his awestruck appearance.
They floated and flew, and levaited and glided, on and on, and Icarus wondered if they ever got tired of being immortal, undying, completely and utterly stuck to this plane, confined in a mortal place despite not being anything near mortal themselves. It was a curious subject.
But before Icarus could stop a nymph and inquire, he was standing face to face with a being he could only describe as warm .
His body, clearly godly and immortal, stood taller than Icarus’, though not as much as you’d expect. His chest was bare, and a tattoo- of the sun?- was inked in an elegant gold, a face smiling as it glanced to the side. His arms had tattoos too, like they were bracelets and bands surrounding the muscles of the arms. Icarus dared not look up at the face.
“Do you know who I am?” The voice was deep, and so smooth, like one of a dominant leader, of a king.
Icarus had an idea, he didn’t want to be wrong. He may insult the God, and release His wrath upon himself and his father.
“Speak!”
“Apo- Apollo, m-my Lord,” Icarus was scared to no end. He was faced with a deity, for goodness’ sake! He could be pulverised with one wrong syllable.
“Mhm,” the God, Apollo, confirmed. He stayed quiet for a moment, and Icarus’ heart started drumming, quickly, rabidly in his chest.
And then Apollo’s hands, burning hot yet pleasantly cool at the same time, reached up into Icarus’ hair and ran the hand through it. Slowly, so slowly, so that Icarus felt every brown hair strand as it was pulled back by the hand, and every strand as it fell back into his face and covered his eyes. Apollo then pulled back his hand, only to put it back on Icarus’ cheek.
Icarus shivered, despite the fact that the hand on his face was the literal body of the sun itself. The hand laid there, for a moment, two, three-
The warmth was so pleasant, so secure, so intimate. Icarus felt himself melt into the touch, only to adjust his posture when he realised how stupid of an option that was. This was a God. He was probably checking how fit Icarus was for a sacrifice.
“Your face reminds me…”
“Yes, my Lord?”
But Apollo didn't answer, instead opting to trace Icarus’ jawline with his thumb. Icarus shivered, again, and was momentarily confused yet again. There was a feeling within him, an emotion, a longing. For something from the God. From Apollo.
Then Apollo decided to trail his finger across Icarus’ bottom lip, and his entire body burst into flame. But not from the God’s touch, but from within his own body. He felt his cheeks turn red and the tips on his ears do the same. He began to sweat, though not from heat. His entire body followed, desperately, the touch of the God, wanting it to touch him forever.
“Mhm, you are like him,” Apollo said, finally removing his hand from Icarus’ face and letting the boy want and long for the warmth of the God on him again. Icarus tried to relax. Though, not a lot. He was still in the presence of a God, after all.
Icarus dared not ask who ‘he’ was.
“My darling, mortal,” Apollo’s voice carried all around him, letting him hear not the wind, nor the clouds, nor the soft murmurings of Mother Earth and Father Sky, which he could sometimes distinguish.
“Yes, my Lord Apollo?”
“Do you wish to be in the skies with me?”
“Pardon, My good Lord?”
Apollo, again, placed a hand on Icarus’ face. Then, he added another one, and he forced Icarus to look up. Icarus closed his eyes, afraid that if he saw Apollo’s face he would die; either from Apollo’s beauty, his face’s mere God-ness or from Apollo himself because he thought that Icarus did not deserve to see his likeness.
“My dear mortal,” Apollo began, his breath smelling like sunshine, radiance, and music all at once, “If you wish to join me in the skies, just fly towards my chariot. And no matter what happens, do not stop. No matter what anyone says.”
Icarus nodded, vigorously, still his face and body and very soul lit aflame by Apollo’s touch alone. The hands still stayed on his face. Both thumbs were tracing, carefully, slowly, teasingly, his jaw, his lips, his entire face; it felt as if it were on fire.
The God said nothing more, letting Icarus do nothing but absorb his warmth, his being, his very energy.
Icarus woke up.
Was that a dream, a prophecy, or a message? Icarus wasn't quite sure. But, he felt the need to follow the God’s guide and fly towards the sun. He felt that he did not just want to, he needed to. And that was a good enough reason for him.
The sun, maybe th God himself, was just climbing up the sky, illuminating the bare walls of the labyrinth. Icarus watched, mesmerised, curious to see if he’d get another message, another order. But the sun did neither speak nor smile nor even became vaguely human. The God had obviously said what he needed to, and had left Icarus to make his decision. He knew what he was doing.
Icarus watched for a moment, willing the God to give him something, anything, to prove that his dream was actually him and not just made in Icarus’ imagination. Nothing happened. But Icarus knew what he saw, and he knew he must fly towards the sun. No matter what happened, like Apollo had told him to.
Icarus’s father was fast asleep, being covered by his pair of wings. Icarus’ own were beside him, a flurry of white and grey and black all at once, a monotony of a parrot’s wing colour. Icarus stared and stared and stared, trying to imagine them in full colour, as if they were made by his father for fun.
“Icarus?”
Icarus, a bit startled, sat up properly, and stared at his father’s rising body.
“Yes, father?”
“We are to leave. Immediately.”
Icarus nodded, then arose from his position, walking over to his father and helping his creaky bones to stand up. He then picked up his father's wings, who took the wings, then, quickly, without letting Icarus comprehend how, he put them on.
Icarus then picked up his own pair of wings, and stared at them for a long time, not quite sure how he should put them on.
His father watched him carefully finger the feathers, confused yet captivated by them, and then cautiously preen them and his own hair. His father walked closer and grabbed one of the wings, taking his time as he adjusted the joints and curves to Icarus’ thin arms. His father slowly, carefully, strapped the wings to Icarus’ arms, and helped him adjust to their weight. He carefully brushed his hands against the feathers, making sure every single one was in perfect place.
Icarus, in his human body, unaware of what flight would bring him, flapped his arms.
And his body absolutely buzzed with excitement, with joy, with childhood innocence. The way his body leapt off the ground, the way it stayed afloat, letting him enjoy the air and the wind and the very nature of flying itself. His arms beat in a rhythm beside him, as if he’d had wings since the moment he was born, the moment he could open his eyes. His arms knew when to flap so that he stayed stationary, still, in the same spot, hovering but a couple metres off the hard ground.
“Father, this feels fantastic,” Icarus breathed, his arms not aching despite the work they were doing. His father nodded as he laughed, gleefully, and began flapping his own arms to take flight himself. His arms were more uneasy, more disoriented, as they controlled the wings. They flapped less steadily, less sure than Icarus’ own.
They landed again, for a moment of rest, and a vague plan of what to do.
“My son, fly towards the east, towards the sunrise, and never stop, never change direction nor look back. We will fly and fly until we can longer, or we find a civilised land. We will fly and make it out of this cursed place,” were his father’s instructions, his commands.
“The sky is our home and horizon is our target for as long as it may be, and we will not stop.” His father breathed, shakily, as he cautioned him. “Fly midway, my son. Never lower, nor higher. The water may pry the feathers apart, and the sun will scorch the wax and melt it. You will fall and die, and that is not good.”
Icarus stared at his father.
“Can you promise me not to disobey my orders?” his father asked, grabbing both his hands, and looking deep into his soul.
“I promise.” Icarus lied through his teeth, to his father, as if it were nothing. Icarus felt a pang of regret and remorse in his body, yet it did not deter him from his mission.
His father smiled, proud of his son, completely unaware of the lies he was told.
Icarus nodded at his father, ready, and then-
Flight did not get any less exhilarating nor did it get any less fascinating with time, with each flight, with each beat of his arm-wings.
Icarus felt a rush of adrenaline, and he flew up, his father beside, then in front of him. They flew up, up, up and so far away from the labyrinth, the minotaur and the king. His cruelty was nothing to be scared of now. Icarus and his father were safe.
Icarus gave a gleeful shout, a noise of triumph and happiness as they flew so far and so fast that Crete was gone from their vision in a matter of minutes, as if it were on the other side of the world, as if they were not stuck on it, desperate to escape, only a few days before. His father smiled, so happily, with so much relief, and they flew and flew, far away and never to go back.
“Icarus, we are free!”
“We are, father! We are!”
And on they flew. In the middle of the sky, soaring above the ocean, as if they were the only beings in that entire world at that very moment. A fisherman may have looked up, in awe and confusion, perhaps mistaking them for harpies, or messengers of Hermes, or maybe even giant birds. Someone on a ship may have looked up and seen nothing but two dots, two birds flying across the country with determination and want.
His father thought they would make it together. Icarus knew they would not.
Midday, they were tired, restless, having been flying for hours with no rest, and no land in sight. Icarus knew what he must do. This was the perfect time, lest they stumble upon an island to rest on.
So he flew up, pretending to be arrogant and uncaring, pretending to be a boy of no fear nor remorse. He pretended to be unreasonable, laughing with mirth as he climbed higher, high into the sky, towards the heavens and the Gods.
He heard his father beg, shout, and order him. He heard him tell him to go down, that the sun would melt the wax, cause it to unbind and break the wings. He heard his father plead ‘Icarus!’ wishing him to go down. He saw feathers unbind, fall, break apart, and he kept going, up and up. Towards the sun, towards the Chariot. Towards Apollo.
His wings fell apart, slowly at first, then with such speed and anger that Icarus felt it were his father’s temper causing them to fall and break; his desperate pleas still unheard by Icarus and his commands still undone. Icarus heard crying, sobbing as his wings, finally exhausted, were stripped completely away, leaving nothing but the leather straps of his father’s sandals hanging, bound, to his arms.
Icarus fell and fell and fell, his eyes watering from the wind and his arms limp and numb from the falling of the wings. His thoughts were hazy, incomprehensible, and he could not form a thought that may have saved his poor life.
Except that that wasn't Icarus, but his mortal body, left with not a soul nor name, as if it were nothing but a mannequin, a doll, dropped from a child’s bored hands.
Icarus, his being, his soul, the real him, clung onto a hand that was reaching out from a chariot that was far, far up in the sky. A chariot that radiated warmth and power. A chariot that was the sun itself.
The hand was then accompanied by another, which reached and held onto Icarus’ arm and pulled him up, up. Into the chariot, and into the arms and chest of the one that pulled him up.
And then he pulled back, scared, terrified, that he would be crushed for even thinking of touching the arms of those who saved him.
“Icarus, my dear,” Apollo, for it was Apollo who had saved him, pulled him up from certain death, said.
Icarus did not look up, closing his eyes and begging to be safe, that he would not be sent to tartarus for his behaviour. He hoped that the dream he had was a prophecy, a message, and not a mere fantasy he had cooked up in his mind, when he was desperate for contact other than his father.
Apollo reached a hand over to him, and used his thumb and forefinger to lift his chin up, gently. Icarus’ eyes stayed close, afraid to see his own death.
“Icarus, please open your eyes,” the God, in his deep, smooth voice, commanded. Icarus hesitated, for a moment, then did as he was told.
Apollo’s golden eyes stared back at him. His dreadlocks, which were pulled into a lazy half ponytail, fell down as he looked down into Icarus’ face, his eyes, his very being. Darker skin surrounded golden bright, light eyes and bright golden tattoos. His mouth and cupid’s bow lips twisted up into a soft smile, his eyes locked into Icarus’ own.
“Hello,” the God said, casually, as if they were not in the most powerful vehicle in the world.
“Hello, my Lord,” Icarus, still terrified, yet still mesmerised by the beauty of the God, blurted out.
“No need for the ‘Lord’ part, my darling.”
And Icarus's entire being burned at the pet name, burned at the very voice of Apollo, at the feel of his fingers at his chin. At being there, merely.
“Okay,” Icarus breathed, hushed, barely audible response.
Apollo’s hand made its way onto the side of Icarus’ face, again filling Icarus with the sense of longing and want for the God, for his touch. Apollo absentmindedly traced his thumb over Icarus’ cheek, his jaw, his lips. As if he were trying to build Icarus’ wants and desires up, up, and up, and then leave him with nothing but the desire and wants, sitting and waiting for something to happen.
Apollo leaned in, and Icarus could feel the warmth of his breath, and he could again smell the radiance, sunshine, and music coming from the mouth of the God. Apollo leaned in and in, past Icarus’ mouth, past his cheek.
“May I kiss you?” he mumbled, into Icarus’ ear, soft and quiet, as if a decibel louder could break him. Icarus felt the breath on his ear, his neck, and he shivered, a pleasurable shiver of want.
Icarus nodded, slowly, purposefully.
And Apollo pulled back, quickly, and Icarus felt that he’d answered wrong, that he would be killed, that it was for nothing-
Apollo kissed him.
His eyes were closed, so Icarus did the same.
Apollo’s lips locked onto his, and Icarus felt their warmth against his own lips. He could smell the music, radiance and sunshine so much clearer, almost as if he could hear it. His body shivered and shivered, the presence of the God so close to him he could feel the sun and the sky and everything all at once. His lips were locked in, unable to move, as the God kissed him and made him forget everything around.
Apollo pulled him closer, his entire body colliding with the God’s own, with his bare and defined chest, with the tattoo of the sun looking to the side, unknowing, unassuming. Icarus felt one of Apollo’s hands trace his back, upwards, downwards, slowly. All in a rhythm. The other hand was placed firmly onto the back of Icarus’ neck, forcing him to stay in place. Not that Icarus wanted to move, not at all.
His lips were still locked in with the God’s, moving slowly and carefully against each other, breaths taken in between movements.
He and Apollo pulled close into each other, wanting nothing more than the other’s touch. And then Apollo bit Icarus’ bottom lip, the lip he’d traced with his thumb so many times, and Icarus felt himself go crazy at the action. He melted more and more into the touch of Apollo, as if wanting to merge their two bodies into one.
And then, unfortunately, Apollo pulled away.
Icarus was scared, terrified, that he’d done something wrong, unbearable, to the God. But Apollo still smiled, and his hand still traced up and down Icarus’ back, and his other hand still was at the back of Icarus’ neck. Apollo still looked content, happy.
“My Lord,” Icarus asked, after a moment of silence.
“Hm?” was Apollo’s answer, not very formal.
“What will become of my father and my… uh, mortal body?”
“What do you want to happen?” Apollo inquired, his forefinger and middle finger tracing down Icarus’ side, all the way down to his thigh, then up again.
“Let my father find my body, but let him live. Please, my Lord,” Icarus said.
The hand on his back was pulled away for a moment, making Icarus fear for his life, but it landed back on his hip, pulling him closer.
“Whatever pleases you, my darling,” Apollo, leaning in next to his ear, murmured.
Icarus felt his body turning burning hot, yet again.
“Thank you, my Lord,” he’d leaned up and next to Apollo's ear, mimicking the God’s actions. Apollo smiled a smile.
“My darling, you need not call me ‘Lord’.”
Icarus smiled. “Mhm, alright, my Lord.”
Apollo laughed delightedly pulling in Icarus again, who smiled a smile that no one but Apollo would see.
…
regret is not for love.
the feathers were weak.
too weak for his radiance.
and they couldn’t quite catch me
when i fell.
for him.
i was gone, done for,
in the world’s eyes,
nothing but a cautionary tale.
but for him, i’d do it all again.
the way his fingers traced,
slowly
over my bones, my skin.
the way i shivered, even though
he radiated nothing but warmth.
the sun kissed my eyes.
i kissed his palm, then hand.
i kissed his forehead, his neck.
it burnt me, in a way so pleasing,
so rewarding, i
could never get enough.
the sun loved me in ways
i’d never been loved before.
he kissed me in ways
i’d never been kissed before.
he was everything i’d ever wanted.
and even though it’s been forever,
and our love should’ve been over.
i love him.
i will forever love him, as he loves me.
my love will die when the
sun explodes.