Poseidon’s Prize

Daedalus could do nothing but watch as his son spiraled into the sea. His own wings were also beginning to falter.

My only son. My pride and joy, swallowed by Poseidon's unforgiving jaws.

He would not let it happen.

But as he flew forward, there was a loud ripping sound.

No. Not enough time.

It was him or Icarus, and Daedalus couldn't make the choice. His heart got in the way, so he gave it up. His brain made the decision: self preservation.

The part of him named Daedalus died that day. He was no longer the father of Icarus, no longer the man who helped the weak and punished the strong. He was a broken man.

And far under the waves, Icarus opened his eyes.

Memories are hard to make, and even harder to keep. When Icarus woke up in the middle of the sea, instinct told him to swim, to run, to flee or die. But when he opened his mouth and breathed, he did not die. Again, instinct told him this was wrong, he shouldn't be able to breathe underwater.

But he could. And he had no memory of who he was. Only the barest hint of instinct was keeping him moving. If it weren't for that instinct, that animal sensation, the barest remnant of a past consciousness, he would have forgotten how to do anything. He would be dead.

In front of him was a man with skin as gold as the sand, and eyes as blue as the ocean, and an outfit with every color of coral there was.

The man told Icarus that he was Poseidon. The name sounded familiar, but even that, Icarus did not fully know. The man also said he had saved Icarus. That, Icarus also did not know. He'd been plunged into an underwater world with no memories, no idea how to survive, and a strange man with a familiar name.

He did the only thing he could.

He took Poseidon's hand, and descended into the sea.

So began his life, not as an inventor, but as a warrior.

On land, strife began to dwell. A man known only as The Inventor had begun building a massive maze, one that mysteriously spread across the earth like a virus, trapping everyone inside, where they either went crazy... or died.

But under the sea, Poseidon and his warriors were unaware of such troubles. They trained, they partied, they danced. The boy who was once Icarus became Tahy, or One Who Lives in the Sea, and he lived well. He was strong and proud, and good at what he did, and he quickly earned Poseidon's favor.

Only once the bodies began damming up the rivers did Poseidon decide to intervene.

Of course, he sent only his finest warriors.

Five men and one woman. Four of the men were disgruntled that a woman was among them.

One of them was too focused on his mission to care.

And the woman?

She cared little what was thought of her. She did her job, and she did it well. That's all that mattered to her, and that's all that mattered to Poseidon.

They fought well. They had a strategy. They did everything right. But Daedalus's maze tore them apart, one by one, they were separated and killed.

All except one.

Icarus fought and he battled, fiends both real and imagined, flesh and machine.

Finally, the Inventor had to intervene. His precious creations, they were all he had left. He couldn't let this... this boy defeat him and destroy his life's work.

When he saw the boy, however, a small fire ignited in him The first thing he'd felt besides bitter hatred in a long, long time. He remembered flashes of a boy, flying into the sun, falling into the sea... remembered the face, the expressive eyes, so much like his own... those same eyes that stared back at him now.

He remembered, and for the first time in his life, he felt remorse.

"So," the boy said. "You're the one behind this."

"Icarus," said Daedalus. "Icarus, my boy..."

"I know no one of that name," said the boy who was two people at once.

Daedalus took one step forward, smiling and holding his arms out wide.

"Icarus," he says. "My son, come here..."

The voice was familiar, but not familiar enough. Icarus had been erased. Tahy was all that remained.

A single blow was all it took. A stab to the neck with a spear.

Daedalus shed a single tear, silver as the moon, and died, his mouth open as if he'd had one last sentence that he never got to finish.

Tahy returned peace to the Earth. The Labyrinth crumbled. But no one would know. No one would know of his victory. Of his triumph. Of his crime.

Because Icarus was no son at all, not really. Not flesh or blood.

Like his wings, Icarus was made of wax. His body became one with the ocean and he inhabited a passing water spirit.

His life was tied to Daedalus. And in his last triumph, it was also his last breath. His salvation had been his doom.

Poseidon picked up one of the small drops of wax off the dusty ground, swiping it up with his finger. He smiled, because instantly, he knew what had happened.

The wax melted into his hand, swirling into his skin like dye in water.

Icarus, or Tahy, or whoever he was was no more.

The boy was one with the ocean now. And the ocean doesn't care about names, or winners, or identities, or memories. The ocean merely takes.

Icarus was just the latest prize.