Icarus didn’t understand. He simply didn’t understand anything. Not where he was. Or how he’d got here. Or why this creature looked so much like him and like his father in form, caught someone in between their heights and yet otherworldly in the way she was shaped so elegantly (where Daedalus had been – was – solid and weighty, and Icarus spindly and flighty), bleached so pale like the moon the silver stallion had grown to love, those nights it had deigned to bathe him in its cool, gentle light.
This strange creature, with the scent of Poseidon’s sea on her skin… Icarus could not help but be in awe of her. He stared as she spoke, mesmerised by her voice. It rivalled the songbirds on their island, the melody of her tone bringing her words to life for him. And even though her message only deepens his confusion and lives his heart stinging with disappointment, he manages to hold himself together.
She is right. Who is he to demand anything from those grand beings? Icarus bows his head in acceptance, feeling a sense of peace washing over him. If he is to remain here for any length of time, at least he is blessed with the company of one who (in his pale eyes) is wise beyond her years. She offers an apology, and asks him questions, seeking knowledge and context. “Forgive me,” he beseeched, once he works past the lump of emotion in his throat. His wide-eyed gaze was downcast, his voice tempered by contrition. “I forget my place.” A soft sigh curled from between his lips. “I am Icarus, and I believe I was called by Apollo and led by Poseidon, but I fear I have lost my way.” Icarus met the pale mare’s gaze, and no longer wavered.
“Who are you?” he asked in return. “Do you speak for them? Did they send you to me?” While lacking the desperation of his initial words to her, Icarus still sought some kind of direction, and internally, he struggled trying to process everything without falling to pieces before the moon-blessed and ocean-kissed wanderer.
|
