“Daedalus knew Icarus would die.”
“What?”
“Daedalus was never that smart to begin with.”
“But isn’t he renowned for his intellect? It may have been what led to his son’s death and all, but Daedalus was a genius—clearly ahead of his time.”
“No, it’s not that. He wasn’t as smart as people thought he was. If he were, he would’ve known his son would fly—and fall.”
“It was the boy’s fault, not the father’s. Daedalus warned him before their flight, but Icarus didn’t listen.”
“You don’t know the true gift of Daedalus, do you?”
“True gift? It’s his intellect. That’s the gift he has.”
“No, that isn’t it. Daedalus was a kind man and a gentle father. Any man locked up in a tall tower with only a young boy for company, in that time and age, would have fallen into sin or madness. But Daedalus didn’t.”
“Commit to sin? Just like Achill—”
“Love isn’t a sin. And that’s another story. The true gift of the so-called genius Daedalus is that he could hear whispers. He was good with his hands and great at following instructions—but that’s just normal for someone from a great family of craftsmen and leaders.”
“See? He’s from a great family. The genius got passed down—wait, normal? He’s renowned for inventing and designing many things! Did you forget about the labyrinth? And what did you mean by whispers?”
“Voices. Whispers that only he could hear.”
“Voices?”
“They told Daedalus what to do—and he followed diligently.”
“What the—no, that can’t be true. If you go by that, then Daedalus was like a visionary, a soothsayer—or one of the Fates.”
“No, it wasn’t the future he heard, but hints.”
“Hints? About what?”
“About what to do next. How his next invention should be, how intricate or simple the designs should look. The whispers even told him which ideas to keep to himself—and which to share with the world.”
“And that led to him getting locked up. That’s the catch, then? He must follow these voices, or else something terrible happens.”
“Not exactly. He could ignore the whispers, but things often didn’t end the way he wanted. So, most of the time, he just followed.”
“What?”
“One time, when he was baking a cake for his son’s birthday—”
“What? He replaced sugar with salt?”
“No, not that. He may not have been a genius, but he knew his way around simple things. The cake tasted delicious—except for the design the whispers suggested.”
“Icarus didn’t like the cake?”
“Daedalus thought Icarus would love a bird design on it. It was intricately made to resemble his pet bird.”
“Why would the boy hate it? It’s his pet!”
“The bird had left Icarus. He waited, hoping it would return, but it never did. Daedalus made toys and inventions to help his son forget, but the cake brought the memory back. Still, Icarus didn’t show dislike. He smiled and said it was delicious. When Daedalus asked if he loved the cake, the boy said he loved everything his father gave him.”
“He lied.”
“He didn’t. Icarus wasn’t a liar—he just didn’t want to hurt his father. The boy was gifted with empathy. He knew how hard his father worked. The memory of his lost pet couldn’t outweigh his father’s effort. But that’s not the point.”
“Okay, so the whispers gave hints like that. Too bad they didn’t tell him his son would die.”
“Actually, they did.”
“What? So he did nothing? You said the whispers weren’t like the Fates! If they knew, then they must’ve known the future! Why didn’t—”
“Daedalus didn’t have much choice. He even told Icarus about it.”
“The boy knew?”
“I told you—he was gifted with empathy. He knew the pain his father was hiding.”
“So you’re saying it was Icarus’s choice to die?”
“No. You mentioned the Fates earlier, right?”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“Icarus was meant to die young.”
“What?”
“That was his fate. It happened one night when Daedalus was visited by the whispers. He had been dreaming happily when he woke to their voices, telling him of his son’s death. Confused, half-asleep, he listened again—but they repeated the omen.
As any father would, he panicked. He began designing, inventing—anything to save his son. But the whispers insisted it was fate. He grew frantic, agitated. Then Icarus spoke.”
“This all happened in one night?”
“Not exactly. But close enough. For days, Daedalus grew quiet, pretending nothing was wrong. He told Icarus the king was simply demanding more work. He smiled, but his thoughts were consumed with fear.”
“It’s the gift of—”
“Empathy. Icarus saw through him. One night, Daedalus sat over his designs, his hands trembling, calloused, scarred with soot. The whispers urged him to stop. He knew there was no way out. He thought of his life—how long he had been a servant to a tyrant—and realized he would endure it all as long as his son was safe. That was enough.”
“But the boy’s fate—he’ll still die, right?”
“Daedalus wept. For the first time in a long while, he cried.”
“Such cruel fate.”
“Then he heard a voice—not the whispers, but his son’s. Icarus came and hugged him, wiping his tears with his little hands. He said three things: Don’t cry, Father. It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”
“Like—Good Will Hun-”
“Daedalus had an idea.”
“The escape plan?”
“No. If Icarus was to die, Daedalus wanted him to experience what he’d been denied all his life: freedom. If he must die, let it be by his own hand—but in a way only an inventor could grant. Grand, different, beautiful.”
“Madness?”
“No. Not madness. Haven’t you heard? When Icarus died, he died smiling—grateful to his father.”
“Daedalus told Icarus about his gift—the whispers. He told him he wasn’t a genius at all.”
“And?”
“Icarus disagreed, saying his father was the smartest, greatest man in the world. Daedalus smiled at his son’s remark.”
“Then what? Did Daedalus—”
“After a brief, wholesome moment, Daedalus’s voice changed. It grew cold, older, authoritative as he called his son’s name. The boy stood up and listened.
Taking a deep breath, Daedalus told him about his death. Of course, Icarus didn’t understand the word at first.
Daedalus mentioned the little bird Icarus once had. The boy remembered. He didn’t understand what a funeral meant, only that they’d placed the bird in a box and offered it a parting gift. He remembered giving it his second gold coin—the first he had kept for himself.”
“How did Daedalus explain death to Icarus?”
“He told him it would come with a gift. There would be no box—but Daedalus promised him two things: the sun as his gift, and wings so they could fly.”
“Icarus was overjoyed.”
“Daedalus forced a smile, but his teary eyes said otherwise.”
“What happened to Icarus’s gift of empathy?”
“He noticed. He hugged his father—tighter than ever before—and whispered the same words again: Don’t cry, Father. It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”
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