She's finally found him.
Strangely, there's nothing special about this moment that she can exactly pinpoint; except, maybe the hollowness of his eyes and that funny expression he's got on, and the violent kicking of something inside her ribcage.
He looks tired, but that isn't anything new. (because he's always been tired; only the tiredness is tucked away in little creases under his eyes that he cleverly conceals in the daytime)
She stoops over and ignores the creaking in her dungeon knees, the bubbling buried deep, because this isn't the time to talk. There are no words for times like these. The feathers around him rustle, shirking her fevered touch.
The heartbeat is lost. She grows frantic before reining in the emotion (just barely).
"Howl," she whispers, the words cracking in the heavy, stifled air. Her fingers reach to his pale, dirt-streaked face.
She smiles wryly. He could be a princess, if he really tried.
Her fingers linger over luke-warmth, over fairies streaming silently away from his empty cheeks, and she prays.
She doesn't know who she's praying to, really, and she doubts her prayer will ever be answered; but sometimes, you end up doing things that don't make any sense.
"Howl," she says again, and the word makes her throat choke up, and she can't understand why. She barely knows him, and he shouldn't matter to her, she never should have been involved in the first place, and things shouldn't—shouldn't—
Have been this way.
She closes her stinging eyes and sighs, brokenly. The knots of her veins cloud her senses, and this old age is strange and enlightening, and for once she can see clearly.
She embraces the fact that she never wanted it any other way.
"You win, Howl," she sighs, allowing herself to taste the tempered bitterness, just this once.
She sinks down beside him and buries her head in his shoulder, trying to find comfort, or warmth, or anything remotely kind. The hat shop is a distant memory, and the castle is her home now, the rickety thing. The only flame she's ever liked lives there, and she can't help but be drawn to the warmth; and the little grandson who loves her without reason. Only one kind of magic has kept her there.
The touch of his hand on her shoulder jolts her awake.
Eyes snapping open, she turns to meet his soft gaze. The blue shocks her mind numb.
"Hello, Sophie," he says, and somehow manages to make his words sound smooth, despite the ragged edges of his smile (but he's always been that way). She trembles a little, and then steels herself.
"Hello, Howl," she says, swallowing the bitterness, erasing the taste.
"Did you miss me?" he asks, and both of them know the unspoken answer, because it riddles their breaths.
She lets her lips curl up, a little sarcastically. "Yes, Howl."
She's expecting a cool and charming reply, so when he answers with a meek, "I'm sorry," she is taken aback.
And then he kisses her, and she knows she should have been surprised then, but somehow she had been expecting it all along.
Only one kind of magic has ever kept her there, and she won't ever let it go.
-
The movie was dead charming.