We had been locked away cursed with the knowledge of the very beast that lived below the city. Deprived from the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze against our skin, we craved the freedom that we once took for granted. The only view we possessed was a small crack in the ceiling where seagulls flew through, flaunting their liberty. On occasion, the beat of their wings would cause the odd feather to disperse and float its way down to the cold stone floor. After many months we had forged two sets of delicate wings, a set so divine that the gryphons of Scythia would envy. The sun shone through the crack in the roof, rays of light dancing on the floor; we donned the wings whilst sitting on the roof, tiles slipping out from underneath our feet. Without a moment’s hesitation, we leapt from the roof and waved our arms with furiousity; the waves crashing beneath threatened us with a swift demise. We soared away from the wretched tower that had scarred us with its loneliness. I flew higher and higher, escalating my way through the clouds in order to feel the heat of the sun upon my face. The wax dripping down my arm the closer I came to the eternal source of warmth. Intoxicated by the irresistibility of the aurora, it welcomed me then pushed me away as I began my descent, plummeting into the depths of the sea. The cold hand of Poseidon dragging me deeper, the weight of the waves crashing down on me, holding me against the seabed. This was not freedom.