The Judge & The 3 Arrows

The Beginning

Alight were the sons of the eagle, the patriots of the next generation, the upholders of a developing future of the nation. To the sight of the sun, rise ravishingly over the pillars of the Lincoln Memorial. The statue of once a great leader, the man responsible for what once the prosperity of his own kin. He died when he was watching the show where talents are expressed merrily, tunes harmonic and synchronized melodically throughout the ball. Wilkes Booth was the accused, and he was killed to simply interrupt a man's dining of recreation.

November 3, a sacred day in the decades of the 20th century. A peaking drama where Shakespeare himself can see to feast for the theaters of society. The birds of the bread-eaters, from the common grackles to the cardinals and to the dark-eyed juncos. All rise to flap their wings, greeting the fresh of the new day with their chirps of respect and beauty. And by 6, the Memorial was clouded in the boots and shoes that clasp together with the sound of the gurgling mouths of many man, woman and children.

See the missionary, he's 27, aged to have grown a perfected brown chestnut beard that surrounds his jaw. He was young to carry his faith, and yet he was alone in his pilgrimage. His eyes intertwined to the melody of a fiddle. Yes. His ears recognized the rhythm it shook, the beats matching with an invisible metronome seen seizing right infront of his eyes. It was a sonata, in G Minor but he wasn't quite sure of the name of such piece. The fiddler, tall as half of the pillars of the memorial itself, skin almost snow-like with the darkness of his clothings are the only colors that shine through his appearance. A tower among all, who plays in the languages of music.

With great curiosity, he walks towards the stairs and greeted the man. The fiddler grinned, his lips are of scarlet red, almost a lipstick but looked like it was apart of his mouth. Teeth aligned perfectly with white enamels that greets his unknown glare of appreciation and his squinting eyes. Yellow iris with skin that swells around the eye. "The freedom of birds is an insult to me..." He says, the missionary confused. "What do you talk about?" "Look around you, see for yourself." He stopped playing and pointed his index towards the flying birds, the missionary looked about him in a puzzled and artful way, and he was a passable thespian.

"Do you believe it's all over son?" He asked the missionary. "In all greatness, does the second coming ever manifest?" He asked again. The missionary quickly opened his bible, and looked to the verses that tells of his answer. He looked towards Matthew 24-25, Luke 21:5-26. He recites all of the words inside but the fiddler wasn't satisfied. He played as he talked in his verse, in a poetic manner yet still coherent.

"Do not go gentle into that good night, the old days rave of hope and sorrow in which they only know that both the benefits and the losses is essential to the gears of society. It makes no difference what men think of the apocalypse, it endures. Such as war, as well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way."

"What?" The missionary confused, his face showing a frown of a concerned man knowing the possibility but his mind brawled over the thoughts of his own cradle. Not knowing which truth to pick. The fiddler reached the reff of his piece, fingers fidgeting over the strings like a vouching professional. Yes, the missionary widened his eyes. Yes, the missionary knows. Even Faust would be terrified of such song to be emanated into his ears, the missionary shook in fear as he dropped over to the stairs head first. He dies on the final steps below, the fiddler laughed.

"It is the last of the true, that even though evil and death will eventually be conquered by God, the lessons learned from the evils of the fallen will benefit mankind ultimately, and thus even in eternity, the evils of war will live on forever in their lessons to a regenerated mankind. Even in defeat, the legacy will live forever in the mirror it holds to a purified humanity in heaven."

The bells of the nearby cathedral rang, it is time. Fire arose as he reached to the grandeur of his piece, The Devil's Thrill, a cursed sonata. People rage, kill, destroy, and forage every single thing they could find and all he could do is to dance.

He dances,

He dances in light and in shadow,

And he is a great favorite.

He never sleeps, the Judge.

He says that he will never die.