talkstohats | (no subject)

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The heat spell wears off a few minutes before Sophie manages to make it back to the oak grove; she starts, and then gives up edging around the perimeter, cutting her way rapidly back through the center of the camp. A bored page throws a pot at her, and she jumps aside before she can think about it, hair standing on end.

She runs the rest of the way to the hut, and she's panting a little when she reaches it. There are a pair of Strangian soldiers smoking cigars and bragging about the assets of their respective girls leaning against the wall. If Sophie were in her own shape, she'd surely be blushing. As it is, she tries not to listen and slinks her way inside, looking for Howl.

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[It's two weeks longer than we might have had, my dear. And you're right; any sensible person wouldn't want to fight. But that's why armies are full of the senseless and those without a choice.]

Really, he disapproves of this whole business in its entirety and it shows; his ears droop, his eyes are cast to the ground although that might be to study the rather interesting centipede crawling by in front of him.

That, he knows, is the occupational hazard of this form. Dogs are easily distracted where cats can be purposeful and brilliant for hours.

[Shall we go home and let His Highness know his time is limited?]

There's the small matter of retrieving the seven-league boots, of course, but he can manage that readily enough.

Sophie pushes all the boys in the army without a choice - and all the armor enchanted for Ingarian soldiers, all the swords bespelled to strike extra-hard that Howl's been working on - out of her mind, concentrating instead on the problem at hand.

[Not like this, surely. It's leagues and leagues to Ingary - we'll have to go get the boots back.]

She stops, blinking at him. [Can four-legged creatures wear seven-league boots?]

[No, cariad, they can't. Unless perhaps they've got rather larger feet than us and can stand upright.] He's going to have to do the thing she's forbidden him from trying: he's already incurred her wrath and will just have to do it again.

Sitting up, he gives her a little canine nod. [We'll have to do it my way.]

They've but one pair of boots between them; it's not how he'd choose to go home but at least this way they'll both get there safely. He shifts swiftly from dog to human, still in the Strangian officer's uniform he wore earlier.

"I know you're not going to be happy about this, Sophie, but I've got no choice." Strictly speaking, one always has a choice and if he acknowledges it that way, he'll simply say he's chosen what's best for both of them as well as for Ingary. Before she can even protest he picks her up and tucks her into the waist of his jacket.

"Now we can get those boots. So long as you stay right here in my arms, I won't lose you. And nobody will question an officer picking up a suspicious-looking pair of boots."

Like it or not, she'll have to admit he's got both a point and a plan. Next time, though, he thinks he'll turn her into an animal whose claws aren't quite so sharp.

If Howl could understand her, she could raise a storm of protests: for example, no one might question an officer picking up a pair of boots, but what about an officer whose front jacket is squirming around? Try as she might, she's not going to be able to stay entirely still.

. . . besides the fact that the aforementioned boots look more like squashed buckets than footwear at the best of times. Someone might well decide to apprehend Howl for destruction of Strangian army property.

And being carried in this format is not only undignified, but really extremely uncomfortable.

But she can't vocalize any of this, so she does the next-best thing.

The scratches won't go that deep. And the moral of the story: it's dangerous to trade your betrothed's vocal chords for claws.

"Strays," he says to a passing soldier as he cradles Sophie against him. "Can't have flea-ridden cats infiltrating the camp."

For his small talk, he gets another dig to the stomach: he understands what Sophie's doing, but does she have to be quite so... pointed about it? He's trying to keep her safe. There will be discussion about it once they get home, if he doesn't lose half his blood in the meantime.

But he ignores the claws digging into his midsection as best he can and manages a grim smile to the soldier. "I heard a report of some suspicious-looking items near the camp. I'd best be on my way to take care of that. One can never be too cautious this close to the border, soldier. At ease." With a small salute, he picks his way through the rubble and grasses towards the stream. Luckily, the boots and cloak are still there.

"Stop that, Sophie. I mean it. I'm going to get us home and I need you to hang on. You know what it's like to travel by Seven-League Boots."

It's tough enough having both hands at one's disposal for balance, but when one's both bleeding and clutching an annoyed cat... well. It will all iron out in the wash; he steps behind a tree and puts first his right foot then his left into the boots, and he's off with a bit more grace than Sophie when she was wearing them.

To be fair, he did create them, and he's got a far sight more experience with them than she does. When they finally come to a halt near their flower garden, he teeters for a moment, steps out of the boots, and lets go of Sophie.

"Stay right there. Don't move a single whisker, and I mean it." There's no joking around now; he readies the cloak she wore as a disguise and summons the proper magic. A small storm rolls in and there's a flash of something akin to lightning; as soon as it dissipates and her form starts to shift, he throws the cloak round Sophie.

It's different turning someone else into an animal. On the reverse, they sometimes lose their clothing.

"Now. I believe you had something to say about my methodology?"

Sophie might have been tempted to leave the score at even . . . if it hadn't been for that last little trick. She clutches the cloak around herself, nearly spitting with anger even despite the fact that she's no longer a feline.

She almost wishes she still had claws - this is the final straw! "Of all the arrogant, high-handed - you deserved every scratch you got!" she snaps, "and I wish it had been more. Turning people back and forth and carrying them about and vanishing their clothes without a word of warning - you're as bad as the Witch!"

She storms off towards the door, cloak swirling around her ankles, and then turns back around, too angry even to manage the dramatic exit. "And you know perfectly well you only need one seven-league boot to travel! If you ever try a stunt like that again, war or not, I'll - I'll charm all your suits to give you hives!"

"Fine!" He shouts it at her retreating form as if the flowers had no ears, as if there were no one else at the edge of the waste, as if Michael can't hear them. "Next time I'll shift you back in front of the Strangian army without the benefit of a cloak and let you travel back naked but for one boot."

That should stop her chasing after him, at any rate, should the king send him out on another reconnaissance mission.

She should have trusted him.

She should have stayed here in the first place.

And now he's got to get out of this soldier's outfit and get to Kingsbury to report to the king. What started out as a lovely dinner with the woman who stole his heart has ended up as something far less stellar. It's with a heavy heart that he tears off the Strangian officer's hat and jacket and moves towards the door of his own castle, which doesn't feel so very much like his own any more.

Things were definitely easier when Calcifer was in charge of his heart.

Sophie's only reply is an extra-loud stomp over the floor of the castle as she heads towards her own small room to put on some clothing.

She's furious at Howl, but she's just as furious at herself. What a fool you are, Sophie! she tells herself bitterly, but she doesn't know quite what she feels the most foolish about: going on a mission without any sort of plan; starting a serious fight with the person she loves; or believing for a minute that Howl might see her as a partner instead of, at best, an endearing little liability.

Whatever is the greatest piece of foolishness, it's without question the last that stings the most.

He knows Sophie has a hot temper; he loves her for it. He knows she's single-minded; he loves her for it. He knows she's got an unflinching desire to be included; he loves her for it. He knows he's the best-equipped at stealth missions. She doesn't love him for that.

Saddened, he walks into the castle, makes his way upstairs to change clothes quickly, and heads back down. He pauses for a very long minute outside the closed (and he assumes locked) door to Sophie's room, feeling a mixture of anger and a great, heavy sorrow.

He doesn't knock at it, however. Instead, he simply turns the castle's front doorknob to red-down, opens it, and walks through. As the lush streets of Kingsbury gleam in the mid-day sunlight, the door closes behind him with a quiet click. Tiny spots of blood seep through the stomach of his white silk shirt as he walks heavily through the streets towards the castle.

No one dares disturb him.

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