The Labyrinth // pjo

Chapter Four // The Gangs Back Together Again-More Or Less

When I walked through the dark halls away–it opened up this time, and I was staring at a blond boy kneeling in front of a glowing sarcophagus.

Luke.

Rage surged in me–but it changed into panic when he turned to me–his eyes glowing cold and a cold smile on his lips, You cannot stop this, Sally. And soon, you will join me. Or. Your friends and family will perish.

My legs moved before I could stop them, and I was running back into the tunnels, only to run right into what looked like a workshop.

The many tables around the room were covered with various measuring instruments. There was a forge that burned red hot in the corner–making the room warm.

I looked around–not recognizing the place I was in.

And I jumped when a boy–who looked around my age–started to stoke the bellows.

I was a little distracted by his appearance to notice anything else.

He...He looked familiar.

And when he turned to me–he literally froze.

And even though this was most definitely a dream–he was staring right at me.

I couldn't say anything–but I wanted to.

Because I knew this kid.

I don't know from where, but I did.

The pull in my chest and the warmth spreading through my limbs told me I did.

It wasn't until an old sickly voice said, "Done. It's done." that either of us tore our eyes away from one another.

Turning my eyes to the source, I found myself looking at a sickly old man with scraggly white hair–holding a set of glittering bronze wings.

There was another set on the table–just as breathtakingly beautiful as the set in his hands.

The boy rushed over–his tanned skin lighting up with the thirty shades of gold glinting off of the wings in the man's hands, "Father, you're a genius!"

The old man smiled at his son, "Tell me something I don't know, Icarus. Now hurry. It will take at least an hour to attach them. Come."

Icarus? Oh shit.

That meant that the old guy was the creator of the Labyrinth.

This sickly old man–smiling lovingly at his son–was Daedalus.

Why was I dreaming about him?

"You first," Icarus said firmly. The old man started to argue, but Icarus insisting stopped him. "You made them, Father. You should get the honor of wearing them first."

I watched as Icarus helped his father put on what almost looked like climbing gear, with straps that ran from his shoulders to his wrists.

Then from there, he began using some weird-looking giant glue gun thing to fasten on the wings.

"The wax compound should hold for several hours," Daedalus explained nervously as Icarus worked carefully. "But we must let it set first. And we would do well to avoid flying too high or too low. The sea would wet the wax seals—"

"And the sun's heat would loosen them," Icarus finished for him, nodding. "Yes, Father. We've been through this a million times!"

"One cannot be too careful."