Icarus Volant

Fandom: Greek Mythology
Characters: Icarus, the sun
Word Count: 459 
Summary: Icarus takes it slow

This time round, Icarus takes it slow. Anyone who told him that his failure was in thinking himself exceptional just doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He could have become a thing to be marveled at the first time, and he will be that again. But not even a genius can go from standing still to soaring overhead on the wings of glory, and Icarus is far from a genius, merely brilliant. He never knew in his former youth, or he forgot, that you have to run before you can fly, and he plans to do just that.

He practices in the early mornings, just as the sun begins to grace the sands with her light, but before the surface of the beach can burn his feet up with so much love. For the first few weeks he doesn’t even bring the wings of wax and wood with him. He runs for long stretches and then jumps up, where he seems in the air to stick. He never had a problem with take-offs before, but practice means every part, even what is already known. And he never learned how to land, either.

The first dawn that he takes the newly constructed wings out of his sack brings him to tears. The feathers used were mostly white and dun, built as a tool but not themselves a work of art. But when the sleepy strands of daylight wrap themselves around those ordinary colors, they are transformed into pink and aching blue; water and flame and flights of fancy. To think that he could soon be a part of that, and not because he’s fleeing, but merely for the joy and beauty of it, it makes him tremble.

It wasn’t only patience he lacked before, but humility, and the understanding that no one is in this alone. His body and its movements are art, but so is the contraption that gets him up there against the canvas of the sky, as is the sky itself, and even all the poetry that’s been written about his failure. He keeps inching forward while giving thanks for everyone who’s helped him along the way, until the day he is ready to take a running leap off the nearest cliff.

To any onlooker he would seem to plunge straight to his doom, but he catches the air beneath him at just the right instant and swells back up in an inferno of plumes. He approaches the sun again, but he’s smart about it: it is not an imposition, but an invitation, and when she accepts, they dance. He’d love to stay forever, but he can tell when it is time to gracefully dismount the stage.

In this new life of his, Icarus never fell once.

chronicle

Fandom: Pathologic
This Fic Contains: Death, existentialism, time loops, TS Eliot
Disclaimer: I've never played Pathologic in my life but I've had extensive conversations withlittle_lady_d about the setting and Lore
Alternate Title: What Is Going On With This Goth Theater Kid
Word Count: 220

chronicle

     you chronicle your own decay. there are so many ways to die, some noble but plenty of gruesome ones, and you are well-practiced in all of them. down the line someone may find it instructive, or entertaining, or somehow protective. you hope.

     perhaps that someone will be yourself, returned to the beginning with no memory of how you got there or of what was always going to have happened again. when you read over the mess of tenses and auxiliary verbs, you shrug in an arcane tangle of ink. well. it wouldn’t be the first time.

     other thinkers measure their lives in coffee spoons or peach pits; you are more interested in how the Shadow Falls between the walnut shell and the lock-pick. your pages tell you that you have been preoccupied with the Hollow Men and the skittering thoughts behind those impassive faces. you cannot remember the last time you slept but you still dream all the time, and in your dreams you are continually guttering, choking, drowning.

     out, out, brief candle. you plunge into the end, into an end at any rate, though to what end you could not say. you cannot speak. game over, but not for you. time to take it from the top.

     look here: someone was thoughtful enough to chronicle their own decay.