Chapter 1: The Girl Who Never Cries

here's the first story in what i hope will be a series. the second story is finished already, but i'm stuck on ideas for the third, so i might not post it for a while.
enjoy!

Marie looked out over the field, watching over the small herd of goats she kept. They were grazing calmly, and they were all accounted for. Marie was sitting on a rock, holding her crook.

Philip gave her this crook; it made her think of him every time she saw it. He carved it for her, out of cherry wood, just before his departure two months ago. He traveled with her father as a guard escort. Her father had been called by the King of Brikhamshire for the yearly tax call, for he was lord of a small estate. All within Brikhamshire answered to the king, and the king answered only to the High King of Nevaand.

Marie smiled as she remembered the conversation they had the day before he left.

“Marie, I have a gift for you…and a question.”

She nodded, smiling, and waited for him to continue. He looked down nervously, then said, “The gift first.” He held out the long object that he had brought, wrapped in cloth.

She pulled away the cream-colored cloth, to find a beautiful crook, carved with precision and polished smooth. “Oh, Philip, it’s beautiful! Thank you!”

He smiled. “I carved it from the heartwood of a cherry tree…I hoped you would like it.”

“Philip, I love it. Thank you.” She looked at the crook, then back at him. “And the question?”

He took a shaky breath. “Well…you know…I leave tomorrow…”

“Yes,” she said, a little sadly.

“And…I wanted to ask you before I left…because I’m afraid that I’ll come back and find your heart stolen away…and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, knowing I had this chance…your father says arrangements can be made upon our return…and he gives his consent, and blessing, if you accept…” He sighed in frustration. “I’m going about this all wrong…”

“What are you trying to say, Philip?”

“I’m trying to say…” he took her hand. “Marie, I love you. Will you…marry me?” He looked up finally, into her smoky grey eyes.

“Marry?” she said, softly. A slow smile crept across her face. “Truly?” Her eyes shone with tears, and she leaned forward and kissed him.

Drawing back, she looked deep into his black eyes. “Yes.” Then she laughed out loud, bringing a joyful smile to Philip’s face. “Come on, Philip! I have to tell mother!” She stood and ran down the hill towards the manor.

Philip stood slowly, watching her as she ran and laughed. He saw the crook on the ground, where she had set it, wrapped again in the cloth. He smiled and picked it up. “She said yes…” he whispered, placing the crook in the goat barn as he passed it. A surge of excitement filled him, and he ran after Marie, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her back to the manor.

Marie was brought out of her brooding by the sound of goats bleating and hoof beats. She looked up to see a coach on the road for the manor. She knew that coach, and with a joyous laugh, she called the goats and ran to the barn, dropping her crook by the door. The goats followed slowly, still munching on grass.

Marie ran to the manor, reaching it out of breath. The coach came up a moment after, rolling to a stop. The driver, Rafael, jumped down and opened the door. Out stepped her father.

“Father!” She ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Father! You’re back!” She stepped back to look at him. What she saw made her pause. “Father?”

His face was drawn with worry, and his eyes held an unspeakable sorrow. “Come inside, dear. I will explain there.” He turned away from her and walked up the stairs to the door. Marie stood a moment, watching him walk as if he had a great burden on his shoulders. She followed, as Rafael tended to the horses and carriage.

Her mother was standing in the hall, greeting her father and meeting with the same sorrowful man. He asked them to join him in the parlor.

“I have news.”

“Is it about the King, Richard?” her mother asked, anxiously.

“No, Daphne. We made it to the capitol and gave our taxes, without trouble. But…on the way back, we were attacked. A band of highwaymen, or mercenaries, I don’t know. But they came at us from both sides. Rafael spurred the horses, so the coach slipped out of the trap. But the guards…” his head fell in sorrow. “There was nothing we could do. They gave chase, but Rafael’s horses outran them.” He looked up at Marie, tears swimming in his eyes. “I saw Philip go down…stabbed three times by a saber, once in the arm, twice in the chest. No one could have survived that. I’m sorry, Marie.” He turned to his wife, who began sobbing on his shoulder.

Marie stared at the floor, confusion pouring through her. She looked up at her parents, with a puzzled face. She was in shock, unable to grasp yet the finality of what she had just been told.

Her mother looked at her, and a harsh sob tore at her throat. She ran out of the room. Richard turned to his daughter, and his heart clenched at the pain of this news. “He’s dead, Marie. Philip is dead. He’s not coming back. I’m sorry.” Fresh tears fell down his face, and he followed after his wife.

Marie sat there for a moment more, before standing and walking out of the room. By the time she reached the front door she was running. She sprinted back to the goat barn, where the goats had gathered, and collapsed amidst them. The goats gathered around her, understanding that something was wrong. She had raised these goats herself; from three runt kids her flock had grown to 15 healthy, lively goats. These were her pets; she didn’t raise them for milk, or meat, or wool, just companionship.

Marie sat up, her back against the wall of the barn. The goats nosed her hands and face, and she scratched their heads. He’s dead. He’s not coming back. The words rang in her mind. Dead. Soon, most of the goats went back to grazing. Marie stood and, picking up the crook, she called to the herd.

She stayed out, until near sunset, barely needing to herd the goats home as most had left already. When she returned to the manor, she went straight to her room.

Her mother met her at the door, but they exchanged few words. Daphne watched her daughter ascend the staircase with tears in her eyes. But she turned away, too sorrowful to offer any words of solace.

In the morning, Marie did not come out of her room. Her mother went upstairs to check on her when she didn’t come down for breakfast, but the sound of crying stopped her. She left the room alone after that, also warning the staff not to disturb her.

Marie was a strange child, in one way. She had never been known to cry. Even as a baby, when she was hungry or wet or tired, she did not cry. Even as a child, when she fell out of a tree and broke her arm, she did not cry. Even when one of her goat nannies died in birthing, and the kid with it, still she did not cry. Until now.

Now, her tears, filled with her sorrow and anguish, fell from her eyes. Now, when her one true love, her fiancée, was dead, she poured all her heartbreak into those precious tears.

Marie came out of her room at sunset. Her parents were in the parlor, and she went there first. Her parents, upon seeing her, felt a sharp pang of agony.

Her smoky grey eyes had lost their light. Her head was bowed ever so slightly, as if she bore a heavy weight. Her face was tear-stained and her eyes red and puffy, from hours of crying. She wore a plain, black dress, the color of mourning. And her hair, long beautiful golden hair, which had reached down to her knees, was cut short, to the nape of her neck.

“Mother. Father. I’m sorry for the trouble I have caused.”

“Trouble, dear? There is no trouble. You must take your time about this.” Daphne spoke, barely keeping her voice steady.

She shook her head, then continued. “I am in mourning, as you can see,” she said, with a slight laugh that held no merriment. “And my hair…I will stay in mourning until it grows out again.” Daphne knew that this was no small vow, for her hair grew quickly, and may be the length it had been in perhaps 3 years.

“Marie…” Richard tried to think of something to say, but his daughter interrupted him.

“Father, it’s alright. I have thought about this. This is what I will do. I don’t know if I will marry, but I cannot mourn forever.” She turned toward the door, but paused and gave her parents a half smile, with little feeling.

The sound of her footsteps faded. Daphne began crying softly, and Richard embraced her, feeling tears sting his own eyes. “She’s trying to be strong,” she said, through her tears.

“Yes, love. And she is strong. But she doesn’t yet know that being strong may not be what she needs right now. We cannot help her in this; she must learn it herself.” Daphne sobbed softly on Richard’s shoulder, saying nothing.

Marie went out to her goats in the barn. The gate was still open; the goats were able to fend for themselves. She stepped into the barn, feeling some consolation in the familiar smell. The goats came to her, nosing her hands and making soft bleating sounds.

“Philip…I’m sorry…I could have asked you to stay…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…Why didn’t I say anything? It’s my fault…my fault…” She glanced over, and saw the crook. The cherry wood crook.

She lay down on the clean, straw covered floor. The goats lay down with her, surrounding her with their familiar scent. Her eyes were dry, as they had been when she was a child. And she was determined to keep it that way.