1 After the Fall
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Disclaimer: Hang on a second; does anyone actually OWN the characters from the Greek legends? Well, Disney owns Hercules, but that's kind of beside the point… I suspect I have as much right to Icarus as anybody else… and nobody else really seems to want him.
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The sun was very hot, and the sky was very clear, and the sea was very blue. The boy lay on the beach, just above the high tide line, and did not move as the sea lapped around his feet. He lay sprawled on his front. One arm was flung across his face as though to protect it from the burning, blinding sunlight. The other seemed to reach out before him; a gesture of desperation, or maybe defiance. The fingers were curled loosely, perhaps once they had been clasped tightly around something precious, but now there was no strength left in them, and besides, they clutched only at air. He was almost naked. His bare skin was sun-gold, marred by the angry red weals of an unhealed burn across his shoulders; it looked as though someone had briefly and carelessly pressed a white-hot rod against his back. His sea- damp hair curled about his face. Tangled into it, shining silver-white against its darkness, were several bedraggled feathers. He was breathing, just: the shallow gasps were scarcely enough to move his slender frame, and the single lock of hair that fell across his face barely stirred.
The boy lay alone and motionless in the scorching noon-day sun. If he was conscious, he gave no sign of it. He did not move as the sea-birds flew crying over head. He did not move as the tiny insects of the sand settled on his legs and back; nor even as they crawled across the sores on his shoulders. His chest rose and fell imperceptibly with each shallow breath. The wind blew, shifting the sand, stirring the feathers in the his hair. The sun moved across the sky, and the shadows began to lengthen. And finally, thankfully, there were people on the beach.
Fisher-men, two of them, hurrying to catch the receding tide. They cried out in shock to see the golden boy lying there. Washed up by the sea, or fallen from the sky, either seemed equally miraculous. They crouched beside him.
Now, the boy stirred. His eyes fluttered open. They helped him to sit, gave him water. He drank gratefully, choking at the remembered taste of salt-water strong in his mouth.
Who are you? they asked. Can you speak? What is your name? How did you come here?
He was silent, stared blankly at them. Who are you? they repeated. How did you come here? His dark, fiery eyes took on a far away look, a look of deep concentration, as though he tried to remember, but the remembering was too hard, too painful. At last, his face twisted into an agonised half smile.
I flew, he whispered hoarsely.
They did not believe him.
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Disclaimer: Hang on a second; does anyone actually OWN the characters from the Greek legends? Well, Disney owns Hercules, but that's kind of beside the point… I suspect I have as much right to Icarus as anybody else… and nobody else really seems to want him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The sun was very hot, and the sky was very clear, and the sea was very blue. The boy lay on the beach, just above the high tide line, and did not move as the sea lapped around his feet. He lay sprawled on his front. One arm was flung across his face as though to protect it from the burning, blinding sunlight. The other seemed to reach out before him; a gesture of desperation, or maybe defiance. The fingers were curled loosely, perhaps once they had been clasped tightly around something precious, but now there was no strength left in them, and besides, they clutched only at air. He was almost naked. His bare skin was sun-gold, marred by the angry red weals of an unhealed burn across his shoulders; it looked as though someone had briefly and carelessly pressed a white-hot rod against his back. His sea- damp hair curled about his face. Tangled into it, shining silver-white against its darkness, were several bedraggled feathers. He was breathing, just: the shallow gasps were scarcely enough to move his slender frame, and the single lock of hair that fell across his face barely stirred.
The boy lay alone and motionless in the scorching noon-day sun. If he was conscious, he gave no sign of it. He did not move as the sea-birds flew crying over head. He did not move as the tiny insects of the sand settled on his legs and back; nor even as they crawled across the sores on his shoulders. His chest rose and fell imperceptibly with each shallow breath. The wind blew, shifting the sand, stirring the feathers in the his hair. The sun moved across the sky, and the shadows began to lengthen. And finally, thankfully, there were people on the beach.
Fisher-men, two of them, hurrying to catch the receding tide. They cried out in shock to see the golden boy lying there. Washed up by the sea, or fallen from the sky, either seemed equally miraculous. They crouched beside him.
Now, the boy stirred. His eyes fluttered open. They helped him to sit, gave him water. He drank gratefully, choking at the remembered taste of salt-water strong in his mouth.
Who are you? they asked. Can you speak? What is your name? How did you come here?
He was silent, stared blankly at them. Who are you? they repeated. How did you come here? His dark, fiery eyes took on a far away look, a look of deep concentration, as though he tried to remember, but the remembering was too hard, too painful. At last, his face twisted into an agonised half smile.
I flew, he whispered hoarsely.
They did not believe him.
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