<html> <body> Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars VI: Acceptio (c) Saturday, May 12, 708 CR A searing light drove him back into the shadow. The image and all of its contents he buried deep within, deeper even than the industrious ants or capering squirrels. His Master stood between him and a wall of flame that crossed the entire terrace from the cliff of stone rising to an impenetrable summit to the precipice which descended beyond the reach of memory. Colors of scintillating yellow and orange danced together, braiding and knotting as they rose upward to join the clouds. The flames did not spread nor did they consume the ground from which they sprang. But into them many of the souls rushed, vanishing from sight, shouting toward the sky as they ran. Discordant notes echoed from all around and from within. Núrodur Nuruhuinë recoiled deeper into his Master's shadow at the mesmerizing shimmer of fiery light. The heat struck them as a solid force, growing with each step that his Master took dragging him along behind. But it was not the heat that upset him; he scorched the ground in fury, struggling to keep as far from the hated light as possible. Be not afraid, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. But the fire is light! It is everywhere! We must pass through this. You will be with me. But the light! There will be no shadow, Master! I always stand between you and the light, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. You are always in my shadow. He wanted to be comforted by his Master's assurances, but the fire cast light in every direction. How could there still be shadow to keep him safe? His thoughts were only of the searing pain that was light. He yearned to see it extinguished; what need had he for light when he had the shadow! And yet his Master's thoughts, so certain and present to him, were undeterred. You have nothing to fear, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. It matters not from whence the light comes; I will be a bulwark for you; I will blot it out for you. I always cast a shadow for my faithful ones. Núrodur Nuruhuinë hissed as he drew himself as tightly as possible into the center of his Master's shadow. His master's pace did not slacken as he walked up the gentle slope toward the wall of flame that spread across the entire width of the terrace. Some of the souls rushed toward that fiery barrier and then doubled back beating their chests with their hands, and casting their eyes to the ground in shame. Others flung themselves headlong into the maelstrom of yellow and orange and cried out words that made no sense. None of them walked into the fire. His Master did. The flames did not part, but leaped upward from the ground to consume his Master. It capered about his white garment, rushing beneath the hem of the skirt and driving into the wide sleeves, only to emerge from the collar to pierce his silvery black hair. Yet not the least corner of his silken apparel was singed, nor a single strand of hair smouldered in that conflagration. His skin, alabaster and pure, was not even warmed by the blaze. Into the flames his Master stepped and against him they had no power. Even his shadow, as promised, persisted across the ground behind him. Núrodur Nuruhuinë could only marvel as the flames rose up through the shadow, inflicting a heat beyond even with what he had scorched the ground behind them, without bringing any light into the shadow itself. He crept lower and lower within it only to keep himself as far from the light he could see in the flame. After a few of his Master's steps, the last of his reticence had passed and his nascent thoughts could return to the images he'd glimpsed within. But it was impossible to dwell on the earlier images when all about there was a roar so loud he felt as if he'd been tossed into a forge. Forge. The word had meaning. It did not bring forth a coherent image, but he understood its purpose: the smelting of metals to remove their impurities and to refashion them into all sorts of shapes. As the flames curled through the shadow he caught suggestions of objects that had names. He knew the names: sword, shield, helmet, breastplate, rod, spade, axle, kettle, knife, spoon, nail, horn, and so many others that he could not hold their names long enough to shape them. Impurities, too numerous to count, pervaded everything sent to the forge. Within that blaze they would each be drawn forth, one by one, until only a single substance remained. That single substance was pure, focused, malleable and useful. A blade fashioned without a forge would break, a shield shatter, and a spade snap at the barest bit of pressure. Worse than useless; they were an impediment in the hands of their masters. A notion opened before him into the depth of the shadow, drawing his focus from the disparate images that flashed by, forming for but a moment from the confluence of orange and yellow flame before dissolving into the ever ascending maelstrom of light and heat. The forge was more than a place to refine iron; it suggested some principle beyond itself. Everything could be refined. All things could be tried. A servant even. The question formed within him as he sank deeper into the shadow; his substance blistered in the light from the flame. The shadow seemed to expand like a lake swollen with melt and the pain seemed to stretch with it; it never left him but for a time felt remote as into his being slipped the presence of his Master. Yes. Yes, Master? Yes, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. A servant must be forged if they truly wish to serve their Master. You are being forged, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. He tried to recall all that he had experienced, but his memory seemed to be only a scattered remnant of images he'd glimpsed. There was a memory of a pain so intense that he flinched even from its recollection; beyond it he could not force his thoughts to go. How long had they been on their journey? How long had his Master been forging him? And how much further did he need to go? He felt a reassuring glimmer of amusement in his Master's thoughts. You have been my servant for a very long time, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. For that purpose you have come into being. All who come into being are created for that purpose but few are those chosen to be forged as you have been. They abide in my shadow. There they are forged to be my servants and to accomplish my will. That is your purpose, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. You have come far and been purified of much; only a little left remains and you will be perfected. There was a deep approval in those thoughts, one that penetrated his being and made him yearn to feel it reach the very center of his substance. What is there left to do, Master? Know about you, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. What do you sense? The flames that rose from the ground and stretched in every direction contained more than just his Master and his Master's shadow. Souls strode through that conflagration, their pace varying, but each of them all seemed to head in the same direction. Some moved quickly past with determined eyes fixed on the path ahead, while others crouched low and proceeded at a crawl, their countenances twisted as if a part of them yearned to flee back down the terrace. There was a deeper difference between their paces; he could sense it as a clutching on the part of those who crawled. Nothing was held by the souls who moved quickly. Their eyes were clear while something besmirched the rest. They are leaving something behind, Master. Some leave it more easily than others. Very good. They too are being purified. Those that hold onto the things they have seen and yearn to see that do not suit their master suffer greatly and make little progress. Those that let all that should not be within them burn away move quickly through the flame. So it is with you, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. With me, Master? You must remain in the shadow and partake only of my shadow. Yet you harbor things you have seen beyond the shadow that defile you. I must purify you of them. I must burn them from you. Núrodur Nuruhuinë immediately thought of the lady rat in white who sang a song that seemed to stretch beyond the impenetrable memory of anguish, but pushed that recollection deeper and brought instead to his thoughts the image of the ants and the squirrels. There was a delight in the ants' clever cooperation and the squirrels' heedless capering that he felt a twinge of regret at losing. These he pressed forward, showing them to his Master. Do you mean these, Master? Yes. Those and any others you keep that come from beyond my shadow. Until you are parted from them you will be imperfect and your purification must continue. But these I now take. Núrodur Nuruhuinë felt his being seared anew with an intense heat that permeated every thought. Into the dark reaches of the shadow he found no escape from the anguish that stripped him. He glimpsed the ants and the squirrels for only a moment before both were torn away like a page rent down the middle. The flames pierced his being and he in turn charred at the ground from which they sprang until both were black as ash. Pain. Violation. Amputation. Núrodur Nuruhuinë felt all pass until only a residue of the anguish abode within him. In his Master's shadow he remained while flames of ugly orange and putrid yellow cavorted around him. Do you know what an ant is? Pain flickered within him, but apart from a sullen string of notes that tolled low and quiet there was nothing to find that could answer the question. No, Master. And do you know what a squirrel is? Helpless, he could only reply as before. The word had no meaning for him. Nor, it seemed to him, did it have any meaning for his Master. No, I do not, Master. What do you know? Your shadow, Master. For a moment he felt the presence imbue him and penetrate into the subdued pain that seared every mote of his being. There was satisfaction in that presence. More yet remains but only a trifle. You are almost ready. Know, Núrodur Nuruhuinë, the fire of this place is at an end. His Master thought it and it was true. The wall of flame that stretched from cliff to cliff came to an abrupt end only a few paces ahead of his Master's feet. He felt contentment in this and huddled within the shadow, creeping along at his Master's feet until the roaring flames were finally behind them. They emerged from the wall of painful light onto the ever-circling terrace along with several other souls. These souls lifted their heads to the glimmering clouds above and shouted boisterously. To Núrodur Nuruhuinë they were only making noise that he felt as ripples in his Master's shadow. There was no sense to it and so he ignored it. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>