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Doctor Strange awakened with a jolt, the taste of bile and blood still fresh in his mind. It was still dark out, the early hours of morning. He opened his palm, a faintly glowing orb flickering to life in his hand. It cast a faint starlight glow, casting warped shadows against the walls.
The cloak was where he last left it- deep crimson folds hung neatly over a wooden chair. It rustled faintly in concern, and wound itself around his shoulders, like an old friend.
“Thanks,” he murmured, and walked out of his room. The halls of the Sanctum looked as mystical as when he first arrived- artifacts in sleek glass cases, whispered promises of power and purpose. It was blanketed by silence, yet all Stephen Strange could hear was the thundering of his heart in his ears. The remains of a phantom pain over his chest.
He padded down the halls, pushing apart a paper screen door to enter the Library. Moonlight shone through the windows, giving the place an ethereal feel. He flicked on the lights.
The tomes called to him. He ran a finger down their spines, felt the heft of their weight—much lighter than the power they held. Stephen Strange settled on a thick volume festooned with small rubies, which read, “The Indomitable Shield”.
“Back to work,” he muttered. The tome was thick and well bound, with pages that smelt of ashes and dust. He began to read.
“The path to an indomitable shield relies on the proper circulation of chakras … around the heart- ” The words blurred. “Dammit.” He rubbed his eyes. “Sanskrit. Why must it be Sanskrit, of all things?”
Stephen Strange forged on, watching lines of neat black brush strokes dissolving into an unintelligible mess. Understanding eluded him, and fatigue stole his wits. Time seemed slow and sluggish, one instant blending into the next. The hushed quiet of the library drew him away, like sea foam on the crest of a wave, and Stephen Strange fell into a state between sleep and waking.
He was trapped again, crystal strikes jutting out of his chest. Blinding white pain. He could barely make out the eyes of the titan above him, face contorted in a sneer. “You have imprisoned me,” it rumbled, and Stephen Strange fought to make out the words over the haze that blanketed his senses. ”But you are just as much a prisoner as I. And I will make this as painful as possible.”
“Strange? Stephen Strange?” A voice called out. There was a hand on his shoulder. He reached for the source, pulling away layers of terror and adrenaline, and opened his eyes.
“What are you doing here, Strange?” said Wong. His voice was hushed and groggy. An iron lantern hung at his side, and he was wrapped in a plush bathrobe.
Stephen raised his head. Wong could see his pale gaunt face, and the grey circles under his eyes. Stephen Strange was in his realm, a Lord of academia in his paper castle.
“Preparing. I have responsibilities to live up to.”
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“Nightmares,” he mumbled. Wong gave him a look, sharp dark eyes boring into his own.
“A Master of the Sanctum must also be prepared physically. It can’t do to have you fall to mental exhaustion.” Wong shook his head, a look of disapproval evident on his face.
“I’m no stranger to late hours.” Stephen grimaced. “Med school is pretty demanding.”
“But now you have greater responsibilities. It is also our responsibility to keep you from losing your way.” Wong set down his lantern.
“Wait here, Strange,” Wong said. He stepped out of the main hall, returning with a two mugs and a teapot on a tray. . Stephen could recognize the tell-tale scent of tea. It smelt familiar, not unlike the grassy scent of the tea the Ancient One had once given to him.
“You’re back quick.” He blinked, perplexed. Stephen slapped his forehead. “I’m an idiot. Magic can accomplish nearly everything.”
Wong poured a cup of tea, offering it to him. Stephen Strange took it in his shaking hands, inhaling the clean scent. He took a quick sip, and winced.
“Thanks. And also- no LSD or Psilocybin this time?”
Wong gave a slight smile. “Just tea, with a little honey. Wouldn’t bode well for your nightmares.” He settled into an armchair of his own. Wong’s countenance was inscrutable.
“Are you ready to talk?”
Stephen Strange swallowed down the lump in his throat, chasing it down with tea. He set the mug down carefully.
“I’m not alright,” he said, looking down at his trembling hands, tracing the white tell-tale lines of faded scars. “It’s funny how much more of an altruist I’ve become.” He snorted. “Even if I’m still an asshole.”
Stephen Strange wrapped the cloak tightly around his shoulders, warding off an invisible chill.
“I’m afraid that when I close my eyes, I’ll see Dormammu again. He’s always waiting for me.”
“What happened?”
”Long story short, I trapped us in a time loop. Stuck together, till the end of eternity. I pester him. He kills me bunch of times. ” He gave a painful grin. “Nothing else to say about it.”
“Thank you, Strange,” Wong gave him a solemn nod. They sipped at their tea in comfortable silence.
“This Sanctum offers many treatments for ailments of the mind, not only the body. Have you tried consulting some of our healers?”
“They won’t help,” he snapped. “They’ve never treated someone who died more than once. I’ve tried meditation, breathing exercises, sleeping pills, and even counting sheep. It doesn’t do a thing.”
Wong drank his tea leisurely. “We have experts that may help with the nightmares. You must reorient the body to heal the soul. Have you tried acupuncture?”
“No…?”
“We’ll give it a try tomorrow. And remember, we never lose our demons, we only learn to live above them.”
“Live … above them,” he repeated slowly, tasting the words.
“But now, Strange, try to get some sleep. You look awful.” Wong placed the cups back on the tray and picked up his lantern. He turned and walked briskly out the library, leaving Stephen Strange only with the sound of fading footsteps.
Stephen closed the book, locking it away in its place in the Ancient One’s collection. He left the library the way it was - almost untouched, and stepped quietly into the corridor, feet tracing an automatic path back to his bed.