I mourned for that sweet boy’s death, but I mourned more for Daedalus, winging doggedly onwards, dragging that desperate grief behind him. It was Hermes who told me, of course, sipping my wine, his feet upon my hearth. I closed my eyes, to find that impression I had made of Daedalus’ face. I wished then that we had conceived a child together, to be some comfort to him. But that was a young and silly thought: as if children are sacks of grain, to be substituted one for another.
Daedalus did not long outlive his son. His limbs turned grey and nerveless, and all his strength was transmuted into smoke. I had no right to claim him, I knew it. But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me.
Between this section and the one describing the fate of the Minotaur, this book has some hauntingly sad but beautiful passages. Well, the writing has been beautiful throughout, but the last couple of chapters have been really, really moving, too.
And I love how Miller also fleshes out the characters that have become nothing more than cliches or symbols in many adaptations or even the myths themselves. Giving Daedalus a role other than that of father and engineer is just one example.