A/n: About time since I did this. Since I'm an insatiable Studio Ghibli fan, here comes your oneshot on Howl's Moving Castle! Be warned, though, I strongly lean towards the movie rather than the book (and yes, I have read it) and I tend to interpret characters in my own fashion—including the period of time after the story comes to a close. I find this piece rather whimsical… So, here's hoping you enjoy. Inspired by the amazing soundtrack and a friend of mine on DA with just plain, everyday words; The Flower Garden and Merry Go Round of Life are my picks to listen to if you're interested. :3

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And About It Goes

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By MusicalSoul

All characters to their respective owners

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It was doubtful that the castle had ever been this clean in its entire lifetime; not that he minded, necessarily, but even though it had been a while since the castle itself had been restored to its rightful, clunky glory, he still found he could not get used to the sight of the orderliness that now reigned over the entire premises. Why, even the bathroom had become a foreign realm at one point! And if he was not a master of foreign realms, explorer of weird and wonderful lands, able to cope with the most bizarre and oddest of things, then he was not fit to be called a Wizard.

What a horrifying experience that had been: turning his beautiful hair that vile shade of orange-red—of course, there were times when he proclaimed that red was one of his favorite colors—but if he was not in the mood for the shade, then little could be done to stave off the sulking that used to come after. He had woken up deciding that today was a day for blue; and indeed, it certainly was an appropriate choice, for the sky was open and clear and grand today. Summer had swept over the fields with a vigor he had not seen before (or was it that he had not the ability to notice previously?), ushering the flowerbeds and saplings of spring into full fruition. It was difficult to think of a time when the flower garden had ever been so vibrant and outstanding in colors; splashes of different hues padded the ground and laced the edges of the lakes that dotted the valley.

In the midst of it all was the compact cottage with its humble little watermill, continuing its cyclical work. Be it a cloudy day, a spectacularly sunny one, or a marvelously miserable afternoon, the gentle sloshing of the water on water and traveling over wood was always present. It did not take long for him to understand that Sophie enjoyed being at the place; it seemed that the cottage had altered itself now that he no longer had to inhabit it alone in his free time. He remembered the crisply hot days, which, though not uncomfortable, were rather lonely and even sad: bittersweet would be the appropriate word to describe such a feeling. Once, when he was still too young to understand the intricacies of the world and impatience came quickly (not that he was any more patient now), he had pushed away all his tools for a good week, tiring of the symmetrical diagrams and their runes that spelled out magical incantations. It had been the summer before the one where Calcifer came to him in a rain of stars, and it was the last summer he recalled where he had looked upon the fields with some fondness.

Losing a heart was, contrary to what many believed, not that painful at all; receiving it was what pained the host the most. For when the heart leaves, it slips away like a quiet wraith into the night. Combustion and agony do not accompany its exit. There is only a momentary sting, an unpleasant tightening in the chest. And then that passes as well, leaving behind only a queer emptiness that does not seem either daunting or hindering. One did not lose the ability to 'like' or 'dislike,' or any strange notions such as those when giving up their heart. In fact, one might say that they intensify: the absence of something so subconsciously important strengthens those qualities. If one is robbed of the sensation and the capability to love, then what else is there left other than to like?

It was easy to say he liked a vase or a particular design; it was very easy to say he disliked Sophie's prying at the beginning of it all, but when he found himself considering that there should have been something more to what he thought about her, he was at a loss—and the Wizard Howl is hardly ever at a crossroads so confusing as a loss. He took it in his stride, as he did with all things, and was slightly unsettled when he realized he could not push this nagging feeling away. It grew and grew, and he could not decide if it was an irritating weed or a flower bud in need of nourishment.

He almost could not believe he was in possession of his heart once more; he had spent such a long time away from it that having it back was near to bewildering. But it was a kind, warm bewilderment, akin to that which one feels when a much-loved and familiar family member returns to the homestead and you know they are staying permanently. When he had opened his eyes amidst what was left of the wreckage of his home, he felt like he could breathe anew, as if a veil had been lifted from his gaze and thrown to the winds to be torn to tatters. She had been leaning over him, worry etched into her youthful face, and he had wondered what had concerned her so deeply. One part of him had been ridiculously occupied with the fact that her hair was short, and another had been shouting at him, screaming inquiries about the new burden placed upon his shoulders. Much of what happened after that awakening seemed like it had been plucked from a fairytale book, one with an author who rather enjoyed giving her characters righteous and fulfilling endings. He did not mind it in the least.

Sophie still insisted upon cleaning the dishes herself and keeping the castle under a strict regime of neatness. There was a calming property to the way she moved about, with confidence and lacking any sort of rushing or floundering. She was and (he had a feeling) she always would be a force to be reckoned with when it came to most anything. Her words had no need to be harsh or callous; the way she spoke excluded that requirement because it was steady and resolute, sturdy as rock and just as immovable. The young woman had wisdom and awareness beyond her years in her stare, and he had once told her that he suspected the curse had not been fully lifted yet, that the grandma she had been turned into still lurked somewhere within her. Sophie had only smiled slightly in reply, as if to tell him: She will always be here.

Sometimes, though, it was easy for the exterior to become quite boring; and, always the person for change, he exacted a sort of revenge for that by trying to break it in the subtlest way possible. He remembered a day when Sophie had been resolute upon going downtown to the market, since, according to her, Markl ate enough for two Sophies and his own appetite had returned with a vengeance after he had been returned his heart. His mission for a good fifteen minutes had been, very plainly, to detain her. He had drawn near from behind and entrapped a rather displeased Sophie between his arms and the sink, leaning down so that his chin hovered over her shoulder and his lips were at her ear. It was the first time he had seen that they did indeed have a height difference and that he was presented with the notion that Sophie was more delicate than she allowed others to think. He also made the groundbreaking discovery that she had a scent of cleanliness about her. He liked that scent. As a credit to her, she did not blush; not even a speck of pink appeared in her cheeks at his proximity, when he knew that others would redden and wriggle in her place. Maybe it was this desire to make her react that attracted him. He could not have helped the bubbling of a previously unfamiliar sense of accomplishment when he saw the gleam of amusement in her eye.

But that was a week past, and now the glorious afternoon was waning into sunset; the entire world was sighing, shifting from breathless summer noon to wistful dusk. An entire day had rolled by without so much of a trouble—a commodity that had been long lost and even longer not experienced. He had simply closed his eyes for a nap, exhausted from today's particularly grueling rune-reading (urges to nap had been popping up quite recently, lately) and when he opened them, the fading sun was already bidding farewell to the nooks and crannies it dominated during the morning. The flaming orange and indigo of the sunset was draining away from the drawing room, which was a new addition to the beloved moving castle: the room itself was snug and round, with a sofa sitting in its middle atop a circular carpet and a curving desk beside the window that fit just so into the arc of the low windowsill. Its surface was cluttered with all sorts of things ranging from and assortment of Howl's much-loved knickknacks and pieces of paper scrawled over with ink in runes. But by far the best thing about this particular room was the view, in Howl's opinion. If the castle was correctly nestled somewhere between the hills outside of Sophie's hometown, then the panoramic scope one was offered from the drawing room window was breathtaking.

He dozed on and off from there on in, waiting for real sleep to visit him at any moment. Any traces of such slumber, however, were erased when the door cracked open and a sliver of the hall outside became visible to him. The light had now disappeared from the drawing room and from behind the hills and the faces of the distant mountains. All that was available to the viewer's eye were the elusive pinpricks of stars that dusted the dark sky, glittering with well-kept secrets and mastery of magic beyond any Wizard's imagination. The full, pearly disc of a moon hung suspended amongst the scatterings of stars, reminiscent of a proud queen draped in all her regal finery. Once and a while, hints of wispy clouds would bypass the face of the heavenly body; and they had the pleasant honor of being momentarily transformed into silvered strands when the moonshine fell upon them. Very similarly did the approaching young woman's hair react as the candlelight shone against it—he had the artistic enjoyment of watching it glint and sway as she made her way to him, the white nightgown rustling around her bare feet. A modest shawl was draped about her shoulders, and in one hand she held up a faithful, guiding candle to dispel the shadows he was sitting in. Her brown eyes were bright and large in the gloom, and they way she padded in reminded him of a night not such a while ago.

"Howl?"

The head of the man in question turned towards her fully now, and his cornflower colored gaze, though half-lidded, was alert and silently answering.

"…Are you alright?"

Her tone was concerned but not stiflingly motherly. As he wondered how she could achieve such a thing, he told her, "Absolutely fine. What makes you think otherwise?"

Sophie sat down beside him, setting the candle upon the table by the sofa. The light flickered and then steadied, illuminating her from the back and partially blacking out the familiar features. "No harm in being sure." Her warm hand settled upon his. "I just noticed you spend more time in here."

His palm turned upwards and their fingers laced together. A suggestion of a smile tilted his lips. "It does, after all, have an amazing view."

"The maker should know."

They remained like that for a while, with speech dissolved into silence, understandable and communicated without articulation. The stars beyond the window wheeled and twinkled around the moon, and he watched them until he glanced sideways and saw that the candle had burned its poor little self halfway down, its waxy tears of protest going unseen by both. He lifted his other hand and brushed the backs of his knuckles across her cheek. She started, making him give a small laugh under his breath; the slumping of her shoulders gave away the fact that she was feeling the tug of sleep far more than she was letting on. Howl stood with one movement, only half-regretting it when he felt the stiffness of his legs. Sophie followed suit, taking the candle with the hand that was not preoccupied with gripping Howl's, and raised her eyebrows as he pulled her gently towards the doorway. The action had a faint idea of inexplicable childishness about it: she was the girl who was a stranger to this new, kaleidoscopic world of enchantment, and he was the teacher-in-a-boy that took leaps and bounds with only steps. He looked at her over his shoulder, making the blue-black hair stream across one shoulder and hang free as the candle's light washed over the smooth planes of his face.

"Come. The view will be there in the morning."