Chapter Five

Stephen stumbled into his bedroom, and flopped down on the bed in an exhausted heap.

Outside the huge windows, the sun was melting toward night along the jagged city skyline.

He'd spent the day walking the city streets, attempting to find some sort of resolution to the rage and uncertainty swirling in his brain.

He hadn't slept in days, which wasn't helping.

With unfocused eyes, he looked at his phone for the millionth time, but there was still no communication from Christine, good, bad, or otherwise.

Why would there be? he told himself, resentfully.

He certainly hadn't left any doubts as to his willingness to help.

His next instinctive action was to scan the room, looking for Cloak, but it wasn't there.

'Like I care,' he complained, aloud, trying to sound sarcastic, but he didn't even fool himself.

He cared.

It hurt, to be abandoned.

Even if he deserved it.

His head gave a sudden swirl, and he laid back, closing his eyes, almost instantly plummeting into the arms of Morpheus.

Cloak had forgotten how lonely the Relic Room was.

How numbingly quiet.

Boring.

Watching the shadows lengthen, darkness ooze into the corners as the sun set.

It could hear the breath of the building as it acclimated to the onset of night, the cooling of the wood and stone and brick.

It heard Stephens' return to the Sanctum, the weary drag of his footsteps, ending at his bed.

The faint rustle of bats in the attic, bringing back a happier memory, which quickly faded, was replaced by the disquieting recollection of the terrifying encounters with Sable and his ebon cloak.

Cloak shivered, realizing they still had no idea what had become of Sable, or where he was.

Dark was dangerous for Cloak, and its Chose...and for Stephen Strange.

Cloak waited, unmoving, for as long as it could stand it.

Then, more silently than a shadow, it flowed thru the unlit Sanctum, to door of Stephens' bedroom.

Hovered, clothed in the darkness, listening to the even rhythm of the sleeping Masters breath.

Tentatively, moving slowly, it crept into the room, edging closer to the bed, where Stephen lay.

It hesitated, quaking, battling its desire to drape over its sleeping former Chosen, in forgiveness, while reminding itself of all the reasons it could not.

After a few minutes, it reached over, carefully snapped on the bedside lamp, which bathed Stephen in an aura of light.

Protecting Stephen the only way it could, now.

Stephen stirred, briefly, at the sound, the light, but didn't wake.

After another minute, Cloak swung away, its shoulders slumped, its hem edges dragging miserably on the floor as it left the room.

'He's dead, Stephen. You could have saved him,' Christine's voice hissed, in his ears, jolting him awake.

He sat up, scanning the room, but the dream had gone.

He was alone, and, outside the windows, night had long since fallen. A quick glance at his phone told him it was nearly midnight.

It also revealed continued silence from the real Christine.

He didn't remember turning on the bed side lamp...maybe he'd unconsciously done it in his sleep.

His stomach rumbled, and he realized he was also in desperate need of a shower.

Shower, then food, he decided, then perhaps some reading to distract him from the renewed turmoil, and the accusing voices, in his head.

Again, he looked around for Cloak, but saw no indication of its presence, which brought a renewed scowl,

'Whatever,' he huffed, ignoring a swell of sadness, and headed off to shower.

Stephen unloaded an armful of books onto the desktop of his study, then went to retrieve his tea and sandwich.

When he came back in to the room, he saw the file Christine had brought, laying on top of the pile of books.

He knew exactly how it had gotten there, from where he'd left it in the foyer.

Cloak.

Annoying chunk of fabric.

Irritably, he yanked it off the stack, dropped it, unopened, on the desktop.

'Ridiculous,' he grumbled, but couldn't quite resist one quick glance at the cover as he selected a book from the stack.

He settled into the tall backed chair, ignoring the file, tapped on the speaker, opened the book.

Struggling to focus, and, without thinking, he said,

'In The Air Tonight. Remake, by In This Moment.'

Just like he always did, every time he sat down to read, naming the song for Cloak.

Except, there was no Cloak there to listen.

Annoyed, he shook is head, determined not to let it bother him, and bent attention to the tome in his hands.

He'd just begun reading when his phone pinged, and an unexpected glimmer of hope lit his eyes as he checked the text.

'Strange. I have been informed you recently acquired a potentially dangerous relic.'

Wong.

With an exasperated sigh, Stephen texted a reply,

'Yes. Mjolnir. It's secured in the Relic Room.'

'I would like to verify that for myself.'

Stephen grumbled, mockingly,

'Of course you would,' as he return texted,

'Meet you in the Room.'

As he stood, laid the book down, a flicker of motion in the doorway caught his attention.

Was that a ruffle of scarlet cloth?

He went to the door, looked down the hall, but didn't see Cloak.

Perhaps he'd imagined it.

Scowling, he said, absently,

'How Did You Love, by Shinedown.'

Realizing what he'd just done, he went over, angrily punched the power off on the speaker.

Headed to the Relic Room, with a sudden lurch in his chest as he realized that Cloak would be there.

Except, it wasn't.

Cloak was nowhere to be seen, which was just as well.

Stephen didn't relish the thought of trying to answer any questions about why it had taken up residence back in its old space.

However, he couldn't ignore the wrench of disappointment in his heart, at not seeing the familiar scarlet shape.

He shoved it into the back of his mind as he distractedly walked thru all the details and precautions with Wong, hoping to rush him back to Kamar-Taj as quickly as possible.

Wong seemed determined to drag out every minute detail, and Stephen grew more irritated by the moment.

Finally, he said impatiently,

'I'm sorry, Wong, but my tea is gone cold, and so has my sandwich. Could we finish this another time?'

Wong gave him the Face, grumped,

'You must be absolutely certain this is properly cared for, Strange.'

'Well, it clearly is,' Stephen retorted, shortly.

Wong scowled even more, giving the room a quick once over.

Stephen was certain he'd remark on Cloaks absence, but he didn't.

'So it seems,' Wong admitted, adding, 'Should you notice an unusual activity...'

'I'll be sure to let you know, thanks,' Stephen finished, rudely, as he turned and headed back to his study.

He heard Wong give an outraged snort, but Stephen didn't care.

He just wanted to be left alone with the stabs of his guilty conscience.

His tea was ice cold, his sandwich was soggy, and the file was laid back on top of the pile of books.

Stephen glared at it, then checked the corners for Cloak.

Not there, of course, but clearly not far away.

Furious, he grabbed the file, intending to toss it across the room.

As he drew back to throw, his peripheral vision told him to turn toward the doorway, and what he saw made him freeze.

Cloak, wilted into a sorrowful drape, hung there. Its collar was twisted into an agonized downturn, shoulders bowed in defeat. Even its beautiful burnished scarlet seemed to have faded, and it didn't expend enough energy the keep its hem lifted from the floor.

Stephen stared at it, and as Cloak swung away, disappearing down the dark hallway, he felt his anger drain away.

After a moment, he lowered the file, laid it on the desktop.

Drew a deep breath, settled into the tall backed chair, shoulders hunched, defensively, as if anticipating blows.

He held his hands out, watched them tremble, long moments, before balling them into fists, eyes closed.

Then he straightened, sighed, and opened the file.

Dawn was lighting the horizon when Stephen stood, closing the file to lay it on the desktop, tiredly rubbing his forehead as he looked out the giant windows.

The sky was a dismal carbon grey, hinting at rain, and the temperature had clearly dropped considerably thru the night. A chill had invaded the room, and he needed to light the fireplace.

He'd read, and re-read, the file, and, despite the nagging feeling he was missing something, he kept coming up blank.

He wanted to call Christine, text her, tell her he couldn't see anything they'd overlooked, couldn't come up with any ideas other than the ones they'd already tried.

Instead, he opened a gateway to the Hospital, and stepped into the reliably vacant mop closet.

It was easy enough for him to rustle up a uniform, a face mask, and a clipboard, so he could make his way to the room where they were caring for Nick West.

This hour of the morning the halls were empty, and there was no one to question him as he stood in the hallway, looking in at the serious expressions of the Doctors clustered around the foot of Nicks bed.

Christine was curled into a chair, asleep, and the attending physicians kept their voices barely above whispers.

He squinted, eyed the monitors, which painted a grim picture of the patients condition.

Christine hadn't exaggerated.

Nick West was dying, and the once great Doctor Stephen Strange couldn't envision any way to stop it.

What was worse, he wasn't sure that he wanted to.

Since you've stuck with me this far, I guess it should be safe to assume you've noticed my naming of very specific songs in my stories. If you aren't familiar with the words, might I suggest you look then up! I select them very carefully. The songs, of course, are copyrighted to their creators! I'm grateful that their words can help the story I'm trying to tell.

Don't give up on Stephen...he still has some lessons to learn...but its always darkest before the dawn.