Up in a tower, Icarus sat, watching his father pluck the bird of its feathers. He sat while Daedalus skinned the birds.
Down in the Labyrinth, the Minotaur lay curled in a ball, hungry. It had been five years since he last ate.
Up in the tower, Icarus watched people crowd the streets down below.
"Dad, do you know a crowd watches down below?"
Daedalus peered out the window. "The day for the sacrifices to the Minotaur. It's been seven years. Seven years since ungrateful Minos trapped us in that cursed labyrinth.”
Icarus wished he was still in the Labryinth. Although dangerous, it was intersting. And Minotaur was there.
Down in the Labyrinth, the Minotaur heard the sounds of humans, which roused him from sleep.
Up in the tower, Icarus sat watching Dadalus attach feathers to a wood frame with wax from candles and Icarus scraped the wax of the table, thinking of Minotaur. Trapped just as he was. But Icarus was with his father.
Down in the Labryinth, the Minotaur left behind the skeleton of the man he just ate, the last of fourteen. He found a corridor to sleep in. Now he was alone.
Up in the tower, Icarus watched out the window. Another seven years had gone by and it was time for another sacrifice to the Minotaur. Daedalus flapped his arms, wearing the wing contraption he had built.
Down in the Labryinth, the Minotaur heard the sounds of people once again.
Up in the tower, Daedalus fitted Icarus with wings.
“Now remember my son, fly not too high or the sun will melt your wings, nor fly too low and fall into the sea.”
Down in the Labryinth, a man, walked towards the Minotaur. Behind him he lay a thread leading from were he had came, in his hand a sword.
Up in the tower, Icarus jumped and flapped his arms. Into the sky he flew.
Down in the Labryinth, the Minotaur ran. Ran toward the thread. Ran toward where the humans came.
Up in the sky, Icarus soared. Up through the clouds, up towards the sun.
Down in the Labryinth, a man stabbed the Minotaur. Stabbed through the heart.
Up in the sky, the sun melted the wax binding Icarus’s wings. And so he fell.
Down in the Labryinth, the Minotaur lay dying. And he thought of the young boy who he had known. And he hoped he was free, hoped he was happy.
Into the sea, Icarus plummeted. And he thought of Minotaur and wished someday he would be free, wished he would be happy.
Now many hear the stories of Icaurus and of the Minotaur. Of the boy who flew too high, and plummeted. Of the monster in the middle of the maze. One a lesson against hubris. One the monster in another’s story.