CW for suicide ... again
As the trio slowly walked back down the moonlit road to Tvania, Stephen couldn't help but look back up at the tiny red slit in the sky, trying to reassure himself that it was the same size that it had been the last time he checked it. His stomach was free of nausea, his brain clear of fog, but the burden on his conscience weighed him down like a pile of bricks. If there was some way he could have at least said goodbye to his parents, to Wong, to America before this had happened, he would have accepted it with some degree of grace. All he could do was hide his feelings behind a brick wall, fear and self-loathing pounding at it like a tsunami. He had to go into this with not a single tool at his disposal but courage.
There was a way back in to stop Nightmare, but this time there would be no return. Either way, Nightmare would take one life, or he would take hundreds.
When they returned to the sleeping neighborhood and to their home, Sylvie didn't need them to tell her they'd lost. She knew, somehow, without anyone saying a word to each other. Mobius slunk away to his room, Christine to the den, with a little squeeze of Stephen's arm.
"Tell me if you need anything," she whispered.
He nodded in reply. He wouldn't need anything except her forgiveness for what he had to do.
Stephen sat down in the dark, still living room, crossing his legs under him and taking a meditative position. All the creaks and rustling and footsteps faded away as Mobius and Christine settled down in their beds for an uneasy sleep. He took deep, steady breaths, enjoying what small things he could about his existence, thinking of everything he'd left behind.
An image of his newly broken hands popped into his mind, covered in stitches and metal supports, trussed like a dead turkey. That moment was the most useless and helpless that he'd ever felt in his life, until now. At least then he'd had an excuse. He tried to let those intrusive thoughts, those awful memories, to subside, to meditate and allow himself some measure of peace.
Sylvie's footsteps crept cautiously towards him and he opened his eyes.
"Doctor?" she said, sitting down on the floor with him. There was nothing else to her question, but the frightened glint in her eyes told him everything.
"Sylvie," he replied. "I could sit here and apologize a million times, none of it would make any difference. But I want you to know that I am sorry."
She shook her head and looked down at the floor. "There's nothing to apologize for, Doctor Strange. I'm sorry I punched you. I'm sorry I've been so impatient." She let out a long, shuddering breath. "So, how long until … you know? When should I tell Tvania?"
"Don't tell them anything, yet," he said. "There is one last chance to save this place, but … " he trailed off and swallowed hard. "Sylvie, do you have a weapon?"
Her eyes opened wide. "I have knives but-Stephen? Please don't tell me you want to use them for that?"
"I have to," he said. "I'll use it on myself, if necessary. I won't make anyone else kill me. I don't want to leave that weight on anyone's conscience."
They both sat in silence as a gentle wind fluttered the curtains, revealing streams of moonbeams that lit up the room in dim, white light. Finally, Sylvie shook her head.
"I won't give them to you," she said.
"Sylvie-"
"I won't, doctor. I refuse. I'm sorry."
"You want to protect this place, and save Loki, and yourself?"
She paused for a long moment, then gasped and covered her mouth with one hand.
"Oh, no," she groaned. "Doctor, if … if Loki were to die, would that stop the demon?"
"That's not an option," he said without hesitation. "I came here to save him, and that's what I'm going to try to do, come hell or high water."
She relaxed a little, but still shook her head.
"I can't let you hurt yourself that way, either. I've sliced throats with my knives, but you don't deserve that fate. Surely you're of better use alive than dead? Isn't there any other way?"
He thought for a moment, then stood slowly, making the floorboards creak.
"There's one small thing I could do before I go."
He went outside, Sylvie following close behind. She caught sight of Nightmare's crack in the stratosphere and pointed up at it.
"Is that-?"
"Yes," he said. It wasn't his imagination: it was getting slowly bigger. The moon was close to setting, but the red line in the sky stayed in the same place, as if it was laser focused on Tvania - and Loki.
He gathered a huge amount of magical energy within him and pushed it outward in the form of a glowing, golden ring. Sylvie jumped backward as it went through her and surrounded them, the magic runes that made up the spell slowly spinning, waiting patiently to be used.
With another burst he sent the spinning ring far up into the sky and dispersed the runes to every corner of the Earth, the glow around them dimming once again into darkness.
"What kind of spell was that?" she asked breathlessly.
"For protection," he said. "It won't work very long, though, not once Nightmare breaks through. I can't repair the crack in this universe because I can't sever Loki's tether to Nightmare while I'm here. As long as he has a foot in the door, he'll eventually open it."
"But this will slow him down?"
"Yes. And when I-" he let out a deep sigh, "-you know … and break Loki's tether in the afterlife, then the crack should close."
"And if it doesn't?"
Stephen spent a moment silently observing all the quiet, peaceful houses sound asleep, waiting, having faith in him to save them from certain doom.
"If it doesn't, then tell Tvania to gather their loved ones. Try not to worry, Sylvie. Get a little sleep."
They went back inside where Sylvie laid down on the living room couch and draped a ratty old blanket over herself. Stephen headed to the den and opened the door to find that Christine wasn't there. Upstairs, a chair creaked, and he knew where she'd gone to.
Christine sat on the chair next to Loki's bed, with one single candle flickering in the darkness.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked. "You should get some sleep."
"You think I can sleep after that?" she said with a mirthless chuckle. "I was just thinking, I guess. Wondering if it was worth it to convince you to come here." She turned to the pathetic, trembling skeleton of a man wasting away on the bed. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but … poor Loki."
"This wasn't a fool's errand," he said, sitting at the foot of the bed. "I'm just the fool, that's all."
He took a very deep breath, dreading what he knew he had to tell her.
"Christine, I have to try again. I have to go back to the afterlife."
Her eyes widened, but she didn't cry out or beg, or even say anything for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"If I don't, we all die. It's a trade off if I win. I don't want you to try and stop me."
Finally, she nodded, staring off into the distance. He put his hand on top of hers across the bed, giving it the smallest squeeze.
To his surprise, she suddenly pulled away.
"Wait," she said, going to the other side of the bed and rummaging through the duffel bag on the floor. "Where is it?"
She triumphantly took out a thick, monstrous looking pen-an adrenaline shot-and gave him a little smirk.
"I knew I brought one along. Right next to the MRI machine."
His heart skipped a beat with hope, though he knew the chances of it reviving him were even less likely than in the hospital. Not to mention they'd probably already used something similar on him that night. He didn't know how much more his heart could handle.
"You're something else, Christine." He couldn't help but smile back at her. "Now I guess I have to pick a way to die that the shot could revive me from. Not something with major blood loss, obviously. I won't be getting any of it back."
Christine shrugged. "Asphyxiation?" she suggested. "Drowning? That would work."
"No," he replied curtly. "I don't want to do that."
"Why not? It would be-" she stopped herself and her voice dropped. "Oh. Donna," she said, and he nodded silently.
"Is there a way you could do it magically?" she asked.
"Oh, there are lots of ways to accidentally kill yourself with magic," he said, rolling his eyes, "but they usually need magical antidotes, too. The adrenaline might not bring me back to life if I used them.
"There is something else I could do, but I'll need another book. You may as well try to sleep a little."
"You're crazy," she said, shaking her head. "I won't be able to sleep for a week … if we even have a week left."
"Then at least try to rest," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, wanting so badly to just hold her for however long it would take before Nightmare devoured the world.
As if she'd read his mind, she pulled him in for a close hug, holding on to him so tightly he felt every one of her fingers individually pressing into his back.
He returned her embrace in silence, wishing he still had the time stone so he could make that moment last forever.
They finally let go, taking one long, last look at each other until Christine headed back downstairs to the den.
Stephen grabbed his Cloak of Levitation off the post of Loki's bed and found the rest of his sorcerer's garb, putting everything back on, even though it stank like B.O. If he was going to go back to the afterlife, he sure as hell wouldn't end up there half naked again. He wanted to die with some dignity intact.
At the very crack of dawn, Stephen left to forage through the dense forest outside of Tvania, leaves and sticks crunching underfoot. He'd gone to the Westview library the night they'd returned and searched until he found the book he needed-Plant Field Guide of the Northeastern United States-and bookmarked every poisonous plant in it, especially the ones with neurotoxic properties or that would stop his heart. Finding them now was the hard part. He was absolutely not a biologist. Every leaf looked approximately the same to him. He wondered if just getting a cocktail of every suspicious looking berry he could find would do the trick. A mixture of old chemicals left over from the former residents of Tvania might have worked, too, but a bleach smoothie would probably do much more irreversible damage, if he could come back to life afterwards.
That glimmer of hope was starting to cloud his judgement. He'd already made peace with his fate. If he couldn't find what he needed in the woods, then he'd chug some drain cleaner off in a secluded part of the forest, where Christine wouldn't have to watch his grizzly death.
When he was about to sit on a rock and take a breather, a flash of white caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He moved closer and knelt down to take a closer look. A small plant with pointy leaves grew a bright pink stalk covered in dozens of striking, white berries. That jolted his memory. Flipping back through his book, he found the passage, marked with a red skull next to the picture.
White Baneberry, aka Doll's-eyes (Actaea pachypoda)
Grows bipinnate compound leaves, with white flowers with straight petals in spring, bearing round, white fruit with a black dot in the summer. The berries are the most poisonous part of the plant, with cardiac sedative properties that can cause heart attacks or death if ingested.
"Perfect," he said to himself, stripping every tiny berry off of the plant. He took another glance up at the red crack in the sky. It was growing, slowly, but it would soon be eclipsed by the sun. It would take another day or two before Nightmare could reach Earth, but the sooner he got this over with, the better.
Returning to Loki's backyard, he made a small fire and boiled the berries into a tea inside a metal cup while Christine and Sylvie looked on from the kitchen, helplessly staring at him through the sliding glass door. Their eyes were dry, but they didn't speak, their expressions as somber as a funeral.
Stephen came back inside with the cup of steaming, deadly tea in hand, as innocuous as a mug of coffee. It smelled bitter, like cut grass and pungent medicine.
"Where should we do this?" he asked Christine, and they both wordlessly rose and headed upstairs. Mobius came from his room and took up the rear of the procession. Stephen heard him cough and glanced behind to see Mobius hide his face for a quick moment. He was the only one crying.
They all sat on the floor in a circle next to Loki's bed, where he'd performed so many spells before. Christine held the adrenaline shot in her hand so tightly her knuckles turned white. The stale air was beginning to warm with the morning sunlight, Loki's ever present death rattle floating in the air. The birds were quieter this morning. They seemed to know something was wrong with the world.
"I don't have any last words," he said to them. "But if there's anything anyone else wants to say … ?"
Everyone kept quiet, Mobius sniffling, Christine and Sylvie staring at nothing, unable to make eye contact with him. He didn't want a speech, anyway. They'd already said everything they could to each other, except the thing that he'd tried to say to Christine the last time he died.
He looked at her, opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. She gave him a look that said everything. She knew. She couldn't say it back, but she knew.
He brought the poison tea close to him, getting a whiff of acrid steam.
"Bottoms up," he whispered, then gulped down as much of the tea as he could possibly stand. He nearly threw it all up, but forced himself to keep it down. It was like biting into the most bitter, tasteless fruit imaginable. It sapped all the moisture from his mouth and throat on the way down, like drinking hot vinegar.
It didn't take long to find out if he'd used the right berries or not. His heartbeat began to slow, his head feeling wobbly and dizzy. Christine caught the half-full cup of tea just before it fell out of his hand and set it off to the side.
"Lay down, Stephen," she said, and he tilted backwards, room spinning, until his head hit the floor with a thump. She was moving him around, gently arranging his limbs into a more dignified position, when he felt the first painful sting of a heart attack. The pain radiated quickly to his left arm. The throbbing in his chest grew quicker, his heartbeat fluttery and frantic.
He couldn't help thinking of all the things to do to stop this from happening.
Take off tight clothes … aspirin … no, aspirin won't help, there's no clots … chest compressions …
He stopped himself. Death was coming, and he had to focus, to remember where he needed to go, to not be afraid even though every instinct told him to save himself. It was so much more terrifying than the quiet waves of nausea from the pentobarbital.
After what felt like hours, but had surely been only minutes, the pain subsided. Stephen, clammy and drifting, felt Christine's nice, warm hand on his cheek. He couldn't see her anymore. Everything was a blob of light and shadows, all sounds just murmurs coming from far away, but just before he died, he felt Christine kiss his cold lips.
The river of death took him once again, using its beautiful siren's call to lure him towards the bright speck of light beckoning in the darkness. Stephen knew better this time. He swerved away from the light, as irresistible as it was, and pulled himself laboriously upwards until his head popped up from the raging river. With a little more effort, he floated above the rushing water on his own, along with a few other alien beings that zipped straight up towards the clusters of afterlives floating above them. The Ancient One was nowhere to be found this time, but he remembered where they'd flown to get to Nightmare's corner of the First Cosmos. He flung himself in that direction as fast as he could go.
After a few minutes of dashing over the barren landscape, he found himself at the edge of the cliff overlooking Nightmare's small cloud of terror, which writhed angrily in the sky above the red desert. As he floated easily down to the bottom of the cliff, his horrible dream popped into his mind again; the figure on the horizon, the awful, screeching voice. There was nothing there, now, aside from the cloud with Loki's tether glowing above it, like a branch bearing evil fruit.
Dr. Strange floated slowly across the desert, little wisps of red sand whipping near his feet with every gust of hot wind. He swallowed, throat parched, though he couldn't tell if it was from the dry air or the memory of the poisonous tea. As much as he tried to suppress it, a feeling of dread crept through him. There was nothing left to be afraid of, except fear itself … and the creature that had embodied the concept since the dawn of the universe. What could Nightmare possibly do, besides lock him in a bubble of endless torment? Kill him?
Suddenly, Stephen fell a foot or two to the ground, as if someone had pulled him into the sand with a rope. To his horror, he found he couldn't move. His feet were planted firmly in the fine sand, sinking very slowly.
"LITTLE GHOST."
The disembodied voice was a nail on a chalkboard, slow and deliberately torturous. The source of the voice was nowhere to be seen. Stephen looked to every side of him, searching, then startled when the dark figure appeared much closer than it had been in his dream, just a few arms length's away. Nightmare's visage trembled in the waves of heat coming from the sand, a thin, humanoid creature with long, spindly fingers. A tattered cloak fluttered behind him, his body covered head to toe in a dark green outfit torn to rags, the color of dead algae and rot. A head of long, black hair shielded his face, concealing whatever horror lay beneath, except for two green, glowing eyes that shone just as brightly as the time stone.
"YOU DID NOT HEED MY WARNING," hissed Nightmare.
"If you weren't afraid of me," said Stephen loudly, "you wouldn't have bothered trying to keep me away. You know I can beat you."
Nightmare let out a laugh that sounded more like a maniacal scream. Stephen tried to steady his mind, find his resolve, but panic kept lurking back into his soul in waves.
"I DID NOT WISH TO WASTE THE ENERGY ON YOU, GHOST," he said, dripping with contempt. "BUT YOU HAVE COME TO LOSE, SO I WILL OBLIGE, WITHOUT HESITATION."
With that, he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled a high, ear piercing blast. A smaller lightning cloud formed out of thin, dry air, wisps of dark mist swirling and congealing until they formed the body of a huge horse, as black as midnight. The horse reared and whinnied wildly, its eyes flashing, steam pouring from its nostrils. The stallion was fitted with a saddle and reins studded with bleached white bones, and grew a knifelike horn from its head, like a unicorn fashioned by Satan himself.
"DREAMSTALKER! TO ME!" cried Nightmare, and the horse galloped towards him at full speed, hooves pounding the sand. Stephen thought it would run straight over Nightmare, but the demon grabbed the rein and leapt onto Dreamstalker's back as gracefully as a gymnast. Dreamstalker slowed, then stopped, and let out a few angry, feral snorts of steam.
Nightmare held out one long hand, and another thin cloud appeared, swirling like a slender tornado. It grew longer and longer until it solidified, turning into what looked like a metal lance as long as he was tall, the tip glowing like a red hot poker.
They faced each other in silence, except for Dreamstalker's rattling reins as he shook his mane, waiting for his master's orders.
"Impressive," said Stephen dryly, feeling a bit of strength return even though he was still sinking into the sand. "I've seen much worse, though."
"YOU HIDE BEHIND SARCASM, STEPHEN STRANGE," said Nightmare, an almost sincere tone hiding behind the mockery, "BUT IT WILL NOT SHIELD YOU FROM YOUR DARKEST FEARS. NOTHING CAN." He raised the metal rod high into the air, like a knight ready to joust. "ALL MORTAL BEINGS BOW TO ME."
Nightmare placed the glowing tip down into the sand, where it hissed and sparked, turning the sand to red-hot glass. With a yell, he spurred his horse and rode around Stephen, keeping the lance in the sand, drawing a perfect circle made out of glass. Dr. Strange realized exactly what Nightmare meant to do. It was the same thing Stephen had done to capture the energy of the Soul of the Damned, though he'd used salt for his circle instead of whatever Nightmare was doing. He was the energy source about to be sapped of life.
If magic was useless against him, and fear was already starting to take hold, then Stephen didn't see any way out of this that ended well. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his mind, sweating in the hot sand now up to his knees. The more he moved, the faster it held, like the non-Newtonian goo that everyone made in grade school that turned hard when you squeezed it and runny when you allowed it to sit in your hand.
That gave him a glimmer of hope. If he could truly quiet himself then there was a chance, however slight, that he could escape.
Nightmare lifted his lance, but still galloped around Stephen stuck in the sand, making dust whirl into the air.
"YOU WILL BE JUST WHAT I NEED TO BREAK INTO YOUR REALM," he said as he rode. The glowing glass circle started to grow little tendrils inside of it, like roots looking for water, all heading slowly to the center of the circle.
Stephen resisted the urge to resist, fought the urge to fight back. He was nothing like the perfect Taoist he'd described to Sylvie, waiting patiently for the tiger to kill him, but he had to try. As Dreamstalker's hooves pounded around him, his life flashed before his eyes; playing catch with his dad, talking late into the night with his mom, running through the forest, his school friends, Donna alive and well, Donna dead in his arms, and all the numbness and anger that followed for years afterward.
A more recent memory came to him. He was a grown up, a student in his very first week at Kamar-Taj, learning the single most basic sorcerer's skill-and failing miserably.
"You know, I think my mind is balanced," he'd told the Ancient One, shifting uncomfortably in his meditative position, wearing the white robes of a novice. "You think I can start learning portals now?"
The Ancient One opened one eye as she floated above the ground, cross-legged, her hands resting on her knees.
"Mr. Strange," she said chidingly, like a kindergarten teacher, "before one is even allowed to touch a sling ring, one must prove they can keep their mind calm and still. You've done nothing but fidget for thirty minutes."
"I am completely calm and still," he lied. His robes were itchy as a burlap sack and thoughts kept racing through his mind like a swarm of bees, not to mention his bandaged hands still hurt like hell and wouldn't stop shaking.
She floated down and put one hand on his trembling wrist. A bit of golden energy flowed from her fingers to him, making his hand stop shaking, if only for a few seconds.
"You are in a constant battle with your mind and body," she said, her deep gaze penetrating him. "If you learn to simply observe your pain, your desires, then you will find peace. That is worth more than magic."
Nightmare screeched like a banshee, making his horse whinny as he kicked him harder, forcing Dreamstalker to go faster around the glass circle. Stephen realized, with surprise, that Nightmare was trying to break his concentration. Whatever pissed Nightmare off was exactly what he needed to do.
The tendrils inside the circle continued to slither towards him, but Stephen ignored them, closing his eyes as he sank to his hips in the sand.
A passage from a poem popped into his head as the first tendrils of pain touched him, and he quietly muttered it to himself as Nightmare drove his horse at a frenetic pace.
"'If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same…'"
The tendrils reached around him, growing upward towards his heart. Pain like fiery needles scorched his skin, but Stephen didn't react. Pain was only a feeling. All feelings subsided eventually.
"YOU ARE MINE, STRANGE!" shrieked Nightmare, Dreamstalker panting heavily, steam pouring from his nostrils like a train engine. "YOU HAVE LOST!"
Stephen ignored him and continued to recite:
"'If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'…'"
Stephen stopped and gasped as a million terrifying images burst into his head at once, like a lightning storm that wouldn't stop. Blood, monsters, death, Donna, Tony Stark, Natasha, gore and darkness stunned him all at once. He drew one shuddering breath at a time, allowing the spasms of terror to pass through, letting the tears fall down his face.
Nightmare laughed. "YOU ARE A CHILD! YOU FAILED EVERYONE THAT NEEDED YOU! YOU KNOW NOTHING, LITTLE GHOST!"
Stephen was beyond nothing and everything. He was a butterfly floating along the breeze, looking for flowers. He was a man who felt the breath of the tiger at the nape of his neck, and accepted the teeth as they sank into his throat.
He accepted his fate wherever it took him, without question: amor fati.
Very, very slowly, inch by inch, Stephen lifted his leg from the sand, then the other, feeling the hot sand fall away as he crossed his legs under him and floated above the ground. He opened his eyes to see the red tendrils covering him, burrowing into his skin in all but one place: his heart.
With one more deep breath, he finished the poem.
"'If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!'"*
With that, the last throes of fear within him dissolved like cinders in water. With no more fear to feast on, the tendrils boring into him like ivy branches started to wither and die.
"NO!"
Nightmare brought Dreamstalker to a sliding halt, the horse huffing and puffing with foam dripping from his mouth.
With tiny, crackling noises, the tendrils fell back and slithered quickly towards the edge of the circle again. The glass circle reabsorbed them, until suddenly the red glass turned charcoal gray, then cracked, extinguishing all the power in it like a fire that had run out of fuel.
With one last exasperated scream, Nightmare tugged the reins, making Dreamstalker rear menacingly, then charged straight at Stephen with his glowing hot lance pointed straight at him.
Stephen put up a magical shield at the last second. The lance hit with a spray of sparks, sending Stephen flying off to the side, stunned but unharmed.
He heard a shower of sand as Nightmare brought Dreamstalker to a halt and turned him around for another go.
"YOU WILL FEAR ME, MORTAL!" he screamed, then charged for him, meaning to trample him.
Stephen ducked down and formed a shield over his back, like a turtle shell. Dreamstalker's hooves grazed the top of the magical armor as he took a flying leap over the shield. Stephen stood to face Nightmare and smiled to himself, making Nightmare's eyes glow bright green with hatred under locks of disgusting, oily hair. Nightmare was nothing without fear to fuel him.
Stephen put up another shield. "I can do this for eternity," he called out. "Can you?"
Dreamstalker's ears were pinned back, grunting, drooling, eyes just as wild as his master's. "HOW DO YOU RESIST ME?" Nightmare called back to him, whining like a petulant child.
"'I accept all agony and trust it,'" he replied, "'for the water has never feared the fire.'"**
They stared each other down for a long moment as the hot wind blew savagely around them. They were at a stalemate, and they both knew it. Finally, Nightmare dismounted his horse, the lance still in his hand, dragging the tip of it behind him. Even though he carried his weapon, Stephen let down his magical shield, somehow knowing that Nightmare wouldn't dare strike him.
Nightmare stopped very close to Stephen, close enough that he could almost make out his horrible, jagged teeth and pale face hiding behind the curtain of black hair.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he growled.
"I want you to let Loki go," Stephen said, gesturing to the black, roiling cloud in front of him.
Nightmare leaned forward, his shoulders shaking silently, then a low, menacing chuckle grew from him, like the laughter of a lunatic.
"YOU CANNOT FORCE ME TO DO ANYTHING," he said. "WE MAY BE EVENLY MATCHED, BUT YOU WILL NOT MAKE ME LET GO OF MY CHANCE TO CONQUER A REALM OF MY OWN. YOU CANNOT ANNOY ME INTO SUBMISSION, LIKE DORMAMMU."
"Then let me in there."
Nightmare tilted his head to the side. "YOU ARE ASKING TO BE ALLOWED INTO AN ETERNAL NIGHTMARE? YOU THINK YOU CAN WITHSTAND ME FOR SO LONG, GHOST?"
He shrugged. "I did it just now, didn't I?"
"THE NIGHTMARE IS ETERNAL BECAUSE IT IS NOT YOURS," he replied. "LOKI WILL NEVER BE FREE. BUT IF YOU WISH TO HELP ME TAKE OVER YOUR REALM WITH YOUR LIFE FORCE, I WILL GLADLY ACCEPT YOUR SACRIFICE."
Nightmare lifted his lance and pointed it at the storm. A crack of red lightning blasted from it, like a magic wand, and hit the cloud with a deafening boom. Stephen jumped, but Dreamstalker barely flicked an ear. A swirling, black hole started to form where the lightning had hit.
"DO AS YOU WISH, STRANGE," said Nightmare as Dreamstalker walked back to his master. He jumped on his horse, then threw back over his shoulder, "I AM NOT FINISHED WITH YOU, YET."
With that, Nightmare kicked his horse and yelled out, galloping off into the horizon, both of them turning back into the dark storm clouds they were made of, then dissipating into thin air.
*Rudyard Kipling's "If-" (in the public domain)
**Quote from Rumi, 13th century Islamic scholar and poet. The actual quote begins with, "The Prophets accept ..."