Hello, readers of Fanfiction! This has taken years to accomplish, but I have finally decided to write a third fanfiction for my Howl's Moving Castle series. If you have not read the first two, I highly recommend you read Thorns of a Rose followed by A Heart in Flames. This story won't make as much sense without reading the first two.
Book 1: Thorns of a Rose (18 chapters - will be in revision around June/July 2021)
Book 2: A Heart in Flames (39 chapters - will be in revision around July/August 2021)
Book 3: The Fallen Star (in-progress - expected around 45 chapters - will be in revision around December 2021)
I got a lot of readers asking me to write a third book, and I have to be honest I was hesitant. Personally, I'm not a fan of sequels unless the story is really, really great. I've read and watched horrible sequels and I didn't want to do that to Howl's Moving Castle. However, I guess a lot of people really liked it, so here we are. Book 3 and the final one for Howl's Moving Castle for me.
I hope you all enjoy it. I will be slow to updating because I have a big kid job (strange: I started this series when I was 18 and going into college for the first time. Now I'm an adult and I just want to go back in time), but I never abandon a story. I can promise you that.
So, without going into too much detail, please enjoy The Fallen Star.
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING FROM HOWL'S MOVING CASTLE, DIANNE WYNNE JONES, OR STUDIO GHIBLI.
He remembered the days when he didn't need sleep to live. Those days seemed so far gone now, a distant memory in the plethora of his mind. He had had all the time in the world to find rest before, to ease the burden of his conscience. Yet now, when he needed a restful sleep the most, his human body wouldn't commit.
He thought that was called irony. Maybe it was karma. Maybe both.
Sleep, he thought. Just go to sleep and you'll feel better in the morning. He desperately needed to rest. Even just a couple hours would be fine. It was a mystery to him why his body insisted on keeping awake and staying alert these past few weeks. He was starting to forget what it felt like to be completely well-rested. He didn't like it. Not one bit.
Trying a new position might have helped, but then he noticed a strain in his neck, which required that he adjust the formation of his pillow. He firmly gouged his elbow into the mattress as he plumped and pressed the pillow until it was in perfect harmony. He smoothed the top, hoping this would make it feel like a soft cloud or a bed of feathers. Anything to relieve the feeling of exhaustion that taunted him.
Slowly, almost with a certain caution or wariness of his success, he tested the new position. When his cheek met the lukewarm pillow, rather than the slight chill he had hoped for, he exhaled a deeply unsatisfying breath.
In an instance of brief rage, he flung the pillow against the curtain that covered the window. The yellow and purple flower prints swayed back and forth, gently displaying the rising stream of a bright orange light over the horizon. Sunrise. It was about time to abandon all hope of any slumber.
With slow and steady movements, he crept out of bed so as not to awaken the lethargic woman next to him. She hardly moved in her sleep - she always held her pillow the same way, though, clutching onto it like she was falling in her dreams and that pillow was the only thing keeping her safe. Her legs curled up to her chest, and her breathing was labored.
He could only imagine the dreams that swept through her to make her appear so terrified. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could wake her, relieve her from the constant nightmares, but he'd rather she have bitter sleep than no sleep at all.
He straightened his side of the bed, stretching the quilt as far up and as far down as it would go. He would later come back when she had awakened to complete the other half. He preferred their bed looking organized, but not a typical kind of organized. His kind of organized. She also didn't mind him taking care of most of the housework; it was a habit ingrained in his nature.
The only thought repeating itself in his mind - now that he was fully awake - was the enticing remembrance of coffee. He'd been warned of its addictive qualities, and only after a few times trying it, found himself drinking a cup almost daily. He thought eventually the taste would become tiresome and dull, yet each morning he still craved that rich, bolt of energy that came from a simple warm drink.
He made his way to the kitchen, everything set up perfectly in order. Kettle, a clean stovetop, and a jar of coffee grounds ready to be brewed. He arranged each item in its specific placement - poured several cups of water into the kettle, aligned the coffee filter filled with coffee grounds over the coffee cup, and inhaled an easy breath. His heart was already warming from the thought of a dark drink.
With a swift movement of his fingers, a spark of fire burst from his tips and quickly diminished. He blinked several times, confused by the lack of fire that should have been on the stovetop by now. He stared curiously at it, his eyebrows crinkled. This was odd; his power was usually heightened in the mornings. The spell was imprinted on his memory. It was the same spell he'd spoken every morning and every evening when preparing to cook.
And still, there was no fire.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep throwing him off. He inhaled a heavy breath, his heartbeat slightly elevated between his extended rib cage, and repeated the spell. With a quick motion of his fingers, this time he lit the stove. Then, his heartbeat relaxed.
The fire began to rise slowly until it grew into a heavy flame. He stared at the light, marveling its simplicity and remembering a time long past yet never forgotten.
Maybe these were the memories that arrested his desperate need for sleep.
But the coffee helped - at least, for the few hours of the morning until she awoke. Each day was the same. A perfect, consistent pattern. Aside from the endless nights awake he had endured recently, nothing had changed dramatically over the years, and that relieved his anxious soul to think about. She would wake, drink coffee at his side, and the day would continue as usual. A normal routine.
He stared out the glass window, viewing the bustling street below. Even this early in the morning, before the sun had fully awakened, people went along their business. Shopkeepers opened their stores along the ridged stone path; fishers docked their boats along the coast to take stock of their newest inventory; children ran and played on their way to the schoolhouse.
A faint smile rested on his face - this was normalcy. And he liked it.
A rough jangle startled him slightly and he turned his head toward the front door. Several small envelopes and a hefty cylinder of papers flooded through the small slit in the door. Perfect timing, he thought. He set his cup down and walked over to the door. There wasn't much in the mail today. A couple bills, a letter from his sister-in-law, the daily newspaper, and a strange envelope encased entirely in a deep violet color.
He stopped walking. This was not normal.
He expected the bills on the same day every month. That was normal.
His wife always wrote to her sister. Once a week, sometimes twice, they exchanged letters. That was normal.
They always received the newspaper every day except Sunday. That was normal.
This was an envelope with an unfamiliar seal on one side and scorch marks on the other - he hadn't seen scorch marks like these in several years since it was an ancient, dark magic that had been forgotten by many. The seal was firm, and the red wax was shaped in a symmetrical circle surrounding three shooting stars, yet these stars were not bound for the sky. They aimed for the ground.
Even still, it wasn't these that terrorized him from the inside out, but rather the fact that this unnamed sender had addressed this mysterious letter specifically to Calcifer Maguire - that was most definitely not normal.
His heartbeat quickened, like it was running up a mountain with no summit in sight. He swallowed hard as a profusion of fears dispersed within the constraints of his mind. He nearly dropped the entire stack of mail. His fingers shivered as if winter had suddenly struck him internally. No matter who sent him this letter - no matter what it said - he knew his perfect normal routine was severed.