Atto 1 - Senectus (part three)

He spoke no further. Extending his hand, he gently drew it from his sleeve. The angel could not see the golden light that glimmered at the center of the Creator's palm, but he could feel it. Deep within him, he understood that the guarded spark must be delivered.

"These are my cells. These are the very building blocks and voices that shape both of us. For days uncounted, I have sent them, calling you, hoping that one day I would see you again... Yet more than a thousand have turned their backs on me, and from them, those two servants who dwell upon your back have been formed..."

He paused. There was more he wished to say, yet the absence of a name halted him. He could not find the words. So many names danced in his mind that they became a blur, a forgotten haze with no logical explanation. Instead, he extended his arm, revealing the glowing palm, his head lowered. The blind angel could not know that, aside from casting his gaze downward, the Creator often glanced upward, toward two specific points. Perhaps he did not even realize how flawed the work before him truly was.

From the feet, the two toes sprouted an array of imperfections, which marred the body of the newborn. In certain places, the flesh was hollowed, exposing the muscle bundles beneath, veiled by a network of blood vessels from which a dull hue emanated. At the pelvis, though cloaked by a robe of clouds, the sharp ends of the iliac bones jutted out, like two spikes poised to pierce the skin from within. A rail of ribs adorned the chest, shrouded by a thin layer of greyish skin. The humerus and femur were frail. The hair, once lush, now appeared greasy and brittle. Had it not been for the mint-scented aroma that lingered, surely the air would have been thick with a foul stench, hardly breathable. What depth of emotional decay must have plagued the vermilion figure during the final shaping of this creation to yield such a result?

"Take it… Take my hand," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness. "Let us restore that bond I so cowardly abandoned..."

All the indifference that had once been stirred by the arrival of the third object, or perhaps divine intervention, had vanished in an instant. A simple handshake—such a modest gesture—now seemed the first step toward uncovering the angel's path. An angel, whose appearance was shrouded in darkness and sorrow. Certainly, he bore no resemblance to the radiant beings sung of in ancient songs, praised by those like the Creator. But how long ago was that past? Was he truly the last, chosen by God Himself? And where was He in all this?

The newly awakened being cast a curious glance at the Creator's hand, which was partly veiled in the tunic of deep ruby hue. And then, unexpectedly, the hand extended further. The angel with sewn eyes heard a sharp, metallic sound, like the scraping of something long across a jagged surface. The Creator's hand remained still, but the rest of the arm was gone. At the top of his detached palm, a design was visible—the spark wrapped in a ball of pollen was now etched into what had become the hilt of a magnificent silver sword. A small opening at the wrist allowed the blade to emerge as if conjured by magic.

The Creator offered no explanation. The sound of a single drop falling to the ground revealed that the angel had, by accident, pricked or even wounded himself, though it seemed of little consequence. The Creator spoke but one command:

"When you'll find him… kill him for me..."

Questions swarmed within the angel's mind, countless and pressing. The psychic gifts subtly imparted by the Creator prompted him to gesture, seeking any further insight from the mysterious being. But no answers came. Unseen by the angel, the hooded figure glanced upward, his gaze fixed upon something above, holding his eyes on "it" until the next cycle began.

"Go now, please..."