Welcome to the beginning of my story... 

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Take Care and Stay Safe! ~CANGEL

***

Ara of the Ichor

     I was just three years old when I first heard the story. I remember sitting on my father's lap, so excited I could barely sit still. Moments like that were rare—his affection, warmth, and time—and they became memories I clung to over the course of my youth.

     My father, was everything I wanted to be. He was a hero among the Ichor. Though he didn't hold the gift, he was a leader among our people. He was disciplined and strong; a fierce warrior. He had a voice that commanded obedience, one that no one dared disobey. To me, he wasn't just a man; he was more, something akin to the gods themselves and his presence, larger than life.

     "Tell me, Ara," Osa began, his voice low and almost reverent. "Have you ever heard The Tale of Icarus?"

     I shook my head, wide-eyed, eager to absorb his every word.

     "Then let me tell you." he said, settling deeper into the chair. A hush fell over the room, the kind that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

     "Icarus," he began, "was a young boy who received a gift from his father, Daedalus—a pair of wings crafted from feathers and wax. With those wings, he could rise above the world, reach heights others could only dream of." His voice held a quiet reverence that captivated me far more than the story itself. "But Daedalus warned him: 'Fly too close to the Sun, and the wax will melt; fly too close to the sea, and the feathers will grow heavy with water'."

     I hung on every word, picturing the boy soaring through the sky on wax wings, the scent of the sea in his nose and the warmth of the sun on his back. Icarus could go wherever he wanted. The idea of enchanting, almost magical. I wanted to go everywhere too, just like Icarus.

     But my father's face grew darker. His eyes grew shadowed as his hands gripped my waist tighter than I liked. Still, I didn't protest, waiting with all the patience I could muster for the rest of the story. I wanted to hear more about Icarus.

     "Icarus though, was enchanted by the Sun's warmth, its beauty and its power. He climbed higher, feeling invincible, until..." My father's voice dropped, intense, and unyielding. My heart pounded in my chest, thundering so loud I wondered if my father could hear it. "The heat began to eat away at the wax. His wings came apart, and he fell from the sky, plunging down into the sea."

     I stayed quiet, trying to picture the boy in my head from earlier. Why had he flown too high? Didn't he notice his wings melting? Was he scared to fall into the Ocean? What had felt like a dream moments before, suddenly turned into a warning and a nightmare. I don't want to be Icarus. I decided right then and there. I would never be so foolish.

     "One day, you too will have the chance to soar, Ara of the Ichor," my father said after a pause. "To fulfill your destiny, you will leave this place. When you are ready, the Sun will be yours to protect. But like Icarus, you must not go too near it, or you too, will fall."

     I nodded solemnly, the importance of his words soaking into me even though I didn't understand them.

    "You understand, Ara?" he asked.

     I shook my head, fighting the sudden tears that pricked in my eyes. I wanted to understand. I knew it was important.

     "You will."

***

Present

     Now, sitting on the cold floor of my cell, my back pressed against a cold stone wall I could not feel, I remembered that story. It had been so long that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, nor the color of my own father's eyes. It had been too long since I had seen the man who had helped create me, yet his final words sounded freshly in my mind: "I will give you wax wings, Ara. Do not be Icarus."

     A long-ago warning heeded far too late.

     Bitterness welled up inside me. Suffocating me inside this solitary cell. I was Icarus. Despite my childhood determination. I had flown on wax wings, too high, too near the sun, and I had fallen...

     I let my head fall back against the stone wall behind me, my black hair pinned high, pulled at its roots in shooting bolts of pain.

     I am Icarus, who has flown too high. Alone and in the sea, forsaken by the Sun.