Chapter Text
Prologue
New York City, in the early morning hours before most of its populace came awake, was an entirely different world. The old adage about it being a city that never slept still held true. Food vendors were unhitching their stands from beat-up pickups and rusty SUVs. The most diligent of business people hurried along the sidewalks, coffee cups clenched in their hands and satchels slung over their shoulders, dress shoes and high heels striking crisply against the pavement.
But in the trees along the edge of the greenspace, birds greeted the summer morning with cheerful song. Mist rose off the river in plumes that captured the sun’s light midair before it could reflect off the water. Instead of the constant cacophony of taxi horns and trolley wheels and rumbling motors that filled the rest of the day and much of the night, there was a hush broken by the occasional passing car.
The unearthly stillness of a new day in the Big Apple was never more pronounced for Christine Palmer than after an overnight shift at the hospital. Overnights always left her with a floating feeling that seemed more dreamlike than anything else. To go to work when everyone else was heading home, or heading out for an evening on the town, was jarring enough. But it was even more so to step out the doors at the “end” of her day, only to find the first rays of dawn creeping over a slumbering metropolis.
She had plans for little more than heading home, showering, and falling into bed. Tonight was her day off, and this Tuesday morning carried all the relief of most people’s weekend. But since it was her weekend, she had made plans, such as they were. One brief stop before home and bed. Turning off the street, she followed the concrete of a narrow path that cut across the park, towards the water’s edge.
The object of her plans was sitting on a park bench overlooking the mist-covered river. It was their typical meeting place for these early morning rendezvouses. Stephen Strange looked as if he had expected her to arrive at exactly this moment, despite her tardiness. Early or late, she never seemed to catch her former colleague by surprise.
Stephen looked tired, but pleased to see her. For a moment, as she continued to walk towards him, Christine considered the other doctor. Although she had been the one to remain following the Decimation, he was the one who had aged, and yet at the same time carried an air of agelessness that she could not quite articulate.
The silver at his temples had spread since their days as coworkers, and more fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. His cheeks looked more gaunt than at their last meeting. But at the same time, Christine had never seen him look as settled as he did these past few years, with an aura of quiet confidence and even wisdom that the Stephen Strange of Metro General had never commanded.
“Sorry I’m late. There was a domestic violence case that came in just as I was leaving, and I got held up.” She gratefully snagged her coffee from the carrier at Stephen’s side; both of his hands were already wrapped around the cup of tea that he was nursing.
“But no shop talk allowed.” She grinned at their mutually agreed upon rule. “How are you? We missed last week.”
Stephen smiled at her, although his gaze was still fixed on the park and the street beyond it. “Good. As for last week, well, all’s well that ends well. Wong sends his greetings. He’s been busy wrangling the apprentice from Kamar-Taj that I told you about.”
Christine hummed thoughtfully. “Illyana, right? Has she been settling in okay?”
“Well enough. I’m pretty sure I was never that...emotional when I was her age. She’s passably studious, but Wong says she’s having trouble finding her center. She reminds me of an overeager puppy. Or a first year medical student, same difference.”
Christine recalled the starstruck interns that had tagged along to Stephen’s surgeries, and his awkward bemusement regarding what to do with them. Usually, he’d settled for either ignoring their presence, or quizzing them about procedures at a level somewhat beyond their understanding. Some things never changed.
“Anyways, Wong’s discovered some sort of recipe from a new cooking show he’s watching, and he’d like you to join us as guinea pig this weekend.”
Christine snorted gently into her coffee. “You know I’d be Wong’s culinary guinea pig any day of the week. If he ever quits sorcerer-ing, he should open a restaurant here in New York. Just let me know when you were thinking of. I, ah, might have plans.”
“Oh?” That got an eyebrow quirk, and a glance.
“Mmm. It’s been a busy two weeks. I met someone. At a bar, of all things. Janice from Onco dragged me there after work.”
“You have been busy. Spill. What’s he like? Do I need to invest in a shovel yet?”
He protested the wack to his arm dramatically as she fished in her bag for her phone. “He’s sweet. Quiet. But comfortable in his own skin. He’s a vet at the city shelter.” Holding out the phone, she watched as Stephen considered the handsome, dark-skinned man, who was dressed in pale green scrubs and gently cradling a kitten as he stood between two rows of cages.
“Very nice. You have a type, I see. Tall, dark, and competent.”
“I hardly think one constitutes a type.” Christine grinned wickedly at his pretended affront.
“Ouch.”
Inhaling the fragrant steam wafting from her cup, Christine let the conversation lapse into contented silence for a moment. A bicycle flashed by, the bell on its handlebars tinkling merrily. A woman in shorts and a T-shirt threw a ball across the grass, and her Golden Retriever bounded happily to fetch it.
“And how about you? Anyone that I need to threaten with my shovel?”
Stephen’s hand toyed with the string of his tea bag. His fingers had regained a significant degree of mobility relative to their original state, although she noted that they too were more slender than at their last meeting. She would have to talk to Wong this weekend.
His smile was more wistful than sad. “No. I have my work. Our job isn’t exactly conducive to relationships. But I am happy.”
He looked up as her hand came to settle over his, stilling his restless fingers. “Well, then Wong and I will just have to pick up the slack.” With a careful squeeze, she released his hand, moving her own back to cradle her coffee. “One of these days, you’ll have to hold a ‘Take your friend to work’ Day, and show me exactly what it is you do.”
It had been a lighthearted joke, so she was surprised at Stephen’s sudden seriousness. A shadow seemed to pass over his face, so relaxed a moment before, and his eyes darkened.
“I’m afraid that day may come sooner than you think. There’s a feeling in my bones, like the ache that comes before a storm.” He shook his head, like a dog trying to rid its coat of water. For a moment, his fingers played blindly over his sternum, as if questing for something hung around his neck. “Sorry, I’m not sure where that came from.”
“That’s alright.” Christine smiled reassuringly at her friend. A car horn blared, and the birds continued their blitheful tune from within the rustling leaves of the trees. The summer sun rose higher, burning away the mist. But as their conversation turned to other things, Christine couldn’t shake the feeling--as her nana would have put it--that someone had just walked over her grave.
--
Chapter 1
Illyana Rasputin was bored. Very, very bored. The only sounds in the library were the thump of the heavy tomes she was moving from cart to shelf, and the faintest murmurs of late afternoon traffic that drifted in from the windows above. The air smelled of dust and ancient paper, and golden sunlight fell in thick bars across the carpeted floors.
At least it was cool inside. The alternative would have been tending the herbs on the Sanctum’s roof garden, but it was still too warm outside to be conducive to watering. So Master Wong had set her the job of restocking the library’s towering shelves.
She couldn’t resent him for the assignment, as much as she disliked the task itself. The masters generally did not ascribe to the philosophy of mundane labor being a right of passage for initiates. The reality was that this duty was necessary to the smooth running of the Sanctum. If Wong had been present, he would have been performing it right alongside her.
But he had been needed in Kamar-Taj. And Master Strange was travelling in another dimension, due back sometime this evening. Which left Illyana in her current role of keeping the Sanctum’s cogs turning smoothly. She only hoped that Master Wong returned this evening as well, and ideally before dinnertime. Master Strange was quite frankly an atrocious cook.
Illyana wrestled a particularly stubborn volume into a space high above the library’s floor. The strobe of the siren, its ear-piercing whistle seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere, nearly made her lose her grip on the ladder on which she perched.
“Слыш?!” It took her a moment, but she finally recognized the sound as the Sanctum’s emergency alert, or more specifically its alarm system. Vague recollections of a lecture delivered in a warm study room to barely awake initiates flashed through her mind. Alert. Intruders in the Sanctum.
And she was alone. The odds of that were not particularly high. To a certain degree, it was a measure of Wong’s trust in her progress and familiarity with the Sanctum. And the arcane stronghold could certainly protect itself. But it was rare for a mere apprentice to be left without support or supervision, and only a temporary situation born out of necessity.
Illyana hesitated. Would the alarm sound in Kamar-Taj as well? She thought so, but the details of the lecture were hard to recall. She could remain here, and try to avoid detection. She could portal to Kamar-Taj, and go for help. That would be the safest course. But what damage might be done to the Sanctum in the time that it was left entirely abandoned?
Taking a deep breath, she gripped the silver cross that hung around her neck with one hand, and the heavy, cool weight of her sling ring with the other. She had promised herself that she would never run away again. And maybe she could prove herself worthy to those who had given her a second chance.
--
Illyana’s footfalls struck against the deep carpet with barely a sound, featherlight as a cat’s. There were some skills that living as a child on the streets, however briefly, imparted better than any other teacher. The alarm still continued its eerie wail, but as yet Illyana had encountered no evidence of reinforcements from Kamar-Taj.
Peering cautiously around the banister into the Sanctum’s foyer, Illyana’s heart stuttered nearly to a stop. Any hope that she might have had of this being a simple malfunction, a false alarm, vanished.
At the foot of the stairs, levitating cross-legged in the air, was a man. Well, maybe he once had been a man. The skin was drawn tight over his skull, like the skin of a gourd that had dried and shrunken, covering the bones in leathery wrinkles. A great, black tower of a cap perched atop his head, and moth-eaten robes draped the rest of his body like burial clothes. They fluttered in a nonexistent breeze, and Illyana swore she could smell the scent of smoke and decay.
The man’s eyes were closed. So Illyana jumped when he spoke, his voice deep and grating. “I see you there. Come out, child.”
Illyana’s heart was pounding in her chest. She knew, somehow, that the time for retreat had now passed. Drawing herself up to her full height, she stepped with a confidence that she did not feel to the top of the stairs, hands clenched in tight fists at her sides.
“This is the New York Sanctum. If you have not been invited here, I suggest you leave.” She was proud that her voice wavered only slightly.
The man’s eyes flew open, and they were as cold and piercing as daggers when they met hers. Illyana froze, pinned like an insect beneath that icy gaze. “Foolish child. Of course, I was not invited. The Sanctum itself knows that. Not that it has been able to warn anyone. Now, run and hide, and perhaps I will spare you. I am here for a master, not some babe in arms.”
Illyana grit her teeth. The feeling of helplessness in the face of a power far greater than her own was not an unfamiliar feeling, but one that coiled queasily in her gut. And filled her with an impotent rage that burned through her fear, and any rational thought.
Her jaw clenched, and she shifted into battle stance, raising a burning blade in one hand and a shield in the other. The intruder gazed on with apparent amusement, not bothering to stand. “I will not run. And if you will not leave, then I will make you!”
“Impudent child. I will teach you a lesson, in your master’s absence. And perhaps, leave your corpse as a message for him to find!”
--
With a cry, Illyana raced towards the man, feet navigating the staircase with the swift surefootedness of youth. She had barely made it halfway down the flight of stairs when a wall of air stopped her in her tracks. It was like trying to walk forwards against the full might of a hurricane. The wind whipped her hair, and drove grit into her eyes.
Then she heard the sound of a horn, piercing and strident enough to be heard over the wind and the Sanctum’s alarm. It was answered with what sounded like the bellowing of a great beast, and the cries of men and ferocious roars. Squinting against the gusts that held her in place, Illyana’s heart sank to see the ghostly forms moving forwards from the Sanctum’s walls. Fur-clad warriors bearing spears, and at their sides great lions with iron studded collars and curving fangs. Behind them loomed the wooly bulk of a giant elephant-like creature.
The closest ghost-warrior raised his spear, and charged towards her across the air with a blood-curdling battle cry. Illyana hefted her sword, and fought to keep from closing her eyes in despair. She knew that she stood no chance against these spirits.
“No! Begone, wretched creatures!” The flash of blue and red that interposed itself between Illyana and her almost certain death appeared so suddenly that it took her a moment to understand what was happening. There was a soft grunt as the spear struck home, and then a pained cry from her assailant. With a flash of eldritch magic, the wind swept away from Illyana and across the Sanctum’s foyer, brushing the apparitions before it like so many dried leaves.
The blue and red flickered and vanished, and Illyana realized it had been nothing more than a projection. Turning her head to the top of the staircase, her eyes sought out the source of the image. Stephen stood above her, arms extended in a warding gesture, eyes blazing with fury.
“Master Strange!”
“Illyana. Are you alright?” His gaze never left the intruder who still hovered beneath them. At her nod, he continued. “Good. Then get behind me.”
“But Master…”
“Now.” His tone was as firm as steel, and she knew that if they dealt with this, there would be repercussions for her actions. Chagrined, she made her way up the stairs, although she kept her head high and blinked tears resolutely from her eyes.
Once she had passed him, Stephen’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly, although the rest of his body remained vigilant and on guard. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my Sanctum?”
The man below seemed unphased by the loss of his ghost army, and a sneering grin twisted his withered lips. “My name is Kulan Gath, and I am here to give you notice, Master of this Sanctum. Prepare yourself and your order to meet your end. The Earth has grown weak, and bereft of her old defenders. The Lord of Chaos is coming. Unless your order bows to the servitude that will be this planet’s lot, we will destroy you. You are forewarned!”
With a resounding clap, the man vanished, gone as if he had never been. With a hand gesture from Stephen, the sirens of the Sanctum’s alarm fell silent. The ensuing hush felt almost cloying to Illyana after the constant sound of the past half hour.
--
Turning on his heel, Stephen spun to face her, the Cloak fluttering agitatedly at his back. Illyana wondered inanely if the relic was reflecting its chosen’s emotional state, or if it was entirely capable of its own reaction to events.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” She nodded.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good. Then would you care to explain to me what in the Vishanti’s name you were doing, confronting that thing instead of going to Kamar-Taj for help?” His voice was level, but she could feel the anger and fear lurking just beneath its surface.
“Master Strange, I’m sorry. I thought that the alarm would go off in Kamar-Taj, and I didn’t want to leave the Sanctum undefended. I didn’t think…”
“No, you didn’t.” He interrupted, and she squirmed as his unwavering gaze met and held her own. “Illyana, I respect that you wanted to help. But one of the most important lessons a sorcerer must learn is not just how to fight, but when to fight. Sometimes, there is no other way. But charging into battle without a plan, or a true understanding of the situation, is a good way to get yourself and others killed. Do you understand?”
She hung her head, blinking against the renewed threat of tears. “I understand.”
“Good.” He rested a faintly tremoring hand gently on her shoulder. “Now I need you to go find Wong for me.”
“Master Strange?” Illyana’s head shot up in confusion, at both the non-sequitur and the faintly breathy quality of the older sorcerer’s voice. Stephen’s face was pale, and perspiration beaded beneath his dark hair. With a grimace, he reached a hand down to his side. When he pulled it away, it was red with blood.
“ой блять.”
“Yeah. Wong’s not gonna be happy.”
--
Wong had indeed been unhappy. He had been enjoying a perfectly lovely afternoon of organizing a new collection of Mesopotamian tablets. Unpacking the artifacts required a great deal of attention and care, and he found the work relaxing in its roteness.
That relaxation had gone right out the proverbial window when a frantic Illyana had come racing into the Narthex, babbling something about his being needed back at the Sanctum. His first sight upon spinning open a portal into the building’s foyer had been a sheepish and decidedly pale Stephen Strange, who was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase and attempting to bleed out all over the hardwood floor.
Wong had taken one look at the other sorcerer, hefted him by the elbow, and shoved him through another portal into the healing hall at Kamar-Taj. Which was where all three of the current residents of the New York Sanctum--Wong, Stephen, and Illyana--were still gathered.
Illyana, Wong noted, seemed particularly cowed. She stood behind him, head bowed and sneakered toe tracing invisible patterns on the tile floor. He suspected that there was a story there, but he planned to ask Stephen for further details once the girl had left.
“There. That should do nicely, although I recommend you avoid anything too strenuous for the next day or so, and get some rest.” Master Grannus nodded in satisfaction at her handiwork. About to walk away, she paused. “Although really, Stephen, could you try not to get stabbed quite as often? It doesn’t set the best example for the novices.”
“I will endeavor to do my best. Thank you.” Appeased, Master Grannus tilted her head in farewell, and briskly moved down the ward.
Stephen shuddered. “I’d like to unleash her for one day on Metro General. I think the efficiency would skyrocket.” Raising the hem of his sleeping shirt slightly, he prodded tentatively at the white bandage that covered the now-mostly healed wound in his side.
Wong grabbed his forearm with a growl. “Do not undo all of her hard work.” Stephen’s eyeroll made Wong wonder how such an intelligent and magically gifted person could at the same time be such an idiot. “Do you require Illyana’s presence any longer?”
Stephen’s face quickly sobered, and he propped himself up a little further against his pillows with a soft hiss. “Illyana?” The apprentice took a step forwards, at attention but head still bowed. Stephen looked as if he was about to say something more, then sighed. “You can head back to the Sanctum, if Wong has no further need of you.”
She glanced at Wong, who shook his head in the negative. “Good evening, masters.” Her voice was dull and monotone, and she spun open a portal to the New York Sanctum without further fanfare. As the last sparks of the portal faded, Wong pinned his friend with a questioning stare.
“Care to tell me what happened this afternoon?”
“That kid got incredibly lucky, is what happened.”
Stephen settled back, eyes trained to the ceiling. The dark circles beneath his eyes stood out in stark contrast to the pallor of his face. Magically replacing lost blood was so difficult as to not usually be done, and healing drew on both the energy of the healer and the patient. Wong wished that they could have delayed this conversation, but that was a luxury they could not afford. He drew a chair up to sit at Stephen’s bedside, as the other man continued.
“I got back early from S'ahra-Sharn . Good thing I did, because I walked in to our intrepid apprentice confronting an intruder to the Sanctum.”
Wong wasn’t sure what his own face looked like right now, but he imagined it would have looked similar if someone had hit him upside the head with a wooden plank. “An intruder? But the alarms here did not sound!”
Stephen moved as if to shrug, then thought better of it. “Impossible, right? Apparently not. And he was a sorcerer, too, by the looks of it. One of the Stone Age ghosts he’d summoned was about to shishkebab Illyana when I showed up. Hence this.” He waved a hand vaguely over his side.
“I have a name for you, by the way, which he was very cavalier about sharing. Kulan Gath. Ring any bells?”
Wong hummed thoughtfully, and from his seat spun open a tiny portal at about eye level. Reaching through the aperture, he retrieved a small, hide-bound book, its cover studded with tiny metal bolts. With the utmost care, he turned the magically preserved parchment of its ancient pages. He did not look up at Stephen’s indignant gasp.
“Shame on you, Wong! How can you hold your students to one standard, and follow another?”
“Quiet. Or I will tell Illyana about the time you took on Kaecilius and his zealots by yourself, instead of going for help. And only managed not to die thanks to the Cloak and your friend the doctor.”
“Touche. I like to think I’m older and wiser now. Any information about our friend Kulan?”
Wong turned the fragile volume, angling it so that Stephen could see its pages. “Yes. As I recalled, he was a sorcerer who lived around twelve thousand years ago, in the region of the Black Sea.”
Stephen snorted incredulously. “He looked pretty good for someone pushing twelve thousand. Although he could definitely do with a face lift.”
Wong stared at his friend, nonplussed. “If you would let me finish? He was slain by his wife, another sorcerer. However, legend has it that he had achieved a certain degree of immortality, due to binding of his soul to a certain amulet. Of greater interest, is the couple’s ultimate goal, at which they fortunately failed. This was to obtain the power of one of the most formidable demonic entities to ever exist.”
Here Wong paused, turning the ancient tome to once again face himself. His next words were solemn. “This creature is not of our dimension, and all that we know suggests he must never enter it again. For thousands of years, before the dawn of recorded history, he subjugated the human race, and washed in the blood of their sacrifices. He is one of the Old Ones, the Many Angled. He is known as Shuma-Gorath, the…”
“Lord of Chaos.” Stephen finished, mouth twisted in a grimace. At Wong’s obvious startle, Stephen smiled ruefully. “Just a lucky guess. Gath may have mentioned that title this afternoon.”
“Is there anything else you may have neglected to mention about your conversation?” Wong’s tone could have cut steel.
“Not really.” Stephen shook his head. “It was pretty short and sweet. ‘Hi, my name is Kulan Gath, nice to meet you, surrender or die.’ The usual spiel.”
“Stephen…”
“I know.” Gone were the lighthearted quips, and Wong watched as the Master of the New York Sanctum looked at him with a grave resolve in his eyes. “We need more information before we can act. If something big is coming, you and I both know the best place to find out about it. Up for a trip tomorrow?”
“Always.”
“Good.” Stephen’s jaw-cracking yawn caught them both by surprise, if the expression on his face was anything to go by. Wong sighed in fond exasperation as the Cloak, which had been hovering in the corner as unobtrusively as a sentient garment could hover, took this as its cue to nestle around its chosen like a great red blanket.
“Get some rest, Stephen. Tomorrow, we’ll go looking for our answers.”