Sinope's Fiction: Hearts Change

Title: Hearts Change
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sophie/Howl, Sophie/Prince
Summary: One thing you can count on is that hearts change.
Author's notes: Based on movie canon.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

One thing you can count on is that hearts change. - Prince Turnip

"I'm so glad you decided to come," the Prince says, and he meets Sophie's eyes and smiles. He's dressed all in gold, and the chairs and table sparkle with gold, and the morning light splashing across the pristine marble floor tints it gold.

Sophie feels very plain, but the Prince's eyes are kind, and she can feel Howl's presence like shadowed alabaster at her back. "Thank you for inviting us," she says, with a slight curtsey. "I'm sure you're awfully busy these days, setting everything back in order."

"Oh, it's not too bad," he says, shrugging carelessly, and he gestures to the three place settings on a table that could seat thirty. "Do sit down; I've got advisors to take care of the hard work for me, so I can spend my time greeting guests." He gestures to a servant near the closest chair, but a whisper of cool air brushes past her, and the chair shifts out to welcome her just before the servant can reach it.

Sophie glances back over her shoulder, and sees Howl watching her, amused. He brushes his fingers against her back, nudging her toward the chair, and the brief touch burns her like a fire-demon. She sits down carefully and hopes that neither of them notice her shivering.

Servants dance around them, depositing graceful trays of sandwiches and pouring tea into gold-rimmed porcelain teacups. Sophie looks into her tea and watches the sunlight dance in amber ripples; they remind her of tawny wheat, swaying in an autumn wind. She makes a mental note to tell Howl to take her the harvest fields, one day.

When she looks up, the two men are discussing business - politics, laws, all the things that make Sophie feel irrelevant and rather small. Her hands play with the fabric of her dress - nothing but the finest silk, Howl now insists - and she tries to figure out whether the wet, salty fish in her sandwich is raw, and whether that's quite safe.

Eventually she notices something strange: every so often, the Prince's eyes will flicker over to her - not as if he expects her to speak, but as if he never wants to stop watching her, as if he's afraid of her. She avoids his gaze and watches Howl instead. His gestures seem so fluid that, even when discussing the redeployment of artillery machines, he looks like he's casting spells. Then Sophie realizes that she's staring, and she looks back at her curious pink sandwich, sure that the Prince caught her watching and wondering why she ought to feel guilty even if he did.

Before they leave, the Prince reaches into a fold of his jacket and hands Sophie a clockwork goldfinch, glittering with filigree and yellow sapphires. "It's not magic," he tells her, "but if you put a message in its beak, it can find its way back to me from anywhere in this world." Their eyes meet again, and Sophie feels strangely like the Prince is telling her a great secret.

"Thank you," she says. Then she takes Howl's hand and they fly out of the courtyard, out of this world altogether. The whole journey, she never thinks to look backward.

This is what Sophie never says or even crystallizes into thought during their visit: last night, I had sex with Howl. The words seem too crude to be true; they seem too ugly to connect either with today's tinkling of porcelain on gilt or with the feathery touch of Howl's fingers last night, his exploration of a body that no one else had ever approached.

What is true and real is the warmth of his sunlight-infused wings around her as they fly home, the scent of clouds and childhood dreams that clings to him and bathes her in memories of last night. When they alight at the castle, he pulls her into a hidden balcony and clutches her to himself, devouring her in a kiss that tastes of oxygen and wind.

Sophie's never asked Howl how many other women he's been with, and although she's never told him that he's her only one, she's sure that he can tell. Her kisses feel awkward, tentative; she gasps, startled, when she feels his hardness through her layers of petticoats. More startling still is the implication: he wants her, loves her, finds her attractive.

Sophie does not resist when he picks her up in her arms and carries her to his bedroom, and she never breaks her gaze into his fathomless blue eyes. She cranes her head up for another kiss as he locks the door.

In the market the next day, she goes shopping by herself. Howl's offered to join her, of course, but she always tells him that he's the last person she'd expect to know the difference between apples a day old and a month old. In truth, these mornings are the only real time she has to herself, the only chance she has to live in the world of the ordinary-looking and unmagical. She can feel the weight of the clockwork goldfinch in her pocket, swaying rhythmically against her thigh as she walks.

As the sun rises higher she stops by the fountain in the market square, splashing water on her face and drinking it with cupped hands. She pulls out the goldfinch and examines it; the metal reflects the midday sun, nearly blinding her until she shades it in a fold of her skirt. The bird's eyes peer at her, blank metallic beads, and the wings are covered with incised scales that recall but do not replicate feathers. Turning the bird over, Sophie can see its switch, a flat, notched disk of copper. Without hesitation, she turns the disk.

The bird hops upright, tilts its head toward her, and emits a long chirpy trill. It hops up the palm of her hand, balancing on her wrists, and Sophie laughs and thinks that its mechanical precision only seems to make it more bird-like. She strokes the finch's head, and its twittering calms down to a low, contented patter. "You're awfully cute," she says. "I wonder - do you have a name?" Then she pauses. "But maybe it wouldn't be fair if you had a name and the Prince didn't. I'd like to know his real name, but it seems rather rude to ask at this point, don't you think?"

The bird twitches its beak in a gesture that could mean either "no" or "yes," making Sophie giggle again. "I feel like I should give you a message for the Prince, now that I've figured out how to turn you on, but I haven't anything to send him. Would you like to help me shop instead?" She half expects the bird to speak, but instead, it hops and flutters up onto her shoulder for an answer.

Shopping for three never takes terribly long, but the slight, shifting weight on her shoulder seems to make everything fly by more quickly. Once Sophie's basket is full, she gently offers her hand to the goldfinch and brings him back into her lap. "I'm afraid you'll have to go off for now, but I'll turn you on later, I promise." Smiling fondly, she turns the bird off and sets off for the castle.

Somehow, she forgets to tell Howl about the bird at all.

There was one time when Howl flew with her to the top of one of the Waste's mountains, shifting back into his human body and floating a hundred feet above the rocky crags. The wind there felt icy and cruel, but Howl's body burned against her own, and his lips seared a path over her face.

His fingers, unnaturally hot, burrowed their way into her clothing, and Sophie felt herself gasping for breath in the thin air, arching herself into him and shivering. Howl was slow but hungry that day. When he pulled her knickers down, they whipped off in a shift of the air, and Howl laughed at the disappearing white flutter and thrust himself into her. Sophie closed her eyes and spun gently in the wind with Howl. Up and down disappeared; earth was Howl's body, grounding and surrounding her, and the only sky was the shallow air that she inhaled and exhaled, whimpering in joy.

"You," she said, trembling. "You." Always vanished into the wind and receded into now.

A month has passed before Sophie knows what to write. "Hello," she begins, and then "Thank you for your gift." Her pen scritches unsteadily against the heavy paper.

"I am sorry that I have not written you yet. Howl has kept me very busy as we are building a new castle and he is trying to teach me magic. I am afraid that I am not as clever at magic as Howl is, but yesterday I made a violet light appear above my hand. Magic feels beautiful. Do you know the feeling you get when a storm cloud starts to cover the sky, and suddenly a cold wind sweeps down from nowhere, and you hear the sky rumble very very deep somewhere far away? That is how magic feels to me, except mixed with the most colorful rainbow you can imagine."

She realizes, then, that a rich and powerful prince probably cares nothing about the studies of a dull girl, and she almost crumples the paper up to feed to Calcifer. Prince-worthy paper isn't cheap, though, and she's gone through enough parchment already. "I probably sound entirely boring and silly, but I am glad that you are reading this. I hope that you are well. I miss having my faithful Turniphead around. Please write back, if you are not too busy."

Sophie pauses again before the close, but she finally settles for "Sincerely yours, Sophie."

After she writes the words, she pauses and bites her lip, wondering whether he'd misunderstand the word "yours." More because her fingers are numb than because she knows, she seals the letter resolutely and slips it into the goldfinch's beak.

The next morning, Sophie hears the bird twittering outside the sea-village window, tapping impatiently on the glass. The crisply folded paper in his beak is an invitation: dinner with the Prince, that evening, with transportation provided by the Prince's own carriage.

When seven o'clock comes - and Howl still hasn't returned from some magical realm - Sophie discovers that she likes the Prince's garden better than his dining room. They eat dinner in white wicker chairs, the Prince's cat twining around their legs, and servants gradually light torches as the sunlight fades. Sophie talks about exploring the lands that Howl shows her, about the little household spells that she's beginning to master. The Prince listens and smiles.

Just as the sun rests against the horizon, the Prince leans closer toward Sophie, his eyes gleaming with gathered light. His hand moves toward her braid. "May I?" he says, and Sophie nods. He gently touches her braid with two fingers, stroking downward until they tease through the strands coming out the end.

"I loved your hair when it was silver," the Prince says softly. "Each strand seemed to capture the clouds, the rivers, the summer rains. I used to imagine the moonlight on your hair as you slept." He closes his eyes hard, blinking, and sits up again. "Forgive me, Sophie. Sometimes it's difficult."

"What's difficult?" Sophie says, and she knows she's only asking because some awful part of her wants to hear him say it.

By the time the Prince answers, the sun is gone, and his eyes hide behind pooling shadows. "It's difficult to love you so much. It's difficult, knowing that the only way I'll be with you is to hurt you, to take you away from the one you love. And I couldn't do that, Sophie. That's what's difficult."

Sophie wraps her arms around herself and looks downward. In some other world, she thinks, right now she would lean over and kiss the Prince and tell him that hearts do change. Instead, she says, "I'm sorry."

The Prince shakes his head. "No, I am." They both look away, watching the servants light more torches, and neither speaks for several minutes.

"Maybe if -" Sophie begins, just as the Prince laughs lightly and pushes himself back from the table.

"Things seemed so much simpler when I was a mute scarecrow. I never realized how little words meant until they were taken away." He rises from his chair and offers her a hand; once she's standing beside him, uncertain of what to say, he clasps her hand between his. "Enjoy your time with Howl. If you ever - if you need anything, you know how to tell me."

Only then does Sophie know what to do. She steps forward and hugs the Prince fiercely, and she feels her heart burning, torn between gratitude and the inability to repay him. "Thank you," she says into his shoulder, and as she pulls away, she's conscious for the first time of his scent: pure, refined warmth, like sand at high noon.

"Thank you," she repeats, and she turns back toward the castle doors. Sophie says little more as the Prince escorts her to the carriage home.

Howl asks her where she spent her evening, that night, and Sophie answers truthfully, shivering where his fingers cup her breasts possessively. Once she's done telling him, Howl hovers above her, eyes intent on her face. Sophie realizes suddenly that he's watching her like she watched the setting sun: memorizing each feature before it disappeared.

"I'm glad to be here with you," she says, and she knows that neither of them needs her to add the words for now.

finis.