The Beckoning

The smell of recently laid sorrow hung over the city, a cloud, a rain, a gloominess that stifled life. Even as the darkness of the evening fell away before the dawn, the chill of tragic air persisted, carrying on the Blues’ age old war, a crusade for realization. However, they had their own wars to fight. Their battles could hardly be fought by shuffling down dreary and shadowed streets in cowardice- no, that wouldn’t solve anything. And so, as the warm, incandescent sun rose over a world soaked so thoroughly in despair, they rose as well, ascending to the highest places within the city.

They gathered in small groups, positioning themselves in twos and threes upon high rises and rooftops. Facing the dawn, they found no need to hide their faces. Only on the most sacred of days did they don hoods for their objective, and only then in order to throw themselves away. Only by stifling themselves could they let The Drive stand for itself, unhindered by the mere vessels that carried it forward. Today was no such day, so instead they donned only the red sashes- a potent, though reserved, reminder of their mission.

As devoted as he was, he preferred the sash to the entire raiment. This came not from a lack of reverence- if anything, the opposite. He could embrace the Drive with everything he was, and share the actualization of pure will fused with mankind. This morning, His mid-length hair tumbled almost as freely as the sash, though the latter burned far brighter; a crimson that caught the sun beautifully, a ruby river leading dawn to the city. Such could not be done justice by cloaks and cowls, nor could their task in service to the world. No, the power, the motivation to strive- humanity’s gift, humanity’s responsibility- this could not be tucked away by such simple means.
            “The sash goes around your waist,” one of the others informed him.

“If you’re serious about something, you don’t wear it on your waist,” he retorted. His sash followed the wind’s bidding, and having been wound about his neck and shoulders, fell just short of flying away. “You hold it up high where everyone can see it.”
            “You look ridiculous.”
            “You want to make something of it?” Silence; Only the wind and the nearly muted sounds of street life far below them. “I didn’t think so.”

He shut his eyes, as did the other Reds scattered over the rooftops. Their trappings defined them, pinpoints of blood and life over a dull and somber city. Amidst the murky fog of the Blues’ misery, he concentrated. The vibrations within his tomes resonated with his physical body, bolstering the flames within his own heart. All over the city, droplets of blood burned into fire, and the air stirred once more, but no longer from natural wind alone. Now, the air nearly hummed with the all but intangible nature of their efforts. The Reds bled their energy down the walls of the buildings, their infernos pouring out of their hearts to extinguish despair. With each pulse of their beings, wave upon wave of embers tumbled down upon the cracked and broken streets, into the subdued souls of the populace, reigniting their wills. The unsuspecting passerby, their spirits warmed by the secret gift of the Reds, continued upon their journeys, a little more strength burning in their steps, a little more determination gleaming in their eyes.