Short Story: 'From One Lost Soul to Another'

 by Saffron Irons

Dear Father, 

My whole life I lived here, in this tower. The masterfully built walls are thick and strong, your own creation to be a harbour for our bodies. I still sit in the large window overlooking the water which fills with the evening sun. I could spend all my days feeling the soft warmth on my skin and watching the sky turn from blue, to pink, to black. Although, of course, I no longer can feel it. 

I am no longer a prisoner of this island. Although we never were prisoners as such. We were allowed to leave the tower and walk the length of the island. We engaged with the staff, rode the horses, joined the feasts and yearly games. But I know you stood, as I did, on the edge of the cliff, staring out into the roiling waves, realising we could never reach the islands we so often looked to on the horizon. At least you knew what it held. 

Most days, I did not let this bother me. I allowed the feeling to wash over me in waves. When you have a longing for that which is unknown, it is easy to turn this energy into a fear, and with a fear of the outside world, this island became my safe haven and my beloved home. 

I wish you had told me, father, what you had been making. I could have assisted you, and, perhaps, I would have come to understand the fragility of our escape. I would not have been so giddy with childish excitement and left your side too soon, too high, and then falling too far. I wish, too, that you had explained to me the depth of our need to escape this wretched island, although of course, I would not have listened. Of course I would have defended Crete, for it raised me, and I knew nothing else. I was raised on hurt and fear, barricades and labyrinths, power and sacrifice. But I was also raised, with love. 

As I said, I am no longer a prisoner of this island. But I will always be a prisoner of love. For as long as she is here I cannot leave. She has been tricked and abandoned by so many; her mother, her sister, Theseus: the egotistic hero who caused not only her heart to break, but also mine. I would not be the final person to desert her, although, of course, I already have

I wonder if you knew, father, the tenderness I shared with Phaedra. It was not a tragic love story that will be told for centuries. I did not rescue her from the jaws of a terrible fate, nor did she from mine. Our love existed in a quieter manner. It existed in two small, grubby hands intertwined, partly for love but mostly for protection, while we wandered in the forest. It existed in the sun that set in the West and called me back to my tower, locked eyes forming a silent promise for another day of adventure. It existed while we sat and watched in awe as Ariadne danced, weaving her body in enchanting ways, collapsing in a heap of energy and passion. 

I thought it died when Theseus arrived. Her eyes shone and her hands shook when she beheld him, and our love became a distant memory, a childhood game. You did not know, father, but you timed our escape perfectly, for I no longer felt tied to Crete that day. I felt as if the island had discarded me, that perhaps I would belong better in the sky. But of course, the sky did not accept me either, so I tumbled, and fell, and ended up back on Crete. I did not expect her to still be there. She should have been in Athens, a beautiful princess taking in the city, but she sat, crumpled on the shore, mourning the loss of everyone who had ever shown her love. I vowed in that moment that I would never leave her side, and everyday I would will for her to feel my presence. Perhaps she does, or perhaps not. 

And so I write to you, father, in a hope that you, too, will feel my presence. Know that I am not lost to the mercy of the waves, or the barren shores of the river Styx. Instead I bask on the island of our home, a lost soul, yes, but one who has found what his heart most desires. A love he will always cherish, until fate delivers her into his arms. 

I hope, too, that I will one day find my way to you.

Your loving Son,

Icarus