In another world, Icarus ignored the sun.
He soared through the air and relished in the ecstasy of flight. His arms were wings and he was the most glorious of birds. The sun became nothing more than the cause of the sweat upon his neck. With a different pen, Icarus soared not to the heavens but to the waters.
The sea was far more magnificent than the sky. A bird could skim above the surface and gaze at all the life in the clear swirl of blue. As he continued to glide, Icarus brushed aside not only the temptation of the sun but also the warnings of the old man. The day was warm, the water cool, and Icarus needed to feel everything.
He was a god to the creatures beneath him. The spray of the water brushed his senses, as he dipped lower and lower. His father kept shouting, yet his words held no sway. Under the spell of the sea, Icarus glanced upwards and saw that his father was no more than a shadow against the sun.
“Foolish old man,” the boy thought. “If he flies so high, his wings will melt.”
The wind continued to carry him across the expanse of liquid sapphire. He felt something falter beneath his arms — or rather, his wings — but he paid no attention. Icarus saw a school of fish swiveling beneath him. There was so much beauty underneath his flying body. He could fly and the sea could not. At this marvelous thought, Icarus laughed.
The sound carried across the sea. His wings drooped. His arms dropped.
With a scream and a splash, Icarus became a fallen god.
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