my garden of blossoming prose

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CREW RESOURCE MANAGEMENT - 2400 words 🔥 Lloyd Hansen/f!Reader smut; for April Fool's, Lloyd messes with his mustache

Chapter Two: Stay For the Night

Mari is self-immolating in turns, alternating between low-stakes embarrassment from guilelessly interacting with Stephen Strange, and a solid chunk of high-stakes pain. It’s not usually this bad, but she’d essentially lost her ability to tune it out during the month and a half of chronic relief, and she’s without the ‘pain maintenance’ spells she used to cast on herself throughout the day. She is the coldest of turkeys right now.

The spell the Ancient One cast to strip her of all chronics has made her magically volatile for a few hours, so all she can do is endure. Wong had offered to try a relief spell anyway, but Mari doesn’t want to risk it. She sends him out of the room and walks around in circles, adjusting to the familiar creaks and groans. It would be easier with her cane, but it's buried in the back of her wardrobe along with some things she doesn't want another soul to ever see.

She has almost changed her mind by the time Wong and Master Mordo tap on the door to relay that the Ancient One has more to tell her.

Mari pictures the sunlit Sanctuary. “Of course.”

“I’m still willing to—” Wong starts to offer.

“It’s okay. I’ve always wanted to be in a fairy tale, and it looks like today’s is The Little Mermaid,” she quips. At Mordo’s confusion, she adds, “The sea witch takes the mermaid’s voice and gives her legs, but each step on dry land is like a thousand knives. It’s supposed to be worth the price, to marry the Prince.”

Wong hurriedly excuses himself and Mordo coughs nervously as he casts a portal. It’s been a long time since a self-deprecating reference has gone that poorly for her, but it has been a weird day.

They step out into a room she recognizes as the New York Sanctum Sanctorum’s library, thankfully complete with chairs.

“Stephen?” the Ancient One calls out toward the open doorway—and Mari’s traitorous heart leaps at the thought of seeing him again.

“I’m repairing the damage. Do you really need me to—”

“Yes. Do not be unkind.”

Strange walks in with a dust-smudged face, his expression full of rebellion. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“Take a seat.”

His eyes sweep the room and fixate on her, his insolent body language stiffening into brow-furrowed worry.

Mari feels a pang of concern. Did… the Zealot (she cannot bring herself to name him, even in her own mind) do something else to her? Something that made her dangerous?

“There is another spell, yes,” the Ancient One says gently.

“I hate when you know what I’m thinking,” she sighs. “Am I radioactive, a ticking time bomb, what?”

“Maybe some of the last one,” Master Mordo says under his breath.

“Does he have to be here?” Strange asks, glowering at the sorcerer standing in the shadows of the room.

“I appear to be the only one speaking sense!” Mordo challenges.

“Enough,” the Ancient One says, placing both of her hands flat on the table in front of her and speaking in an oddly ceremonial voice. “The London Sanctum has fallen, but thanks to Master Strange, this Sanctum is still intact. In the process, he has frightened the Zealots’ leader, leading to today’s attack in the Cavern.” Her gaze shifts to Mari. “It’s become clear that you were specifically targeted.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Strange interrupts, standing. “Cast the binding again. While she’s here.”

“You have to be in alignment,” the Ancient One protests, but she rises to her feet as well.

Strange speaks with reckless fury. “What kind of alignment? Do you even know? Emotional? Physical?”

“Must you argue this now, of all times? The two of you must be released from the handfast!” Master Mordo booms, striding over to stand beside Mari’s chair. “She is here, now, and you can only bicker while our enemy is out there scheming.”

The three Sorcerers start arguing louder and louder, repeating the words ‘sacrifice,’ ‘attack,’ and ‘handfast,’ to Mari’s worry and confusion.

Master Strange’s voice breaks through the din, magically amplified. “I wish to speak with Master Lewis alone.”

“That would be best,” The Ancient One says with as much exasperation as Mari has ever heard from her before. She watches as Master Mordo jogs after her, still upset.

Strange frowns as he watches them leave. “I didn’t want to do it this way.”

His words are the final drop in the mental cup of water Mari’s been holding for hours without explanation.

“Do what which way?” she demands. “Both Master Mordo and the Ancient one used the word ‘sacrifice’ just now. Am I to be sacrificed for your good behavior somehow? And what is this about a ‘binding spell?’” She can’t read his thoughts, but his lips are set to a thin line, and she can see a vein straining in his neck.

“I suppose it is a sacrifice of sorts. The the spell that binds me to this building's defense has failed twice.” He looks apologetic. “The, ah, attacker at Rinchen cast a proxy handfasting spell. A married man cannot be Master of the Sanctum.”

“Married? Without either of us knowing? How is that possible?” Mari whispers, entranced and flabbergasted. She’s heard the phrase ‘can’t rub two brain cells together,’ and now she fully understands the feeling. Granted, her cognition is currently hampered by a cloud of electric blue butterflies spreading romantic euphoria, but the theory is the same.

Strange is already ranting again. “—so convinced it has to be me. She could simply choose someone else and order me there to assist! There’s no reason to put you through this farce."

“Has anyone confirmed this?” she asks in a small voice. “Are you sure the only way the binding could fail is… well, if you’ve been magically married? And she’s sure it’s me?”

“There’s a confirmation spell,” Strange says, patting at the folds of his robes before pulling out a piece of parchment. “That’s why I asked the others to leave, but we should hurry. You’ll need to stand here.” He points to a place on the floor close to him.

Mari gets up, cringing at her earlier Little Mermaid comments and wondering if a person could turn into sea froth out of sheer embarrassment. “This cannot be real.”

Strange seems completely engrossed by the paper with the discernment spell on it. “Hmm? Ah. Looks like we start palm to palm.”

Sea froth it is! Mari thinks to herself. Sea froth and blue butterflies.

She closes her eyes seconds before placing her right hand against his left, commanding herself to ignore the thrill of deliberate physical contact. After admiring his magical skill and confidence from afar, Mari can’t quite believe they’re both caught in this whirlwind. She can tell the result of this spell will sweep her off her feet, but she’s powerless to stop it. 

Mari sways, her balance unsteady, and Strange moves his own thumb to catch hers, startling her eyes open.

“Mimic me, stupid as this is,” he grumbles, tipping his head toward her as the sparkling gold symbols pour from his casting hand to circle above them. Overcome, Mari closes her eyes as their foreheads touch, completing the magical circuit.

An honest-to-God bell chimes with a recognizable Mystic resonance, and the golden sparks morph into white ones, cascading over their shoulders. Strange rears his head back almost immediately, shielding his eyes with his free hand, while leaving the other thumb-clasped to hers.

“Well, that’s—” He starts the sentence in a tone of utter derision.

Mari knows what kind of word he’s going to say. Ridiculous. Outrageous. Awful. Unacceptable.

Strange looks her full in the face, his expression cycling through a multitude of emotions before landing at wonder. “New,” he breathes.

It’s probably the most romantic moment of her entire life, and it was prompted by cultist bent on the destruction of the entire planet. She pulls her hand free and takes an unsteady step back.

The action seems to knock him out of his daze, and Strange clears his throat. "Well. Remind me to conveniently erase the surveillance footage of the last fifteen minutes before Wong gets ahold of it."

Mari smiles at his joke, but inwardly, her mind is fueled by an odd sort of protective adrenaline. It’s inconceivable that she could be randomly chosen for him in a room of a hundred other options—and given the Sorcerer casting the spell, if it wasn’t a coincidence, then it must be negative for Strange.

She will not let that man use her as a weapon, and right now, her feelings feel dangerous.

Mari’s butterflies flutter a silent apology in her chest as she smiles sweetly and says, “Yeah, as first dates go, that was pretty terrible.”

Stephen’s can’t tell if her smile is meant to soften or worsen the words, but he spins away from her, deliberately raking his hand over his face and up into his hair. The sting from the cuts offer clarity.

“We’re playing directly into his hands,” he says gruffly, turning back toward Lewis. “He and his cultists will be coming back any moment to take advantage of… whatever this is.”

“Well, feel free to call back the troops,” she says, starting toward the bookshelves.

“We’re not done talking about this. Come back,” he says sternly.

“I don’t recall a vow to obey,” Lewis sasses over her shoulder. The mischievous light in her eyes prompts a rush of fledgeling affection that stops him dead in his tracks.

Stephen curses the base human instinct to bow to norms; he just confirmed that this woman is (unexpectedly, bewitchingly) his wife, and now he’s proud of her spirit. Fuck.

“This library will have the Book of Ours, I’m just going to check it.”

“The book of what?”

“Ours. It’s a joke. None of us bother to pronounce the real name. ‘Ours,’ as in, it’s the rulebook for ‘us.’ I’m surprised no one mentioned it to you.”

“I would have probably forced everyone learn the word,” Stephen reluctantly admits, losing sight of her in the stacks.

As he sidles through a section of tomes so large they leave only six inches between their opposing spines, Stephen gains a new appreciation for Wong’s shelving system. He comes out only feet away from Lewis and sees that she’s writing in a small notebook. A sly little smile forms on her face, and before he can announce his presence, Lewis is yelling a snarky remark.

“You’re not lost in the grooming section are you?”

“Grooming?” he queries, amused by the way she jumps in surprise to find him standing so nearby.

“You cannot tell me you don’t spend time on that facial hair,” Lewis says, giving him a once-over that triggers a ripple of goosebumps.

Subject. Change.

“What did you find?”

She thrusts a tome toward him and says, “It’s there, under my thumb. Probably only time I have any kind of advantage over those words.”

Stephen takes the book and starts to read. With each sentence, resignation and relief fight for dominance, until he lowers it and looks at her.

“How do you feel about this?”

“About your beard, or the book?” Lewis asks, scrunching her face up and apologizing. “Sorry. I’m punchdrunk on—I don’t know, everything,” she sighs. “Okay, it says 'alignment' is a sense of shared purpose and respect. We definitely agree on keeping the Sanctum safe, and as for respect..." She makes a face. "After doing so many deep dives into spellbooks, sometimes the scribe assumes everyone knows the full breadth of their current-use definition, which is now lost to time. Like how we don’t know what certain historical farm animals look like because everyone was so used to them no one bothered to draw any.”

“Really?”

“Really. So here's hoping 'respect' isn't code for something weirdly intrusive.” Lewis goes to stand up, and Stephen instinctively offers his hand. Both hold their inches-distant positions for a long moment, and she bites her lip. “Too soon, maybe.”

He scoffs, then tries a joke when she gets up unassisted. “You saw the proximity requirement?”

She’s whip smart and already on her way put the book back. “Don’t worry, it’s in Egyptian cubits, not Roman ones.”

There isn't actually a proximity requirement, but he’s going to have to look those measurements up, and the blatant amusement in her voice implies she can tell.

Shit, Stephen thinks to himself. It’s the third ‘shit’ today in regards to this woman, and he knows it won’t be the last. There’s just no way in any dimension he can call her ‘wife,’ even in his own mind—and he’ll be damned if he gives her the advantage of knowing he can’t navigate the Sanctum library.

Foes and friends alike have spent the day exerting power over him, and Stephen’s really fucking sick of it.

It’s with this thought boiling through his mind that he steps out from the shelves to find Master Mariposa Lewis leaning against one of the structural columns, eyes squeezed shut, her hands in fists at her sides. She looks the same way he feels—helpless and manipulated.

Every negative emotion drains away. He wants to tell her she’s not alone in her frustration, but, Goddamnit, this is not the common ground he wants to seek with her.

Stephen forces himself to turn around, walking a few paces into the stacks before backing up and saying, loudly, “I’m going to have to apologize to Wong for teasing him about his space-wasting bookshelves.”

He pauses his position until he hears the rustle of fabric and a barely audible sniffle.

“All right,” he says with false cheerfulness, clasping his hands together. “How do we prove the whole…” Stephen rolls his pointer fingers in an inclusive circle.

“No matter what it is, we should find the boss,” Lewis says.

“‘The boss?’ Have you ever called her that to her face?” Stephen asks, following her down the hallway toward the center staircase. She stops long enough for him to catch up to her and gives him a look. It’s a perfect replica of the expression the Ancient One makes when asked a stupid question, and he bursts out into genuine laughter.

“Is that you, Strange?” Mordo’s voice is very far away.

“We need to prove we can work together,” she whispers; “—but I bet you were one of those ‘stick the nerdy kid with all the work’ students.”

He’s still chuckling at her impression. “Not quite.”

“I refuse to believe you were the one standing in the middle of the room presenting. You'd take up the whole class period. The teacher would never let you.”

“Colder.”

Lewis looks at him with narrowed blue eyes before they widen in mock outrage. “You did all the work at the very last second, didn’t you? You’d wait and then be brilliant! You asshole!”

Her rage is luminous, and Stephen once again feels himself warming to her by several degrees at once. Something shifts in his mind, as if the tiny moment of relaxation has allowed him to think critically again.

“Wait!” he gasps.

Several concepts from the last few minutes coalesce, emulsifying with several ingredients already there. He can almost see them flying around his head like a petal-bent version of his mind palace in the mirror dimension: the chronic spells, their hurried trips back and forth to the Sanctum, wishing there was a limit on astral projection inside it. He ‘comes to’ with a possibly brilliant idea that hinges almost entirely on the woman waiting patiently beside him.

Stephen clasps her shoulder, needing to be physically grounded in this moment. “How esoteric can a chronic spell get? Could you prevent spellcasting in an area, like a shield or—”

“—a portal!” she finishes with him almost breathlessly. “Yes! Yes. Run and tell her? I need to grab my notes.” Lewis pulls out her Sling Ring, reaching up absently to squeeze his hand at her shoulder before starting to cast.

As Stephen jogs toward where he heard Mordo’s voice, he ignores the voice in his head that reminds him how long since he’d been touched with such casual intimacy.

It’s easy to find her notes about the portal-blocking chronic, because it’s only been two months since she worked it all out. Ansen Struek hadn’t stayed in Kamar-Taj long enough to master the Mystic Arts, but he certainly had mastered the art of stalking her. Who would have known her desperate bid to keep him from snooping in her room would end up so useful?

Her only consolation is that the notebooks she knows he stole from her weren’t the useful ones, which she keeps in her closet, not her small desk. Anyone could have written out the translations and notations she’d made from the tomes she’d been studying, but her conclusions and spell creations are her own. Mari grabs the relevant notebook and grabs some clothes from her laundry basket to further hide the box it came from. That done, she pictures the top of the stairwell in the New York Sanctum and starts to circle up a portal. 

Everyone stops talking when she arrives. The three Sorcerers walk up the stairs toward her; Strange conjures up a glowing gold whip that latches onto a small empty podium that he swings to a position about a foot away. It’s at the right height to lay out her notebook.

“Wow, thanks,” she says, feeling a little thrill at the crooked half-smile he offers in response. It’s a touch smug, but they did agree to present a picture of synchronicity. The sooner the Ancient One attempts the Sanctum binding spell again, the better.

“I should warn you, this whole incantation is a bit intricate, and the larger the area, the more one has to sacrifice either duration or expended power,” Mari warns.

“Individual power?” Strange asks.

“How wide an area?” Mordo says, at the same time.

The Ancient One holds her observation until they’re done speaking. “I presume the duration is significant enough to be worth the effort?”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Mari says, catching Strange’s meaningful look at the podium and understanding the ‘class presentation’ in-joke right away. “I used to cast this once a week for my single room, so I imagine a day might be feasible for a space like the main atrium—but, I had a thought. Aren’t there restrictive spells for certain areas? Maybe we could combine the two, at least at first?”

“A no-man’s land,” Mordo muses.

The Ancient One starts to pace, looking troubled. “It is no small thing to deny access to a Sanctum.”

“To our enemies? When the alternative is killing them in self defense before they kill us?” Strange bursts out.

Mordo looks from the Ancient One to Strange and back, his expression stricken as he begins to back away. “Tell me, Master Lewis,” he says in a voice thick with dread, “—what exclusion mechanism does this spell require? Might it be related to the Dark Dimension?”

Strange lets out a short breath, his head dipping down, but the Ancient One’s chin lifts, her eyes hard. The atmosphere of the Sanctum turns decidedly cold.

“If it’s a common characteristic between all of the attackers, yes,” she says.

“It is true, isn’t it?” Master Mordo chokes out. “You draw power from the Dark Dimension!”

He’s looking at the Ancient One.

“You have no concept of the burdens I carry,” she asserts, her usual calm tone deep with warning.

“You could share them,” Strange says simply. “In all your long life, is that the last lesson to be learned?”

Too late, Mari realizes that the Ancient One is both physically and morally cornered, given that they’re all arrayed around her. It’s the kind of position that makes a person desperate, even one with as much power as the Ancient One.

“What about the binding spell?” Mari asks in a small voice, as much begging as offering a distraction.

“So be it. If you wish to share power, Master Strange, here is your chance!” The Ancient One’s hands move swiftly, casting a spell whose symbols seem to temporarily rend the floor with their passing. Mari and Mordo retreat back against the wall, but Strange stands resolute, his new red Cloak billowing in the mystic wind. Finally, the crimson and gold meld together into a shape identical to the Sanctum tower’s large circular window, which advances toward the defiant sorcerer.

It collides with his chest in a deluge of magical fireworks, forcing Strange to brace himself. What Mari didn’t expect was for the symbol to continue through him. Mesmerized, she holds still and gasps when the glowing magic strikes her, releasing red and gold sparks with the same intensity as before.

Mari presses both hands to her chest, making shocked eye contact with her husband, who had wheeled around to watch the orb’s progress. His expression shifts into a silent, oddly gentle apology before he moves back to face ‘the boss.’

“Do what you must, Guardians,” the Ancient One says, an undercurrent of resentment brimming beneath her commanding tone. She looks first at Strange, then turns her gaze specifically to Mari, her expression softening. “Be aware that I will be unable to tolerate this place, but I will still aid the fight. There is a point outside each Sanctum marked with a similar symbol. If you stand in that place and cast any of the Mystic Arts, I will sense it—and come.”

Finally, she turns to Master Mordo, whose face is twisted with the disgust of betrayal. As the Ancient One speaks, she gestures to where Mari and Strange are standing. “Many have done the distasteful for what they view as the greater good. Even you.” Mordo shakes his head, slowly at first and then faster, before making a hitched cry of distress. He turns and stalks away, continuing out the front door of the Sanctum without looking back.

There’s a long pause, during which Mari struggles to keep her expression neutral, refusing to look over at Strange. He clearly knows what’s going on between the three of them, but the moment is too raw.

“I will be in my study. Do not disturb me until tomorrow.”

The Ancient One spins on her heel and walks away toward Kamar-Taj, the opposite direction from Mordo.

No one says anything until her footsteps fade away completely.

“So, looks like we’re really married, then,” Strange says sardonically. “Kind of feels like neither parent is happy about it, either.”

Mari cracks up despite herself. “I should not be laughing! Shame on you.” He turns toward her with a smile that hits her hard; he looks devilish and relieved all at once, and she makes a production of turning around as if afraid he might corrupt her (he already has). “I may be the one with an arm tattoo, but you were definitely a pirate in another life!”

“Does that make you my stolen bride?” Strange jokes.

Her steps toward the notes podium are as affected by mild emotional breakdown as they are from pain. “I’m putting that comment on a shelf,” Mari says, her attempt at ‘stern’ sounding far too breathless for her liking. “A high one. We need to protect this place right away, and it seems like ‘we’ means the two of us.”

“I’m sorry you were dragged into this, but right now I’m just grateful to have an uncomplicated ally,” Strange says behind her, sounding tired.

Guilt blooms like a weed next to Mari’s too-high pedestal for Stephen Strange, because she’s not uncomplicated at all, if her not-so-secret-after-all feelings for him are what prompted the handfast spell. Mari shelves that, too. He’ll have to think she’s so focused on protecting the Sanctum that she missed the compliment.

“Right. Well, obviously the whole atrium needs to be portal-toxic,” she says briskly. “I can do this one, but I think I’ll need to sit by the door. Need to see the whole excluded space.”

“Makes sense. Anything else I can do?” Strange asks, hefting up a solid-looking wood chair. “To save you the stress of wondering about it, I’ll ask to learn the spell after half-past Dire o’clock.”

He’s faster down the stairs than she is, even carrying furniture—though Mari notices the Cloak tucking a fold of fabric under seat as if bearing up some of the load.

They settle on casting the anti-portal chronic in four places, mostly locations with open spaces. As swiftly as they can, the two of them take note of the places they can magically ‘board up’ with regular detection spells. Strange starts to refer to longer-lived non-chronic spells as ‘binary,’ as most are an on/off condition. Certain spaces such as the kitchen and bedrooms can use the same binary spells as the Ancient One’s study, with deactivating cantrips for anyone who actually belongs there.

By the time they’re standing in the final hallway, Mari is starting to feel the strain of rushing around to secure everything. “Shit. I just remembered we’ll need to do this in the Hong Kong Sanctum!”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Mordo went straight to Master Minoru after he ragequit the argument. While I was near the gateway Minoru gave me a message that she’s covered her Sanctum in various spells, but would be happy for you to add a few chronics,” Strange says, opening one of the three doors in the dead-end hallway, peeking in, and shutting it behind him. “A study. Looks like maybe Drumm was in there before the attack today.”

Mari pictures the fallen Sorcerer with a pang. She’d only met him once or twice, when he visited Wong in the library; she hasn’t met Tina Minoru at all yet.

“She’s got one hell of a reputation. My instinct would be not to wake her up twice in only a few hours,” she points out. “Glad I don’t have to calculate the time difference with a brain pickled in stress. They're a flat 12 hours ahead of us, and that's a reminder that it’s past time to eat dinner.” There are only a few rooms left to go through, and she steps closer to the nearest door.

“At the risk of feeding dinner to the elephant in the room, we’ll both need to live at the Sanctum.” He heads down the hallway toward the last room they haven’t checked, still speaking somewhat over his shoulder. “We can take turns gathering things, but if you don’t have any combat training, I think you should go first. You can ask some colleagues to wait with you while I’m gone.”

Mari pauses with her hand on the doorknob, the persistent ache in her legs now overshadowed by the sharp stab of fear in her chest. “Combat…” she whispers. “Fuck.”

That gets Strange to turn around, and she can see that he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“It’s not funny! I’m abysmal at hand-to-hand, despite keeping up with upper body strength training. The thought of my life depending on it—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you to be…” He interrupts, clearly struggling not to outright laugh.

“Out with it.”

He looks impish. “Offensive.”

“Very clever,” she deadpans, but his amusement is infectious. “You have to admit, if anything deserves a good ‘fuck,’ it’s this situat—” Mari gasps, eyes wide. “Oh my God. Forget I said that.”

Strange gestures to the cuts on his face. “You never know, you might do better than I did. Maybe we could spar, gain practice?”

The Sanctum clock starts to chime. They maintain eye contact through the whole thing, and Mari can’t help but notice they’re standing next to the Sanctum’s bedrooms. She’s done her best over the past hours to see him more as a lab partner than a man, but it’s not working.

After the sixth clang, she whispers, “The elephant is trumpeting, and I don’t know how prepared I am to live on the savanna.”

Strange’s lip curves up on one side, a sober but kind expression on his face. “Me either, but I’m glad for the company.” Then he walks over to her, his right hand extended as he says, “I’m Stephen.”

Already, her heart is adding floors to his pedestal, the one right next to her overgrown guilt garden. It feels deceptive to act like he is as much a stranger to her as she is to him, but she doesn’t want to add to the stress of the day. That’s not what a good wife does, right?

Straight to hell, Mari. That’s where you’re going!

She takes his hand.

“I’m Mari.”

If the world ends tonight You’ll be in my arms We'll be frozen in time Underneath the stars

~Rewind, Repeat It by Ed Sheeran and Martin Garrix

Chapter One: The Melody Begins

Not for the first time, a dazed Stephen Strange follows the Ancient One through one phase of his life into another. As he and Master Mordo cross into the disarray of the New York Sanctum, they step on the golden sparks she leaves in her wake.

He wonders if she’s harnessing the mystic arts to anoint him as the Sanctum’s protector or girding herself against the Zealots' return. Either way, it’s an effective distraction from their argument about her willing immortality and his unwillingness to kill.

“You defended the New York Sanctum from attack. With its Master gone, it needs another…”

The remembered words crash through his mind, washing through every secret, serene space he’s curated in the past months. Floating in the debris that’s left is the body of the man he killed. How could Stephen see this promotion as anything other than a reward for taking a life? If his attacker had walked into the hospital instead of projected, would Nick West have been called on to figure out his cause of death?

“Strange!” Mordo says sharply, throwing an arm out in front of him. He’d almost blindly followed the Ancient One off the broken edge of a stairwell, without the magic that kept her walking steadily across the void.

She throws her hands wide, twisting them in a sparkling flurry of gold and crimson symbols, while never dipping from her solid position in midair. The sparks coalesce into a shape he’d seen mirrored in the architecture of the Sanctum itself, but before he can ponder this, the glowing magic swoops toward him.

“Steady,” Mordo whispers, even as he backs away. He needn’t have bothered; the colors twist into an oily black and dissipate halfway through their journey.

His mentor floats over in a graceful arc. “Well, that is unexpected.”

Stephen’s relief is generous enough to prevent a snarky ‘I told you so.’ He shoots a look back at Mordo and beckons. “Looks like it’s your turn!” Instead of joining in his jest, the other man throws his hands up in frustration and retreats.

“I had not thought you married,” the Ancient One murmurs.

“What?” Stephen gasps, but she ignores him, choosing instead to start the incantations again, colors erupting like fireworks from her fingertips.

Baffled, he thinks through the last few interactions he had with Christine Palmer, immediately rejecting the notion that she’d taken advantage without him knowing. Their familiarity and shared trust is far from legally binding, and his selfish tantrum during recovery had stamped out all embers of romance. “Married? Not a chance,” he adds, just in time for the oily-looking black symbol to rebound off of the air a few inches from his chest.

“And yet,” the Ancient One says enigmatically, tipping her head toward the magical remnants as they twinkle out of existence.

“I promise you—”

The sound of running feet interrupts them, and Stephen turns to see Mordo and another robed sorcerer racing toward them.

“Attack!” the young man gasps out, bending over to rest his hands on his knees as if he’s run a race.

“Kaecilius appeared in the Rinchen Cavern among the trainees,” Mordo says, laying a gentle hand on the messenger’s shoulder. “Rahir says he appeared through a portal, cast something on the group, and left.”

The Ancient One walks over, speaking quickly in a language Stephen doesn’t know. Instead of translating, she next turns to Master Mordo, gesturing deeper into the Sanctum in response to his nodding assent.

Impatient, Stephen searches his memory for any protection spells they can use to fortify Kamar-Taj itself, in preparation for another attack. Is their adversary’s persistence fueled by the Dark Dimension? If so, would Dormammu limit that power to Kaecilius alone, or are they about to face an army of tireless cultists bent on their destruction?

“Rahir, take your rest, but tell me, what color was Kaecilius’s spellcast?” their leader says, spinning up a portal to the dormitories.

“The blue of the clearest sky, lighting up each crystal in the Cavern as if with sunbeams. It seemed to turn everyone mindless.” the man says, earning a nod of concern before he steps through.

“Come,” the Ancient One tells Stephen, walking briskly toward the gateway to Kamar-Taj. “Best not to alarm anyone by casting another portal to access the Cavern.”

Stephen matches her quick pace, looking down at the Eye of Agamotto still hanging around his neck. He senses that he’s needed, but a similar flicker of fear to the one before his first emergency neurosurgery pierces through. There's no reversing course, but would it even be possible to wind himself back to before he gained the knowledge to use it?

“A dangerous thought,” the Ancient One notes as they walk, startling him with her discernment. At his reaction, she adds, “Some urges are obvious and universal, Stephen.”

A surge of resentment pushes him to say, “Regretting your long life? Or, I hope, the means of acquiring it?”

“So eager to discuss your perception of my choices,” she chastises; “Perhaps a deflection from your own?”

“I am not a killer, and I am not married,” he bites out, furious.

“Perhaps. Supposing you are, could it be that both were choices made for you as a means of survival?”

Stephen throws his hands up in utter disgust as they cross the courtyard. “Maybe you’ve been a bit sheltered in the past few centuries, but here in 2017, it helps not to be cryptic when you’re asking someone to die to save the world!”

The Ancient One smiles. “It helps, but it is not necessary.” She gives him a long moment to stew on that before metaphorically prodding him again. “Kaecilius’s choice to lay traps rather than escape exposes his fear of you.”

Stephen doesn’t stop, wary of the way his explosive anger mixes with her earlier threat to tread carefully. “You’re wrong. He treated me like a gnat.”

“A gnat who restrained him with the Crimson Bands?” She steps past him through the passage doorway, adding, “Once freed, he directly sought to curtail your power to resist him. Yours in particular. Tell me, would the Sanctum’s binding spell have failed a mere twenty-four hours ago?”

“You’re saying he showed up, pointed a spell at somebody, and now it’s everyone’s problem?”

“The Sanctum’s binding spell is quite clear. Unless cast on both, as equal Masters with mutual intent, the spell will fail. Kaecilius seems to have sought a newcomer for a proxy handfast spell, thinking that preventing you from being its protector makes the Sanctum vulnerable.”

“Why are you so determined it has to be me? Is there a power advantage that comes from being appointed Master of a Sanctum?”

“You’ll soon find out.”

“Well if it’s all the same to you, I’d like a little more clarity and a lot less blind handwaving,” he snaps, stalking past her toward the passage doorway. The Cloak of Levitation appears to agree, furling about him like he’s the star of some kind of vampiric melodrama.

Mariposa Lewis was named for a Sequoia Grove and an explorer. Her mother likes to tell people that when Mari found this out at the age of 10, she declared she'd open a bakery in a big city and never go on vacation. Her rebellious streak took a hit when she developed a love for climbing as a teenager, but by the time she attended college in Colorado (to be close to the climbing scene, of course), her unusual name carried a level of outdoorsy distinction, which softened the blow.

The John Muir tattoo in her father’s distinctive script didn’t hurt, either. ‘The clearest way to the universe is through a forest wilderness.’ Mari’s favorite place to read it was when stretching her inked arm up for a handhold on a bright summer’s day of climbing in Yosemite National park.

The biggest hit to that rebellious streak happened after her fall, not long past ten years of climbing. At age 27 she was still young and vital, and once told she’d never walk again, Mari stubbornly threw herself into recovery. She did walk, albeit poorly, and with the kind of pain that made Dr. Gregory House miserable and addicted to painkillers. She didn’t want to end up that way, even if the medicine did soften the edges of her agony.

For months, she tried almost everything to ease her pain, enduring judgey nursing staff, dismissive doctors, and endless medical bills with nothing to show for them.No amount of alternate treatment had the effect the pills did, and thanks to the ‘drug seeking’ note on her medical file, she was looking at a lifetime of fighting to access the medicine that made her feel whole again. The pain was immutable, and her rebellion did nothing but make her feel defeated.

That was what ultimately brought her to Kamar-Taj. Two years and much study later, Mari doesn’t mind her unsteady gait. She’s surrounded by people who understand her struggles and don’t judge the appearance of limitation. She’s achieved her goal: to mitigate her chronic, agonizing pain. Beyond that, why harness magic to walk when she could choose to glide or fly instead?

A keen scholar, Mari rediscovered an ancient, almost forgotten discipline within the Mystic Arts. Many of the translations were lost to time, so she coined the term ‘chronic incantations.’ These are spells that last many hours, days, or perhaps even longer, depending on the words used and the skill of the Sorcerer. Right now she’s sitting on seven weeks’ worth of pain mitigation without any further intervention.

While most of the Mystic Arts display a golden hue, the chronic ones flare a fleeting, glorious sky blue—the same color as the spell that lit up the Cavern while she was instructing a group of acolytes less than a half hour ago.

The Rinchen Cavern is large enough for multiple groups and skill levels, each with their own teacher. Mari is routinely trusted with the newest students, both skeptics and enthusiasts, and to keep others from questioning their naiveté, she often seeks out the far edge of the cave. Today, even their low stretch of the roof had gleamed with the clear blue sparkles. The symbols themselves didn’t linger enough for her to recognize, but she hopes there is video footage, if only to assuage her curiosity.

Only a few people in the Cavern had reacted with hostility, casting shield spells that protected them from what she’s pretty sure was a mass Pacification spell. Even that conclusion took over ten minutes to puzzle out through thoughts that feel soaked in molasses. It's clear that the spell is keeping everyone milling about in quiet conversations, calm and indifferent. No one has even tried to leave.

Every so often, an icy trickle of alarm stirs deep in her gut, but it disappears as soon as she notices it.

Mari is willing herself to walk toward the exit when the Ancient One steps through, followed by Stephen Strange, the man her thoughts have been consumed with for months. She has avoided him for almost as long, frightened by the strength of her crush (and, quite frankly, intimidated by his forceful personality). Up until now Mari’s done a good job of staying out of his way; it figures that he’s the one who’s come to untangle their current predicament.

Sure enough, the Ancient One calls the instructors over to confer. Master Weiss identifies her as 'someone who seems to care about... something,' and she steps forward.

In a hazy way, Mari remembers that she usually hides her feelings for Strange, sometimes even releasing her brown curls from their clip in order to hide her face as he walks by. Her spellbound nonchalance is at war with her drive to keep the secret, but for now, willpower is winning.

“I think we’ve all been struck by a calming, pacifying spell,” she begins earnestly. “A chronic one if I had to guess, and quickly, too. Only a few people cast shields or attacks.”

“I suspected as much. That’s your field of study, isn’t it, Master Lewis?” the Ancient One asks. At Mari’s nod, she continues; “Do the symbols indicate how long the spell is meant to last?”

“Sometimes,” Mari says. “It was very difficult to focus, but I did try. I remember wishing there was a surveillance camera so I could review them later.”

“Maybe in fifty years,” Strange quips.

The Ancient One lifts an eyebrow, her tone lightly amused. “We do use video technology, mostly at the perimeter. Kamar-Taj is not slow to modernize in every aspect.” She turns and asks the group something about a second spell. Mari doesn’t listen to the answers, too consumed by the experience of standing close enough to Strange that she can hear him muttering to himself.

“Too slow in banning non-consensual weddings.”

Before Mari can fully parse the words, he gives her his full attention. “Did she say you study that spell type? Can you reverse it?”

Mari nods, then winces. “Maybe. I did a lot of on/off testing with them, things like hair color and material transformation. When it comes to influencing human behavior, I wouldn’t know where to start, much less know how to ethically test anything.”

“Wait. There are ancient hair dye spells?” he asks, incredulous.

All of this attention from Strange has converted her entire nervous system into ecstatic butterflies. Making fists and digging her fingernails desperately into her palms barely keep her from reacting like a moonstruck schoolgirl. Mari forces herself to take a deep breath before answering.

“No, I created the spell. I needed to fully understand the language of the incantations to decipher the ones in the book.”

Strange’s expression sharpens, his eyes narrowing with obvious academic interest. “Given who just attacked, you might be a formidable weapon against him!” He steps toward her, and Mari bites the inside of her cheek to stay focused. Something he just said makes her feel queasy, but she can’t quite—

Bright golden sparks dance in random patterns on the ceiling, splitting into multiple swirls that speed off to every corner of the room.

The Ancient One claps her hands together, ceasing the sparks. She shouts, “If you were at Kamar-Taj at the same time as Master Kaecilius, come to the center of the room.”

Mari’s throat closes up, and the spell’s induced sense of calm turns ugly in her gut. She knows she must put as much distance as possible between herself and all reference to the enemy zealot. She covers her face with her hands and starts to run.

At any other time, she’d have the faculties to use the Mystic Arts to flee, but in her altered state, panic takes over. Her gait is precarious but headlong, chased by alarmed voices and a need to appease the twisting fear in her stomach. Each blind, unsteady step is held together only by the blessed lack of pain.

She makes it fifteen feet before she stumbles, caught by a tangle of fabric before she crashes to the ground.

Stephen had barely felt the Artifact detach from his neck, but he was relieved to watch it sail toward the distraught woman in time to prevent her crash to the uneven ground. As he and the Ancient One rush over, the magnitude of the ‘calming’ spell comes into focus.

Only a handful of people seem to have even noticed the commotion. Even the group of instructors following them appear to be driven by curiosity rather than concern.

He arrives first. The Cloak of Levitation has decided he’s the hero of the hour, and it contours itself in a way that ‘delivers’ the damsel in distress directly to his proffered hand. Her hesitation prompts the damned thing to push her toward him with a fold of fabric.

The Ancient One is brusque. “To your knowledge, is anyone else affected by a chronic?”

Stephen can feel the woman’s whole body tremble through his grip on her hand, but her voice is strong and clear.

“No. Do you need me to help cas—”

“An unaffected mind is best when releasing so many at once. It is unfortunate, but your situation necessitates a test of sorts,” the Ancient One says, making eye contact with him and covertly tapping her sling ring before she continues; “Your time at Kamar-Taj overlapped with Kaecilius for a few months, is that correct?”

The effect on the woman is immediate. She pitches forward in distress, falling to her knees before he’s able to stop her. The Cloak’s response is equally protective, but Stephen’s seeing red in more ways than one. He spins up a furious portal to the library, glaring at the Ancient One.

“We’re not done,” he grits out before pulling the sobbing woman to his side and helping her through.

Their momentum takes him many paces into the main library before he stops to check on her, but she pulls away, stumbling over to the nearest bookshelves. The Cloak hovers behind her like a concerned nurse, and Stephen hears Wong’s voice speaking an incantation.

A golden shield settles on the books nearest them.

Stephen can’t help himself. “Seriously?”

“She appears to be under your care, and these books are under mine,” Wong says, a hint of resolute apology in his tone. “Body fluids can do much damage to those tomes.”

“If you’re that worried, unlock the Jamis room, will you?”

“In a moment.” Wong sets a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, speaking too softly for Stephen to overhear. She shudders but nods, letting him lead her over to the room in question. Once there, Wong shifts his support to the Cloak while he unlocks the door.

Stephen is affronted. Isn’t he the one most qualified to deal with a medical or mystical mystery? He strides over, catching the door before it locks him out.

The woman is seated with her head in her hands, and Wong walks over from an open antique cabinet with a thermometer, of all things. It seems that First Aid Kits are among the ‘modern’ advancements Kamar-Taj finds necessary.

The librarian doesn’t even look over at him. “Was she was in Rinchen when—”

“Aht!” Stephen raises his hand. “She was. The attacker’s name acts as a curse. It makes her flee.”

“Understood.” Wong gestures toward Stephen’s face. “Go clean yourself up. I don’t want blood on the carpet.”

“Dismissive, nice. I always knew you played favorites.”

The alcohol wipes sting, but when he sees himself in the small mirror, Stephen winces. He’d been in a fight and looks it, just in time to meet whichever unfortunate soul Kaecilius decided to cast a proxy handfasting spell o—

“Shit.”

It’s her. No one else had reacted to the Zealot’s name.

Wong looks up. “If you’re needed elsewhere—”

“No,” Stephen croaks, taking in the woman’s brown and black instructor’s robes in context with the competent way she’d spoken in their brief exchange earlier. Even then she'd seemed spacey but interested, unlike the others in the cavern. “I, uh, need to speak with her. Alone.” The two men share a long, steady look, and the librarian finally nods.

“I’ll check back, Master Lewis,” Wong says, his stiff posture softened by the way she clasps his hand.

“Thank you,” she says, at the same time Stephen growls a “Thanks.”

“In ten minutes,” Wong adds, shutting the door with a strong, somehow threatening thump.

“First things first,” he starts, hearing the harsh tone and regretting it when he sees her flinch. During his first year residency he’d been told he had 'the bedside manner of a starving goat.’ Stephen clears his throat and focuses on the shoulder length brown curls hiding her face from him. “I won’t be saying his Name, but I’ll tell you mine. Stephen Strange.”

She lets out a grateful little sigh. “Yes. Mariposa Lewis.”

“Like the sequoias,” Stephen says, pleased in a way that feels very much like compliance. His instinct is to harden his heart, but that thought evaporates when she looks over and smiles.

“Exactly. I had outdoorsy parents.” Her eyes are blue, visibly so even in the dim light of the room.

Time for a subject change.

“Did you have a fever?” he asks, to an answering shake of her head. “Any injuries? Your legs?”

“Less ‘injured’ than ‘permanently unhealed,” she tells him, shifting her position to face him without getting up. “That’s why I’m at Kamar-Taj.”

“Same,” he says, mentally stepping closer without moving a muscle.

A flutter of movement catches his eye, and he realizes that the Cloak is still hovering near her. Could an Artifact detect a marriage incantation? The Sanctum’s binding spell certainly could.

With a surgeon’s precision, he slices past that obstructive thought and says, “Can you tell me more about the spell, what did the Ancient One call it?”

“Chronic,” Lewis says. “They seem to tap into a wholly different aspect of the Mystic Arts. Maybe it’s just the blue reminding me of ice, but I picture them coming from the arctic. Slower coming and going than the golden, fiery ones.” Shifting her tone from academic fascination to hesitancy, she says, “Would you mind sitting down?”

“Of course,” he says, crossing to the other side of the table and pulling out a chair. Her brows furrow, and Stephen inwardly winces.

If he’s right about the handfast, he won’t be able to keep it from her. He resolves to call her ‘Master Lewis’ as much as possible, to foster respect and a professional rapport.

“Habit,” he lies, coming over to pull back a chair; the gap still feels a bit like a school boy sitting on the opposite side of the couch from his crush. Shit, he thinks again.

She continues her explanation of the chronic spells, and he finds himself fully engrossed in the whole concept. It’s not hard to see why she would be so passionate; if they do as she says, it might be possible to enchant a person with years’ worth of pain relief. Unfortunately, Kaecilius clearly knows as much as she does, if not more.

Master Lewis can tell he’s upset. “What is it?”

“Our attacker’s knowledge of those spells is very dangerous,” he says. “He may be able to tap into a level of power that could stretch them to magnitudes more than a cavern of magic-attuned acolytes.”

Her expression twists into a vulnerability that makes him feel like an intruder. “I hadn’t mentioned that part,” she murmurs. “The attunement. It might be why I had such a strong reaction.”

It isn’t, and he has no intention of being the one to tell her why.

There’s a sound at the door, and he stands, expecting Wong. Instead, the Sorcerer Supreme walks in, unruffled as ever.

Master Lewis stands as well. “Were you able to strip the chronic?” After the answering nod, the two women start discussing the attack. Stephen steps away to finish cleaning the blood off of his face, doing his best to eavesdrop without benefit of magic.

“—safety of Kamar-Taj, we need to ensure no one is vulnerable to such an attack again. I think you know what that means, and I’m sorry.”

“I understand. “I used other spells prior,” Lewis says, but Stephen can see her knuckles whiten from her grip on the chair. She must be using a chronic for pain relief.

“Are you ready, then?”

Lewis looks pale and frightened, but she bows her head in acquiescence, clasping her hands tightly in front of her.

Stephen watches with trepidation as a geometric net builds itself from the Ancient One’s twisting hands before folding around Master Lewis. Every time a corner of the shifting energy touches her, it spirals off in a shower of green. The room falls silent.

“Tactical mistake,” Lewis grits out after a few seconds, brushing her hair back away from her face and looking longingly at the chair she’s a fair distance from. The Ancient One, Stephen, and the Cloak all move toward her, but she makes a 'stop!' motion with each hand. “I’ve got it, thanks.”

“You’ve got it, but I’ve got you,” Wong says from the doorway. He absorbs Lewis’s dirty look with his typical equanimity. “I said I’d come back. You don’t have three hands, and you weren’t pointing at me.”

“Fine,” she sighs, but some of her tension visibly ebbs.

Despite his reluctance to be magically tied to her, Stephen is still affected by the sharp gasp Lewis gives as she takes her first step. He sees the Ancient One nod toward the door, implying that they should offer Lewis some privacy. The Cloak follows, and once in the main library she wordlessly starts casting yet another portal to the New York Sanctum. Stephen is too exhausted to object. He steps through, greeting Master Mordo when he comes to investigate.

“The students?” Mordo asks.

“Safe but disenchanted,” the Ancient One says, with a rare spark of humor. She turns to face Stephen and steps backwards into the same void as before, her eyes challenging him to resist.

He goes to cross his arms, but an aching twinge reminds him of the injury he’d suffered not long ago. Nevertheless, the action earns a genuine smile from the Ancient One.

That expression drops when the red and gold symbol once again melts into rejection.

“It seems your long day of trials is not yet over, Stephen.”