Who am I, to stop someone who could, potentially, reach the sun? I, though seemingly stubbornly grounded, would be lying if I declared I had chosen this way. Don't we all dream of wings, of flight, of that greatest and brightest star? I could not have called that ecstasy to a halt.
Maybe a more weighted soul would disagree- point out the risks, the ultimate and inevitable finale. Would that knowledge have found me to be a murdered, if I had chosen not to forewarn? Your Honour, I plead not guilty, on mine: that I am a dreamer, like Icarus- and our minds work not the way of yours. Icarus and I- we know what it's like, to be blinded- by potential, by goals, by the sun- to spare a thought for impending doom.
And even if, even if- Well, we are all fated to infinity, are we not? At some point, we must all fall, into a ceaseless being. To vanish into starstuff, full of promise and exhilaration, in a stupor of glory, fire and eternity rendering limbs and wings to carbon- better to have that, than a mortal slipping away. If nothing else, Icarus had that.
Are you wondering why I'm telling you this, questioning my motives, my language? Or is it clear as light of day, as the sun above? I'm telling you the story of us, sweetheart: not even short-lived, but never to be.
Let's say, for a moment, that I had been there: that I had tried, and succeeded. That Icarus and I walked down from the hill, leaving his wings at the top. Could he really have returned, to a life in the reflection of the sun on the moon? Once we know what could have been, it is hard to return to a life amongst the other.
I could not have saved Icarus. I would not- could not- have tried. I would have said, instead:
'Fly, Icarus; go on, but remember me, won't you?
The ground-bound warrior, forever entranced by fairy flight'