In the end, it always falls back to doubt, doesn't it?

I've often found that I, as a being who walks the path between humanity and faerie, have been prone to passion and a depth of emotion that those not of fae blood likely will not understand. While it seems I have avoided the worst of the capriciousness that those of my blood may possess, I nonetheless worry that I am swayed too easily by dreams, ideals, emotions, and those things and individuals that inspire such emotions and surging feelings.
 
I hadn't felt a fear as powerful as I had the other week in a very long time. She had returned. She was here to plague me again. I wanted to run. I wanted to escape. But that is no longer an option. Not when I have people who rely on me. Manny, Icky, Lolly, Noodles and Dr. Tinkles, Lilly and Zoltan and Henri and all the others in the circus. Not when I have people I want to protect. The bard and the thief--like two aspects of myself in broad strokes, coming into my life at the same time and throwing the stability I thought I had, the calm, collected, calculating nature I had tried so long to cultivate, completely out of sync, out of whack, that I began to question my own future from here on.
 
I was enraptured by the bard's songs, her violin moved my heart the instant I'd listened to it. I was entranced, I was enthralled. Her ginger hair and freckled skin, how she positively glowed when she played, so passionately dedicated to her chosen craft that she was... everything about her held my heart captive in an instant. I felt like I wanted to be beside her all the time, as imposing and impractical as that is; to be able to wake up beside her and hear that sweet music any day and every day. I found myself attempting to court her, flirt with her, before I even had the good sense to stop and consider what I was doing. Was it right, to desire her to be in my life, a life whose ways and circumstances may one day jeopardize her dreams because of my own tendencies for working the shadows of society? She, who aspires to greatness, could only be dragged down were her association with me--the real me, the scoundrel--to come to light. Is that right of me to dream of her, or is that selfishness?
 
The thief though, she and I (in my own personal opinion) have a close, greater and immediate understanding of one another. We both walk the shadows of the city streets, both dabble in the sub-legal activities of the night. And we got along instantly. I'd thought her a friend, a close confidant that I could speak to when I felt uncertain or even when simply bored. She is stunning in ways those of elvenkind tend to be, though I could not let such things as beauty and allure override the good sense of propriety needed in a civilized society. I aspired to be a gentleman and not a cad, for I valued what she had to offer, as a friend and as a person. Those flighty, promiscuous days of mine are (I'd like to think) long since past me, as every boy must become an adult some day. But then Mother arrived, her minions spirited the thief away. There was no choice, no alternative thought--and indeed, I would not have chosen to ignore her plight in the first place--but to save her. Even if she was tough and independent. Even if she might not need saving. It is an odd thing, how emotions toward someone can grow deeper in an instant. And when she kissed me after I had saved her, I knew it was over for me. Was this right, though? Should she involve herself with me, even though our lives and security may both be at risk due to the nature of our work? How one or both of us might simply not come home the next day, having been arrested or killed the night before? Then again, the life of an adventurer (as she and I both sign up for adventuring contracts) provides the same degree of risk.
 
Mr. Skullthorn, my old theater troupe leader, always said that I questioned myself too much. That beneath my exterior was a boy without confidence, without guidance, without certainty, and that if I wanted to succeed I needed to fix that. To fake it until I believed it.And so I did, for what other choice was there? It was literally a matter of life or death; to fail was to be without shelter, food, or any other comforts that most take for granted. To fail was to lose the dream of a life on the stage, a life of happiness, recognition, prestige, and security. And here I am once more, Donatien Leblanc, once again feeling like he is 14. All full of doubt, insecurity, desperation, and uncertainty.
 
I've never been one to pray to Peitho--hells, I scarcely pay tribute to Steyfano as regularly as I 'should'--but perhaps this one time... Ah wait, there it is. That sensation in my gut that I now recognize. Fear. Fear that I will lose them both, not to my own failings (though that is always a significant possibility, and I've never been one to have a track record for stability), but because of Her. Mother, the ever-looming threat in my life. The bitch who won't take 'no' for an answer. The solipsistic, selfish, cruel creature that killed Pierre and Clarice simply because they loved me. But still... do I fear Mother, or do I fear ruining the blossoming, dizzying intimacies that have come into my life? Am I moving too fast, baring my emotions and pouring my heart out to these two amazing women too quickly? Will they draw away, like pulling one's hand from the fire of a candle, if I open up fully? Perhaps, but--and here me out here, old boy--perhaps not?
 
There's no turning back now. The evolving path of life does not stop for anyone. I only hope I am not consumed by it in the end.