Chapter Four

Cloak lay, absolutely still, on Stephen's shoulders, all the way back to the Sanctum, as if it really were only a piece of cloth.

It couldn't help its involuntary twitch of protest when Stephen turned off the radio, but managed to keep it barely noticeable.

The wind wasn't fun, any longer, just a low background noise which helped tune out its Chosens' angry muttering.

It decided not to aggravate matters any further when they arrived home, waiting until they had gone inside, and Stephen closed the door, before lifting free of his shoulders.

Despite the fact it really wanted to as soon as the car had stopped.

It was disappointed with its Chosens' ill-tempered actions toward Christine, and his rather callous attitude toward what had happened to whomever 'Nick West' was.

It floated away, towards the upstairs study, a truly dejected slope to its folds.

'Hey,' Stephen called, after it, his tone decidedly calmer, so Cloak stopped to listen.

'I'm sorry I snapped at you,' he apologized, with a deep sigh.

'It's just...'

Cloak turned, but Stephen only glared at the ornate wood flooring, hands knotted into fists. After a few seconds, it gave a shuffle-sigh of its own, and quietly returned to its Chosens' shoulders.

Waited, patiently.

All at once, Stephen jerked upright, hands throwing up shields, and startling Cloak.

'Someone was in here,' he hissed, realization, looking around the foyer, and causing Cloaks' fibers to tingle,

'Someone with the ability to circumvent spells. The Ward on the Sanctum door has been disturbed.'

Thinking fast, he decided,

'They must be after the Hammer,' and broke into a run, headed toward the Relic Room, dropping his shields in favor of a whip.

He skidded into the Room, prepared to do battle, but the Room was completely quiet. Nothing stirred, except the dust motes his energetic arrival had stirred up.

His keen eyes scoured every corner, and Cloaks' collar swiveled like radar, but there was no sign of an intruder.

He moved to check Mjolnir, but its' Veil of Obfuscation was intact, without any indication of tampering.

None of the other Relics had been disturbed, either.

Stephen quenched his whip, scowling in confusion.

Why would anyone dare invade the home of a Master of the Mystic Arts, and touch nothing?

One more thing to worry about, to jack up his mounting level of frustration.

His expression black, Stephen stormed out of the Relic Room, headed for the kitchen. He needed to brew some tea, and make an attempt to calm the mounting swirl of anxiety in his chest.

Stephen stood on the rooftop of the Sanctum, the night breeze ruffling bangs over knotted brows.

It was nearly dawn, and sleep had eluded him for a second night.

He'd been standing there, for hours.

Thinking.

Cloak lay, quiescent, on his shoulders, barely shifting in the touch of the wind.

It had been inordinately still, since their ill fated, unfinished road trip, but Stephen was too distracted to care.

He hadn't heard from Christine, but couldn't bring himself to be the one to call.

He looked out, across the artificial lights that destroyed darkness, toward his old townhouse flat. He couldn't really see it, from here, but knew exactly where it was. He squinted, fancied he could discern its profile along the skyline.

He'd lived above everyone, there; literally, and figuratively.

Above the miserable antiseptic glare of the streetlights, the constant rumble of traffic and sirens.

Bitterly, wondered who lived there, now.

He closed his eyes, remembering the seductive sparkle of the glass display cases, showcasing all the now meaningless trophies, testaments to his vanity and prowess.

The glowing ebony black of his piano, gracing someone else's home, the keys giving their music under someone else's touch.

Wondered who was enjoying his collection of vintage vinyl, which he'd sold off to pay for all his useless medical treatments.

Had they covered the beautiful wood flooring with carpets?

He could go, see.

It would be easy.

He could have Cloak take him, or open a gateway...but he shook his head, dispelling the thought, and rubbed his eyes, wearily.

That kind of thinking was ludicrous.

That life, the one he'd dedicated himself to, he'd given an oath to, was gone.

Forever.

Along with all the freedom to do as he chose.

'It's not about you,' the Ancient One had told him, an epiphany at the moment she'd said it.

Now, it seemed more a curse, than a revelation.

Sometimes, he decided, maybe it should be about him.

When the doorbell chimed, inside the Sanctum, he startled, looked around, realizing the sun had risen.

He unclenched his fists, but not his brows, and headed in to answer the door.

Stephen jerked the door open, because he already knew who was on the other side.

Christine.

Instead of a smile, he offered a frown, then gave a sarcastic, mocking sweep of his arm to invite her in.

Hesitantly, she entered, carrying a file tucked tightly under her arm.

He noticed she'd told the taxi to wait, prompting him to shove the door closed harder than was necessary.

He was already unreasonably irate, and that one little action goaded him into being even more difficult.

Christine looked haggard, exhausted. She was still wearing the same clothes she'd worn when he'd picked her up in the Jaguar, two days ago.

He crossed the foyer, waited at the foot of the stairs, arms folded.

'You could have called,' he accused, belligerently.

She returned his anger, snapped back,

'So could you.'

Stephen refused to back down, asked,

'Why are you here?'

Christine sighed, pulled the file into her hands, kept her attention on it, rather than meeting Stephens' eyes.

'It's about Nick,' she said, crossing the floor to stand beside him, ignoring how Stephen bristled.

'The surgery seemed successful, but he's not responding to treatments. He's loosing ground. We're missing something, and, if we can't figure it out, he's going to die.'

She extended the file toward him, but he pointedly kept his arms crossed, so she laid it on the table beside him. He gave it a cursory glance, but didn't pick it up.

'What do you expect me to do about it?' Stephen wondered, eyes narrowed, angrily.

Christine met his gaze, her expression hard,

'You're still a brilliant doctor, Stephen.'

'No, I'm not a doctor, anymore,' Stephen snapped, stabbing an accusing finger toward her face,

'Nick West saw to that when he botched the surgery on my hands.'

'You know that's not fair,' she retorted.

'Do I?' Stephen blasted back, and Christine defended, outraged,

'He did his best for you, even though he knew you'd never be grateful.'

Stephen fell into a cold silence, standing stiffly.

After a moment, Christine pleaded, despairingly,

'I thought maybe you could look at the file, the films, with fresh eyes? You might see something we missed.'

Stephen barked a harsh laugh, incredulously,

'Is that why you came here? To mock me? Haven't I been humiliated enough, you want me to fail at this, too?'

Christine took a step away, hurt and disbelieving,

'Why would you even say that?'

'You, of all people, should understand why,' he bit back.

'What's wrong with you? You used to care.'

'Well, I've sure learned what a bad idea that is,'

Stephen snarked, sarcastically.

His face went completely blank, and he continued, emotionlessly,

'I can't take on anything else. I've got a lot on my plate, right now.'

Christine stared, and she matched his cruel expression.

'One of them... isn't me,' she said, and her voice cracked into a sob over the last two words. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but even that had no effect on Stephens' frozen countenance.

Without another word, Christine walked out, and it was her turn to slam the door.

Without warning, Cloak wrenched free of Stephens shoulders.

The action was so violent it nearly knocked him down.

Almost as if it were shoving him away.

Cloak hung, facing Stephen, obviously struggling with some decision.

Caught up in his outrage, Stephen glowered, nearly shouting,

'What. I suppose you think I should help? Forget it. He ruined me. Ruined my life.'

Cloak straightened, stiffened its collar, unyielding in the face of Stephens' self-righteous anger, his ridiculous pride.

Nearly crushed by its realization of a horrible truth.

Stephen Strange was no longer its Chosen.

No longer worthy of being its Chosen.

He'd become someone Cloak no longer recognized.

Cloak spun away, holding a perfectly regal posture, and headed back toward the Relic room.

After a moment of confusion, Stephen followed.

Cloak flowed up onto the platform which had housed it for decades.

The glass had never been replaced. There was no need for it, with Cloak no longer in residence there.

Cloak took up its station, but pointedly kept its back toward Stephen.

Stephen glared at Cloak, hovering in its glassless former case, absolutely furious.

'I guess I was wrong, about you, too,' he sneered, with a snort of ridicule,

'You are fickle.'

Cloak flinched as the words hit it, as if they were real, physical blows. It's collar quivered, but it squared its shoulders, faced straight ahead, didn't turn round.

After a few moments, Stephen stormed out of the room, without a backwards glance.

As the sound of his footsteps receded, Cloak heard the hiss of a gateway opening, and then closing.

Stephen had left the Sanctum.

Alone.

Cloak tumbled to the floor like a discarded garment. After a few seconds, it pulled itself into a ball, as tight as it could wrap, its edges covering its collar to block out the world. Every fold trembled, almost resembling weeping, and it began to rock itself, slowly, back and forth, as if the movement could somehow soothe its anguish.

Master Jades' astral form materialized out of a far corner of the Relic Room, her face a study in sorrow as she looked at Cloak,

'Oh, Stephen,' she whispered,' What have you done?'