He remembered throwing an umbilical anchor into the white wind jetstream of a starry void. That was when his purpose began.

The vision in his eyes was constant: a ceremony of the utmost secrecy, shrouded by obscure dress and fancied ideologies. He had entered the order, either by giving up or giving away--whichever way leading to the same moot conclusion.

There was a sword on the far wall. The hilt grip was black, the steel dark. It hung as did each of the notes the priest intoned: long, low, with the insistence of eternity.

He was dressed in the uniform of an officer, a cleric, eyes lifting up in a hollowed focus. He had heard the words many times before, past the many indoctrination ceremonies that slipped past the closed double-doors. Somehow his own meant the least.

He had no doubt of the duty composed in that blade or the somber ceremony that followed its wake. What was elusive was the reason for it. There was a time where a choice had been made, or the act of choosing any more was forfeited. Like common knowledge, though, it faded, like grit between the fingers, flecked and fallen and left for the wind or the ground to inherit.

The sky outside was gray, calm, echoing all else in his perception. It had been carefully orchestrated and thought out, learning his code of ethics. It was a fortress of black glass: immediately impenetrable but unstable. One could tap against the exterior and hear a ring within him if they tried. It was not unlike water spun.

His own delusions betrayed him, however. It was not a birthright of the psyche to sprout into a warrior like Galahad, of such singular and uninspired majesty. Part of his mind still danced in the recesses of the moss groves by the town outskirts. There the otherfolk would entertain madness and contempt, for their order was to their eyes both mundane and practical. Pools of ochre light distilled the reflection of oak branches, startled on occasion by balls of scintillating light or some passing fancy of the otherfolk.

It was all uncontained, and therein lay its corrupting power.

He had been tempted, so sorely and teasingly tempted, those many times to become the braying ass; the statesman; the jocular lamppost; some ejaculation profiteer. All too often it would start with whispers, lean temptations licking down the curve of his ear. He knew no better and found death of several sorts in some form somewhat like his, a form shifting and obscure, with movement like wind and lips that reminded him of rainstorms.

The night would pass in some ill-conceived and deadly wonderful waste of time. He would awake to find his body clothed in fruit pulp and rinds, the leaves overhead, the earth cold and the wind unrepentant.

And so he joined the order to shut away the delusions of them, to follow the singular voice, the one that echoed by one mouth or another, resounding in perfect pitch. He shut his mind to the madness of the otherfolk. It was the death of the soul to follow the madness and motives of any one of them, even if the taste left in his mouth felt too much like home.

And as the words of the priest continued, he starred up again at that sword. His eyes closed. He could feel it, just like near the woods: some sweet rancor flitting down his ear in wet suckles. It promised Hell with no pain, death with no awareness, ignorance with no pride. The sincerity horrified him. Everything that was instinctual within him was stabbed with the voice's serrated claws, leaving part of him to twitch and seizure.

He bit his tongue, gnawed his cheek, and felt peace dull the earwhore with every drop of blood pooling in his mouth.

He looked up again to the sword; he shook as the tenor of the voice became one with its edge.

Would it always be like this, he asked himself. Part of him wished to conspire, to betray and paint the woods in flame and ash. But for whatever choice he made to join the order, he realized he could not do it. He could not destroy its' pretty lies. He could not banish the temptation, only hide from it.

And so the delusions of the otherfolk would continue, melding with his own on occasion, to almost tempt him back. His only comfort lay in that sword on the wall, perfect and precise without the need to live.

He bled tears because of its conviction.

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