In this one, Icarus didn’t die. For years and years, the people of Greece thought that the sea had tossed his body onto the shore of a remote island, Icaria, named by Daedalus for his son as he wept on the sands of Sicily; there wasn’t a way that any mortal could survive a fall from great heights above—there wasn’t any God that could save them even if they wished to.

For what seemed like hours, Icarus lay there on the waved surface of the ocean, the wooden frame of his wings splintered and littered with bogged feathers. He wished his father would appear by his side, sea foam in his hair and gentle kindness in his hands. All his life, Daedalus had pushed him to be a great inventor (not the greatest, no, that was Daedalus himself). He pushed him to find loopholes for logic, and pushed him to be more. As he started to sink, he couldn’t recall a single memory in which he was truly a child; to Daedalus, he wasn’t a son but another invention to train and tinker with. There wasn’t a day when his father told him the legends of the Gods or when sculptures of toy horses were carved from wax for him. “You must learn this the right way, Icarus. You’ll never trace my footsteps of inventing for kings if you don’t,” he’d say. The townspeople seemed to chide him too. “Icarus—you know, Daedalus’ son,” was the only thing he’d hear when they spoke of him, the winds about the tower hiding the rest of the conversation like a petulant child.

No, you’ll never be more than his shadow, they seemed to say, howling or whispering depending on how many feathers he’d collected from the seagulls that day for his father’s latest project. His entire life had been a mockery, and now was no different; a mockery in life as Daedalus’ shadow and a mockery in near-death of Daedalus’ failure.

Salt. The sea salt had started to sting in his scrapes. Air. No air. Air, Air, Air. The breath had started to leave his lungs.

He could feel the pull of cobalt-cold currents tugging at his ankles, wrists, mind. He tried to fight, really. He could feel where his fingers snapped against invisible hands that seemed to make him sink deeper or the way his lungs clawed at his throat. The Sisters of Fate plucking his thread, a warning to Icarus for what was to come; he’d let the water in, the salt would stop stinging, and then he’d finally be free.

And then he wasn’t.

The waters around him began to stir and bubble. Surely it’s not the Gods—they’ve never taken pity on me before, and they never will. No, it wasn’t the Gods; Poseidon wouldn’t rescue the son of his cruelest punishment for King Minos. Instead, water-worn scutes brushed against Icarus’ salted skin. A Chelone. The creature rose with Icarus on its shell, never wavering as the splintered remains of wings drifted to the seafloor without an owner. Chelones are a symbol of wisdom and protection, but no god or mere mortal commanded this one. The faded green lichen itching his back told Icarus it was old, much older than him or his father, and yet the sea beast was gentle. Air broke around him, warm and powerful as it blew through his lungs, his mind fuzzy as he gasped. Icarus couldn’t believe his dodge from fate. He chose to lay and think, the waves of the Aegean tickling the tips of his fingers with ease as the Chelone swam firm below him.

Sleep came quickly over Icarus, each bone in his body hollow with the pain of the fall—each nick in his skin sore with the sea’s torment. Noon turned to nightfall as he felt grains drag against his feet; the Chelone had left him on an abandoned coast, and drag marks faded against the sand from where the creature had rested prior to leaving again. His fingers grasped the grains like a newborn’s, sifting with new hope. What they found was a single scute, tan with age and scratched from victories. This wasn’t what he’d imagined when Daedalus had told him this was the day he had expected to fly, not fall to the rocky waves below. Sure, the Gods work in mysterious ways, but this wasn’t their doing. No, this was all his own, with a little bit of luck from a creature who’d seen its own share of life. Maybe Icarus could learn from this. He’d escaped his father, who only saw his own reflection; he’d survived his treacherous fall from the heavens, reaching land by the wisest of Prometheus’ animals. He reached for the leather strap around his wrist, leftover from the tie created for the feathered wings yet useless alone. Winding the leather strap around the scute before tucking it into his pocket, Icarus took to wobbly knees.

He’d one day tell his children the tale of his escape from Crete. He’d explain where his father was, scute in his palm as their fingers traced its scars and the softened leather neck strap together. He’d one day tell them the stories of the Gods as they played with wood carvings of the city’s horses. He’d one day push them—not to be his shadow, but to stand in the light on their own.

For now, though, he was going to forge his own steps—his own life—because sometimes you need to fall to rise back up.