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Ferremor waited for hours at the ruins, long after the castle apparition had gone, till the full moon was almost set. In the two years he'd been returning to this place, somewhere along the way, he'd given up hope that David would ever return. Still, a part of him must have wanted to believe, because his heart always sank when he returned home alone.
He traveled the shadows to a tree just outside the stately manor house of Lord Thornrose in the southern Kingdom of Cibsel in Faiden. Though the lord was generous enough to give Ferremor a courier position at Headmaster Doland's request, he had done so on the condition that Ferremor not use his shadow magic in the manor itself. Though Ferremor had made a significant effort to be useful since the fire that had destroyed all he'd known and loved, he was eighteen, and had begun feeling he was becoming a burden on the headmaster and the new orphanage that had taken him and his few surviving wards under their roof. He'd gratefully taken the job, knowing that he would then be able to help Doland by donating a majority of his wages to the home for unfortunate children.
Thornrose was a kind man, and a very devout and superstitious worshiper of the One God. He had decided to give Ferremor an opportunity to make a life, based on Doland's strong letter of recommendation. Yet, the lord never seemed to trust the shadow master or his powers, suspecting a demonic source for both. He'd given Ferremor a room in the servants' quarters, producing shutters for the windows, and heavy, opaque curtains to block out the damaging sun. Ferremor was provided with two meals, dinner after sundown and breakfast before sunup, and was allowed to feed himself from the pantry during the late hours when no cooks were working. The rest of his time was spent running the correspondences of Thornrose and his staff all over Faiden and occasionally overseas.
Thornrose took advantage of Ferremor's talents, keeping him busy running several correspondences a night which often required immediate responses that the messenger had to wait for. As a result, Ferremor spent very little time at the manor when he was not eating or sleeping. The arrangement worked well for him, because the work kept his mind and heart distracted from the devastating emptiness of his existence. Having a purpose, no matter how menial, helped him rise in the evening and sleep at dawn. He even began to enjoy the culture he was absorbing from his travels, though everyone treated him with the same wary suspicion as Thornrose.
Ferremor hesitated at the entrance to the manor, looked up at the large wooden doors, and decided to walk around to the gardens in the back. He had requested only one night off a month, the full moon. Thornrose had wanted to know the reason for the odd request, undoubtedly fearing sinister rituals, but had gladly given it when Ferremor simply said he spent those nights looking for a missing friend. Not wanting to retire to his room only to be alone in the dark with his melancholy for the remaining hours of the night, Ferremor hoped a stroll through the sleeping flowers would distract him for a time.
He was unconsciously drawn to the moonflowers every night. They, like him, were awake when the rest of the world slept. He passed under the archway of bright white blossoms and paused, aware of another presence in the garden by the difference in the familiar shadow patterns. He didn't have to extend his senses far before he located the altered shadow, a slight feminine frame on a bench beside the five-tiered stone fountain. He stayed concealed in the shadows, not wanting to disturb her, but her weeping caught his ears. He hesitated, watching her shoulders shake under the pale blue shawl that wrapped around her. Unable to leave a distressed woman alone in the late hours of the night, he alerted her to his presence by quietly brushing against a shrub.
She gasped and spun to fix wide, frightened eyes on his tall shape in the darkness. "Who's there? I warn you, the guards will hear if I scream."
"I will not hurt you, miss," Ferremor answered quickly. "I heard you crying and only wished to offer aid if it was required." He kept his tone low and formal. The quality of her garb placed her far above his station.
She relaxed and dabbed at her eyes with a delicate silk handkerchief. "Who are you?"
"Miss, I am called Ferremor."
"Oh, yes," she lifted her chin and composed herself quickly. The fading moonlight caught her features, revealing petite and defined elven cheekbones with gently arching eyebrows and thin, pink lips. "You are the messenger my father hired a few months past. He warned me to stay away from you."
Ferremor frowned, his gaze lowering. "Forgive me, then, Lady Tessa, for interrupting you," he responded with a polite and quiet tone in spite of his resentment at the implications that he might be dangerous to Thornrose's daughter. "I will, of course, honor your father's wishes." He bowed and turned away, leaving the way he had come.
"Wait," her voice called after him.
Ferremor hesitated, debating the wisdom of staying, though he knew the lord of the house did not wish it. After a brief moment of consideration, Ferremor decided that offending the daughter of his lord might also be detrimental to his continued employment.
"Please do not go," she said, her voice tender. "I did not mean to be rude, I just sometimes speak whatever is on my mind without considering the impact my words may have on others." Ferremor was surprised by the polite and respectful apology. "I would very much like to speak with you."
Ferremor heard a tremor in her gentle voice and knew that he could not deny her request for company. He walked over to the fountain, but did not sit where she offered. "It would be inappropriate, my lady, for me to sit alone with you," he explained with careful deference. "Least of all in the darkness of a secluded garden."
She nodded at the wisdom of his words and tucked her tissue away in some hidden pocket at her waist. "Is it true that you can cross the world in an instant?"
Ferremor nodded. "In a way," he replied, glad that it was not some macabre desire to speak to a demon that had piqued her interest in him. "I can travel to the southern continent in a matter of only a few minutes. Less if I've been to the destination several times before and can clearly recall its location."
There was a moment of silence before she spoke up again. "Would it be very impolite for me to ask you to remove your cloak that I might see your wings?"
Ferremor frowned, deciding he may have been wrong about her interests, but didn't refuse. He disliked feeling as though he were on display, but he very much did not wish to offend the lady. Hesitantly, he shrugged off his cloak. Beneath he wore only trousers and boots, and he flushed slightly at his state of undress in front of the lady. He'd found that even shirts tailored to accommodate his wings felt tight and awkward across his back, so he rarely wore one. He flinched slightly at her wide-eyed stare at his pale, bare chest and turned for her to examine the bat-like limbs he always kept folded and hidden under his cloak. She gasped in awe, and he slowly unfolded them till they were half open. She gasped again and leaned forward.
"How fantastic," she admired. "The moonlight passes through! Between the, um, fingers."
"The skin is thin but strong," he responded, awkwardly. More than revealing his wings, he hated talking about them.
"May I . . . may I touch them?"
Ferremor looked over his shoulder at her amazed but unfrightened expression. "Only three people in my life ever have," he responded, guardedly. "They are . . ." He looked down, a sudden and staggering longing for his beloved Alex striking him mute.
"They are what? Sensitive?"
Ferremor nodded, looking away from her to calm himself. Alex had loved running her fingers along his wings, even though she knew it tickled. Ferremor cleared his throat, closed his wings, and quickly covered himself with the cloak. "I believe I should not be sharing your company in so private a setting." He clenched his jaw, refusing to give in to the agony of Alex's memory.
"Wait," she said, softly. "You did not ask me why I was crying."
He had almost reached the moonflower archway when her words reached him, and he flinched. "Of course." He stopped, but didn't look back. "Forgive me. Why—"
"This garden belonged to my mother." Her voice cracked and Ferremor turned, watching fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I, um, we would spend a lot of time here. Talking, embroidering, playing unladylike games of tag and stone throwing." She glanced down, retrieving the handkerchief to dab at her eyes again. "This fountain was her favorite part of the gardens. I would sit here, and she would stand behind me, braiding my hair while she told stories about kings and queens of long past."
Ferremor returned and sank down beside her, swinging his wings and cloak over the back of the bench. "If the memories are so sad, why do you come here?"
She smiled at him, her eyes glistening. "Because they are happy memories, and it is only my heart that is sad, so sad that it makes me sick." She sighed, dabbing her eyes again. "And I love her so much that I want to keep those happy memories in my heart in spite of the pain." Her soft words stirred something deep within Ferremor. He looked to the lapping water of the fountain, a pang of pain and regret aching in his chest. "I sit here," the lady whispered. "And love her, and I miss her."
Ferremor stared at the fountain for a long time, trying to fathom her courage and conviction. He imagined her presence here hurt as much as when he returned to the ashes and ruins of the orphanage where Alex had died. "Why tell me this?" he asked at length.
"Because I realized not long ago that you and I have much in common." She sighed quietly and folded her hands in her lap. "We both have lost someone very dear to us. I learned your story from the less than quiet whispers of the maids, and I wished to share mine with you."
Ferremor shook his head and turned to face her. "But you don't know me. I should be far below your concern."
"No, you should not," Tessa stated, tucking the handkerchief away again. "Will you walk me back to the manor?" Though her voice was polite, it was not a request. Ferremor rose from the bench, giving a faint, resigned sigh, and hoped that none of the lord's few guards spied them. He walked with her back to the manor while she shared more fond memories of her mother and the bond they had shared.
When they parted ways, just before the path opened onto a wide terrace of tiered gardens leading to the back entrance, Ferremor returned to the fountain and watched the water's ceaseless cascade. Was the lady right about grief? Her words had awakened something in Ferremor's mind, a strange, sad hope that hadn't been there before. Was it possible to think of the happy times with his love and feel her presence again? Was he losing Alex all over again by running from her memories? He could admit that, in the very least, Alex deserved to be remembered with a smile . . . in spite of his tears.