I'm finally getting around to filling my own Ironstrange prompt (#104). I've been meaning to write it for a while, but the thought of doing research had me dragging my feet. So I'm definitely not sure how often this will get updated considering that I will have to do that research.

The title of this fic comes from Florence + the Machine's song "Queen of Peace".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death, he suspected, had lost all meaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Although he doubted that he was expected to show up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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