To say Icarus missed the sun beating down on his skin was an understatement. He missed it more than flowers did so they could bloom and not wither.

But, he supposed his life was not terrible—despite his imprisonment upon Crete with his father and… you. You were a strange one, half bull the people whispered in disgust but he could not find a blemish to you.

It was not your fault you were born this way, you spoke kindly and he still recalled when both of you were young how you scuttled away clumsily when he approached out of fear—how could one hate you?

He certainly did not, he smiled as he brought you gifts: blankets, fruits, wines and anything you desired from the palace above merely for a friendly face, one to speak of with his grievances.

He loves his father, Daedalus, Yes. But the man as years went on locked himself away, a hermit within their own cage who sought ways to escape—ways to leave the island and never return.

Icarus felt bad, part of him wished to fly with his father and never see the island of Crete.. but what if you? What of those doe eyes and the way you spoke or grunted, nuzzling into him as you both resided within the labyrinth.

He wouldn’t tell you his father planned to escape with him, he couldn’t tell you he held intentions and desires to leave this place and abandon you in proxy. You were innocent, but the gods held little care for the innocents.

Icarus was playing his lyre, the sound reverberating of the walls his own father had constructed to contain you. He hummed with the tune, his eyes closed as his fingers plucked the strings.

He glanced to you, smiling from that awe in your eyes before closing his eyes once more to focus on the music.