Atto 1 - Senectus (part four)

For the nameless angel, nothing had changed. His world remained shrouded in darkness. He strained to recall the voice of the Creator, pondering whether he, too, would one day possess the power to weave sound into existence. Thoughts and questions surged through his mind like an unrelenting tide—until something vile disrupted them. The scent of mint, once comforting and familiar, had vanished. In its place festered a stench both rancid and unbearable, an odor thick with decay. It was then he realized: he was no longer in the Creator's resting place. He had drifted beyond his warmth, into some forsaken abyss. The oppressive heat that once embraced him had dissolved, replaced by an unnatural chill that gnawed at his flesh. The sparse hairs on his arms rose, quivering like reeds caught in an unseen current. The cold wrapped around him, merciless and unyielding. He had no choice but to stumble blindly through the void, grasping for any semblance of direction. Of all his weapons, only his sense of smell remained sharp enough to guide him. The foul reek—thick with the stench of excrement, mingled with something acrid and searing—emanated from the left. And yet, he hesitated.

For the first time, though scarcely an hour had passed since his birth, fear seized him. A terrible, cloying dread took root in his chest, threatening to suffocate him. In desperation, he ran a trembling hand through his damp, unkempt hair—greasy strands clinging to his fingers, a grotesque mockery of the Creator's touch. He longed for guidance, for the presence that had shaped him. But he was alone.

Even the sword he had been given was useless. He raised it, slashing twice into the void—only to be met with silence. No impact. No resistance. Not even the whisper of air displaced by the blade's descent. The world around him was still, empty, devoid of life. And yet, the foul presence persisted. It recoiled as if repulsed by him, yet lingered all the same, like a phantom lurking just beyond his grasp. 

He had no choice but to follow it—to wade into the stench, into the unknown. Then, without warning, his foot struck something solid...

He felt something brush against his ankle—a small object, light enough to be displaced by an absent-minded kick. It tumbled a few meters away, its presence almost imperceptible amid the unseen multitude of similar things strewn across the unseen world around him.

No, it was not one of the trinkets conjured in desperate aid of the Creator.

Intrigued, he traced the echoes of its movement, following the muted sound of its fall until his fingers found it once more. His touch, cautious and deliberate, mapped the contours of its form—an attempt to render in his mind what his eyes could not. He brought it close, shaking it gently beside his ear, listening for even the faintest whisper of something hidden within.

Silence...

The object, no larger than his palm, was spherical yet slightly flattened at the poles. Its surface, unnervingly smooth, bore no markings to suggest its nature. It was not hollow like glass, nor rigid like stone. When he applied pressure, it yielded slightly, leaving a shallow indentation before returning to its original shape.

And yet, something about it was eerily familiar. Though his mind recoiled from recognition, his senses betrayed a different truth. The texture, the near-sweet scent clinging faintly to it—these were not unknown to him. He had encountered them before, somewhere beyond the reach of memory, somewhere outside the grasp of reason.

Perhaps, if he were blind to more than sight, he could dismiss the unease creeping through him. But such mercy was not his to claim. His curse was knowing just enough to fear what lay beyond understanding.

He had failed in his purpose—the warrior forged by the Creator, designed to battle the fateful evils born of man's own making. And yet, because his essence was drawn from such beings, he retained the ability to think, to reason. Still, if one had asked him to speak of humanity, he would have faltered, caught in the chasm between understanding and uncertainty. The consciousness that stirred within the blinded angel was half-human. The rest… divine? Or something else entirely? Were the three objects sent by that supposed God truly a gift to aid the Creator, or merely vessels for some unseen inspiration, placed upon the world by a force beyond comprehension?

By mistake, he struck a second sphere. The invading darkness coiled around the enigmatic orbs, swallowing them into its depths, hoarding them like a jealous warden. Then, just as his fingers reached for another, he heard it—a cry.

The voice was nothing like the Creator's. It drifted upon the air, laced with an intoxicating softness, an eerie sensuality. But beneath its silken tones, sharp discordant notes clawed through, twisting the sound into something corrupted, something tainted by its own agony. And it came from the same direction as that stench, that wretched and vile scent…

SPLASH!

In less than half a second, the Creator's son ruptured. A force within his body detonated with catastrophic violence, flinging his head, his limbs, his very being in every direction. The irregular spheres, along with the unseen structures that loomed in the shadows, were drenched in the aftermath—a blood now tainted by the corruption of the final moments of genesis, its once-sacred hue transfigured into a sorrowful, muted purple.

"De sa alltid till mig... att när man tar stora framsteg är misstag oundvikliga. Hitta din... och gå framåt fortfarande."

(They always told me… that when taking great strides, mistakes are inevitable. Find yours… and walk forward still.)