"One of your insights, my dear?" asked Victor.
"Yes. That was how I knew someone was about to jump me from behind when I saw the mouse, yesterday—and sure enough, the Toad was there. That was also how I knew you would arrive in time to prevent Magneto from harming me. This particular insight hasn't as much support as I would like, as yet. I'm extrapolating from observed phenomena, and it's slow going." Plus, most of my proofs, both what I had found in that box at the moving sale, and that which I had painstakingly (and somewhat illegally) assembled, were hidden in my grandmother's attic.
"Laws of heroics." echoed Dr. Strange, sounding faintly puzzled. "Do you mean the psychology of heroes—that they will act in certain predictable ways?"
"No. I mean that just as Newton's third law of physics states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and the Frazer's law of contact in magic states that an object that was once a part of something remains connected to that thing forever, there are as-yet unwritten laws of heroics. The mouse and the Toad are an example of the law that states 'If the perceived threat turns out to be something harmless, the real threat is about to attack from behind.' The law of Rescues states that 'Whatever it is that must be rescued, whether it be person, place, or thing, it will not be rescued until the very last minute.' How often have you heard of someone rescuing the world with two weeks—or even eighteen hours—to spare?"
"Never…" said the sorcerer, slowly. "This is—I want to laugh, but somehow—your observations are striking a chord with me. Victor—you might be said to be more familiar with this from the other end."
"Meaning what, precisely?" Victor inquired, in tones that were all ice.
Uh-oh. There are not many people from whom Victor will take such a statement, even made in a spirit of jocularity, as Stephen was trying to put it. I was one of those few. The Sorcerer Supreme apparently was not.
Doctor Strange pressed on. "That you have been a threat to the world in the past and may be yet again. For all your better qualities, I know on which side of the fence you belong."
Victor sat up abruptly, leaning forward and placing both hands on the table, as if getting ready to spring. "Tread carefully, Strange."
I needed to pour oil on these waters. "There you are wrong, Stephen." I kept my voice so soft and low that they needed to concentrate on what I was saying—so their attention would be on me and not on each other. "Victor is one of the heroes. He has always been one of the heroes." In fact, Victor's history was one of the heroic archetypes—The Boy Who Would Be King. Born into poverty, orphaned at a tragically young age, he had overcome great obstacles and terrible trials, wandered through the world friendless and alone, only to overcome adversity, return home to reclaim his birthright, and attain the throne, ousting the usurper to become the wise and good ruler who brings peace and prosperity to the land.
"Is that how you see me?" asked Victor, distracted from his anger.
"Always." I said, truthfully. "That's why you're such a conundrum to the other heroes. You are one of them—but at odds with them."
"I think I begin to see." said Stephen Strange. "Victor, I apologize for my ill-phrased attempt at wit. I will leave the wit to Joviana, who is the master—the maestra of it."
"I accept your apology." Victor was gracious about it. The waiters cleared the dinner plates and brought dessert—a trio of sorbets, blackberry, apricot, and red current, small scoops of each, with rich little almond macaroons, and little demitasses of coffee.
"As fascinating as I find this discussion—and I do find it highly thought-provoking—perhaps we might return to it another time. I would like to discuss the magical education you have received thus far." Strange pointed his spoon in my direction.
"Then you, too, think I have potential." I stated.
"It is difficult to argue with the result of your first successful ritual. I would call it quite impressive." The sorcerer looked from one of us to the other.
"Yes, but suppose I can only work magic successfully by committing suicide before I attempt a spell? That could prove impractical—and make my sorcerous career a very brief one." I sipped my coffee.
"Let us hope that will not be necessary." He addressed Victor. "I presume you have been teaching her."
"I have not." Victor replied.
"You haven't?" Doctor Strange was obviously surprised.
"No. I granted her access to my entire library and told her to read whatever she wanted. Joviana's best teacher has always been herself."
"I see." Strange's brows contracted until they met in the middle. "What discipline have you been following?"
"No single one." I answered. "I've been reading them all. I'm searching for magic's common denominator, so to speak. For example, all disciplines of magic have a way of casting a circle of protection. It's usually the first thing a novice learns to do, but there are as many different ways of casting one as there are disciplines. Some rely on a ring of candles, and the circle is destroyed when the candles go out. Some are only visualized, others must be drawn on the floor. I am trying to discover what all of the methods have in common—the root of them all. I am trying to discover the atom of magic."
"I believe I begin to understand your lack of success. Have you been applying this scientific way of thinking to all aspects of magic?" asked the sorcerer.
"Yes. I know what you are going to say—that magic is not science, that science is about understanding, and magic is about mystery. Almost all of what we call science today was magic not so long ago. Have you ever read Arthur C. Clarke?" I was wondering why Victor was so quiet—much as he was yesterday, when he was content to let me do so much of the talking to Magneto.
"The science fiction writer? Not for many, many years."
"He states that the products of a sufficiently advanced civilization cannot be distinguished from magic. He is correct. Cars—planes—telephones—refrigeration—radio—television—cell phones—computers—genetic engineering—all of these things would seem like magic to someone of two hundred years ago. For that matter, how many people today understand the principles behind these things any better than you understand how and why magic works now?"
"One major difference is that none of the products of technology require that one believe in them in order to get them to work. A major component of any working of magic is belief." Doctor Strange emphasized his point with a finger, waggling it at me.
"Does that mean that you will soon see a generation of magicians raised on 'Harry Potter' using 'Wingardium Leviosa' as their levitation spell of choice?" I countered.
"But that is fiction—and children's fiction, at that!"
"I tell you now, Stephen, that there are those who believe in their fictions as deeply and sincerely as you do in the Vishanti. If it is truly belief that is the key, you will start seeing 'Quiddich' matches soon."
"You ask difficult questions, Joviana."
"But she asks them of herself just as relentlessly as she does of others, Stephen." Victor commented.
"Does she ask them of you?" inquired Strange.
"Constantly." Victor replied.
"Do you answer them?"
"When and as I can. When she starts asking questions such as 'In what way is an invocation different from a prayer—or is different from a prayer?' or, 'Precisely what makes a particular word magic?' then she goes beyond my mystic knowledge—which is second only to your own."
Then it hit me why Victor was so often quiet when I talked. He was proud of me. He was proud of my intellect, of my wit. As other men might encourage their wives to dress sexily and wear make-up, to show them off to other men, Victor encouraged me to talk. I impressed people. He liked that.
That was—very, very flattering.
I was going to have to be extremely nice to him tonight, in ways involving some of the purchases I made that day.
I temporarily shelved that train of thought, as Doctor Strange said, "She goes beyond mine as well. Joviana, you ask questions like a child—or like a genius. I know you are not the one, so I suspect you must be the other. However, I must say—and I do not mean this as an insult—that from the point of view of a practitioner of magic—you think too much."
"That, Doctor Strange, is the story of my life. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment before we get into the practical part of testing me for magical ability—I will return shortly."
While I was washing my hands, I closed my eyes, and tried to imagine Victor as a father—which was surprisingly easy.
Of course he would love his children. His own flesh and blood, who wore the name of Doom and would carry it into the future? That was as inevitable as the sun rising. His pride in fathering a child would be tremendous even for him.
And once it was born—I could see Victor with a little one toddling around the castle behind him, tugging on his cape to get his attention, and then looking up at him, as only a child can, with the conviction that here was the greatest man on earth—Victor would eat that up with a spoon.
The thought created a soft wrenching feeling in my chest, a pang in my heart.
Then I mentally fast-forwarded fifteen years or so, and pictured myself patiently explaining to him that he really couldn't put our teenage daughter in the dungeons, or even confine her to her room on nothing but bread and water until she thought better of wanting to go out with Franklin Richards, and begged her father's forgiveness. Victor would definitely be better at some aspects of fatherhood than others.
Then I tried to imagine myself as a mother, and it was only with an iron will that I prevented myself from shaking. I tried to recall my grandmother's patient love, but it was my mother's face and voice that came unbidden, unwanted, to my mind.
I had never even had a pet. How could I have a baby?
But the thought of not having children was like a bleeding wound, it hurt terribly, too…
I turned off the water and dried my hands. The doctors were waiting for me.
A/N: Next chapter, Joviana is going back to Hell!
Hello, GothikStrawberry! I'm glad you've recovered from that visit. But it does sound like it was fun.
Hi, Chantrea! You can expect an e-mail from me soon. I, too, love Terry Pratchett. I have Thud! too, and I got it signed by the man himself. I think the idea of the Dungeon Dimensions comes from many sources, and I did not intentionally borrow it from Terry.To disseminate means to spread around. There are very specific, if unwritten,rules about what happens in stories, and Joviana seems to have an idea what they are.
Oooh, Madripoor Rose! You're so close! While you're looking for F4 and Doom titles--avoid the Unthinkable storyline, as if it were contagious. It's awful, and it's out of character, and Marvel hated it so much they fired the writer.