The Rememberer - Part 2

Sunset was fast approaching, and the sky was stained blood-red as the Rememberer came to a halt in front of a cracked, wooden door, above which there hung a rusted sign in the shape of a horseshoe, creaking as it was gently pushed by the breeze. It had rained during the day, the air feeling renewed, as though it had been washed clean, and the tangy scent of wet earth drifted upto him as mud splattered under his shoes.

Thoughts whirled around his head, the cares and concerns of living in the world coating his soul with grime. The euphoria of the morning had now left him, and in its place the tight pang of hunger bit him, almost making him double over. His mind drifted to his wife and child, and he wondered from where he was going to find for them their next meal. He felt his face droop in dismay, but he steeled himself.

Deep within his soul, ancient whispers struggled to be heard, voices without words, but still somehow meaningful. He paid them no heed. Or so he thought.

For now he had an errand to run, and he pushed open the door to the blacksmiths and entered. The warmth hit him like a shimmering wave, instantly coating him in sweat and washing over his wet body, bringing blood back to his skin. All around him came the sound of frenetic activity, the lighthearted insults between the workers mixing with the steady ringing of metal clanking against metal. Glowing orange rods, liquid metal that was being hammered hypnotically into shape, peeked out from here and there, their freshly burnt stench almost suffocating. Showers of molten sparks flew spinning through the air, their burning light dazzling.

Quickly he passed his order to the Forgemaster and waited, his eyes surveying the scene. Without knowing it, his sight came to rest upon a small table set away from the main area, upon which there lay a loaf of freshly baked bread, golden brown at the bottom and crispy at the top.

Instantly the whispers came back, and still he ignored them, making his thoughts focus on other things, convincing himself that he wasn't affected. And yet, he found himself walking slowly towards the table, the other workers oblvious to his actions.

Now the whispers became words which he half-heard, pretending that he couldn't. What harm would it be to take this loaf and feed his hungry family? Who would even notice? Who would care?

His eyes darted left and right, and he saw that no-one was watching him, no-one was even near. The creamy scent of the fresh dough wafted up to him and, in that instant, the whispers became a clawed hand curling around his heart, the icy touch of temptation becoming far too strong.

He was meant to take this. It was a gift. He was guided here to do this.

He hesitated as the whispers prodded him, begged him, pleaded with him. So strong. The feeling was so strong. Still, he wavered, his heart pounding in his chest, beating in time with the clank of the hammers.

Suddenly, someone - in a lapse of concentration or in a rare slip - ploughed his hammer down into the soft metal a little too hard and a plume of sparks fountained into the air, hung there frozen for an instant, then rained down in glowing flecks of ash that singed into the Rememberer's clothes.

Holding up his hand to protect himself, the Remember felt the sparks burn into his skin, making him flinch. Instantly his mouth went dry. Was this a small taste of what the Fire would be like? How much hotter would it be there? How much more intense?

Dizzy, a bead of sweat rolling slowly down his forehead, the Rememberer spun on his heels away from the bread, salty tears stinging his eyes. Aa'udhubillah!

And hovering somewhere above his right shoulder, an unseen angel wrote the following words onto his scroll: A victory in the battleground of Jihad an Nafs.