A/N This story been written for Round 6 of Bingo on the Hurt/Comfort LJ community, to incorporate the prompt 'wings'. It's my first attempt at writing an Icarus based story so I hope I've got his voice right and I hope you enjoy it.
Deceived By Flight
The old stories tell of a boy who flew; who flew too close to the sun and got his wings burned; who fell to earth.
Icarus.
The old stories are wrong.
For a start Icarus' flight takes place at night and over the city of Atlantis not the sea. He never flies too close to the sun because there is no sun on a moonlit night. He falls though, oh yes he definitely falls; felled by an enemy arrow he crashes to the ground hard… hard enough that by morning his back will feel like a piece of solid wood, stiff and blackened by bruising. It is a bone jarring fall but no worse than that; certainly not the fatal enterprise that the stories tell of.
Those stolen moments with Pythagoras immediately after his fall are miraculous, especially after his acts of betrayal, because he knows that, as much as Pythagoras might understand, forgiveness – true forgiveness – will always be harder to come by.
Icarus is a fool; he has always been a fool – his father has told him so often enough (but really who could ever compete with Daedalus in terms of intelligence? Pythagoras could, an adoring little voice inside him says. Pythagoras can do anything). This time his foolishness is to believe that a kiss could make it all better. That his act of redemption – his flight – can make up for the weeks of betrayal; can make up for the fact that he sold out his beloved Pythagoras and his friends for the sake of his father.
It isn't that easy of course – it never is. He can feel their mistrust every time he turns around. Even Pythagoras looks at him with different eyes now; eyes that are no longer quite as open, trusting and loving as they used to be. They are trying – all of them – if only for the sake of the resident genius who they all (to differing degrees and in different ways) love.
The first time Icarus saw Pythagoras he fell and fell hard.
It wasn't like it was supposed to be; not like it said in the poems and songs.
Pythagoras was not a hero of legend. Was more sharp angles and hollowed cheekbones than the chiselled perfection of a marble cast hero, yet to Icarus' eyes he could not have been more perfect.
It was early morning and Icarus had just returned from a long trip to Athens – the latest of his father's attempts to broaden Icarus' horizons. There would be many more of these trips in the years to come; visits to strange places to learn new skills that will aid his father in his inventions; trips to foreign climes to let him see something of the world. In his own way Daedalus is an indulgent father even if he is remarkably irascible and more than capable of hurting his son with a biting, belittling comment about what he perceives as Icarus' deficiencies.
Icarus had stumbled out of bed in answer to a knock at the door, staggering out of his room (that somehow in his absence seemed to have been turned into an extension of his father's workshop) still half asleep and wondering at the fact that the interruption had not caused an explosion of Daedalus' famous temper. A quick bleary-eyed glance around the workshop had solved that particular problem revealing Daedalus' absence (and Icarus had still been too sleepy to wonder at the fact that his father, who often didn't leave the workshop for days, had gone out this early in the morning).
Opening the door had revealed the presence of a gangly youth, no older than Icarus himself, all flailing arms and legs as he pushed past the startled young man with an exclamation of "I've got it!", before looking around the workshop in apparent confusion at the lack of Daedalus.
What exactly it was that Pythagoras had "got" Icarus never did find out. One look at those bright, inquisitive blue eyes, so alive and vibrant, and he had been lost; falling from a great height.
Icarus doesn't see what Pythagoras sees in Jason.
In his more rational moments he can realise that this is probably pure jealousy but rationality be damned! This is his Pythagoras and all he can see is that Jason – golden boy of Atlantis – seems to endanger him again and again without a second thought.
It doesn't help that Icarus knows that there's a part of Pythagoras that he can never have; never touch. That part belongs to Jason alone and it makes Icarus feel sick every time he's faced with it. Every time he sees Pythagoras go running after Jason like a desperate little puppy dog; every time Pythagoras' eyes follow Jason around the camp seemingly unaware of what he is doing; every time Pythagoras rushes headlong into danger after his friend and comes back with a few more bruises, a few more scars; it makes Icarus' heart bleed a little more.
He knows (hopes) that Pythagoras loves him but sometimes in the still of the night when everyone is asleep around him he wonders if that love will be enough. If Pythagoras were forced to choose between Jason and Icarus, Icarus is still morbidly certain that he would choose Jason (although Pythagoras would undoubtedly deny it and Jason would never put him in that situation). Perhaps it is his own insecurity (stemming from the lack of faith his companions have in him) that makes him think this and he cannot bear to mention it to Pythagoras just in case he is right.
Jason is affable enough, pleasant in a slightly distracted way (the weight of destiny and responsibility hanging heavily on his shoulders these days) and is clearly trying to trust Icarus for Pythagoras' sake; is succeeding in trusting him more than Hercules does (although Icarus knows from things that he has heard that it is in Jason's nature to trust people – sometimes too easily and too much. From what he has gathered Jason has been betrayed before). Icarus knows deep down that he is no real threat especially as his inclinations clearly lie in another direction. Icarus cannot blame him for that one – Ariadne is very beautiful after all – and he is sure that the Queen and her new husband will make beautiful children together – just as soon as they have got past the discord that seems to be marring their early marriage.
But Jason is dangerous even if he doesn't mean to be. He is the reason that Pythagoras has spent so many weeks on the run, living in woodland campsites in perpetual danger from Pasiphae's forces; he is the reason that Icarus' father was arrested and the reason that Icarus was forced to betray Pythagoras; he is the reason for the little scars that mar the mathematician's once pristine porcelain skin; and he is the reason that Pythagoras no longer looks at Icarus with the same trust that he once did.
Icarus knows that he's being a little unfair of course. It isn't Jason's fault that Pasiphae is so desperate for power that she would do anything to gain control of Atlantis; it isn't Jason's fault that Daedalus chose to help Pythagoras in his mission to save the Queen and was subsequently arrested; it isn't Jason's fault that Icarus took the only path he could see to try to save his father; and it isn't Jason's fault that Pasiphae has apparently come back from the dead to haunt them all once more. No, all of this mess can be firmly laid at Pasiphae's door. She is really the only one to blame for all the bloodshed; all the death and destruction.
Yet Jason is Pasiphae's son whether anyone likes it or not (and Icarus is fairly certain that Jason at least does not like it) and her blood does run in his veins. He has apparently given himself to the darkness once. What is to stop it happening again? The fact that everyone still apparently has such faith in Jason while they continue to mistrust Icarus galls him more than a little (although he is forced to admit to himself that no matter what Jason did when his mind was in darkness, he never actually betrayed his friends – never gave them up to the enemy).
He thinks of all this as he's hunting for berries one evening (because the chance of fresh fruit makes a distinctly pleasant proposition after weeks of dry rations on the Argo) never straying too far from the ship; never giving Hercules the chance to plant any seeds of doubt in his companions minds over whether Icarus will betray them once more (and really shouldn't Hercules be beginning to calm down by now? Hasn't Icarus proved that he won't let them down again?). Icarus knows that Hercules is only acting out of concern for Pythagoras; that he loves the mathematician as though he was family (he is family Icarus supposes. He would have to be blind and stupid not to notice the incredible closeness between Pythagoras and his two friends) especially in light of the many years they have been friends. It doesn't make the lack of trust any easier to bear but at least he can understand it.
A soft noise behind him startles him and he turns to see Jason sitting nearby looking out to sea with eyes as distant as the moon. The sun is slowly disappearing beyond the horizon, the early evening air is growing cool and a faint breeze ruffles Jason's wild dark curls. He is unarmed Icarus notes with some surprise and for the first time in what seems like an age has removed his armour (the spiteful part of Icarus wonders if Jason wears that damned breastplate to bed and what Ariadne must think of it if he does). Icarus has no inclination to talk with him (never does if he's honest) and Jason seems to have come in search of solitude so Icarus tries to slide past without being noticed.
It is a surprise then when Jason speaks as Icarus passes behind him, never turning his head, his voice calm.
"You don't like me very much," he says.
"No," Icarus acknowledges.
Jason looks at him then, faint amusement written in his eyes.
"It's alright," he answers. "I don't always like me very much either."
The last thing Icarus wants is to have a heart to heart chat with someone who he can't help but irrationally blame for all their misfortunes, but there is something in Jason's tone that makes him stop; a lost note that suggests their de facto leader is not as sure of himself as he tries to make out. Pythagoras would want Icarus to stay and try to provide what comfort he can and in the end it is that thought that makes Icarus sit down alongside Jason and look out to sea, kicking himself for his own foolishness in engaging in this conversation.
"Do you ever wonder," Jason continues softly, "if maybe everyone's lives would have been better… easier… if I'd never come to Atlantis?"
"Yes," Icarus answers. "I do."
"Me too," Jason responds, eyes still on the horizon.
"But then I remember how much Pythagoras cares for you," Icarus says a little bitterly, "and I cannot begrudge that however much I might like to."
"I don't really care all that much whether you like me or not," Jason admits, "but I think Pythagoras cares… and whether you like it or not Pythagoras is my friend. He is without doubt the kindest man I have ever met and I don't want him to be upset. So here's the thing. You and I need to find a way of getting on with each other. You don't have to like me… you just have to stop hating me quite so much."
"I don't hate you," Icarus says but it sounds insincere to his own ears. He sighs. "I don't hate you… but don't like you either. If you hadn't come to Atlantis we'd all be safe at home right now."
"Probably," Jason agrees quietly. "I never meant to cause trouble… it just sort of happened. Hercules is always accuses me of acting before I think and having a misplaced sense of duty… but I don't want to put anyone else in danger. This is my fate – my destiny – and no-one else's."
"Pythagoras won't leave you," Icarus answers with certainty, "and I won't leave Pythagoras."
Jason nods and rests his chin on his clasped hands, elbows on his bent knees. Icarus looks sideways at him and for a moment he is struck by how very young and vulnerable Jason seems. It won't last but for a moment the hero of Atlantis is gone, replaced by a lonely and uncertain boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders and Icarus wonders if this is the person that Pythagoras sees when he looks at Jason; if this is the boy who came crashing in through a window having fallen off the roof (because he has heard that story far too many times for his own comfort although interestingly never from his current companion). It strikes him that this conversation is probably the longest that he and Jason have ever had and he wonders idly if that is somehow significant.
"If it comes to it you may need to take Pythagoras and leave," Jason murmurs softly.
Icarus snorts.
"He won't leave of his own accord," he says.
"Then you don't give him any choice," Jason answers.
"He'll never leave Hercules," Icarus retorts, leaving the unspoken "or you" hanging in the air.
"Hercules will go wherever Pythagoras is," Jason says, "and that's the way it should be. They're too close – have been friends for too long – and I'm not about to let anything come between them… even if that something is me."
Icarus feels his breath catching in his throat because really isn't this what he's been thinking of for weeks? Of somehow separating Pythagoras from the group and taking him away to somewhere safe… and eventually, when things have died down and it's safe to return, maybe even go back to Atlantis?
But even thinking of it feels like he's betraying Pythagoras somehow; this is not what Pythagoras would want. So he swallows past the lump in his throat and looks at his companion with new eyes and a grudging respect for just how much Jason apparently does care for his friends.
"It's getting late," he says, "and you are more than a little pensive this evening. I really don't think I'm the best person to be dealing with this anyway."
As he turns to leave, Jason stands in one fluid motion, as graceful and sure footed as Icarus has ever seen him, and lightly grasps his arm.
"For Pythagoras' sake we need to get on," he reiterates.
Icarus looks down at the hand on his arm and swallows again.
"For Pythagoras," he agrees.
When Icarus jumped off the tower with only his father's homemade (and untested) wings to stop him plummeting to the ground so far below it was both the most exhilarating and terrifying thing he'd ever experienced.
Yes the end of his flight had been somewhat sudden (and painful) but Icarus wasn't sure he'd ever manage to replicate the sheer joy of soaring over the rooftops (once the initial panic at the fact that he was hurtling towards the ground from a very great height at a very great speed had passed that was); of knowing that he was seeing the world in a truly unique way; that he was flying.
The soldiers below him had been little more than toy figures as he coasted on silent wings above their heads, seeing things that he was certain no man before him had ever seen. Even seeing the missiles of fire powder exploding amongst them had had a strange beauty to it. He knew that men were being killed but it was easy to detach himself from all that in the sheer wonder and excitement of the situation. Plus he knew (of course he knew – how could he not know?) that it was either them or Pythagoras – and he had to save Pythagoras; could not bear to think of losing him now, not after everything that had happened and not without having the chance to atone for his actions. If Pythagoras' friends and companions were saved as well then so much the better (although he was honest enough with himself to realise that they were most definitely a secondary concern – it was Pythagoras who was important to him) because he knew that Pythagoras would struggle to get over their loss.
Icarus dreams of wings most nights. Long, delicate feathers that sprout from his shoulders and form a beautiful cloak that he can wrap around himself to keep warm or shake out to soar majestically over the face of the earth or the ocean. His feathers are black like a raven's wing because deep down he knows he is still tainted by the sin of betrayal; that his soul has not yet been washed clean. They are still beautiful though and he uses them to fly high above the world.
Often Pythagoras is with him and his wings are startlingly white (pure and unsullied like Pythagoras himself). Their beauty takes Icarus' breath away. In his most pleasant dreams he and Pythagoras fly together, spiralling higher and higher to see further than anyone has ever seen before, before coming down to rest on the ground, nestled in each other's arms far from the troubles of other men, their wings cushioning them and providing a soft blanket.
They are beautiful dreams and although Icarus knows they cannot become reality (and actually he really wouldn't want to sprout real wings from his shoulders) they do spur him on. He wants a home with Pythagoras, not this endless wandering aboard the Argo; wants a place to call their own far away from any of the trouble and danger that seems to snap at their heels on a daily basis. And he wants to fly again.
Icarus is fairly certain that he could recreate his father's wings if he really tried. He has more than a basic idea of how they worked and was strapped into the harness for long enough to remember what went where. The only problem he could foresee would be working out the correct angle that they should be set at to allow the wearer to fly and not just drop like a stone to the ground below. His own maths, whilst better than average (there were some perks to being the son of an eccentric genius even if it was just in the form of a superior education), is really not good enough for the complex calculations he would need to complete. Pythagoras' maths, however, is more than good enough, and the more Icarus thinks about it the more it seems to make sense for them to work on the project together.
It is a shock when Pythagoras flatly refuses to help and leads to their third argument. The first is ancient history, lost back in the time when Minos was still alive and Pasiphae was still the Queen by right and not by conquest and Jason was just a strange boy who had recently turned up on Pythagoras' doorstep so to speak. The second was less of an argument and more of Pythagoras telling Icarus that he knows that he betrayed them and telling him just why he can never be forgiven. It burns in Icarus' memory, tearing at his soul, telling him that no matter how much he might try to atone some sins can never be forgotten.
They scream at each other for a while, both sure that the other is wrong and they are right, until the others step in to separate them; Hercules taking Pythagoras off somewhere to cool down (and probably tell him just how worthless Icarus is, Icarus thinks with bitterness) and Icarus being left by default with Jason (oh lucky him!). He might not bear quite the animosity that he once did towards Jason (they have been through too much together for that) but they can hardly be described as friends; are more tolerant of one another than anything.
"It'd kill him if anything happened to you." Jason breaks the silence between them, although he is facing the door that Pythagoras and Hercules left through (the door that Ariadne and Cassandra excused themselves through, keen to get away from the tense atmosphere).
"Nothing's going to happen," Icarus answers sullenly.
He is surprised by one of Jason's bright lop-sided smiles (they come less and less frequently these days – something that Pythagoras has lamented when he and Icarus have been alone).
"You really think you can remake those wings?" he asks with scarcely concealed enthusiasm.
"I'm sure of it," Icarus answers. "If I can work out the right angles and get the mathematics correct," he adds.
Jason casts a surreptitious and slightly mischievous look at the door and for the first time Icarus realises that they can't be far off the same age; that once upon a time Jason's hopes and dreams probably weren't so different to his own; and that for a moment, as they speak, without the cares of leading this little expedition, Jason can indulge in just being young again.
"What's it like?" he asks, hazel eyes dancing.
"What's what like?" Icarus asks.
"Flying."
So Icarus smiles, pleased for once to have found someone to share his enthusiasm, and tells him.
The mythological Icarus takes off from the tower in which he and his father have been imprisoned by King Minos to prevent Daedalus from ever divulging the secret of the labyrinth he designed to imprison the Minotaur. He wears the wings fashioned by his father from feathers and wax and follows Daedalus in his escape. Before he leaves Daedalus makes sure to warn Icarus not to fly too close to the sea nor too close to the sun and simply to follow his flight. Icarus made giddy by the heady feeling of flight and excited beyond measure flies higher and higher until the heat from the sun melts the wax on his wings and he falls down and down into the heaving sea below to perish beneath uncaring waves.
"Don't go."
Icarus knew he sounded like he was whining but he couldn't seem to help it. There were only a few days left before he had to leave for Thessaly on a Daedalus sponsored voyage and he had hoped to spend them in Pythagoras' company. Pythagoras, however, was planning on accompanying his new friend on a trip to Thera to help rescue a girl captured and sold into slavery (and what exactly was so darned special about this new friend – this Jason – anyway? He had apparently arrived while Icarus was visiting Alexandretta and seemed to be all that Pythagoras could talk about).
"I have to," Pythagoras answered calmly, rolling up the scroll he had been working on all afternoon. "Jason will need all the help he can get and Hercules has disappeared on one of his drinking weekends. I cannot abandon a friend when they need me."
"But I need you here," Icarus protested.
Pythagoras looked quizzical.
"What for?" he asked.
Icarus opened and closed his mouth. In actual fact he couldn't think of a single thing to say to keep Pythagoras from leaving in the morning.
"What's so special about this Jason anyway?" he asked sullenly. "I've never known you to volunteer to do anything this stupid before he came along."
Pythagoras frowned and for a moment Icarus felt a little surge of triumph, before it morphed into guilt at the unhappy expression on his companions face.
"Jason is different," he said quietly. "Special."
Icarus had sneered at that, jealousy already flaring in his soul.
"He is a good man; always tries to do what is right even if it is not always what is easy."
"He puts you in danger," Icarus snapped.
"Jason has saved my life more times than I can count."
"Only after he has risked it first!"
"No!" Pythagoras bit back. "Jason had known me for little more than a day when he chose to offer himself as a sacrifice to save me from the Minotaur. If you knew him you would understand."
"I don't want to know him," Icarus growled. "Since he arrived every time you come to visit my father you are covered in injuries… in cuts and bruises… scars. Before Jason came along you were safe."
"It isn't Jason's fault," Pythagoras protested.
It had descended from there into their first ever proper fight; the first time they had really disagreed about something. Pythagoras had left in the end, his mood darker than Icarus had ever seen it given his usual sunny (if worried) nature (and that was another thing to lay at Jason's door; another nail in his coffin as far as Icarus was concerned). For a while Icarus had stomped about the house moodily until his father had told him in no uncertain terms that his presence was a distraction and he had better take his bad temper elsewhere, whereupon he had retreated to a local tavern (not somewhere he regularly frequented) and sat nursing a cup of wine for most of the evening.
By morning his anger had faded into remorse. It wasn't Pythagoras' fault that Icarus would be leaving in a few days or that he was too afraid to tell his friend that he suspected he might be beginning to fall head over heels for him. He hurried off to Pythagoras' home to try to make things up with him only to find that Pythagoras had already left on his trip with the apparently ubiquitous Jason. By the time he returned Icarus would be well on his way to Thessaly and they would not see each other again for many months.
Icarus sits at a table in the main area of the Argo and contemplates the hard biscuit (travel rations designed to last a long voyage) that forms his breakfast. It's barely edible and would be far better if it were soaked in something but all he has is water (faintly stale after weeks of sitting in casks). He longs for a proper meal – even one of his father's burnt offerings (welded to the pan after being on the fire too long when an idea has distracted Daedalus from such mundane tasks as cooking). Pythagoras is in the corner sorting through the stacks of supplies, making an inventory in his head so that they will know what to get when they next make landfall.
It has been three weeks since they last saw land and Icarus is longing to get his feet on solid ground once more (ironic, he thinks, for someone who dreams of flying). They have all been cooped up together for too long and tempers are rapidly fraying. Everyone is on edge; everyone is desperate to see land.
It has become a voyage into the unknown, buffeting from one misadventure to the next. Their ultimate goal is still Colchis and the Golden Fleece – the only way (according to the eternally truthful Cassandra) of breaking Pasiphae's power and freeing Atlantis – but it seems that the fates are conspiring to make their journey there as long and difficult as possible. From storms to sea monsters, it seems that if it can go wrong it will. Icarus sighs. Supplies are inevitably beginning to run low and they will need to find land soon or face the unavoidable prospect of slow starvation.
From one of the small cabins Jason wanders out, shirtless and still half asleep. Icarus growls under his breath as he catches sight of Pythagoras going to greet his friend. Would it really hurt Jason all that much to put a damned tunic on before he appears in public? He is all hard muscles and golden skin and Icarus once again feels an irrational little surge of jealousy.
"You've got nothing to worry about there," Hercules' matter of fact tone takes him by surprise, not least because the older man doesn't usually speak to him out of choice (usually the most he gets is a "get out of the way" or a "here, carry that" when they're collecting supplies or fighting off another threat).
"Sorry?" Icarus asks.
"Pythagoras and Jason," Hercules clarifies with a knowing look. "You've got nothing to worry about."
"I am not worried," Icarus mutters unconvincingly.
"Nothing to be jealous of then," Hercules responds.
"I'm not jealous," Icarus tries to assert.
Hercules doesn't even deign to respond; he just looks long and hard at Icarus with his arms folded until Icarus is squirming under the scrutiny.
Icarus sighs.
"He loves Jason," he says sadly.
"Yes," Hercules answers, "The three of us are family and he loves Jason just as he loves me… but he's in love with you… there's a difference you know."
"Maybe," Icarus acknowledges because Hercules is Pythagoras' oldest friend and surely if anyone knows his heart it's the burly man.
"Of course if you hurt him again I'll be forced to break every bone in your body," Hercules continues in the same conversational tone.
Icarus stares at him, uncertain whether the threat is real but the steely look in Hercules' eyes informs him that, no, his companion is most definitely not joking and, yes, he really would follow through with his promise if Icarus does anything to hurt or upset Pythagoras.
He ponders it later on that morning from a spot at the top of the cross piece of the mast where he has come to sit and think. He's never actually come up here before but just for a moment he needs to get away from the bickering and sniping of his crewmates (bickering and sniping that he is equally guilty of if he's being honest) and part of him wonders whether sitting up here will give him the illusion of freedom; the exhilarating feeling that he craves.
Of course he hasn't thought to tell anyone where he will be and by the time Jason comes hand over hand up the rigging (climbing like a monkey with more skill and speed than Icarus could ever manage thank you very much) there is apparently some consternation on the deck below.
"Thought I might find you up here," Jason says as he perches himself on the other side of the cross piece.
Icarus regards him with distinctly unfriendly eyes. After all he came up here to get away from everything; to get away from the fact that Pythagoras (and just about everyone else on this damned boat) seems to revolve around Jason; to be drawn to him like he's the sun or something.
"Hercules was betting that you'd fallen overboard," Jason carries on regardless of the unspoken animosity from his companion. "But I told him that someone would have heard a splash if you had." He glances at Icarus with thoughtful eyes. "Pythagoras is just about having kittens down there," he adds.
"I don't think that's anatomically possible," Icarus answers with a frown.
Jason chuckles.
"It's just a saying," he says. "He's got himself quite worked up."
"Why?" Icarus asks.
"I think he thinks you're going to fall," Jason answers. "I told you once before that it would kill him if something happened to you."
Icarus' frown deepens.
"I wasn't intending to fall," he argues.
"I know," Jason says, "but Pythagoras is a worrier… Besides he doesn't understand."
"Doesn't understand what?"
"Why you're up here," Jason responds. "You wanted to feel like you were flying again."
It is said so matter-of-factly that Icarus doesn't bother to deny it. They sit in silence for a few more minutes before Icarus rouses himself and begins the descent down the rigging (trying not to notice that while he is ungainly and awkward – trying not to fall – Jason moves easily with no apparent effort). At the bottom he stops and looks at his companion.
"How do you do that so easily?" he blurts.
"I'm told that I'm touched by the Gods," Jason answers with a slightly dark look. "Apparently I get it from my mother. Among other things it means I'm a bit more agile than most people."
Before Icarus can ask any more they're descended upon by a very relieved Pythagoras – whose relief turns to anger when Icarus admits that he was trying to recreate the sensation of flying. Pythagoras' anger is always impressive and he holds nothing back (not even curse words) as he berates Icarus for his apparent recklessness, before storming off to the lower cabins to calm down.
Icarus endures Hercules' dark looks (the promise of retribution for upsetting Pythagoras clear in his eyes) and Jason's knowing ones for as long as he can before excusing himself to another part of the ship.
By the time night comes they have made landfall (a relief to everyone) and the Argo has been pulled up onto the shore to allow her timbers a respite from the sea. She has become a little waterlogged as a result of her three week stint in the water (her soft timber makes her light and agile but prone to waterlogging) and will need a chance to dry out (although there is precious little chance that she will get the time to fully dry before they have to move on again).
Icarus lies alongside Pythagoras in the narrow bunk they have claimed for themselves, facing the mathematician's stiff back. Pythagoras has not spoken to him since this morning and Icarus is more than beginning to regret his decision to climb the main mast.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs into the dark.
"I know," Pythagoras answers quietly.
"I always seem to be saying that," Icarus ventures, hoping against hope that Pythagoras will turn to face him; will decide that he has been punished enough.
"You do," Pythagoras acknowledges.
"Pythagoras… please," Icarus begs. "I don't know what else to say."
Pythagoras turns towards him, a whole world of hurt in his blue eyes.
"You don't even know why I'm upset do you?" he demands.
Icarus bites his lip and shakes his head.
Pythagoras swallows hard and lets out a shaky breath.
"Seeing you fly… seeing you soar above the streets of Atlantis… It was the most incredible sight I have ever seen," he admits quietly. "But when you fell… when that arrow ripped through the wing… I thought you were dead… and when I saw you lying among the wreckage…" he swallows again, tears beginning to slip down his face. "I knew then that I could not bear to lose you… and the thought of you flying again… it is amazing but terrifying. What would happen if you fell again? It would be tempting the Gods… tempting fate. I cannot lose you."
They cling to each other like drowning men; curled around one another in the still of the night.
And that's when Icarus realises something: he's still falling the same way he did the first time he met Pythagoras… and perhaps he will never stop.