There and Back Again
By Calcifersgrl
I suppose this chapter is dedicated to Caudex: thanks for everything (since everything really does mean everything – it's impossible to express in a few words how much that is . . . .)
Thanks to all of my reviewers who write such nice and good and funny things!!! YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST!!! (The reason that I still write this story is because of you guys – otherwise, I would have stopped writing at Chapter 2 long, long, looooong time ago!)
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Chapter 13: In which a Frog is kissed and Sophie argues
The sun went down behind the forest tops, winking golden rays before it disappeared, and in one drawn-out whoosh, the world was left unlit. After wandering some miles further into Autumn, Sophie and the Masterman stopped to set up camp inside another enclosed circle of trees. It was always best to be cautious, Sophie decided, as she muttered to the trees to "do their duty." They obeyed, rustling their russet leaves in consent. Under the light of the waning moon, the Masterman rummaged about the bases of the thick trees for wayward branches and twigs, with which he could light a fire, and then proceeded to tie the flaps of his longish sleeves behind his neck as he carefully knelt down to make the fire. The milk-white moonlight cast a pallid beacon on his face, and for a second, Sophie could have sworn his eyes were green. But in the next second, the notion vanished, and his eyes were as they always were – blue as the rolling seas of Porthaven – and she began to make the bed.
After he had gotten the fire going, Sophie cooked the eggs she'd found from an abandoned bird's nest before they'd crossed over into Autumn over a rock slab, and then they ate in companionable silence. It was in silence that they watched the stars appear in the night sky. It was in silence that Sophie thought about how grand and faraway they were. As grand and as faraway as where ever she and the Masterman were destined to go. Playing a part, telling a tale. Writing a story. As heroes.
She shifted as the Masterman dragged a log over and plopped it next to hers. He accidentally bumped her elbow in the process, but she overlooked his clumsiness. With all the silence enveloping her, it was nice to be reminded that she was not alone in the universe, alone under the glittering expanse of stars.
"Can you name the stars?" the Masterman asked after he'd situated himself on the log, his mouth still half-full. He didn't look at her. His face glowed, obviously mesmerized by the flashing night figures.
"Some of them," Sophie responded, thinking of scholarly and serious Mr. Hatter. She, being more level-headed and studious than both Martha and Lettie, had been subjected most often to Mr. Hatter's attention – and long had suspected herself to be his favorite. As a child, he'd taken her up to the roof of their house, overlooking the expanse of Market Chipping. Sophie's mouth curved up at the memory. The view provided by the roof was glorious indeed – with the tiny, orderly plots of Market Chipping seeming to be no more than mere playtoys. And the quiet – up there, pressed against her father's chest for security and warmth and listening to the steady beating of his heart, she had been seduced by the night and the silence. It was up there that Mr. Hatter had first pointed out the ladle, a bright confection of seven stars that was easily seen. And there that Sophie had first known to recognize the giant's belt, made up of three blazing stars. The-Giant-who-had-no-name-but-swung-mightily-with-his-sledgehammer. He was easiest to see in late summer/early autumn. Mr. Hatter had made up some silly story to accompany the Giant, one that ended with the Giant, whose power was great, flinging himself up into the stars with his sledgehammer raised, ready to destroy the sky. Which didn't happen of course. The sky was like a sticky web, and there the Giant stayed, mouth open in outrage, nameless, and a sledgehammer raised high above his head.
Sophie smiled from the memories – she didn't think of her quiet father often, but when she did, a dull ache began to throb in her chest. It was, after all, only two years since he had passed from her life to the next.
To elaborate on her answer, Sophie explained to the Masterman about her nocturnal visits to the roof with her father. And hearing herself tell of her father aloud and to a stranger – the Masterman was still a stranger, no matter how friendly and close they became – made Sophie feel strangely hollow – as if there was nothing more to her than skin and bones.
"I think I'll go to sleep now," she murmured and got up abruptly from her log. The Masterman looked up at her in surprise, fine creases in his brow, and a look of compassion crossed his face. But his face was blocked by the shadows cast by the firelight, and Sophie didn't see his expression. "I'm . . . tired," she said, although it was not true.
"Alright," he said, amiably enough, and brushed off dirt and twigs from his fraying robes. "Will you have the right or the left side?" he asked, gesturing with one hand at the makeshift bed. Then his mouth quirked in a mischievous grin: "Or should I just sprawl myself across the whole thing and save you the trouble of rolling off in the middle of the night?"
She cracked a smile, temporarily dispersing her somber thoughts, and gave him a good-hearted shove. He tripped over the longish hem of his robe as he stumbled backwards and fell, giving a loud squawk of consternation. "Sophie!" he complained, sitting in the dirt.
"Good night," she replied and plopped on the right side of the bed.
But it was not good night, for she lay awake, long after the Masterman began to snore irregularly.
He must be getting a cold, Sophie thought somewhat irritably – as she listened to the normally- quiet-but-now-sometimes-loud-and-soft breathing of the Masterman.
But even the Masterman's raucous sounds could not drown out the summons from the stars. They called to her, inviting, and yet at the same time, distant and cold in the night. Such was their effect, she mused. The beauty, the aloofness, the coldness – it was all rather hypnotic. It was no wonder that Howl had been so captivated by that falling star years ago on the Porthaven marshes. But perhaps, a star's brilliance dimmed when seen up close, for Howl's falling star turned out to be Calcifer. And though Calcifer was endearing in his own way, he did not possess the same untouchable qualities that he had once owned as a star, Sophie thought, thinking of the sarcastic and often sardonic fire demon.
Eventually, with these thoughts, Sophie was lulled into sleep. Sleep was inevitable, as were the dreams that accompanied the sleep.
She fell through these dreams, as if dropping into scenes – the dreams incomprehensible and surreal. Only one thing was constant – the falling of snowflakes. Sophie trampled over lush white snow, as the barking of the pursuing dogs, and the wild blare of trumpets sounding in her flight grew to a crescendo. She loped on, never looking back, afraid that stopping meant getting captured. She caught a glimpse of Lettie's porcelain face reflected in a drifting snowflake, and Martha wearing red in another. She ran – she was forever running. Ben Sullivan's craggy face split in a grin for one instant, and in the next, his eyes were yellow slits and the grin was feral, vicious, and full of cruelty. He snarled and lunged. And suddenly Sophie was falling again. Falling into a bed of roses, bristling with thorns. They bit at her bare arms, and she didn't dare flail, afraid to make the bleeding worse. She only had time to wonder at the absurdity of roses in the dead of winter, before she was running again. Darting through a new landscape littered with snow, weaving her way in and out of snow-covered trees. "Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân, Sospan fawr yn berwi ar y llawr,A'r gath wedi scrapo Joni bach," hummed a curiously familiar voice, cackling with the spittle and whine of burning wood. She ran, feeling the hairs on the back of her head bristle from the cold . . . and from the feeling of being followed. She fled from a figure that glided smoothly from tree to tree, dressed in rich, pink silk. A figure who smiled generously with her mouth and not with her eyes. Sophie ran. Ran from the beguiling crooning that emerged from the figure's puckered lips like a kiss. The falling snow stung her eyes and froze the hair of her arms. "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference," came the soft murmur from a voice she thought she knew. She was panting, but she could not stop and would not stop. She only slowed when she reached a clearing, and this she entered cautiously, hand braced on the snow-encrusted bark for support. A solitary figure stood in the center of the glade, head bowed. She could see the tiny ice drops adorning his blond hair, an odd mixture of white and yellow. He was nearly camouflaged, wearing white as he was. And he refused to acknowledge her entrance. She stepped forward, tentatively, and opened her mouth, his name on her tongue. "Howl . . . ."
His head stayed bow. Her heart drummed in her throat, and she croaked his name once more, louder.
His head jerked upward, obviously pained. And it startled her to see the hollowness of his face, the color all drained. And most of all, his eyes were blank, as if he could no longer see, the pupils shrunken to mere dots.
"Howl . . ." she said, starting forward, alarmed at his state.
"What more do you want of me, Witch?" It was simply said, quiet and resigned, but Sophie recoiled, stung. Witch. The word had rolled out of his mouth, dripping with acid and unadulterated hatred. Witch. She wasn't Sophie, but a Witch, complete with capital letters, as if she was in the same league as the Witch of the Waste.
"I'm not," she said. He didn't answer, and continued to stare impassively through her. "I'm really not," she said with a hint of desperateness to her voice. He simply gazed through her, with those blank, unseeing eyes, with his hands clenched by his sides, white-knuckled. "I'm not a Witch," she proclaimed loudly, feeling rather put-out. "Well, maybe a witch, if you mean someone who works magic, but not a Witch. Not . . . not like the Witch of the Waste."
Howl brought his clenched fists in front of him, and slowly unclenched them, and turned them over to reveal his whitened palms. And that was when she noticed the fine silver and gold chains that hung about his slender wrists. So fine were they that she almost did not see them.
"La Belle Dame Sans Merci has me in thrall," he whispered, almost to himself. "You hold the other end, Witch."
Her eyes followed the length of the chain, only to be surprised where her eyes ended. In her own fists. Entwined with her own pinkish fingers.
"No," Sophie said, shaking her head, and dropped the chains. "No."
She stumbled off, running blinding. Anything to escape the unseeing chained figure in the clearing.
You're running again, chuckled a deep, melodious voice in her head. You'll always run.
"No," Sophie said, running. "No, no, no." But she seemed to have no power over her legs, and they carried her through the flurry. And because she didn't want to run and her legs did, she tripped and collapsed in the cool snow. "No, no, no," she repeated over and over again. Her face was wet, but whether it was from the melting snow or from the tears that had suddenly stained her face, she did not know.
"Sophie!" Someone was shouting in her ear and was shaking her roughly by the shoulders.
"No!" she snarled, having summoned the strength to accompany her "no," and woke up to face the frightened eyes of the Masterman bending over her.
His eyes were green, Sophie thought hazily. It was no trick of the fire. They were green. And then her mind cleared and she apologized weakly, "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to shout like that. Sorry."
"Are you alright?" he asked, unperturbed. He still had her by the shoulders, and made no move to release her.
She nodded mutely, amazed at the sudden clearness that had erased the inanity from his eyes.
"You were shouting," he murmured. "And flailing. You have quite an arm," he added, and rubbed his right cheek remorsefully.
Sophie winced, and tilted her head remorsefully: "Sorry."
"You were yelling 'no,'" he continued. "'No, no, no,' again and again." He bit his lip, suddenly unsure of himself, "If you – if you ever need a sympathetic ear or just someone to share your troubles with, I'll be happy to be your man."
Sophie paused. The terror that had propelled her throughout the dream was still fresh in her mind. It would probably help a great deal to analyze her dream, or just share her burden with another, but she felt that telling him would be rather like baring her soul. And she'd rather not dwell on the blank, unseeing Howl. And the chains on his wrists.
"Masterman," she said irrelevantly, "would you consider me a Witch?"
"Of course," he replied.
Of course, she mimicked him in her mind. He would think that, having seen her weave her magic among the trees and repair herself. She could only blame herself for asking the question.
"Masterman," she asked, a question poised on her tongue, "who is 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci'?"
Instantly, a guarded look darkened his eyes, and he spoke next, with carefully chosen words. "Latin, maybe. Could be French, actually."
Sophie shrugged, ruefully. "I wouldn't know."
He eyed her carefully, his grip finally loosening from her shoulders. "Anyway, what would she want with you?"
"She? I thought you didn't know what – who La Belle
Dame Sans Merci is."
"I – I don't." He shook his head irritably, "But it doesn't take a genius to figure out that La Belle Dame Sans Merci can only be a female. A she."
Sophie chose not to respond, feeling one of his mercurial mood swings coming on.
"I'm sorry," he said, and paused. "I – I'm just not my best this early in the morning." He gave a loud yawn, and gave her a glassy look. "I've been having sleeping troubles of my own, and I trust we have a long day ahead of us, and I think you'd better get back to sleep."
His tone was formal with frosty undercurrents.
Sophie bit her lip – she'd never ever understand him.
He tottered back to bed, and was snoring in an exaggerated manner within minutes.
Sophie sighed, and looked at the closed eyelids – remembering them to have been green – and went back to sleep.
She woke next in the creeping moment between dawn and daylight – where the sky was a murky grayish-blue – and she was freezing. Sophie clutched the crinkled material of her blue dress with her hands, and shivered. The Masterman had kicked her off the bed. Again. Feeling impossibly cold and more than a little outraged, she turned around, prepared to give the Masterman a piece of her mind.
But he wasn't there. She looked through the dark depths of the trees for something moving, but nothing was disturbed. His side of the bed didn't even look slept in; she felt the makeshift mattress to be sure. It was as cold as stone.
Where had he gone?
He had simply . . . vanished?
Sophie shook her head. That was impossible. She had woven the spell around the trees to let no intruders in, and that also included letting nothing and no one out.
After dismantling the spell, Sophie wobbled out of the clearing. The forest between dawn and daylight was grey all over, and certainly unrecognizable as the golden glory of Autumn. The forest wound in loops and curves, which explained her constant stumbling. She was not a morning person. Sophie rubbed her eyes to erase the haziness, but blinking didn't help. The tall trees were still blurred, and suddenly, she had no idea why she had even left the campsite.
He'll come back, she assured herself. The Masterman wouldn't just . . . leave like that. There was an explanation for his disappearance; there had to be an explanation.
Heartened by her thoughts, she determined to turn back, but not before, her right foot skidded on some loose and mushy dirt, straight into a puddle. She yelped as the cold drops of water seeped into her stocking. Feeling more than a little miserable, and cold, and wet, she prepared to aim a misery-lanced glare at the puddle.
And found that it was much more than a puddle. It was a good-sized pond resting in the middle of a clearing, edged with mushy mud and several clumps of grass and weeds, some of which were up to Sophie's knee. She could see the hazy reflection of tree branches, along with the small green flecks of algae drifting aimlessly across the murky surface. A patch of lily pads floated solitarily in the middle of the pond.
Sophie frowned, looking at the mud splotch on her shoe, and blew some air through her lips. She hated mud, and she hated being dirty. And she hated being awake and up this early in the morning . . . .
A loud belch, like the blaring of a foghorn, erupted, startling Sophie out of her moodiness.
And then she screamed.
A greasy-green bullfrog with bulging eyes the color of sullied green-gold had propelled its slimy, wet body off one of the lily pads, and had plopped itself onto her dirtied shoe. And it appeared to be trying to climb up her leg.
"Get off me! Get off me now!" she shrieked, flapping her arms in a ridiculous manner, not caring that she was making a lot of fuss over a little bullfrog.
She kicked out her leg, determined to shake it off once and for all. But she didn't have the self-satisfaction of doing so, for the frog gracefully pirouetted off of its own accord, and then proceeded to goggle at her with its large, bulging eyes, its white throat throbbing in the way that all frog throats do.
Sophie stared at those green dome eyes, feeling a little silly. It tilted its little green head rather solemnly, as if regarding her from those protruding eyes of his. "Kiss me," it croaked in what it considered to be a husky, seductive tone.
"What?" Sophie stared at the frog in consternation, who goggled back innocently. "This is what comes of waking up so early in the morning," she mumbled to herself. "I start hearing things."
"Kiss me," said the frog with a large smirk plastered on its green face.
Now, there was no mistaking the fact that the voice had indeed come from the frog.
Sophie's mouth parted in a mix between surprise, wonder, and horror.
"Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me," bellowed the frog, working itself into a short frenzy, its white throat pulsing with each command. It leaned on its short forelegs and seemed to pucker up its green lips.
Sophie managed to collect herself. "No, thank you," she said, shaking her head firmly in the way that Fanny had taught Lettie, Martha, and her to decline rude invitations.
The frog considered her for a moment, tilting its oddly shaped head to one side as if to say: Okay, how about this?
"Kiss me," he bawled, "and I'll turn into a prince." He perched himself upright with all the dignity a frog could muster and glared at her with those frowning, sullied eyes, as if to dare her to turn him down.
"Prince of what?" Sophie snorted, dropping her initial mask of politeness. Really, the things a male would say to get noticed. "I really don't need a prince right now. Besides, those lips of yours are likely to give someone a case of incurable warts. And that slime of yours would send the Masterman running for cover. No, thank you!"
She began to walk away, her strides getting longer and faster as it became apparent that the frog was not going to leave her alone without a fight. It hopped on its little green legs, keeping rhythm with her pounding shoes.
Sophie felt a small dash of sympathy for the poor thing. Even now, it kept up with her, its little green brow – if frogs can have brows – clenched in concentration. And was that a bead of sweat she saw trickling down its broad forehead? She stopped walking.
It sat on its haunches, panting. "K-i-s-s me," it wheezed in a croaky voice that sounded as if it had swallowed a mouthful of dust. No longer haughty and dignified, the frog had somehow shrunken into a pitiful state. The once apple-green shine of its frog skin dimmed, and made him look rather plain. "K-i-s-s me . . . please," it finished off.
It was the little 'please' that got her. It wormed itself into her heart, and she just couldn't – no matter how stony or frigid she wanted to be – force herself to turn her cheek to its plea.
"Oh, alright, alright!" she grumbled. Sophie gingerly bent to pick up the frog by its slimy, leathery back, and let it settle into her cupped hands. She looked at it in unconcealed distaste. Up close, it was even wartier and misshapen than she had previously thought.
Well, here goes, she thought, eyeing the now-smirking frog in her hands. She wondered whether she had spoken too soon when she'd said he'd give a person warts. But it was too late to back down – a promise is a promise, as Mr. Hatter had always admonished her – and she wasn't about to break her word.
She licked her lips nervously, her eyes flickering from the murky pond and back to the warty green face of the frog. It grinned at her rather cheekily, and puckered up its lips.
Sophie rolled her eyes and prepared to give it a dry, wooden peck on its bumpy cheek, when suddenly the frog sprang out her hands and straight for her face.
The frog launched itself full force at Sophie before she could even blink an eye. It wrapped its long slimy arms around her neck, its great webbed feet placed against her chest for stability, and planted a loud and slimy kiss on her lips.
She didn't even have time to wince. Everything happened so fast afterward that she was dimly aware in the corner of her mind that the slippery arms had evolved into warm human arms, and that a decidedly solid body was pressed against hers, holding her in a decidedly nice kiss. The kiss infused her entire being and tingled every hair, sending an electric shock up her spine. The most peculiar feeling arose, and Sophie felt light-headed, giddy. It was a strange kind of giddiness, for while her head felt like it would float up to the clouds, she was also inert, incapable of movement.
Confound it! Sophie managed to think, as rationale began to surface once more in her mind. I'm being taken advantage of by a stranger! And one that used to be a frog too!
And yet, bewitched as she thought she was, she couldn't deny the feeling those arms gave her. She was nowhere and yet somewhere. She was safe and at the same time . . . not. The arms promised security at the price of some danger. And yet she would not have it otherwise.
. . . Howl . . . .
His face had a peculiar habit of sliding through her mind when she least expected it, and with a shudder as she recalled him, she suddenly remembered herself. And what she was engaged in doing at the moment.
With a gasp, Sophie wrenched herself away from the comforting circle of arms, without looking at the stranger. "You – you seducer! You fiend!" she managed to sputter, while making a great show of wiping off all remnants of the kiss from her lips, and wildly waving her other hand in accusation. "How dare you kiss me like that! I'll have you k-know, I'm already spoken for . . . and," she tried to recall some of the finer points of chivalry she had read about while in school, "don't you dare think you'll get away from this. He'll challenge you to a duel for – for," she stuttered, wondering whether she should even add some archaic words for authenticity, "the sake of 'mine' honor. You ought to feel ashamed of yourself! A seducer and a lech--- " She stopped mid-sentence, as she finally glanced at the stranger's feet and something caught her eye. Even before he spoke and she recognized the amusement and quirks of his voice, even before the familiarity of his voice made her heart beat like that of a cornered rabbit, she saw somewhat ragged bunny slippers peeking out of a long, flannel nightrobe – edged in blues and greens that could not possibly have come from Ingary.
Her eyes traveled up the stranger to assess the slightly open robe and the thin white shirt at which she had blushed so long ago. And finally, they rested on his angular face framed by disheveled blonde hair, which now displayed a disarming half-smile and a quirk in his eyebrows. He was trying to look ashamed of himself, but to her eye, he was definitely not succeeding, for the downturn of his mouth kept snaking upward. A lock of questionable color fell to one side as he cocked his head, obviously perplexed by her frozen state and lack of greeting. She met his eyes – once glass-green, but now a deeper and richer hue – and her mouth parted in surprise and belated recognition.
Sophie blinked. Was this some ill-humored joke of the Witch's? Or was it really him? The Witch had told her that she wouldn't recognize him in his new form . . . . All of her assessing took place in mere milli-seconds, but to her waterlogged brain, time moved slowly, as if it were trying to run through fast-moving water.
"I think," he said, with an amused grin, "that he wouldn't. He's too much of a slitherer-outter and a coward, on the side, to duel. Come now, Sophie. You don't honestly think that I'm going to duel with myse—"
But she didn't even let him finish. With a half-incredulous, half-crazed look, Sophie hurled herself at him, in very much the same way that the frog had launched itself at her, and flung her arms around his neck in a near-strangling squeeze. He was startled, but recovered by awkwardly patting her on the back. And then, surprising even herself by such an impetuous act, she set her mouth squarely on his and kissed him, something she had never done before but fully intended to do again. His mouth was warm and decidedly solid as he responded to her kiss. Bliss coursed through her entire body, but the only thought that ran through her mind was that he was not a creature of the Witch's sent to taunt her, not a dream that would melt away when she stretched out fingers to touch him. He was real. She could feel his heart beating in time with her own. He was real.
She broke the kiss off with a quick swallow of relief, and then looked at him shyly, hardly believing what she had just done. She had kissed him. A faint blush colored her cheeks, and she averted her eyes.
When she finally screwed up enough courage to look up again, Howl was gaping at her. "Wow," he finally managed to say. "What a greeting! I think," he said with a smile, lifting his eyebrows in a knowing way, "that I should be turned into a frog more often."
She blushed again, hating herself for it. With the emotions of the past few seconds still running high, and her temporary insanity restored, Sophie repressed the urge to smooth his disheveled hair down. She had to be careful; after all, hearts had been broken in less than two sittings, before. "You told me," Sophie said in a strained voice, "that you would turn into a prince."
"Did I now?" Howl mused, running one hand through his hair, nonchalantly. He shrugged and dramatically proclaimed, "My lies will be the death of me." He sighed in an exaggerated manner, and continued in a lamentable and noble tone: "Just another of my many, many vices, but," here he perked up, "my dishonesty will be my shining salvation. A sad, sad truth it is. And sadder still that Wales saw fit to see to it that some men are princes, while some men are frogs . . . ."
You needn't lie all the time, Sophie wanted to say, but his words only made her wonder whether he was lying to her now. So instead of confusing herself even more, she focused her attention on his reply to her statement.
"I prefer frogs," Sophie said, more firmly than she had meant to be. "Most princes," – like Prince Justin – she thought, "are really frogs in disguise. They're courtly and smooth, promising jewels, crowns, happiness, love, and everything else there is to promise. Frog princes promise words as freely as they snap up flies. What good are words which have no worth? They pledge lifelong fidelity and 'happily ever after', yet everyone knows such promises have no lasting value to them. 'Happily ever after' is a bed-time story told to every child, a story of comfort and a way of tying up loose ends and knotting the ending."
The words tumbled out like a landslide, irrepressible and damage done. She paused slightly to take a deep breath.
His face was peculiar, pinched and serious, the theatrical flair of the minutes before gone. "You don't believe in 'happily ever after'?" he asked slowly.
But she bowled through his question and continued her rant. Once she got heated up over an issue, it took either a miracle or a disaster to stop her. "Frog princes are pond-scum," she said with feeling. "At least the men who are frogs don't pretend to be anything other than a frog. They're honest. They don't promise the sun and the moon and the stars. They don't guarantee anymore than snapping up flies and getting fat, and sitting on lily pads and lapping up algae-infested water and a lifetime of tadpoles," she blushed here, and stopped for another breath.
Howl took advantage of the breath to say, "What a decrepit and desolating picture you paint! I think I'd rather have the prince. Promises of the sun and the moon and the stars sound quite appealing after that cynicism." His eyes crinkled slightly with amusement: "Though," he commented, "a lifetime of little tadpoles doesn't seem like such a chore."
"You would!" Sophie retorted, going red.
He had the decency to blush, and grinned.
And then his expression changed to one of solemnity. "But do you really believe all that, Sophie? Does it have to be one way or the other – princes as frogs or frogs as frogs? Could some frogs really be princes underneath?"
Sophie furrowed her brows, uncomprehending. He was a truly dizzying man, on more than one level. She had trouble following his caprice, his mercurial moods, and understanding his reasoning for the questions.
Howl quickly rephrased, seeing the confusion on her face: "Can't frogs still promise the sun, the moon, and the stars – and even if they can't attain it, isn't the effort counted? If frogs only promised making milt under the stars and snapping up flies and croaking in the moonlight, you'd never know if they could have amounted to more than that dreariness. Perhaps, it is wrong to promise what you don't have, but isn't the intent behind the promise worth anything?
Sophie was silent, for once. She had more than a sneaking suspicion that the conversation about frogs and princes had evolved into a much larger conversation about something else. She was afraid to even dwell on the idea of what that something was.
Howl was uncharacteristically quiet, too. She imagined him breaking the silence by remarking, "Silly of me to say such rubbish. Hell's teeth, I must be drunk still." But when it became apparent that he was going to stay thin-lipped and quiet, she wondered what she could say, and how much longer the stillness would last. Perhaps, she should introduce a new topic . . . .
But Howl beat her to it.
The words came out in a jumble, sudden and rushed. He asked, "Did you miss me?" except to Sophie's ears, she heard, "Didyoumissme?" But she read it all the same.
Sophie started, and then opened and closed her mouth like a gaping fish. It was a most perilous thing to reveal one's heart, and at that moment with Howl's green eyes staring intently at her face, almost boring in, and her trying to stifle yet another blush, she wasn't sure she could risk such peril. Because reading between the lines, she figured out that what he was really asking was, "Do you love me?" Love . . . what was love? Howl's other world bards had spoken of it – one had even written countless sonnets about it, in fact, but still, the concept of love was rendered as complicated, if not more so, than ever before. It was true that love was powerful, having demonstrated its potential by setting 1,000 ships in motion. But love also didn't conquer all, the way it always did in her books. She had read enough to know that love was not for eternity. Love died in many more cases than it stayed alive . . . . Anyway, Sophie thought frantically, neither she nor he had ever said, "I love you," or even mentioned the word "love" in a serious way. Those three words bound two people together as one heart, one soul – and she realized she just couldn't risk it. Not now. Not yet.
So she shrugged . . . which both of them realized wasn't a real answer to the question. It was the best Sophie could do – because she was very, very, very fond of him, charmed, enchanted by him, and if he were to find another girl, she would indeed flame up with mad jealousy – but she couldn't bring herself to say yes or no. At least not in his presence.
It's really not as simple as black and white, Sophie thought, trying to excuse her lack of indecision. Her conscience screamed in disagreement: either yes, I love you, or no, I don't love you. Either you feel it, or you don't.
But since her conscience had never been the boss of her, Sophie disregarded the inner outburst and waited for him to respond to her shrug.
He didn't respond. He only continued to gaze at her with heated intensity, his lips parted as if to speak, but any words he had to say were instantly swallowed. Sophie had never known Howl to be mute. On the contrary, he always had a witty comeback to everything. He never took anything too serious, always feigning injury and hurt, so it was difficult to know whether she had hurt him with her shrug.
"Well, I'm glad you're back," she offered, tentatively. "The Witch had me worried and . . ."
"But I'm not," Howl said abruptly, interrupting her, relieved to be rid of the awkward moment. He gazed at her, appealing to her with his glowing, flickering eyes. He reached for her hands. There was a bit of a struggle where Sophie tried to disentangle her fingers from Howl's. But since she wasn't seriously adamant about hiding her hands, Howl won the scuffle. He entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her close. Standing right next to him, the top of her head barely reaching his chin, Sophie looked up at him questioningly.
Howl cracked a melancholy half-smile.
"But I'm not," he reiterated. "I'm not back. Not for good. Not for real. Sophie, you're dreaming. This is a dream."
What? She wanted to say. But instead, she gave a small nod, and said in a small voice, "Oh . . . . Of course."
Of course, she thought. Of course he wasn't real. Of course she hadn't really kissed him. Of course this was just a dream. It didn't matter that she'd heard his heart beating, it was just a dream.
"Is that all you can say?" Howl asked, frowning. "'Oh. Of course'?"
What did you want me to say, Howl? Did you want me to put up a big fuss and screech? What else can one say when confronted with reality? And, Sophie thought, perhaps, it was a relief to discover that the Howl who stood before her wasn't flesh-and-blood Howl. Even though she couldn't tell him she loved him, a kiss was just as tell-tale as words. Though, she added wistfully, the kiss had been nice. Awfully nice, she amended.
"Why is it that I've never dreamed of you before?" she asked. "It's always been the Witch, and snowflakes and winter, and –" She stopped abruptly, realizing that she had dreamed of him before, had in fact, just dreamed of him. But she brushed that thought away – there he'd been hurtful and cold, and not Howl. Not Howl at all.
"Sophie, I'm hurt," he drawled, managing to look nobly wounded. "You bang up a man's ego in the worst way possible."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, if I'd known you would be so offended, I'd have said it sooner. Go ahead, just bring on the green slime," she retorted. "You always do," she quipped, a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.
And that was that. They were friends again, she thought. No more awkward talk about hearts and love and uncertainty. No more talk about frogs and princes.
"I do not," Howl protested loudly. "It's a defense mechanism. I only threaten green slime when I feel threatened."
"Which is when you throw a tantrum," added Sophie.
"Such a juvenile word," he remarked. "I'd prefer the words 'expressing myself.'"
She raised an eyebrow and retorted, "If expressing yourself means covering the castle with acidic waste and scaring everyone with your booming sobs!"
Howl smiled, obviously reflecting on that day. "Oh, that's right - Horror, Despair, Anguish. Wonderfully conjured, weren't they? Just a touch menacing, hmm?" Sophie didn't have a chance to reply for something caught his eye and his attention was diverted. He bent over her head with a peculiar expression on his face. He motioned with one hand and asked in an odd tone, "What is that?"
Sophie's fingers flew to her hair, and fell about the flower still adorning her ponytail. She had forgotten it was even there. "You mean the rose?" She was suddenly acutely uncomfortable, and tugged at the neckline of her dress. "I thought – I mean I thought –" I thought Howl would like it, she finished mentally, and then tartly concluded, "It's just a rose, Howl. That's all. A simple flower."
Howl arched an eyebrow at her defensive tone of voice. "A simple flower? My dear Sophie, that is much more than a simple flower, and I can't imagine how you ever stumbled into it. Where ever did you get it from?"
She couldn't remember at first. But as she tried to piece together her memories, it all came back to her, and this she tried to explain to Howl, haltingly – the Giant falling, Prince Justin's body . . . the flower springing up from the site of his vanished body like a peace offering. And she had plucked it and tucked it away in her hair. Strange. She hadn't been able to look away from the blood-red rose . . . it had pricked her, shedding three pearl-shaped drops of blood. And . . . .
"I see," said Howl, his face unreadable, but Sophie thought she knew him well enough to know that he was troubled, and downright angry. The joviality had died away from his eyes and a hardened stern look sprang into them. "I see," he repeated. "I don't suppose you were ever taught not to pick up strange objects."
She didn't reply, just looked at him.
"No, I suppose not," he continued, scathingly. "I'll bet that if the stove was hot and there was a sign on it that distinctly warned you not to touch it, you would. Stick your fingers exactly where they aren't meant to be, that's you. I don't suppose you ever think, or listen. Did it ever occur to you that this mysterious rose that you couldn't seem to take your eyes away from could turn out to be a trap? What did I tell you about the Witch's affinity with flowers – I distinctly remember myself telling you that she thinks of herself as a 'solitary rose in the Waste. Pathetic, really.'!"
"A solitary orchid," Sophie interrupted quietly. "That day, you said she thinks of herself as a 'solitary orchid,' not rose."
"For heaven's sake, Sophie!" said Howl, throwing his hands up in disgust. "Rose, orchid, parsnip – what's the difference? That's besides the point. You played straight into her hands. The Witch couldn't have planned it any better – you placed the flower in your own hair of your own accord. That 'simple flower' has some of the strongest magic on it, and if I pull it out, even I don't know what's going to happen. You could die or something!" he added in an anguished tone.
So that was it; he was worried. An absurd little laugh bubbled up her throat.
Howl glowered at her, his features darkening. "That's not funny," he said tersely.
She sobered up immediately. "Of course," she agreed. "That's not very funny."
"But if I don't pull it out, the consequences could be even worse. You could die if I don't pull it out," he brooded. He swiveled back towards her, his green eyes pale with anger, and said, "I wish you hadn't ever even seen it. You, Mrs. Nose, have got me in the worst fix ever, and I am without even a clue as how to fix it!" He turned away again, hands clasped behind his blue and green nightrobe, muttering things under his breath. Sophie caught the words, "like the choice offered . . . dratted police . . . cut the blue wire or the red wire . . . pull out . . . she dies . . . leave it . . . she dies . . . ."
Sophie sucked in her lips as the peril of the situation really sank in, and waited with her head hung. She had made an awful fool of herself, playing the part of the stupid, naïve, unsuspecting heroine to perfection. She nearly groaned out loud. She was pathetic. A failure.
"I'm a failure," she murmured dully.
Howl's bowed head jerked upwards, and eyed her crossly: "What did you say?"
She yanked her chin up and glared at him with some defiance. "I said that you're right. Everyone's right. I am a failure. Some hero I make. I can't even play the Witch's game properly."
The pale anger dissipated, and his eyes softened slightly. "Sophie . . . cariad . . . I didn't mean, I mean, I didn't . . . ." He trailed off, at a loss for words.
"Well, that's what you implied," Sophie said tight-lipped, smoldering. She had no right to be angry with him; he was only being worried for her sake after all, but she was angry, all the same. She hadn't expected it from him – the Witch, of course, Market Chipping townspeople, definitely, herself, even, but not from him.
"Just . . . pull it out," she said abruptly. "The Witch – she – wouldn't kill me." As she said this, she realized it was true. "She won't kill me. She wants me to make it to the end so we can have that final battle. I wouldn't put it past her to weaken me, hurt me even, but kill me? I don't think so."
Howl wrinkled his forehead. "You're sure about this?" he asked slowly.
"Why not? Otherwise we could just stand here, blathering and arguing nonsense." She offered him an unsteady smile: "If this is a dream, as you say it is, then nothing could really go wrong . . . ." She faltered. It suddenly occurred to her that the feeling of being awake seemed too real to be ignored, and for the first time, she wondered whether she wasn't in a dream. "This is a dream, isn't it?" she asked.
"Pull it out, it is," Howl said decisively, neatly slithering out of the question.
"Howl!"
"You know, it'd be easier to pull that nasty twig out of your hair, if you weren't moving your feet!"
"Howl!" But Sophie stopped pacing to turn around and face him, exasperated. "You can't slither out forever! You know, one day you'll slither out so hard that you'll slither up right behind yourself, and be straightforward for once!"
Howl clasped his hands behind his back, and stared pensively at the bit of grey sky between the golden groves. "Horrors, you could possibly be right. I do think that that day is coming soon for me. A pity, really. But I did remark that my dishonesty shall be my shining salvation, didn't I?"
"More times than I'd care to remember," Sophie replied wryly.
"Good." His tone was brisk, as he unclasped his hands, and returned to business. "Then that's your answer. Now, let's see to that twig."
There was no point in trying to retrieve a frank answer from him! No point at all, she thought. After all, she was dealing with a master slither-outter. Left with no other choice, Sophie obliged Howl, albeit grudgingly, by standing somewhat still.
"Hold still, cariad," he grunted, as he placed both hands on her face and tilted it slightly downward.
She fidgeted, tensing, trying to make herself as scarce as possible. Her eyes were fixated on his arms which were just mere inches away from hers. Hold still? Impossible. His arms kept shifting, closing the distance between him and her . . . and she kept backing away. She was entirely aware that such proximity to him was akin to being dangerously on the edge of being sucked into a whirlpool.
"Hold still," he repeated, with a hint of laughing annoyance in his voice. "You know, as well as I, that I don't bite," he murmured, as if his mouth was full of pins. "Some bark, I suppose, but no bite. Do hold still. This shouldn't hurt a bit."
His fingers curled around the top of the rose stem, and tugged none-too-gently.
Sophie squeezed her eyes tightly, and gritted her teeth, willing herself to withstand the pain that seemed to consume every nook and cranny of her head.
"Hell's teeth!" Howl cursed, ripping one hand away from the rose. Though he had been careful, the thorns nicked him, managing to squeeze three pearl-shaped drops from his finger. One trickled down his palm, another fell to the ground, and the last dripped on Sophie's shoulder, blotting the blue fabric of her dress in a shape of a three-petaled blood-red rose. Then to himself, he muttered, "Of all the foolish things to do – I've just hung my own noose. She's bound to come running for me, now."
He gave an apologetic smile when Sophie glanced up to look at him. "The pains I take for you," he drawled. "Your twig's a tricky one – seems it doesn't want to come out. I may have to coax it out with some magic."
"Howl," she said, as she suddenly recalled something she'd been meaning to ask him.
"Hmm?" he asked absently, concentrating on finding the rose's source of power. He deftly moved his fingers, careful to avoid the blood-lusting thorns.
"What does 'cariad' mean?"
She glanced at him, in time to see his usually composed face turn an embarrassed shade of pink. "Oh – er – it's nothing really," he said airily. "Just some Welsh term I picked up here and there."
"Don't you speak Welsh fluently?"
"Of course. I wouldn't be much of a Welshman if I didn't – oh – it's – er – just a colloquial term – everyone uses it."
Oh. Sophie pursed her lips together and closed her eyes once more. She stifled a yawn, and returned to waiting patiently while Howl murmured above her hair.
"Okay," said a voice by her ear. "Brace yourself. I should be able to pull out the twig without much trouble."
She steadied herself by gripping Howl's shoulders, and gave a little nod for him to go ahead.
And then, she wished she hadn't. Hot spurts of pain shot through her scalp, as if someone had gripped her by her hair and was dangling her by it. She clenched her fists tightly, as the tears sprang to her eyes involuntarily, and acidic blood swirled into her mouth, having bitten the insides of her mouth. She gasped audibly, the stinging unbearable.
"Nearly there," Howl murmured encouragingly, but here his tone took on a peculiar tone, "I'll say that this twig is the most obstinate beastly thing I've ever had to deal with. Steady, annwyl. I'm nearly there."
She was too occupied with her burning scalp to ask what 'annwyl' meant.
"There we go," said Howl as he gave one final triumphant yank and the bloody rose came out in his hand.
Sophie screamed as the world turned upside down. Or at least, it appeared to. Vertigo took over, nausea uprooting all the contents in her stomach, and rocking on her feet, she fell forward.
He caught her, stumbling with the suddenness of her fall, and laid her gently out on the ground. "Sophie, what's the matter?" he asked, peering anxiously at her face.
His face was swimming before her eyes, and his voice sounded so far away. She felt tired, was tired. Every ache she had ever known flooded her body, and she felt . . . old. Ancient, shrunken . . . and defeated. Her eyes were lead weights, and all she wanted to do was to close them for eternity.
She heard Howl's sharp intake of breath. "Sophie!" He sounded angry – extremely angry as he hadn't even bothered to disguise his anger with impartiality. "Sophie," he said again, resisting the impulse to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. "What have you done to yourself?"
"The Witch . . ." she croaked, aware that every movement shot another spurt of pain through her body.
"Nonsense," Howl dismissed. His eyes clouded over, and he looked very stern and grave. "Sophie, what have you done to yourself? This isn't entirely the Witch's doing. I very nearly dismantled her spell – which you were right about – she intended to strip you of your magic – and these shouldn't be the after effects . . ." then his tone turned outraged as realization dawned on him: "You did magic!"
She wanted to disagree, but twisting her head was too much work. She allowed her head to flop down and flop upright again. It was true after all. She had even known that there would be some sort of consequence of repairing herself constantly. And here was the result. All the tiredness, the bumps and bruises, the head cold – they were coming back to drain her fully.
His face was blurring by the second, but she could see disapproval stamped all over his body. His arms were crossed over his chest, the loose sleeves nearly touching the ground, his eyes had gone so dark a green they were nearly black, and the corners of his mouth tilted downward in a large frown. And suddenly, Sophie wished for the world that she could keep him from frowning. But her tongue wasn't behaving properly, and there was a faint roaring in her ears. Another wave of nausea washed over her. She hoped she wouldn't throw up all over Howl.
"And that's not the only thing," he continued, disapproval still in his voice, though this time, it wasn't aimed at her. "I sense the Witch's hand on you in more ways than that. I suspect she's up to something – though I'd be suspicious if she weren't."
Howl pushed back his large triangular sleeves as he concentrated, no doubt searching for a counter spell.
Something winked at her through the haziness of her vision. Sophie struggled to clear her eyes, and focused on the source of the glinting about Howl's wrists. The blurriness lapsed for a mere moment, but enough for her to confirm her suspicions. She caught her breath, as the image burned itself into her mind. Silver chains so fine they were nearly transparent were looped over slender hands.
And a familiar crooning was slowly getting louder in the distance.
She could hear Howl swear in Welsh, and then he bent over her again. *"Sophie . . . cariad . . . annwyl – if this were any other time . . . I – I haven't much time. That old toad is coming for me. I'm so sorry – you stay alright, you hear me? I –" He gave up talking with a sigh of frustration, as the eerie crooning crept closer and closer.
The blackness was taking her over. It had already consumed Howl's form, and she was struggling to hear the words he uttered. The roaring in her ears threatened to drown all other noise. Dying, Sophie thought hazily, wasn't so bad. The process sounded, rather, like the Porthaven waves at high tide, crashing and churning and foaming at the mouth.
And before the roaring din completely dragged her under, she felt twin brushes across both of her eyelids, and then the lightest touch across her lips, followed by . . . nothing. He was gone. Through the cacophony of crooning and roaring, she distinctly heard the tinkle of glass – or ice – cracking.
And then she lost total consciousness.
***
*This is supposed to be read as "Sophie . . . sweetheart . . . darling" – thus, cariad means sweetheart or darling, and annwyl just means darling. Perhaps, this could be thought of as redundant – but I personally like it. It's the way some people say to each other, "Honey . . . sugar . . . baby" – even though it all basically means the same thing.
***
Wow, I am finally done. This is the chapter that I have promised nearly four times over, and it kept on getting pushed further back into the story. And it's my longest chapter yet! 12 PAGES!!! And it probably will raise the most questions – because, it doesn't make sense! Yet . . . but everything will be explained by the time I get to the last chapter (which I hope will be 21 – since HMC and CitA were both 21 chapters long too.)
LOL – anyway, I had a lot of fun (and possibly even more trouble with this chapter – fluff is hard to write without sounding too sappy – and it was the fluff that stumped me. And the fact that I wrote three pages of this chapter way back when in my notebook – and I had to find a way to figure it into the plot . . . ."
Reviews are greatly appreciated! And of course, they always make my day, and I'm specifically interested which parts interested you . . . so please mention that in the review!
Lastly, Caudex decided to lend proof of the boring life she lead (Heehee), and decided to calculate Howl's exact birth date in accordance to when the book was published: "Allowing for leap years and using the copyright date on the book (1986) as the date of the setting, Howl was born on February 3, 1959."
Now isn't that a cheery thought? (meant in a sarcastic tone)
Our darling Howl is nearly as old as our parents! LOL – but of course, Howl will always be Howl – immortal, if you will.
Until the next chapter,
Calcifersgrl