Windows are cruel things, aren't they?

They paint the illusion that you can sit amongst the sky, that you can reach out and touch it with your bare hands. It paints the picture of an idyllic, blue, clear world, with the sun sat at its centre. Which was not the case at all.

No matter how far he extended his arm, no matter how tightly his hand clasped together, no matter how quickly his arm snapped back into his chest, he never brought back a piece of the sky. It always slipped his fingers, dissipating in between the cracks. It was the cruelest joke the gods liked to play on him. The illusion of paradise, when he only existed in a nightmare.

Some days, he would sit on the window sill and a look forlornly out to the surrounding lush landscape. If he could rightly remember, Crete was a place of such beauty to rival Olympus, but now his memory only extended to the edge of the window's boarders.

The sea was always clear, rippling slowly over rocks as the tide went in and out, just as the boats did. The fields were pouring colours and shapes like a broken jug of wine, things he just longed to touch, but he knew he never could. The sky was always clear, clouds rarely plagued his views of the island, and if they did, they only brought harvest. The sun was the brightest beauty there ever was, illuminating the horizon, his face and beyond; it was quite possibly the only thing that brought him peace in this world gone mad.

When the sun was at its' brightest, high in the sky at midday, he'd close his eyes and sleep, as the sun kept him warm in the way a blanket would. He'd wake up when the sun's sky had gone extravagant shades of orange, purple, red and yellow, as if it had grown tired of sitting by his side all afternoon. He'd thank the sun for keeping him company, and then leave to return the next morning.

Sometimes, if he couldn't sleep at night, he'd sit by the window nearest his bed, and talk to the sun, even though it didn't say anything back. He didn't need it to.

He'd sit and he'd tell the sun about his day, his hopes for the future and what he could remember of the past. He'd say how alarming he found the fact that he could barely remember the past, and how much he wanted to be able to remember it all, but Mnemosyne didn't want to grant him that luxury. The luxury of beautiful memories.

Today was day no different from any other. He spent it the same way, wishing for the same things, dreaming the same dreams, and praying for the same future he always did.

"Icarus?" His mother said quietly, as she placed a delicate, calloused hand on his shoulder. "Icarus?"

It took him a few seconds to realise that his mother, Naukrate, was standing beside him, but once he had, he turned to her, wearing a weak smile.

Her face looked tired; worn out from whatever fruitless tasks Minos had her doing. The bags under her eyes hung low and aged her greatly beyond her years, in such a way that made Icarus sad.

"Mother?" Icarus responded with squinted eyes, trying to get used to the darkened room. "Is something wrong?"

She smiled delicately and sat on the window sill so that she was facing him. She looked out of the window, as he had been  doing for hours previous, and then looked back to him. "No." She reassured. "I've just caught a moment of silence, and I wanted to see you, before I got called to anything else."

"Before you got called to Minos?"

Her face fell. "Yes."

Icarus frowned and looked at his mother sadly. "I don't like Minos."

"I know you don't."

"He's mean, to father and to you. And to everyone else. I can't wait for the day that we can leave him, and this place, behind."

She reached out her hand and took his in hers. Her fingers ran over his, in a contrast of feelings. Her hands were hard and worked, his were smoothed and un-calloused. She felt at peace with her future, thinking that this was how it had to be; he did not. He could never be, not whilst his whole life was this tower and the confines of Crete.

"Once your father finishes the labyrinth, you and him will be able to go and be free, like the birds you watch so fondly out the windows." She smiled, as she watched the birds fly past the window, chasing each other.

"But I want to leave with you." Icarus insisted. "I don't want to go without you, what would be the point in leaving you behind? What kind of family would we be?"

"Things are what they are, poulí; one day though, I will buy my freedom and I will come to find you, wherever you and your father go."

They heard a voice from the bottom of the stairs. "Naukrate!" It yelled demandingly. Both Icarus and his mother knew who the voice belonged to, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a sad smile on her face.

"I'll send you letters." Icarus said, grasping onto his mother's hand almost pleadingly. "I'll tell you where me and father go, so that you can find us."

"I'd like that." She replied, tearing her hand away from his and walking away. Whilst facing away from her son, she said "I'll see you later." and disappeared down the spiral stairwell, taking only one final glance at her son before she did so.

And now he was alone again.

Icarus should be used to the feeling. The feeling of being alone. It was a feeling like the world had moved on without him; he was trapped in a void that time had long since forgotten. It felt never ending, inescapable; he wanted a way out of this tower, a way to escape Minos and to get away from Crete.

But there was no hope, not for him. Not for Icarus, the boy with no hope and no world.

His mother called him poulí, bird. But he was no bird. Birds were free, birds could fly, they could leave their worlds behind and choose to go wherever they wanted to, but Icarus could do non of those things. He was not free, he could not fly, he could not leave his world behind and he could not choose where he wanted to go, because he wasn't allowed to go anywhere. His world was Minos' palace, as a a bird cage would trap a bird in. He could not spread his wings, as a caged bird couldn't, he could only gaze upon the free world, as a caged bird could, he could dream for freedom, as a caged bird would.

"Will I ever leave?" He said to himself, and his familiar companion of the sun. "Will there ever be anything more for me? I hope there will be, because I don't think I can stand this."

As per usual, there was silence. The sun didn't respond, as it never did.

"Apollo, if you truly exist." Icarus sighed, looking at the white brick wall in front of him. "I have poured out my heart to you, I have told you of my life, my hopes, my dreams, my fears; I have told you everything I can. Have you not heard me?"

I have heard you.

"I'm sad here, I'm lonely here, I want more than these four walls."

I know.

Icarus sighed. "I'm beginning to think there's nothing for me in this world, and I really want there to be."

So do I.

"If you're there, please tell me. In one way or another, a gust of wind, a feather, a drop of water from the ceiling on a dry day, please just tell me you're there. Because I don't want to be alone."

The silence continued. There was no sign to comfort him, but there was no point in dwelling on it, because Apollo had never responded to his cries for help before, so why would he start now?

Icarus frowned at silence that surrounded him, before he stretched his arm out and began moving it around in the decaying sunlight. The rays felt warm upon his skin, they felt familiar and comforting, but that was it. There was nothing other than warmth flowing over his skin.

"Are the gods not real?" He asked himself.

There was no answer.

Only the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs once again. At first, Icarus thought they could be his mother's, but there were too heavy, too big and too sad to be hers. A few seconds later after first hearing the sounds, his father Daedalus appeared, looking just as worn as his mother had done, if not more so.

"Hello, father." Icarus said quietly, not meeting his gaze.

"Hello, Icarus." He responded.

"Have you finished the labyrinth yet?"

Daedalus sighed. "You ask me every day as if the answer's going to change." He rebuked. "No, I have not."

"One day the answer will change. You have to finish the labyrinth or Minos will have your head."

He frowned and sat on the bed furthest from Icarus. "I fear he'll have my head whether I finish it or not. He wants the way around it to be a secret, so no one can release the Minotaur, it's not secret if I know it. He'll have me dead so that no one can free him."

He wasn't sure if it was possible, but Icarus felt himself become slightly more hopeless. "So are we destined to be stuck here? Are the fates that cruel to us?"

Daedalus smiled sadly. "Trust me son, I want to leave too, I'm trying to find a way, but for now we're trapped here. But please have faith in me that we will leave one day."

Icarus fiddled with his fingers. "I had faith once, but I'm not sure it's there anymore." He said.

"I want to give you faith, but I don't know how." Daedalus replied. "I have to do my job Icarus, but once I find a way for us to leave, for all of us, I'll tell you immediately, and we'll go."

We'll never leave. We're stuck here, Icarus thought. Apollo, give me the strength to go on.

And now he was alone again.

But not really.

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29/10/23 - minor grammatical changes