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Here is what they don’t tell you:
Icarus laughed as he fell. Threw his head back and yelled into the winds, arms spread wide, teeth bared to the world.
(There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring.)
The wax scorched his skin, ran blazing trails down his back, his thighs, his ankles, his feet. Feathers floated like prayers past his fingers, close enough to snatch back. Death breathed burning kisses against his shoulders, where the wings joined the harness. The sun painted everything in shades of gold.
(There is a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the centre of the flames.)