It has been a quiet time. I have relinquished my constant vigil with Jensen on the understanding from several people that they are there often. Still my mind keeps turning over and over the dark thoughts that came to me of what might come next. My dreams drag between the Branishor temple and Virgil and Jensen almost constantly. Sleep exhausts me. Though I am sleeping better, almost like the dead (those these are not the times to be saying such things), the things that play out in my dreams seem so real, so very real, that I feel I have lived them twice over each time on waking. At least my rest is taken within our own beloved halls; home and comfort. However drained I am on waking I will see little reminders of my brethren - plumes used within an inch of their life and piles of notes in that dearly loved firm hand writing, or a cloak hung carefully on the back of a chair, or smells of cooking wafting from the kitchen, or fresh ribbons pinned up on the stairs to remind me to think of and pray for others. And to sit atop our tower and take in fresh, clean air and see all things near and far is a comfort in itself. The palace still standing, our neighbours tower now almost complete I think. The peace of the lake reflecting up….even the smell of fish from the Golden Cutlass carries up there if the wind is in the right direction and is a strange comfort in itself. Yes, it has been very good to spend some time at home. I have swept through and sweetened all the rooms and washed the linen as best I can in the waters of the lake. I hope the washroom is built soon - we seem to have so much to try and keep tidy on our current resources! I have not tried to tidy the study - not that is it really a mess - but I do like to think that the notes on papers left around were made but a few moments before and imagine the warmth and presence of the one who made them. If I close my eyes I can almost see them sitting there bent over their desk. Their dear head so full of thoughts and things they have weighing on their mind. Shoulders so broad they carry all of us on them even if we do not realise it. It has been too long since my eyes were blessed with the sight of them, and longer since the brief touch of a hand….. well. In fact if I think on it, excepting my brother Zak I have barely seen anyone of late. The reminder of seeing him will now be with me some time I imagine. Yes, the guildhall looks at its best. It is time for me to remember what my duty is and why I am really here. Enough of selfish indulgence. I must return to those caves and spend as long as it takes there…. Best warm up my singing voice and find a way not to spill this water.

It is very hard to just sit and wait. I hate it. I hate the feeling of helplessness when I hear of all the atrocities that have happened. It was bad enough that the Dark One desecrated the Holy Order of Light, that he made those threats; bad enough that he went to Kilican and attacked that gentle healer and took their hands. But for Him to actually dare to enter Miranda’s mysterious cave, that wonderful holy place that I rested in so safely for so long, is a tremendous display of intent that truly frightens me: albeit done in so cowardly a way. To blind that gentle creature, placed there by Miranda Herself! Beyond comprehension…. Yet why are we surprised that this leach on our very souls should do such a thing? What can be said of one so foul and filthy that He would rip the heart from the King’s body? I am glad to be in this warm, cosy, restorative place as I write of these terrible things. It makes the pains I feel in my chest easier to bear.

Sleep eludes me; at least the sleep of rest and peaceful dreams. I know I must sleep, for I wake with a jolt, my heart thumping, rapier still in my hand. My eyes fly straight to Jensen and it is hard to keep the terror from my eyes or the sickening relief each time I find them untouched. They look at me sometimes, head on one side, but never speak. Do they know all that has happened? I know this is an isolated place and travellers come by less frequently, but surely news must have reached their ears? I am haunted by terrible dreams. So patient is this gracious healer’s listening - I have dark dreams of dreadful blackness and that leaden voice crawling through my brain telling me how weak and pathetic I am. Then the blackness lifts, although the despair left behind invades me completely and there is the healer, with no ears to hear prayers any more. Hands, heart, eyes….. what does it mean? What does it mean? It can only mean something so foul and evil, so unspeakable, that to imagine it is to never sleep again. I must stay here whenever possible. If something happened to this precious place and its dedicated, lonely occupant, and I was not here to at least try to stop it, I could never forgive myself. I have other dreams too but they are too awful to speak of - I desperately want to speak to dear Purazon of them, but I fear his reaction. Would such thoughts, even when uninvited and unconsciously got at, be so awful, so terrible, that they would cause distress in him…even anger? I have learned much over the years. I know now I must not bottle things up, that I must trust him and others. I must speak of these things with him. But he is so busy. There are too many places to be in; too much danger to shield the weak from. Our paths crossed yestereve when the raids came close together, yet we barely glanced at each other; there was no time to. Our only concern was that there were demons still loose and healing was needed. Worse though was that he was sorely hurt and had not noticed in his efforts to aid others and be ready, as ever, for whatever else might be thrown at us all. At present who can say what that might be. The Crier must have strained their voice over the past weeks. I must remember to take them some tea. At least I could heal his wounds even if I could not bring any other comfort. His time is not his own.

He looked so weary. Not tired, but I saw lines etched in his face that have not been there before - and something in his eyes that I could not get past. I must accept that too. I will never know the secrets of his heart (save one, I hope). I will pray my own heart out for him. What did the woman who read his palm see, I wonder? The experience seemed to move him …… I look at my hands and see nothing except the almost forgotten and faded remainders of the time spent when too inexperienced to have been there in the fire caverns below Kilican. Does it mean the future holds nothing?

Time will tell.