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The thing about Icarus’ myth, a child comes to realize, is that his story doesn’t end with the sun. His fall may start with the sun, but it ends with the sea. Icarus falls painted in gold and blue, wreathed in fire even as water drags him down. Icarus’ death is split between opposing sides, conflicting colors, two sides to the same coin, slipping from one tragedy into the only thing that could fix it in such a way it kills him.
Later, the child learns something else. Something more.
Icarus is said to have died of hubris. That he died because of his overconfidence, that he died from his own carelessness, ignoring the warnings of his father.
The child knows better.
Icarus was born to a god in a mortal skin, trapped in his father's creation, enslaved by the choices of others for as long as he has been alive. When his father shows him the wings and tells him of the plan to escape, it's his first taste of what freedom is. His takeoff is his first breath of fresh air.
And his fall is his first true choice.
The child understands. The child relates to that feeling. The child knows this version of Icarus.
They see it in the mirror often enough, after all.
The child is not a child anymore. They haven't been in a long time. Perhaps longer than might be expected.
They've been through a lot, over the years. Seen even more. They've felt a lot more than that trapped feeling that was all their child self had known - pain and fear and anger and guilt and shame - and they've done so much more than their child self had ever imagined they would ever be able to do.
They had forgotten the myth of Icarus, for a time, forgotten what it had meant to them. But even without knowing the story behind it, they've always known what it's like to be trapped.
To want to make that choice.
They understand. They can relate to that wish. They know why Icarus made that choice.
They've made it themself, after all.
It's been so long since they could even be considered a child, longer since they truly felt like one. They can no longer remember a time in which they felt the freedom others say childhood brings.
Yet they do remember something - a story. One of a young boy, trapped behind bars until gifted the freedom of flight, one of a young man, burning to death in the fires of his own hubris.
They cannot recall the details, but they do not believe the truth in those words.
They remember the same tale, with a different ending. The boy remains trapped and the wings remain wax, but the man falls to a death of his choosing in the arms of the sea and the flames.
They remember a man, so scarred by his past, unable to ever truly escape the chains, who chooses to fly before he dies and lives his last moments free.
They choose to remember that man instead.
And they understand. They remember that desire. They know the truth of the tale, even as the name slips from their grasp.
It is their own, after all.
The child is a prince, now, returned to their father and their family, taking their rightful place in the world.
But they can't keep themself from remembering.
A time when they felt trapped, wanting nothing more than a chance to make that choice.
A time when they knew nothing but hurt, wanting nothing more than a chance to make that choice.
A time when they could not remember, but remembered wanting that choice all the same.
The child, now a prince, comes to realize something else.
They've always wanted to make that choice.
It's the only constant.
That choice.
And now they have a chance to make it.
The white welcomes them gently.
And Icarus falls.