2013.10.07 - Doctor Strange is Dead

It has been three days since the forced entry into Mephisto's realm.

The guests are gone. The house is quiet. Amy Winston still hasn't come back.

There is a presence bedeviling the sight of Doctor Strange. It is assuredly Mephisto himself, though in this field it is a folly to hold anything as an immutable truth. It is a persistent power, aware that the eyes of the Sorcerer Supreme rove Hellward. It knows many of the tricks a mage would employ, and several that belong only to Strange. It is strong and clever.

It is not, however, the Sorcerer Supreme. Time passes slowly in Mephisto's realm. It has only been hours there, instead of days. It is verging dangerously on the edge of lengthy talk and kidnapping.

Mocking shades cloud the Orb of Agamotto. Long-trod astral pathways into Mephisto's realm now lead the Sorceror Supreme to the infernal demesnes of his rivals. Hours of meditation meant to extend his mortal senses into the subtler realms are beset by tempting, humiliating whispers, and throughout it all - every obstacle and misdirection - he can just about hear the Lord of Lies snickering at his folly.

Three days of silence - of taunting -- is long enough for even the most patient of teachers; thus, in the waning hours of the third night, he's carefully ladling a dose of steaming, frothy potion from one of the Sanctum's several cauldrons into a flask in preparation for a less conventional approach. A ritual circle of blood, salt, and fire not unlike Amy's has been meticulously constructed around the Sorceror and the cauldron both. Off to his right, a small, ornate box filled with pages from Strange's collection sits open atop a worktable, next to a vial of thick, purple liquid; to his left, Wong is standing where he has been since the Doctor set himself to this plan, watching with a mixture of concern and incredulity.

"Master," Wong begins as Stephen sets the ladle next to the open box and cups the flask in both hands, "This plan of yours, it is--are you sure it's worth it? You trust this new pupil of yours, do you not?"

"I do, of course," the Doctor quietly replies, "but her host..." With a brisk shake of his head, he lifts the flask to Wong in a toast of sorts. "When the phylactery shuts - when the concoction has--done its job - my spirit will return to the subtle dimension where it most recently dwelled." He flicks his eyes from his assistant and friend down to the grisly design at this feet, then somberly concludes, "If this works, and nothing is disturbed: the phylactery will draw my spirit into itself in a day's time, after which point you may administer the antidote." He gestures towards the vial.

Wong begins to speak, but after considering it a moment, he slowly closes his mouth and offers his master a low bow instead, murmuring, "Understood," as he comes back up.

After returning the bow, Strange raises his flask one last time, then knocks the whole thing back. The effects are rapid: shortly after swallowing the last drop, his whole body stiffens, his eyes roll back into his skull, and he collapses like a puppet with cut strings. When he hits the ground, there's no more movement - no last rise and fall of his chest, no final twitches, nothing.

And just like that, Doctor Strange is dead.

"So you're probably waiting for me to ask you about the last time you had Nilaian royalty over," Princess Amethyst says. There is no excitement in her voice. The gentle rain of flaming pitch outside the window makes her dull expression slightly ghastly. There is no hiding boredom, however, even if it is affected.

The lines of Mephisto's face were carved for this lighting. He is a kabuki mask, dramatic and impressive and a little frightening in a thrilling way. "I'm not waiting for you to ask anything."

Amethyst begins to lean over the table but quickly decides to settle back into her chair. She is wearing an evening gown and this is pretty much the very worst context to learn how to be comfortable in one. It makes her feel awkward and stupid--and mad. She knows he wants her mad, so being mad makes her mad.

"Come on," she says, crossing her arms and turning her eyes away from the leering face across the table. "That was like the third thing you said to me. You wanted me to say something. So, tell me."

Mephisto leans back into his chair as well. Neither of them are eating. The food isn't getting cold, anyway. "House Amethyst has ever been friends with House Citrine. You have studied history." He raises his eyebrows, prompting.

"Yeah...?" Amethyst can't help but steal a glance. She looks away again. "Citrina created the Gemworld from the chaos space between dimensions."

"She bargained."

Amethyst feels a chill.

True to his word, when the phylactery snaps shut, Doctor Strange's soul begins its descent into Mephisto's realm; absent most of the protections he normally enjoys when making such travels in his mortal body, the journey is a harrowing one, full of visions of past sins and unfulfilled promises.

By the time his spirit arrives in the demon prince's realm, he looks nearly as haunted and forlorn as the truly Damned; the faint, flickering glow of the Eye of Agamotto still pinned to his chest sheltered him from the very worst, but the artifact is presently, much like its owner, a mere shadow of its usual self. His 'body' is wavery and wispy, as if made from smoke; bits of him almost seem on the verge of being blown away by infernal winds, but they never quite are.

On the plus side: the Arena of Tainted Souls is at his back this time, thanks to his recent experience with the region. He is thus free to enter Mephisto's estate and search for his pupil--in a minute or two, when he's worked up the resolve to do so. He won't - unless accosted - make trouble with Mephisto's servants, should he encounter any during his search.

The Castle of Mephisto may be a fixture in Hell, but it is an ever-changing one. Its current appearance likely suits its master's purpose. It is sparsely walled, with several free standing buildings on the grounds. Acres of gently rolling vineyards spread down from one side. It is the sort of place a wealthy man might retire to. Perhaps it is the same in Nilaa.

There are no servants immediately present. Looking out into the field, there are several horned figures toiling but making no obvious progress. They are likely window dressing. Amethyst must be able to see that part of the field from wherever she is.

Souls do not arrive here. This is Strange's threat and grace: he is already where he shouldn't be.

"With you?" the princess asks, quiet.

Mephisto toys with his glass, making the wine swirl in interesting ways. "It is difficult to explain. It will suffice to say that I have an interest in Nilaa. The Gemworld. Your Gemworld, soon."

If her dress were made out of any mortal fabric, Amethyst would be creasing it terribly. Her fingers dig into her torso underneath the table. The pain helps her keep a neutral face. "Citrina is dead. Whatever promise she made died with her, unless she passed the debt on to someone else. I didn't hear anything about that."

"By your books, Citrina died long ago," Mephisto agrees, wistfulness creeping into his voice. "I will not bring your Gemworld into this. I have more mundane desires."

After little time spent wandering the grounds, it begins to get difficult for Stephen to remember where, exactly, he is; the fruitlessly toiling demons do help to maintain some sense of perspective, but it isn't so difficult to imagine a mortal wizard of some means constructing a villa not unlike this one in his twilight years, worker-demons and all.

Of course, whenever such images threaten to grow too tempting, the Doctor shuts his eyes and tries to focus on a charm, a koan, a bit of advice from the Ancient One--anything, anything but his surroundings, lest his determination to locate the princess waver. To that end, he walks the fields until he's found a nice concentration of laborers - all the better to heighten his chances of catching the Lord of Lies' attention - and then cups his hands around his mouth.

"Mephisto!" he exclaims, the Eye flickering brightly enough to send strange shadows briefly dancing across the nearest building, "I wish to see my student--now."

When your enemies are blatant, go subtle. When your enemies are subtle, go blatant. Mephisto, despite appearances, is a very subtle creature.

The worker demons do not react to the shade of Strange. They continue toiling, their work always undone the second one's eye turns away.

"That's it?"

Mephisto nods. "That is it."

Amethyst lowers her head, blonde hair framing her downturned face. "You have a deal. I promise."

"Your master awaits," the Lord of Lies says, standing and sweeping toward one of the grand windows. Amethyst rises, feeling like it is only partially of her own volition. She joins Mephisto, looking out over the grounds.

That's doc? That's doc. She raises her hand and presses her palm against the glass. Even from this distance, Strange can see the burning coals of Mephisto's eyes.

Strange can see Mephisto's eyes, but not for long, because he lowers his gaze as soon as Mephisto's finds him. How dare he raise his voice to the creature whose realm he's intruded on not once, but twice in quick succession? He came with a purpose, true, but does purpose trump politeness? Mustn't even a Master of the Mystic Arts obey the order of things?

And now that he's just another soul in Mephisto's realm, how important, really, is the purpose he brought with him from the land of the living? The edges of his body grow hazy and indistinct before the demon prince's eyes, and a gloved hand trembles ever so slowly towards the shovel that the demon beside him is using to dig a hole in the field(that his neighbor is dutifully filling in with dirt from his hole) before stopping a foot or so away and squeezing shut. He stands there for a few tense moments before beginning to relax.

"If your business is concluded," he calls out in a more deferential tone, "then it's time for her to leave the comforts of your realm and return home." He trudges towards the manor as he speaks, and despite the futility of the workers' tasks, he does his very best to step around each of their work sites to avoid disturbing any of them.

"I think you know more about fathers than you let on," Mephisto says, putting a hand on Amethyst's shoulder. She flinches, but does not shrink away. "Or, you are in the process of learning."

The Lord of Lies raises his glass to Strange.

The Sorcerer's vision is consumed by fire. It does not burn, though the smell of seared flesh and hair quickly overwhelms the brimstone. It is only for a second. When the devil resurrects you, you don't get to feel good about it.

The air changes. It's a lot like waking up suddenly, jarred from sleep by some outside source rather than by some urge of your own body. The senses organize themselves slowly, one by one. It's the same room that Strange died in. It's morning now. Amethyst is standing over him, wearing some uncharacteristic dress with big, fancy earrings. Her lips are moving.

"Tell me what to do! Tell me what you did! I can fix it if you tell me what you did!"

The door opens behind her. That'll be Wong.

Strange lifts his head just in time to be consumed in the Prince of Hell's hospitality; it may not burn, precisely, but the smell - as pungent and vivid as anything he might experience in the land of the living - is still disturbing enough that his features are twisted in shocked horror during his last few moments in Mephisto's realm--

--and the first sound to leave his body when his eyes abruptly snap open is an anguished wail forced through barely parted lips. His eyes don't actually move after opening, not even to focus on the ceiling; the rest of his body certainly isn't moving. The phylactery - so carefully prepared with blessings and meticulously chosen scraps of knowledge - is wide open and its contents are aflame, the scent of brimstone wafting into the Doctor's lab. The room is moderately sized with cut stone floors and walls and another work table besides the one positioned near Strange's cauldron. A rack of basic ingredients in vials, pouches and bottles covers one of the walls.

"The antidote," Wong tightly instructs the princess as he enters the lab. He's gesticulating frantically at the vial of purple goo next to the flaming phylactery. "He needs to drink it--it will counteract the effects of the potion--hopefully." He closes in, ready to administer the antidote if Amy doesn't move quickly enough; if she does, though, he'll stop beside the Doctor, rather than at the worktable, and crouch beside him.

"He's--it is early," Wong quietly adds, trying to mask his concern beneath the veneer of the blatantly obvious. "And late, all at once; I hope you're well."

The Doctor screams and Amy falls to her knees, gripping his shoulders. It's difficult to say whose eyes are wider. "Doc," she moans, resisting the urge to shake him. That won't help anything.

Wong will. Amy looks over her shoulder, breathing shallow and quick. She gestures just as frantically, though when she does it, the vial comes flying over into her hand. Unhanding Strange, the princess fumbles with the cap, prying it off just in time to obviate the need to scream.

"Hold still." It's a useless command, but the firmness in her own voice calms her. The princess leans down with her elbow on Strange's shoulder, putting her weight into it to stop him from moving. It frees up her hand to hold the side of his face so she can keep that steady--and shove a thumb into his mouth. She keeps it between his teeth on one side. If he bites down, it'll be on her, and at least he won't be able to get his lips together.

Amy exhales. Breathless, she administers the vial. It's not her first time handling potions.

The potion creeps more than it pours, inching its way down the vial until it finally begins to drip into the Doctor's mouth. He doesn't thrash or bite during the process, but he doesn't get much quieter, either; at least his discomfort is muffled a little, now.

As the vial reaches the halfway mark, Strange's muscles begin to relax, and the sharp, panicked breaths he's been taking since waking stabilize. When his eyes begin moving, it's to dart frantically around the lab for the few seconds it takes him to realize that he's in his home, rather than Mephisto's; once that's settled, they flick between Amy and Wong, and the terror etched on his face begins to ebb away.

When the vial is finally empty, the Doctor exhales a long sigh of relief, then brings a hand up to weakly push against it. As soon as his mouth is no longer obstructed, he'll murmur, "Thank you," and prop himself up on his elbows with a grimace. "Both of you." After a beat, he looks squarely to Amethyst to ask, "I trust that you were able to make a deal with Mephisto...?""

Amy doesn't move her thumb. She keeps trying to pour even when it's empty. Strange bats at her hand and she relents, sitting back on her legs and removing her thumb. She drops the vial and shakes the hand that was on gag duty.

The princess very quickly goes through a range of emotions: tired and beat when Strange sits up, eyes wide and mouth open when he asks about Mephisto, and then wild laughter when she lacks any other response.

"--oh, wow, sorry. I, um, wow. It's just... all business, huh?"

Amy wipes a tear from her eye, the smile fading from her face as she considers. Her shoulders slump and her posture suffers. "I did." The princess picks at the fabric of her dress near her stomach, then abruptly reaches up and taps her necklace. When nothing happens, her lips curl back in a snarl.

"I'm going to go change." She rises mechanically, her voice flat.

"Good," Strange says of the deal in a voice every bit as old and weathered as his 83 years would say it ought to be. He isn't looking at her by that point; the laughter made it rather difficult to, especially so soon after his ordeal. Everything hurts, as if he's recovering from having been thrown from a speeding train, rather than back into his own body; how much of that is due to the last remnants of poison in his veins, rather than his ejection, he isn't certain. Luckily, Wong is already on his way out to put on a pot of tea; that should help immensely.

Even though he isn't looking at her, it's pretty readily apparent when she rises--and the flatness voice is easy enough to catch, besides, which is likely why he grabs hold of one of her wrists before she's too far away, with a murmur of, "Wait." Weak as he is right now, breaking free would pretty much just be a matter of continuing to stand.

If she complies, however, he will try to draw her into a loose hug and finish, "Take the day to rest--relax. You should be proud of the way that you handled yourself in Mephisto's realm; we can discuss it once we're both feeling a little more like ourselves."

Of course, even if he's rebuffed, he'll still give her the day off; no way in hell is he teaching anyone about anything for today, aside, perhaps, from the dangers of ritual suicide.

Amy stops when Strange touches her, freezing halfway to her feet. She stays that way, searching the Doctor's face for a moment. Whatever she finds, it makes her kneel again. She helps him sit up, hugs him delicately, and helps him settle back down. Amy is stronger than she looks. Physically, too.

"Thanks, doc," she replies, quiet, glancing toward Wong to see if he's watching. "If you're taking a break, I will too."

She finds his hand, gives it a quick squeeze, and then stands once more to leave the room. Wong can take care of everything, if the confidence in Strange's voice when he spoke of him was an honest indication.

Amy walks up the winding staircase that seems somehow familiar now that she has a strange place to compare it to. She quickens her pace down the hall leading to her room. When she closes the door, it's with a slam.

The magical knife she conjures can't cut the dress. Taking it off normally reminds her how poorly she wore it. Magical flame won't burn it. Amy sits on the edge of her bed, staring at the gift, heaped in a pile by the door and still unwrinkled.

She promised.