It is late- and yet I can not sleep.

My thoughts, as always, keep slumber at bay, and tonight they seem especially turbulent, though why it is impossible to list- for there are far too many reasons to count. Perhaps it is the wound in my belly, or the wound my son has just taken at my fault. Perhaps it is the knowledge that my husband does not understand my suffering. Eternal conflict that I do not understand, nor why it must occur now, nor why it must be at all. Perhaps it is the way the wind blows, high and wild, as though to sweep all before it from its path, and the manner in which the sea crashes against the massive rocks of the crumbling cliffs to the shore, as though to batter them to shards, and it makes me clutch my shawl more tightly about me and pace the floor as I am often wont to do. But I am still unsure.

I am old, far older than my years, too old to be frightened by the ominous shrieking of the wind, the violent crack of the lightning and thunder, the brutal slash of rain against the cave walls in which I hide. I am far too old to be glancing over my shoulder at every flickering shadow- and yet, I am still afraid. But it is not the storm I fear. It is my maddening thoughts that set my body trembling. With each rasping breath the storm outside takes, they come rushing to engulf me.

How they haunt me now, even though I have tried so hard to flee them. These thoughts, these questions, these accusations... I will them to be silent, but still they crowd in upon me, unbidden, unwelcome.

My solitary candle flutters in a draft from the far off cave entrance, small and helpless before the gust that would extinguish it.

'How like that flame I once was, ' I think.

And yet... Is not much of what I have suffered my own doing? Yes... In my heart I know it is so, for I have none but myself to blame for the choices I make, and the road I set my feet firmly upon in my youth and so was forced to travel. There have been many times when I would have retraced my steps -long ago- if only I could have done so.

Still, though there are those who would give much to be young again, I am not one of them. To be young is to be filled with passion and to run headlong toward folly- much like my husband- and I did it once. Now my days are more careful, and I understand that there are certain routines which must be followed... Though there are so many to hold back from pressing forward too quickly. No... I would not be young again. But I would be more careful. I would pluck from me that which has sympathy, would pluck from me that which needed the love and protection of so many.

How ironic it is, I think, that now my husband should say that I am no better than a Shalon, rather than granting a comforting hand to me. How ironic it is, I think, that the one who pierced my skin with her dagger should now lie and be believed. How ironic that one from my own kingdom should hear her lie and try to murder my son. I should, after all, be the one lying. Are not the dark elves renowned for their 'treachery', and the Shalons renowned for their love of all life? I could be secure in the fact that our superiority had been thusly proved, but there are fears, with their sharp teeth and claws that tear at the edges of my security. I pray that tomorrow I shall be able to banish them... For tonight they prey upon my soul.

I want so much to understand... So much for this pain to end. The responsibility. My duties. I want to have never been. I want to hide. My belly throbs where the dagger had pierced it, and I feel a stirring from within myself. From the corner of my eye, I think I see... The flash of a blade I had not expected.

I am frozen now, listening, as though I can hear their muffled footsteps, their whispering voices- the hushed sounds of those in my memory, ghosts that live only in my mind. There I see it again and again... A dagger plunges into my son's flesh, and I scream.

It is my fault...

It is my fault...

It is my fault.