Finvarra's Circus

8- Tomb of Dreams (Part One)

The ensuing silence was deafening. Save for the muted cadence of Finvarra's heartbeats, the world fell quiet around Leanna, as if having gasped, stunned by her illicit embrace. The world wasn't the only one frozen at her boldness, however. Though Finvarra's pulse beat evenly beneath his damp linen shirt, his chest failed to rise and fall with the regular rhythm of life.

Leanna lifted her head from his chest a touch, uncertainty rusting her movements. Aware of having held Finvarra for longer than what was proper or right, she braved raising her eyes and looked at him. Bound by some mirroring force of concern and hesitation, Finvarra's face turned down in equal measure. Blond strands tumbled over his shoulders, veiling their stares behind curtains of golden hair at either side. He said nothing. He didn't even breathe. Finvarra only stood rigid, cold and darkness enveloping them in the privacy of that space.

There was no anger in his stare. But the look in those soft blue eyes, that hinted more toward the quiet sadness of periwinkle, was equally troubling. It was a cold look. Grave. Cautionary.

Intending to dissect this apprehension, Leanna allowed herself to stare openly at Finvarra. Yet, as if her slow and warm breaths had somehow melted the iciness of Finvarra's face, his sculpted features were not so threatening from up close. On the contrary, in this intimate shadow, the soft planes were dangerously inviting, a porcelain lure that could not be ignored.

Leanna did not disregard it. She slid her gaze along him, studying him, learning him, memorizing the golden rays that shot out from his tiny black irises, like bolts of lightning scratching the wave-roughened surface of stormy blue oceans. She noticed that though his skin had yet to be touched by time, stands of gray kissed his hair. It was here Leanna grew alarmingly aware that the man she held was just that, a man.

She shivered. Being close to a man was a foreign language, but holding a man? That was unchartered land. The mere thought set ablaze a bonfire within Leanna, awakening a strange sensation that twisted the darkest depths of her stomach.

Spellbound by this curious flame, Leanna raised a trembling hand from Finvarra's chest, wishing to discover the secrets of this place. What did this icy man feel like? Would he melt under her human touch? Would her hand travel through him like a dream? Her mother had said he was magical. Would he vanish under her fingers like an illusion?

Leanna exhaled. Her fingers drew closer. Closer still—

A glacial hand clutched her wrist. Leanna sucked in a harsh breath. The spell shattered, and Leanna plummeted to her senses. Realizing where she stood and what she meant to do, shame scalded her.

Finvarra shook his head slowly, lowering her trembling hand in like spaces. Holding it between them, he gazed down to Leanna's other hand enfolded against the top slope of his vest.

"I wish you hadn't done that," he murmured, darkly and cold, conflicting to the look of sorrow clouding his eyes—eyes that he did not lift to Leanna.