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GRACE CUR L E Y

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WE WERE GODS ONCE

WE CAN BE GODS AGAIN

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CONTENTS

II: The Cemetery of Lost Promises

III: The Floating World

VII: What Soars Above Us?

IX: I Let A Song Go Out My Heart

XV: The Stars Incline Us

II:

The Cemetery of Lost Promises

“But already my desire and my will were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed, by the Love which moves the sun and

the other stars.”

—Dante Alighieri, Paradiso, The Divine Comedy

1270 BCE

The labyrinth was dirty, constricting. The smell of wet and rotted vines littered the air, making his ten-tative hands twitch and curl in desperation. How

he wished to be free again! To feel the glaciers melt into springs and witness the stars turn themselves over and over again under his fingertips.

His father stood away from him, watching his son’s eyes glaze and ripple. He had warned him. Already some of the wax from his wings had started to soften, but his son did not care. He put his hammer down and went to stand beside his son, watching him look up into the night sky for any kind of message written in the stars.

The silver boy sighed when his father’s hand lay upon his back, and he ripped his eyes away from the swirling smear of sky. Daedalus clapped his shoulder with one calloused hand and turned his son to face him.

“Icarus.” His father’s hard voice startled him. “You must help me, now.” The boy’s dark-haired head had not turned. A pause, and then a shift. Then his father’s hand on his face, his voice gruffer.

“Come on, son.”

He still did not move.

“Turn away from these mortal dreams and come help me with my creation, boy.”

Icarus sighed, but nodded. His father smiled. The instructions from his father had blurred into a sheet of white noise. The boy could only touch, feel, smell the tantalizing freedom in his fingerprints, in his veins. The hammer in his left hand burned a hole in the middle of his palm, sinking and burning. He dropped it and his father halted his speech, an eerie silence passing in the air.

His cold hands did not belong with a nail and hammer; they belonged with the sun.

“You are not to go out flying again.” His father’s voice was casual, final. Icarus could not bear to hear it. His head felt like an anvil was being pressed against it.

When he spoke, his voice was but a whisper. “What?”

Daedalus stopped working and turned towards his son. He had his mother’s eyes. He sighed and crushed the nail with his hammer again.

“What—” Icarus was standing much closer now. “…what did you mean, Father?” His pale hand lay upon his father’s shoulder, with much more purpose.

“I said, son,” Finally the age-ridden man had stopped his working and stood up to the height of his son. “You are to never step foot outside of this labyrinth again.” His tone was cold, closed. Hardened like the inventions that came alive under his hands and time had wearied.

Icarus closed his cerulean eyes, and when they opened again, they were much darker than before. “No.”

Daedalus’s blood ran cold. “No?” He shook off his son’s arm. “For once you have tasted flight …” His voice was desperate now. “… you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you will long to return.”1

His son’s body had frozen like the snow he had drunk. “I cannot let that become of you; I cannot stand here and watch you destroy yourself.” The old man’s age-worn eyes had drooped, but his son’s were alive and burning like a match dropped in a sea of oil.

“No.” The word burned in the boy’s mouth and sizzled on his tongue. “A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away2 and all the sun away, yet these walls stand.” Icarus’s last words were with finality; his eyes no longer sparked.

“I think I, too, have known autumn too long.”

His father watched him go, eyes sad and mouth cut. His father’s promises were moth-eaten and half remembered; he did not need to stay and watch the hours married to shadow.

When his wings danced onto the highest balcony of the cathedral, he shut his eyes and breathed in the humming of the air. The winged boy did not worry that his lover would not show up. He always did.

Soon the golden light burned the back of his eyelids, and he opened his eyes to see him. His lover had a smile on his face, a soft, sad-eyed smile that made Icarus feel caressed, yet fiercely loved. When Icarus ran to him, his lover’s strong arms settled around him, his sun-streaked skin burning under the boy’s fingers.

The soft mumble on his neck told him that the golden man understood, that he loved him.

The boy dared to kiss the sunlight and it kissed him back.

His lover’s fingers started at his neck, tracing his Adam’s apple. They soon ventured further, dipping into his collarbone and down his muscled torso, stopping only at his abdomen. Each touch left a scorching trail behind as Icarus’s chest trembled.

Soon the golden lover’s soft lips pressed against his, whispering promises against his own. They tasted of passion and youth, adventure and treachery. It all washed over him like a tidal wave. Icarus’s lips pressed harder, and his hands trailed up to the other boy’s golden face, guiding him, pressing him.

The cold wall of the cathedral flattened against his back, mindful of his folded wings, the cold stone of the wall dampening some of the heat of their bodies.

“Apollo…” Icarus murmured, his lover’s hot lips behind his ear, lighting Icarus’s body on fire.

Apollo’s hands left trails of sparks behind as he marked the winged boy. His eyes traced and memorized the silver scars that littered Icarus’s skin, memory of his own burning hands clutching, molding. There was something beautiful about the boy’s scars, something lovely about his fallibility. The soft feathers of Icarus’s wings pressed against Apollo’s forearms, his soft but arduous mouth consuming him, as if he had not drunk in days. The feeling burned through Apollo like fire, brief and devastating, and utterly unstoppable.

Sometimes his lover forgot how much he burned him, the sun god himself.

Apollo had started to grow insatiable. He laid his hand atop Icarus’s pale chest, halting his movements for a brief second. His words were a whisper: “I do not know how to stay tender …” He placed a kiss underneath his lover’s jawline. “… with this much hunger in my mouth.”

“I do not care,” Icarus whispered unsteadily, “do what you want”—the boy’s finger traced the curve of Apollo’s neck, making him shudder—"do what you must…” Icarus continued in a whisper.

Words died in Apollo’s throat, and something else ignited.

Their kisses were much faster now, much deeper. Icarus could not stop, nor did he want to. For now, he looked at his golden lover, voice empty and breaths heavy. Apollo’s tongue cracked against his tender skin, and slender fire littered quick underneath his veins. Icarus could not imagine anything more consuming.

Sun-warmed hands trailed circles on his wings, opening new ways to touch the sky. Their particular dance was a dalliance of whispers; traded breaths and pressing hands, unsaid desires burning brighter than eternal suns. Their mouths like flint and steel, their kisses like ichor.

It was moon hour when the burning lovers tired and encased themselves within each other’s warmth. Their lips spoke of forbidden promises and butchered daydreams; yearning for days spent together, but remembering nights spent alone, stuck in a

cage made for monsters.

Their bodies remembered, too: Fingers twitching to touch, hands tracing the curvature of their bodies, mouths full with words each did not dare say. Neither of them asked the unspoken question that they tried so terribly to ignore: How long will we get to keep this?

The sun god’s hot cheek rested against Icarus’s cool shoulder, mumbling as his eyes fluttered shut. Icarus took his burning hand, squeezing it gently, his lips resting softly against a golden cheekbone. Apollo squeezed back, fingers laced in black hair like a crown for a broken king.

From there they went outside and saw the stars.

* * *

The ivory balcony was glowing white under the pale moonlight, casting a sheer gossamer over the granite. The two lovers stood, hand in hand and close enough to feel each other’s breaths, overlooking the calmness and harshness of the sea; a tenderness to its ferocity.

Apollo watched his lover as the wind braided itself into his hair: In the moonlight, Icarus was all swollen lips and broken feathers.

The pair’s beauty reflected in the singing sea itself, entrancing the moon and the constellations. If only the mind was as beautiful as the body.

Icarus’s hands traced circles on his lover’s golden palm, sighing, eyes dotted with hidden sadness.

“I live in sin.” The winged boy’s eyes had turned downwards, his soft mouth setting grimly with despair. “To kill myself I live. No longer my life my own, but sin’s; my good is given to me by heaven, my evil by myself, by my free will, of which I am deprived.”3 He sighed. “My father does not want me to see you anymore.”

Apollo halted, his heart pumping symphonies in time with his breath. The silence between them could light a match and spark a fire. His voice was calm. “Will you?”

Icarus turned, eyebrows lifted and eyes curious. “Will I what?”

Apollo’s eyes turned downward, casting a gray shadow across his face. “Will you go? Leave me, that is.” Icarus had never seen him not totally sure of himself. He smiled softly.

“No.”

Apollo’s eyes lifted. Icarus traced the words on his honeyed forearms.

“No, I will not. The lost souls from the river of Acheron would have to crawl out from beneath this Earth and drag me to their throne of bones and pomegranate, and even then I would still find you. This is but an obstacle.” Icarus’s voice was soft, cracked.

“Then we will be okay.” Apollo flicked his hand, as if skimming his fingers through a running spring. Sat neatly in his

palm was a golden locket.

Delicately sculpted onto the front was some kind of rune: within the disk lay a sphere in the center, four pointed hands directed out from each side, lines like the currents of waves protruding out of the spaces. It resembled a four-pointed star, or flaming sun, and Icarus had seen the symbol once before when he was very young, when Daedalus had taken him to the Acropolis.

Carved Latin words patterned the outside edges: Igne natura renovatur integra.

Through fire, nature is reborn whole.

Apollo placed it carefully into the winged boy’s palm, and closed each of his fingers one by one, each one holding a promise intended to be kept.

Icarus carefully opened the locket, his gaze finding the tiny inscription in the center. The words were unfamiliar, but their resonance was not:

May your eye go to the Sun,

To the wind your soul …

Or go to the waters if it suits thee there.

Icarus swallowed, his eyes burning, and looked up. Apollo’s amber eyes found his, warm gaze caressing, holding him in place as their noses brushed and their hands trembled a little less. The sun was the first to look away.

“It’s yours now,” Apollo murmured. Softly. “Yours to keep, forever. Let it remind you that there is nothing I would not do for you.” His eyes were the most sincere Icarus had ever seen them.

The golden boy continued, his throat hoarse. “If I ever were to lose you, if you fell, I would follow you"—their eyes locked—“into the next life. And the life after that. I would still choose you, even in the house of death. So long as we are together.”

Determination warred with vulnerability in his eyes, but Apollo soon blinked slowly and cast them downward. “I know you will not leave me...” he sighed, shuddering.

Icarus was in awe at how this beautiful man had never shown this side of him before—yet he thought it made him ten times more beautiful.

Apollo started again, “... but I need to hear you say it.”

Moments passed, and the wind sung wild songs in the air. Icarus slowly brought his finger up underneath his lover’s chin, and turned Apollo’s head up to eye-level: His eyes were sad, mournful.

Icarus did not know what to say. However he managed to capture this wondrous sun was unbeknown to him, though he was as grateful as the stars were in the sky. Watching the blazing inferno of a boy in front of him, Icarus murmured the only words he knew would keep his sun at ease:

“And though the dead forget the dead in the house of Hades, even there I shall still remember my beloved companion.”

And he meant it. He meant it as a prayer, a sacred passage meant only for his lover.

Apollo kissed him.

* * *

Sometime in the night, the flaxen lover shook the embers off his back and left the granite balcony, leaping off into the sky. The winged boy sat, the top half of his body left uncovered, thinking:

How do you fall apart? Is it like a waltz; step by step? Or maybe like a tide; terrible and devouring and all at once.

III:

The Floating World

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.

And the human race is filled with passion.”

— N. H. Kleinbaum, Dead Poets Society

Lincoln was an atrocious driver. The wind strung through his hair, making the sandy strands look pur-posely disheveled. His glinting smile lit up the beat-

en-up truck and the roads that followed, wicked and boyish and made to cause trouble. Oscar felt a tingling sense of annoyance at the sight, purely because of his own reaction; his rising interest in Lincoln was becoming more than a problem.

Lincoln had suggested showing Oscar his favorite spot, but now that Oscar was left to his devices, he found himself growing increasingly nervous. He was going to an unknown place with an unfairly handsome guy he had just met and knew nothing about. Because of his illness and social anxiety, Oscar’s mother was more protective of her son going anywhere than necessary.

Why Lincoln wanted to spend time with him, Oscar didn’t know. He was sure that once Lincoln got a taste of what it was like to be around Oscar, he would lose interest. The thought sent a pang through his chest, and sent his stomach twinging.

The seatbelt knocked him out of his thoughts as they—barely—stopped at a red light. The truck jolted in an aggressive manner, and Lincoln’s gold head turned to look at him, a devilish grin on his face. Oscar couldn’t stop himself from smiling tentatively back.

“I did pass my driver’s test, I swear.” Lincoln’s smile was heartbreaking.

“I’m sure you did.” He did not mean for it to come out as sarcastic, but Lincoln didn’t seem to notice.

The trees blended together in an olive and cypress green mixture, and the hot summer sky burned spots onto the windows. They pulled over outside a dirt drive with sumptuous pines clouding the sky, sprinkles of sun dancing over the ground. It was pleasantly warm and tranquil, quietly intimate. He could see why Lincoln liked it.

“Here we are.”

Lincoln jumped out of the rusty truck and helped Oscar unload his easel. Once it was set up under a sunny patch of light, Oscar was in front of the canvas, and Lincoln stood behind him.

Oscar felt his palms sweat as he realized he was about to give Lincoln a lesson in painting when he, himself, was no professional. He could barely focus with Lincoln right behind him, watching his every move.

“Um, so, there really isn’t much to it...” His paintbrush was stained with blue paint, and he stroked it tremulously over the white canvas. He could feel Lincoln’s breath on his neck.

Oscar began to show the boy behind him everything he knew: every secret, ever trick, every technique of illusion, every meaning of art there was in history—any that counted, anyway. This was the only thing in the world he could talk and talk about without ever getting embarrassed. It was his anaesthetic—his escape. Lincoln held onto each and every word with intense focus. Oscar was more than surprised.

“… because art is the elimination of the unnecessary.” A mockingbird came to perch on a nearby tree, its beak twisting in a

beautiful wretchedness. It marveled at his painting.

The sun-spotted boy seemed to forget all that was around him, and hung on every word Oscar said like it was a lifeline.

His hazel eyes, that looked golden in the afternoon sun, were large and fascinated, even more so than in L.A.S. He was standing closer now, and his curly hair was tickling Oscar’s cheek—he must have taken a step forward.

Lincoln’s warmth radiated off him like sound waves. It penetrated through his body and sat in his stomach as he painted. Oscar felt himself slowly grow accustomed to Lincoln’s intense presence, and allowed himself to forget the pressingness of reality and drink in the closeness, if only for a moment.

Eventually, the whirlpool of a painting was done, and Lincoln’s eyes had adopted that reverent sheen that people tended to get when gazing at something beyond possibility. He reached out to touch it, but stopped midway, remembering it was still not dry.

Oscar watched him, fascinated. How a boy like him, so perfect and lively in every way, could be silenced by just a painting. Such art this was! He should like to frame it and give it to him as a gift, and name it Life In Every Breath.

“Oscar …” Lincoln began, in awe, “This—this is incredible. Do you think I could...maybe, take it home with me?”

He was speechless, although to Oscar it was just a demonstration.

“Of course,” Oscar sputtered, “I made it for you, after all.”

Realizing what he’d said, Oscar flushed, and was rewarded with Lincoln’s endearing, eye-crinkling smile.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “I have an idea. Wait here.” Lincoln ran and nudged the dubious truck door open, rummaging for something in the front department. Oscar watched on in bemused curiosity.

Then, Lincoln was back, his hair ruffled, a notepad and pencil in his hand. He began scribbling something onto the yellow lined paper. After a few minutes, he ripped off the page and handed it to Oscar, their fingers grazing and making Oscar’s heart rate spike.

Lincoln smiled at him again, as natural as breathing. Oscar distracted himself by reading what the other boy had written on the paper:

“I wilt not forget thine art

of which thine soul hath imparted.

But breath! In which such life hath breath’d

eternally; upon thine mighty brush.

O! Such splendor hath not breathed

a thousand lifetimes, as I has’t?

One’s own gratitude hath abounds

more than beauty abounds,

as reverently as one looks on.”

Below the scribbled words lay a small doodle of a rose, that appeared to have no ending and no beginning.

Oscar took far longer than he wished to recover from the shock, but when he looked up from the note, the aged paper crinkling in his hands, Lincoln was already watching him expectantly, a small, uncertain smile on his lips. Oscar opened his mouth and closed it again. After another long moment of silence, Lincoln’s expression seemed to grow troubled, and Oscar realized he still hadn’t said anything.

“You're…very surprising,” he got out, still scrambling for his wits. Lincoln’s worried frown soon turned into a blinding grin, and he tipped his head back and laughed, a joyous sound, that rang in Oscar’s head even after it was silent again.

“As are you, Mr. Gray,” Lincoln said, still grinning, “I am glad you liked it. I figured it was best to have an exchange, you see? I like to think I am a poet, I mean. It felt wrong receiving something so wonderful without giving anything in return, no matter how small.”

Oscar stared at him. His golden curls were still disheveled in a way that would look messy and distasteful on anyone else, but only looked endearing on him. Oscar searched for words, and the only thing that came out was:

“Van Gogh wished to create a society where exchanging paintings was a form of communication and expression. The wish never came to fruition…” he said, softly.

Lincoln stared at him, his eyes boring into Oscar’s. “Why

don’t we continue it, then? Make it a tradition between us? As a tribute to him. Art for art.” He held out his hand, firm and purposeful. Oscar took it again and shook slowly, twice.

Then, Oscar smiled, a small thing, like the curling of buds in May.

They were still holding hands. When Oscar realized, he chuckled embarrassingly and withdrew it, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. “It’s a deal, then,” he said, breaking the heavy air between them.

Lincoln only nodded kindly in agreement. “It’s a deal.”

* * *

Later, they sat down on a log, side by side, knees almost touching. It was quiet except for the birds trilling in the open air. The day was no longer speckled with gold, but now burning like a candle nearing its end. Stars began to spot the sky as the moon unveiled herself.

“I wish to be a poet, but I am scarcely making progress.” Lincoln was the first to speak in the ponderous silence. Oscar’s head snapped towards him, and watched the words curl out of his mouth like smoke.

“Why do you say that? Of course you are a poet,” Oscar replied almost petulantly, remembering the poem Lincoln had made for him in only a few minutes. Lincoln laughed, the sound like singing chimes.

“Compared to the masters, I really am not.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly, not returning Oscar’s gaze.

“Well, you cannot compare yourself to the masters,” Oscar said, remembering something his mother once told him. “You are still a teen, with much time ahead of you. You can’t compare yourself to the likes of Whitman, or Ginsberg, or Yeats. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Listening to himself, Oscar really wished he could follow his own advice.

Lincoln turned his head to the side, gazing at him. Oscar looked back and could not decipher the boy’s expression, and willed a blush to not rise, again, to his cheeks.

Then, Lincoln smiled dazzlingly, and Oscar thought a stupid, dangerous thought: I would never get tired of that smile.

Lincoln bumped his shoulder to his, jostling him out of his stupid trance and leaving a burning sensation where their shoulders touched for a second. “I knew you were cultured,” he said, in the end, his presence almost suffocating.

Oscar laughed. “Cultured? Me?”

“One cannot mistake it. First Rodin, then Van Gogh, then some of my favorite poets? How did you guess?” Lincoln asked, warm amusement coloring his tone.

Oscar shrugged in what he hoped was a casual manner. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly, “I only named the one’s that imprinted on me heavily. You must be a little 'cultured' yourself, then, if you knew of all I spoke.”

Lincoln threw his head back and leaned on his hands carelessly, the dirt staining his palms. “I suppose. My mother used to read their poems to me when I was a child.” His smile suddenly seemed dimmed, his gaze drooping. Oscar rushed to change the subject.

“Oh. Is that why you wanted to be a poet yourself, then?”

Lincoln nodded. “I suppose so. I was always entranced by the Poet’s ability to turn anything into poetry, even the dull and the ugly. The world needs more beautiful things, even if they only live in written and uttered words,” he replied, no trace of amusement in his tone.

Oscar hummed, contemplative, “But not everything is beautiful. Death, suffering, depression. These things are not beautiful, no matter how many lovely adjectives you use to describe them.” Oscar did not mean for it to come out bitterly, but Lincoln only looked thoughtful, not offended.

“I suppose you are entitled to your opinion, as I am entitled to mine. After all, one must always doubt and question everything,” he replied, somehow without sounding pompous; his voice held a sense of wise maturity and calm curiosity. “I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.4 The lovely words poet’s give to describe an ugly thing does not eviscerate its ugliness, it only transforms it. My mother used to say that.”

Suddenly, the golden boy laughed to the sounds of the wind and huffed quietly into the dense air. And Oscar saw him.

Gold had never been brighter. Tickling his tear ducts and burning his eyelids, blazing and true and molten and everything he’d imagined. It was something so ethereal, so pure—yet it only lasted for a single, intoxicating moment.

Oscar tried to hold onto it, clutched at it, begged for it not to leave his senses again, but it still faded back into a dull, tarnished gray. The aftershocks of the sensation lingered in Oscar’s bones, the singe in his veins tampering off slowly. The memory was so brief that Oscar was sure it was a daydream.

Lincoln did not seem to notice his ephemeral amazement.

“U-used to?” Oscar asked hesitantly as he stared at the other boy, still not recovered from the whirlwind of pure shock, the question burning in his mouth.

Lincoln shrugged softly, not unkindly, and turned his head towards the spotted sky. His hair was glowing in the dark.

His hands came up, cupping the stars. “How dreamlike things are …” His eyes spun with wonder. “… how skinned of flesh and blood.”5 He said it like he accepted it, like it was a fact that could not be helped.

Oscar couldn’t help but agree. “I wish we were like them,” he whispered, as quietly as one would share a secret.

Lincoln’s head turned and met his eyes, gold on blue.

“Like who?”

“The stars, of course.” Oscar’s breaths were soft and lulled, while Lincoln’s eyes were wide and searching.

“And why is that?”

“They live forever so we don’t have to. They shine for eternity when all other light is gone. Do you not yearn for eternal happiness?” Oscar replied.

Lincoln seemed contemplating, appraising.

Finally, the golden boy spoke. “Only the sea and the stars know the secret of life everlasting.” His voice was true, unprejudiced, “who are we to envy the tethers of eternity?”

Oscar supposed it was true: Only the wicked craved immortality. But who was he to say he did not crave wickedness? For at least it was born from passion.

He huffed out a laugh, the sound falling flat. “Well, no matter what you seem to believe, you are very much a poet, Mr. Aesten.”

Lincoln smiled again, his eyes holding warmth and timid boyishness, the sight becoming more familiar by the passing minute. “I will take your word for it then, Mr. Gray.”

Oscar did not bother to hide his smile.

* * *

The hours crushed together like the autumn leaves and were filled with laugher and sincerity. It was the most he’d ever laughed and spoken in years.

They were now lying on the bonnet of Lincoln’s truck, gazing at the stars above them. They had both been startled of how easy it was to converse with such familiarity, as if they hadn’t met only

a few hours ago. He had called his mother a while back, letting her know he would be coming home late. She had been shocked, but her worry was soon overtaken by elation. He had told her he was with a friend. She took a while to believe him.

“Oscar?” Lincoln said his name with meaning, as if it were something important: Os-kar. Unlike the way everyone else said it, slurred and ready to be rid of it.

“Hmm?”

“What do you want?”

The question stunned him. A long-forgotten passage he had once read suddenly floated into his consciousness: ‘Happiness beyond all worlds! A life of peace and love, entire and whole!’ 6

He could say he wanted nothing, that he felt like nothing, that he counted the days until darkness.

He could say he wanted everything and nothing all at once. He thought for a moment, as the birds sang in the trees, of how often he felt like that.

His skeleton danced with his shadow, and his voice was so soft that he did not think the other boy heard him. “I want to see when my eyes are open.”

The moon peeked, and the sullen silence did not feel as violent as before. But from the quietude in the buzzing air, Oscar knew he had heard him.

Lincoln said nothing at all, but merely stared upward into the night sky and gazed, with wide eyes, the slow waltz of the

unfathomable cosmos.

VII:

What Soars Above Us?

“I’m youth, I’m joy, I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.”

— James Matthew Barrie, Peter Pan

1270 BCE, 6 months earlier

“I can hardly breathe.”

Icarus watched his father halt, head turning to meet his. Icarus felt hollow; like one of those shells

he used to collect on the white-sand beaches, when he was young and fretless and pink with freedom. He carefully lowered himself to the chair beside his father, the silence stretching long and pinpricked.

“What is it you speak of?” Daedalus asked, his voice coming out hard and impatient, a direct contrast to the innate kindness in his eyes.

“It’s this place,” Icarus admitted, eyes flicking to the heavy-dense smell of the constructed walls, the shadows falling like phantoms, “I do not think I can live another day here.”

Daedalus laughed, humorless. “What is it you suppose I should do?”

“Find a way to break us free.”

“Do not be a fool.”

“I am no fool. What is built can be destroyed.” Icarus was coiled; his hands balled into fists under the work table, his back straight as timber.

The man looked at his son; at his set jaw, the determined furrow of his brows, the stubbornness in his eyes. There could be only one way he had inherited those traits.

Daedalus leaned in closer, until his words were murmurs. “You will continue to live many more days here, no matter how much you despise it. Because that is all we can do; live on, and hope that the storm will cease.”

Icarus looked back at him, his eyes vacant. “Maybe I am tired of hoping for the storm to cease. Maybe I would rather do it myself; battle the gods for my merriment,” Icarus joked bitterly, but the honesty of the words burned on his tongue.

Daedalus did not find amusement. “Do not speak ill of the Gods,” he hissed, “these walls may stand, but they will not protect you from things far greater than yourself.”

Icarus hummed. “At least in death, I would be free,” he said, coldly.

Daedalus abruptly turned, his eyes hard and his voice harsh. “How can you jest at deities but never felt a wound?” He turned away, attempting and failing to focus on his work again.

Icarus’s voice was small but steady when he spoke, after the silence stretched too long, “I have felt the deep wounds of imprisonment. They are no lesser than those scars on your hands, and tarnish the soul quicker.”

“I said we will not speak of it,” Daedalus hissed, before softening his voice, suddenly tired. “We all wish for things, Icarus. But you will have to learn that wishes do not always come true. And you will learn it well.” With that, Daedalus turned away from him, leaving Icarus to stand listlessly alone, as he always did.

* * *

Icarus walked through the stone corridors, his footsteps echoing through the dense halls. He was peculiarly numb—for he was not angry, nor sad—but felt rather that deep-rooted bitterness that flowed through him whenever enticed, that hid sleeplessly within him, tormenting him in terrible silence.

He sighed and looked up at the sky. It was mid-afternoon, and the clouds were now starting to migrate with the wind, the sun moving sluggishly downwards in the distance. Birds flew up ahead, a flock of them, their white feathered wings striding elegantly, light and agile.

Icarus stopped walking. Only when the birds disappeared entirely did he force his legs to move back in the direction he’d came.

He stopped before his father once more, his bones rattling in their cages. “Father, I have sought a solution and have been granted with one.”

Daedalus did not look at him, unwilling to continue the dreaded conversation.

Icarus continued, unperturbed and dazed. “It is so great that it may have been gifted to me by a god. Perhaps, Athene, with her glimmering sword, may have loaned me her wits for a moment’s thought.”

Daedalus finally rolled his eyes. “Cease the dramatics, Icarus. Tell me what it is you found,” he said, still scribbling with his

quill.

Icarus did not bother to take a breath, instead letting his words trip over themselves like rivers. “The wings of birds carry them through heavy storms and winds, and never fail them, even when Zeus rages. Wings, Father, that can be replicated…” The implication was clear.

Icarus continued, in revelation. “Don’t you see, Father? We are to recreate the wings of birds, and fly towards our freedom!”

Daedalus stared, abandoning his parchment. He looked at his son’s flushed cheeks and wayward hair, at the wild look in his eyes that Daedalus never managed to expel. The man sighed and rubbed his forehead, thinking that the words out of his son’s mouth were going to cost them more than they’d bargained for.

“This is insanity.”

Icarus shook his head wildly. “No, Father, it is genius. You are the greatest inventor in all of Crete. If there is anything you cannot do, it is fail.”

Daedalus shook his head, at a loss for words. His son’s idea was madness; hubris, terribly brilliant. It surely could not be done.

But Icarus was right. Daedalus was the great inventor of Crete, supposed descendant of the great god of fire and craftsmen, Hephaestus, himself. Daedalus had never failed a task set for him. His wits were given to him by Athene herself, as the oracles said.

The man sighed; his inevitable answer would surely cost them much. “You are to catch a bird tomorrow, at first light. It must be

in pristine condition,” he began, strictly, “I will need it to study.”

Then, a smile overcame his son’s face, a great, joyous thing, that Daedalus could not remember ever seeing on him.

“Thank you, Father,” Icarus breathed, his eyes glistening, and hurried off.

The man watched his son go, the boy’s steps quickening with eagerness, and could not dispel the sliver of fear that sat deep-rooted within him, turning his heart cold.

“What am I to do with him, Naucrate?” he whispered, into the air, hoping that it would travel unto the heavens and the stars, so that his restlessness would expel with a loving caress of the traveling wind.

* * *

His father had already told him of the risks.

“This flight is nothing but an experiment,” Daedalus had whispered, his fingers buried firmly into the flesh of Icarus’s shoulder. “Nobody must know of it. You are to stay hidden and fly to the West. We will leave at first light, and return to the labyrinth in time for the guards to refill our bowls. Do you hear me?” He shook Icarus, hard. “They must not expect our escape. We cannot afford mistakes.”

So the plan was set.

They were to create the prototype: after the successful flight, the wings were to be carefully improved until stable enough for

more than a day’s journey. Daedalus had estimated the durability of them, based on the sturdiness of his materials and Nature’s temperament—for now; their stability was weak, and their time sparse. We must make do with what we have, his father had whispered, as he finished sketching out the diagram that would soon hold their lives weighed in the balance.

At the beginning, Daedalus had refused to allow Icarus to be apart of the trial process. It is too dangerous, he’d hissed, through clenched teeth, your life is too precious to play with. But Icarus had little time to spare. Too long had he been locked in the confines of the labyrinth; its dark and sodden walls emitting fear and loneliness with every step he took.

Once, a fearsome beast had been slain and imprisoned there: a shape of ox body and head of a man, with a gaze as blank and pitiless as the river souls of Styx, borne from the queen Pasiphaë herself. The stories had made Icarus tremble in his cradle as a child; and he was still not exempt to their fertilities in his dreams, even now.

But he was done with being afraid; of being trapped. He was ready to become the One Above, who traveled high above the Earth, higher than any mortals dreams.

He was ready to overcome the tradition of fear.

IX:

I Let a Song Go Out my Heart

“Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of

nothing.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar stared unseeingly at his slapping feet on the way to school, the sun blaring down on his back and making the top of his head feel like hot

wax. He jerked his backpack higher up his shoulder and watched the cracks in the pavement disappear under his worn shoes

Abruptly, the hairs on his neck rose. There was a car pulling up beside him. He swallowed down the uncomfortable feeling of uneasiness and ignored it, striding faster. He shut his eyes. He hoped it wasn’t those jerk-offs from school that thought it was en-tertaining to pick on the quiet kid, but he had never been a lucky person. Oscar was used to running and hiding—ignoring, he did for his mother. She always told him that people gave up if their actions didn’t warrant a reaction, but Oscar found it increasingly difficult to parch his reactions.

But it wasn’t fear that prevented him from turning to the car that crept alongside him—it was his self-restraint. Many times had he returned home with the cuts and bruises of someone who had just gotten into a fight and lost, but he didn’t care. He might be weak, and disadvantaged, but his one recurring principal weakness was the inability to walk away from a fight, especially one he was expected to lose.

A car horn blared to his right, making him jump and almost trip over a crevice in the ground. Unwillingly, Oscar jerked his head around, his anger rising like magma.

Shock and relief flooded through him. It was no car filled with gaggling seniors, but a great, ridiculously red truck. Oscar lifted

his hand hesitantly and waved to the driver through the tinted windows.

Lincoln’s golden head soon appeared out of one. “Sorry if I frightened you,” he chirped, “my windows keep getting jammed. They were working perfectly fine before…” He trailed into thought.

“I wasn’t afraid,” Oscar blurted.

Lincoln paused, then smiled, like blinding sunlight. “Of course you weren’t,” he maintained, “artists and poets, like you and I, need not be afraid of anything but the riddle of our existence.”

Oscar let out a dry laugh, ignoring how his stomach swooped. “Must you always say such trivial things?”

The golden boy grinned, his upper body playfully hanging out of the truck window. “Well, yes.”

Oscar rolled his eyes good-naturedly and resumed walking, fighting off an amused smile. The obstruction that was Lincoln’s truck juddered sluggishly beside him.

“Is there something you need?” Oscar quipped, halting. He hadn’t meant for the question to unleash so harshly, but he supposed that was what he did: unintentionally push those away who meant the most to him.

But Lincoln seemed unperturbed. “Get in, Picasso,” he directed, easy and pleased.

“Why?”

“I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

Lincoln huffed amusedly. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. So, are you going to get in, or are you going to keep glaring at the sidewalk?”

Oscar glared at Lincoln, instead, but softened his gaze. “Has anyone ever told you how insufferable you are?” Oscar asked, giving in.

Lincoln grinned. “Only twice a day.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he laughed again, shocking himself. “Fine,” he offered, and climbed into the passenger seat that required him to do an embarrassing little hop. His cheeks burned as Lincoln had the audacity to pretend he didn’t see.

They drove. The scenery shuttered past in sheets, like the moving slates of a storyboard. Oscar observed dazedly as Lincoln honked at the kids playing handball on the road. They gave a little shrug and moved to the sidewalk.

The warm wind stroked Oscar’s cheeks, and he closed his eyes, drinking it in.

After minutes of comfortable silence, Oscar asked, his voice partially muffled from where he was leaning on his arm, “can you tell me where you’re taking me now?”

Lincoln did not look at him. “You know the drill. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Oscar snorted, unattractively. “How reassuring.”

Lincoln finally glanced at him, winking meddlesomely. Oscar felt that was a word he’d come to associate with Lincoln: meddlesome. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

Oscar smiled out the window, the scenery blurring past, a strange sort of soothing. “I guess so,” he mumbled, distractedly.

The car radio began to crackle. Lincoln fiddled with it, his eyes still glued to the road. Soon, a melodic, softly cheerful jazz tune filled the air, making Oscar feel warm. It was vaguely familiar—like the light soundtrack behind the life of newly wedded couple, freshly in love and swaying slowly in their blue painted kitchen. It reminded Oscar of summer, and white-picket fences, and his earliest memories of his parents. Right now, though, it reminded him of Lincoln.

“What’s this called?” Oscar asked, quietly.

“‘I Let a Song Go Out My Heart’ by Duke Ellington,” Lincoln replied instantly. “My mother used to always play it when we drove.” There was something distantly sad in his voice; painfully reminiscent. A stone of curiosity wedged itself into Oscar’s mind, but he didn’t comment on it. Oscar didn’t want to ruin the tentative friendship he and Lincoln had started cultivating, as much as he knew it wouldn’t last to begin with. It never did.

Instead, Oscar hummed, smiling. “I should have known you’d be a jazz man.”

Lincoln glanced at him, faux-offended, the atmosphere lightening. “You calling me old-fashioned?”

Oscar didn’t look away, captivated by the morning light playing on Lincoln’s hazel eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with a little old-fashioned,” Oscar responded, truthfully.

A smile played at Lincoln’s lips, but it was gone as fast as Oscar blinked. “No, there’s not.”

* * *

When they pulled into the half-deserted parking lot, Oscar huffed out a laugh. “You took me to the fair?”

“Why not? I’ve never been to one,” Lincoln confessed, shrugging on his baggy leather jacket. Oscar thought he looked unfairly good in an item that would make Oscar look like a washed up plastic bag.

“You haven’t?” Oscar paused in surprise.

Lincoln shrugged, fumbling for the tickets buried somewhere in his pockets, and didn’t say anything.

Oscar curled his fingers into the sleeve of Lincoln’s jacket, making Lincoln pause. “Well, you’re in luck,” he joked, tugging on the worn fabric until Lincoln stepped closer. “My sources tell me that I am the single most fun person to go to the fair with.”

Lincoln chuckled, his eyebrow raising. “Really?”

Oscar nodded firmly. “Yes,” he lied. “Now come on.” He started to walk to the Fair's entrance, fingers still twisted into Lincoln’s sleeve. For some reason, Oscar’s face felt hot to the touch.

When they passed the entrance, Oscar paused to take it in. There were conveniently not many people there, as it was in the middle of a school day, and he was glad for it. He didn’t know how he would cope with the sticky, busy bodies rubbing shoulders with him, caging him in.

Oscar suddenly stumbled, his vision going black, before a sturdy hand was steadying him.

Lincoln’s worried face soon came back into focus. “—Oscar? Are you okay? What happened—”

“I’m okay,” Oscar said, blinking. “I’m just a bit tired.”

Lincoln nodded slowly but didn’t look like he believed him. Nevertheless, he let go of Oscar’s arm and smiled dazzlingly. Oscar kept walking, feeling Lincoln trailing after him.

“Hey,” Lincoln’s voice whispered warmly in his ear, “I have no idea what to do, remember? It’s up to you now, O Captain, My Captain.” Oscar laughed, turning around. Like this, they were almost nose-to-nose.

Oscar knew people regarded Lincoln as distant and cool. He was something untouchable; like those stars he saw on TV that seemed so perfect and far away and flawless. People sighed when he walked past, which he didn’t seem to notice or care about. It was almost as if Lincoln existed on a whole other plane to the rest of them, that he simply maneuvered within his own little world where no drama or excess ventured or mattered. He lived with an utmost surety of himself, his principles and his values, and Oscar respected that more than anything.

But over the short time they had comfortably spent together, Oscar had slowly come to know Lincoln for who he truly was: a huge dork.

“I say we head for the Ferris wheel,” Oscar chimed.

“Lead the way then, Captain.”

The Ferris wheel was much smaller than he remembered, and a lot more run down. There were only two other people on the whole ride: two girls with blue and pink hair, waving their cotton candy in the air, and an elderly man that looked to be grouchily reading the newspaper. Oscar pulled Lincoln along, stumbling when the cart they entered in shook dubiously. Lincoln’s hand crushed down on his, effectively stopping the blood flow to his hand.

The wheel started its ascension.

Lincoln sat stiff in his seat, tense and silent. He barely seemed to be breathing. Oscar gently placed his other hand atop Lincoln’s. “What’s wrong?”

The boy in question shook his head. “Nothing.”

Oscar leveled a flat gaze on him. “Tell me.”

Lincoln sighed, glancing at Oscar quickly, before staring straight ahead again. “I’m—kind of afraid of heights.”

“What?” Oscar shrieked, the cart shaking with the movement. Lincoln tightened his grip in panic.

Oscar yelped at his seized hand. Lincoln made an aborted noise and let go completely, almost falling backwards. The cart

rocked.

“I’m sorry,” Lincoln whispered, his eyes wide with fear and guilt.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Oscar took Lincoln’s hand in his again, no matter the ache. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were afraid of heights?”

Lincoln had the grace to look guilty. “Because you wanted to go on the Ferris wheel.”

Oscar felt himself frown in confusion. “So? It doesn’t matter what I want.” The cart shuddered to a pause, at the very top of the Ferris wheel. If Oscar looked out now, he could probably see his house in its beige plastered glory.

“It does matter,” Lincoln gritted, and Oscar felt the air leave him. He was used to people fussing over him; telling him what he needed, nothing more and nothing less. He appreciated it, of course, but years of people telling him what to do had started to dim the novelty of it. Nobody had ever cared what he wanted, or what was important to him. He was used to being silent. A follower.

Oscar stared at Lincoln—the other boy’s eyes were soft and prodding; curious. Like he wanted to learn everything there was to know about Oscar. Oscar had no idea why—nobody had ever wanted to know anything about him. What had changed now?

Oscar cradled Lincoln’s hand in his, marveling at the contrast of rough and soft. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “we can go down, if you want.”

Lincoln shook his head slowly, not removing their joined hands. “No. It’s about time I faced my fear.”

Oscar breathed out shakily and began to smile. “I thought you said poets and artists like us weren’t afraid of mundane things; but of the riddle of existence.”

Lincoln looked at him as if he were looking into a mirror. “I guess even poets have irrational fears.”

Every thought seemed to leave him. Like the first day they’d met, Oscar found himself consumed by Lincoln’s presence.

“Tell me something good,” Lincoln whispered, as earnest as the first drop of rain in spring.

“Hm?”

“To distract me,” he clarified. Oscar noticed that he had not looked at the view once.

“Okay,” Oscar agreed. He wanted to show Lincoln everything; tell him wonderful stories of happy princes and brave heroes, of people who were born to be something great, like Lincoln was; of a world where pain did not exist, where everything existed in pure harmony.

Instead, Oscar told him the truth.

* * *

Lincoln watched as Oscar grew silent, his blue eyes flickering as one did when they were deep in thought. The black-haired boy was coated in streams of sunlight, his eyes like the ocean in

winter. Strangely enough, Oscar did not seem privy to his own otherworldly beauty. Many times Lincoln had been stunned by his overwhelming presence, the intense purpose behind his eyes.

Everything he did seemed to have some kind of muted-grace; as if he were some heavenly body disguised as a mortal to live among humans, to report on their own destructive foolishness and decide if they were worth the effort or not.

Lincoln had found that untouched, superior air about him intimidating, at first. Now, Lincoln could see a little of whom Oscar truly was: a tentatively kind, bleeding human, beautiful in his dignified resilience.

Besides, if Oscar were an Angel, then Lincoln must be something special in order for Oscar to spend time with him; to laugh and smile and willingly uncover pieces of himself in Lincoln’s presence. For this reason, perhaps, Lincoln could believe himself to be special, like his mother had always reminded him.

“Okay,” Oscar started, eyes following the skyline as the cart began to descend and, with it, Lincoln’s stomach, the unsteady feeling making his stomach drop. Quickly, he focused on Oscar’s eyes, the usual keen intelligence transforming into something softer; something almost vulnerable. Lincoln watched, entranced.

“When I was little, my dad took me to this fair. We came onto this very Ferris wheel, and I remember being ecstatic. I didn’t worry about how high it was, or that I was too short to even see over the bench. It was the closest I ever got to flying, and I was happy.”

Lincoln slipped his fingers in between Oscar’s, feeling how they lined up perfectly. He did not take his eyes of Oscar, attempting to capture that rare moment when he let down some of the defenses that seemed to be second nature.

Oscar chuckled, something sad in his half-smile. “He even got me one of those huge lollipops that my mom forbade me from and shared it with me. I almost threw up, I swear. But it was the best time of my life. Afterwards,” Oscar finally tore his gaze away from the sky, and stared at their warming hands between their bodies. “He tried to win me a stuffed penguin that I couldn’t stop staring at. I remember wanting it so bad that I ached with it. When we used up all our tokens, he promised he would win it for me the next time we came…” his voice trailed off, half-fond, “—but we never went back.”

There was something vaguely sad in his voice; almost like the full emotion was too far to reach and, in order to spare himself, did not want to reach it. Lincoln could relate: some memories were too precious to tamper with in the present. Shallow wounds hurt worse when they were scraped open again.

He squeezed Oscar’s soft hand in his calloused one. “You know what we have to do now, don’t you?”

Oscar’s wistful expression transformed to one of vague surprise. “What?”

The cart rocked to a halt. Lincoln hadn’t noticed that the ride was over. He had been completely distracted.

When the cart door opened, Lincoln took Oscar’s hand. “Let’s

go win you that penguin.”

* * *

“Have I ever told you that I am a master of the aerial forces?” Lincoln inquired, squinting at the bulls-eye that suddenly seemed so far away, a dart in his hand.

Oscar laughed, the mid-afternoon sun blaring down on them. “Is there anything you aren’t masterful at, Renaissance Man?”

The golden boy chuckled, his cheeks tinting a lovely shade of pink. “If there is, I have yet to discover it.”

He threw the dart. Oscar watched with bated breath as it completely missed the bull’s-eye. Oscar raised an eyebrow. “A master, huh?”

“I’m just warming up,” Lincoln grumbled, extending and flexing his left arm in mock demonstration. Oscar snorted.

Oscar had already tried and failed to win the damned stuffed toy. His coordination, or lack thereof, was no short of embarrassing. It didn’t mean he couldn’t make fun of Lincoln, though.

Lincoln made two more attempts, each falling short. The boy grumbled as he paid the clerk for more tokens, determined to win the damn thing for Oscar even if it was the last thing he did.

“You don’t have to do this,” Oscar said, gently. “Really. It doesn’t matter.”

Lincoln gritted his teeth, unblinking. “I told you. It matters to

me,” he said, and threw the dart.

Lincoln yelled in triumph as the offending object finally, albeit dubiously, sank into the bullseye. An embarrassing noise escaped Oscar’s throat when he yelped in surprise, but he didn’t care.

“A lucky shot,” Oscar reasoned, jokingly.

“The gigantic stuffed penguin, please,” Lincoln ordered triumphantly to the clerk, with a tunnel-eyed focus. Once it was in his hands, he proudly presented it to Oscar as if it were a bouquet of roses. To Oscar, it was far better than any floral arrangement.

“Here is your wingless bird, Picasso. Now you can put that memory to rest.” Lincoln announced, his eyes crinkling with that soft fondness that he often had when he looked at Oscar.

Oscar felt something constrict in his chest as he took the giant stuffed penguin. He nuzzled his face against it; it was soft to the touch, the plushness of it making Oscar feel like a child again. He distantly tried to remember the ache of desire when he was a kid, but it paled in comparison to the overwhelming gratitude he had now. Somehow, the new meaning of that particular memory was giving him comfort instead of loneliness.

He un-tucked his face and gazed at Lincoln with what he hoped was all the gratitude he was feeling. “Thank you,” he said, as sincere as the budding blooms in spring.

“What will you name it?” Lincoln asked, hands tucked into the worn pockets of his paint-splattered jeans.

Oscar tried to think of a time where he was his happiest; in that moment, they seemed easier to find than usual. “Its name is Walt. Walt Whitman.”

A laugh bubbled out of Lincoln, as if he just couldn’t help it. “Walt Whitman,” he repeated, grinning, “There is no sounder name.”

Oscar liked how their minds seemed to travel parallel to each other, how they instantly inferred the meaning behind each other’s words, yet seemed to embrace the mystery with which they were concocted. It was a frightening and exhilarating fusion that Oscar did not want to let go of even if consequences were dire.

As they walked back out to the car in shared silence, the sun high in the sky, Lincoln asked him, “Why a penguin?”

Oscar was silent for a few minutes. “I don’t know, really. I guess there was always something poetic about a bird unable to fly.”

Lincoln laughed suddenly. Oscar raised a questioning brow. “You thought of all that as a child?”

“I was a pretty imaginative kid.”

“What about now?”

Oscar paused, thinking of his dreams. “Not so much, I suppose…”

Lincoln made a humming noise. “Life does tend to suck the imagination out of everything.”

Oscar silently agreed.

When they lifted themselves into the truck, they sat in silence, taking in the ease and candor that their whole day seemed to thrive off. It was the most fun Oscar had in years.

There was a certain nostalgia about everything, almost as if he were in some alternate reality where everything was the same, but so oddly out of place: not a bad displacement but a welcomed one. It was all rather warm and dizzying, like something out of his dreams where everything was good and easy and nothing hurt. It was easy to pretend, with Lincoln. Easy to shut your eyes for a moment and believe you are in a world where no grief or folly ventured.

Lincoln suddenly twisted in his seat. “Let’s make a pact.”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“A pact. Here—” Lincoln held out his pinkie. “It’s a pinkie promise. A pinkie promise can never be broken. If a party just so happens to betray this pact, they are eternally in debt to the great lord of Time. It’s simple.”

Oscar just stared.

“You read too many books, Aesten,” Oscar joked, but linked their pinkies anyway. The image of their hands in the low-lighting of the truck, over the dashboard, filtered orange light dancing across the bridges of their knuckles, looked strangely beautiful. Oscar’s fingers itched to paint the scene. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Aren’t you going to ask about the nature of this pact?” Lincoln suddenly asked, his voice low. Oscar fought off a smile.

“I don’t need to. I trust you, remember?”

Lincoln gazed at him strangely for a long moment, before nodding. He cleared his throat. “Very well. I, Lincoln Aesten, pledge to live my life to the fullest and make said experience a beautiful one and, above all, a worthwhile one. Your turn,” he urged.

Oscar paused. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He suddenly wanted, desperately, to go home—to get away from this place and from Lincoln, before he could disappoint him. He wanted to tell Lincoln everything that was going on with him; how he couldn’t sleep through the night, how he felt like there was the chaos of the Universe caged inside his head. He wanted to hold onto whatever it was between them and never let go. He wanted too many things that he wanted nothing, and that scared him the most.

Lincoln seemed to notice his panicked despondency. “Oscar?” he called gently.

There was nothing remotely judgmental on his face; no doubt, or expectation or pity. It was just Lincoln looking at Oscar, waiting patiently, because that was what Lincoln did.

Oscar struggled to get his next breath out, but he did. Lincoln wasn’t going to hurt him. Lincoln was different. Oscar was convinced there was not another like him in all creation.

He linked his pinky with Lincoln’s. They shook, once, but neither of them let go.

Oscar was not in any way near perfect but, perhaps, he could

strive for something close; something maintainable. Here was a boy who seemingly would not expect anything from Oscar, who seemed determined to take him how he was. Perhaps, with Lincoln by his side, Oscar could become better; something good.

“I, Oscar Gray, pledge to live my life to the fullest and make said experience a beautiful one and, above all, a worthwhile one.”

Then, the golden haired boy grinned, beautifully and sincerely, the force of it making Oscar want to close his eyes, but he didn’t. This time, he kept them open.

“So, it is done,” Lincoln, announced, softly.

Oscar grinned back, feeling frighteningly alive. “And so it is.”

XV:

The Stars Incline Us

“Wild dreams torment me as I lie. And though a god lives in my heart, though all my power waken at his word, though

he can move my every inmost part—yet nothing in the outer world is stirred. Thus by existence tortured and oppressed I

crave for death, I long for rest.”

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust, Part One.

183

184

Icarus was exhausted. He had not been sleeping late-ly—for his dreams would always be filled with visions of vast, open sea and dancing auburn trees—and could not

manage to keep his burning eyes shut for more than a minute. He was restless, he realized. Now that he had caught a glimpse of the world, he could no longer bear to be away from it.

He had yet to bring it up with his father. Something told him that Daedalus would not be pleased to hear of it.

“Humans are strange beings,” Apollo remarked, idly.

Distracted from his thoughts, Icarus felt his blood heat, making him pause his painting. “And how would that be so, sun god?”

Apollo flicked a slender finger, not looking at him. “They do not know what to do with the time that is given to them, even when it is so limited. Why bother with such quarrelsome things such as war and politics, marriages and regulations? Such a short life may as well be spent on nothing but pleasure and glee. Don’t you think?”

Icarus exhaled slowly through his nose. “Well, pleasure and glee are all very well, but they cannot hold for more than a raucous occasion. What of deeper meanings? Things that have no price or commodity? Love, trust, friendship, hope…these things are what make a mortals little life worth living. These things cannot be bought with all the gold in the world.”

Apollo watched him through his tirade, frowning in vague confusion as if he could not understand the value of such things.

“Sounds…tedious,” he said, materializing a goblet of vintage and sipping it indulgently.

Icarus rolled his eyes and turned his eyes away. “I suppose everything real sounds tedious to a god.”

Apollo halted, the furrow between his brows deepening at full force. “What is the matter with you?”

“Matter? There is no matter.” Icarus brought the brush to his easel, producing a rough, red streak.

“There is something at work in you that I cannot understand,” Apollo observed, idly. Icarus’s temper rose with the nonchalance of the god’s words.

“How would you suppose you know anything about humans in the first place, sun god?” Icarus snapped, whipping around to face him. Apollo’s perfect face was open in shock, but an annoyed smirk soon transformed it, grating on Icarus’s nerves.

The god stepped forward, arrogant. “And how would you suppose you know anything at all, trapped boy?”

Icarus suddenly remembered the god’s previously murmured words, from many nights ago: Do not ever think yourself as witless. You know more than you think. Icarus felt cheated now.

Icarus felt himself deflate, his anger halting, before returning at full force. “Gods do not care,” he spat, remembering his father’s familiar words. “They only use us for playthings. They do not feel sadness, or love, or fear. They are utterly alone, because they cannot hold anything in their hands. No matter how filled their

goblets are.”

Icarus watched as the god’s face grew grim throughout his diatribe, and only felt the heavy wave of regret wash over him until it was too late. Icarus snapped his jaw shut, wondering if he were to be singed to fiery bone, or if he were to die of guilt instead. He tried to speak again, to apologize, to beg for his life, but no words would pass.

But the sun god did not unleash hellfire, nor utter an unforgivable curse. Instead, the god nodded once, a bone-deep sadness flickering across his face, before becoming as still as a statue; untouched and unhurt.

“You may think what you want in your ignorance,” Apollo began, his voice quiet and emotionless, as the stories depicted him, “but remember that not all the stories are true. Do not utter a thing so much as you believe it, when all you have seen is the sky and the ground, no matter how many tales you have heard. Do not hold forth until you have seen death, and birth, and war and song. The world is out there, Icarus.” The god then turned away, his face hidden by shadow. “Not in these barren halls.”

But before Icarus could open his mouth, the sun god had already vanished, as if he had not been there at all.

* * *

It’s another warm day—the thick walls of the labyrinth had a tendency to trap in the heat, even with the open air above them.

If Icarus looked up, he would see blue afternoon sky and dancing clouds, and sunshine. If Icarus looked up, he would stare until the heat would make his eyes burn, and spot with phosphenes.

Instead, Icarus was looking at the wings, laid gently on a work table. They were big enough to cover the whole expanse of it, and Icarus remembered just how much of a genius his father was. The wings truly did look like birds wings, or an angel's.

“Father,” Icarus tried, without looking at the man, “If I could just fly again, just once—”

“No.”

The boy’s words died on his tongue, extinguishing like a candle in the rain. His father was constructing another commodity for the King: a great, tiresome job that would impress the guests at the banquet. The banquet, of course, that neither of them could attend. Icarus could think of better ways to spend his time, after all. Time that could be spent on flying.

Icarus rose and stood before his father, making the man halt his ministrations. “Knossos will be distracted by the great banquet, father. I will not be caught,” he said, carefully.

Daedalus put down his hammer, sighing. “I cannot let you do that, son.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was a foolish dream to begin with. It is too dangerous, and we were far too close to getting caught the first time. Minos has eyes everywhere, Icarus. The test run was already

fraught with danger.” Daedalus turned, seizing his hammer.

Icarus felt his face burn, his anger creeping cunningly upwards. “So we will continue to live in fear, then?” he said to his father’s back, “I have never thought you so much of a coward as I have now.”

Daedalus dropped the hammer, standing. “Tread lightly, Icarus,” he warned, his jaw tightening.

But the boy was not done. “I have been treading lightly my entire life, father. What of our plans? Our dreams? Have you forsaken them as you have forsaken me?”

“Forsaken you?” His father’s voice trembled with rage, or fear, or sadness. “I have done everything for you, you foolish boy. I am only protecting you from yourself.”

Icarus’s voice shook. “I do not need protection. I need freedom.” He glanced at the limp wings, their feathers long and agile. “I do not care what it takes, or the consequences. It is not my fate to rot in this prison. I will escape, with or without you.”

Icarus turned his back to his father, his mind set, but a hand clamped on his shoulder, effectively stopping him. “Do not be a fool,” Daedalus hissed in his ear. “It will be suicide. If the King does not hunt you down, it will be Nature who brings you to your fate. The wings cannot even hold a days journey. You will be lucky even to survive that.” The man shook his shoulder, hard, his face grim, “I have watched these wings chip away at you, Icarus,” he said, his voice turning softer. “Please, do not let them destroy you.”

They stood, silent. Icarus counted the lines on the man’s face, twice the amount of a year passed, and saw one path that he would not take.

“It is not the wings that have destroyed me,” Icarus said, and walked away.

* * *

Icarus ran through the halls of the labyrinth, the rain coming down in sheets, making his feet slip and his vision blur. Even with his familiarity with the passageways of the labyrinth, it was still possible for Icarus to stray, especially when Zeus was displeased. The day had started warm and clear, but had spiraled treacherously along with Icarus’s thoughts.

The boy slowed to a stop at a fork in the road, not recognizing the sodden walls he had stumbled past. He searched frantically, but the rain was too strong, and Icarus’s mind too weak.

He crouched in the wet concrete, his knees scraping, but he did not care. Tears fell freely now, disguising themselves as raindrops as they fell down his cheeks. His sobs were too quiet to be heard past the walloping of the weather. Zeus must share my sentiments, Icarus thought, scornfully, as he felt the water slap his back like clay.

Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder, and he yelped, falling into the wet ground. Before his body fell as a corpse did, the same hands clutched his shoulders and pulled, until his back was pressed against a chest; strong and sturdy and warm, albeit the

harshness of the cold.

“Apollo?” Icarus called, feeling the warmth seep into his back, and sighed, head falling back onto the god’s shoulder.

“I am here,” the god murmured into the boy’s shoulder, and Icarus felt his eyes slip closed, his body finally melting as if it were snow. Apollo’s arms came around him, equally as warm, holding the boy up. Icarus did not tell him of his woes; he assumed the sun god already knew, as he knew most things.

Apollo embraced him until the rain fell softly, as Icarus fell in and out of wakefulness, his body draining limp of all energy. Apollo did not loosen his hold, not even when the rain was only a drizzle.

Suddenly, the sun god whispered, clutching the boy harder to his chest: “Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.”

Icarus shivered, not because he was cold, or because he was in despair, but because of the words the god had uttered. The stars incline us, they do not bind us.

“What could such a peculiar thing mean?” Icarus asked, his voice cracking, too tired to think above his wits. Apollo only stroked Icarus’s dark hair, matted wetly to his forehead.

“It means that fate—whether determined by the stars, or the gods, or by something else entirely—” Apollo murmured firmly in Icarus’s ear, still clutching the boy to his chest, no matter how uncomfortable it must feel, “—might push us into a certain direction, but we are never bound to it. That free will exists, and

the decision of what to do in any position is ultimately our own.”

Icarus exhaled, his breath curdling in the air, his tears slowing. He felt numb and exhausted, but the words struck something true and untouched inside of him.

Icarus lifted his head to look at the god through blurry eyes. Apollo was divine—carved out of marble and gold—but he had never looked more beautiful than he did now; on his knees on the dirty floor, his hair limp and muttering Latin to a broken boy in the rain.

Didn’t you also assume I had human emotions? The familiar voice rung clear and precise in his ear, as if it somehow were a thought finally catching up with him.

“I’m sorry,” Icarus whispered, which was not what he was planning to say.

Apollo studied him, frowning. “Whatever for?” he whispered.

Icarus traced a symbol on the god’s arm, familiar and intricate. “For thinking you were anything less than human.”

* * *

On this night, when Icarus had escaped once more without his father, he stopped and perched on a rock to peer at his moonlit reflection on the hushing waves of the sea. It was a quiet night, not many stars, and the moon shone the brightest he had ever seen. For minutes he basked in her light, casting a luminescent glow on his pale face. For minutes he had forgotten his nimble

fingers were still dipped in aqua.

“Hello?”

A sweet, small voice came from below him, causing Icarus to wrench his wrist from the water and scramble back from the seaside, cerulean eyes searching. Once his eyes found her, he jolted.

A small, delicate girl peered gracefully at him with big, feline-tilted dark eyes. Her hair flowed around her, floating in the water like black ink. Her arms were bare and her skin like porcelain, a blue embroidered gown of damask, finely wrought with gold thread and fringed along the edges with a broidery of pearls, hanging off her small body in a plume of textile in the clear water. Clam shells and pearls figured upon a gold and silver crown. She was majestic, her white throat curved like a lily.

Icarus had seen few people in his life, aside from his father and a very brief memory of his mother. As a boy, he had caught glimpses of the king, Minos, and once, his daughter: the princess Ariadne. That had been the first time he’d seen beauty outside of his art.

But now, his life was filled with a particular god, and Icarus couldn’t help but wonder if all people were as helplessly good-looking.

Her voice was like music.

“Who are you?” he asked, none too handsomely. She blinked her big dark eyes up at him.

“I am Rhode. Daughter of Poseidon and Amphitrite, personification of the island of Rhodes. Who are you? I have not seen you around this island before,” she said, daintily.

Icarus searched for words. “I am Icarus, son of the great inventor Daedalus. No, this is my first time on your island,” he said, awkwardly.

She tilted her head curiously.

“Your wings. Did your father make them for you?”

The dark-haired boy paused. “He did,” he admitted finally, “but I have not flown much before.”

Her eyes flickered downward, to her pale, dainty hands. The water swished around her chest in small currents. “You must be very lucky then, to be given the power of flight,” she commented kindly.

Icarus smiled. “I am indeed.”

She brushed her pale, slim hands along the water. “Where do you come from, Icarus?”

He faltered for only a second, “I-I reside in the labyrinth of Crete, the place in which the Minotaur once slept.”

Her eyes grew sad. “Oh,” she said quietly, “of course, I should have recognized your father’s name, though I do admit that sea beings aren’t the most moored to the mortal world. How unfortunate to be locked there. I could not imagine living anywhere but the sea, for the sea is a continual miracle. What stranger miracles are there?”

Icarus paused in contemplation. “The world is a holding shell for the damned and the holy, and those in between are either walking the earth as phantoms or drinking the nectar of the truest rose in hope to become saintly. There are many miracles in the sphere of everything. Everything is rarely not a miracle,” he claimed.

Rhode looked thoughtful, and mildly taken aback, before nodding in agreement, and slight acclamation. “Ah, you are right, Icarus. Most people do not find beauty in the small of things, but rather in things that are most overwhelming and easy to spot. Find things beautiful as much as you can; most people find too little beautiful,” she remarked with a small smile on her vermillion lips.

Icarus smiled at her, reassured.

“You seem a very intelligent being, Icarus,” she commented wondrously.

“You as well, Rhode.” She smiled, flattered, and waved a delicate hand.

“Ah, intellect is beyond me. I am only a nymph in a colossal sea, with many far older than me, and many far wiser than me. But I appreciate your compliment, Icarus. You are simply charming.”

She couldn’t have been much older than sixteen in mortal years, he thought, though she talked as if she had been on this earth for over a century. She had a certain intelligence in her tone, a wisdom behind her eyes that spoke steadily of aged memories

of war and of peace, that spoke of growing up far too early, experiencing things far too soon.

She was delightful to talk to, and to look at. He could learn a great deal from her.

She tipped her head towards the great, longing moon. “Alas, Icarus, I must go. It is almost the day rise, and I shan’t be caught speaking on the banks by passing fishermen. Nymphs are rarely seen, and choose to remain that way,” she confessed simply.

“I understand, Rhode,” he answered nodding. “Though I must ask, why have you let me, a mere mortal, stand for this long and speak to you?”

She tapped a slender finger on her chin, thinking. “I must say I do not know. A certain calmness drew me to you, the purity of your youth. You seem special, Icarus, and I do not know what I make of it. But perhaps it was also your very bright blue eyes. I do not often see such a marvelous mortal, and I must say I had to come see for myself.”

She smiled slowly, like honey. “Word has been spoken by the nymphs in the sea of an angelic creature soaring above with great wings, dazzling in his own. I have no doubt that it was you now, and they have certainly not been lying,” she finished, ready to leave. Icarus stood, shocked. He had never been called handsome, let alone angelic, and he must say he felt a tiny swell of pride that it was a sea goddess who told him so.

Though it was not the first time someone had remarked on his youthfulness, he pondered, as he thought of the sun god, and

196

didn’t notice the small ripple of waves Rhode had left behind.

When he focused his eyes again, she was gone.