Daedalus breathed life into his creations.
With every scrape of the chisel, every swipe of the brush, he moved in tandem with the gods themselves; an act of creation no other artist could even conceive of. His statues were in chains — so lifelike that if someone let their guard down for one second, they would simply run away.
In a time of imprisonment, he looked up.
He gathered Icarus and together they soared to salvation. For hours, they barreled through the sky, meticulously ensuring that they flew between the heat of the sky and the treachery of the water.
It happened slowly at first. Then, in an instant, Daedalus’ life melted away.
Each second Icarus fell, Daedalus looked for ways to save him. But he could only keep flying. Every flap ripped him further from his heart, the one that Icarus had fallen with. He couldn’t stop flying. Daedalus finally reached land and wept.
Did he lament every meter that he traveled further than his son?
When he grabbed his chisel, did he look at his chained statues and wonder what he could make to fix this?
How he could have destroyed something more beautiful than he could ever create?