Chapter Six
Day had faded to slate grey twilight when Stephen stepped out of a gateway, onto the bank of the river, where the twisted ruin of his car had come to rest.
This was where his life had been so violently, so permanently, altered.
Cold rain pelted him, silver strands sparkling as the last of the sunlight filtered from the horizon, and night descended like a shroud. His breath congealed in the brisk air.
He could easily have put up a Shield to stay dry, but he deserved the pelting drops, each one an accusation, a condemnation, of his selfishness. Within minutes, he was soaked to the skin, and shivering from head to toe.
It didn't matter.
He stared down at the water at his feet. Beneath the night sky, it was as black as obsidian, roiling like a cauldron.
He'd hung, upside down, above it, for hours, strapped into the twisted steel of his car.
He didn't remember that, until just now.
His perfect life, wiped away, in the chilling scream of tires, shattering glass and crumpling metal.
Arrogance, replaced by desperation.
Infallibility, by failure.
Every hope destroyed, in the same callous fashion he himself had brushed aside the suffering of others, ignoring it as if he had the right to make such decisions.
Who was worthy of his gift of healing, and who was not.
How entitled he'd felt, free to belittle others, uncaring of the pain it might cause.
And yet, despite all the demeaning words he'd hurled at him over their years as colleagues, Nick still found the courage to place himself in the sights of Stephens scathing lack of appreciation.
Offering his best.
Without judgement.
Stephen glared at his trembling hands, fingers that would never again wield a scalpel, never tuck a delicate stitch, felt rage rising in his chest.
'I never saw your future. Only it's possibilities,' the Ancient One had told him, as she was dying.
Had she seen this future? he wondered, bitterly. His collapse, the return to his former hubris? Rendering him unworthy of both Cloaks' loyalty, and the title Master of New York.
Unworthy of Christine's trust.
Pride so ridiculous that he would destroy himself, along with everything he'd come to care about.
Stephen tilted his face toward the sky, ignoring the sting of raindrops against his closed eyelids as his rage reached its' apex, and he realized the Ancient One had been wrong.
It was about him.
His choices.
His decisions.
How he chose to deal with his demons.
Did he succumb, or rise above? Did he revert, or conquer?
He roared, fiercely, into the storm, hands sending out a violent blast of power against the sky, releasing all his pent up anguish, indecision, and pride, scattering the clouds, if only for a moment.
Felt his conflicted soul reclaim its calm as he remembered just who he was.
He was Doctor Stephen Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts, Master of New York, keeper of Oaths, no matter how difficult.
All at once, his eyes snapped open, and he knew how to help Nick.
Frantically, he began to spin open a gateway to the Hospital, hoping he wasn't too late.
For Nick Wests' sake, as well as his own.
There was no time for mop closets. He'd deal with whatever repercussions his mode of arrival might cause after the fact.
He stepped out of the gateway, just outside Nicks' room.
The rapidly diffused orange circle immediately drew the attention of the three people standing in the room.
Christine looked up from a clipboard, moving away from the other startled physicians, and into the hall.
She surveyed Stephen, dripping wet, a crazed look in his eye, and began, angrily,
'What do you think you're doing...'
'I know what you missed,' Stephen interrupted, urgently, taking a step toward her, 'Just...tell me I'm not too late.'
Christine snapped a look over her shoulder, toward her confused colleagues, her expression morphing from anger to hope.
Shook her head, said, sharply,
'Not yet. Tell us,' and laid the clipboard into his hands.
Cloak draped across Stephens' empty bed, alone in the dark, listening to rain hiss against the glass, a random strobe of lighting occasionally twisting thru the blackness.
It was the middle of the night, and it had no idea where its former Chosen was, what he was doing.
If he was safe, in danger, in need.
Their connection had been severed.
Which was more agonizing than being trapped in the Gyve had ever been.
It curled into the blankets, seeking consolation as best it could.
Lost in absolute misery, it didn't hear the low hum of the flat black gateway swirl open across the room. The flicker of lightning hid the faint sparkle, prevented it from noticing the raven shadow which stepped out, cautiously.
Sable waited, unmoving, scanning the room, Ebon cloak swirling around him.
Abruptly, Cloak recognized it wasn't alone, jerked upright, confused, searching for the intruder.
In that moment of hesitation, Sable jabbed his finger toward Cloak.
A barbed silver strand of energy snarled around the unprepared Cloak, twisted tight.
Sable laughed as he stepped closer, no longer the weakened creature that had escaped the banishment of the Gyve.
Not only was he completely recovered, he appeared to have grown more powerful than before.
Smartly attired in suit of charcoal grey, silver hair neatly laid across his shoulder in a braid, it was obvious he'd acquired assistance from someone.
'So, Strange is off somewhere, alone?' he chuckled, watching, amused, as Cloak writhed futilely against its bonds.
'Hide, and go seek. Well, that just adds to the fun.'
With a cruel grin, he admitted,
'I've really been looking forward to this.'
He fixed a glare on Cloak, made a clucking sound, promised,
'I'll be back to deal with you, after I've disposed of your Master.'
Sable turned away, stepped into his gateway, and was gone.
Cloak went limp, trapped in the unyielding bands, helpless to prevent his departure.
Stephen Strange was no longer its...
Wait.
It knew.
It knew where Stephen was.
Which meant...
Worthy.
Cloak thrashed madly, and the barbed strands tore deep, causing it to shudder with pain.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was its Chosen would need it, and it had to get to him before Sable did.