(no subject)
COMM: muses_gonewild - Did you aim too high?
VERSE: canon
WORD COUNT: 774
NOTES: The story of Icarus isn't written exactly as is, but generally the details and stuff are the same.
Trapped on the island of Crete were two men: Daedalus and his son, Icarus. Daedalus was a master craftsman; he had caused the creation of the Minotaur, and in turn built the Labrynth in which the Minotaur was trapped. Minos, desiring no one to know how to escape, trapped Daedalus in his own creation.
He, too, imprisoned Icarus - for the crime of association and the 'sins' of his father.
Youthful naivete coloured his thoughts and actions. Gallifrey was still a recent memory; the years behind him he could count on one hand. However bittersweet it was, it couldn't and didn't detract from his excitement about the universe. Nothing quite could; it enraptured him in a way that kept him from focusing on a certain void, a lack of companionship.
It was easy, after all, to get lost in planets, in stars, in history and in culture. He didn't even need to interfere - observing was enough for a time. A study in life, a study in simple operation. Things came into existence, aged, and then died. That was factual. That was understandable.
The thought of death was nothing but the faintest whisper at the back of a child's mind. Death was not for him, as he was young, and thus, immortal and invincible.
He could not be touched.
With time, Daedalus grew tired of his exile and desired to return to his home. Being a craftsman, he began to plan a means of escape. The sea was beyond him, for Minos' navy would slay him should he seek his freedom that way; so his eyes turned to the sky. Such things, for him, were possible.
So Daedalus, with wax and reeds and downy feathers, began to build - while his son, Icarus, snatched at the air and played in the tall grasses, oblivious.
He was immune, or so he lead himself to believe. Even as his TARDIS settled in a swamp, in deep, murky water filled with snakes and lizards and things beyond his ken, he was unshaken in his beliefs. Though mud sucked at his boots and water soaked through his trousers, onward he went in invulnerability.
But when the tip of a spear pierced his side and blood seeped from the wound, he was shaken. Quickly he explained he was no foe, he was there as an ally, a friend, someone to be trusted. He was still immortal - just wounded - and so he would remain.
Believing him, they took him to their leader. He knelt on one knee, bowed his head, and listened to the man's requests.
Daedalus built two sets of bone-white wings; one for himself, and one for his son. Carefully, he set those wings on his child before he set them on himself. Then, he pointed over the sea.
"Fly the middle path," he instructed Icarus. "Fly too low and the sea shall claim you. Fly too high and the sun shall melt your wings and you will fall."
"I shall," said Icarus.
And Daedalus took flight, his son following in his wake.
The smell of blood overpowered him. Water chilled him to his very core. His hands tightly gripped the spear that had been thrust upon him hours ago when he had been told he was to fight. All his protests had fallen upon deaf ears; he had proclaimed himself an ally, and unknowingly gave himself to the leader when he knelt. He had been willing to help, yes, but he had not expected war.
His hearts beat in his chest with heated intensity. His breath wavered with fear. He alone remained of the group he had set out with, and their blood stained his clothes and mingled with dank swamp water. Untouchable, he reminded himself; he would remain alive and unharmed.
That thought, that belief, was a large reason why when pain surged through his chest - and the stone tip of a spear pointed out from his clothes - he was baffled.
But Icarus didn't listen to his father. Once airborne, he soared, and was enraptured by the experience. He became lost in experience, flapping his arms and going higher and higher, closer to the sun.
Wax dripped from his wings and feathers fell from their place. By the time he realised this, the wings his father had made were all but gone, and he fell down to the sea.
Then, Icarus, in his foolishness, drowned.
When he woke again, he was soaked with swamp water. His body was stiff and responded differently, as if his muscles had atrophed and he had forgotten how to move them. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and waveringly made his way to his TARDIS.
Koschei, for all his beliefs - was not immortal, but he was still alive.
VERSE: canon
WORD COUNT: 774
NOTES: The story of Icarus isn't written exactly as is, but generally the details and stuff are the same.
Trapped on the island of Crete were two men: Daedalus and his son, Icarus. Daedalus was a master craftsman; he had caused the creation of the Minotaur, and in turn built the Labrynth in which the Minotaur was trapped. Minos, desiring no one to know how to escape, trapped Daedalus in his own creation.
He, too, imprisoned Icarus - for the crime of association and the 'sins' of his father.
Youthful naivete coloured his thoughts and actions. Gallifrey was still a recent memory; the years behind him he could count on one hand. However bittersweet it was, it couldn't and didn't detract from his excitement about the universe. Nothing quite could; it enraptured him in a way that kept him from focusing on a certain void, a lack of companionship.
It was easy, after all, to get lost in planets, in stars, in history and in culture. He didn't even need to interfere - observing was enough for a time. A study in life, a study in simple operation. Things came into existence, aged, and then died. That was factual. That was understandable.
The thought of death was nothing but the faintest whisper at the back of a child's mind. Death was not for him, as he was young, and thus, immortal and invincible.
He could not be touched.
With time, Daedalus grew tired of his exile and desired to return to his home. Being a craftsman, he began to plan a means of escape. The sea was beyond him, for Minos' navy would slay him should he seek his freedom that way; so his eyes turned to the sky. Such things, for him, were possible.
So Daedalus, with wax and reeds and downy feathers, began to build - while his son, Icarus, snatched at the air and played in the tall grasses, oblivious.
He was immune, or so he lead himself to believe. Even as his TARDIS settled in a swamp, in deep, murky water filled with snakes and lizards and things beyond his ken, he was unshaken in his beliefs. Though mud sucked at his boots and water soaked through his trousers, onward he went in invulnerability.
But when the tip of a spear pierced his side and blood seeped from the wound, he was shaken. Quickly he explained he was no foe, he was there as an ally, a friend, someone to be trusted. He was still immortal - just wounded - and so he would remain.
Believing him, they took him to their leader. He knelt on one knee, bowed his head, and listened to the man's requests.
Daedalus built two sets of bone-white wings; one for himself, and one for his son. Carefully, he set those wings on his child before he set them on himself. Then, he pointed over the sea.
"Fly the middle path," he instructed Icarus. "Fly too low and the sea shall claim you. Fly too high and the sun shall melt your wings and you will fall."
"I shall," said Icarus.
And Daedalus took flight, his son following in his wake.
The smell of blood overpowered him. Water chilled him to his very core. His hands tightly gripped the spear that had been thrust upon him hours ago when he had been told he was to fight. All his protests had fallen upon deaf ears; he had proclaimed himself an ally, and unknowingly gave himself to the leader when he knelt. He had been willing to help, yes, but he had not expected war.
His hearts beat in his chest with heated intensity. His breath wavered with fear. He alone remained of the group he had set out with, and their blood stained his clothes and mingled with dank swamp water. Untouchable, he reminded himself; he would remain alive and unharmed.
That thought, that belief, was a large reason why when pain surged through his chest - and the stone tip of a spear pointed out from his clothes - he was baffled.
But Icarus didn't listen to his father. Once airborne, he soared, and was enraptured by the experience. He became lost in experience, flapping his arms and going higher and higher, closer to the sun.
Wax dripped from his wings and feathers fell from their place. By the time he realised this, the wings his father had made were all but gone, and he fell down to the sea.
Then, Icarus, in his foolishness, drowned.
When he woke again, he was soaked with swamp water. His body was stiff and responded differently, as if his muscles had atrophed and he had forgotten how to move them. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and waveringly made his way to his TARDIS.
Koschei, for all his beliefs - was not immortal, but he was still alive.