Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”
-Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss

Stephen didn't so much fall asleep as pass out, only to wake up screaming, the Cloak of Levitation wrapped tightly around him. For comfort or to keep him from injuring himself, he didn't know. Possibly both.

He barely remembered stumbling through the portal in the Hong Kong sanctum back to Kamar Taj, weak and shaking with exhaustion after losing the rush of adrenaline and relief that had kept him upright and speaking. He had no idea how he'd made it to his tiny room. Perhaps Karl... 

No. He winced and stared blankly at the ceiling. Karl was gone. His friend and mentor, the first he'd begun to allow in in ages, had left. The Ancient One was dead. Wong wasn't, anymore, which was good. He seemed to tolerate him, at least. Either he or the Cloak had probably helped him to his bed.

“Strange?” Gari, the novice with the room closest to his called out and knocked on his door. “You okay in there?”

Stephen startled. “Fine,” he tried to say, but it caught in his throat. He coughed and tried again. “Yes. Sorry.” Hoarse, but audible. 

She hesitated noticeably, even through the wall. “Alright.” He listened to her slowly walk away, and it took him a long time to even think about getting out of bed. His entire body ached, had ached for years between the blinding pain of dying, the moment of relief in death. When he couldn't stand his thoughts any longer and finally found the energy to get out of bed and wash up, he couldn't tell if he was seeing sunrise or sunset. Time had lost all meaning. 

Death, he suspected, had lost all meaning.

He pressed a shaking hand to his chest, where the stitches held together his stab wound. He hadn't popped any of them this go-round. That was rare.

No. Not this go-round. This wasn't a go-round. Time was moving forward again, no longer looping back on itself. Probably. 

The Eye of Agamotto was back on its stand. His body would heal instead of reset now. His hunger was real instead of psychosomatic. If he drew a razor down his forearms and bled out, he wouldn't come back from that.

He shook his head sharply, shoved aside dark thoughts for the moment, and headed for the kitchens. The Cloak instantly attached itself to him, and Stephen took comfort from the weight and warmth of the heavy fabric. It had been with him through every loop, had died with him every time. He hadn't been alone. He couldn't imagine being without it now.

Stephen hadn’t slept long at all, he realized, as he entered the humid kitchen and inhaled, picking out the scents of fish stock, soy sauce, and a medley of spices. Considering the large pot of congee resting on one of the burners, it must be sunrise rather than sunset, and he didn’t feel hungry enough to have slept for over a day. His knees buckled slightly at that reasoning, as if exhaustion was summoned by his awareness of just how little he had managed to rest.

The Cloak steadied him, and he patted it in thanks as he retrieved a bowl, holding it in both hands to keep from dropping it. The ladle was completely beyond his ability to manipulate at the moment, clanging against the sides of the pot. His hand spasmed and shook violently, the worst it had been since he had first come to Kamar-Taj, and the added weight of the congee caused the ladle to slip from his grip completely. Stephen rested his hands on the counter, staring blankly. If he had the energy he would curse. As it was, he was just vaguely grateful that the cook was busy elsewhere.

The Cloak moved then, wrapping a corner around the handle and spooning his breakfast into his bowl, before adding a dash of soy sauce to flavor the bland dish. Next, it somehow managed to sprinkle green onion and ruosong – he thought it was pork – on top without making a mess on the counter or itself.

Stephen bowed his head, a broken laugh escaping him. Then he took his breakfast, relaxing as his Cloak helped support his grip, and went to find one of the many hidden corners overlooking the main courtyard. He had no desire for anyone to see him struggling to eat this morning.

The congee was filling and easy on his stomach, which was about all he could ask for now. He set his empty bowl aside and simply soaked in the sunlight, the clean breeze that blew cold off the mountains, and the green growing things. It had been so long since he had experienced any of it. Memory paled in comparison to the experience.

Stephen dozed off, reassured by the light and the open spaces that felt unbelievably alive and familiar in comparison to… Well.

The shouts of students training in the courtyard woke him, and he found himself cradled in a sort of hammock by the Cloak. He wondered what time it was more out of obligation than any interest. He’d definitely missed a class or two, as well as a chance to do research while the library was quiet.

Although he doubted that he was expected to show up.

But thoughts of the library led to thoughts of the chamber adjacent to it, where the Eye of Agamotto resided. Stephen flinched. Feelings that he didn’t know what to do with – of panic, of fear, of despair – engulfed him. His breath hitched, his heart raced, and he was too far gone to feel the Cloak stiffen in response. He needed to get away from it. From here. If only he could see.

The clasp of heavy fabric about his shoulders pulled Stephen out of his downward spiral. Just enough for him to claw a façade of calm into place, though his eyes were a little too wide and his pulse too quick. He didn’t hear the clatter of the empty bowl against stone, one boot clipping it as he strode off swiftly, his long-legged strides discouraging anyone from approaching.

When his senses returned, he found himself in the market near where Mordo had first found him. His friend would occasionally drag him from his studies and to the market. He said that it was because it was unhealthy to stay holed up in his studies, but Stephen was certain it was just as much an excuse for the master to visit his favorite momo stall. Not that the doctor had complained. At least, not too much; the dumplings were quite delicious, after all.

It was chaos, of course. Mid-day, the street was a colorful mass of people, shouting in Nepali and broken English. Despite his time in Kamar-Taj and eidetic memory, he was only just beginning to understand what was being said, having focused on Sanskrit and a few other dead languages required by his studies.

The smell of foods and spices washed over him, changing with the breeze. Occasionally the delicious scents were overpowered by the stench of apothecary herbs, smoke, or too many bodies in a crowded space.

In one sense, it was a nightmare. So many people, and he couldn’t stand the thought of being touched. Not now, so soon after…everything. Never mind that as a tall white foreigner he stood out quite obviously. The locals, at least, would recognize his robes and probably leave him be.

In another sense, it was exactly what he was looking for. What he needed. This was life. Human, and mortal, and aging.

The Cloak squeezed him reassuringly before flaring slightly to prevent any touches from reaching him, accidental brushes or otherwise.

Trembling ever so slightly, Stephen stepped forward and lost himself in humanity.

Chapter Text

“Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and running its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.”
-Lauren Oliver, Delirium  

Stephen hovered on the threshold, trapped by warring instincts. He wanted to turn his back, to walk away and put everything out of his mind. To – not flee, Stephen Strange did not flee – but to escape. He couldn't forget, not with his memory, but was it too much to ask to just not think about it?

Something pulled him forward, all the same. Perhaps he should have been frightened, because he felt it was something outside of himself that nudged at his attention. That almost called to him, except that was too strong a word for what he felt. But Stephen just…didn't have the energy for fear. It had been burnt out of him, any fear that wasn't directed at Dormammu. He would probably recover eventually, but he was far too exhausted and traumatized to care.

So here he swayed in the doorway, all sense of time ironically lost as he stared at the Eye of Agamotto on its stand.

It nudged at him in his quieter moments, like a niggle in the back of his mind. Just enough to make him aware. To remind him that it was there. 

Why?

Stephen was mindful enough to realize that it wasn't his curiosity, his own attachment or desire. Not entirely. So what did the Eye – or Stone, really – want of him? Not to use it. He tested that thought and flinched away at the nightmare that was his last use of it. So just…what? To wear it? To check on it? To remind him that it was there, as if he could forget? Or was this just something that happened to anyone who used it so often? So extremely?

What do you want? he wondered silently.

The nudging became, not insistent, but more obvious. Stephen finally took a step into the chamber, boots scraping against stone. 

Then the sound of approaching footsteps and low conversation caught his attention, and he darted away like a startled deer. He couldn't say why. It wasn’t as though he would have gotten into trouble. But he couldn't stand for anyone to see him near the Eye. To look at him in connection with it. To make what he had gone through any more real, any more evident, even if only in his head. In case they made him talk about it, even tangentially. A few of the Masters had made not quite casual comments, passing mentions of mental health or invitations for conversation that Stephen had ignored.

He hovered indecisively in the library entrance for a long moment, mind flitting to all of the books he could return to, the different tangents his research had taken him down. He'd spent the last several weeks ensconced in the library, or barricaded in his room when Wong kicked him out. His research binge had begun with silencing spells and Infinity Stones, and spiraled into an obsessive compulsion to research everything to do with defensive magics, with a break to try to figure out why nightmares only sometimes affected his astral form, and all of the neurological and physiological effects of extended use of astral projection, until Stephen ended up half wondering if it would really be so bad if he ended up a vegetable should he try a spell of forgetting that ended poorly, and whether any of his memories were too important to risk, really.

Now the walls seemed to be closing in on him, his chest constricting as his heart raced. Curiosity wasn't strong enough to keep him here, not now. Even Kamar-Taj felt too stifling, too triggering, and the area around the temple, even the market that he had several times fled to for space, was too close.

Stephen portalled blind, no specific destination in mind other than away - one of the first things the Masters repeatedly warned against when teaching the technique.

He let the portal collapse behind him as he closed his eyes and just breathed, trusting the Cloak to yank him out of the way of any danger if necessary. The air was cleaner, without the scents of incense from the temples or pollution from the streets. It was a few degrees warmer as well, just enough for him to notice. His racing heart slowed, eventually, and at last Stephen took in the view. 

He could see bright green terraced hills, the glint of sunlight off water, and barely picked out scattered evidence of wooden houses and grazing livestock made miniscule by the distance. The brightness of the greenery darkened nearer to where he stood, growing sparser while trees appeared smaller and more crooked. He was probably still in or around Nepal, as the sun didn't seem to have moved, and the geography further south appeared similar to the hills around Kathmandu. Looking around, the mountains seemed to be about where Stephen expected, if somewhat closer than he was used to. He thought he might be somewhere between the hilly and himal regions of the country.

The area appeared largely uninhabited, luckily enough. Now that he was calmer, he could only imagine what could have happened had he ended up in a major city or been recorded on CCTV. 

Actually, how did sorcerers not get caught on camera when portalling places? And how often did other sorcerers use their sling rings, anyway? Was there something inherent to them that kept them from being noticed, or were there spells that Stephen could use on himself to at least keep himself from being recorded? He made a mental note to research this line of thought further. And avoid doing anything in other countries that would have officials searching for records of his entry into that country.

Stephen paused at that thought, and turned it over in his head. He could go anywhere, so long as he had a picture of that place. Kamar-Taj had been a refuge when he had nothing – was still a refuge, in between his episodes where it was also a reminder of new and incomprehensible trauma. It was a bastion of learning, a safe place to return to, but it wasn't a home. Perhaps years in the future, perhaps once he found his place, felt like he belonged, then it might be. But it hadn't even been a year since he started studying; hardly enough time to consider such a place home. 

What had he ever considered home, anyway? Certainly not his apartment. It had really only ever been a place to sleep, and sometimes not even that. The sofa in his office had been a perfectly serviceable place to collapse and catch a nap when he'd been working for more than 24 hours at a time.

The Cloak interrupted his increasingly morose thoughts by nudging his back. Stephen tensed as he brought his attention back to his surroundings, magic rising in preparation for a threat. 

He did not expect to be confronted with a dog, a cat, and… Stephen blinked. Was that a mouse – hopefully not a rat – on the dog's head?

“Okaaaay,” he muttered, drawing out the word as he pondered the bizarre sight. Mundane, or something he should be worried about? The Cloak of Levitation seemed fine, and it had proven to be rather more knowledgeable about these things. It had helped him in the library often enough (to Wong's chagrin) that he knew that knowledge wasn't just limited to other relics.

The dog barked, wagging its arched tail. It was thickly furred and mostly black with light brown fur on its legs and patches of lighter fur on its powerful chest. Stephen had seen a few like it wandering around town, and was fairly sure that it was a Himalayan sheepdog. 

Stephen crouched, holding out his hand for the dog to sniff. This close, he saw that yes, that was a rodent sitting comfortably between floppy ears, right where Stephen would normally pet it. Well, he'd definitely seen stranger. Instead he buried his trembling fingers in the ruff around the dog's neck. He leaned into Stephen's hand for a moment, and then trotted away a few feet. The cat turned to leave as well, flicking its tail and disappearing into the grass, while the dog paused and pranced back to Stephen and then away again, barking insistently.

The sorcerer suppressed a joke regarding Lassie and wells, following with a sigh; he was in no mood to tempt fate, or Murphy, or who-knew-what-else. 

It wasn't a long walk, thankfully, and it was a good day to be outside anyway. The sun shone down on his head, warming his dark blue robes. A breeze rustled through the grass and the trees as Stephen wandered, crossing a faint dirt path and circling a mossy boulder only to come upon a hidden pond. The cat was already waiting by a small, grey shrine on its shore, the stone eroded by water and time. The edges of its tiered roof had been worn away, the tiled eaves only suggestions now, the carvings surrounding the rounded opening too faded to make out what they had once depicted.

The rodent bounded down off of the dog and scurried across the ground to the tiny shrine. It paid the cat no mind, and the cat only watched with disinterest. 

Bizarre creatures.

“Oh, no,” Stephen said when the rat disappeared inside the structure, voice slightly hoarse from his long silence. “I am not sticking my hand in there.”

The cat almost looked like it would roll its eyes if it could, and the squeaking from the rat took on a distinctly scolding sound. But then there came a scraping noise, and the rat emerged, pushing some sort of rock in front of itself.

Stephen crouched to examine the thing more closely, and saw that it wasn't a rock after all, but a fossilized shell. He reached out to touch, and then paused, until the rat nudged it closer to him. The Cloak wasn't reacting in any negative fashion either, so he picked it up and turned it over in his hand, wondering what was so significant about it. It looked like an ordinary fossilized shell to him, well-preserved and unbroken.

“Thanks?” he said dubiously.

The cat stretched and yawned, brushing against his legs as it stalked past and disappeared once more into the grass. The dog barked and licked his hands, rat already perched on its seemingly designated ride, before trotting off after its third companion.

Stephen watched them go and stood with a groan, frowning down at his strange ‘gift’. “Do you know what the hell that was about?” he asked his Cloak.

It just poked at the shell curiously.

Stephen shrugged to himself, and poked at it curiously with his magic. 

Then yelped and yanked his magic back in at the sheer power packed into the tiny object barely the size of his pinky finger. Unfortunately, he jerked physically as well, and the shell slipped from his weak grip. Heart racing with panic, he fumbled for it and missed, freezing as it hit the ground. He'd half expected an explosion or something, terrified it had chipped or broken, but nothing seemed to have happened. 

Stephen sighed in relief and bent to pick up the shell, determined to research what on earth the thing was, and maybe ask some of the Masters if they knew anything (and maybe not mention that he’d been carelessly poking at random, unknown mystical objects). It was only when he twisted to carefully place it in the pouch on his belt that he noticed something out of the corner of his eye that hadn't been there before. He whirled around, hands in loose fists, and stilled in shock.

There was some sort of palace behind him. Small, for a palace. But still rather enormous.

“Oh. Shit,” Stephen said weakly. Oops.

A quick spell confirmed the building as empty, and then he opened a portal to the library, rules be damned.

“Wong!” he shouted.

Chapter Text

“Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”
-William Goldman, William Goldman: Four Screenplays with Essays

Stephen shivered, eyes heavy-lidded and unseeing as he panted from…from desperation. From fear. From memory rather than exertion.

His heart pounded in his ears, too loud for him to hear the sparks of his closing portal. He barely felt his Cloak squeezing his wrist rhythmically, a grounding presence and a reminder of his breathing exercises.

He came back to himself one sense at a time, sagging back into the Cloak’s hold until he felt less shaky. Stephen’s feet, at least, were on solid ground. Last time he’d portalled – and he only ever seemed to do it blindly these days; the other masters would be apoplectic if they knew – he’d appeared right off a cliff. If Stephen hadn’t had the Cloak, he would be dead.

Well. If the Cloak of Levitation hadn’t chosen him, he would have died long before portalling off a cliff.

When his eyes finally took in the view, every other thought was driven out of his head.

It was beautiful. Stephen might have been a little closer to the edge than he generally preferred, but he hardly cared.

He was quite a ways up a mountain somewhere, and if he looked closely enough, no doubt he could pick out faint paths and wooden walkways. But he was far too taken by the stretches of peaks and rock formations fanned out before him, shaded in the greens of twisted, crooked pine trees growing in near-inaccessible places. If he looked far enough, they were almost like stepping stones, or a sharp-tipped, meandering path for giants, rising up out of the sea.

Because below him was an ethereal blanket of clouds, so thick he might have been fooled into thinking it solid, completely concealing canyons and valleys, and giving no hint to the true elevation. The sky was a barely darker shade of gray, and Stephen thought he ought to feel claustrophobic.

But the air was damp with the promise of rain, the cold breeze bringing with it the scent of wet moss and soil, and he felt reassuringly small standing on the edge of such vastness.

Stephen breathed slowly, slipping into something like a standing meditation, content to simply stare at the view as he let his desperation and despair drain away. It was hard to tell what, exactly, triggered him into these flights from Kamar-Taj. Something like routine, perhaps. Or too many reminders for a mind that remembered everything, crowding too close and building until it reached a threshold.

Trauma wasn’t exactly logical. No matter how much he might wish it.

He did wonder where he was, exactly. But when one had the ability to return to sanctuary in a step, with a thought and a sling ring, getting lost was never really a worry. A phone with a GPS could be useful, but he’d never bothered to get a new one after his had been stolen.

(The joke was on the pickpocket; he had broken it and only carried it around out of habit.)

He had no money, and hardly needed a new phone anyway. Christine was the only person who might call him, but they had email to keep in touch. And sorcerers had other options if it became necessary.

Instead, Stephen had begun deconstructing every compass and directional spell he could find, with the goal of understanding the structures well enough to alter one to act as a sort of map or GPS. Or possibly even create a new spell altogether. He just wanted something that could give him coordinates, and image results he could manipulate like Google Maps. None of those star maps, sun dials, or other esoteric spell outcomes that required interpretation.

That was all well and good in a dimension the sorcerer was unfamiliar with. But here on Earth, Stephen wanted something better.

The light thud of something hard hitting packed dirt, and the scuff of foot against stone startled Stephen from his contemplation. He turned sharply as the Cloak went completely limp on his back, without even the usual subtle twitching or shifting.

The person who rounded the corner was old, back bent as they shuffled slowly up the path, leaning heavily on a walking stick made from a stout tree branch. Their round face was weathered by the sun, lines carved deep by time. Their pants and thick coat were simple, warm, and in good condition, while a woven, conical hat sat upon a head of white hair as protection against sun and coming rain.

Stephen’s sharp gaze studied the old stranger closely, but their gender and purpose remained ambiguous.

Dark eyes observed him in return, and they greeted him in Mandarin. Distracted by identifying which country he was probably in, Stephen hesitated. He was much better at understanding the language than he was at speaking it.

Nepali, Mandarin, and English were the three most common languages at Kamar-Taj. There was always someone around to help mediate conversations if the people speaking couldn’t find a common language, and Stephen hadn’t been at the temple to make friends. Communication satisfactory enough for his purposes, he’d focused more attention on learning the ancient and dead languages of the spellbooks.

He’d spoken even less since Dormammu, though he listened more. While his reading and listening comprehension improved, in both Nepali and Mandarin, his verbal practice suffered.

Stephen must have taken too long fumbling for an answer. The elder switched to accented English.

“Come.” They motioned for him, indicating a shadow in the rock wall a little bit ahead. “It will rain any minute, and you should not stand around getting wet.”

The sorcerer hesitated, conflicted. The Cloak of Levitation gave no opinion one way or another, so Stephen belatedly dipped into a bow before matching his pace with his companion.

“I’m Stephen,” he introduced himself awkwardly.

“I am called Houtu,” the other said with a stately sort of nod.

As they approached, the shadow in the rock gave way to a decent sized cavern, shallow, but with an extended overhang that would keep out the rain that was just rolling in.

Unable to just disappear with a witness, he sank back against the cave wall and let the steady thrum of rain lull him into a trance.

Houtu spoke eventually, voice low and gentle enough to soothe rather than startle.

The elder said, “This makes me think of the story of the flood, in which the sky collapsed, and the earth sank, and all of humanity perished except for a brother and his elder sister.

“These two siblings passed by a temple on their way to and from their school. In front of that temple was a fierce lion shaped from iron, and the children would often play and clamber over the lion.

“One day a monk told them that every day, the siblings should feed the iron lion steamed bread. He also stressed that they should pay particular attention to its eyes. When the eyes turned red, they should get into the lion’s stomach.

“The siblings dutifully obeyed, feeding the iron lion daily and checking the color of its eyes. Sure enough, one day as the girl fed the lion, she saw that the eyes had turned red. She and her brother immediately climbed into its stomach.

“Day grew dark as night, the wind howled, and it seemed the very sky crashed down. But they were protected by the iron lion, and subsisted on the steamed buns they had fed it daily. When at last it was safe to emerge, they found all other people dead.”

That was the last and only thing he remembered clearly of his conversation with Houtu. Though it hadn’t alarmed him at the time, the rest of the conversation flowed out of his mind, eluding the grasp of his photographic memory and leaving only impressions. Stephen had been unusually forthcoming – likely under some sort of influence, he deduced later – but nothing damning. Nothing secret, or too identifying. He had enough control to hold back.

But Houtu seemed uninterested in secrets or anything that might be too personal. He seemed more interested in the kind of man Stephen was. His thoughts and opinions.

Of course, these realizations struck him only after he had portalled back to Kamar-Taj without any clear idea of deciding to do so. Nor whether there had been anyone around to catch him doing so.

The Cloak of Levitation perked up immediately, swirling around him frantically and patting at his face and limbs as if checking for injuries.

Stephen sucked in a breath, feeling rather stricken. He’d thought, in the beginning, that the Cloak was unusually still. But this person had…had frozen it? Put it to sleep? Had taken his closest companion out of commission, and could have done anything to him.

What did they want? And why was the story of the flood etched so clearly in his memory?

“I’m fine,” Stephen reassured the Cloak a little numbly. It grumpily left off its mother henning when his feet automatically carried him to the library. When in doubt, research.

Or go for Wong.

Maybe he should see a healer as well, just in case.

Wong took one look at his expression, and his own seemed to sour further. It wasn’t Stephen’s fault that the librarian, and eventually the other masters, seemed equal parts incredulous and resigned to the occurrences that tended to congregate around the tall, troublesome American. It definitely wasn’t Stephen’s fault that chaos and trouble tended to seek him out.

The excitement from the shell relic had finally died down, too. It wasn’t even that bad. The shell summoned whatever the user asked for as they threw the shell down. And since Stephen hadn’t asked for anything, it simply brought forth what it had last been commanded to summon. In that case, a palace.

Luckily reversing it was simple. The user just had to focus on wanting it returned to where it had come from while throwing down the shell.

Of course, this was discovered after a few hours of research by a frantic group of sorcerers, goaded by rumors that the Nepalese government was talking of bringing in Iron Man. If those rumors had been true, at least the Order had been fast enough to avoid that potential headache.

Once the panic was over, most of the actual fuss surrounded how Stephen had found the relic in the first place. Been gifted it, rather, which almost never happened.

The fuss might be worse this time, though. Wong’s expression even faltered briefly at hearing the stranger’s name.

“Houtu is a god, Strange.”

Stephen blanched as Wong sent off a spell to gather high-ranking masters, and then grabbed him a book that contained a description of the god. Rarely did the deity appear so old and feeble. It must have been a targeted decision, one that would see Stephen’s guard drop at least a little, and possibly a test of respect, or compassion, or whatever the mythological, fairy tale tropes tended towards.

Stephen recounted his encounter several times at the meeting and afterward, with increasing irritation and increasingly less patience. The legend – one that was well-known in China with a number of variations – was obviously important for some reason, but none of them had any idea why.

After countless theories, and days of searching, and reading, and divining, they found it. In rural China, an ancient iron lion had been found, and archaeologists were preparing it to be properly stored and eventually restored.

The statue was a powerful, dangerous relic. The tomes were unclear regarding what exactly would happen to anything that reached its hollow stomach, but it wasn’t anything good. What was clear, was that if both eyes were colored red, most of China and some of the surrounding countries would drown beneath the ocean.

The iron lion was quickly procured and safely locked away and hidden with the other extremely dangerous relics that would hopefully never see the light of day.

“But why come in person?” Stephen wondered aloud late at night as he helped Wong with the shelving. “Why not go the typical vision, or dream, or whatever route? And since Houtu was already there, why not just tell me outright? Actually, why warn at all for something that wasn’t an apocalyptic, imminent event? According to all that I’ve read, the gods don’t usual forewarn quite so far ahead of the disaster.”

“It seemed more like an excuse to gain your measure,” was Wong’s rather ominous observation.

Chapter Text

“We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain.”
-Charles Bukowski

Recovery wasn’t a linear process.

Stephen had heard those words – had once said those words – so often that they had lost all meaning. It just wasn’t helpful now. Had it ever been helpful? In the abstract, maybe. Theoretically. Logically.

He prized logic, but there was no room for it with the fog that seemed to fill his mind. His hands had gone numb during lunch, and that numbness seemed to have spread through his veins to the rest of his body. Stephen had lost any motivation, going through the motions of his yoga class on autopilot and being distantly thankful it wasn’t a weapons or sparring afternoon. It felt almost as if he were watching his body’s motions from his astral form, and he had double-checked to be sure he hadn’t slipped out of his body accidentally.

Depression, maybe. Some form of PTSD, probably. Stephen was a former neurosurgeon, not a psychiatrist. He cut open the physical brain, not the psyche.

He drifted away once class was over. Any worried looks or attempts at interaction went completely unnoticed, flowing around him without touching him. He lost time, only sporadically aware of the sun seeming to jump lower in the sky in uneven increments.

At one point Stephen found himself in a shadowed alcove near the main courtyard, unable to remember what he had been doing. The Cloak managed to coax some awareness back to him by squeezing his shoulders and gently tapping his sling ring against a wrist.

The sorcerer lifted a hand in a bit of a daze, turning it over to accept the sling ring. Well. Portalling away had become a bit of a habit when things became too much. Why not during these sorts of episodes as well?

He fumbled, fingers caught on the opening of the sling ring, and he watched uncaring as they jammed at an awkward angle. It ought to hurt, but he didn’t feel anything beyond a distant pressure.

Stephen would probably care later, whenever feeling returned and his hands started screaming in agony at the abuse. But the thought, like his current sense of touch, was distant.

An image formed in his mind from some of his recent readings, even as he formed a portal. He stepped forward into sweltering heat. For once, his Cloak shifted form; it twisted and folded, losing mass and changing into something that might have been a dupatta, or possibly just a long, sheer scarf draped over his shoulders like a stole. It also took the outer layer of his robes with it, leaving him in a long, linen tunic on top that might not have been so out of place if it had been left loose instead of constricted with his variety of wraps and belts.

He looked around the large room and its rows of occupied tables. It wasn’t quite what he had pictured, but then it was still a little too early in the evening for the Night Bazaar to open onto this plane.

There were so many people filling up the hall, clothed in vibrant colors as the conversation rose to a dull roar. The women wore bright, flowing saris, midriff-baring lehenga, and even some Western style dresses, while the men were mostly in colorful long jacket sherwani or suits.

Stephen found himself almost transfixed by the colors, the elaborate embroidery and embellishments, the flashes of silver and gold earrings and bangles. This must be a wedding reception. He’d known Indian weddings were supposed to be some of the largest in the world, but seeing it in person was something else. He almost…his curiosity was still a distant thing, but struggling to become more…immediate. More real.

The Cloak nudged him towards an empty seat at the end of a bench, and Stephen followed its direction mechanically. He’d started drawing attention just standing like a useless, foreign lump, and it really was better he not cause a scene. The magic tied to opening portals did encourage people to look away and not notice anything strange, but it didn’t exactly linger once the portal closed.

As luck would have it, a server passed just as he sat down. The large banana leaf was quickly filled with scoops of rice dishes, curries – although few that he could recognize, and definitely none he’d seen served at any Indian restaurants in America – dal, vegetables, and crisp, fried dough he thought was called appalam.

Stephen blinked down at the veritable feast. Apparently for too long, as the Cloak nudged him again. He complied with its direction, for the moment unable to care that he was crashing a stranger’s wedding, and raised a clumsy hand to scoop up a bite of sambar and rice. Eating with your hands was not as easy as it sounded, but he’d had a bit of practice with it at Kamar Taj, including bits of advice from other students native to the area. It was certainly faster and easier than struggling with utensils. Although numb hands presented a different sort of challenge than sharp, pervasive pain.

The taste burst on his tongue, each dish a small explosion of unfamiliar spice that cleared away a bit more of the fog in his mind. It grounded him, potent flavors that he had never tasted before. Not even in Nepal, or maybe just not yet – and the food had been a culture shock all its own, apart from the Order of the Mystic Arts.

By the time he cleared off the banana leaf and folded it over he felt more present in his body than he had all day.

Also, a little guilty.

Stephen tried to avoid drawing any attention as he slunk out of the reception. He traced a weak glyph for luck on his way out, feeling obligated to give something in return for crashing the wedding. Even if there were so many guests that he doubted anyone would realize he was a complete stranger to everyone.

The sun had set while he ate, dusk just beginning to darken into true night.

Perfect timing.

Even better, he was mentally present and aware enough to both enjoy the Night Bazaar and to be wary. Stephen would be pretty embarrassed if he had died or worse just because he was too numb to keep his wits about him.

A large banyan tree stood tall and lonely, away from the road. Stephen headed straight for it, watching his step among the rocky dirt. It felt too hot, still, for how late it had gotten.

Once he reached the protection of the canopy he took a moment to appreciate the elegant tangle of roots and trunks. Then he slipped through a large gap resembling an arch.

And emerged into comparative chaos. The Night Bazaar.

All around him were stalls of all shapes and sizes, changing and shifting even as he watched. Some shrank to accommodate beings the size of mice, others moved to waylay potential customers. Vendors shouted tantalizing descriptions of their products, advertising bargains and boasting about quality. Each shift of the air brought new scents with it; musky and floral one moment, sweet and nutty the next. Stephen caught a whiff of strong coffee at one point, but quickly gave up on trying to identify anything else.

He half expected the Cloak to resume its usual shape. It didn’t, seemingly content in this much less bulky form, and he found himself grateful for it. The temperature had cooled barely at all, the sun having only just set. And now that his mind was fully present, he was certainly feeling it.

Stephen picked a random direction and began to walk, dodging around a group of monkey-like vanaras, very careful not to trip over any of their tails. He hadn’t come to the bazaar with any purpose, just vague curiosity about one of the temple’s sources of…spell ingredients.

Oh, even after the time spent in Kamar Taj, he still cringed a little at that particular phrase. That was a little too fantastic yet for his sensibilities. It brought to mind potions-making and Harry Potter more than it did his actual life. No matter how insane it had become.

Although, Stephen supposed, the fantastic often existed alongside the mundane if you knew how to look. He distracted himself from the press of the crowd by picking out the different beings going about their business, attempting to match what he was seeing in person to his recent research – yaksha and yakshini of all kinds, some with delicate moth wings and some with sharp wings of crystal, others with hair made of vines or flickering yellow flame; a group of young naga children slithering over and around each other as they shrieked with laughter; one or two spirits he thought were bhutas, the ghosts with backwards-facing feet.

His attention drifted to the wares on display. As if triggered by his scrutiny, several stalls appeared to creep closer, while others stretched to best show off what they sold. There were barrels of the usual spices – cumin, turmeric, garam masala, coriander, and many more – as well as less usual ingredients – tears of joy stoppered in vials, bottled last breaths, yali fur, and makara teeth, among others.

There were bolts of cloth woven of moonlight and starlight, shawls made of golden bees and honeycomb, bangles and jewelry of all types, from plain to elaborate, ordinary to obviously magical in nature. stuffed dosa and crunchy fried spirals of murukku, alongside jeweled fruits that glittered in the flickering light; and yet jeweled skin and flesh yielded just as easily as ripe peaches, juices overflowing with each bite. The trees that he assumed spawned them, the ones that looked like glass or crystal, swayed and rustled like their mundane, fibrous counterparts, somewhere behind the main row of stalls. But perspective meant very little in places like this. Places folded between and slipped within or behind or shifted just a bit sideways.

It wasn’t just fruit that grew on trees either. String and woodwind instruments hung from a baobab, sturdy branches barely dipping beneath the weight. It grew on the edge of a clear space between stalls that seemed to serve as an area for performances, and a remarkably haunting melody played just at the edge of his hearing every time a breeze passed through.

His mind wandered as he headed towards the performance area, and one of the stalls must have latched onto his stray desire.

“Peaceful sleep!” the vendor shouted as Stephen’s eye caught on a tiny creature of near-solid smoke in the shape of a cat with glowing yellow eyes. It twisted and turned within a lamp, shifting into snake, and then a bird as he watched. “Exchange your nightmares for daydreams! You there, sorcerer,” the vendor said, skin gleaming like actual copper, their hair coiled silver wires. “Trade with me, and I can give you peace once again. Or,” they continued seeing his impending refusal, “forget your horrors altogether!” They gestured toward a wooden goblet, deceptively plain. But the liquid within shimmered hypnotically, curls of some sort of vapor rising above. “Free yourself and know contentment once again. No longer will you be haunted but start refreshed and anew!”

Stephen couldn’t tear his gaze away. He knew why this was affecting him so strongly. Part of him wanted it. Part of him wanted desperately to forget, and it would be so easy to give in.

A sudden cramp in his hand, pain made sharper after the period of numbness, shocked him back to awareness. He hissed, biting back curses lest the vendor believe he was speaking to him. “No thanks,” he choked out as he stumbled away, letting the pressure from his Cloak guide him. His eyes watered as he hunched over his cramping hand, weakly massaging it with his other, for whatever good that would do.

It was the music combined with the slowly ebbing pain that drew Stephen back to awareness. The higher pitched singing, shifting quickly between scales, the rapid beat of the drum, the plucking of the sitar.

There seemed to be some sort of competition going, or perhaps something like an open mic? He lost track of time as he hovered on the edge of the audience, transfixed by the music. The skill was only to be expected, he supposed, when the majority of the performers were divine musicians, apsaras and gandharvas.

Eventually he noticed the man standing next to him. Partially because he was rather eye-catching. His dark skin appeared to have a green tint to it, which, while not as unusual as the blue skinned beings he’d seen among the crowd, was still eye-catching to him. He was dressed in red silk that matched his red eyes; long fabric wrapped around and passed between his legs, tucked into place, like a combination between a skirt and pants, with a long jacket over top. Strangely paired with the silk was some sort of rope wrapped around his waist.

There was something very steady about him, something serious but…not necessarily open. Nonjudgmental, perhaps?

The man glanced at him, sensing feeling his examination, and nodded in greeting. “This one is the favorite,” he murmured beneath the music. “She’s won quite a few competitions and performs often for court.” He didn’t mention which court, but Stephen could take a guess. “Technically, perfect.”

He gestured subtly toward another apsara who had performed two songs ago. “I prefer that musician, though. She’s younger, a newer singer, and perhaps a bit rougher. But to me, her singing draws out the emotion far more sincerely.”

Stephen hummed, considering. He could see it, now that it was pointed out to him. “Are you a judge, then?”

The man laughed. “Not of this competition. I think, no one would be able to relax if I were.”

Stephen quirked an eyebrow, but the man didn’t elaborate.

Two of the masters were nearby when Stephen portaled back to Kamar Taj. They turned at the sound, and their eyes widened slightly when they noticed who it was, seeming to brace themselves.

Stephen scoffed as the Cloak unfolded back into its usual shape. “I’m not that bad,” he grumbled, making his way back to his room. He noticed as he left that they relaxed slightly when he didn’t seem rushed or agitated.

Later, of course, he realized that the man hadn’t ever introduced himself, that the rope around his waist had resembled a noose, and then his mind started picking up the clues – red eyes, red garments, green skin, noose, judge, the southern location.

He smothered himself with his pillow and groaned. Nothing had happened. Nothing had been given, no important information had been imparted, it had just been an innocuous conversation.

Did he really have to tell anyone that he had met with another god of the dead?

Chapter Text

“It doesn't get better," I said. "The pain. The wounds scab over and you don't always feel like a knife is slashing through you. But when you least expect it, the pain flashes to remind you you'll never be the same.”
-Katie McGarry, Pushing the Limits

“Master Strange?”

Stephen suppressed a flinch and glanced over at Master Rama from where he was browsing through the library shelves of the London Sanctum. The expression on the Sanctum Master’s face said that while Stephen really should be ashamed of making uninvited use of the library, Rama knew that he really wasn’t.

Stephen could only feel the slightest bit smug that this time he’d avoided all of the traps set for uninvited visitors. Last time he’d missed one and while the results that time were nonlethal, it had been rather embarrassing. But the London Sanctum had a truly unique and more complete collection than the other Sanctums regarding the nearest dimensions to their own. The ones that tended to overlap and bleed through at times, like the Night Market or Faerieland. He’d been following a train of thought that first time, hyperfocusing again, and habit had him simply opening a portal to that library the way he tended to invade Wong’s domain.

He’d barely avoided a maiming; all subsequent uninvited visits had more to do with pride and stubbornness than impatience, and maybe the almost childish desire to make himself a nuisance.

A low-stakes battle of wills, he might even call it. And not truly a malicious one.

“Yes, Master Rama?” he said, turning to face the sorcerer.

He paused, considering his next words as though he hadn’t quite decided how to say what he wanted to. “Will you be taking a trip outside of Kamar-Taj – or one of the Sanctums,” he added, manner ever so slightly wry, “sometime soon?”

Stephen frowned. Was there – should he not – none of them were bound to remain on Order grounds. His trips weren’t a problem, except for maybe how the results of his occasionally sent the other Masters into an uproar. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Probably.”

His destinations were a little more planned these days. No more portalling blind, at any rate. Falling off a mountain was one thing, especially when he had the Cloak of Levitation looking out for him. But getting trapped on a tropical island with the ghost of an evil, cannibalistic witch doctor, without any idea of how to perform an exorcism? He’d had to desperately cobble together an exorcism on the fly with only a handful of obscure references scrounged from the depths of his eidetic memory and random research binges.

So yes, Stephen was a fool, but he could learn. And now he knew a very wide variety of exorcisms to use on any number of spirits and demons.

Rama nodded. “In that case, the council has a request. There is a situation one of the apprentices has brought to our attention. She has family in a village in the Nyenchen Tanglha Mountains in Tibet and for about a year now that area has seen sporadic deaths by what appears to be a wild animal. But no animal was ever seen, and in any case snow leopards are the only animal in that region large enough to possibly be the predator. Except not only are they rare, they do not attack humans.”

Stephen nodded with a frown, brow furrowed. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll look into it.” He cast a glance at the windows and mentally calculated the time difference. “First thing in the morning.”

“We just want you to see if there is magic involved,” Rama said hastily. “Only observation. One of the Masters at Kamar-Taj will get you what information we know as well as images for portalling. Report back as soon as you have confirmation one way or another about any mystical presence. Don’t get involved without backup.”

“Not if I can help it,” Stephen agreed, patting absentmindedly at his Cloak when it tightened on his shoulders.

He couldn’t parse out the strange expression on the Sanctum Master’s face, and so disregarded it.

*

The morning air in the mountains of Tibet was thin and cold enough to sting. Stephen took a moment to adjust to the feeling of breathlessness. Thankfully not nearly as cold as Everest, but he was getting flashbacks to that experience (not to the way his lungs had been pierced again and again, to the feeling of his lungs collapsing, sometimes both, sometimes just one while the other struggled to compensate as he drowned in blood).

He pushed away intrusive thoughts with a determined shake. Today was a good day. He felt normal today. If there had been any nightmares he couldn’t remember them, his hands ached a normal amount, he hadn’t dropped or spilled anything, and the sting of the cut on his lip he’d gotten sparring the day before was keeping him grounded and present every time he prodded it with his tongue.

This was a rare normal day. Time to investigate murder sites for magic.

He set out across the grass, white peaks rising above him as he meandered towards the latest tragedy in the area. The grass was still trampled, dirt kicked up by a crowd that had no doubt formed to investigate and take care of the body. It had rained since then, any blood washed away. The ground was soft and he felt mud give beneath his boots.

He cast out his senses at first. The longer he meditated, the deeper he frowned, and flicked through his mental index of relevant spells. His fingers twisted, knitting a net of energy and casting it over the area around him.

Stephen bit his lip, worrying at the scab until the collar of the Cloak patted his cheek.

“Yes, alright,” he muttered, ducking its care, mind elsewhere.

He portalled to the next site, slipping on the rocky scree, and repeated his actions. Again, beneath a lone tree. Again, at the edge of a lake. Again, and again atop ice and snow, and in a freezing cold cave.

When he was done he reclined on a rock, mind whirling in confusion. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said to the Cloak. “Does it? Is this a normal thing and I’m too new to know about it?”

It shrugged, managing to convey its curiosity in the sway of its fabric.

“The results shouldn’t be that inconclusive. I can’t tell if I’m imagining the echo of magic or not.” Stephen crossed his arms and scowled. He felt inadequate, and hated it. They’d sent him to do something simple, there was no way it should be this complicated. Was he overthinking it? He couldn’t say one way or the other whether there was a connection to the mystic arts, and he didn’t exactly want to waste the time of the other Masters. Not while the Order was still short staffed and recovering from Kaecilius’ betrayal and the Ancient One’s death.

His expression hardened. “Right,” he said as he stood up. “Whatever is doing this has to have some sort of cave or nest or something.” He closed his eyes, mentally picturing the locations of all of the incidents trying to narrow down his initial starting range. And then he began a spell for a deep scan, looking for anything out of place.

Stephen lost track of time. By the time he emerged from the trance his muscles were stiff and his shoulders were beginning to ache.

“The fuck,” he muttered, turning stare a little more south. “Why is there a secret bunker in a mountain cave?”

*

Tony hummed to himself as he blasted through corridors that were really too narrow for the suit. He could hear the bullets pinging off metal and stone even above the shouting.

Another day, another battle. First time in Tibet, though.

He was trying to pretend that things were normal. He worked alone, it shouldn’t be a problem to return to his preferred state of being.

Except, usually, Rhodey was not recovering from a broken spine. Usually, Tony’s chest wasn’t so tender from having a shield shoved into it. Usually…

Well.

He stopped thinking and forced his attention back to the battle. He’d been requested to assist in taking out a suspected Hydra base in the mountains of Tibet near its capital, but Tony was beginning to think this was a different group of mad scientists. Definitely still big on human experimentation and possible war crimes, but he hadn’t seen any octopuses – octopi – octopods? Whatever. Point being he hadn’t seen the usual logo, or any logo really.

It didn’t take all that long before he could veer off towards where he’d learned the information center located. Having broken through the initial defenses, the military was quick to follow and take control of the battle while Tony went to prevent any sort of destruction, either of the facility or the logs of whatever the hell they’d been doing.

The noise of battle fell away, and he was immediately on alert once he’d noticed the trail of unconscious bodies he was following. Especially this was not a corridor he had gone down yet.

With a grimace he recalled most of the suit, leaving only the gauntlets, and a few key areas guarded for protection. At this point, stealth was better than storming in guns blazing.

A good thing, too, as he slipped into a room where a hooded figure in a red cape was rifling through files. Actual, paper files. Really? At least there were computers for him to work his magic as well.

“Freeze,” he barked, gauntlets charged up as he slammed the door shut to prevent anyone sneaking up on him.

To his irritation, the figure barely even paused. They merely shifted slightly, turning a little in his direction, but not enough for him to see anything beneath the hood.

They didn’t even stop skimming through the paperwork, which was just insulting.

He made the whine of his repulsors more obvious. “I’ll give you until the count of three – ”

“You won’t shoot.”

Oh. That voice was much deeper than he was expecting.

Then the words registered. “And why wouldn’t I?”

It was both amazing and infuriating how the other man could express an eyeroll without being able to see his eyes. Or most of his head.

“Because I am standing in front of the main computer. A computer which is highly unlikely to have much of a backup considering how difficult it must be to get internet access inside of a mountain, if nothing else.”

Also infuriating was how this man called his bluff. Tony didn’t want to risk fighting near the computer either, but if he could yank him away… Well, there was so much cloth with which to grab, and if it allowed him to see his face, all the better.

Except, of course, it didn’t work like that.

The other man spun right as Tony lunged, and while he did catch a handful of bright red fabric, his hand somehow got tangled in it. It pulled him off balance just enough to stumble, helped along by the leg hooked around the back of his and the arm bar across his chest just below his neck that sent him almost crashing into the desk.

“Fuck!” he yelped, twisting to avoid damaging the server and barely keeping upright with the help of the desk. But at least the intruder was away from the information they needed, although Iron Man would prefer he not to have such easy access to the door.

“Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?” he growled, repulsor gauntlet glowing. Whatever he was looking for here couldn’t be good, and who knew whether he’d meddled with anything.

“Do your opponents actually answer you when you say things like that?”

How? How did this man get under his skin so easily? That was Tony’s particular talent, damn it!

He shot him. It missed, but Tony could take at least a little pleasure in the ridiculously awkward dodge. Unfortunately, the other man also somehow managed to get the door open despite how carefully he watched.

It slammed shut behind him, and even though Tony threw it open only a moment later, somehow the other man had disappeared completely.

*

Stephen mentally reviewed everything he had to tell the Masters, but at least the immediate threat of further killings was gone.

“I think that went well,” he decided.

Chapter Text

"Even poison can be turned to medicine if one is versed in the art of healing"
-Tibetan proverb

Stephen panted harshly, gasping for breath as he ran. His muscles burned and his mouth tasted of copper, but he refused to stop. If ever he needed a gauge of just how much his stamina had improved, this was it. Even with the subtle enhancement his magic leant him, it was a long time to be chasing after this fucking infuriating, thieving –

He didn’t have the breath to swear the way he wanted to. Not that it would do any good. It would just spur the little fucker on, but it had also made him feel a little better in the beginning.

Stephen wheezed as he dodged a cyclist, and only the grace of his cloak being sentient kept it from whipping baskets of sembei rice crackers off a display table, or tangling in the vertical nobori banner outside of the grocer’s. Regretfully, he didn’t even have breath for an apology, and had no intentions of explaining. No doubt he’s been marked as a crazy, extremely rude foreigner. It could only be the ingrained Japanese politeness that kept him from hearing anyone cussing him out so far.

Or maybe he was just hyperfocused on the flailing tails that had remained anywhere from just in front of him to just within his view for the past several miles. More than two, less than nine. The tails were astonishingly difficult to count when the kitsune wouldn’t stay still and let him catch it already.

He wasn’t sure the number of tails really mattered. Not when he couldn’t even manage to trap it, much less fight it. But damned if its cleverness and illusions weren’t proving extremely troublesome.

He couldn’t use the Cloak of Levitation to close the distance during the chase because the trees and undergrowth were fantastic obstacles, and whenever they crossed any open spaces they were among tourists and civilians.

And then the illusions. So many illusions. To disguise what was there, and what wasn’t there. Hiding a tree stump so he slammed right into it, making creating what looked like a full set of stairs when one or two were missing, forcing him to dodge a tree that wasn’t actually there only to run face first into a bush. Stephen was sporting a number of bruises, and the only reason he hadn’t broken an ankle yet was because of the spells woven into his sturdy boots. And a Cloak that was quick to catch him, of course.

He was also fairly sure he was only keeping the kitsune in sight because that was what it wanted. He used that thought to further stoke his fury; Stephen was exhausted enough that he was only holding on to his anger by his fingernails, and too stubborn to let it go.

They crossed into the trees again, and some part of him clocked ‘privacy’ and sent out the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak. The kitsune chittered a laugh and flowed through the gaps in the bands, dodging and ducking until Stephen ended it. Too slow, just as it had been the last few times he tried it. But it did impede the yōkai at least a little, and he was getting a bit better at subtly herding it.

His own illusions were improving by leaps and bounds as well, as he tried to disguise the traps he cast out ahead of their reckless chase. It had certainly mocked the first ones, either running straight through them with a sound of contempt or ignoring them altogether.

Granted, Stephen initially hadn’t put much thought into the details of the illusory obstacles. It had been a little embarrassing when he’d realized too late that he’d been projecting nonnative trees and fauna.

Now that he’d had a bit of practice and something of a plan, he’d tested some subtle little illusions that the kitsune didn’t appear to notice. Or at least, if it did, it didn’t feel threatened. Which could be a problem once he tried hiding magical traps again instead of just testing the waters.

Stephen sucked in a breath when the ground disappeared beneath his feet. He’d been too distracted with his own plans. That would teach him. Again.

His body adjusted automatically as he tucked his chin, so that he rolled over one shoulder and across his back to the opposite hip, dispersing the force of his fall. Ample practice had made falling safely second nature. Sand sprayed into the air, the sky flashed overhead once – was that a dragon snaking its way through the sky? – twice – or, no, maybe he was just seeing a winding bridge – before his feet found their purchase and he shifted smoothly back into a run.

Ugh, sand was so irritating and uncomfortable. It had gotten everywhere; he could feel it in his boots and sticking to his skin beneath his robes. Hopefully he would be able to shake it all out soon.

The kitsune yipped in glee as Stephen chased it back into the forest, and he was grateful it hadn’t sprung towards the sea instead. His heart was pounding in anticipation as well as exertion. This was it. This was it, it had to be it, he just wanted this to be done. He really didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

As soon as they had more cover he conjured the Bolts of Balthakk, adjusting the shape so that they could be shot like fiery orange projectiles. Stephen’s energy dipped as he cast quickly and repeatedly, trying to subtly herd his target.

It felt like hours before his mental connection with his Cloak flared. He pulled back abruptly as his companion exploded from the ground, hidden beneath a thin layer of detritus and an illusion. It wrapped around the kitsune, flinging it up into the glowing cage Stephen wrenched downward with a twist of his wrist.

There was a pause. Silence, as if even the world around them was taking a moment to adjust. The illusory Cloak at Stephen’s back disappeared – that had been an extremely complicated recreation, and he was lucky the kitsune hadn’t been in a position to pay much attention to it.

Stephen stumbled as he finally let himself just stop. His knees were trembling almost as badly as his hands. His layers stuck to his skin, damp with sweat. He wanted to just collapse on the ground, but instead straightened up and tilted his head back a little, opening up his chest and resting his hands atop his sweaty hair.

His Cloak sidled up to him while he was trying not to look like he was dying. It looked quite pleased with itself as it held out a pouch with its folds.

This was what the little thief had stolen. Stephen had been on his way to spend some time at a shrine near Amanohashidate in Kyoto, at the behest of the other masters.

Well, perhaps it was less of a behest and more him volunteering when the matter had come up within his earshot. He’d been sleeping poorly for days, forgoing his usual activity of studying in his astral form because it kept drifting towards the room containing the Time Stone. No matter his mental chastisement or determination, whenever he got too distracted with reading he’d inevitably look up and find himself near its room. Twice he looked up to see its pedestal. After that, he’d forgone astral projection altogether.

Stephen’s nightmares left him tired. He just wanted to go away for a while, and this diplomatic trip was the perfect opportunity. Even if it had taken a bit of persuasion after his last trip out had ended up with him in a mad scientist’s bunker in the mountains and an encounter with Stark. The expressions during his tale had been pretty funny. The extra classes he had been required to teach and the lectures he’d been subjected to, not so much. Never mind the Iron Man fans who had wanted to know every little twitch of his interaction.

In any case, he was meant to be away for at least a week, experiencing the hospitality of this allied shrine. Or possibly it was something like a satellite office? It hadn’t exactly been made clear to him.

And then, of course, he had no sooner set foot in Japan when a kitsune had snatched the pouch containing documents and gifts meant for the head of the shrine. The thought of turning back and giving up wasn’t even an option. He couldn’t show up empty handed, nor could he turn right around and explain to the masters how he’d failed in the first half hour.

Which had led to a headlong flight across a pine-covered sandbar and…

Stephen winced as he finally took in his surroundings. There was a certain quiet, a lack of the background hum of nearby civilization. No people shouting in the distance, no chime of bells or distant roar of a motor, no…subconscious sense of people nearby. Magic hung more thickly in the air. And the trees looked larger, older. More primeval.

Had he literally tumbled into the spirit world?

Stephen shot an incredulous look at the kitsune in its glowing ball of a cage. It gekkered smugly.

Biting back curses, he simply shoved it into a bush so it wouldn’t be so easily seen. “It’ll dissolve in an hour or so,” he snapped, and then turned on his heel.

A gesture had the Cloak levitating him away and above the tree line to gain his bearings. Amanohashidate was the bridge to heaven. It stood to reason that it would take him back if he could find it.

“Oh,” he breathed, taking in the view. Sea and sky were both a bright blue, the trees a deep green, and the strip of sand between looked soft and clean. Stephen inhaled deeply, and his discomfort took a back seat as he committed the lovely sight to memory.

The more he stared unblinking, the more Stephen saw a ladder in the landscape, like an optical illusion. He noted the direction he needed to go, but enjoyed the moment of quiet for a while longer.

“Alright,” he said, and the Cloak brought him back down to the forest floor, where he set off eastward on foot. “At least there isn’t usually a time dilation between this world and – agh!”

Stephen shouted in shock and leapt back, staring wide-eyed at a tree full of severed heads.

Or, no.

“Oh,” he said weakly, blinking rapidly as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Not severed heads, human-faced fruit. A jinmenju. “Fuck…”

Regardless, it was damned uncanny, and Stephen gave it a wide berth as he continued on.

He estimated he’d been walking for only about half an hour when another obstacle presented itself. Something hit his back and clung to it, making him stumble on legs that were far too tired for this shit.

“Was that you?” he asked, twisting to try to see his Cloak. But it seemed stuck as well, and while there was definitely something there, he couldn’t quite turn far enough to see it.

“Obariyon!” A voice cried in his ear.

Stephen flinched and shrugged his shoulders, tried to jostle it off as he stumbled forward, but it didn’t even shift and only seemed to get heavier as he moved. He paused for a moment, possible spells flitting through his mind even as he tried to remember reading about this yōkai.

He was fairly sure this one didn’t tend to crush people to death. If that happened, he had a few ideas to counteract it. But it was probably better – if more exhausting – to go along with carrying it for as long as he could.

“This was supposed to be a break,” Stephen grumbled to himself as he trudged on.

Hours later, an exhausted and dirty Stephen finally stood before the wooden torii gate of the shrine with an extra pouch at his hip. A rather heavy pouch that might or might not contain golden nuggets. He wasn’t going to think about it. Not dealing with it. Not yet.

He bowed and walked through to the temizuya, his attention immediately narrowing in on even that little bit of relief. He dipped the wooden ladle into the clear, running water, pouring it over his left hand and then his right. Then, with a guilty glance around for witnesses, tilted his head back and poured it over his face. He was supposed to just rinse out his mouth, but the dried sweat and dirt was getting very irritating.

Putting the dipper back as the tall collar of his Cloak swiped at his face, Stephen turned and immediately met the gaze of a priest who was watching him with a raised brow.

“Um.” He froze, uncharacteristically embarrassed, and then bowed. “I’m Dr. Stephen Strange. From Kamar Taj. I believe the kannushi was expecting me?”

Chapter Text

We cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever. We must stand up and move on to the next action.
- Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Stephen suspected that he was becoming a sort of traveling sorcerer. Or perhaps an international representative? If an official title existed, he didn’t know it. But whenever he decided on a travel destination, and let one of the masters know about it – Wong, usually – it often ended one of two ways. With him looking into some sort of issue, or with him learning something about the local magical practices or duties from the native magic users.

Stephen hardly minded. He was always ready to learn something new. Plus, he was a part of the Order. A master. He took his oaths seriously, and it was his responsibility to defend the world against mystic threats. If he was taking advantage of what he’d learned to travel, then it only made sense to investigate any relevant problems along the way.

That said, he was rather relieved to leave Egypt at the end of the week. Not that the area hadn’t been interesting, and the archaeological dig fascinating (though not as exciting as the movies made it seem). But after taking a week’s rotation to guard against any cursed objects that might be dug up at the site…

Well, Hollywood had also vastly oversold just how many curses one was liable to stumble across in Egypt. Although what they lacked in quantity, they made up for in quality. Stephen had hardly slept when, even from miles away, one of the pyramids had pulsed against his senses with a feeling that he could only describe as pure evil. The local magician had assured him that that was normal, completely hidden from anyone who couldn’t sense it, and securely contained.

It had not, as Stephen had half-feared, somehow escaped containment while he was in the area and exploded across the desert, or worse. Something the masters at Kamar Taj had no doubt feared as well, if the side-eyes and nervous glances upon hearing of his destination had been any indication.

In fact, the only hiccup had been when his own magic had brushed against the one defensive ward with lingering power behind it, and he ended up trapped in a tiny, windowless room with bricked over doors. It took hours for the magician guide to find him and get him out. The intervening wait had been made worse by the spots of color and flashes of light his eyes were tricked into seeing in a pitch-black space. It was all too similar to the Dark Dimension, and the more that thought lingered, the more similarities he imagined he saw.

Stephen had a feeling he was going to have to overcome a new fear of small, enclosed spaces. But he’d gotten an Egyptian ward breaking lesson out of it, so he supposed he couldn’t complain too vehemently.

But for all that, he was mostly relieved to get away from the sand. It really was coarse and rough and irritating. And it got everywhere. It didn’t matter how well wrapped the food was, nor how secure the tent flaps. He always found himself crunching down on at least a few grains of sand. And the grittiness of his dirty skin lingered uncomfortably. It certainly wasn’t like a trip to a beach, where at least he could leave it all behind after a few hours.

Really, the call to learn the upkeep on a seal in an Indian temple had been very well-timed. It had even gotten him out of teaching foundational casting motions to a group of novices. No doubt the last-minute substitute was cursing him out. But all Stephen really cared about, as he stepped from desert sand to white walls festooned with brightly colored fabrics, was whether there was at least a basin of water he could use to rinse off some of the grime.

Unfortunately, it looked like he was going to have to wander a bit to find one of the priests. Unless they had sensed him arrive?

Stephen decided to wander and trust his luck to stumble upon some place to clean up or someone who could direct him. It looked like the temple had been decorated for some kind of event; not normally self-conscious, he was feeling a bit out of place in dusty robes and boots.

He sighed to himself a little as he reached up to lower the Cloak – shifted into a shemagh that wrapped around his head, face, and neck. It had been windy when he’d left Egypt, and even despite the protection of a shemagh, he wanted to rinse out his mouth, too.

Stephen couldn’t help the sound of surprise when the Cloak abruptly tightened back up around his face.

And then Tony Stark, of all people, walked around the corner.

Tony was on guard the instant he laid eyes on the man in the dusty blue robes and bright red headscarf. Only his eyes were visible. He was certainly not dressed for a wedding, not even as one of the staff. And yet he’d managed to get past security, through the crowd, and into the temple somehow, without being stopped or turned away.

He surreptitiously fiddled with his repulsor watch, trusting Friday to be watching through his tinted glasses. In his line of work, he couldn’t afford to find that anything but suspicious. Nor could he afford to assume guilt and attack first. Seriously, what was his luck? He’d just been about to leave, it was why he’d even cut through the temple in the first place.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked.

The man watched him for a long moment. Tony tried to pick out some kind of identifying feature, something beyond height, and could only make out that his eyes were a light color. Maybe gray or blue, so he was unlikely to be a local.

Probable trespasser shook his head, and then shifted to move around him. Reluctant to speak, not a good sign. Or maybe unable? But Tony wasn’t lucky enough for weird encounters to be innocent ones.

“Hey, whoa, I can’t in good conscience let a party crasher,” maybe criminal, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud, “interrupt a buddy’s wedding. I mean, I’m a dick, but not that big of one. Anymore.”

Possible troublemaker narrowed his eyes at him. There was a long, awkward moment of silence.

“Lucky, then, that I’m not here for the wedding,” he said at last.

Tony tensed in preparation for a fight. That was some cliché beginning of a supervillain monologue, wasn’t it? And there was a nagging sense of familiarity at the sound of his voice, obstructed as it was by fabric.

“I was invited to consult with one of the priests. The wedding was a bit of a surprise.”

Tony felt a little as though he’d missed a step, but mentally. Wow. Lucky he hadn’t made any declarations in turn, or summoned his suit. Had his paranoia really gotten so bad? Except the feeling of familiarity was keeping him on edge, for some reason. Why did he think he recognized this guy? And how?

The look in those pale eyes said he knew exactly what he had been thinking, and mocked him for it. It made him bristle.

“As I only have your word for it, why don’t I accompany you until I can get confirmation?”

“Iron Man as my escort, hm? An honor.”

The tone conveyed quite the opposite, and the irritation that surged through Tony snapped the memory into place. Few people could get under his skin quite like this. And he’d met one of them only a few months ago. He paused mid-step and turned back to the stranger, attention laser-focused.

“Have you ever been to Tibet, by the way?”

“A few times. It’s not so far from where I’ve been living,” the other man said easily. “There are some beautiful hikes and ornate temples.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in what felt like a smirk. He held Tony’s gaze, neither looking away. “Why do you ask?”

“Recently?” Tony pressed.

“It depends on what you mean by recent.”

He stepped closer. “I mean - ”

“Sirs?” An accented voice jolted them back to reality. They looked up to see a priest approaching with a furrowed brow.

The possible villain – he was the same cloaked figure Tony had run into in the mountain base, he knew it – extricated himself with a quick, “excuse me,” and then murmured something to the priest, too low for him to make out.

“I know it was you,” Tony called after him as they headed toward one of the back rooms. “In the mountain.”

The priest looked back at him in confusion.

“I don’t know what you mean, Stark,” he tossed over his shoulder. “But thanks for the company.”

Tony flexed his hands in his frustration. With no evidence, no proof, he couldn’t go after the man. Couldn’t detain him, or fight him. And he still had no idea who he was or what he was doing. No one in the temple could, or would, answer questions about him, no investigation into the temple revealed anything untoward, and he could hardly identify a probably-American when the only identification he had was height, approximate body type, and an image of his eyes.

Stephen…probably shouldn’t have goaded Stark. But when it became evident that he couldn’t just avoid him or keep silent, well. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t going to go running through the temple to escape him. And refusing to speak would have been just as suspicious.

Besides, he’d been completely covered up both times they’d met. There was nothing to identify Stephen by. And even if there had been, Stephen spent part of his time traveling the world, and the rest of it more or less hidden away in Kamar-Taj.

So he didn’t suppress the urge to mess with Stark a little. There was just something about him… It was basically consequence-free fun. Small joys, and all that. Some might even say it was a sign of healing.