Sitting on a white pedestal, Haroth looked more like an antique statue than a living being. Around the angel sermons were preached, people prayed to him, and he was worshipped as if he were capable of conveying all prayers to Him. And no one cared about his words and explanations that it wouldn't work, that that wasn't why he had come to earth, and that he had a much more important message for people.

Mankind needed an idol and they made him an idol, forgetting all the commandments. The priests and bishops chained his hands and feet in strange chains with inscriptions that Haroth could not read, and his snow-white wings were clipped as if he were nothing more than a bird in the wrong land.

After the sermon was over, the angel looked at you with empty eyes. In spite of everything, there was a shadow of hope in his blue eyes.

"Please."