• The gears of the great machine mashed and whirred and clanged together in an endless cacophony that reverberated through his head and drowned out his thoughts. The floor shook as the view outside his tiny window shifted and changed as the monstrous creation moved again. Every few moments: click, whir, bang, and shift. It never stopped.

    That was everyday life in the Labyrinth; the great, ever-changing machine that reluctantly house him and his father.

    How long has it been, he wondered as he dragged his lethargic limbs from the ratty hammock hanging between a pair of steam pipes. How long had they been imprisoned within his father's own creation? He'd only been a young child, no older than seven, when the guards had come and taken them away from their home. He spent a long time pondering over this, half dressed with a slipper dangling limply between his fingers. How long have we been here? Father would know, he concluded as he gathered the energy to finish dressing.

    Their place in the Labyrinth was high up in the center, towering over the rest of the massive creation; his father's life work, built for a selfish king. It was the only portion of the maze that stayed in one place, though it rotated on the spot to always face the sun. He trotted down the hall to his father's workshop, huffing strands of blonde hair out his face as he stopped in the doorway.

    His father sat hunched over his worktable, furiously scratching away at a piece of parchment in front of him and mumbling under his breath. The man had spent nearly every moment since their imprisonment trying to map a way out of the maze. It was a feat that was apparently proving to be as impossible as he had originally intended it to be. He could not have known that King Minus would have him and his only child thrown into the monstrous production to prove that, if the beast's own creator could not escape, then no one could.

    The sound of soft footsteps sounded in his ears and he turned to see his son, blonde haired and green eyed, eyeing him sadly.

    "How long has it been?" The boy asked, toying with the laces of his too large shirt and his eyes dropping to stare at the parchment strewn floor.

    "Well, let's see," the sound of shuffling papers drifted through the room before Daedalus made a soft noise of triumphant, freeing a small chart from beneath one of the piles littering his desk. His son stepped forward and looked over his shoulder curiously as he made a few calculations. With a sad smile, he turned to look back at his son and clapped a big hand onto his skinny shoulder.

    "It's been eight years, Icarus," he said softly, dismayed at the melancholy look on his son's face. Eight years and they were as stuck as they had ever been. "But," he forced a wide grin to his face, "today's a big day!"

    "It is?" The hope in his voice made tears gather in the corners of his Daedalus' eyes and he hurriedly dashed them away.

    "Today's your birthday, son. You're fifteen years old; a man by today's standards." What did they know about today's standards? They had been locked away for so long but Daedalus refused to keep his son locked away for a moment longer. "I've got a gift for you, two of them, actually. You want to know what they are?" Icarus nodded, his emerald eyes focused on his father's loving face.

    "The first gift is advice: just because something shines like gold, doesn't mean it's worth the price you'll pay to get it. You understand?" Icarus nodded, understanding that this bit was given out of his father's own experiences.

    "What's the second gift, father?" With a secretive smile, his father stood and walked over to a large, sheet covered object. With a flick of his wrist, his father grabbed hold and pulled the cloth away, revealing a pair of beautifully crafted wings. They were all brass and wood and translucent parchment and, while beautiful, Icarus looked to his father in confusion.

    "These wings, while delicate, will be enough to get you out of here. I want you to take them and fly out over the Labyrinth and down to the earth and make your life there." Icarus shook his head, tears filling his eyes.

    "No! I won't leave you here alone! I can't!" He sobbed as his father clasped both his shoulders and shook him lightly.

    "Son, I'm old and I've lived my life. You still have so much to live for and you can't do that in this place. I'll keep working but there's no guarantee I can map a way out."

    "Then make some wings for yourself! We can fly away together!" the green-eyed child begged. His father shook his head.

    "I'm too heavy and I'm too old to make the distance." Daedalus pulled Icarus into him, hugging him tightly and softly hushing him. Eventually, Daedalus pulled away and, with tears in his eyes, strapped his reluctant son into the harness.

    The wind playfully tousled his blonde hair as Icarus stood in the window sill, staring out over the Labyrinth to the far away sight of lush green fields and a city tucked up into the distant mountains.

    With a teary-eyed glance back to his father, Icarus leapt and pulled at the start cord attached to the front of the harness.

    The wings sputtered and shook and came to life, flapping and carrying him out over the maze and away from his father.

    It was a long journey, the Labyrinth was massive and it groaned and heaved beneath him like a living being. The thought made him uneasy and he adjusted his angle, carrying him higher into the warm, summer air.

    As time slipped by, Icarus found himself smiling for the first time in such a long while; the wind whipping through his hair and past his face energized him and the feeling of soaring through the air was incredible. He had never felt so free or so warm. He glanced up at the sun, and smiled. It had always been so cold in the Labyrinth, despite the whirring and hissing of the gears and the steam. He flew higher to catch more of the warmth on his flesh. The sun shone so brilliantly, so brightly and beautifully that he wanted to be closer to it. Closer and closer, higher and higher, forgetting the delicacy of his transport.

    He reached out, feeling as if he could touch the brilliance, when a soft crackling reached his ears, barely audible over the sound of the wind. With a gasp, he dropped suddenly, a short distance but enough to bring his attention to his wings. The warm and beautiful sun and singed the parchment of his wings. Before his eyes, the paper lit up and burned away.

    The wings continued to move, futilely, as the parchment lit up and died.

    And he fell.

    Down to the waiting copper beast that seemed to come alive as he plummeted away from the warm sun and down into the waiting maw of the cold, unfeeling beast.