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Sophie woke up in a cold sweat.
She heard Calcifer stir at the sound of her gasping awake, and tried to catch her breath. She remained still, listening to see if she’d woken Michael up. The soft snores just up the steps told her she didn't.
For three days, she'd failed to sleep through the night with Howl gone. Even in sleep, her mind created twisted scenarios of what-ifs.
What if he doesn't return because he thinks it's best for everyone? What if everyone keeps asking him to be something until there’s nothing left?
She was too stubborn to admit it, but she worried for Howl. Everytime he went out to fight in the war, dark thoughts plagued her mind. Every time the Witch threatened his family and she watched as he tried so hard to keep that practiced smile on his face, it made her uneasy.
She sat there glaring at the cobwebs that clung to the curtains draped around her too small bed, despite her just dusting that day. She’s not sure how long she let the thoughts spiral in her mind, but she came to when the soft click of the castle door sounded.
She heard Calcifer start to grumble, once again woken up by Howl's late arrival. His whines were cut short, replaced by the sound of an alert crackle.
Sophie peeked through the small slit of the curtains and watched the silhouette of Howl take slow, deliberate steps towards the hearth. It was hard to see, but she could tell he was still in partial bird form. His wings dragged on the floor where his arms should have been, his hair dark and feathered instead of the usual radiant blonde.
“Whew. You okay?” Calcifer asked, concern laced in his tone. “I mean, you smell terrible.”
Howl only groaned, thumping into a wooden chair across from Calcifer. He braced himself to return to his form, to be human again. His shoulders curled inwards and his breath came out in shallow pants. He managed to retract most of his feathers back into his skin, getting his arms and feet back, but he didn't have the strength to be completely normal.
“You shouldn't keep flying around like that,” Calcifer said softly. “You know what will happen.”
He shifted in his hearth, going to the edge and picking up a few logs. “Isn’t this great? Sophie put these here for me.” He looked up at Howl expectantly, but he only sat there in a daze, trying to sort through his thoughts.
“This war is terrible. They’ve bombed from the Southern coast to the Northern border,” he said, his voice was heavy with exhaustion. “It's all in flames now.”
“I can’t stand all this brutality,” Calcifer said, fighting to keep a hushed tone. “Those dopes have absolutely no manners.”
Howl let out a dry laugh. “My own kind attacked me today.”
Calcifer paused on the log he was eating. “The Witch of the Waste?”
Howl shook his head, unsettled by the comparison to her. “No. Some hack wizards who turned themselves into monsters for the King.” He set his elbows on his knees, preparing to stand. He didn’t want to be down here for long.
“They’re going to regret doing that. They’ll never change back into humans,” Calcifer murmured.
Howl turned his head in the direction of Sophie’s bed. For a moment she thought he knew she was snooping, but he answered Calcifer, his eyes still in her direction.
“After the war, they won’t ever recall they were human,” he said in a gruff voice.
She wondered if there was a reason he said that in her direction.
“Hey, aren't you supposed to report to the King–”
“I’m tired,” Howl said, stiffly standing. He briefly swayed on his feet before staggering his way to her bed. “Make some hot water for my bath.”
She quickly shut her eyes, feigning sleep as Calcifer let out a string of worried complaints. Why was he coming her way?
The dim light of Calcifer casted a soft glow over her features as Howl slightly pulled back the velvet curtain. She felt his eyes roaming over her for a reason she couldn't quite place. She could hear his uneven breathing, and could practically feel the exhaustion rolling off him in waves.
She wanted to reach out to him, make him tell her what was on his mind, but she didn't know if that was the best thing for him right now. She did know he needed rest, desperately.
He made himself scarce, stumbling up the steps. Only when she heard the rush of the water did she stand.
“Ah,” Calcifer said glumly. “Should have known Mrs. Nose was listening.”
She ignored his backhanded comment and kept her gaze on the steps. “Why does he keep fighting if it's killing him?”
Calcifer only retreated back under his logs, not giving away what he knew.
“Fine,” she huffed, heading for the stairs.
“I wouldn't,” Calcifer warned. “He doesn't like people seeing him like that.”
She didn’t let that stop her. She didn’t care if he was a hideous monster. She didn't care if he was dangerous. She cared for his feelings, his mental wellbeing. He was taking it too far. And for what? For some measly King that wouldn’t even listen to what his people had to say about this warfare?
She gnawed on her lip as she ascended, avoiding the spots of some essence Howl must have left behind in his fading state. She sighed knowing there was more cleaning to be done in the morning.
She hardly noticed the way her body was no longer stiff or achy. Or that her red-gold hair fell healthily around her shoulders.
Her only focus was getting to Howl.
Her heart raced as she paused at the bathroom door. She was slightly unnerved, afraid of what she’d find. Not physically.
She knew he needed something besides his own shame. But was she the wrong answer?
She quietly cracked open the door, the water was still running, billowing steam from its stream. There were a few dim candles lit in the corners of the room, casting odd shadows around.
Howl was already in the water, facing away from her. He was pale and slumped against the back of the tub. As she got closer she realized he had only taken his shirt off before he decided to climb in. His trousers hung low on his hips as if he tried to get them off but didn't have enough energy for it.
“Howl..” Sophie said softly.
He stiffened and shot up, his shoulders sagged and he bowed his head low so that his hair fell in front of his face. A few black feathers still poked randomly through his hair, along his back.
“You don’t need to be in here.” His usual bantering tone was gone, replaced with something rough and cold.
She took a step closer.
“Sophie,” he exhaled sharply. “I can manage.”
She folded her arms, her stubbornness attempting to make an appearance. “You always say that.” She eyed the way his body was trembling. It was more than she could take. She stepped up to the tub, close enough that it would be an effort to turn away, and kneeled. “You’re shaking.”
“Don’t look at me,” he paused. “..Please.”
“I’m not.” She adjusted the tap on the faucet. To prove her small lie. “I’m looking at the water. It’s entirely too hot.”
It was. The steam rolling off the water hit her face, slightly pinkening her cheeks. She wasn’t sure how he was sitting in this.
She was never good at comforting others, she couldn’t even comfort herself when needed. If Lettie or Martha were ever upset, she’d sit there and hold them. She’d rock them back and forth and tell them not to fret, that one day a prince would make them their wife.
She doubted that's what Howl wanted…at this moment.
Physical touch, however.
She gently took his chin in her hand making him turn her way. He resisted slightly, but gave in as his muscles were too spent.
She could see his face easily in this light. His eyes were void of its usual mischief, deep set shadows under them, his cheeks hollowed from the lack of food. Dirt and feathers interfered with his porcelain skin. And he just looked so tired.
But when he saw her, the little mouse with red-gold hair he met in Market Chipping, his eyes softened ever so slightly, and his head hung heavily in her hand.
“Let me help you,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything, but gave a single, slow nod of permission.
She stood, gathering the softest washcloths she could find as well as the bottles of his favorite hair and body wash, double-checking she grabbed the correct ones, before making her way over to him and kneeling again. She drew her sleeves up so they wouldn't get wet and turned off the faucet once the tub was almost filled to the brim.
She poured some hair wash onto her open hand. The scent of hyacinthe invaded her senses.
“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” she said softly.
He only briefly nodded, still avoiding her gaze.
She started on his hair, gently plucking out any feathers that weren't attached and just idled in there
He flinched when she started to massage the suds through his hair. Not sharply, just enough to tell her he wasn’t used to such intimacy, especially this soon out of bird form. She watched the ash drip down his back and stain the water. She made sure to wash his head twice, removing any tangles, and rinsed until the familiar blond shine appeared.
She moved down to his shoulders and chest in careful strokes.
The more dirt she washed away, the more visible the scars became.
There weren’t many and none too harsh. Only thin white lines just under his collarbone, dancing along his upper arms. Such small markings that told such a long story. One of childhood devilment, but also of war and aggression.
She took a washcloth and patted gently, letting the soapy water soak his skin before continuing scrubbing.
He groaned when she went over a few sore spots, which she was sure to be extra careful around.
She made her way down his arms, a few loose feathers falling into the clouded water. Bubbles had started to rise and she hoped it was aiding toward relaxation.
His silence added to her worry. He was so…vulnerable, so unlike himself. He wasn’t trying to charm her with a dazzling smile, wasn’t boasting dramatically about his magic. He wasn’t even flirting, despite the intimate situation they were in. She didn’t think she could count on one hand how many times he’d asked her to join him in a bath.
This was nothing like that. No, she took his merciless teasing for granted.
She wanted it back.
She reached his hands, which were the worst. They were still shaking and coated in grime and ash. She used a different washcloth for this, getting under his nails and between his fingers.
She felt his eyes on her, watching her intently, searching for something. She breathed slowly, furrowing her brows to make herself focus on the task at hand, trying to ignore the pool of nerves in her belly from his intense gaze.
She took her time, softly squeezing his slender fingers between the cloth.
When she finished, she finally met his eye. Still exhausted, dark, but his skin had got some color back.
He exhaled, shaky and quick. “I hate coming back like this.”
She swallowed, ringing out the rag. “I know.” She leaned an elbow against the rim of the vat. “Do you want me to leave so you can finish up?”
He looked down, running an unsteady hand along the top of the water. “No.”
“Okay.”
He lowered himself further into the water, fumbling for the rest of the buttons on his pants.
Before she could think twice, she grabbed his arm, stopping him.
He looked over at her, a small crease in between his brows. She paused, keeping her eyes on the hand wrapped around his arm. She didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but she also didn't want him to overexert himself more than he already had. She could still feel him shaking under her hand.
She slowly dragged her eyes up to his, letting him see her silent question.
For a moment it was only the sound of their uneven breathing.
He rested his arms back on the rim.
She reached down into the hot water and pulled his sopping trousers down his legs and set them on the side of the tub, all the while keeping her gaze somewhere on the ceiling.
She could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch imperceptibly.
Her stomach flipped at the sudden hope, her Howl surfacing for a heartbeat.
Her Howl.
Those two words danced around her head, making her slightly dizzy.
After momentarily turning away so he could clean himself, she had him lie his head back.
She gently wiped his face clean, his porcelain skin now free of feathers and soot. She was happy to see it. If he’d been in a better state of mind, he might have thrown another tantrum at the sight of how filthy he was.
The next few moments passed in silence. He was still stiff and she was certain his ribs were starting to bruise, but he was okay. That was all that mattered.
She’d done her part. She pushed to her feet, meaning to clean up and leave him to himself, but he stopped her. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm—far stronger than she’d expected from him in that state.
His face was slightly scrunched, his eyes still closed. She raised a brow. It seemed he was still capable of drama.
“Stay..” he whispered.
And so she did.
She leaned on the side of the tub, resting her forehead on his wet shoulder, listening to the sound of his breathing slowly even out.
That was enough.
In the morning, he came barreling down the stairs while she folded laundry, all brightness and flair, his usual glowing, obnoxiously dramatic self. She rolled her eyes and said nothing.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from wondering how often that version of him was something he forced into place, a mask worn for everyone else.
His gaze caught hers as he headed for the door, off to God only knew where. The moment stretched. She caught the thank-you in his eyes before he slipped out the door behind him.
They shared something last night. What did it mean for them?
What did she want it to mean?