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POEM v.
/ICARUS' POV/
Icarus Ardor Bellerose was born March 19, 1992, when Venus was at its highest altitude in the sky. It was a particularly cold dawn blanketed in snow when he had been brought into the world. Not that he could feel it, though, held graciously in his father's arms. The man was so full of warmth, so full of a light that just seemed to cast out all the coldness winter brought.
He truly loved his son, his beautiful boy.
And still he dubbed him Icarus, a name burdened with great legacy. He never called his son that, though. No. his boy would always be his little star, destined to burn as brightly as the sun that'd scathed the first Icarus.
Names have power, after all, and when you think of Icarus, you always think of the fall; the burning glory, the wings of wax. You think of his hubris, arrogant boy fallen from graces never meant for himself. Did he love the god Apollo? Destroy himself in a martyrish act of supplication? Or was he simply a boy starved, aching with a kind of hunger satiated only by the sun?
Either way, he burned. Either way, he fell.
But our Icarus, one borne of scathing heights and not succumbed to them, could never bring himself to love a god. The sun, he placed on an altar too high up to even reach (never will he be burned), but the god he could never exalt.
