“Hubris,” men mutter as they watch the boy fall, his wings wilting, feathers falling and hot wax gliding down his burning skin. The sun straddles him in his golden embrace and the wind whispers with reverence, but both know too well that gravity is a hungry beast and that falling is faster than striving.
“Icarus, oh Icarus, why dare kiss the Sun, only to be burnt? Why soar to the skies that will disown you the next instant? Now, look at you, falling to your doom. No hands to catch you, no words to soften your collapse. Look at you, a golden ball hurtling towards darkness. ”
The boy lets out a wild laugh, startles all those with words to spare. He falls, like a man who has had his fill, like a man who has devoured all that there ever was to consume. Light, golden light. He has touched it. He has tasted it. Burning body, blazing bones. Sunkissed, sunlit.
“Yes, I fell. For I have flown.”
You call it an act of pride.
He calls it a leap of love.
To hell with hubris, he is a man that strived.
And so the ocean prepares to cradle him in her lap.