wizard_howell | (no subject)

Everything's perfect.

Sophie stares, half-delighted and half-uneasy - it's always perfect, with Howl. It's part of who he is, and part of what makes him so, well, infuriating. Sophie never manages perfect; she always muddles things up, somehow.

But she's determined not to, tonight. Because Howl's been working as hard as she has, she knows, and for once he really deserves perfect.

"It's beautiful," she says aloud, her voice still a little hoarse from days of assembly-line charms.

"Sophie." Resting his arm around her shoulder -- she's so small -- he looks down at her with the greatest concern. "You're running yourself ragged. You need to take care of yourself as well as you're taking care of everybody else."

He's never considered himself to be the type who dotes, but Sophie is everything to him, whether he admits it or not. At his core, he's got a steely romantic spine that wants to be loved and adored, and wants to love and adore in turn. The circumstances of his life may have made that nearly impossible for a long time, but he sees no reason to let them keep him from his heart's desire.

My heart's desire.

The concept is still so foreign to him, but he cherishes it and nourishes it and takes the greatest delight in watching it grow. Hearts, he knows now, are both fragile and complicated, and he can't believe he gave his away for power.

Still, without that, there might be no Sophie here at his side and that, he knows, would be the bigger tragedy.

"If I tell you I love you, will you blush?"

My little grey mouse. What a beauty you are.

"No," Sophie says, stoutly, and blushes.

Blast it, anyways. Someday, she promises herself, she'll manage to conquer her telltale face.

(That may even be the same day when she stops being surprised to hear it, because she believes - really believes, permanently and without any lingering doubts - that Howl won't eventually get bored with her.)

"And I'm hardly ragged, Howl, I've been sitting in one place for the past three days - and anyways, what about you?" She frowns up at him, noting, once again, every sign of tiredness on his face. "Talk about the pot and kettle!"

"Listen to your voice." Gently, he runs the tips of his fingers across the surface of her throat, so pale and soft; they leave a trail of heat.

There. That should be a little bit better. He doesn't do it quite as well without Calcifer's assistance, but there are a fair few things he can do by himself. Small healing spells are among that number; he used to do them on Sophie's heart when she was old. Sometimes she knew and other times he suspects she didn't, but there's no ego tied up in this kind of work. That's one lesson Mrs. Pentstemmon taught him well.

There are many wizards, Howell, but few can be numbered among the best. If you want to be one of the best, you must release yourself from outcome. There's no glory in helping people. The help is its own reward.

He didn't always understand that lesson, but he does now. Selfless magic isn't something one needs to like; it's simply something one needs to do without a second thought. It's something one does because it's the right thing to do.

That also happens to be the way he feels about loving Sophie.

"But let's don't mince words. Let's have ourselves a bit of relaxation, shall we?" Reaching down, he plucks a flower -- a perfect freesia spray -- and hands it to her. The flowers are as much her doing as his at this point; he'll always think of her now when he sees or thinks of flowers.

And he doesn't even mind. What he wants most is to put the war away for an hour, maybe two. He wants space in his life without that menace hanging over them. If this is the way he finds to do it, well... he hopes Sophie enjoys it as much as he does.

And perhaps for that same reason, Sophie doesn't ask how much magic he's spent on turning the end of the garden into this perfect setting, or whether it tired him out (though the question's itching on her tongue.)

She accepts the flower, instead, considers a moment, and then carefully removes her hat and tucks the flower behind her ear instead.

"I do love you, Howl," she says, looking up at him, and hears with only a little surprise that her voice is as clear as it was the first time she spoke after the spell had been lifted.

. . . it would be too much to hope that he would blush too, she thinks, a little wistfully.

Absolutely delighted, he puts his arm round her and holds her closely. It feels so good, and having time alone with Sophie is fast becoming his favorite distraction in the universe.

Dw i'n dy garu di. He'll teach her to speak Welsh. He'll take her to other worlds. He'll do anything to see her smile and hear her tell him she loves him.

He'll even argue with her for the right to hear it.

He... loves her.

"Dinner, cariad?"

"Don't tell me you cooked too!" Sophie exclaims - unjustly; Howl's been cooking for most of the time she's known him, at least until she convinced Calcifer that she could do just as well. Still, it's not as if she's known him to make anything terribly complex.

It's nothing fancy, but it's functional: he's no gourmet. His skills definitely lie elsewhere, but she's been working so hard. It's simple enough fare: roasted chicken and baked potatoes, but it will do.

Things are getting harder to come by. There's rationing in the land now, in preparation for war.

But he steers her to one of the makeshift chairs and pours her a glass of brandy and sits opposite her, soaking in the evening. He has to find sanity in a time of insanity; he has to carve out little moments alone with her when there are so many people making so many demands on their time. It's been a nonstop parade of messages from the King -- four and five times daily -- each with new and more complex demands. He knows himself: at some point, he'll simply refuse.

And that will be after he's charged the king a ridiculous amount of gold for the things they have done. It's just the way things work. And as much as he dislikes the concept of benefiting from war, it has put a tidy sum in their pockets.

That's a good thing: he happens to think Sophie deserves to live in the absolute lap of luxury. He lifts his glass to hers.

"To you."

"To me?"

Sophie shakes her head, hanging onto her glass of - brandy? Well, she may take a sip, but a sip, she tells herself firmly, is all. Romantic evenings are one thing; indulging in alcohol when there's a war on and work still to be done is quite another.

(Never mind that a good many people would say that when a war on is the best time to indulge in alcohol.)

"To -"

She's struck by happy inspiration.

"To the castle," she announces. "And all the doors - and the flower garden, and the shop, too. And Calcifer's fireplace."

Sophie doesn't really know how to do a pithy toast.

The smile he gives her is nothing but indulgent; he has to remind himself from time to time that she's so young.

She's his little no-longer-a-mouse, and he adores her. If he could have done so that first time he saw her on May Day, he would have adored her then.

"I can drink to that, if you let me add one thing to it."

He touches his glass to hers.

"To us. To you and me. To happily ever after." That, he thinks, completes the toast nicely. "Come, sit back, relax. It's only dinner. It's for you and me, because we deserve it."

What good is being a wizard if he can't bring a little beauty into their lives? Reaching over, he takes plates of food from where they've been hidden away and sets them on the table. If she won't take care of herself, he'll just have to do it for her.

To happily ever after, Sophie thinks, and grins, suddenly.

"As long as you don't forget to add in the hair-raising part, as well."

Their happily-ever-after may be happy, but even when Howl's being wonderful, like he is now - she is determined that she can't let herself be, well, overwhelmed by it. By Howl. She's seen more than enough women won completely over by his charm -

- but she's going to be his match. She won't be any good for him at all if she isn't.

"Hair-raising goes without saying. There's no reason happily ever after has to equate to dull."

In fact, he won't stand for that. As he serves out a portion of food onto her plate and then his, he gives her a sly little grin. "If we weren't under the restrictions the King has put down due to the impending war, I'd take you on another hair-raising adventure just now. But honestly, we oughtn't risk it."

One thing he doesn't like is having his hands tied, and both this war and being in service to the king do that effectively and without question. "But when it's over, I'll see to it that your hair gets raised on as regular a basis as you like."

Pepper that with tender, sweet moments like this and things might just be perfect.

Sophie takes a demure bite of potato, and says, serenely, "Who says it's my hair that will be getting raised?"

There's no doubt about it: if time with Howl is guaranteed to be anything, it's the opposite of dull. Either it's terrifying or heart-thumping or, as in recent days, just plain exhausting, but Sophie thinks she'll never be bored again.

Yn onest, if he has anything to say about it, any hair-raising taking place for Sophie will be a bit on the mild side. As he swallows a forkful of chicken -- he didn't do a bad job on it after all -- he watches her over the candlelight. The breeze is charmed to be quiet and warm so as not to disturb things.

He wants this moment to be perfect.

He needs it to be perfect.

What he hasn't told her (since she was so busy working and hardly noticed the fifth Royal Messenger of the day) is that the King has requested -- ordered -- him to Strangia, undercover, to... well, to spy. It's not a journey he particularly wants to undertake but he can't seem to find a way to slither out of this one: his hands are, regrettably, tied.

And he doesn't want Sophie to know: she's already got more than enough on her mind. This journey will be as perilous as his business with the Witch at midsummer... but he'll have less control.

"My hair, then. We already know how it looks under so many circumstances, don't we."

"It's not as if it's ever really been a color that's not natural," Sophie says, thoughtfully. "Black, gold, and ginger - really, you should count yourself lucky it didn't turn -"

An image of Ami appears in her mind.

"- blue, or purple! Though green would match your eyes."

She grins again, teasing.

The food is delicious, the breeze is mild enough that it's not doing a thing to disturb her hair, even without the protection of her hat, and Sophie is beginning to think that it is, perhaps, possible to have a perfect evening without something destroying it.

"You didn't know me in my wild days at university." Smug, he sits back and takes a sip of brandy: it's very good and it's a luxury these days in Ingary. Of course, he can pop round to Wales and get the things he wants, but then he has to risk Megan's wrath.

He'd rather go without most days.

"I'm teasing. I'd go with green for you, but I fear blue or purple wouldn't do a thing for my complexion." For someone who spends as much time in the bath as he does, he's got a good enough sense of his own style.

What he really wants is to marry Sophie -- sooner rather than later -- and while she's already said yes, she hasn't yet decided on a date. "How are the wedding plans going, or should I not ask? You have been awfully busy working on supplies for the King." His only regret in it is that this silly war is interfering with their lives, and he'd rather not have that happen, diolch yn fawr iawn ichi.

Sophie looks rather guilty.

(The trouble, she knows, is that either way she'd end up feeling guilty. This is the difficulty with being possessed of an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.)

"To be honest, I haven't had a moment to do anything with the wedding since the King started giving us work for the war - but of course it has to come first," she adds, with determined briskness. "It'll hardly do us much good to be married if Strangia comes marching in putting everything to waste."

Not that Howl couldn't just pick the castle up and move it - and some days, Sophie thinks he just might - but that would still leave her sisters and her stepmother and little Princess Valeria, and . . . no.

It's not an option.

He happens to think that the prospect of Strangia marching in putting everything to waste is a perfect excuse to be married sooner rather than later.

"Nothing you can say about war could possibly make me think that's more important than our own plans, Sophie." He's matter-of-fact about it; he's not accusing her of anything. They've both been busier than ever and he knows it. "If it were up to me, we'd have the wedding right here tonight."

It has nothing to do with his imminent departure for Strangia.

Nothing at all... or at least not much. It's just that for all his charm, all his wooing, all his flirtation, he's never truly been in love before. Where he used to get bored once the chase was over, things now couldn't be further from that truth: he wants to explore all manner of things, and he wants to do them all with Sophie at his side.

He loves her.

He's also never been big on following rules and protocol. However, Sophie is, and he'll bow to that; he doesn't want to see her unhappy.

"But it's not up to me, and I have the utmost appreciation for your wishes and the amount of planning a thing like that takes." All the appreciation in the world, however, can't keep him from reaching across the table to take her hand into his.

Sophie squeezes his hand, in a helpless sort of apology.

"I'm going to try harder to be able to - I want to be married as much as you do, you know I do."

She pokes viciously at a potato with the fork in her free hand. "But it's no good to rush it, either, and have it be all a muddle and us - all right, Howl, me - feeling guilty in the middle of it and the King likely sending to call us straight out again -"

If they're going to be married, they're going to do it right. And how can they do it right with times like they are?

He simply loves her.

"Don't frustrate yourself over it, Sophie. These things always have a way of... what is it, Michael?" One very red-faced apprentice comes huffing down the path, a scroll with the King's insignia evident on it.

"It just arrived, and they say it's urgent."

A small cloud flits over his face as he takes the scroll from Michael, dispatching him back to the castle with a wave of his hand: this is supposed to be their time, his and Sophie's. Still, he lets go of her hand long enough to open the scroll and read it; now a true cloud covers his eyes.

By decree from the King of Ingary, you are to leave for Strangia immediately.

The King doesn't like to mince words; Howl rolls up the scroll and tucks it away into a jacket pocket and turns back to Sophie, his jaw a little tighter, recapturing her hand.

"Point taken."

Sophie remembers herself enough to shout "Thank you, Michael!" as the flustered apprentice disappears, and then turns her attention to the parchment, squinting at the back of it as if hoping that will allow her to read what it says through sheer willpower.

"Well? What does it say? Is he sending over more shields? I could have sworn he said he wouldn't have the next batch ready for a few days -"

No shields; he shakes his head. "It says the King needs to see me right now."

It's only a little lie; he doesn't want to add to her worries by telling her he's off to spy in Strangia. As he runs his thumb over her hand, he shrugs a small apology. "It's a fine bit of timing on his part. Just when I was about to actually enjoy a quiet evening with my beloved."

His smile is wry -- no evening with him is ever really quiet and he knows that -- as he reaches for his napkin and presses it to the corner of his lips. "Be glad I don't have the guitar any longer. I might have tried to serenade you."

"You could try serenading the King," Sophie suggests, "and then perhaps he'll let you come straight home."

She looks up at him, and represses a sigh - at least it's nothing she did that ruined their evening this time, but still. Howl deserves this as much or more as she does.

"Don't let him keep you too late, all right? You'll - wake Michael."

"All right. Don't stay up waiting, cariad. I'll see you in the daylight."

He doesn't say which daylight, of course, because he has no idea when he'll be back. But he stands and leans over and plants a kiss on her lips both because he loves her and because it's easier than looking her in the face when he's lying to her.

No one's ever accused him of having an abundance of moral standing.

"Don't let your food get cold, my dear. I'll see you soon."

Sophie scowls at him, as he turns away, and repeats, "Don't be long."

Don't stay up waiting, my left foot! Sophie's hardly going to go peacefully to sleep after all this. Howl's not slithering out of telling her what's going on so easily as that.

She glares across at Howl's abandoned plate. If the food seems to cower a little in response, it's probably just her imagination.

The smile on his face lingers until he's out of sight, but it shifts quickly enough to put a grim set to his jaw. He doesn't like anything about this: being told what to do, being used as a pawn in a war, being sent to spy. Most of all, he dislikes having to lie to Sophie.

He gathers up the few things he needs; he's a wizard, after all, and a very resourceful one at that. However, he won't go without a few supplies: one of the medical kits he's been making, a spare set of clothes. Because the ones he's wearing won't do at all.

Setting the knob to red down, he nods farewell to Michael and Calcifer then steps through to Kingsbury. It's only once he's there that he changes his clothing quickly, summons a wind, and runs it all the way north to Strangia.

It's begun.