Chapter Text
The afternoon sun filtered through the narrow workshop window, bathing the wooden table in warm amber light. Dusty rays danced in the air, illuminating the colorful threads and lace laid out on the worn surface. Wolfwood sat on an old chair, slightly hunched over an elegant lady's hat the color of ripe plum.
His fingers, tanned and surprisingly nimble for such a large guy, guided the thin needle through the velvet fabric. The silver thread obediently formed a pattern, creating an intricate design of twining leaves along the brim's edge. Each stitch was perfectly even and precise, the result of many hours of practice. Wolfwood had learned this craft not by choice, but because everyone at the orphanage had to be useful. The hat shop attached to the orphanage fed and clothed all its inhabitants, and refusing to work would have been ungrateful.
Black hair fell into his eyes — thick, slightly wavy strands that he kept tossing back with a quick movement of his head. He wore a simple white shirt with rolled-up sleeves that revealed strong forearms, and a dark gray vest, well-worn but still decent. His dark blue eyes were focused on the work, and his lips held an expression of calm thoughtfulness.
All around, shelves crowded with hats of every shape and size. Ladies' hats — with feathers and ribbons, decorated with artificial flowers and beads. Men's hats — strict top hats, bowlers, wide-brimmed hats for travelers. Each was a true work of art, created with great love and diligence.
Outside the window, the roofs of neighboring houses were visible, narrow streets where passersby in bright outfits bustled about. In the blue sky, black clouds of smoke dispersed, raised by a passing train.
The door creaked, and Miss Melanie peeked into the room. She wore a dress in a rich emerald shade, with puffy sleeves and a bodice embroidered with gold thread. Her dark hair was arranged in an elaborate hairstyle adorned with small pearls. The woman looked as if she were heading to a ball, not an ordinary Sunday walk.
"Nicholas, I've already closed the shop for the day," she said softly, stopping in the doorway. "The children and I are going to the park for a walk. Street musicians will be playing there today and they'll be selling sweets. Won't you join us? Some fresh air wouldn't hurt you."
Wolfwood looked up from his work, and a slight smile appeared on his face.
"Thank you, Miss Melanie, but I haven't finished work on this hat yet," he said calmly. "I promised to finish it by tomorrow morning. Besides, the weather is wonderful, so you'll be able to enjoy the walk without me."
Melanie shook her head with good-natured reproach, but didn't argue. She knew this boy always finished what he started, and convincing him otherwise was practically impossible.
"As you wish, dear. Just don't stay up too late. A young man needs to have fun sometimes, not just work."
She turned around, and her footsteps faded in the hallway. Wolfwood returned to the hat, continuing to patiently embroider the pattern. Voices came from the neighboring room. The children were getting ready for their walk, and their joyful chatter filled the house with comfort and warmth.
"Oh, you can't button your collar again!" came a girl's ringing voice.
"And your bow's crooked!" a boy's voice replied.
Laughter rang out, along with the rustle of clothes and the patter of feet. The children were thrilled about the Sunday walk, especially on such a festive day. Wolfwood, absorbed in his work, paid no attention to their conversations. The needle rhythmically went in and out of the fabric, leaving a neat silver trail behind.
"Hey, what's that over there?" one of the children suddenly exclaimed. "Look! Outside the window!"
"What, what is it?" other voices chimed in, interested and impatient.
Commotion began. The sounds of hurried steps, exclamations and delighted whispers filled the air. Wolfwood frowned, set aside his work, and unable to resist, looked up at the small window that was right above his worktable.
Beyond the city roofs, in the distance on the green hills, rose a strange construction. Towers and spires were bizarrely piled on top of each other, and the whole mass was slowly moving, waddling on strange mechanical legs. On the hilltop towered the dark silhouette of the Moving Castle, but it, as if sensing it was being watched, began to sink into the clouds that were sliding down from the mountain peaks. In a moment there was no trace of it left, only a white veil of fog.
"That's Vash's castle!" one of the girls exclaimed joyfully.
"They say he's hiding from the military," someone's thoughtful voice added. "Doesn't like them."
"Once Vash came to a village in the south," another girl chimed in, "and stole a girl's heart!"
Delighted squeals followed.
"No way! That's terrifying!"
"He definitely won't go after us," someone laughed.
Laughter, jokes, and new discussions — the children seemed enchanted by the legend of the mysterious sorcerer and his wandering castle.
Wolfwood himself didn't share the children's enthusiasm. The legends about Vash, who steals the hearts of young girls and hides from the world in his wandering castle, seemed like tall tales to him. The world was full of such stories, and most of them turned out to be either exaggerations or outright lies.
And what did he care about some sorcerer anyway? He had work to finish.
He picked up the needle again, threaded the silver thread, and continued embroidering. Stitch by stitch, the pattern on the fabric became more and more complex and elegant. Wolfwood leaned closer to his work, squinting, as the workshop was no longer as bright — the sun was slowly setting, and shadows were lengthening.
Outside the window, the voices of Miss Melanie and the children departing for their walk could be heard. The patter of feet, laughter, joyful exclamations gradually faded, dissolving into the noise of the city street. The house fell into silence, broken only by the ticking of the old clock on the wall and the quiet rustle of thread sliding through fabric.
Wolfwood exhaled, relaxing his shoulders. In moments like these, he felt at peace. Finishing the last petal in the pattern, he cut the thread and set aside the needle. The hat was ready. He turned it in his hands, examining it from all sides, and nodded to himself with satisfaction. The work had turned out splendidly, and the client would be delighted.
Wolfwood stood, walked over to the shelf, and carefully placed the hat among other finished pieces awaiting their owners.
Wolfwood took off his vest, carefully hung it on the back of the chair, and stretched, working out the stiffness in his back muscles. The work was done, and now he could attend to his own business. He took his simple dark brown hat from the shelf, put it on, adjusted the brim, and looked at his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall.
Wolfwood straightened the collar of his snow-white shirt and buttoned one more button to look presentable going out.
Leaving the house, he closed the door behind him and headed toward the main street. The city greeted him with noise and bustle. The midday sun flooded the stone facades of buildings with bright colors, reflected in shop windows, and played on metal store signs. People swarmed everywhere: ladies in voluminous dresses with crinolines, gentlemen in strict suits and top hats, commoners in modest clothing, merchants calling out to customers.
A tram rumbled along the cobblestone pavement. Wolfwood quickened his pace and deftly grabbed the handrail on the move, jumping onto the footboard. The tram continued on its way, and narrow streets gave way to wide avenues lined with rows of shops and cafes. Somewhere a street orchestra was playing, and the sounds of violins and flutes mixed with the hum of the crowd.
But today there was a special liveliness in the city. Rows of soldiers in impeccable blue uniforms marched to the sounds of a brass band, their polished boots clicking on the cobblestones in unison. Officers on horses rode in front, their sabers gleaming in the sun. Banners waved overhead, fluttering in the wind.
Wolfwood frowned. He wasn't attracted to military parades and ceremonial events. All this pompousness, loud speeches about glory and valor seemed like a waste of time to him. He knew that behind the handsome uniforms and loud words lay dirt, blood, and death, not marching orchestras.
The tram turned onto a side street, leading away from the square, and Wolfwood got off the footboard, heading toward the alleys where, according to his information, Meryl's bakery was supposed to be.
The alleys were narrow, almost a labyrinth. Tall buildings blocked the sun, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. Here and there, laundry hung from windows, stretched on ropes between houses. It smelled of freshly baked bread, roasted meat, smoke from chimneys. Wolfwood checked the address Meryl had given him at their last meeting and turned the corner.
The street turned out to be even narrower. He walked, staying close to the wall, trying not to bump into passersby. Somewhere ahead should be the entrance to the bakery.
"Hey, kid!" a loud voice rang out behind him. "Hold on there!"
Wolfwood turned around. Right in front of him stood a soldier in a bright blue-red uniform, clearly from a parade unit. The uniform was embroidered with gold braid, epaulettes gleamed, and a saber in richly decorated scabbard hung at his side. The soldier was about ten years older than Wolfwood, with a tanned face and a mocking smirk.
"I'm talking to you," the soldier continued, taking a step forward and blocking the way. "Haven't you lost something by any chance? Maybe documents? Or a wallet?"
Wolfwood stopped, restraining his irritation. He absolutely didn't want to talk, especially with a military man who obviously had nothing better to do.
"No, I haven't lost anything," he answered shortly, trying to walk around the soldier. "Excuse me, I have things to do."
But the soldier stepped to the side, blocking his way again. His smile grew even wider.
"Oh, he has things!" he mocked, making an exaggeratedly serious face. "How businesslike. You know, I was just thinking. After the parade I found myself with a bit of free time. How about I invite you for a cup of tea?"
The soldier's voice sounded deliberately playful, as if he were talking to a child or an amusing curiosity. Wolfwood felt irritation boiling in his chest. He hated this kind of treatment, when people treated him like entertainment or something trivial.
"Thank you for the offer, but I really need to go," he said a bit more harshly, trying to walk around the soldier. "My friend is waiting for me."
But the soldier wasn't going to back down. He blocked Wolfwood's way again, not letting him pass.
"Come on, don't be in such a hurry!" he laughed.
At that moment, another soldier came around the corner — older, with a bushy mustache and a round face. He gave Wolfwood an appraising look and smirked.
"Oh, you picked someone up here?" he asked, coming closer. "Who do we have here? Young man, how old are you?"
Wolfwood clenched his teeth. The situation was becoming increasingly unpleasant. Two grown men, clearly tipsy after the celebration, had surrounded him, and it didn't look good.
"Eighteen," he ground out through his teeth, trying to maintain some semblance of politeness. "Let me go immediately, or I'll call the guard."
One of them only laughed louder.
"Oh, how scary! He'll call the guard!" he turned to the mustachioed soldier. "You hear that? He'll call the guard! We are the guard, you fool. Who are you going to call?"
Wolfwood clenched his fists, feeling his patience running out. These two clearly weren't going to leave him alone just like that. They were having fun, teasing him, enjoying their power and his helplessness — after all, a young guy without connections or protection was the perfect target for soldiers' amusement.
At the moment when Wolfwood was ready to completely lose his patience and simply push away these annoying military men, he felt a touch on his shoulder. Someone's hand easily and confidently rested on his left shoulder, as if the person who did it had every right to do so.
"There you are," a calm, surprisingly soft voice sounded. "I've been all over the city trying to find you."
Wolfwood turned around sharply.
Standing behind him was a man he'd never seen in his life, but who spoke as if they'd known each other forever. Tall, slender, with an almost otherworldly appearance. His hair, the color of ripe wheat, seemingly glowing from within, caught the bright rays of the sun, framing a fine aristocratic face. His eyes — incredibly blue and deep, like the sky over the open sea — looked directly at Wolfwood with a strange expression that conveyed both weariness, softness, and something elusive and mysterious. Under his left eye was a small mole, giving his already expressive face a special individuality.
He was dressed unusually. A loose light shirt lay freely on his shoulders, revealing the elegant line of his collarbones. On his shoulders was a wide pink jacket decorated with various patterns. Dark trousers fit snugly on his long legs, and he looked so elegant, as if not of this world.
Wolfwood blinked, trying to figure out what was happening. The stranger's hand still rested on his shoulder — warm, confident, soothing.
"Who, excuse me, are you?" one of the soldiers asked sharply, staring at him with displeasure.
The stranger turned to the soldiers, and a light, almost apologetic smile appeared on his face. He looked completely calm, as if he'd happened to witness a pleasant conversation, not a conflict.
"Oh, sorry for intruding," he said this politely, his voice sounding soft and calm, with light notes of good nature. "I'm with this young man. Could you let us go?"
The mustachioed soldier frowned, looking him over with obvious suspicion.
"And how long have you known him? We didn't see you walking together."
"Come now, gentlemen," the stranger's smile widened slightly, something playful flickering in his blue eyes. "Today is such a beautiful day, the parade went wonderfully. Wouldn't it be better for you to go for a walk somewhere more pleasant?"
He said this so naturally and casually that even Wolfwood momentarily believed in the sincerity of his words. However, then something incredible happened: the stranger slightly waved his free hand, and the soldiers froze for a moment, their eyes glazing over. Then they turned around and left, as if not noticing anyone around them. The click of their heels faded, becoming quieter and quieter, until it dissolved into the city noise.
Wolfwood watched them go, feeling a chill run down his spine. So that's how it is. Not just a smooth talker with good manners, but a magician. Or something worse. Such people were best kept at arm's length, or better yet — not encountered at all.
The hand on his shoulder squeezed slightly, drawing his attention back. Wolfwood slowly turned his head, involuntarily reassessing the man. He was looking at him with a soft smile, and light warmth rippled in his blue eyes.
"Don't be so angry at them," he said quietly. "They meant no harm. They were just having fun as best they knew how. It's a holiday for them, their spirits are high. Don't take it to heart."
Wolfwood wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn't look away from this gentle, almost unearthly face, with those amazing eyes that looked at him as if seeing right through him. His heart beat faster than usual, and a strange warmth spread through his chest.
"Tell me, where do you need to go?" the stranger continued, tilting his head slightly. "Perhaps you'll allow me to escort you?"
Wolfwood felt his cheeks burn. He was, damn it, blushing. He, who always kept his composure and never got flustered in any situation, suddenly felt embarrassed by a simple offer to escort him.
"No... no need," he forced out, trying to speak evenly, but his voice trembled anyway. "Thank you, but I'm just going to Cesare's confectionery. I'll get there myself, it's not far."
He tried to step back, but the hand resting on his shoulder didn't move. Not squeezing or holding, it was just there, light but palpable. Wolfwood felt a slight shiver run down his spine from this touch.
Suddenly the stranger leaned closer, and Wolfwood caught a barely perceptible scent: fresh, herbal, with barely distinguishable notes of something magical. Blue eyes looked directly into his dark blue ones, and something insistent, almost desperate, was reflected in them.
"I'm being chased," he said more quietly, his voice becoming more serious. "Could you... play along with me?"
Wolfwood blinked, trying to process what he'd heard. A chase? Who's chasing him? And why is this person asking him for help? They weren't acquainted, and all this seemed like some kind of absurdity.
However, something in that look, voice, and request made him nod before his mind could object.
Relief flashed in the man's eyes, and a grateful, warm smile appeared on his lips again. Without giving Wolfwood time to think, he confidently took his hand.
Fingers closed around his palm with confidence but gently, as if it were the most natural movement in the world. The hand was warm and slightly longer than his own, and the fingers were graceful but strong. Wolfwood felt a wave of heat roll through his body. His palm seemed to burn from this touch, and he realized he had absolutely no idea how to react.
The stranger led him forward down the alley, confidently striding along the narrow cobbled streets. Wolfwood obediently followed him, still trying to cope with the embarrassment that had seized him. His hand was enclosed in a stranger's hand, and this sensation was both strange and pleasant.
He stole a glance at the light-haired man's profile. He walked calmly, the pink jacket fluttering on his shoulders, and wheat-colored strands swaying softly in the wind. There was some natural grace in his movements, as if he were floating above the ground, not walking on it. The line of his jaw was chiseled, elegant, and a light smile played on his lips.
They turned into another alley, narrower, shaded by tall house walls. The sun had almost completely hidden behind the rooftops, and long shadows hung all around. In the distance, voices, shouts, and the patter of feet could be heard, as if someone really was looking for someone.
The stranger quickened his pace, squeezing Wolfwood's hand tighter, and he felt his heart beat faster. The alley suddenly darkened, as if a cloud had run over it, blocking the sun. Wolfwood instinctively slowed down a bit, feeling a chill run across his skin. The air became heavy, dense, and a strange smell of rot and something musty appeared in it.
Shadows began to emerge from the walls.
At first they were just dark spots on the brickwork, but then they began to take shape — stretching out, thickening, turning into something humanoid. Tall and dense silhouettes with blurred outlines, faceless, like formless darkness slowly flowing out of the walls.
Wolfwood stared at this without looking away, his mouth open in amazement. What the... This can't be real. People don't appear from walls.
But the creatures kept appearing — one, two, three. They turned their empty heads in their direction, and although they had no eyes, Wolfwood felt their cold gaze on him.
His fingers involuntarily tightened around the man's hand. He pressed closer to him, leaning his shoulder against his side, and he didn't care how ridiculous it looked.
The man turned to him, and an expression of guilty softness flashed across his face. Blue eyes looked at him with apology and at the same time with some kind of tender care.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, almost in a whisper, but genuine guilt sounded in his voice. "They found me. I didn't think they'd get here so quickly."
His hand squeezed Wolfwood tighter in a gesture that was simultaneously comforting and protective. He didn't look frightened, rather focused and ready to act. And this gave Wolfwood confidence that everything would be all right.
The creatures began to move faster, closing the distance. Their bodies, sliding along the walls, merged with real shadows and made unpleasant squelching sounds.
"Run," the stranger said, and they sharply dashed forward.
Wolfwood, without thinking, ran after him, not letting go of the man's hand. Their running echoed off the stone slabs. The alley, curving, led them forward, and they rushed swiftly along it, deftly rounding corners and passing closed doors and dark windows.
The creatures didn't fall behind. They slid along the walls, flowed over obstacles like water, finding the shortest paths. There were more and more of them now, surrounding them from all sides, filling every corner, every crack.
An arch appeared ahead, leading to a wider street. Light was visible there, voices could be heard, music. But right before the arch, new figures appeared. There were several of them, and they completely blocked the exit, closing into a black wall.
Wolfwood felt his heart beat faster with fear, realizing there was nowhere to run. But the stranger didn't slow down. On the contrary, he sped up, and his hand, squeezing Wolfwood's wrist, became firmer.
"Trust me," he said on the run, and there was such confidence in his voice that Wolfwood, without hesitation, trusted him.
They rushed straight at the creatures, and at the last moment, when only a few steps remained to the dark figures, the man grabbed Wolfwood around the waist. His arm wrapped around his torso firmly and confidently, pressing him close, and the ground disappeared from under their feet.
Wolfwood felt with surprise how his body soared upward. His stomach jumped, his legs dangled freely in the air, and for a moment he felt complete weightlessness. Instinctively he grabbed onto the stranger, holding on tighter to his arms.
"Straighten your legs," Vash said softly, almost in his ear, and his breath touched Wolfwood's skin. "Just step as if on an ordinary road. Trust me."
Wolfwood opened his eyes with difficulty, which he had squeezed shut from fright. They were in the air. Simply in the air, at the height of the second floor, and below them stretched the festive square with crowds of people, merchants' stalls, fluttering flags. Music came from below muffled, mixing with the hum of voices. The people below didn't notice them, as they were looking at the parade, dancers, and magicians.
The light-haired man, hovering slightly higher, held Wolfwood firmly by both hands. Their fingers were intertwined, and this touch was the only thing keeping Wolfwood from falling. Blue eyes looked directly at him, radiating calm and support.
"Step," Vash repeated with a soft smile. "Don't be afraid."
Wolfwood made a cautious movement with his leg, straightening it as if stepping on an invisible step, and — miracle — his foot found support.
He took a few steps. The air under his feet was dense and springy, as if he were walking on an invisible bridge.
"That's it," the man said approvingly, guiding Wolfwood forward. "You're doing well."
They moved slowly, step by step, gliding over the city. Fear gradually receded, replaced by amazement, admiration, and something even deeper that he was afraid to admit to himself. His breathing evened out, his heart beat fast, but no longer from terror, but from a strange excitement.
They walked on air, hovering over the festive city, and it was impossible, unreal, but at the same time so natural, as if they had always been meant to be here, at this moment, together.
Gradually Wolfwood got used to it. His steps became more confident, his body stopped tensing from the fear of falling. He got the hang of this strange sensation of walking on an invisible road, and now moved almost independently, although stranger's hands still supported him.
Below them the city spread out, alive and vibrant. Children ran with balloons, women in voluminous dresses danced to music together with soldiers. Smells rose upward — cotton candy, roasted chestnuts, flowers.
The stranger smiled sincerely, brightly, and this smile made his face even more beautiful. The wind ruffled his wheat-colored hair, and the sun painted them gold. Wolfwood looked at him and felt warmth spreading inside, unlike anything he had experienced before.
They were approaching the confectionery building. One of the balconies was empty, its carved railings painted dark green. The stranger turned around, not releasing Wolfwood's hands, and easily stepped onto the railing, balancing with incredible grace.
Then he slowly and carefully lowered Wolfwood onto the balcony itself. The sensation of solid floor under his feet brought both relief and disappointment at once, because the flight had ended.
The man remained standing on the railing, and only now did their hands unlock. Wolfwood felt particularly acutely the loss of this touch.
He stood leaning against the balcony wall, breathing heavily and with wide-open eyes. His heart was pounding wildly, and his hands trembled slightly from overwhelming emotions.
"You..." he began and broke off, not finding words. "We just... through the air..."
Vash laughed quietly and softly.
"Yes," he agreed simply, straightening his clothes. "Sorry it was so sudden. But there was no other way out. The Witch of the Waste's henchmen don't like heights, so you're safe here."
Wolfwood continued to look at him, unable to formulate the chaos of thoughts and feelings raging inside. It was incredible. He felt as if he had just experienced something completely unreal, like in a fairy tale that Miss Melanie had once read to him before bed.
With amazement he realized that he had just walked on air in the company of a complete stranger who was, without a doubt, a sorcerer. The very one everyone whispered about. Vash. This name suddenly seemed very fitting to him.
"You..." Wolfwood breathed out. "You're that Vash? From the Moving Castle?"
Vash didn't answer right away. He just looked at Wolfwood with the same soft smile, and something warm and at the same time sad rippled in his blue eyes.
"I have to go," he finally said, stepping back toward the edge of the balcony. "Take care of yourself, Nicholas. And thank you for helping me today."
"Wait, I didn't... I didn't tell you my name," Wolfwood muttered, feeling his head spin.
Vash turned around, already standing on the railing, and winked at him lightly.
"You didn't," he agreed. "But I know. See you."
And before Wolfwood could answer anything, Vash stepped backward. His light hair was ruffled by the wind, he soared into the air and rushed away, gliding between roofs and spires.
Wolfwood rushed to the railing, gripping it with both hands, and watched the retreating figure. Vash was getting smaller and smaller, turning into a dark speck against the blue sky, and then dissolved completely among the clouds.
Wolfwood remained standing on the balcony, gripping the railing with whitened knuckles. His heart was still pounding wildly, his breathing was uneven, and his head was in complete chaos.