Sixton and Elga and Gareth have been romping around in my head these past few weeks, slowly progressing through dank, dripping forests and trembling fields. I can see them gathered around their fire at night, lost in thought, Gareth propped up on his elbows, Sixton staring distractedly into the darkness. When there is a something to be said, Elga narrates in a low, meditative voice from where she is tending to the horses. "Sixton fears we will be stuck here forever," she frequently informs me, and I know she means more than where they are now -- more than the forest, more than the endless quest.

After all this time, I've come to fear that too. I wonder when I will ever have time to set this story I love to paper, if after so many years it will simply wither out of existence. It takes much longer than it used to to call everyone to the surface, that's for sure. The truth is, it's all so much easier tucked away in my head. The moment I let it go roaring out onto paper will be the moment I place all else in my life on hold. Right now that isn't an option. Besides, this isn't just my story. I don't want to write it alone. I don't even know if I can.

Tonight I revisited an outline from years ago, desperate for contact with these creatures, and within moments it all come rushing back into place -- the castle and the crooked prince, the sovereign and his pride. Elga's mother stirred and murmured in her sleep, the cottage walls piling up around her bed. Laurent prowled his quarters with a scowl and a curse; Una unfurled from sleep like a flower. Satisfied at last, I closed the final page to lights going up all along the walls of a fortress, illuminating the darkest places, and far away, in a wood somewhere, Elga glancing up in surprise and smiling.