Puck still floated in the grey that had spawned him. Here the heavy borders of black and white had delicately feathered edges, ticklish he giggled as he rolled. His eternal moral dusk made him everyone's friend. Both optimists and pessimists thought he was ripe for conversion. Afterall he was either half empty or full as he lived his life now,
It's a bizarre conceit of conversion that the object of proselitizing truly wishes to change. Its an assumption made without asking. How many Catholic Priests, their Spanish Conquistador sponsors bristling with horses, guns and disease, ever wondered if the natives they converted (or summarily tortured until they spoke the words of conversion) wanted to forgoe their native belief systems. In point of fact, most Christian conversions amounted to an amalgam of native, pagan beliefs with enough Catholic overlay to look Christian. Saints names coopted over the names of Gods and demons they already worshipped. Far smarter than the narrow minded bringers of their "new" faith, they knew that GOD recognized their voices regardless of the name we assigned him.
But I digress, Puck looked ready to choose sides. It is for this reason that he was the worst poisin for Timothy. Poor Timothy, split by GOOD and EVIL and pinned beneath the immeasurable weight where they met in shadow's edge.
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