ICARUS

Icarus had always marvelled at his father's work. His fingers moved so quickly as he tinkered with random parts, able to make something incredible out of worthless scraps of metal. Icarus sat on a wooden stool in Daedalus' workshop surrounded by his creations. The blueprints of the infamous Cretan labyrinth he had built to conceal the minotaur hung high on the walls. The marble statues he had sculpted stood at six feet tall, with such detailing on their faces that they almost looked alive. Everything he created had a life of its own.

Even the legend himself, Heracles, had smashed one of Daedalus' statues, believing it to be a real warrior in a fighting stance. In fact, it had been a statue of Heracles himself. Daedalus hadn't minded much. The smashed marble pieces were kept in a wooden box underneath his desk, serving as a fond reminder of how realistic his work could be. He had tricked and scared one of the greatest warriors in Greek history, and that could only be taken as a compliment.

Lately, however, it saddened Icarus to see his father working so tirelessly. Ever since the death of Naucrate, his lover, he had concentrated solely on new projects and ideas, rather than taking the time to mourn her. He channelled every single emotion he felt into his work, which was how he managed to make it all so wonderfully lifelike.

Naucrate was a slave to King Minos, the ruler of Crete. She and Daedalus had fallen in love while he was building the labyrinth for the king. She bore his child, but was never permitted by Minos to spend time with him. Finally, on the day of Icarus' seventeenth birthday, she grew tired of being forbidden from seeing her own son. She tried to escape from Minos' palace, but the guards caught her and brought her back in. She was sentenced to execution for the betrayal she had committed. Daedalus had barely spoken to anyone since. Despite their distance, he had loved her unconditionally.

After her death, Icarus no longer saw Daedalus' workshop as a safe haven; a place to escape from the real world. He saw it as a sad, lonely room, filled with ghostly reminders of his father's former glory. He loathed being in that workshop.

Icarus wanted to train to be a warrior, like those he had heard legends about as he was growing up. He wanted to be the next Heracles or Jason or Achilles, rather than being known as the son of a troubled, once-great inventor. He wanted to die a heroic death, rather than live an ordinary life.

His father described him as 'the boy with impossible dreams', yet Icarus had never understood why.

"Father, you of all people understand nothing is impossible," Icarus had protested. "You created a structure with a heart and soul of its own - a labyrinth with its own conscience, able to think and grow entirely unaided. Why are my dreams so unrealistic?"

At that, his father had thought hard, and then decided to send him to a camp to train to be the warrior he had always longed to be.

They did not need to travel far to reach the camp. Once inside, Icarus instantly felt like the odd one out. The other young men were demigods, or descended from nymphs or deities. Icarus was the son of an inventor and a slave. He used to take great pride in where he came from, wearing his parentage on his sleeve. Having learned more about the reason why his father came to Crete before he was born, he realised he had plenty to be ashamed of.

The camp was vast, with training warriors from all over Greece living in small, wooden cabins at the edge of a deep forest. The leader of the camp was a centaur named Chiron. He must have been about eight feet tall. His body was that of a horse, with a rich, mahogany coloured coat. His top half was human, with tangled, black hair almost resembling a mane. He approached Icarus as the day went by and stooped down to reach nearer his level, asking him why he had chosen to join the camp.