Thus the bee came to rest, with grace, upon a flower it had never chosen;
Thus the water fell from the heavens without quenching the flames;
Thus the mother began to nurse a child who was not her own;
Thus the peahen courted the male, surpassing even the beauty of his majestic, coloured plumage;
Thus the passionate one allowed the curious to speak, and the curious one never ceased to ask;
Thus music became entranced by the infinity of silence;
Every one of them did nothing but draw inspiration from God, who let His own love fall as He wept, and, at the same time, from the star tattooed upon the angel's fingernail, tired of yearning to touch the earth, yet yearning instead to reach that graceful, aching meadow of green dwelling within his eye. And so, almost of its own accord, that fierce curiosity gathered the strength of a hurricane, capable of drawing objects and life toward itself, dragging the envy-stained eyeball along with majestic force. Now the fingertip upon which the tattooed nail rested had come into contact with the dead volcano that formed the iris into which the Creator had vanished before. The time had come to reshape the world of God, the very same God to whom the Creator had sworn allegiance before bringing the nameless one into the light.
With the will, but above all, the blood of a fleeting spark...
The sole hand that the Creator had never ceased to hold upon his child began to burn as a consequence, though not a single flame appeared. Bee, water, mother, peahen, the passionate one, and music became one. They encouraged the young angel from the farthest tips of his feathers, spreading through his nerves, his skin, and his veins, permeating the rest of his body, before finally rising in a vortex that compelled his counterpart, the Creator, to point a finger toward the heavens, to gaze upward and challenge that God hidden among the stars. Immersed in His own weeping, like an infant, and soon to have even His honour stolen from Him.
And behold: the bee lost its wings and legs, stretching its body long and thin, while its black stripes peeled away, leaving behind a succession of hollow gaps. The water abandoned its liquid, undulating nature, stretching itself into countless threads. The mother and the passionate one allowed their voices to accompany the rest of their companions with solemnity. The peahen's vigilance understood the crucial moments of the seasons of love, gathering them one by one as though they were flowers fallen from the rainbow, until they became as mighty as divine lightning. At last, music became tangible, transforming into the conductor's baton that the angel would soon seize for his new orchestra. He heard the buzzing of the flute, the fluidity and waves of the harp, the embrace and sonorous explanations of the two violins, and, finally, the thunderous power of the fluttering timpani:
"The curtain rises. The song of blood begins. Let the chosen actors begin to fall! O heavenly mother, allow my crippled finger to show them the way!"
And behold: the winged creature traced a new ray, leaving its mark upon the distant heavens as it tore open the soft belly of the sky. The light and colours it unleashed were of the same hue and intensity as the star resting upon the nail. But the song was not yet finished:
"O young maiden, so proud of having strayed from your God... let your blood mingle with mine, so that we may aid your sisters, dying of envy up there!"
Thus the engraved ray became stained with a faded red, almost violet, allowing the words spoken by the Creator to open a path for the new daughters of God fleeing into freedom.
"O sea of arrogance, O sea of fear... allow their desires to become reality. Let my body once more cross beyond your majestic flesh. Pour your blood upon ours, and cleanse yourself of all those sinners, so that God may choose to rest from this weeping that threatens to devour Him without end!"
As though answering the command, several dozen stars slipped through the wound that the angel and the Creator's voice had carved into the heavens, ready to hurl themselves toward the sea dwelling upon the earth. Yet it was not enough, and the angel knew it well.
He therefore severed himself from the harmony he had once more shared with the Creator, and unlike him, remained to contemplate the transformation the heavens were undergoing.
In that moment, the gazes of father and son looked in opposite directions. But it was another star, this time tattooed where the iris should have been, that allowed the angel to choose his own solution, to behold the path that destiny itself had only just revealed to him.
And he carved a new furrow across the celestial vault.
Then another.
And again.
And again.
And again...
His arm followed the theatricality of the scene. His eyes closed, his body rendered soft and supple like a dancing plant swaying at the bottom of the sea. Within mere seconds, the musicality of the conductor spread through deep, crimson cuts carved into the frail flesh of the heavens. And as he did so, his other hand beckoned to the sisters trapped above, inviting them to descend with lively, dancing movements. Had he possessed a mouth, it would have been impossible to count the many promises he would have made to them. The same was true for his kin who remained trapped below, where the stillness of the mother-flames reigned supreme. And before long, the classical music composed by the nameless one reached its crescendo, as further instruments enriched the majestic melody at the very moment when hundreds... no, thousands of stars prepared to fall from the heavens. All the sons and daughters of the mother-flames raised their index fingers, pointing toward the sky like little children. The Creator withdrew into his new silence, perhaps from shame, perhaps for some other reason, while harmony and cacophony continued to accompany the angel's majestic sweeping gestures.
The lines he had drawn stretched farther and farther as streams of fleeing daughters filled them like rivers in flood. What had begun as tiny points shining with their own light became a magnificent swarm of stellar filaments, tangled into skeins that at times seemed to form quaint, childish drawings.
And the angel loved it.
He loved it so deeply that tears of joy began to fall from him, allowing some of the stars, by some pure miracle, to descend even from his starry iris. The two waterfalls pouring from his hybrid eyes thus became new paths for the fleeing stars. Before such magnificence, there was neither will, nor strength, nor ability to resist. And so the nameless one became the new centre of gravity in a world that had lost its colours. The two seas passed from a simple kiss into a sensual dance, in which every entity and every soul became entwined. The farthest borders drew ever closer, serving as extinguishers for the countless candles represented by the mother-flames.
And the two cowardly Creators, one hidden among the clouds, the other at the feet of the golden bonsai, could do nothing but watch through eyes clouded by what they had witnessed. Yet there was still someone who had a card left to play. And so the perfect moment arrived.
CRASH!
God could not help but root for the second gate, which had returned to the stage after so long a silence, allowing the clouds to conceal its cowardice. It alone could overturn the scene, triumphing over whatever destiny had so recently been born. Yet all of this came at the cost of the twin's life, upon whom it crashed. And still, it was not enough to send the winged creature plunging toward the sea of the undead, for the blood-vines of the wounded gate had grown strangely attached to him. They tore themselves free from the countless fragments of the twin and stretched outward, caressing the cheeks, body, and limbs of the nameless one with pus, cries of fear and despair, and pieces of rotting wood.
And thus, a new battle began astride the boundary between the two heavens...