#clove greenwillow

[transgenderfabianseacaster]

now KISS !!!!

(pericles he/him drow warlock + clove hy/they/ce halfling paladin. they’re in a weird fucked up situationship. they are both Bad people lmao)

[madamhatter]

As I am powering through replies, take a funny tidbit about Sophie. It isn’t explored through the movie, but it is a quirk of her’s that I ended up incorporating because it just fits. See below:

For the rest of the day she and Michael sat staring into the distance, nibbling quills and throwing out suggestions at one another. An average page of Sophie’s notes read: 

Does garlic keep off envy? I could cut a star out of paper and drop it. Could we tell it to Howl? Howl would like mermaids better than Calcifer. Do not think Howl’s mind honest. Is Calcifer’s? Where are past years anyway? Does it mean one of those dry roots must bear fruit? Plant it? Next to dock leaf? In seashell? Cloven hoof, most things but horses. Shoe a horse with a clove of garlic? Wind? Smell? Wind of seven-league boots? Is Howl devil? Cloven toes in seven-league boots? Mermaids in boots?

Jones, Diana Wynne. Howl's Moving Castle (Howl's Castle Book 1) . Greenwillow Books. Kindle Edition.

As mentioned in the novel, she is the studious of her three sisters and, in the passage before we see Sophie’s notes, we see her get heavily engrossed in the ‘puzzle’ that is Howl’s curse. Even she was already going ‘Alright, let’s solve this’ and begins brainstorming with Michael about the contents curse actually means.

So, I take extra care to mention that she does a bit of notetaking and even writes out her theories/ideas into a small leather notebook! It is nice seeing how her brain functions when her brain is wrapped around a puzzle, either way. 

[vellasim]

Perhaps it was that quiet moment by the fireplace that she finally realized. Or was it something she knew all along? 

Perched on an old, lopsided lounge in the sitting room beside the fireplace late one night, Ellaria tucked her feet under herself and craned her head over the dusty, handbound book she’d found in the Glen’s library. A Collection of Poems by E.F. Greenwillow. She recognized the surname as that of Crysta’s late father; it wasn’t a name she saw much of in this house.

As Ellaria tried to make sense of some of the cruder handwriting, she sensed a presence approaching shortly before she heard the soft padding of bare feet descending on the staircase behind her. They hesitated at the bottom step.

“D’you mind?” Noira asked, sheepishly. She didn’t need to, but she did anyways.

“Not at all. Here love, have a seat,” Ellaria patted the cushion beside her, and Noira crossed the room in a few long strides to plop down on it. All limbs, she was. She smiled, glancing at the book between them while absently tugging on the sleeves of her pleated dress.

“That’s a good one. Eirwen saw the forest in every color but green, Crysta told me once. I still don’t quite understand what she meant... but the poems are certainly lovely.”

“Ah, yes, old Eirwen Greenwillow. Is she the one who was married to her uncle?”

“Shhh, don’t gossip,” Noira chided, but they both giggled. Quietly, as if the walls might hear them. They probably could.

In the settling silence Noira snuggled closer, resting a head on Ellaria’s shoulder. Everything felt natural when they were together, alone, like this; like something had finally clicked into place. The fire popped, sending sparks into the air.

“Read ‘em to me?”

Ellaria cleared her throat and flipped to a new page, obligingly.

She read the poems aloud, slow and deliberate so each word hung in the air. Her voice was warm, silky, like honey and brandy-- and perhaps it was a mild comfort spell that made the candlelight fade to a dim amber and the room smell like cinnamon and clove. The air itself was tranquilizing, like the smoke from Crysta’s pipe leaf.

Succumbing to the hour, Noira’s lids grew heavier after a while. Though she wanted to listen to Ellaria’s voice all night, when she finally let her eyes close it did not take long for her to fall asleep.

Ellaria’s words trailed off as the weight of Noira’s head settled in the crook of her neck. The book closed with a soft thud, and just like that the ambiance of her spell followed suit. A quiet peace settled over them, accompanied by the crackle of the fire.

She shifted to wrap an arm more comfortably around Noira’s shoulders, placing a chaste kiss to her temple. A velveteen ear twitched against her hair. Ellaria absently pondered what Noira was dreaming about, and as she did her fingers began to trace the curve of a shoulder. Gods be good, she was so soft.

Ellaria’s chest grew tight as the thought struck her. Soon her time in this house will come to an end. A few weeks from now, all this will be but a memory.

How will she say goodbye again?

Did she have to?

Was that where she was meant to be, back in her small cottage near the capitol? Surely it contained all her belongings, her smell, her aura-- every nook, candle and cobweb was very much Ellaria.

And yet she has not missed it. Not one bit. Not like she ever missed being with her sisters. Not like she ever missed this.

Perhaps it was that quiet moment by the fireplace that she finally realized. Or was it something she knew all along?

The true, boundless depth of her feelings. Like the sea Ellaria let them take her, closed her eyes and held her breath. That fist closing around her heart was not fear of change, nor longing for the past.

It was love.

Home does not have to be here nor there. It could be anyplace... or anyone.

Maybe she wasn’t going to leave, after all.