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Chapter 10 - Atto 1 - Senectus (IX)

Tears. Cries. Sobs. All indistinct. Yet strangely restrained, as if some object had been placed before the mouths of those responsible. The stars had assumed a new role. The Creator's abode had shifted, or perhaps an entirely new realm had been carved, bound by the physical limits of the nameless angel. The familiar warmth of sanctuary waned, growing unbearable, suffocating. Each bubble escaping from the angel multiplied, gaining substance, and at last, rained upward.

A long sigh, like awakening from a dreadful nightmare, allowed the nameless one to surface, and finally… to float. A liquid presence rippled around him, gently cradling him. Yet it was he who must see this through alone. The only light came from above. No sun. Only frozen lightning, electric arcs stretching across a dark, storm-wracked sky, from a distant, unreachable tree on the horizon. Like a dying sun, the golden canopy of the Creator's bonsai framed beams of light that seemed destined to guide the winged warrior.

But the angel did not know how to respond. A tempest of emotion churned within him: fear, dread, limbo, awe, wonder, consolation. He guessed that a similar spectacle had been present in an earlier trial, but initial blindness had denied him the chance to behold it. Now, he felt supported by the Creator, or perhaps simply observed, to see how he'd react.

In that boundless sea, the only thing he could do was swim. And, by instinct, he did. No guidance, no visible cue, yet the motion felt natural, almost as if it had always been so, just as it had felt with the silhouette in the former trial. Once more, his wings were useless. Whether any feathers were lost during this ascent into the realm chosen by the Creator was uncertain. Yet, to express what propelled the angel was nearly impossible. On one hand, it felt instinctual; on the other, he knew it shouldn't. Still, he swam well. He knew how to navigate hostile waves, how long to hold his breath...

He hoped, eventually, to meet another, not necessarily the Creator. Even a simple innocent figure, like that distant silhouette, might offer companionship. To question the human evils he had faced, or was yet to face, might be his path to return to the Creator triumphantly, transformed, presentable before him.

But hours bled into days, days into weeks... and no one came. A vast, bottomless abyss held him afloat like a pathogen on a fingertip's cell. A snake biting its tail, in no pain, was convinced that something would happen. He understood that whining changed nothing, so under the Creator's unseen gaze, he contained himself. Yet beneath his outward pride lay burning sorrow, capped at its brink. Emotion conflicted within him, preventing genuine expression of his torment. He could only hope to leave this place. The only escape: sweet, silent death. Impatient yet calm, he awaited the embrace that might carry him back into the holy sanctuary untouched by... virtues.

Suddenly, he struck something. Still immersed in a vast sea of his doubts, fears, and fragile hopes, he touched something solid, hard, yet smooth. Something wood-carved, intruding from the water's surface. The contours spoke of only one truth: a coffin.

At that moment, fear flickered. He turned, seeking direction, but a second coffin floated behind him. A golden cross reflected the streaking sky's light. The coffins were sealed, but perhaps could be pried open.

The winged warrior sighed. Whatever lay within, opening the coffin, even at the cost of pain, felt like a necessary change. He had to wait or somehow find the catalyst to alter the path imposed by the Creator.

He tried with his hands, then with the sword's blade. 

Nothing. 

Finally, he used the hilt like a hammer, gouging deep cuts. Blood trickled along the blade's length.

Just as he prepared to split it open, a blinding light flared behind him with a deafening crack, so fierce the sky trembled. A shockwave hurled him away from the blast, away from where fire had ignited. A giant flame roared miles around, towering like a skyscraper, wide as a mountain. Yet there was no orange inferno. Instead, regal indigo lit the blaze, hauntingly sublime. The heat should've consumed him, yet it did not.

Moments later, his attention fixed on a host of shimmering sparks, hundreds dancing at the blaze's base. They kissed, bounced, and merged, celebrating the immense flame they belonged to. To the angel, mere sparks were signs, a path to follow. But he couldn't abandon the coffins that both comforted and anguished him. Yet wounded pride prevailed over consolation. He wanted to know their contents... and to leave them behind. Emotion and instinct warped into a paradox.

He turned toward them, but they vanished before thought could form. Then panic erupted. He flailed, smashing waves with ferocity. Without a voice, his screams would remain silent. He demanded help. He was tired of swimming alone in that boundless sea...

He thrashed for minutes, like a child denied its toy. He knew the Creator wouldn't come. So he followed the sparks. No other choice was available. The majestic and unsettling flame awaited. Inside it, perhaps the coffins would dissolve into fragile ash. They no longer weighed him.

But mere speculation wearied him. In frustration, he clawed at his face, needing something to grasp. His water-sodden fingers carved furrows into the flesh, creating faint blue rootlike lights that blossomed. Soon, roots and sparkles showed beneath his skin. Impossible to expel without tearing flesh. The little lights swirled from the main current aroudìnd the giant flame, entering his body through the two wings. He realized he couldn't stop them: detaching them would probably kill him. The indigo flame remained his only path, a singular fate to embrace. Sparks were working through him, not to burn, but to allow him to dance with the flame's fire. As particles suffused him and inner phosphorescence bloomed, thousands of sparks lifted him from the soaked void, blending him into their essence.

He was slowly becoming one of many...

No sound reached him. These were no bells of rebirth, but new music borne of the vast flame's heart, carrying him upward. His wings did not beat; warm currents cradled him as he spiraled higher, light brushing his skin. His hybrid eyes turned pale azure, gradually replacing his pupils' color as he gazed at the flame-father. The sparks recognized him: they made him kin, though not their same substance.

Soon, he would ascend the flame's apex. The terror and despair he had borne remained, not forgotten but now tied to a distant sea. Joy of belonging surged as he rose.

The grand blaze burned on, its roots reaching into the ocean—everything in that realm, born from that endless sea, perhaps destined to return—or drown.

"Într-o zi, am văzut un obiect ciudat plutind în aer. Din curiozitate, am aruncat o stâncă, realizând în cele din urmă că era o oglindă."

(One day, I saw a strange object floating in the air. Out of curiosity, I threw a rock at it, eventually realizing it was a mirror.)

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