A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update! I had to do a 30 page report on how to adapt Gandhi's nonviolence philosophies to Islam and a theological analysis of all 1243 pages (!) of Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy (which, if you're following the debates over The Golden Compass movie, is not atheist: it's advocating the theology found in Zurvanism – find the reference to the Zoroastrian heresy during the cocktail party at Mrs. Coulter's in the first book, then go look up Zoroastrianism and its heresy, Zurvanism). Absolute insanity!

This section's not really complete, but I wanted to updated it so you guys knew I hadn't stopped writing. This section is all Imam. I think it came out kind of dry, but let me know what you think (please!) And there's action coming soon, I promise!!

I realize the prologue is getting insanely long. I should have made it it's own story. Oh well. I may be the author, but the story writes itself. I only record it in words as best I can. I'm going to go back and change the first couple sections so that it's written as a flashback so I can take out all the obnoxious 'had's littered throughout it.

Just a Reminder: In case anyone forgot or doesn't know, Imam's faith in the canon is Chrislam, a fusion of Christianity and Islam which believes Jesus was the Son of God and was crucified for humanity's salvation from sin, but that Muhammad was also the last prophet. There is explanation for what I do with scripture in this chapter at the end.

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Imam stepped into the humid air of the house an hour later, his arms laden with bags, and immediately noticed the stillness. Walking through the dappled, honeyed light shining through the latticed shutters, he quietly set the bags down on the kitchen counter and looked around him in worry. There was no sign of Riddick.

For an instant, Imam feared the younger man had left; but before the thought could fully form, Jack's voice drifted from the doorway of the study above, and to Imam's relief Riddick's dark voice answered. The words were indistinguishable but his tone was caustic, and Jack's laughter cascaded down the stairs.

Imam looked up in the direction of their voices with surprise. Downstairs had immediately become Riddick's space, and to Imam's wonder the girl had respected it. If anything, he'd expected Jack's curiosity to get the better of her, and to come home to find her pestering the man. But they were upstairs, and a small smile brightened Imam's face as he realized that Jack had not come down: Riddick must have gone up and looked for her.

So there was still hope. Maybe more than he'd first thought.

Imam walked around the counter into the tiny kitchen, and began sorting out ingredients from the two bags of food he'd bought in the marketplace on the way home: chicken, with cinnamon and fresh ginger to spice; peppers and onions for roasting and chopping into to a bed of couscous; and sweet tangelos for desert, heavy and soft with juice. The three of them had been living on rations and cryodried food for weeks. This would be their first real meal since the crash, and Imam fought back a stab of grief at the unbidden thought of the other survivors, those who had not made it. He closed his eyes, unconsciously fingering the prayer beads that hung at his waist, trying to hold onto the elation that had gripped him in prayer that afternoon, that feeling of being face to face with God. But the reality of those rare, intense moments never lasted long. Already the certainty he had felt standing in the prayer hall was fleeting and the memory dreamlike, leaving him with only faith that the words he had heard had really been meant for him.

…Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, who marked all of you with a seal for the day of redemption…

Jack's voice rose and fell in and out of his hearing, occasionally joined by an incomprehensible quip from Riddick, and Imam stood listening for a long moment. Their lives lay within Allah's plan too, and the thought that his god still had designs for a murderer and a rough twelve year old girl was the only thing that brought Imam a kind of serenity. Maybe those they had lost on the planet had died not because they were the most deserving of suffering, but because those who had lived were the most deserving of a second chance at peace. Certainly if anyone was in need of it, it was the two of them.

And he would make that his reason for living, he decided, until Allah reveal to him another.

His heart eased at this thought, Imam set to making dinner. Pungent ginger, peeled and grated, and a couple curled sticks of cinnamon went into the cavity of the chicken, and on inspiration he grated a few pinches of zest from the peels of the tangelos and sprinkled that in as well. Then the whole thing went into a stone bowl and into the wavering heat of the oven. Peppers and onions sliced and laid out on a tray went in above it, and on the stove he set a pot of water and poured in the grains.

His only lingering doubt as he worked was whether Riddick might stay long enough to have a chance to find that peace. Imam knew the younger man was restless – he'd seen it last night over dinner in the man's taciturn silence, like he were listening to something else neither Imam nor Jack could hear, and in his unusual stillness, as though he were holding himself coiled and ready to spring. It was subtle, and Imam would not have noticed it when they first met; but in Imam's work, hearing what people wanted to confess and didn't was often far more important than helping them come to terms with what they did tell him. After a couple week's worth of waking days with Riddick he was slowly beginning to learn, in fleeting epiphanies and ghosts of insight, how to understand the man when he didn't speak. And watching him, Imam had realized how close Riddick was to running, and losing this chance to leave his past behind him.

But he had an idea.

As whispering swirls of steam began to uncurl from the surface of the water, Imam turned back to the rest of the bags. Three contained clothing he had bought for them, guessing at Jack's and Riddick's size. They'd had only the clothing they'd had on their backs when they woke from the crash, but despite washing them three times the day of their arrival, they still smelled faintly of dust and sweat and the cutting metallic scent of the creatures' blood, and washing did nothing to fade the blue splatters. Imam had been wearing an old robe he had found in a closet to work, but it was ill-fit and threadbare, and Riddick and Jack had been stuck with their ripped and stained clothes. It would be good, Imam thought, to finally wear something clean and that fit.

But it was the remaining two bags that he reached for, pausing to listen apprehensively for a moment for any sound that Riddick or Jack were coming down. Hearing them still occupied above, he opened the bags and began pulling items out: wires, boxes of washers and screws, packages of bolts, synth-rubber seals, a metal-encased motor the size of a bowl, and the adapters the man at the hardware shop said he would need for it.

To Imam and Jack's relief (Riddick had remained as indifferent as ever), they had discovered the house had an under-floor cooling system beneath the tiles, with a vent to every room to pump cool air throughout the house during the intense heat of the New Meccan days. To their disappointment, it was broken. They had found the air cooler in the hall closet upstairs, and Riddick had crawled in to examine it. It was busted, he'd reported as he'd backed out, some piece of the machinery he had called by techno-jargon that was incomprehensible to the cleric, and they had closed the closet door, adding it to the long and growing list of things that needed to be fixed.

Since watching Riddick's restlessness the night before, Imam had worried. The disquiet had crept into bed with him and followed him to work in the morning, pulling at his thoughts and weighing on his soul. Imam didn't know how long Riddick had been on the run, but he had the impression it had been years. It was obviously unnatural to him to stay in one place like this, and Imam knew with dreaded certainty that Riddick would disappear if he couldn't keep himself on New Mecca long enough to realize the possibility of a new life.

At the call for zenith prayers, Imam had performed his ablutions before a copper faucet, the crystalline water laced with light as it tumbled down onto the turquoise tiles and swirled into the drain. The sight of the sweet water had elicited a pang of sorrow that clinched Imam's chest as he was struck again by the memory of the other survivors, and the memory of the students he had been leading on pilgrimage. He had thought when all the boys had miraculously survived the crash that it was a blessing from Allah. But what had happened afterwards… "Inna lillahi wa inna ilahi raji'un," he'd whispered against his grief, clutching the prayer beads that dangled from his belt. We are all from Allah and it is to Him we are returning. "So many deaths…" It was all in Allah's will, he knew. He knew that. There were reasons they had all been taken, reasons he and Jack and Riddick had lived. But there was so little comfort when he didn't know what those reasons were. If only he knew Allah's plan for him, knew what He wanted from him, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much that Allah had not chosen another to live. Maybe he would not feel so guilty to be so glad to be alive.

He had washed his arms, his face, his feet, feeling himself slipping into the state of prayer where nothing outside of the moment mattered, when he felt Allah closer to him than the vein in his neck – and had found the worry about Riddick still heavy in his chest. Maybe I was wrong to think he would possibly stay. Maybe I am mistaken to think he should. There is some good in the man – we would not have survived if he had not returned for us. But is it enough? How can he start over when he cannot even see himself as anything but a criminal? Could he even find peace living in a society that would see him treated like an animal? And the man embraces violence… He's had to. But could he let that go? Does he know anything else? he had thought, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Perhaps I just want something good to come out of all this, to justify all that has gone wrong. But there's been so much lost already. If the man has any chance… Allah, help me know how to help him.

The answer had not come to him then, but later in afternoon prayers as Imam had stood barefoot in row with the rest of the mosque's staff, and followed the ayatollah in worship. As the elderly man's sonorous voice had called out the greatness of Allah, Imam had raised his hands in unison with the others, then laid them, right over left, above his navel and bowed his head as the ayatollah had begun to sing the opening.

"In the name of God,

The Merciful, The Compassionate.

The Praise belongs to God

Lord of the worlds,

The Merciful, The Compassionate,

One Who is Sovereign on the Day of Judgment.

You alone we worship,

And to you Alone we pray for help.

Guide us on the straight path,

the path of those to whom

You have been gracious,

not ones against whom You are angry,

nor the ones who go astray."

Imam had taken a deep breath, trying in vain to release the clutter of his thoughts and be present in the prayer. But as the ayatollah had begun the chosen recitation from scripture, the passage he chanted had blown Imam's thoughts away like dead leaves, and in the sudden clarity of his mind Imam had listened, hyperaware of every word.

"Put aside your old selves,

which belong to your old way of life,

and is corrupted by things

that lead you down the wrong path.

Be renewed in the spirit of your minds,

and put on the New Selves

that have been created by God's principles,

in the uprightness and holiness of the truth.

From now on, there must be no more lies.

Speak the truth to one another,

since we are all parts of each other.

Even if you are angry, do not sin;

never let the sun set on your anger.

Leave no room for the devil."

Imam had stood, in thrill and fear with the feeling that he was being spoken to; but it was the next words that had shaken him and set his heart thudding in his chest.

"He who has been stealing must steal no longer,

but rather let him work,

doing something useful with his own hands.

Then he will be able to help those in need.

Let no evil word or unwholesome talk cross your lips,

but only such speech as is good

and beneficial to the spiritual progress of another,

according to their needs,

that it may be a blessing to those who hear it.

Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God,

who marked all of you with a seal for the day of redemption.

Let all bitterness, indignation, and wrath,

every resentment and quarrel and slander

be far removed from you.

And become useful and helpful and kind to one another,

compassionate, forgiving each other

as readily as God forgave you in Christ.

Allahu Akbar!"

He had been so engulfed in elated transcendence and fearful awe, that Imam had almost forgotten to bow, only remembering when everyone else around him lowered themselves. Let him work, doing something useful with this own hands. To give Riddick a way to distract himself from the urge to run; to give him a sense of purpose; to give him a way to see that he could be of use here, that he could be needed. It seemed so obvious now – and Imam had known immediately how to do it: the cooling system in the hall closet. If Riddick could figure out how it was broken, Imam bet he knew how to fix it. Then he will be able to help those in need. He had hardly dared to think about what those words might promise – that was between Riddick and God – but had thrown himself enthusiastically into the rest of the prayer, and was sure of the closeness of Allah.

The ecstasy of revelation had already been retreating by the time Imam had left work; but if encroaching doubt had tempted him to think twice about his whether his idea would work, discovering the hardware store sitting right next to the fruit stall had made at least trying it unavoidable. Resolutely, he had stepped inside and wandered the aisles of strange objects until he had found a clerk stocking a shelf. The words Riddick had used for the broken components might as well have been a foreign language for all the cleric understood them, but he was able to remember them well enough to give a garbled version to the clerk, who had been able to figure out what Imam meant.

Now Imam took the parts he had bought and set them together on the counter that faced the living room. Imam could guess that if he asked Riddick to fix the cooling unit, the man wouldn't do it, just to make sure Imam knew he wasn't going to start taking suggestions from anyone. But leave the parts sitting where Riddick could see them, let the idea suggest itself, and maybe… "Insha'Allah," he murmured. If God wills.

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Please tell me if that was really dry! I tried to make it interesting, but I don't know if I pulled it off. Suggestions and flames welcome. Thanks!

Scripture Notes: The first part of the prayer is the traditional opening of the Muslim prayer, and also the first chapter of the Qur'an. This translation I took from The Sublime Quran translated by Laleh Bakhtiar, and if anyone is interested in reading the Quran, I highly recommend this translation both for its level of scholarship and how easy and beautiful it is to read.

After the opening of the prayer, a section of scripture to be recited from memory is chosen by the person leading the prayer. Since Imam's faith is Chrislam, I guessed this meant the Bible would be considered official scripture along with the Quran. The passage I used is from the New Testament, Ephesians 4:22-32. I looked at fifteen different translations of the section, but couldn't find just one that really worked. So I took different lines from five different translations and pieced them together, so the meaning of the text is still the same, but the wording better fits Imam's situation. The translations I used were: New International Reader's Version (NIRV); New International Version (NIV); Today's New International Version (TNIV); Amplified Bible (AMP); and the New Jerusalem Bible (NJV). I think I used this last one the most; it's my favorite translation of the Bible I've found so far, but I'm not sure whether it's the most scholarly.

… And now has any doubt what my major is. ;-)