Finvarra's Circus

10- Degrees of Yearning

Kioyo spoke not a word as he led them away from Finvarra's tent. The only distant sound came from the flags on the peak of the Big Top that rustled violently in a new, aggravated wind. The fabric fingers clawed the air in futile attempts at snapping free, to fly far from the storm of that afternoon that still lingered in the air. Leanna swallowed tightly. The loitering violence stained her skin and threatened to drag her away all the same into this anger and darkness. She closed her eyes against it and let Kioyo steer her as she dug down and centered herself, hoping to find some semblance of calm. It was worse within. Her heart still pounded from Krinard's anger, her spirit still mourned Inara's horn. In the backdrop of it all, the echoing of Finvarra's tumultuous oceans haunted her. Its waves folded what remained of her inner peace into its arms and dragged it from the shores, into black, raging waters.

Leanna sighed resignedly and opened her eyes. She gazed out to the sea mist that now clung to the outer, overgrown fields of the fairgrounds as if trapping them all in this dream of tents and magic. The crystal stakes were now but shadows in the fog, their peaks coalesced with the mist. And beyond them, a white unknown. Leanna's heart sunk. With Inara's horn fallen, in less than a month, their power would be gone, and with it, all protection. The circus would be left to the mercy of the greatest of unknowns: Machina.

A shiver of dread roped down Leanna's spine and unwittingly she held on tighter to Kioyo, feeling less stable than ever. He didn't deny her and held her closely to his side, offering her some peace against this faceless and invisible, yet very real enemy.

Forcing her thoughts away from such glumness, Leanna lifted her eyes to Kioyo. His midnight eyes, were focused straight ahead on the black and red tent, as if hypnotized by the swirling sensation they fashioned under the afternoon light. She searched this now familiar face, taking in the pointed features on the boyish façade. His composure controlled and stride stable, Leanna lamented the woe just beneath the easy features. Though she knew he could be no older than perhaps Lydia's twenty-one years, the stress upon his brow shadowed his already dark eyes and aged him. And while not in his clown attire, dressed simply in shirt, brown breeches and an open coat, Leanna knew no paint on earth or careless air could ever hide the traces of blue and worry dulling his face.

Leanna took in a quiet breath, thinking she ought to say something, perhaps thanked him for drawing her away. She did neither. She simply relished in his scent, a hint of pine and tea—her own personal Christmas morning. With an exhale, she kept to their quiet and spoke not a word of what had transpired. There was no need. It echoed in the silence between them.

Once inside the Big Top, the stillness was dispelled. A robust man sat in a small stool at the furthest ring, playing a slow tune on a violin. It carried in the air like a scent, wafting and touching every heart with its sorrow. Leanna remembered the melody from the prior night. It was a variation of what played during Ellie and Jin's performance. It was slower, but the spirit of it was the same. The man's brows gathered in this quiet ache, as if searching for something lost deep in memory. As he swayed to the cries of the violin, a dark haired girl stretched back into herself, creating a perfect loop on a pole. Effortlessly, she knotted and re-knotted into herself, unable to free her body from this self-made prison. Leanna refused a breath; scared that the slightest take of air would send the pole wobbling and the girl would fall.