We all reach this point in our lives. At what point does faith sustain us? At what point does it fail us?

I remember the story of a salior. His ship had sunk and he managed to survive, fashioning a raft out of the debris. He then turned his eyes towards the heavens and read the stars to determine his course and direction. But after that first night, clouds covered the skies and blocked his view. For days this went on as he lay on his raft until he was left with nothing but doubt and wonder if he had read correctly.

I do not know how this story ends and yet it is my life at the moment. My life until this point was on board that ship. The ship was the Templar. It is easy to maintain course when you have the Rule to act as the rudder providing direction. Your brothers beside you to assist in the task. Besides, by the time I was on the ship, the only way off was to jump.

And yet that ship sank and I have been cast out to sea. I have tried to read the heavens to find my course, and yet, the recent attack on that little priestess has cast a cloud cover over my stars. It is not that I feel responsible. Perhaps that is part of the problem, my losing touch with my fellows. To feel alone out at sea. But no, the trouble does not spring from any level of guilt on my part. It springs more from the attacker.

Am I so different than he? After all, I do not know how or why God has brought me to this land. Nor do I understand how what was merely a few years ago for me seems like history to these people. These are not the questions that bother me. The sole issue that burns within my soul is that it is not some unknown assailant who sits in the prison cell, but me.

I answered the Holy Father's call. I followed the order of the Holy See and Holy Mother Church into the desert. And there, in the name of God, I have killed. God will's it....What a disturbing thought. How many men have I sent to their gods merely because they were not Christian? ...56. Some barely old enough to be called a man.....and yet they were certainly old enough to life a sword.

56 souls I shall have to answer for. Most of them are easy enough to live with. It was during battle. I did not lay seige to Acre, I merely stood at its walls defending the people inside. It was not me who ordered the attack on a nearby supply train. And perhaps what I did that day helped to save the lives of hundreds of other people at the other end of that train. But these are dillusions. Excuses. Justifications.

I have never had an issue with killing. With the act. I have never turned my back from battle nor ran from the screams. My own blood pumped so hard and fast within me that most of the time, I was unaware of how much of my opponants blood covered my face. There has never been any register in my mind at the feel of flesh tearing or bones cracking and giving way under my blade....And so why is it that I now find myself troubled by the thought?

Oh to be able to rationalize my thoughts and actions. To find some harmony between them. And yet I fear that if I do, I shall enjoy learn to enjoy the act.....All things come to an end though, do they not? We must all return to that which made us. It is a natural occurance.

My ancestors used to glorify the death. To die was not a bad thing. To kill was to aid in the process of life. ....To kill in the preservation of life. Ha! What a laughable thought. To take in order to give? This makes no sense.....

Something must help me now. I am adrift at night with no stars to guide me. I am lost at sea...Damn, how I hate the sea. Ha! It figures that the only analogy that fits my problem involves more of what I despise.