Light Fills the Vessel
"I will never marry my love
I will die waiting for the bells
Death, come pull me underwater.
I have nothing left to fear from hell."
Chapter One: Wild Pigs and Witches
The little silver bell in the corner of my room chimes. My eyes open slowly to focus on the ceiling above me, the vestiges of a dream I was enjoying fading from my mind. It is morning, and morning means a plethora of things. There's work to be done.
I rise from the bed and carefully make it, smoothing the rough linen bedspread woven by hand in Nepal. I wash my face in the sink and brush my long hair back into a ponytail, then swiftly braid it down my back. There is only time for a quick sponge bath, not a full shower. Mistress Clea is awake earlier than usual, and I'll need to hurry to respond to her summons. It would never do to be late. Not for the Mistress of the household. I pull a work dress on over my head and yawn, trying to force my sleepy limbs into action.
Just before rushing from the room, I slip my soft shoes on and trot down the hall and up the broad sweeping staircase to the master bedroom. I tap lightly on the door and wait a few seconds before entering.
"You called for me, Mistress?"
There is an otherworldly princess lounging in the bed, her mane of silver hair like moonlight against the indigo sheets. Master Strange is not here. His side of the bed is made and has not been slept in. I know for a fact that he spent the entire night studying in the library again. How he manages to exist on such little sleep is something of a mystery.
Clea languidly waves her hand toward the bathroom.
"Draw me a bath. And have you finished mending my red dress? Stephen wants to take me to the opera tonight and I want to wear it."
"Yes Mistress. I'll bring it up to you after I've pressed it."
"I really don't know why he bothers taking me out on dates like this. He knows how dreadfully dull I find this city. I'm BORED here! And he's always studying and brooding about the halls. It's becoming quite tiresome. I may leave for the weekend just to find something fun to do."
"Yes Mistress."
I slip into the elegant marble bathroom and spin the taps, turning on the hot water to fill the large tub.
I used to do this for her husband, but she's forbidden such things now. All the female servants in the house have been told to keep well back from the Master, to become all but invisible. Don't speak to him. Don't make eye contact. We are not allowed to be alone with him. We are not allowed to touch him. Gone are the days when they would trim his hair, draw him baths, help him shave, rub his feet and shoulders and back. Long gone are the walks he would sometimes take with the staff, the chess games, the conversations they'd have about philosophy, religion, medicine. I am the head of the servants, and they bring me their sorrows. They miss it all. They miss the stories he would tell, they miss his laughter and his joking. They miss the Master they've served since most of them were very young. Only I am still allowed limited contact. Clea trusts me, because I am never rude or disobedient, never anything but hardworking, efficient, and respectful. Alone among the seven females of the staff, I have never been on the receiving end of her temper. I have never been threatened. I have never had anything hurled at me.
While the water pours, I return to the bedroom and begin picking up Clea's discarded clothes. They're all over the floor, as usual. And she's still speaking. With practiced ease, I swallow my anger at the little insults she flings at her husband, and I simply listen.
"He's so stuffy all the time lately. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here at all. Oh, you're so terribly lucky not to ever have to worry about relationships! They're troublesome things, full of all sorts of rules and such. It must be absolutely freeing just being a little servant and not having to make any decisions or worry about other people's feelings. You just do as you're told and life is simple."
She gets up and stretches, lithe and graceful as a cat, and tugs off her purple nightgown to toss it casually to the floor. Naked, she saunters past me into the bathroom and regards herself in the mirror.
"How CAN he stay busy all the time when THIS is waiting for him?"
"His work is important, Mistress. He's the Sorcerer Supreme after all."
She glares at me in the mirror, and I bite my lip. Lowering my eyes. Bracing myself.
"I didn't ask your OPINION. Simply stating a fact. You'd think a man would have some basic needs, not just reading and being dour. Now wash my hair."
"Yes Mistress."
She steps into the bath and sits down with a huff, settling back against the lip to allow me to begin working on her hair. She is lovely, truly lovely. And I am plain and uninteresting in comparison. She knows this. She is always aware that she's the most beautiful woman in the room at any given time. And it pleases her to receive attention for her beauty. Princess of the Dark Dimension. Wife of Stephen Strange. Sorceress. She has all the power, and I have none.
I know why my Master has been spending so much time alone, and it has little to do with a need to study. He is burying himself in work to keep his mind from the unpleasant truth that his wife is disrespectful, childish, demanding, and unfaithful to him. He is no saint either. But in my eyes, he can do no wrong. He is lonely and sad at times, withdrawn as he solves the riddles of the multiverse. My duty is to wash his sheets and iron his clothing, not to speculate as to the nature of his inner thoughts.
It takes an hour to wash Clea's shimmering hair and help her select an outfit to wear for the day. By the time I leave, the room is tidy again and she is fussing over herself in the mirror above the makeup table. I return to the kitchen and assemble breakfast. Eggs, sausage, toast, freshly squeezed orange juice. A large pot of tea. I place everything on a tray and then smooth my hair down and pinch my cheeks to bring them a little color. I wear no makeup, as is custom for servants of Kamar Taj. And my work dress is plain and loose, allowing for freedom of movement as I tend to the needs of the Sorcerer Supreme and his household.
The library is on the top floor, down the right and at the end of the hall. One of many libraries, but it is his favorite. I push the door open and slip inside, carrying the tray in my hands.
And there he is. Sitting at a desk, bent over an open tome with fitfully glowing pages, deep in concentration.
The most powerful, honorable, brilliant man in all of existence. My Master, Doctor Stephen Strange. I bring the tray to his desk and set it down on the edge, the tension falling from my heart as easily as rain down a windowpane.
"Good morning, Holly." His voice is deep, velvety, calm. It goes straight to my heart.
"Good morning, Master."
"My wife is finished with you, I take it?"
"For the moment, sir. I've brought you breakfast."
"Thank you."
He sits back in the chair, closing his eyes for a few moments wearily. Without a word, I move behind him and rest my hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension in the muscles and tendons. Respectfully, I begin to massage the ache away with strong hands. Clea isn't here. By some unspoken agreement, all of the woman's rules against touching him are suspended when we are alone.
"She is…..looking forward to your date at the opera tonight."
"Don't lie to me, Holly. You've always been very bad at it."
"I'm sorry sir."
A little while passes in silence, and when he finally reaches for his tea I leave off the massage for a few moments to let him drink it. Morning sunshine is pouring in through a stained glass window, casting little squares of jewel-hued light in a pattern across the desk and the floor and the left side of his face. I would, in this moment, give anything to be a particle of sunlight fractured by colored glass, just to touch that cheek.
"It's a very romantic gesture, sir. I'm certain she'll appreciate it once she's there with you."
To his credit, he says nothing. Not a word about the fact that his wife doesn't appreciate anything he does at all these days. A little while passes in silence. He leans forward, and I massage his neck while he rests his head on his hands. I cannot even imagine the level of stress that he's dealing with on a daily basis.
"How many times have we fought in the last month? Surely you must have been keeping count. Surely you've heard all of them. You're a quiet girl and you keep your head down, avoid the rooms that we're in unless you're requested, but you're not deaf. You're not oblivious. You must know." He pauses, sighing. "Wong must know too."
It's an awkward moment. I don't want to make it seem that I've been spying...but I do know the exact number. I clasp my hands in front of me, looking at the floor.
"This month alone there have been seventeen fights, sir. And she hit you twice."
My voice is soft, sad. Its tone is matched by the look in Master Strange's eyes when he opens them and turns to look at me. I want to say so much. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him that he deserves joy, not unrest. But I don't. I don't have an outburst. My eyes move to his hand, and I reach into my pocket for my tube of lotion. If he doesn't exercise his hands and massage them daily, the scar tissue could become too rigid. In the early days of their relationship, Clea would lovingly rub his palms and fingers, laughing. Playful. But those days seem a world away. I come forward, lifting his left hand with both of mine.
"I'm sure she loves you in her own way, Master. She's just very...volatile. I mean no disrespect."
"Volatile is one way of putting it." He pauses, watching me as I begin to rub his hand.
"Yes Master."
For ten minutes, I massage his right hand. Working lotion into the scar-roughened skin, stretching his fingers, rubbing his palm. It's important, and it's being ignored like so many other important things in the face of his rapidly disintegrating relationship. They were in love once, he and Mistress Clea. They saved one another's lives, and love bloomed from the connection. I remember vividly the day she came to us, injured and freshly liberated from a hellscape which I cannot begin to comprehend. We'd placed her in a guest room. I tended to her daily, washing her wounds and bringing her food. Master Strange would spend hours with her, simply talking or sitting nearby in silence.
Eventually, she moved into his chambers. And the door was closed.
I stayed to the ground floor then, letting the lovers explore the mysteries of their own emotions and needs and physical attraction as they saw fit. I played endless games of chess with Master Wong, and if he saw anything behind my eyes that didn't belong there…he said nothing.
That was long ago. Years. And in the interim I have had to watch as the love that bloomed between my Master and his interdimensional half-Faltine wife withered on the vine. Both of them have strayed, seeking solace in the arms of others. After bad fights, Mistress Clea storms off for days. My Master occasionally seeks comfort and connection with friendly acquaintances and beautiful strangers. Strangers and acquaintances whose clothing I launder and place, folded, outside his bedroom door in the morning. Women for whom I summon cabs. Not often does the same woman appear twice. And it is not a common occurrence by any means. All of these transitory companions look me over with a haughty sort of annoyance, until they realize that I am nothing but a servant. And I keep watch for the return of my Master's wife, discretely alerting him when high heels click through the great hall and a silver haired beauty returns with fire in her eyes.
"Tell me, Holly. If you were in my wife's position, how could I win you back? What gift could I give you that would soften your heart? Tell me how to make my wife love me again."
I rise to my feet, moving to his other side to kneel down and take his left hand into both of mine. I don't meet his pale gaze.
"It's not my place to venture a guess, sir."
"I insist."
"Yes, Master. Perhaps you could bring her on more of your adventures off-world. The two of you fell in love during a time of adversity. Maybe she needs this excitement in her life to reignite her passion."
He muses on that for a few minutes, pushing the food around on his plate with a fork. He's losing weight. Stress has robbed him of his appetite. There are shadows beneath his eyes that were not there a year ago. I dispense more lotion onto my fingertips, and work it into his hand with long, slow strokes. His knuckles are abraded on both hands. He's been punching the training dummy in the basement, practicing his martial arts and working out more than usual. And with more vigor than before. The sight of the sore-looking injuries sends a jolt of protective anger through me. I have said nothing of my resentment towards his wife to anyone. Not even to Wong. Not even to my fellow servant Ming, my best friend in the world. After having served Master Strange for so long, I know better than to risk his displeasure. Gossip would upset him, and anything that upsets him is counterproductive.
I can feel him looking down at me, and I lift my hazel eyes to meet his blue-green stare. There is pain in his expression. I want to take his face into my hands and kiss his brow, his cheeks, the weary places beneath his eyes, and tell him that he is perfect. Despite the rare infidelities, despite the brooding and the hours in the library, despite the flashes of anger that occasionally take him. I want to speak, and I can't.
"How long have you served this place?"
"I came here when I was twelve, sir. That makes it eight years now."
"Quite some time. What do you do on your days off?"
"I don't take days off, Master. That's not how I was trained."
He looks puzzled, then surprised.
"In eight years, you've never had a day off? Seriously?"
I say nothing, looking back to his hand. The truth is, I don't want to take a day off. There is too much to be done to keep this place spotless and organized and running smoothly.
"I go for days without seeing you sometimes. I always thought you were out exploring the city, going on dates, living your life."
"A good servant is invisible. And I do not explore the city except to buy groceries and supplies. My life is here." I pause, finishing with his hand and putting the cap back on the lotion. "I never date. I have no interest in dating."
"You're what, twenty now? A girl your age should have suitors. I never expected you to stay indefinitely. It was always my understanding that the moment you found a husband, you would leave and someone else would be sent to me."
Can it be that he really is as oblivious as this line of questioning would imply? I rise to my feet and reach out to refill his tea cup with fresh hot water from the ceramic pot.
"That day will never come, Master. My duty is to the Sanctum. I am married to my work. This brings me joy." It's far too intimate a question to ask him given the strained nature of our relationship these days, but I find myself blurting it out anyway. "What brings you joy?"
"I'm happy when I'm strolling along on the street, and I'm just passing people that are rushing on their way to buy something or to meet someone. I enjoy seeing people living their lives, and I'm happy just seeing everyone at peace." He looks out the window, watching the lights of an ambulance race down the street a few miles away. I wonder what he's thinking. In the entirety of my life, I have never met anyone as aloof and unreadable as Doctor Stephen Strange. Sighing, he rubs the side of his temple.
"Spring is my favorite season because there's color everywhere, and there's still a chill in the air from winter, so even though everything is bright, it's not hot. People are starting to come out of their homes, and everyone is active, everyone is happy because the weather has improved. My happiness is heavily influenced by those around me, mainly because I used to be so self-absorbed that now I feel the need to make up for it. And of course, I'm happy when my wife is happy. I don't think she is, though. I don't think she's been happy for a very long time."
'Then she's a fool', I think to myself. But of course I don't say such a disrespectful thing out loud. I move around the desk to sit, straight-spined, on the edge of the chair before it.
"Your staff are happy. Master Wong is happy. And I am certain that in time, your wife will be happy once again. All relationships go through difficult phases." I pause, watching him pick listlessly at the breakfast before him. "You've…done nothing wrong, sir."
"We both know that isn't true." He sighs, and finally takes a bite of toast. Thank God. I force myself to smile, to relax back into the chair. Things are getting too serious and he's not cheering up. The day will be hard enough for him without that added burden.
"Let's play our game, sir."
He glances up, swallows, and nods once. I fold my hands in my lap, thinking. Then I lean forward to speak to him, and my voice is low and serious.
"Yesterday, there were wild pigs loose in the kitchen. They broke my favorite serving dishes and ate all the vegetables."
"Oh? How many pigs?"
"Nine pigs, sir. And the largest of them chased me until I had to jump onto the counter! What happened to you yesterday?"
Master Strange's eyes twinkle as he smiles. I feel a swell of relief and love move through my whole body, and I smile back.
"Yesterday? Oh, it was terrible. I was arrested downtown because I resembled someone wanted for armed robbery. The handcuffs were too tight, and when they threw me into the back of the police car, they ripped my sport jacket. The smaller of the two officers kicked me in the leg."
"The scandal! But my day was still much worse. After the pigs were chased from the kitchen, I burned the bread and accidentally cut off my own finger with a carving knife!"
"I was murdered four times in jail."
"Murdered! I'm so glad they left your face untouched. A goblin broke through the window of my bedroom at the end of the day and tried to seduce me. He brought a bouquet of goldenrod, and I sneezed so hard that my eye fell out."
"I was skinned alive by a coven of witches. Then the largest and fattest of them wore my skin like a cape and danced around a bonfire. It was the only thing she wore. I wished in that moment that I had more skin to cover the rest of her."
I burst out laughing, covering my mouth. Losing this round fair and square.
"Master, that's beyond disgusting! You're getting frighteningly good at this. Really, I wonder about the books you read. It might be time to switch to something more pleasant."
He settles back, smiling, and lifts his fork to dig into the eggs. I pat the desk.
"It's good that you're eating. You've lost weight, sir. I'll need to take your clothes in if you keep at it, and I really can't be bothered. You're cutting into my nap time."
"I would hate to rob you of your beauty rest." He takes a bite and wipes his neatly trimmed goatee with the napkin. "I'll eat a decent lunch and dinner, I promise."
"See that you do. While you shrink, Wong is growing. I'm beginning to think the two of you are tied to one another somehow. It's a very romantic thought."
"Please! Keep your voice down! No one needs to know how pretty I find Wong."
We're laughing, the tension falling away completely, and for a few minutes it's like it used to be. The colored beams of sunlight glisten on his dark hair and the attractive silver streaks at his temples. I love my Master. I loved him the day I met him, with the innocent devotion of a twelve year old. And I love him now.
"Well! You two seem to be enjoying yourselves."
The laughter dies on my lips, and across the desk Master Strange's smile fades. It is Clea, of course, leaning against the door of the library looking more beautiful than any human female ever could. She saunters into the room and drapes her arms around her husband from behind his chair, pressing her lips against his cheek. Her violet eyes bore into mine, and I rise from the chair.
"Now that I've brought you breakfast, I need to attend to my other duties sir. Mistress Clea, I will bring your gown up to the master bedroom and hang it on the bathroom door. Although you look exquisite dressed just as you are. No one will be able to concentrate on the opera."
The compliment seems to mollify her, and she straightens up.
"Thank you, Holly. That will be all. You can leave us."
"Yes Mistress. Thank you." I bow my head, nodding to Clea first. Then to the good Doctor. "Master. I bid you both a good morning."
I leave them there together, listening to the soft sound of their voices fade as I descend the stairs. A few moments later I am in the kitchen, washing the pots and pans from breakfast.
There are no pigs to chase me today. I have all ten of my fingers. Master Strange still has his skin.
I cover my face with soapy hands, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. He is miserable.
So am I.