I try on the bull costume before anybody else.  

Father crafted the exterior first, perfecting the eyes and the fur, requesting real bull pelts to use rather than crafting each hair with thread. His request is granted without question. He’s trusted. I watch Father attach the pelts, smoothing the hairs and carefully maneuvering the ends around its eyes and ears and horns and nose. 

He hollows out the middle so that one person could wear it, move around as though they are a bull themselves. Wheels are attached to the bottom but hidden, so none outside of the one wearing it would know how they move so smoothly. I’m the first to try it on. The inside has small places to put one’s hands and feet to keep it attached to the body. I move around and Father laughs as I make distorted noises, trying my best to sound like a bull. I take it off soon after, starting to scare myself with how closed in the bull is. 

“Will it work?” I ask Father. “Will it trick Minos’ prized bull?”

Father just nods, as though he knows his power and his ability. He must. It would be beyond surprising if he doesn’t realize what he is capable of doing. I’ve admired him for as long as I can remember. A Father; the greatest person in a boy’s life; as the townspeople would say. 

Father puts the finishing touches on the bull’s tail and mouth, making even a realistic tongue with taste buds and real bull’s teeth. It hangs slightly open when on and allows the person who wears it to see out in front of them. Dear Queen Pasiphae will have the ability to not only trick her husband’s bull but to see anything and everything around her. It will be as though she - herself - is a bull, not only a re-creation of the animal. 

I help Father carry the disguise down to Queen Pasiphae’s empty chambers. Minos left for the day, doing some business we are not allowed to know of. The Queen is sprawled out across the bed, only a book in her hands and a Kylix by her side, beautiful paintings covering the drinking vessel. 

Father clears his throat to make our presence known in the quietest way we can. Pasiphae’s head turns slowly, unalarmed. I smile, trying to show any sort of comfort in my gaze. I can tell it works when she smiles back, standing from her luxurious bed.

Father holds out his work. I try to help, but all I can grasp in time is the bull’s tail. The moment I feel its rough hair, I jump, not quite expecting the textures. Pasiphae stifles a laugh, trying her hardest to remain formal, as she is supposed to. I flush, my cheeks growing warm under her gaze. 

“I give you my highest thanks, Daedalus.” Queen Pasiphae says. She holds out her hands patiently, waiting for Father to put the disguise in them. He pauses, and the Queen stares at him, her smile fading with every passing moment. I too let my eyes wander to Father, puzzled about his hesitant hands. 

“My Queen,” Father begins, his eyes staring at his work rather than Pasiphae, “My Queen, Pasiphae, you must understand the dangers of this. Have you thought of the consequences if your husband finds out? What would be of Icarus and me? What would be of you?” His voice is low, careful. “I don’t want to watch you suffer, My Queen.” 

“But, I shall not, Daedalus. I want this. I know I do.” Her smile returns again. “I will be careful, I can promise you.” She starts to tug the bull from Father’s grasp, beginning to put it on. “I am quite aware of the dangers for me--you and your son, too--but all I can do right now is assure you that my husband will never know that this,” she gestures to her magnificent costume, “is your craftsmanship.” 

“If not mine, whose would it be?” Father asks, nervously tugging at threads on his tunic. “I’ve made toys upon toys for Ariadne, figures upon figures for yourself. I’ve made hundreds of prows--daedalias--for King Minos’ ships. He must know my craft by now.” Father lets out a laugh riddled with nerves. “He’s studied it so closely, I shan’t be surprised if he were to recreate it himself.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Pasiphae looks at the bull, half pulled up her legs. “Then I must make sure he never finds it.” She continues with her experimentation. “I shall hide it, or burn it.” She smiles again, “Daedalus, I can promise that Minos will never set eyes on this creation of yours.” 

Father’s nerves shine through, even when he turns to leave. He knows he is being dismissed. I follow along, scurrying my feet as though I am a frightened mouse. Father does not speak to me. He does not work tonight. He sleeps beside me. That sound of my childhood disappears. The calmness washes over me like the eye of a tornado. It’s disturbing, something I’ve never known before. 

Other people slump, while I perk. 

We are called to King Minos’ throne weeks later. Father’s gotten back into his craft and worked on more daedalus for Minos and toys for Ariadne. We brush our noses along the patterns on the floors and press our palms all the way down, showing our respect for King Minos. He doesn’t smile, he’s stiff, tense. 

“Queen Pasiphae is with child, Daedalus.” King Minos states. I feel my neck prickle, the hair standing up. I’ve never quite felt true fear until now. He’s found out. Pasiphae has become with child--from the Cretan Bull.

Father doesn’t hesitate with a response. “The utmost congratulations, my King.” His fingers hover over the ground. They shake. Father is never afraid. He has had nervousness in his eyes, but never fear. Minos rubs his temples, trying to gather himself. 

“Poseidon is punishing me,” he mumbles, his breath coming in fast, swift, puffs. 

“My apologies, King Minos, but I do not quite understand.” Father lifts his head for a mere moment, glancing at Minos. “Why would Poseidon punish you? You have not done any wrong.”

“My bull,” He says, “The Cretan Bull. I was supposed to sacrifice him to the Gods. I was supposed to sacrifice him to Poseidon, but I did not. So now, he punishes me. He has made my dear Pasiphae fall in love with an animal, a wild animal, in a way that I can not rid her or myself of.” He blinks quick, his eyes fluttering, the bags forming underneath his waterline. The circles under his eyes are dark, unable to be contained by Greek makeup. “Poseidon has decided to crush my wealth into a worry for this child--if I may even call it that.”

“What can I do for you, my King?” Father asks, eager to get us away from his presence. King Minos looks at us carefully, studying us close before making a decision. 

“I’m quite aware of your clever disguise, Daedalus.” He hisses, “You and your son have betrayed Crete and me.” His voice booms through the empty hall, the stomping of a giant, the screaming of lost souls, Zeus’ lighting. It is deafening, horrid. I want to cover my ears. “I should exile you, kill you for the disrespect you have bestowed upon me with ease and carelessness.” Father closes his eyes, creases forming at the corners. “But it is not quite your fault.” He mumbles to himself, starting to contemplate his decisions. “You were merely a part of Poseidon’s plan. I cannot punish you for the work of the Gods.” 

Father lets out a muffled cry, his voice weak, small, yet still echoing through the hall as King Minos’ does. I’ve never heard Father distressed, much less crying. It’s a sound that constricts around my heart as though a snake has wrapped itself around me, squeezing, stopping my blood from flowing, making it hard to break, speak, move. It hurts. It hurts more than anything has ever hurt before. 

“While I cannot punish you with death or banishment, you shall help me rid myself of this creature that my dear Pasiphae has conceived.” King Minos states, returning to his confident position, sitting tall, towering over us with his power lingering in the air. He may not be able to control the Gods, but he can pull on our puppet strings all he wants. We are at his beck and call. 

“However you want me to kill it, I shall.” Father blurts. “Whether it be beheading, or--”

“Foolish man!” King Minos kicks Father in the shoulder, sending him onto the floor. He scurries to kneel again, hoping to gain some sort of respect, the type that he had only days earlier. “This creature is still a part of my Pasiphae, Daedalus. I do not wish to kill it, no matter how unsightly it might be.” Minos fixes his chiton, making sure it looks proper as he sits. “You shall build something to encase it. Something in which it will never escape.” 

Father nods. “Icarus and I can create such a monument.” He whimpers. “It shall be ready by the time your wife gives birth. It will have tall walls and every turn will lead to yet another. Any man that enters will never be able to leave.” He states. “No mortal, no matter how smart, will ever find an escape, let alone a half-bull half-human.” I look over at him, but his eyes beg me to look back to the floor. They warn me. 

King Minos dismisses us without another word. We scurry upstairs, our legs shaking, our hands unsteady. Father works through the night once again, starting on the plans for his new creation. A magnificent creation that shall trap a horrific one. 

I ask Father what they will call the new creature; for we have never seen one, nor heard of one, before. Father ignores me. His ears went along with his eyes. I ask what I can do to help build this great project he has in mind. But he ignores me once again. I start to pick up pieces of wood and concrete, bringing them over to him, offering to help in a way that will better get his attention, but he doesn’t notice. He continues sketching and playing around with blocks and materials that already surround him. He has realized. He knows the power his creations hold now. This new creature will not only be a reminder of the Queen’s unfaithfulness to the throne, but Father’s carelessness to create without consequences. 

The dread seeps into my veins, my heart no longer constricting and growing small; though, instead, it’s pumping a dark thing into my bloodstream and throughout my body. It’s not quite blood. It’s more like ink, the ink that Father writes with. It’s the only way I can be a part of him. The ink he needs for his plans. I can only imagine slicing open my arm, offering up the only thing I could provide to him. Materials for his creations. Perhaps then, and only then, I can get his eyes in the same way that I used to have his ears. I can imagine the scratchy writing with ink that I have provided from my own body and soul. 

I slip into a slumber that is deep enough for me to talk to Hades himself. The sound of Father’s work is drowned out by the screams of souls. The soul of Perdix, the soul of my childhood, of Mother, of the grotesque creature that Pasiphae hasn’t quite given life to yet. These souls scream, they tell me to wake up, to leave, to die, to try and fix everything that is happening, to just go back to playing with wooden toys, to seek comfort in the Queen, or Ariadne. They yell at me to do something. Something in which I am not laying on my hard bed, Father doing all of the hard work, as he always does. 

I want to help, I always have. It’s a shame how Father gets so caught up in his work, in his statues and creations, in his carvings and designs. He’s buried in wood shavings and concrete dust, nothing but a pile of the debris he’s taken off of blocks and rocks to create the beautiful things he has. They’re stunning, one of a kind. Dare I say that I am proud of him? Can a mere boy even say that to his father? Is that patronizing? Perhaps it’s the only thing he wants to hear right now. Perhaps it’ll give him the strength he needs to build this monument and come out of the piles of shavings and dust sane again. 

“Father?” I whisper through darkness, hearing a small mumble as a response to my one weak word. “Father, can I tell you something?” He lets out a grunt again, strangled, focused. I keep my eyes closed and my cheek pressed against the bed. “I’m proud of you, Father,” I whisper, and the working stops. No more carving, no more banging. “I’m so proud of you and your work. It’s beautiful, I hope you know. It’s talent and grace and horror and delusion all at once. It’s an art that nobody but yourself will ever be capable of creating.” 

I smile to myself, the words--my words--hitting my tongue like sugar. “The sky is jealous of your craft; for its stars and planets can never compare to the beauty that your mere mind and hands create.” I pull my only blanket, an animal pelt, higher upon my shoulders. “You’ve done more tonight than anyone can do within the time that death comes knocking at their door.” 

Father starts working once again moments later. He mumbles something small, too small for my ears to catch, even though they perk up, ready to hear absolutely anything he wants to say. But nothing comes. I listen to him until the sun peeks over the trees and through one of our only windows, the heat making me discard my animal pelt. I lay like a star in the sky, my arms outstretched to either side of my body and my legs reaching for the ends of the bed. I bathe in the sunlight. It feels like how I believe the Gods would feel. Their attention and eyes and ears. 

It is merely a dream of a freedom like no mortal has ever had.

Queen Pasiphae gives birth just days after Father and I finish the great monument - which Father has named a Labyrinth. Minos has had us build it beneath his home, where he will always have access to it. Father and I are near when Pasiphae gives birth. We meet the creature, and it is more repulsive than we could have ever imagined. Father created a few sketches of what he thought it would look like, but he had been wrong. He imagined a bull with human mannerisms, but it is much more grotesque. 

The creature stands on its two hind legs, its body muscular and built like a man’s. It has five fingers on either side of its arms. It stands as a man stands, its upper body is like a man’s, but with hair covering all over, thin and patchy. But like a bull, its legs are hooved and its head has perky ears and a snout with large nostrils and magnificent horns perched on its head. Its eyes are wide, all black. It’s horrifying. I want to scream once I see it. 

Pasiphae smiles while she looks at it. She smiles and runs her fingers through its thin hair. Father and I glance at each other, trying not to show any hints of disgust. King Minos has no trouble, his lip twitching as he watches his wife hold and love the newborn abomination. 

“Asterion,” Queen Pasiphae states, naming her new baby. “I shall name him Asterion.” I stare at it. Starry one. She’s tied him to the constellation Taurus. She gives him a kiss on the head, and Minos rushes over, grabbing the creature from his wife’s hands. He holds it out like he’s afraid it will contaminate him with some sort of disease. 

“I will not allow it,” Minos states. “It shall not be named after a constellation, a creation so vulgar does not get the honor of being named after something so beautiful as the stars.” The king drops Asterion - the creature - into a guard’s arms, ordering for him to be taken to the Labyrinth. Pasiphae lets out a small gasp, a cry over her newborn child. “It’s merely the bull of Crete. The bull of Minos. The Minotaur.” 

“He is my child, Minos.” Pasiphae snaps, “He is a part of me. You cannot resent a part of me.” 

Father grabs my arm, starting to take me out of the room, following the guard. Father holds a map of his Labyrinth in his hands, guiding us to the middle. The guard drops the creature--Asterion--the Minotaur. We watch as he scrambled, standing to take a wobbly, uneasy fighting stance, as though he was born to kill. Despite his size, I cower, imagining the creature growing to great heights, eating people, and tearing them limb from limb. Or he would slowly skin them and drink the blood from their veins. They would survive until he pulled their guts out. The thoughts linger in my mind, vivid, horrifying. 

Sleep that night does not come easy and I beg myself to relax. My body stays alert. What if Father’s creation was not perfect this time? What if there’s a weak point, a spot in the walls which I built where the Minotaur - Asterion - escapes? What if he comes for Father and me, for revenge? He’s begging to have our blood on his tongue, the taste of the monsters that trapped him. 

I shiver, huddling closer to Father for warmth. This is one of the first nights in months in which Father didn’t stay up to work on something. This is his refractory period. He’s gathering himself, thinking new thoughts of new creations. I can only wonder what they might be. Something great, something nobody could ever think of, nobody but him. 

As the Minotaur grows, he is given annual sacrifices. Maidens and men. They take seven of each, locking them in the complex maze that Father and I have built. Some offer themselves to the beast and come to become a sacrifice, some are chosen. It is a part of Minos’ duties as the King of Crete. He must watch the creature suffer for the way it has ruined his reputation. 

Father and I have been pardoned from any and all other punishments for the part we played in helping Pasiphae. Building the Labyrinth served as Father’s and my imprisonment. Father jumps with joy when we get back to our room. He leaps around, starting to build something once again. He builds himself many little toys and trinkets. Boxes with beautiful patterns and moving horses and instruments; lyres, aulos’. He doesn’t know how to play any of them, but he makes them anyway, carving away with his shoulders hunched over once again. He bounces up and down with joy. Father gets his creativity again; the ability to choose what he creates rather than following the orders of the King. 

“Icarus,” Father mumbles after he’s finished making his third moving horse, “do you know what this must mean?” I stare at him, a smile plastered on my face, his happiness making me giddy with my own. “This means we are free. Pasiphae is no longer allowed to ask us for creations, and Minos trusts us once again! We are free, Icarus! Free!”

I begged to differ. Freedom tastes like sugar, sweet and addicting; this is sour, bitter. Although, I can’t help but want more. This false freedom feels magnificent, like something that I know will protect me, even if I don’t get everything I want. I do not want that safety. I have lived in this safe haven my whole life. I’ve lived under Father’s wing. I’ve felt nothing but his warmth and kindness. I do not want that anymore. 

“Free, Father!” I use every ounce of my soul to mimic his excitement. I shout and smile and dance around. We’re free, happy, together, but not free. Father feels freedom much differently than I do, it’s painful. 

I may never feel the true freedom that I yearn for, but this is the most I deserve. I merely deserve the bitter, sour freedom that has been given to me. And perhaps I can live with that freedom. It hurts my throat, but only in the best way. 

Three years pass as fast as Apollo through the sky. Each year, the sacrifices disturb me more and more, forcing me to become nearly desensitized to the screams that echo through the castle walls. 

It is the day before the third annual sacrifice. It’s been three years since the Minotaur’s birth, and three years since we built the Labyrinth. Rumors have spread over the last few days that a prince has offered himself up for sacrifice. I have been sneaking around with Ariadne to find the answers to which prince, who’s his father? We found none. 

It’s hard to sleep wondering which prince - if any - is foolish enough to sacrifice himself to a beast such as this. Perhaps he did something unimaginable, and his father does not want him anymore. Perhaps he is attempting to bring honor to his family, to his home. He must know that this is a suicide mission, that he is guaranteed to be ripped to shreds by the Minotaur. If he knows, his blustering makes him mighty good at hiding it.

The next day, as the entire city is gathered for the day of sacrifice, I wait eagerly next to Ariadne and her sister--Phaedra--as they bring in the sacrifices to King Minos one by one. Seven maidens and seven men total. My eyes scan across the audience. A maiden, barely a woman yet. A man much lived through his years. A maiden, nearly my age, her hands shaking and her hair tangled. A man, much smaller than I. A slightly older maiden, her eyes wild with worry. A man, a tunic made out of fine leather, around Ariadne’s age. 

“Which one do you think is the prince?” I ask Ariadne, my voice soft. I’ve grown since I first met her. My eyes go right over the top of her head when she’s standing in front of me. It’s been a subtle change, but the more I do think of it, the more it makes me smile. I’ve grown close to Ariadne, friends, if that’s the right word for it.

“The boy on the end.” She raises her finger slightly to the boy with the tunic that is so obviously from royalty. I nod. “He’s far too handsome to be a mere stableboy or baker’s son.” A laugh bubbles in my throat and I nudge her as she giggles. 

“Do not fall for a sacrifice,” I mumble. “Not just any sacrifice, one to your half-brother, Ariadne. You cannot say such things.” 

Her laughs and giggles do not stop, it is as though she did not hear my words at all. The chuckles are cute, light, feathery in my ears. I love it. She’s become one I care for if not love. I do not wish to wed her or create a family with her, but her mere presence makes my day just that much more tolerable. Every moment I spend with her brings me closer to that sweet freedom I so desperately want. 

“Perhaps if I can only have one moment with him,” She smiles at me, “he will rethink his decision.” 

“Your father would never allow him to back down. He’s already offered himself. His time has come to an end, Ariadne.” I try to keep my voice low, but the more I talk, the nerves seep into my body deeper and deeper. She is serious with what she says, a worrying thought. “Even if he rethinks his decision, he will be a sacrifice.” 

“He has come to kill Asterion,” Ariadne says the Minotaur’s birth name with distaste in her tone and a crinkle in her nose. Even though he is blood to her, she despises him. “If he succeeds, his only problem will be leaving the Labyrinth.” Ariadne’s eyes burn into mine, determined, knowing of what she wants. “Who knows that maze better than anybody at this castle?” 

She wants Father to help her. She wants us to break rules again to help her run away with her new true love. I start to shake my head. 

“I cannot do that, and you know it,” I deny, looking back at the sacrifices still lined up, trying to focus on the words of King Minos as he tells them about their amazing contribution to their world, how they will have a magnificent feast with the King and Queen themselves before they are put in with the Minotaur. 

“But why?” she asks. “I only need a mere clue from your father. Something that nobody has to know about.” 

“That is what your mother said, Ariadne.” My smile is gone now. That small taste of addicting freedom leaves, disappearing into the shadows and crevices of this castle, no longer reachable with my mere mortal hands. “I cannot help you.” 

“If I asked,” Ariadne starts, “what would your father say?” 

She wants me to be honest, that he would say yes and do anything to please her or her sister or her Father. He would come up with a way for the prince to kill the Minotaur and return safely back into her arms. But I say nothing. I clamp my mouth with the weight of the millions of decisions I could make right at this moment, and I say nothing in response. 

Ariadne asks Father for advice before the feast even starts. She claims that her prince lover--Theseus--will not tell a soul and that she can make it worth his while. Father refuses anything in return and agrees to help her. The dinner King Minos promises the sacrifices is magnificent, beyond anything Father and I usually get to eat. These feasts only come to us during the annual sacrifices, it’s a treat to even Father and me. They treat us as though we are kings ourselves, princes, a part of the royal family, and we soak up every privilege they bestow upon us. 

King Minos makes a toast to our sacrifices, telling of their bravery and introducing the prince--Theseus--to those that sit around the perfectly carved table--another of Father’s creations for his greatly respected majesty. I helped to make sure the top was smooth enough to eat off of, to brush your fingers so lightly upon the top, and you would not get one splinter, not one knick. Father carved the legs, perfecting the floral pattern that gives way to vines and other elements of nature herself. It’s beautiful, as though Father used the entirety of his creative mind to create just these table legs. We are yet to finish the chairs that will match, but there has been slight progress to the finish of Father’s work. 

Theseus holds his chin high, his back straight and his legs crossed over one another. The posture is feminine, but nobody says anything about it. Theseus is a prince, he shall not be disrespected for something so foolish as posture. Perhaps his father taught him to sit like that, to come across as feminine and weak, unalert--a tactic to throw all of one’s possible enemies off. 

He folds his fingers together and waits patiently for someone to serve his food, when nobody does, he gives in, scooping out his own fruits and picking his own meat. He cuts it with poor posture and handling. His cuts are uneven and not practiced as everybody else’s here is. He’s used to the treatment of servants and slaves, cutting his meat and serving his food--some probably feed him. He lifts a chunk to his mouth, allowing his lips to enclose around the flavourful meat of a cow. He closes his eyes, letting the taste set in, flowing throughout his body and mind. 

I begin to do the same, eating my meat with careful, small bites. I memorize the taste. I do not love it with merely my mind or heart, I love it with my soul; one day my mind will forget, and my heart will stop. My soul shall live on, carrying the taste and the memories of meeting Prince Theseus. I never know when these magnificent meals shall end, so I savor every one as much as my soul will allow. My tastebuds bubble with the lavish feeling of the juice as my teeth finally bite down, ready for the burst of flavor that I love and crave every single day that my eyes open and feel the sunlight beaming through my windows. 

Father’s eyes are closed as he eats every bite. He doesn’t look as he scoops a mixture of fruit or potatoes or meat and shoves it in his mouth with little to no mannerisms to him. It’s authentic, the Father I have known all my life. I am unashamed to sit near him, to let the sacrifices watch in pure disgust as he eats his food the way he pleases. He is my Father, my savior, he is more to me than the Gods above. The Father in front of me at this very moment is the reason I am unafraid, the reason I am determined to feel the freedom I have so yearned for in the months before. 

Ariadne is beside me, her posture just as straight as Theseus’, her manners proper, like a princess’ should be. I can’t help but stare. Like her mother, she is beautiful, a reflection of mother nature herself, as though Aphrodite has blessed her with a beauty that no other mortal shall ever be capable of possessing. It makes me nearly envious that she gets such a blessing. 

As a child I could only wish to be in front of the Gods, to be able to touch their light and feel their voices. I wanted their tones to be like thunder, crashing waves, war cries; but also like flower petals, sweet wine, sunlight. I didn’t care why I was in front of the Gods--in these fantasies--I merely cared that I had their attention. They could scold me, comfort me, love me, hate me. As long as I had their eyes, I was the happiest I could possibly be. 

“These maiden and men’s great sacrifices will be appreciated beyond thought.” He holds up his Kylix, and we all follow. The strange cup feels weird in my hands, something I’ve never quite handled myself. It fits perfectly with my palm and fingers, even though I’ve never quite held one like it before these feasts Minos has given us. “Prince Theseus,” Minos’ eyes move to become trained on the feminine presenting man, “your people and mine shall always remember you, even once our bodies have withered away and there is nobody to remember us; our souls will carry you on. To Prince Theseus.”

Minos holds his kylix high and everybody around the table follows, including Theseus himself. We all smile at him, as though our respect for him actually matters. We all know that his sacrifice means just the same as everybody else’s. He’s no different. Just because he offered to die for a great beast does not make him a hero, at least no more of a hero than all of the other people that sit next to him. Theseus knows this. He knows this well, but he acts as though he does not, he soaks up the appreciation, even if it is truly empty.

Theseus takes a sip from his Kylix first, everybody following. The wine is sweet, one of great wealth. Father makes a comment on how nice the grapes must have been to create wine such as this. King Minos explains the process that all of the wine he owns must go through. He explains how the grapes--biblines--are collected and piled in large vats, people walking over the small fruits all day until there is nothing left but sticky juice and seeds. My mind starts to tune him out, uninterested in the way of wine that he claims Dionysus told him. 

It is quite obvious that a god told him how to make wine so sweet and flavourful. I do not doubt his stories, but I also do not find interest in them. They are merely tales, whether it be true or not. I am not interested in tales, I am interested in experience. If I cannot be there, if I cannot see the things he saw nor hear the things he heard, I do not wish to know. Father is quite the opposite. He will listen to tales all night and day, unable to get enough of them. He says that stories are what keep us alive. I do not believe him. Stories are a way of keeping alive a moment that has already passed. I see no use in it. Memories are meant to be memories, not tall tales, nor known by everybody. Memories are meant only for those who experience them, and every memory is intimate. That is why they happen to who they happen to, not everybody in the world. 

No matter how much I strive for his eyes or his ears, I cannot help but get quite sick of Father and his kindness at times. He listens to anybody and everybody, giving them his ears. It makes me envious. I am no more than everybody else to him. If I was more to him, I would get more than them, but I do not. My mind tries to wrap itself around the thought. I have accepted this fate of mine. 

Ariadne nudges me, glancing my way. I may not get Father’s eyes, but I get Ariadne’s. And that is more than a boy as rigid and chafed as I could ever deserve, let alone ask for. They captivate me. The browns of a great oak tree with streaks of dirt, the foundation for all living things. I stare and I stare and I stare. They’re so common, like nearly everybody else’s, yet hers are different in a way that I cannot quite explain. They look at me with such passion, such love. She gives me more in a mere glance than my father has ever given me my entire life. 

“What can your father give me?” She asks, “What can he do to help my dear Theseus escape that labyrinth with his life?” I try to avoid eye contact with Ariadne, but it is so hard when her eyes draw me in so far. I feel as though I am in the middle of the forest when I look at her, I feel the wind and hear the birds. It’s an experience that I cannot, will not, create a story from. It is all mine. 

“I do not think this is such a good idea,” I murmur, careful not to let Father or any of the other sacrifices hear. “You have not known him more than a day, Ariadne. Are you sure you are in love with him?” 

Her nose crinkles, her eyes squinting. She crosses her arms and looks away, as though I have just insulted her in the vilest sense. I sigh, letting all of the annoyance sift through my system before I tap her shoulder as gingerly as I can manage. She refuses to turn, keeping her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes set on Theseus across the table. With her hair, so shiny, only inches from my nose, I cannot smell much other than peaches and rich cream. It makes my mouth water. 

“Ariadne,” I mumble, my voice weak, enchanted by her scent. I want to smell more, to get closer, but my self-control holds me back. This is not a private event, not just her and I. If her father were to see my weakness, my want, and my yearning so strong, I would get no sympathy, but I would get banishment, and I cannot dare to do that to Father; to ruin a life he worked so hard for. “Father will give you something simple, Ariadne. He’s smart in the most compact way.”

She doesn’t dare give me a glance. I feel cold, lonely. I have lost her eyes, even for a moment. My warm, comforting forest is gone, and the ice has arrived. I hate it. I hate it so much, it makes me want to turn her, to grab her. But that would be rude, and it would almost be counted as treason due to her high position in the royal family. 

I soak in her scent while I still can. Only the Gods know when I will no longer know her scent, dream of her smile, remember that feeling of her eyes on mine. I pray to them that it will never happen; that I will always have these things until death comes knocking at my door, and I will no longer have anything, let alone Ariadne’s beauty. 

Father catches my eye, his smile so bright, brighter than it’s ever been when it’s aimed toward me. Envy hits me. Envy for Theseus and his ability to charm Ariadne so easily; with nothing but looks and his intention to show his strength. Envy for King Minos; whom Father finds more interesting than I. Envy for Father, who is more appreciated than I. 

I am a mere son of an inventor. I am no inventor myself, nor will I ever live up to Father’s title. The bothersome facts slither around my neck, choking me, controlling my actions and my words as I try my hardest to go day from day. 

I stand from my seat, the makeshift chair squeaking behind me. Nobody looks my way, so I turn, leaving the feast without a word, without anyone’s eyes. I walk into the darkness, the laughter fading as I get further and further. I cannot help but wonder if this is what death is like, like hearing the laughter of those you loved in your life. It fades as you drift towards your death, and you can’t help but know that they can be just as happy without you, as with you. 

The feelings that boil in my stomach are a wicked brew. They do not notice my absence. Why don’t they notice my absence? Why can’t they notice my absence?

Father and my's room is cold. It’s cold and hard and dead. The choking feeling drifts away with tears, my breathing clears, but the rest of my body becomes weak, like a small blade of grass; I’m stepped on, I’m plucked out of the ground, I’m woven into baskets. I am nothing but something that is merely there. I am no maker of the baskets, I am no foot that steps, I am no hand that plucks. I am not the maker, I am the ingredient. And I cannot live with being something so sheer, small, forgotten. I need those around me to become something worthwhile, but when one does not transform me, I am nothing but one in a million.

Ariadne arrives in my room late into the night, after the sacrifices have already been made, dead, eaten. She shakes me awake, her eyes glittering with something magnificent. I cannot help but think she has pulled it off. I open my mouth to ask, but she answers, as though she could guess my question. 

“Theseus has survived!” She cheers. “He is alive, Icarus! Alive! Your father has worked a miracle!” She shakes me even after I’ve sat up and tried to calm her. Her touch against my bare arm is enchanting, her fingertips soft as graceful. I get bumps on the back of my neck and down my arm, my head tingles. 

“How did he do it?” I ask. “I must know, Ariadne. I just must know.” 

“A ball of string, Icarus.” She beams, sitting softly on the edge of my bed. Her cheeks are bright and her eyes reflect the moonlight that spills into my room, allowing me to see everything of her features. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows, her big cheeks, her plump lips, her delicate jawline, her small shoulders. I soak her in, as the moon soaks light from the sun. She is my basket weaver, the hand to pluck me from the ground, she gives me my purpose. 

I raise my eyebrows. String. 

“I know.” She says, her voice like a light squeal with the excitement that she holds. “When your father proposed the idea, I claimed him to be insane, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized. It’s genius.” She shifts, using her hands to tell her story. I have told, I am not fond of storytelling, but Ariadne’s voice is so sweet, I cannot help but want to sit through her stories for hours just because all of the words are coming out of her mouth, formed by her mind. “Your father told my dear Theseus to tie the string to the beginning of the labyrinth before setting off to find Asterion,” her nose crinkles again, “he said that Theseus shall slay the beast with a sword hidden within his tunic, and follow the string back to the entrance.” 

“I told you, Father thinks in the most compact way. Such a simple solution.” I mumble, mostly to myself. Ariadne frowns, her eyebrows furrowing together, like caterpillars in love. 

“If so simple, why had we not thought of it?” She asks. I cannot help but shrug, my shoulders lifting up and down again. Her eyes drift away from mine, and the cold returns to my body, her warmth escaping through the window, reaching the moon. It is so far, so out of reach. “I wish to be like your father one day, Icarus.” My name on her tongue nearly makes me shiver with excitement. I stare at her eyes, as they stare at the moon. Most would follow her eyes, to admire what she finds beautiful, to soak it in as she does, but I cannot help but soak her in. Her beauty cannot compare to the mere light that the moon reflects. She is the sun, the moon is just a distraction from her light, just a thief of her light. I am her moon, and she is my sun. I thrive under her gaze. 

“How so,” I whisper. She glances at me for just a moment, a mere moment, yet I cannot stop my heart from jumping through my chest. I swallow the stutters and nerves, strengthening my voice before speaking once again. “How do you want to be like Father?”

“I do not wish to be an inventor, nor a man.” She giggles, and I melt. “I wish to have his wisdom, for that is more than any talent. He is so simple, so smart. Women are not supposed to want to be smart, they are supposed to want to be worshiped, but I do not wish for that, not even the littlest bit. I wish to be appreciated, Icarus. I wish to be seen as more than a pretty face.” She beams. 

“You do not need to wish for such a thing,” I mumble, and her smile fades, her eyebrows furrowing once again. “You do not need it, because you already have it.” My eyes cannot help but watch her lips part as she thinks about my words. “I have given that to you, Ariadne. My dear friend, you are my wisdom.” I mumble, fighting back any confession that would not be appropriate for the son of an inventor to make to a princess. “Soak it in while you can.”

She giggles once again, shoving me playfully with her hand, her fingertips like feathers, her laugh like sweet wine. “You’re a fool, Icarus.” She mumbles. “You know I will leave with Theseus.” Now, my smile fades with her words. I should have known Ariadne would not stay for me. She would not stay for her father, for mine, for me, for her mother. She will leave. She was always meant to leave. She is falling for a star, one so close to what she is, rather than a rock, what I am. I am so below her, while Theseus is with her. He does not steal her light, he shines beside her. I open my mouth to warn her of Theseus, of the threat that he can pose to her light, her beauty. If he is also a star, he may outshine her, he may take her light rather than reflect it. “We shall sail away together and live a life of pure love, Icarus.”

“Ariadne,” I mumble, feeling as though she has crushed my heart and soul with mere words. She opens her mouth, perhaps thinking of a good way to backtrack on her statement. What good are words when you can feel your heart breaking? “Ariadne, I want you to be as happy as this life can ever make you.” My voice barely comes through and my hands shake as I reach for hers. We have never touched further than a playful shove. I have never quite realized how much I would miss those little interactions. “All I want is your happiness, even if I am not the one to give it to you.” 

Ariadne leans over, her lips pressing to my cheek. It is soft and tender, but I do not yearn for more as I would have mere minutes earlier. My heart has already let her go. She must go on to better things, to things that are much more worthy of her grace, her beauty, her happiness. She stands, but not before she squeezes my hands, letting them go and leaving them cold. I watch her leave, the tears threatening my eyes like one of Father’s chisels to wood. I mustn’t cry. I am far too old to do that. So, instead of letting my emotions overwhelm and take over me, I stand and craft something of my own. The wood I pick is light, from the trunk of a great maple tree. It is near Ariadne’s skin color, light and soft, beautiful beyond thought. 

Father’s chisel digs into the wood with ease, and I start carving away. I craft a hand, small and delicate, a near-perfect replica of Ariadne’s. The fingers are slightly spread, so that I can easily intertwine my fingers within the statues. I craft the grooves of her bones and veins, the unique lines on her palm, the nails so short. 

Father comes home just as I finish. I am not ashamed when he sees it, he does not know the meaning of it to me, he does not know whose hand it is. I glance at him for a moment before I drop his chisel, climbing back into bed with the carving. I hold the statue in my hands, pretending it to be hers. The wood is cold and not as soft nor comforting as Ariadne’s is. But I am not to complain. This is the closest I will get to holding her, and that is more than I deserve. 

When I awake, Father is not with me. He is not in the room. He is nowhere. My replica of Ariadne’s hand is still tight within my grasp, and I refuse to let go. I hold onto it even as I look for Father. I only leave it in the room once I open the door, guards waiting outside. It was not unusual. We have had guards posted outside of our room before, though it was never often. 

I ask for their purpose, usually, they have one. 

They tell me that Minos has called me to his throne, Father is already there. My heart beats in my ears and fingertips and toes. It’s an overwhelming feeling, one of little explanation. I am worried. I know that much, but why must I be? Father has been called to the throne many times before, and so have I. It is not out of the ordinary, it is not different. I cannot help but think of Ariadne and Theseus. Is King Minos worried about Father’s part, about his clue to Ariadne? The string. We are going to be exiled for a ball of string. It’s so foolish, so silly. I cannot help but laugh at the thought. King Minos would never, we have given him too much to be thrown away like the peel of a fruit. 

Father knelt at King Minos’ feet, his nose to the floor, his palms flat against the carved stones. The moment I get to his side, I bow to King Minos, a snarl on his lips. When I hit the floor, I can hear Father’s sobs. They are soft, small, and weak, but they are no less there. Tears are creating small pools on the floor, droplets on the tip of his nose and cheekbones. I stare at him for what feels like forever, trying to comprehend the sight. Father has never cried. He has been scared, distressed, sad, but he has never cried. It makes me want to follow, to taste my own salty tears. King Minos is going to banish us for a ball of string. 

“Daedalus, you have forsaken me.” King Minos hisses, his hands gripped tight on the edges of his chair. “I have given you tools, materials, food, shelter. I have provided nothing but a home for you and your boy, and you have disgraced me and the entirety of Crete with your actions.” 

“I care for Crete as though it was my home since birth, my dear-”

“Words are nothing, Daedalus!” Minos’ voice echoes, making me flinch. I try to shrink, pushing my head into my shoulders and my knees closer to my chest. “Words are no more than a grain of sand. Actions are the whole ocean. And your grains of sand cannot outway your oceans.” My tears flow now. We are not to be forgiven this time. We are not to be freed nor pardoned for our crimes. “You shall have a punishment worthy of your treason.” 

“I - and I only - shall have a punishment, King Minos.” Father interrupts, not making his situation any more hopeful. King Minos asks for his pardon, why he has spoken without permission. “My dear King, my son has done no wrong. It is I and I only who shall be punished for my actions. I created the bull, I gave Prince Theseus the string, I told him how to kill Asterion-”

“Do not speak its name!” I flinch once again, hoping to disappear, to go back to my mornings with Father, my evenings with Ariadne. “It is the Minotaur, and nothing more, Daedalus.” Minos kicks Father with the side of his foot. Father falls, his side hitting the rocks with a hard thump. I think of Perdix and the blood that surrounded his head when Father pushed him. I think about the tears that came soon after. I was only a boy, not close to having a sense of violence. “You are not to tell me how to punish treason, nor who to punish. I am your king, act like it.” 

My heart drops to my toes, through the floor, and into the foundation of the palace. We would be lucky if we were killed, it would be more than lucky to be banished. The things that King Minos could punish us with are endless, the torture techniques, the long, draining deaths that take months, the incarceration that can lead us to insanity. Father’s fingers shake, his tears stain, his head hangs. 

“Incarceration,” King Minos states, “You will be jailed on one of the towers above my Palace of Knossos,” Minos states. “You will be fed only the scraps of the meals that are held here twice a day, and you will get nothing but candles for warmth and light.” 

Father lets out the smallest cry, his voice echoing through the room. Minos dismisses the noise, surprisingly not punishing him further for actions and noises that were not approved by him. I hold back the tears. It will be fine as long as Father and I are together. 

That’s more than I deserve.

It’s night when we are brought to the top of a tower that stacks on the Palace of Knossos. There are nearly ten candles lined along the edges of the tower, the barriers small and easy to climb over. The circular tower is no bigger than twelve feet in diameter. It worries me that Father will do something foolish. He does not have his chisel or his materials. His creativity has been diminished. I sit next to him on the stone that keeps us from falling to our deaths. 

“How long will we be here, Father?” I ask, my voice low and soft. I’m careful. Father’s head rests in his hands and his veins pop in distress, fear, anger. He never answers my question, no matter how long I wait for a solution. “Father.” My voice whimpers, the fear setting in. The stray hair on the back of my neck stands up and I curl up next to Father, the wind on my back, the sun on my face. It’s nice, peaceful; but horrifying, unknowing. “Please.” 

“Until death knocks at our door,” Father finally says only the Gods know how long after I have already asked the question. I glance at him, his eyes drooping, sad, red from crying. “We will wait on this small space of stone until there is nothing left for us to do but die, my dear boy.”

“Nothing left for us to do but die,” I mimic, letting the information set in. I will no longer get to observe Father’s craft, nor will I get to run down the halls of the Palace of Knossos. I will not get to sleep in a bed, nor will I get to hold Ariadne’s hands, give her playful shoves, or even have a proper farewell off of her ship with Theseus. On the brink of adulthood, I have already missed out on so much. “I will die without having seen the world, Father,” I mumble. “I will die without ever becoming as you did. I will never be recognized for talent beyond anything one’s ever seen before. I will die as nothing, Father. I will die as Icarus, son of the great inventor, Daedalus. I am no more than your shadow.” 

“You are not my shadow, Icarus,” Father replies, not hesitating for even a moment this time. “You are my sun.” He tries to smile at me, but it is quite obvious that he struggles, that it is not near as real as those smiles he showed around the dinner table merely the night before. “You make me shine. If you were not there to bestow your light upon me, I would not be as magnificent as I am perceived. You create my shadow, Icarus, but you are not my shadow itself.”

I let my body rest against the side of Father, the small amount of warmth he creates drifts over to me, the candles doing little to keep me from shivering. The moon finds its way around the Earth and greets us as the sun disappears. I am not Father’s sun, I am his moon. I shine because of the sun, Ariadne. It’s a cycle. Ariadne lights me, I light Father. We bounce positivity off of each other without even realizing it. It sort of makes me smile.

Father and I are fed twice a day with the scraps of meals, just as Minos promised; although, the birds circle every morning and evening, begging to be fed. We pass the time by playing games and dancing to music that you can hear from lyre players far off in the distance. It happens every few nights, and we immediately stand up, twirling ourselves around like maidens. We would laugh and talk and enjoy ourselves until the sun arises over the trees and the music fades into nothingness. 

After weeks of dancing, Father and I grow restless. There are people out there, dancing too. I want to be with them. I want to dance with them, not with Father on the top of a tower. There is so much I could see, so many people I could meet, and I do not have the chance anymore. Perhaps I could blame that loss on Ariadne and her selfish wants for Theseus, but that just is not right. It is not her fault that I am here, I doubt she even knows of my punishment. 

I keep quiet about my wishes to Father. He does not need to grow apologetic and swear to me about how sorry he is. I do not want to hear it, and I know he does not want to say it, so there’s no point in talking about it. I think about this now, but I know that mere weeks later, I will be begging him to get me out of this prison and off of this tower. I know it is selfish to complain. Minos has given us a ripe opportunity to see the world from a distance, to have beautiful views, to examine nature, rather than sitting in a room without windows or light. Father and I have been blessed, in a sense, and we do not seem to appreciate it as much as we should. 

The days grow long and the boredom grows strong. Father and I have run out of games to play and dances to dance. Now, whenever the music plays, we sit in silence and simply listen to the tunes and shouts of people as they dance and sing. Every once in a while, Father will sing along to the few songs he is familiar with. I’ve jumped in a couple of times, but never for long. It’s been years since Father and I sang together, since we first came to Crete, we would do nothing but work and work, no fun, no music, no games. 

When we aren’t singing or looking for ways to busy ourselves, we talk. Father told about what Mother was like. He refuses to say what happened to her, where she went, why I have not seen her, why I do not remember her, but he talks about her, about her beauty and her intelligence. In Athens, women weren’t typically so smart. They would do simple things while men did the hard duties. Apparently, Mother was different. She would insist on working with Father, gathering materials and carving out wood. She was a creator of her own. 

After talking of Mother, Father went on to speak of Perdix and the legacy that was set in place for him. The townspeople would state that Perdix was destined for greatness, was destined to overcome Father’s magnificent inventions. He was going to be better, smoother. He was going to be different. There’s a break in his voice every-time Father speaks Perdix’s name, like he just can’t help but still feel bad for what he did nearly five years ago. 

“He-” Father pauses, his eyes shut so hard, there are wrinkles forming at the corners. “He was a magnificent little boy, Icarus. He was truly a treasure.” Hearing Father speak in such a way about Perdix that I cannot help but have envy fill me. The love he carries for this boy makes the love he claims to feel for me like nothing. An empty promise that he has made to me. It’s something he feels forced to say just because I am his blood. I do not want it anymore. I want his love and his passion to be centered because of something he is proud of, not a responsibility. I want to be more. I want to be a son that is worthy of his love, worthy of even the jealousy he had for Perdix. 

“No doubt,” I mumble, “you taught him.” 

Father does not look at me, but he does cry. He sobs. The tears dampen the stone underneath us and the wind takes away droplets from his cheeks. I do not cry. I do not mourn the death of Perdix as Father does. There is no point in it. He is gone, with the Gods. Mourning is simply a way for Father to feel sorry for his mistake, which also has no point. It does not change what he has done. It does not change the impression it has made upon the Gods. It does not change their judgment. 

Father cries for nights on end, until he falls asleep from exhaustion. Whenever we are brought food in the evening, the guards look at us as though Father is disgusting for the emotions he shows. I want to snap back at them. I want to yell, but I do not. I watch their eyes and their body language as they set the board of scraps in the middle of us. I eat right away, but Father waits. He waits longer than he should; until his stomach growls and groans. He takes small bites and only finishes once he feels as though when he goes to sleep, he will wake up once again in the morning. It is as though he is punishing himself. 

“Eat, Father,” I command one night, shoving a piece of bread at him. “Eat, please.” He stares at me, the tears staining his face and his eyes red from crying. I start to feel the despair set in, the sadness that he is slowly killing himself over grief. “If you do not eat, we cannot see the world together, Father,” I whimper, my voice breaking, cracking like an egg. “I want to see the world with you, Father.” Birds squawk and scream above us, asking for some of our meat or bread, or eggs. “We could see the world as those birds do,” I mumble. “We could explore and live as though nothing but the next day matters. Please eat, Father, so that we can be birds of our own.” 

Father’s crying stops and his eyes widen as he stares at me. I use my face to beg him for a response, an explanation on his new face. He stands, abrupt and hurried. What is he doing? What is he looking for? He stares at the birds, then looks at the candles, these running low from burning for too long. We will get new ones soon. Father grabs a piece of bread, beckoning the birds from the air. One large black bird comes down, perching itself on the edge of the wall. Father gets close enough to give the bread to it, but not before he can pluck a couple of feathers from its wings. Birds’ feathers have landed around us before, but we only have looked at them and tossed them over the edge. 

The bird squawks and flies away with the bread in its beak. Father lines the feathers up, only three, and takes a candle, dangling it over the stems of the feathers. Hot wax melds the feathers together, making a small strip. Father laughs, nearly jumping up and down. He beckons more birds, begging for more feathers. He does it throughout the evening, gathering as many as he can. He laughs and smiles, something I haven’t seen in months now. He stares at his pile of feathers, glancing over to me with nothing but light in his irises and passion in his gaze. It makes me smile. 

“You are a genius, Icarus!” Father cheers. “A genius, I say.” He motions to the feathers, smiling proudly at his collection. “Do you want to be a bird, Icarus? I can make you one.” 

Father explains to me his new invention. He demonstrates with his hands and the feathers. He will use the wax from the candles we are provided and he will mold together feathers until he has created wings large enough to hold a person. He will take our clothes and rip them into strips to use as straps to flap them and keep them on our backs. I tell him he’s magnificent, like Perdix. Father does nothing but smile. 

Day and night Father plucks feathers and molds them together. He works for weeks on his craft, perfecting and testing the wings until they are to his satisfaction. I watch him with pure glee. His genius mind has created a way for me to see the world, to experience everything we are destined to see. It’s a beautiful opportunity and I cannot help but smile and blush and fawn over the thoughts of the things Father and I will do. 

I am given lectures on the use of the wings; their delicacy. He tells me that I must stay in the middle of the ocean and the sun. I cannot get too close to the sun, otherwise, it will melt the wax. I cannot get too close to the ocean, otherwise, it will wet the feathers. We must stay evenly in the middle to make it out and across the water. Father says that he will take off first so that I can follow after him and keep his height. 

The night after Father puts the last feather on the last wing, we talk of all the things we will see, all the people we will meet, all the places we will dance. We leave in the morning before our food is brought to us. They will be unable to assume when we left, or how. 

I have a peaceful sleep, knowing I will be gone in mere hours. 

Father helps me strap the wings to my frail body. We have lost much weight from the lack of food and to make it much easier for the wings to carry us. The wings are not quite light, but also not difficult to move around in. Father mentions once again how I must stay in between the sun and the ocean. I nod, confirming his warning. I watch as he jumps from the edge of the tower, no fear detectable in his presence. He shoots up into the air and glances back at me, the wings flapping, black and tan. The feathers and wax hold together finely. 

I stand on the edge, staring at the ground below me. It is far, it is terrifying. Nonetheless, I gain the strength - by just a singular deep breath - to step off, knowing Father’s wings will work. He would not let me use them if he was not certain. The flapping of the wings is like the buzzing of a bee. It is peaceful and beautiful. It reminds me of the millions of things I will get to see. 

The longer we fly, the more the flaming sun calls for me. It is the Gods, and they are loud, louder than the buzzing of my wings. I get a bit closer, yearning for those Gods and their appreciation. Ariadne spoke only the truth when she spoke of her want for appreciation and not worship. I have never quite noticed the difference before. Both contain the attention of others, but worship is due to looks, status, appreciation is due to talent, intelligence. 

The heat of the sun sucks me in, the Gods swallowing me whole. I do not complain. I do not scream. I make no sound at all, even though the burns starting on my body are excruciating, I invite the pain. It feels good, as though it makes me worthy of all I have wanted for my entire life. 

“Icarus!” My name on Father’s tongue shoots through my spine, like a squalling bird. The sound of his rough voice quickly changes from a worried father to mere gusts of wind; the comforting sound of a warm Father working late into the night.

The sun sends beams onto me, blessing me as no mortal has ever been blessed; for no dying human has flown as I have. The wax connecting the individual feathers that keep me floating slowly burns my back, sending blazing trails down my shoulders, my spine, my thighs, my feet. The feathers float past my fingers, just close enough to snatch back. The sun gets smaller rather than bigger, yet I can still feel its heat welcoming me. There is a beauty in falling when one should be soaring. 

I let the light of the Gods surround me, the heat of the wax melt me, the softness of the feathers guide me. I bathe in the golden light of the sun. I thrive in the harsh warmth of death. The ocean swallows my body, smoothing the burning wax, disturbing the calm waters. The wet feathers stick to my skin. The surface fades further and further from my sight, but it matters not to me, since before I have fallen, I flew.

I dare to let out the only air I will ever have left, watching the bubbles float to the top. No mortal will ever get a freedom as extraordinary as mine; for I saw with the sights of the birds, I felt the skin of the angels, I heard the secrets of the sun. I have been given the eyes of the Gods.

That is a sort of freedom more magnificent than the freedom of death.