Blood-orange light bruised Ikarus’ eyes through the lids. He sat up, aches jolting through his limbs and didn’t bother stifling a groan. Through the single window a shard of sunset sliced across his face. Compared to the bleak maze it was hellish. Ikarus squeezed his eyes shut, easing them open after several heartbeats. Gradually the irritation receded and Ikarus relaxed, remembering where he was. The small room was empty except for Aigle, who was curled in a nest of blankets. She was pale and fragile in the evening glow. Ikarus had to look away. Guilt at how they’d bickered prickled under his nails.

Brows dipping, Ikarus thrust off his own blanket and leapt to his protesting feet. Blisters from hours of roaming the labyrinth threatened to burst. The hatch was a dark smear of wood bolted shut. A bedraggled skein of loose red thread was heaped beside it. Where was his father? He couldn’t remember anything from after he blacked out.

The door was ajar, leaving in a trickle of wind. Moving stiffly in his dried clothes. Ikarus slipped outside without a sound.

Theseus stood on the crest of a low hill silhouetted in red. His back was too him, hair tossed in the breeze. There was a makeshift bandage wrapped over his forearm. The prince shifted and Ikarus noticed he favored one leg slightly. “Ikarus,” his low, authoritative voice carried despite the distance. “Come.”

Ikarus’ cheeks tinted. Had the prince heard him breathing? Shaking his head, Ikarus stretched his legs by jogging to Theseus’ side. “Do you know where my father is?”

Theseus didn’t look at him. His statuesque face was hard. “He was waiting for us to escape. There was some whisper that you had taken the place of a dead tribute. Daedalus knew you’d find the secret door.”

Pride warmed Ikarus for what felt like the first time. “Where has he gone now?”

“Privy to the king’s rage, I suppose.”

Worry coiled cold as a snake in Ikarus’ belly. Theseus must’ve seen his expression change. “Daedalus can handle himself. He assured me he would return.”

A thread of red blazed on the horizon. The inventor’s son dipped his head. He shook out his shoulders, letting weary muscles relax. “You’re hurt.” He eyed the raggedy bandage.

“Superficial.” Theseus shrugged. “Nothing that won’t heal.” He turned his head and stared. Ikarus swallowed, thinking it was a momentary, precursory glance. Theseus’ gaze was cool as the wind slapping his cheeks and didn’t change direction.

Ikarus flexed his fingers and inhaled a deep breath of salty air. It made his stomach feel even more hollow. His father would bring them provisions by night, he assumed, before they headed to the Athenian ship. “Where is your ship?”

A wiry smile quirked his lips. “Docked in the harbor. A merchant vessel, here as if just for trade. Minos has no idea my men hide onboard.”

Ikarus nodded. “Leaving tonight.”

“I’m to meet them in a small, empty bay to the east.”

“Why there?”

“I saw it when I sailed with the Argonauts.” His smile faded, his expression morphing into its usual brooding desolation. There was no spark in his eyes now, the torch was long out. “But that isn’t what you wanted to know.”

“No,” Ikarus’ voice was soft. Tendrils of navy night inked early constellations into the sky’s canvas. “Did you kill the Minotaur?”

“I did.”

“He was calming when I spoke to him.”

“You spoke to a beast,” the prince murmured, and his serenity threatened to cause a spike of hot fury in Ikarus’ gut. “The beast calmed as a cornered bull might for a moment, gaping in wonder at the red flag waving. Then it would’ve charged.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know it killed eleven of my people. Some younger than I. Children who trusted me.” His gaze switched back to the choppy sea beyond the palace walls and sheer cliffs. Relief swamped Ikarus once he looked away. Now it was Ikarus’ turn to study the prince.

“You saved Aigle.”

“You saved Aigle,” Theseus uttered a sad, genuine chuckle.

Ikarus put a hand on the taller youth’s shoulder. “You saved me.” The words tumbling from his mouth shocked him. His jaw clenched as if to prevent them, but they spilled forth anyhow as the truth often does. Brows lifting, Ikarus traced his memories back to the night before. He’d never snuck out of his room before, never directly disobeyed his father. The whole ordeal had almost gotten him killed.

He remembered his fear in the maze, leading the others, then his pride of a few moments ago when Theseus told him that Daedalus knew he’d find the secret way out. An escape that Minos himself probably didn’t know about.

Ikarus felt as if he’d lived his whole life inside a pithos and just now broke out. He’d survived the labyrinth, had teamed up with a hero. He’d survived the deadliest curse in Hellas. No longer did he writhe on the hook of another man’s line. He wasn’t Minos’ puppet or bent to his father’s will. Ikarus may’ve discovered the exit to the unsolvable labyrinth, but meeting Theseus had released him from bonds he hadn’t realized were holding him down.

“You saved me,” he repeated and wondered why the act didn’t bring him more joy. Melancholy twisted his young features.

“I will appease my heart with one bloodless victory at least.” Theseus smiled again but all the color had fled his cheeks. The two boys stood at the peak of the hill until night spread over the sky and stars risked their glances on the mortals below. Salty wind stung Ikarus’ eyes, but he refused to close them. A chill nipped his fingers, but he didn’t flex them.

The prince’s large hand found his and gave it a squeeze. He turned and his lips seemed to quirk, as if a promise for more. He leaned towards Ikarus. The inventor’s son tipped his chin up. Gratitude and understanding seemed to radiate from Theseus’ warm skin.

Theseus’ gaze was blank and empty. Glassy as a corpse, far-off as an artist searching for some lost inspiration.

Taking a sure breath Ikarus stared into the face of the youth he’d become so fond of. The prince he’d wished to hold and draw close. The one he’d imagined sharing a kiss, a passionate lovers embrace. The one who’d fraught Ikarus’ psyche with heated longing and cold curiosity. The craving to know the inner workings of Theseus’ mind had Ikarus’ desire running hot. He’d wanted to dismantle his whole person bit by bit just to understand him. Just to know why.

In the process he’d learned something more valuable.

He didn’t need to know.

Ikarus offered his own grateful, tiny grin and released Theseus’ hand.

Gliding from the hilltop Ikarus entered the shed, the prince’s gaze scouring his back until the door shut behind him. Aigle was still curled in a ball, swaddled in blankets in one corner. He crossed over to her and placed a tender kiss on her forehead. She didn’t wake. He remembered his mother, frail with illness. Skin milky and sweaty, crinkled like papyrus. How he’d hated kissing her cheeks. How he’d yearned for her strong arms after she was gone. Her face had faded from his memories. Aigle’s was sweet and restful with sleep. Her skin was smooth. It felt like a goodbye.

Hours later, when the moon was setting and the darkness was thickest, Daedalus shook Ikarus awake. He wasn’t surprised when he saw that Aigle was gone, the door was ajar, and the hillside was bare.

*****

Ikarus didn’t speak the whole journey to Daedalus’ workshop. He treaded in silence behind his father, his movements reflexes without thought. The news that Ariadne was missing, thought to have been kidnapped by Prince Theseus, sat in his stomach like a meal of rancid fish. They’d eaten a rushed dinner of stale bread and jerky before hustling out of the shack. Ikarus did his best to keep it in his stomach now. Flies of disquiet buzzed in his chest, circling his tumultuous heart. His eyes saw passages and halls, yawning and dark and empty. His body reacted as if he were still in the labyrinth. The back of Daedalus’ hairy hand jostled against his and Ikarus practically crawled out of his flesh.

He knew Ariadne hadn’t been taken against her will. She’d left voluntarily. She’d left Ikarus behind. He hadn’t been surprised when Theseus likely pulled Aigle from the shed in the middle of the night and tugged her too the ship. Theseus had never said aloud that he’d rescue Ikarus from this rotten prison of a palace, but he’d assumed that Ariadne would fair the same treatment.

As so often was the case, Ikarus was wrong, and his world was dim. Had he really survived the labyrinth just to end up back where he’d started? Except now he had no friend to fill his days. What would Minos do when he discovered that Ikarus hadn’t perished in the maze? Recalling the menace in the king’s gaze made his stomach clench.

By the time they plunged into his father’s dark forge they had evaded three patrols of armed guards with grim helmets and serious strides. Ikarus’ wits had not returned. Anguish threatened to engulf him as the familiar scent of fire and wood shavings pricked his nostrils. A less noticeable smell floated to him a heartbeat later. Melted wax. He tilted his head. Daedalus had reeked of burnt wax last they spoke when they argued in Ikarus’ room. Tears welled. The youth opened his mouth to apologize but Daedalus wasn’t paying attention. With a gentle touch he steered Ikarus to the back shadows of the room.

The light from the smelting fire was dull in the corner. Fine wiry pieces of bronze gleamed, supported by a thick cable for easy maneuvering. Despite himself, Ikarus reached out a finger and trailed it along the smooth masterpiece. The curves folded into a fine joint. The bronze had been shaped into the skeleton of a bird’s wing. Between the bronze bone were thin strips of gauze line tissue. Like skin. “Is this for a new automaton?”

Daedalus grinned, pushing a strand of thick hair from his large forehead. “No.” Ikarus had never heard that tone in his father’s voice. Unbridled excitement laced with wild, fluctuating hope.

He looked up, brows drawing together. “Then what is it?”

“The project I’ve been working on. I’ve been making us wings.” His hands cupped Ikarus shoulders and drew him close. In the reflection of Daedalus’ eyes, he could almost see the wide blue sky. His father gestured behind him. Ikarus turned to see white feathers rippling in the slightest waft of air. “We can fly out of here. Soon, while everyone is distracted by the Minotaur’s demise and Theseus’ escape.”

Ikarus’ eyes stretched. “But the other pair isn’t finished!”

“I know.” Daedalus urged Ikarus to face him once more. “You will finish them before I return.”

“Me?” Ikarus squeaked, eyes darting as if someone might appear out of the shadows.

“You can do it. I’ve attached everything else. All you have to do is cover the gauze in a layer of wax and stick the feathers in even lines. Use the pair I’ve already made as a model.”

“Father, all I’ve ever been able to do is take things apart. I can’t build things.”

“You beat the unconquerable labyrinth I designed.” Daedalus’ lip quirked at the corner. “If you can face death and win then painting wax and throwing feathers will be as easy as Zeus tosses lightning.” He patted Ikarus’ arm. “I must go. The king expects me. I am to take Minos and the queen into the maze to investigate how this happened. I will return by dawn, and we will set off. Have the wings finished by then.” With those instructions he was gone in a whirl of black fabric, his robes swishing against the floor as the door clunked shut behind him.

Sighing, Ikarus wrung his hands, sweet breaking out on his forehead. Next to the unfinished wings was a jar of wax and a bag of feathers. They were mismatched, most likely collected from seabirds. He thought of the foaming ocean, of sea-green eyes and a toiling ship in the vast distance. Ariadne was on that ship. He wanted to see her again. To see if she’d left him on purpose or if Theseus had fed her a deception.

Daedalus thought he could do that. No. His father knew Ikarus could accomplish such a task. That foreign sweep of pride ignited him once more. He squeezed his hands into fists, rolled his shoulders, and got to work.

He used a brush to spread the wax, tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he fought to steady his hand. The feathers came next. Soon he lost track of time, consumed by the task, all his energy dedicated to replicating the pair his father had already made.

After some time, he stepped back, wiping the sweat from his face. His muscles ached form the focus, still sore from his time in the labyrinth. Beaming, he took a few paces so he could admire both sets, certain they would be identical.

They were not. Ikarus’ wings had only half the feathers of Daedalus’. Heart falling, the inventor’s son scrambled to the bag of feathers. He stuck his hand in the rough burlap sack. Nothing. He overturned the bag and shook it. Nothing. He was out of feathers. Pushing down panic, Ikarus spun about, eyes narrowed and searching.

Beside the brazier he found a bag of chicken feathers. Daedalus had probably slaughtered his own chicken some time ago and roasted it in the workshop. He’d never cared for how the Genites seasoned their poultry. Ikarus snatched it and hurried back to his wings. Dawn must have been nearly upon them.

Pulling out a clump of pure feathers he hesitated to stick them on. They were smaller than the seabird ones, downer, and more flexible. They would provide hardly any support in flying. Either he could paste them on his wings and pray they worked or borrow some of Daedalus’ feathers. But taking the feathers from Father’s wings would mean he might fall from the sky… Ikarus shook his head.

It was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

The salt spray pricked his eyes. Daedalus soared in front of him, spinning in loops and spreading his arms broad. He laughed like a child, the sound booming and unapologetic. Ikarus couldn’t keep the grin from his face, though the tearing wind helped rip his mouth open. His own laughter was chucked behind him along with a sad trail of chicken feathers. They were so light that in the noon sun Daedalus couldn’t see them and they’d been in such a rush to escape the palace that he hadn’t inspected his son’s work. Daedalus trusted Ikarus.

The thought brought tears that were whisked off into the clear sky. Ikarus had spent so long second guessing himself.

And now they were free.

With gradual ease Ikarus was losing height. His arms burned from flapping. Daedalus’ wings sliced while his labored, ragged. The leather straps binding the frames to his arms chaffed the skin. But he said nothing to Daedalus and did nothing to catch up. They’d been flying for almost half a day. It would’ve been sooner if Minos hadn’t kept Daedalus busy for so long. They’d leapt from the balcony after first light, which had given Ikarus just enough time to slip a note written on gauze in fat ink under Phaedra’s door. His thoughts drifted to the remaining princess. He wished he hadn’t had to leave her, but she was clever. The girl would fair well. She’ll settle for nothing less than a hero, Ikarus thought, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

No land was in sight. Only the updraft and Daedalus’ craftsmanship kept them aloft. Soon Ikarus would be out of feathers. He would plunge into the sea.

His chest heaved with sobs, but no sadness or pity flashed in his expression. Joy sang in his ears. The burning sun didn’t blind him but bathed him in warmth like being held in his mother’s arms again or tucked under his father’s covers. “Ikarus!” The inventor flicked a wing. The gesture was unnatural and rather unbirdlike, but Ikarus didn’t care. His father was so happy. He didn’t want to ruin it.

The more he exerted himself the wearier he became and the nimble movements cascaded feathers like raindrops. He couldn’t resist diving towards his father, twisting and dodging and circling like a young hawk at play. He’d never been so utterly unfettered, hadn’t been so close to his father in years. They chased each other through the sky and Ikarus laughed as they accomplished what only the gods could do.

Unlike the gods, the mortals’ powers of flight were not infinite.

Ikarus took two mighty wingbeats, stroking as hard as he could. Facing the sun, the magnificent fire filled his vision. “Ikarus!” Daedalus screamed but it sounded far away. The pound of his heart jolted him like an electric shock.

His father had warned him before they jumped. “Do not fly too close to the sun or waves.”

And Ikarus hadn’t. Despite the great yellow globe above he was not much nearer than his father.

The last chicken feathers fluttered away. Ikarus dropped.

His father dove, calling after him. Ikarus twisted. Daedalus’ wings couldn’t bare them both. The sun glowed about Daedalus, so he appeared like a god and Ikarus smiled.

There was a mighty splash. The air was driven from his lungs. He tried to gasp, and his mouth filled with brine. The water swallowed him, holding the frames and tugging him down. His limbs were anchors. They grew too heavy for him to move, so he didn’t try.

He expected the ocean’s embrace to be cold, but it was warm. Warm like his mother’s living flesh and his father’s blankets. Ikarus sank into the sensation. The current wrapped him up. Grogginess clung to his eyelids, pressing them comfortingly down. His parents’ faces swam in his vision, mingling with bubbles. He saw Ariadne, Phaedra, Aigle, and Theseus’ faces as well. He wanted to touch them, but they were too far. He calmed at the knowledge that somehow, someway they would know each other again.

Before his eyes closed, he thought, take care of him, to whatever being may’ve been listening.

Liberated, Ikarus allowed himself to sleep.

******

Dear Phaedra,

I will miss you, though not in the way you would’ve wanted. By the time I return for you I hope you’ve met a handsomer lad who is braver than I. I’m afraid I can’t wait to leave and for that I am sorry. If you see Ariadne before I do tell her she’s loved. I would say to ask her why she left us, but I have learned something recently. Something that took me a long while to understand.

Some things you don’t need to know.

Don’t ask questions. I’d hate for you to get into trouble.

Farewell.

Your true friend,

Ikarus