Atto 1 - Senectus (part two)

What once was a vast expanse of tranquil blue had given way to an ever-shifting gradient of colors, a ceaseless dance of hues in constant transformation. Among them, one shade reigned supreme—a deep, burning orange, the very essence of a sunset frozen in time. For days, the scene had remained trapped in this eternal dusk, absent of borders, devoid of forests or cities. It was a realm unto itself, where the stars stood as a singular, unbroken family, their silent dominion shaping the world below with their celestial alignment. Time was neither moving forward nor standing still; instead, it was reborn and paralyzed in the same fleeting instant. For seven days, the Creator had turned his attention elsewhere, his mind occupied—until, at last, a peculiar weariness took hold…

Above, where once the sky had been a delicate shade of blue, pale and luminous, the interplay of colors now reached its pinnacle, shifting in a frenzied spectacle. Distant stars adorned the heavens, their glow caressing a shroud of clouds that formed a mosaic in every sense of the word. Only in one small fragment of that misty stage, at a distance from the lone structure—if it could be called such—was there a stretch of land. Though seemingly inert, it quivered like a restless child. It could have reacted, but it did not. Instead, a murmur rose from the depths below, a somber whisper foretelling the arrival of something. 

No... someone.

And then, from within that distant structure, obscured in part by the drifting clouds and standing no taller than a modest tree, a final spark was born. It did not manifest as we might expect. Instead, a sphere of pollen enveloped it, allowing it to glide gracefully through the air, undisturbed by even the faintest breath of wind. Its path had been chosen long before this moment. The lone stretch of land was its destined resting place. As one drew closer, other remnants of pollen could be seen scattered across the surface. The luminous shroud surrounding the spark was no mere embellishment; it was a key, a means of descent into the unseen depths below. And so, the final connection was made—but not within the heart of darkness.

The spark, still cradled in its delicate pollen veil, came to rest upon the finger of a hand that emerged from the soil. Slowly, the wrist turned, and the radiant ember slid gently into an open palm. For the first time in countless days, those hands beheld a light unlike any they had known. They emerged further, holding the spark as though it were a treasure beyond measure. And then, inch by inch, the rest of the body rose from the anomalous grave, ascending from the earth that had so long concealed it.

The handfuls of earth crumbled away effortlessly, revealing the unborn child—now a newborn—unaffected by the need for cleansing hands. His form mirrored that of the Creator in stature, yet his features bore a stark contrast: frail and ancient beyond measure. Long, ashen locks clung to the warmth of his former womb, cascading in twin strands that framed his face, while the rest flowed backward, merging at two distinct points. There, they entwined with his back, blending seamlessly with a pair of majestic wings, each spanning twice his own height.

Yet the affliction—the strange, festering malady of emotion, spat forth in the throes of genesis—had seeped into him as well. His limbs, both upper and lower, were left as they had first taken shape: raw, uncared for, absent of refinement or beauty. The intricate web of his blood vessels lay visible beneath pallid skin, an unheeded testament to his fragility. The last strand of blood, the lifeblood intended to complete him, had not dried as the others had. Instead, crimson darkened to an abyssal black, threading itself through his flesh and binding his eyelids shut. Where his mouth should have been, there was nothing—not even the faintest hint of an opening. He knew only breath, a quiet tide that ebbed and flowed through the twin hollows of his nostrils. Yet it was neither blindness nor silence that preoccupied him. He did not know such things, no sense of loss for what had never been his. His body—new, trembling, yet ancient in its weakness—was fixated on something else entirely. In his hands, he cradled the little spark. It had not come to him by chance. He knew, with an instinct as old as existence itself, that it had emerged from somewhere beyond. He could feel it, pulsing, waiting. 

And so, it was time.

His torso breached the open air, the lower half of his frail form still cradled by the earth as though in slumber. Carefully, he shifted his center of gravity, drawing his left leg toward his chest. In his right hand, the feeble spark trembled. With the other, he braced himself, pushing against the yielding soil. A sharp pain flickered through him—his first taste of sensation. Had there been another soul present, they would have gasped at the harrowing thinness of his legs, the way he wavered, barely able to stand.

Yet as he rose, so too did something else. A whisper of music, soft and ethereal, unfurled in the stillness. His head lifted—slowly, uncertainly, failing several times before settling into a posture not quite upright, yet no longer bowed. Strange, how such an insubstantial thing could counterbalance his weight. Yet in his heart—if indeed he possessed one—he knew. The spark was his guide. With reverence, he raised it skyward, surrendering to the pull of the unknown. And as he did, he allowed himself to be led by the whispers it stirred within him.

Before him, the cloud-forged path unfurled, its mist-like surface welcoming his every step. Wisps of steam coiled and twisted from the ethereal floor, like spectral tendrils rising to embrace the journey ahead. The fresh vapors clung to his skin like the first touch of snowfall, coalescing into a flowing white robe that draped down to his knees. Above, the constellations trembled on the verge of weeping, overcome by the splendor of the unfolding moment. With his first step, a single note rang out—pure, resounding, akin to the gentle keystroke of a piano. Where his foot had pressed, a luminescent blue imprint flared to life, only to fade into the haze of time. It felt as though the path had already been walked before him, its course long since etched into eternity. How else could the angel move with such effortless grace, despite the weight of his fragile existence? His arms wove an erratic dance, a contrast to the serene harmony of the steps beneath him. That he could even walk in his wretched state was a miracle enough—why strive for more?

As the melody swelled and ebbed in celestial cadence, the silhouette of a structure, once distant, emerged ever clearer through the veiling hues of dusk. There, beneath the waning glow of the heavens, a tree awaited him. 

A colossal bonsai, its branches twisted and gnarled yet brimming with an unseen vitality. Had it truly taken root in stone? Did its tendrils defy nature itself, embedding deep into the unyielding rock? And who was the enigmatic figure seated at its base? 

Were he able to speak, the angel would have uttered only one revelation—a scent, crisp and sharp, the unmistakable whisper of mint upon the air, teasing the very essence of his being. Yet, beyond that fragrance, beyond the crimson cloak draped upon the lone figure, something else lurked in the dimness beneath the tree's sprawling shadow.

The melody, so unwittingly conjured with each step, faltered. Silence fell as he reached the threshold. Above, a handful of celestial flames flickered out. The performance had only just begun. Thus, the Creator's words of welcome resounded:

"We came into existence almost by chance… and from the very first moment, we were stricken with fear of one another. For an eternity, we lingered in silent observation, neither daring to move—until one among us took the first step. From that instant, we were cast into the torrents of our own consciousness, clinging in vain to something tangible, something pure in our eyes—though such purity was fleeting. At last, we struck a fragile accord, growing alongside one another even as we changed, shaping and reigning over His creations, upon the vast stage He had woven for us alone. In time, our gazes lifted toward His, stretching toward that unreachable light—until at last, we seized it for ourselves. And yet, the hatred between us never waned. Nor did the insatiable desires we scarcely sought to conceal—how could we? By the time we understood the truth, it was far too late. In our folly, we spun new currents of thought, streams meant to penetrate our minds and manifest through our deeds… but we were allergic to them. Abstract rivers, brimming with the power to mend our discord—yet from them were birthed only falsehoods, illusions, and a chorus of visionaries, each lost in their own eccentric truths. Now all voices rise in song, invoking His name, yet for once… for but a fleeting moment, He has inclined His ear. And yet, I did not call upon Him. It was my deeds that stirred His interest. He confided in me that He had grown weary of the ceaseless, trivial inquiries—whether born of fiction or reality—whispered by mankind... Yes, such is our nature. Such is our name. I am the last one, and God has chosen not to heed my voice, but to stand before me. One final child—one last soul—that might compel Him to reconsider the dreadful fate He has decreed upon humanity. A chance, however faint, for redemption… A hope to vanquish the greatest evils spawned by our kind, in kingdoms shaped by the march of time. That child… that sacred gift, granted to us in mercy… is you."