He had heard all about her in the last week. Cook, once she heard of her illness, had told him story after story. She was supposed to be funny, bright, and kind. She sounded like she would have been the perfect friend, despite the age difference, and now she was dead.
Her daughter and husband stood on the platform in the front of the crowd as Chancellor Thomas droned on. The girl was small, and he doubted Cook's report that she was 15 or so. More captivating than her size was the look of emptiness on her face. It didn't belong on the face of a child so young. Char himself hadn't felt like a child in many years, but the girl in front of him looked so small and helpless. A strong wind would blow her over.
There was a pause in the speech as the Chancellor waited for the girl - Ella, that was her name - to close the lid of the coffin. The girl took one step closer, then another, eyes transfixed on her dead mother's face. Char didn't know when he had started crying, but he felt the tears slip down his face as he watched her own face crumple. The sound she emitted was not a shriek or a child's wail - if anything it was this cry of mourning that convinced him that this was no little girl.
She cried out with the grief of a woman who has lost the closest person to her in the world. Maybe a few days ago she had been a little girl, but today she had grown up, and he could hear the supports of childhood falling away in the echoes of her voice. Her father awkwardly embraced her and leaned over, undoubtedly whispering encouraging words. They seemed not to work, as the girl covered her face and fled.
Char gasped as Ella of Frell fell, then picked herself up and ran deep into the trees.
He didn't know why he had come over here. The crowd had dispersed quickly after the speeches were done - most of them, including Char, stopping to give their condolences to Sir Peter. Char had wandered farther and farther away, slowly leaving behind the sounds of the gathering as he quietly picked his way through old gravestones. He saw her, finally, in a muddy brown and black mess of a dress, her hair obscuring her face and her body shaking. He turned around quickly, breathing rapidly. Stupid, he was so stupid. Of course he couldn't cheer her up, her mother had just died. He shouldn't have come at all.
He heard a rustle from behind him and surreptitiously glanced over. She was rubbing her eyes but looking in his direction. Think, think, he thought to himself. You have to leave her alone.
"Cousin of mine," he gestured toward the nearest ancient tombstone. "Never liked him. I liked your mother." He quickly turned and tried to walk calmly away only to realize that she had picked herself up and was following him. Panicking, he slowed his pace.
"You can call me Char. Everyone does." He couldn't look over at her face. What was he doing? Trying to make small talk with a grieving young girl? He had met her parents a few times but only a few weeks ago at that banquet had her mother made an impression on him. He had grieved, but never to this extent. He knew though that words would never be enough.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"Thank you Char," he corrected immediately. His insides were flipping over and under. What a strange form his awkward humor sometimes took! He was inserting himself into this girl's misery and giving her sadness an unwanted audience. He realized he was blabbering something about the stories Cook had told him, and quickly held his tongue. He tried to help her into her carriage but he grabbed her arm awkwardly, and as the door closed on the carriage her dress gave a tremendous rip. He gawked for a moment, looked up to see her gawking, and then completely lost it, laughing like a madman. As she pulled away he saw her make the faintest of smiles. Perhaps he was not so incompetent after all.