A plate of hearty soup sat untouched for a long while before Leanna. As if a looking glass, all she saw in between the chunks of potatoes and meat, crimson broth and curls of smoke that soon vanished, were Inara's eyes, and the pale mare lying in the dark, surrounded by her fellow horsemen and her fear. No longer able to stand the quiet haunting, Leanna fashioned a pretext of having rooming business to sort out with Finvarra—which wasn't entirely a lie—and excused herself from supper. She had to speak to Finvarra of his war with Krinard, of Inara and her fear. She had to see him.

And so she stood now in the shadows, a distance away from Finvarra's illuminated tent, her eyes focused on the doorway blocked by Tomas. Conviction moved her forward toward the light, determined. One step, and then another. Her heart pounded fiercely the closer she drew, drumming the beat of her approach. She was going to see Finvarra. She hadn't seen him all day, but she was going to see him now—

Leanna stopped abruptly, feeling a little breathless a sudden. There was no pain... no, nothing of the sort, only this strange airiness that suddenly possessed her heart. It fluttered a little lighter, a little faster...

Her brows furrowed at this new sensation. It was almost as if she were nervous, she mused, taking inventory of her feelings. Maybe she was nervous, anticipating even. Perhaps she wanted to see him—

Nonsense, Leanna reprimanded her thoughts with a shake of her head. Her heart was just not accustomed to all being demanded of it. She'd exerted herself more that day than she had in years. Her heart was just... adjusting, Leanna told her meddlesome conscience. That was all. Setting her jaw, she started again toward the tent.

Leanna paused. After what transpired that afternoon with Krinard, no doubt Finvarra was somewhat annoyed with her. She put fingers to her mouth in thought. He'd only be more bothered knowing she'd meddled in his private affairs—again. Leanna hummed. Perhaps she would come back later, once the events from that day had a chance to settle...

Yes, Leanna decided, and turned away from his tent. She would just go...

Go where? her conscience whispered, vanishing then into a passing breeze.

Leanna wavered with a frown. Where, indeed. She had no tent of her own, no place to lay her head. Furthermore, her carpetbag was still inside. No doubt she looked frazzled and dirty with stained shoes and ragged hair. She needed her clothes and hairbrush. Leanna chewed her lip and turned back to Tomas. She had to see Finvarra.

She turned away once more. But perhaps she'd see Minerva first—

"Miss Weston," Tomas' gruff voice rumbled like distant thunder behind her. Leanna whirled to see he held the curtain open. "The Ringmaster wishes to see you."

Leanna dithered, but in muttering a few unintelligible and wholly un-lady like words, she steeled her spine, clenched her hands into small fists, and closed the space between them. With a curt nod, she passed Tomas and strode through the curtain before she changed her mind.

A soft hush resounded as the curtain closed behind her. Leanna fought off a similar sigh. The belonging warmth clung to her body soothingly as if comforting her against the cold she'd brought in on her skin. Her fists dissolved.

Candelabras cast faint glows in the extremities of the chamber, adding to the serenity of it all. And at the core of the room, the light of a blazing fire. Finvarra sat before this flame, though Leanna could not see his face. With the back of the chair toward her, only his arm was visible on the arm rest, and in his hand, a snifter of brandy. One leg was crossed over the other, the gilded hue of the fire reflecting its steady dance on his polished black boots. An air of calm radiated from his quiet frame like a fog, and in its midst, Leanna forgot what she had gone there to say. Truth be told, she could have curled up at the chair beside him and gone straight to sleep.

Leanna twined her fingers tightly at her waist and remained where she stood, hovering by the door. "You wished—" She cleared her throat in hopes to stay the tremble. "You wished to see me?"

Finvarra sighed slowly, and before him the fire hissed. The shadows hovering high in the ceiling waved to the sway of the flames, of his breath. "I believe we said we would free one another," he said finally, his tone gravely calm, the vocal manifestation of the serene air in the room. "I have upheld my end of our bargain, have I not?"

Leanna nodded as if he could see her. She paced forward a few steps, enough to bring her through the sheer curtains, but did not near him. "You have," she said softly.

Finvarra turned his face, though it remained veiled by the chair. "Then, Miss Weston, give me a taste of what is due me, of what awaits me when you fulfill your part of the agreement."

Leanna moistened her lips, her throat dry. "How do you suppose I do that, sir?" she rasped.

A dark chuckle resounded, a drawled sound. "Surely not by speaking to me from across the room," he said, and before she could answer, Finvarra transferred the goblet into the unseen hand and gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit with me..."

One moment, she stood by the sheer drapes. The next she neared his beckoning hand though she didn't remembered her mind ever making the choice to move. But something did, and now her fingers fiddled the soft muslin as tentative steps drew her closer until she reached the chair opposite his. Eyes fixed on the restless flames before them, Leanna sat down slowly, and there was quiet for a moment.

In the stillness, Leanna braved a glance and took in the man beside her. His black attire had been replaced by tanned breeches and a white shirt carelessly open at the collar. Blond strands were tied back, leaving his face unobstructed for Leanna's consideration. And she considered him, watching him as he watched the flames.

"I am here," she said, noting twilight and heaven play upon his features. "Though I hardly see how my sitting with you could possibly free you as you have me."

"Freedom from the clutches of my thoughts, Miss Weston, is taste of plenty." It was then Finvarra who considered her. His direct gaze seized the breath from her lungs and she pressed her lips together, as if to keep it from him.

Trapped in his stare, it felt like roses bloomed in her face, the deep red pricking her cheeks from the inside. Leanna looked away. Still, she felt his gaze linger, travelling along her in quiet scrutiny, first at her coat, then the muslin gown and hose from practice, to the satin slippers...

Leanna bit her lip, hoping he didn't ask.

He did.

"You've been by to see Minerva, I see," he remarked with even tones.

"No, no—I... well," Leanna stammered. Her pulse quickened. "Kioyo and Bertrand— the coat—the coat is Kioyo's, and the rest, well..." Oh, she'd always been such a terrible liar! Leanna hauled in a great breath. "I haven't been to see Minerva, yet."

Finvarra hummed, a low, guttural rumble within his chest. "But you have been paying calls to others."

"I beg your pardon?"

Blue eyes flicked to her hands folded at her lap, and Finvarra's brow arched pointedly. When Leanna trailed his stare, all blood drained from her face. Slowly she lifted her hands before her eyes, awed. They sparkled as if doused in a pool of dissolved stars. "What on earth?"

"Unicorn tears," Finvarra revealed, and taking a sip of his brandy, said nothing more.

Leanna set her hands on her lap gradually, her face growing warm. The heat dispelled the fog in her mind, and she straightened in her chair recalling her reason for being there, sitting with him in the first place. "Yes, I visited Inara. She was sad, and I felt it wrong to leave her there to suffer this alone and fearful." Haunted by Inara's confession, Leanna deflated. "So very fearful... And I think it rather sad that no one felt the need to be with her, to reassure her when she needs it most." Bravely, Leanna looked at Finvarra and her heart strummed in her chest, hurt and angered, just as she'd felt after each prognosis she was given, and then left in her room to grieve them alone. "No one," she whispered, to him, to her memories, to herself.

"I have comforted her," Finvarra said, casually swirling the amber liquor in his cup. "But fear in Machina is not something I can alleviate—"

"She fears for you," Leanna cut him off, ire harshening her words. At her sound, Finvarra paused. Leanna pressed iridescent fingers to her lips to tame her voice, her anger. Lowering them, and her tone, she explained, "She fears for you and Krinard, and it is this fear that has robbed her of her magic and of her horn."

Frigid eyes slid to her, watching her closely. "And she told you this?"

Leanna nodded, but didn't dare breathe. The volatile mood in the room wavered between wrath and gloom. Not until Finvarra nodded to himself, did Leanna dare another word. "This war between you and Krinard is draining her, and she is scared that she will lose you both to this hatred you each harbor, before she ever loses you to Machina. She cares for him and for you, deeply." Leanna braved his stare. "And losing you will be her undoing."

Finvarra's frame hitched with a chuckle edged with savage bitterness. "Her fear for me is futile," he said harshly, "and I hope you told her this in the midst of your meddling."

"Why would I ever tell her such a thing?" she asked, the heat in her cheeks tipping her voice upward as if a steaming kettle.

"Because you of all people know I've long drowned," he said dryly. When he turned his eyes on her, very blue and cold, memories washed over Leanna quickly, dragging her mind from the shores of reality to the blood stained skies and tumultuous oceans from the night before. With a quiet gasp, she broke away from the incessant waves in his eyes and turned to the flames at the hearth, hoping the fire could burn the memory from her mind. Such a terrible, terrible sight.

Finvarra let out a heavy breath. "I said I would try my best to make this arrangement as painless as possible, and I expected the same from you."

Leanna blinked. "I don't think I've done otherwise. I visited—"

"You visited Inara, which will bring nothing but trouble, same as the trouble from this afternoon." Finvarra shook his head and turned back to the fire. "I had asked you to stay inside."

The quiet reprimand settled in the pit of her stomach. Leanna swallowed. "You did, but it was all a misunderstanding and I refuse to let anyone quarrel for my sake. Above all, Krinard was—is your friend, and he was angry and bereft. Yes, his behavior may have been violent and untoward, but sympathy leads me to let go of my own anger and pardon his offense. And Inara would not be in this situation if others were to cast aside their pride and do the same—"

Finvarra turned his head at this, wintry eyes freezing the words on Leanna's lips. After a long, furious pause, he exhaled and turned away, and Leanna could breathe once more.

"Were you frightened?" he asked then, lowly, abandoning his previous reproach while staring down into his glass.

"A little," Leanna confessed just over a whisper, surrendering her own upset.

Again Finvarra nodded to himself, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. "Krinard may have been angry, but he's no fool. He would never touch you. You're safe here, you know this." Blue eyes met hers, and in this nocturnal privacy, Leanna felt her breaths arrested at once. Honesty marked his gaze and made her a little dizzy and warm. But surely this was her imagination, she told herself. It was...

Leanna squeezed her hands together, searching for the strength to nod while staring into those eyes that undid every lock of strength and bolt of pride. It seeped past all the layers of indifference she'd erected over many years of solitude, and appealed to her soul. The soul that had in fact been deathly terrified of Krinard. The soul that had feared Krinard would indeed harm her. The soul that had not known it was safe... the soul that now did. A furious heat stole through Leanna's body, and against this new warmth of protection, the crystal grew cold against her skin.

Shaken at feeling him so present within her soul, to the point she was certain words were no longer needed for them to communicate, Leanna severed their stare, unable to withstand such a gaze, such vulnerability. She dug her fingers into her palm severely, wanting to bring sound reality to this ethereal intimacy between them. "What will happen to Inara?" she forced herself to speak, focused on pain at her hand.

Finvarra took a sip, watching her over the rim. He swallowed slowly. "It depends."

"Depends on?" Leanna pressed, unearthing her nails from her palm once he looked away.

Finvarra settled back, and his head lolled back to the play of lights and shadows above. "On when my Leanan Sidhe arises."

It took Leanna a moment to digest this, but as it went down, awareness burned bitter and cold in her throat. "So then you don't..." She swallowed, struggling. "You don't think that I am her..."

Silence trailed her words, and in Finvarra's answering void, the burn magnified.

He brought his head down and let out a long breath. The unnaturally long draft swept coolly through the room, and like his hope in her, the crimson fire at the hearth dwindled to a faint flame that abandoned them in more darkness than light. This new fire swayed oddly, pulsing slow, weak... dying.

"There are legends about her, about my Leanan Sidhe," he started slowly, focused on the shadows of this new darkness. "Stories about her beauty, dark and otherworldly, about her inspiration that burns like fire. And about her gifts, one in particular I desire. To her have belonged the greatest of men, and she has freed them all, regardless of hearts and curses." Finvarra's gaze grew distant, worlds away. "From the moment I was told the terms of my curse, I've thought of her, constantly. Every sleepless night she trespasses onto my thoughts and daydreams, to where now I know her—how she smells, how she feels, how she tastes..." He extended a blink, his hands tightening around the stem of the cup with a hunger—with a scorching passion that birthed a flame at Leanna's core.

Finvarra stoked this fire, saying, "Then one night, she didn't trespass onto my dreams. She trespassed onto my circus." He turned his head to Leanna, the blue of his eyes falling prey to wide open cores of black. "But where tales say she is a beauty, fierce and unearthly, she has come to me bathed in mortal flesh, the mere, delicate beginnings of a woman, inexperienced and insecure, and unable to bear the direct gaze of a man. Where I imagined her as fire, steady and burning, she sits beside me now, a weary spirit with a broken heart. She is not the gilded angel of my dreams, not even a shadow." He shook his head slowly. "I've made many mistakes in my life, Miss Weston, and they only fray at my conviction. They tempt me to doubt that you are her. You cannot be her."

Leanna heard nothing at first, only the melodic baritone of Finvarra's voice, of his intoxicating passion through the hammering of her heart. But then came the echo if his words. You cannot be her...

Her heart stopped. Disappointment crashed into depths she never knew existed. He thought he'd made a mistake in thinking her his Leanan Sidhe. She had known this, that it was all an error. But now he did too, and to hear it from his very lips was torture in versed form.

The room grew smaller around Leanna, colder, and she could no longer bear sitting there. Not with those truthful and terrible words mocking her, not with her shame scalding her, not with him there beside her...

Finvarra opened his mouth to speak—

"Please," Leanna held up a hand. "Please, say no more. I don't fault you. With Inara's horn falling, I'm sure you aren't the only one disillusioned." She shrugged weakly, her pride rallying against this sudden and new disenchantment... and pain. "Maybe hope and desperation led us to... to believe things that aren't so." She laughed a little, a bit too cheery. "Come to think of it, it was all a little ridiculous, and mad, but thankfully we've all come to our senses now...yes," Leanna breathed weakly. "I should go."

Leanna rose and swept away from her chair, away from him, before he could see the tears of disappointment in her eyes and soul—eyes he mastered so effortlessly, a soul he navigated so freely. Oh, she'd been a fool! An absolute fool, and—

"But then I look at her hands," Finvarra's voice cut in. Leanna's steps halted, her breath caught. She shouldn't have stopped. She should have walked out. She should have, but... but as footfalls resounded quietly behind her, drawing this man closer with each tightened breath, Leanna could not will herself to leave. Each of his steps hammered the bars of this prison of indecision further into her soul. She was trapped. The tent door was there, just there behind sheer curtains she could whisk through at will. She could escape. She didn't want to.

The coolness of Finvarra's approach caressed her first and she shivered. Her hand was taken from her then, and she sucked in a quiet breath at the feel of him, at his shadow eclipsing her own, at his chest brushing her back with each breath. At him close behind her. So devastatingly close.

"But then I look at her hands, so small and fragile, unblemished," he said just above a whisper and raised her captive hand before her as if a gift, cradled tenderly in his own. He grazed his thumb along the delicate skin of her open palm, against the nail marks she'd impressed upon them. "It is then I understand that legends and stories are meant for children. As a man, I realize that though being everything I never imagined her to be, she has come exactly as she is supposed to—a reminder of everything I ever did, of everything I am ashamed of, of all the innocence I've robbed and lives I have ruined. I know this, only now it is her who does not know who she is."

As his voice faded to silence, Leanna twisted to him. His eyes seized hers, and he did not release her. Rather, his hand curled gently, folding hers into the protection of his long, cold fingers. "She knows not of this soul she carries within her because it has been silenced and has fallen asleep under sheets of proprieties and woes, of broken hearts and loneliness. But she is in there, within this body, and only when she is awakened—slowly, lest she grows frightened and flees—will she bring me my freedom.

"So do I doubt you?" Finvarra shook his head, just barely. "No, Miss Weston, I do not doubt you. You may not be what I dreamt, but whether human or troll, banshee or witch, you are my punishment and my forgiveness, my freedom incarnate. You are my Leanan Sidhe, and I could never deny you. "

Rapt in his stare, at him so very close, Leanna bid herself to move away. She ought to have, and her conscience tossed every ounce of decency to the center of her mind. But tortured by the feel of his hands, soft and cold against her skin, she was frozen. Lured by the slight scent of lavender and maleness on his skin, she was intoxicated. With their respective crystals glistening between them, intentions fell into a house of mirrors and Leanna couldn't decide whether to move away, or closer.

And then there was the new and strange twisting in the darkest depths of her stomach as if a butterfly were caged—no, not a butterfly, but surely a bird. A bird of fire with the most luminous of wings. This burning fowl was lodged within her, fluttering madly. And in the closing space between them, Finvarra's warm breaths stole its way into Leanna's parted lips and fueled the bird's flame. It rattled with more vigor, wishing to be freed—yearning to soar and spread those wings as if to fan the flames of sun itself.

But, imprisoned behind bars of proprieties, and suffocating under the ignorance of an inexperienced girl, Leanna's heart pounded sharply, bursting with awareness. Realizing where she was, seconds away from his lips, she sucked in a quiet gasp and shattered the spell between them, awakening.

Noting the new awareness in her eyes, Finvarra let out a slow breath, the corners of his lips bowing. He didn't move away. He didn't say a word. He only held her and looked at her as the confirmation of his words echoed all around them. Lowering his lashes, Finvarra lifted her marked palm between them and pressed a quiet kiss upon the bruised flesh. "Goodnight, Miss Weston," he whispered upon it, and lowered their entwined hands. He gazed down at her palm a moment before releasing her, and stepped back, leaving them only to their slow and hollow breaths warming the ever growing distance between them.

Frozen, Leanna did not move away. Not at first. She could only stand there as the firebird within her crested to a painful flame, then dissolved into nauseating ashes. Humiliated, ashamed... utterly terrified, she forced her eyes away, parted the curtains and swept uneasily into the night.

Encountering the cold night, she forced herself forward. She moved blindly past Tomas toward anywhere. Anywhere that would give her freedom from this sudden confusion. Anywhere that would keep her from going against manners by walking back into that tent to discover more of this firebird within her. Anywhere away from Finvarra, the only person who'd ever ignited it within her.

Anywhere away—

"Miss Weston," Tomas called behind her.

Leanna gripped her skirts with a quiet moan and stopped. Why could she not just contradict all manners and flee? If she could just get away. Away, away, away...

But enslaved to them, she gathered a few breaths to tame her heart and turned.

Tomas stopped before her, eyes dark and hard, and bowed his head. Straightening, his immense chest rose and fell with a deep breath that blew away his threatening air. "This may not mean much now, but I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. If I hurt you in any way, I am deeply sorry."

Leanna looked to the flower poking out from his vest pocket, and at the pink and white dots painted on his cheeks, and suddenly she couldn't be angry at him. There was no space for anger within her heart. Just a well of overwhelming emotions she didn't know what to do with.

"Please, Tomas. It was—is a strange situation for all of us. I trespassed, and you were only protecting your circus. It's all been forgotten, truly. We shan't speak of it again." She forced something of a smile, but unable to keep her lips from quavering, she spoke. "Do you know of where I can stay for the night?"

Tomas' brow furrowed. "The Ringmaster had me take your belongings to Ellie's old tent, just down the way there," he said, pointing down the path to the right. "It is the one with the butterflies. Did the Ringmaster not tell you this?"

Leanna turned her head away just as the first tear spilled. "I think he may have meant to, but..." Her voice faltered, and no longer able to keep the tears away, she turned.

"I can escort you to your tent if you'd like—" Tomas started, but the need to be alone sent Leanna moving away into the night. The wind took care of Tomas' words.

Embossed butterflies marked the white canvas of Ellie's tent. There may have been flowers, but Leanna could not see these. Her vision blurred by tears and tunneled by the loneliness to be found inside of the tent, Leanna pushed aside the partings and walked inside.

Soft white fabric draped the walls and stringed butterflies dangled overhead, their white wings fluttering a quiet song in a non-existent breeze. Leanna crossed the wooden floors of this magical tent and made it as far as the plush white bed. Defeated, she collapsed on the edge and watched the fire at the hearth burn as the shadows of the butterflies danced on the floor around her.

She sat for a long time, until only faint warmth lingered in the air, the flames now but embers glowing in the fireplace. She ought to have lit the firebox. She knew how. But there were things she did not know, and those were more troublesome than the cold.

Leanna opened her palm at her lap and shook her head. He'd kissed her. And she'd left.

She curled her fingers into a loose fist and sighed. She had indeed left. She had indeed done the logical thing, the appropriate thing, the thing those older and more seasoned than her had taught her as being proper...

But if so, Leanna wondered, what of this deep loneliness? What of this hollow emptiness at her core that though at a time was her daily companion, now felt like the most unnatural of sensations?

Yes, what of that? Leanna's heart mused. What of that?

Leanna remained transfixed by the ghosts of her thoughts, until the room fell into complete and utter black. Still, she found no comfort in the dark. She could only stare down at her hand.

A hand that Finvarra held.

A hand that he kissed.

A hand that not only glistened with the faint hues of unicorn tears, but those of a girl, yearning for a kiss that should have been.

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Thank you for reading! This is one of my favorite chapters (and songs) so I hope you enjoyed it! Please remember to vote and comment :)