Icarus (the conundrum of freedom)
It’s strange being alone. In some ways, he’s always been alone, the Dursleys had always been with him, but they were never there. The Dursleys have always been a constant but never the good kind. They’re gone, just as they’ve always been, but this time it’s his own choice. It’s his choice.
Harry can’t help but laugh.
Finally, he is free. No longer is he trapped in a hellhole, doomed by the choices of another. Dumbledore had placed him with the Dursleys through sheer naivety or evil motives. This stranger had left him to be abused and hurt, never checking on him. Maybe it was ignorance that doomed him to such a life, the thought of familiar abuse so foreign he didn’t think about it. Or perhaps it was on purpose. What if there were other reasons for him to leave him there? What if he knew and didn’t care? Both possibilities meant he didn’t care, or at least not enough. Either way, he hadn’t watched enough to check on him or sufficient to save him.
It didn’t matter, though, not when freedom had been granted. Even though it was by his hand, he was free. It didn’t matter what anyone else said. He would never let someone take him back, not when they would be even worse then. While morbid, Harry thinks he would rather die than go back. After all, that’s what’s waiting for him at the Dursleys should he return a slow, painful and inevitable death.
So he runs.
Nothing is stopping him. No longer can the Dursleys hold him back or keep him silenced. The stitches holding his mouth shut have faded away. The stone walls lined with kudzu and ivy no longer keep him trapped. He is what he’s always wanted to be: free.
Harry runs, the wind blowing around his hair like a halo of affection. It must be nature’s way of urging him toward freedom. How could it not be? They flow and run together, forces of nature that won’t stop for anyone. They both seek freedom and refuse to be tamed.
His Head threw back, and he laughs as he leaps into the air. The rope holding him down to earth has been snapped.
Finally, he can soar.
Nothing is binding his wings, holding him to the ground. Faintly he remembers the story of Icarus, the boy who soared too high and lost himself. He flew too high, too close to the sun, and his freedom melted away with the freedom gained.
He, too, had been doomed by the choices of others, his life ruined by the sins of his father. Pity that our parents have so much effect on our lives. (Surely life would have been different had his parents lived.) Icarus had been lucky, though. His father had sought out a way to save them both, to bring freedom and true life to his only child.
He had built them wings, feathers held together by wax and love, hoping they could fly to freedom. They had been filled with hope and confidence in the father's skills.
Regardless, it was all for naught.
Icarus must have been young, hopeful, and flown too close to the sun. There had been something about the sun, so enchanting and different. He, of course, had always seen it, always known it was there. But like freedom, it had seemed so far away and impossible to reach. So is it that surprising that he wanted to see both?
Still, he must have known what would happen. His father had warned him to stay away from the sun. With the tender love only a parent could give, the father had all but begged his child to stay away from the danger of the sun. (He, too, must have known.) If he had known, why would he have flown up anyways?
Many blame the boy’s fate on his disobedience, spinning it as a cautionary tale. Harry can’t see that. If Icarus truly wanted freedom, he wouldn’t have disobeyed his father. He knew what he was doing, knew what would happen should he get too close to the sun.
Icarus, Harry thinks, reached for the sun on purpose. It was an act of self-destruction that manifested in a fall disguised as a flight.
He laughed as he fell, arms spread out as a final embrace to the world. It was as if Mother Nature herself was saying goodbye, the rush of wind tenderly flowing through his hair. A bitter sense of accomplishment ran through his bones as he made his choice. This is what he wanted; it truly was. In some ways, it hurt, but he didn’t care. This is what comes from a life lived in The Labyrinth. (Feelings of pain and happiness become forever inextricably tied.)
With bloody teeth barred to the world, Icarus flew. He reached unflinching to the sun, caring not for the fate that awaited him. The delicate wings had begun to melt, skin seared by burning hot wax. Blazing fire trails ran down his back, unforgiving marks given by force akin to a lover. As the wax melted further, there was no part of him that the wax hadn’t touched. The burning liquid traced his body, telling a story that only the sun would see.
Feathers flew around him, stolen pieces of nature fleeing to where they had come. Some things are not meant to be saved that isn’t meant to linger outside of their plain. They say goodbye to him as he falls, a small smile gracing his face.
Icarus is dying, but he’s never felt more alive.
Isn’t that what freedom is? This is a path of self-destruction, one that will only lead to a bitter end. Still, this is the path he had chosen, one that came from freedom and breathed life into his soul. Nothing can take that feeling away from him, not even the arrival of Death. Cold fingers trailed along his shoulders, drawing the boy into a tender embrace.
Death soothes the burning skin like a father easing the pain of their child’s injuries. In Death, there is mercy, a kindness of sorts, and the tender motion is accepted. Icarus doesn’t fight it; there is no way to evade Death. He has chosen this fate, and he has long since taken it. So he allows cold hands and even colder fingers to pull him closer to the ocean.
He doesn’t fear death, and neither does Harry.
He fears many things, but death is not one of them. Death is a constant, one that isn’t unnecessarily cruel or sadistic. It simply is, and he knows that all too well. Harry has spent years straddling the fence between life and death. There is a difference between the two, more than the obvious. (It’s something he doesn’t think he’ll ever find in this world.)
Harry has spent years straddling the fence between life and death. It comes naturally to him, easy as breathing (far too easy). The Dursleys demanded nothing less. Life with them was a test of balance, a testament to his ability to walk along telephone wires. The wires are thin and brittle, but so is he.
Now more than ever, it’s easier to run across them, and he does so openly. Like Icarus, he dances on the edge of danger, laughing at the world. No wax is dripping down his skin, but self-destruction also leaves marks on his body. Lines are drawn on his feet, the wires cutting into his soles as he dances along the edges. It’s the price paid for entrapment and freedom wrapped all in one.
This isn’t a fate he had chosen. He isn’t like the little mermaid, who had bargained her voice for legs. That was a willing deal with the devil, a foolish wish from a child who didn’t understand; while Harry is a child, he does understand. Life is not like the doctored fairy tales shown on TV. They’re not true fairy tales. People lie and say that fairy tales are stories that have a happy beginning, a sad middle, and a happy ending. That’s not true, though- it’s more akin to a tragic start, a happy middle, and a sad end.
Is that the fate he’s been doomed to? That’s what it feels like sometimes. He is an orphan, abandoned by parents who fought in a war. Why would they have him while fighting in the war? Why would they fight in the war if they had him? Either way, it was a sad beginning. It’s a pain he will live with, burdening his soul for far longer than it should.
He’s become a ghost story, a silent figure lingering in a place where he is not wanted. Is that not what a ghost is? A spectator, a haunting, a bitter remnant of the past. That is what Harry is to his aunt, who hates everything that can be linked to her sister. She hates him, and he can’t resent her for that, not when the past haunts her.
They are both shades of those they once loved.
“And when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. What do you call it, freedom or loneliness?”
-Charles Bukowski