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Shiavault - a Vault of Shia Islamic Books Hazrat Ali Akbar,the Beloved Son of Imam Hussain(a.s.) The Final Battle and His Martyrdom Ali Akbar met each and every one of his family. The second parting was sad as the first one, perhaps sadder. Without being told, every one realised that this was the last time they were beholding Akbar. Fizza, the faithful maid of Fatima and Zainab, was as disconsolate with grief as Zainab and Umme Laila. Hussain followed Ali Akbar out of the tent.

As he rode away, Hussain walked behind him with a brisk pace for some distance, as a man follows his sacrificial lamb in Mina. When Akbar disappeared from his sight, he turned heavenwards and, with his hands raised, he prayed: O Allah, Thou art my Witness that on this day I have sent away for sacrifice one whom I loved and cherished most, to defend the cause of righteousness and truth. He sat on the ground as if trying to listen expectantly to some call from the battlefield.

It was not very long before he received a wailing call, a call from Ali Akbar, a call of anguish and pain: Father, Akbar has fallen with a mortal wound in his chest. Father, come to me for I have not long to live. If you cannot reach me, I convey my last salutations to you and my dear ones. Though Hussain was anticipating such a call, what a ghastly effect it had on him! He rose from the ground and fell; he rose again and fell again. With one hand on his heart he struggled to his feet.

Torrential tears were flooding his eyes. He rushed in the direction from which the cry had come. It seemed as Hussain's strength had ebbed away on hearing that fateful cry of his dearest son, for he was falling at every few steps. He was sobbing: Akbar, give me another shout so that I can follow its direction. Akbar, my sight is gone with the shock I have received and there is nobody to guide me to where you lie. Abbas came rushing to the aid of his master.

Holding his hand he led him on to the place from where Akbar's dying cry had come. Now Hussain was stumbling his way onwards resting his hands on Abbas' shoulders. The distance seemed interminable but at last Hussain and Abbas reached the place where Akbar was lying in a pool of his own blood. Ah, that tragic sight! May no father have occasion to see his young on in such a conditions.

With one hand on his chest covering a deep wound from which blood was gushing out, with his face writhing with pain, Akbar was lying on the ground prostrate and unconscious.