Finvarra's Circus

4- Cages and Heartbeats

With one hand upon the mantle, Finvarra stood unmoving, staring down into the flames. Though present, he drifted off far, lost worlds away in memory. Long, golden hair rippled loosely in a ghostly breeze, veiling his downcast profile. Each strand sparkled enough to make even the brightest star wither in envy. Or so thought Leanna, who against good manners stared at him, as if she were to look hard enough, wings would suddenly sprout from his back, proving to her that he was indeed a celestial being.

His square shoulders lowered with an exhale that brushed about the room. "You're a trespasser," he reproached her indifferently, his attention undisturbed from the flames. Leanna's throat dried at the sound of him. It was one matter feeling the effects of his voice from outside. It was an entirely different affair when it rode on his exhale as a phantasm's whisper, a magical melody indeed.

Leanna pulled her cloak tighter against the chill that stroked her cheek like a lover's caress, stealing a quiet exhale from her lungs. She straightened her back, holding her chin a little higher. "There seems to be a misunderstanding, s-sir. I am not a trespasser."

Finvarra lifted his head a touch, to where Leanna could see the corner of his lip curl. "Ah, so your little feet wandered here all on their own, did they?" he replied before even looking at her.

Then he turned.

Leanna's breath hitched quietly as she stared into icy blue eyes, frigid as a frozen river. They gave way to a sculpted nose and thin lips that twisted upwards into a scornful grin. While the room was bathed in a crimson hue, Finvarra's pale skin radiated a soft silvery glow as if reflecting the light of the moon.

She digested his comment and searched for an answer to his question, but found she could only stare and grow colder. Though her lips failed to produce words, her mind reeled with thoughts at how it could be that her mother met Finvarra—this very man before her—when he looked to be no older than Lydia. But soon, in holding his gaze, Leanna's thoughts muddled and drifted off into the same pit of confusion she experienced when sitting outside. All she could think of properly at that moment was remembering how to breathe.

Finvarra abandoned the fireplace and crossed the room to the large mahogany desk. He moved slowly, singlehandedly seeming to lengthen every second of every minute. While his steps moved forward to the pulse of a steady heart, the flow of his hair and the gentle gliding of his embroidered coat tails fell to the void in between seconds, to the tune of fading life. It was as if he belonged to a different time, a different world all together—no. He was timeless.

Finvarra sat down and took a moment, marked by the silent taps of the clock on the mantle. One tap. Two. Then:

"What I dislike more than a trespasser is a liar. So I will ask you—and choose your words wisely—how did you know we were here? Who sent you? How did you get in? Do I once again have a traitor in my midst?"

Leanna swallowed down the heat flushing her cheeks. "I am no liar, sir. What I meant was that I trespassed, yes, and for that I am sorry. My reasons may not justify doing so, but I ask you to understand: I would have never been allowed to come had I not come tonight, and so I... I ran away and snuck in through the southern part of the field."