OPHELIA

  THE WHISPERS ERUPT, turbid as wind on rocks. I hear his name, said over and over and over, a thousand times, a thousand different titles.

  Daedalus, the craftsman.
  Daedalus, the monster.
  Daedalus, the thief.
  Daedalus, the run away.
  Daedalus, man of the maze.

  I have heard the name, though it is not until the last whisper that I recall the origin. Man of the maze.

This is the man, known the world over and famed to almost godly status for his creations, at the forefront of which is the Cretan labyrinth — the maze used to house King Minos' infamous bull-headed beast. At least, that is until it's slaying by the Athenian hero, Theseus.

They say after the death of the Cretan monster, King Minos in his rage imprisoned both Daedalus and his son, Icarus, inside the labyrinth — I have heard many whispers as to why, no two the same. Some say it's because Daedalus aided the hero Theseus, who in turn freed the Athenians trapped inside the maze and fled Crete with King Minos' treacherous daughter, Ariadne. Others say it's because he was the catalyst for the beast's cursed creation, unknowingly tricked into helping the Cretan Queen sate her maddening lust for a sacred white bull.

I do not believe that it really matters, perhaps they are but stories after all, but for whatever reason, the result is the same.
Daedalus was imprisoned. Then beneath the ground, he fashioned wings from feathers and wax for him and his son, and together they burst free of the earth in glorious flight. Mortal men had never before known the taste of clouds, held hands with the wind or felt the breath of rain upon their shoulder. And Icarus became overjoyed, dallied too much, strayed too far.
They say Daedalus cried out for him, begging for his foolish son to come back to him — but it was already too late. Icarus had flown too close to the sun, the wax that held his flimsy wings together had already begun to melt.

They say he fell from the sky like a lead weight, smashing into the waves below where his father could not follow. He drowned there, too, breathless and ocean-filled. Swallowed by the earth in a way that was new, and dead, in a way that only that mortals can be. We are not the Gods we worship, no matter how close we may come.

The tale of Icarus is a cautionary one; for there is always flight before the fall.

Now Daedalus smiles as he bows, no trace of grief left for the son he lost. I wonder if it is only that he hides it well, or if he truly does not feel it at all. I wonder, how long has it been? — Even time has not served to dull my own grief, it still wields itself, a self-martyring dagger at the thought of my mother.

"My King," Earthy; that is how he sounds, like something that has been lived and worn, rounded and homed into a soft shape; yet sturdy in its integrity. Tired, yet certainly not destroyed, for there is a deviant glint of life that sparkles behind Daedalus' eyes. "I hope the new year brings you boundless rye and fair Demeter grants you a fecund harvest." He holds out his hands; empty and rife with scars, "Though I come bearing no tangible gift, instead, I offer to you my body, my mind, my soul — my labour — and all the many fruits it may bare, until the day that I die."

  From where I sit at his feet, I dare a glance up at the Spartan King. If Daedalus was anyone other than himself, this would be a mighty disrespect. But the King looks pleased, perhaps anticipating the arrival of the legendary craftsman, for surely word of his travel will have carried like whispers on wind, far preceding the man himself.

  "I should like that." Says the Spartan King, his voice enough to shake the dais beneath my knees and I feel the low hum of it shudder in me. "Sir Deimos, have one of your men escort our guest to the north wing."

  Sir Deimos nods, selects a soldier, and then he and the craftsman leave, the guards parting once more to allow yet another tribute through.
  It begs the question, why must my sisters and I stay?

  I stare down at my palms, where the skin is smooth and unblemished and marks me as highborn. A daughter of wealth; morally beyond labour.
  Following the dull line of veins upwards, my wrists are equally markless and olive from a potent mix of sun and undiluted Grecian blood. Everything is bathed in gold, adorned in fanciful chains, jewels at my throat, jewels at the pulses of my wrists — enough to keep men like these I see before my in bread and wine for months. The thought makes me feel selfish, greed-drenched and mirthless.

  "That one."

  Looking up at the sound of the King I find his eyes, like two honeyed pools, though the man himself is not nearly as sweet.
Only this time it takes me a few moments to realise that it's not me he is looking at, instead, the oldest of the three tributes of Onasis; Andromeda. "She is for the craftsman."

  And just like that, another daughter is bartered, given away as if she is little more than a sack of grain.
  It makes my blood burn hot with rage, and quickly I force myself to glare down my palms, God forbid the King were to look upon me in that moment; red-faced and snarling. Perhaps they would label me a madwoman, driven hysterical by the fates, weak-minded and wild with hate. No doubt the Spartan King would have no taste for such things, gentle women are preferred, subtle and round, blank-faced and empty-eyed — but obedient as a hound.

  But I, I will be the hound that bites the hand, that scorns the sun and flees the master. I will be no man's dog.
  So I look back at the Spartan King, hate a wildfire in my heart, and he looks back at me, hawkish eyes flickering between we three sisters, perhaps noticing our differences. I bet not one of my sisters glares at him the way I do; disrespectful and pleading for punishment, daringly so.

  My abhorrence is a silent rebellion; a spark in a quiet wood, able to be ignored, easily missed, but dangerous — deadly if left unchecked. And like the spark, I must be eradicated; stamped out beneath merciless feet.
  He sees my hate. I can see the very moment he catches it, there, dancing in the corner of his eye.
  Then he holds it, delicate as a flower, such reverence is shocking from such a beast. He does not look away and neither do I.
  Only, he does not look at me like a King should. He holds my glare with a mild amusement, as if I am a riddle and he the pious challenger — and to win, he must figure me out.
And like all wicked Kings, this man loves to conquer.

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QOTD- who's your favourite character in Greek mythology and why?