By Faith Crippen
The earth is cold on her bare chest as she lies still. Bouts of rain descend from the raging sky, soaking her frayed wings. A horrendous clap of thunder sounds from every angle and her fearful eyes shoot open – trembling, she struggles to her feet. The storm does not let out but only worsens as the clouds gradually darken. She squints, turning in hopeless circles and trying desperately to make out some sort of silhouette – a building, a person, anything – and then, through the darkness, she sees something – a raven. It calls out to her and begins circling above what she can only perceive as a blur. Lasting only a brief second, a flash of lightning illuminates a ruined temple, directly below where the raven is circling.
Without a second thought, she runs, the freezing air biting at the wounds in her flesh as she forces her way through the violent downpour. Her foot becomes caught on a root, the force violently throwing her downhill and landing her at the steep, rocky steps of the temple. She digs her elbows into crooks of the stone and pulls her aching body up the stairs and onto dry ground.
At long last, she sleeps. For two days and a night. In this time, the storm never ceases but continues raging outside. And once the realization finally sets in , she begins to cry - she is not only flightless but alone.
“Hello?” A man’s voice calls out.
Startled, she jumps to her feet, looking around aimlessly for the origin of the voice.
“I must’ve forgotten…You likely can’t see me. I’m here, behind this pillar.”
The sound leads her to a candlestick near its end, its flame grasping desperately at the last of the wax.
“Are you…” She hesitates, thinking herself foolish for speaking to a candle. “Are you a god?”
“No.” The voice says, “I’m exactly what I look to be.”
“A candle, then?”
The flame begins sputtering out. “Light.”
“Have you not a name?”
“No, do you?” the voice replies, a slight hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“Icarus.”
“Would you please help me, Icarus? As you may see, I’ve not much time left. I can keep you warm in exchange.”
“I will help you, but only if you tell me your name.”
“I’m afraid I am nameless, but if you wish, you may call me Anatole.”
“That’s rather foolish, don’t you think?” Icarus laughs, gathering up any sticks she can find amongst the rubble. “Being nameless and all.”
She carefully lifts the candlestick, bringing Anatole to the mound of twigs, onto which he leaps, bursting into a fire.
“You know,” Icarus remarks, “it’s my first time speaking to a flame.”
The two of them continue talking and laughing throughout the night until Anatole becomes so frail he can hardly speak.
“I suppose it’s time I leave.”
Icarus stares in disbelief, “…You’re going to leave me?”
“The storm will be over in hardly any time, and you can return to where you came from,” Anatole says, with the sound of a smile in his voice. “All flames burn out, eventually. It’s in our nature, Icarus.”
Tears well up in Icarus’ eyes as, in a final act of desperation, she begins to tear out her feathers, feeding them to the fire, until her back is bloodied and mutilated. Then, with a look of pure anguish and sorrow, Icarus throws herself into the flames.