The Fall of Icarus (Book 1 in the Apollo series)

Δεκαπέντε

A first, Icarus saw a single feather.

It was calming, falling slowly as it swayed back and forth in what looked to be a calming breeze. It didn't seem to be encased in the angry gusts of wind that had carried Icarus towards the sun.

The sun was beating down on him. It felt as if the sun was resting upon his back, grappling him and burning every inch. He could feel himself sweating; he cold feel it beneath his wings and beneath his chiton. He was too hot, much too hot.

His father had warned him not to fly too close to the sun, but how close was too close?

Soon after the first feather, came another. And then another, and another and another, until Icarus was surrounded in a hurricane of disorganised, multicoloured feathers. He couldn't see much, they were forming a tower around him; trapping him in and not letting him go.

So the tower could still hurt him.

"Icarus!" He heard his father yell. "Icarus, flap the wings! Come down!"

He tried. He'd tried before, earlier. But it was no use. No matter how much he flapped his arms like a deranged bird, no matter how much he tried, Icarus couldn't do it. He could still feel hands grabbing his arms, even though he couldn't see them. They were keeping him there, too close to the sun.

For a moment, Icarus thought he saw a face in the wind. It was sneering, smiling, enjoying his panic. It was almost laughing, its' eyes wild and nerving. They was enjoying this. Icarus' fear.

You forget that I am a god Icarus, I have seen things like this happen before. I know how it usually ends and I know how the gods like to play cruel games with mortals for their own amusement.

Was this Icarus' cruel game?

Who's game was it?

Who's cruel game was Icarus a meaningless pawn in?

Don't worry Icarus, a callous voice said to him. You're not meaningless. You're the centrepiece.

The face was gone, as were the hands on his forearms. The wind was slowing down, it had faded into a calming breeze, like the breeze he felt when he first visited the beach with Apollo, and Icarus almost breathed a sigh of relief. He grabbed ahold of the joysticks and tried to manoeuvre downwards towards his father, but he still couldn't.

Why?

He looked to his wings, and saw nothing more than their bare skeletons. Nothing more than dripping wax, a few determined, sparsely-spaced feathers and the wooden frame that should be holding everything together.

Icarus' heartbeat increased once again, and he realised he was falling.

It felt slower than he thought it would. He could barely feel the wind rushing through his hair, he could barely hear the snapping and cracking of the wings' frame, nor could he barely hear the panicked cries of his father as he tried to fly towards him.

The wind in his hair felt nice. It was cooling against the sun and wax that had been burning his back. It reminded him of every moment he sat alone on the window ledge of Minos' tower, praying for some kind of deliverance. Yet, it also reminded him of every moment he sat on the window ledge next to Apollo; he remembered the feeling of Apollo's soft fingers running through his hair, he could remember the feeling of his head against Apollo's chest, listening to his heartbeat.

In those moments, he almost felt human.

"Apollo!" He called out as he fell. "Apollo! Please! Where are you!"