Still don't own Michael for obvious reasons...read, enjoy and review
"Do you not see the beauty he creates, the precision with which he handles each stroke?"
Michael had convinced his younger brother, Gabriel, to come down from heaven and observe his findings.
Every so often, when war was at a lull (for it was never over), Michael would watch the charges he so tirelessly protected. He had found, on one particular visit, an artist. The artist was one of the most vibrant and creative men he'd ever seen. The man bubbled with a constant energy, moving to and fro in his workshop. He hummed, he had a voice that was not quite tenor but not baritone either. The first visit was by chance. He had been walking the market square, watched mothers as they purchased their food stuffs, their children pointing and gawking, all the while asking question after question. Men hawked wares. Carpenters. Butchers. Musicians. Artists. Michael saw the light that humanity had to offer in every facet of their lives and work. It was on this day that he witnessed the cruious sight of an old man running through the streets, or at least moving as quickly as the old could run. The man moved with labored breath, struggling with paints and brushes. Without even thinking Michael touched the wearied shoulder of the old man, lending him strength. The old man sighed. Michael could see the relief playing across the old man's wrinkled features.
"Non stato grave,"the old man chuckled in a graveled voice.
Michael followed the man to a fairly modest home, its roof was decorated in the normal stucco of its time but Michael noted that the roof had been adjusted so that a person could get to the top and sit comfortably. The old man with all the grace of newborn foal managed to adjust his paints and kick open the door to his home. Michael walked in as well, observing the creations all over what he now came to understand, was a workshop.
The man went about putting everything to its proper place, all the while talking to himself in fast-paced italian. Michael wandered the rooms, trying to understand what the purpose to all the man's creations were. It wasn't just art that the man was interested in, medicine, transportation, even botany.
Many of the tasks the old man had undertaken seemed to be in stages, not complete. He smiled to himself. The man was a procrastinator. He went back into the main area of the workshop to see what the old man had gotten up to.
The mutterings that seemed to be something the man had done constantly was now quiet. At the moment he was an artist. He held a small paintbrush in his hand and applied small strokes of paint to what Michael already saw as truly inspired art. The question once again entered his mind, if man can achieve something at the pinnacle of beauty, why should they also need to tarnish it, with evil? Michael's hope for mankind never wavered, his hope that their love would one day overcome their capacity to do evil.
Michael moved to stand behind the painting to better look at the old man. There was a sharp cleverness to the man's eyes and though his posture bespoke concentration Michael could see the profound happiness that painting brought him. Michael pressed a gentle kiss to the old man's brow before leaving.
The second visit, Michael saw that the old man struggled more still. There was still the steeled determination but it was dulled by fatigue. The man's shoulders were hunched forward, the old man knew that his time was short and was trying to best fate by completing his painting.
'I am not yet done', the old man whispered to God in his native tongue. Michael, put both his hands onto wearied shoulders. He let energy of strength, hope and vitality transfer into the old man. A soft smile appeared and the man closed his eyes.
"So it is you brother, that has been lending my charge strength. It was a most curious thing to find that he should be so vigorous when he was so close to death."
"Azrael, you come for this man soon?"
"I was to come three years earlier, actually."
"I had met him in the street, quite by accident. I helped him because he struggled so, I felt he at least deserved to get home."
"Yet you gave him enough energy to live six to seven more years."
"Have you seen his work?"
Azrael gazed at the painting. He smiled fondly.
"I met the woman herself, Lisa del Giaconda. She was the mysterious one, though she was plain, there was an ephemeral quality to her. Leonardo has captured her in a way I never thought possible."
"Yes, he has," Michael agreed.
The third visit he finally brought Gabriel. Of all the archangels, it was Gabriel that regarded humans with the most contempt. Gabriel loved them in the smallest part of his heart but he held the emotion at bay.
"I do not see it. He is old, Michael and long overdue for Azrael's visit."
"Yes, but first he is the artist. I am sorry brother that you cannot see what I had wanted to show you."
Gabriel nodded and then left the small home. Michael did not want to leave. He feared that war and duty would call him away and that when he returned the brilliant man would be no more.
"Do not worry brother, I will allow him more time. He will complete this and one other painting, the Father proclaimed."
"Thank you Azrael."
"No, thank you, without you, I would have taken this man away. He would not have completed what is so clearly his life's work."
The Angel of Death squeezed Michael's shoulder in comfort before leaving.
Michael did not again see the old man in his workshop. War had called him back to the front lines and the years passed by.
One day (another lull in heaven) Michael walked. Even angels' could weary, their spirit buffeted by evil and war. The Father encouraged taking time to glorify him, to simply exist in heaven and be at peace. In all of heaven, there he was, the painter, at work.
Michael stood behind the man, observed as Leonardo used only his fingers to paint the phoenix that had alighted upon a branch. He hummed as he worked and Michael noted that he was a young man again. He had blond and red hair, like a mane. He wore simple robes and his feet were bare in the lush grass.
He approached the man and bowed his head in greeting.
"I'm sorry, but I know not the names of all the angels in heaven. May I ask your name signore?"
"I am Michael."
"The Michael? Well, I will have to congratulate Michaelangelo on his being right."
"Why? Who is Michaelangelo?"
"He is another artist, one who suspected you were fair of skin and hair. Blonde. I had envisioned dark locks but no matter, I will enjoy painting you nonetheless."
"You would do this?"
"It is the least I could do for what you had done for me. Azrael...he told me that you understood what I had wanted-no needed-to achieve with the the Mona Lisa. For that only a painting will do."
After that there was quiet between the two men, that and peace.