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“Wong, duck!” The ton-and-a-half block of masonry crashed to the ground with bone-shaking force, sending a wave of earth into the air. That particular statue would never be the same.
Wong grunted in irritation, using a glowing whip of eldritch magic to lasso the responsible squid-horse-lion thing (Stephen’s description, not his). It screeched in frustration, multiple appendages wildly flailing. Rapidly spinning open a portal, Wong waited just long enough for the creature to fall through it before letting it snap closed, and turning to the next threat.
With a flurry of crimson fabric, Stephen landed next to his colleague. “We’ve gotten most of them. I’m sensing a few stragglers, but we should be able to track those down without any trouble. I appreciate the hand.”
“You are welcome, although it would scarcely have been acceptable to not lend my aid while I was visiting the Sanctum. But one lesson you need to learn, Strange. Never count your chickens before they are hatched.”
The American sorcerer quirked an eyebrow. “‘Great, kid, don’t get cocky?’ Oh, come on, don’t tell me you don’t watch movies either. You at least know who Han Solo is, right?”
Stephen did not need to know that Wong’s inner child had been particularly thrilled to learn that eldritch weapons included whips. He had been somewhat obsessed with Indianna Jones as a boy. Instead, Wong kept his face nonplussed, and his shields raised. Stephen sighed dejectedly.
“Okay, okay, I get it. All work, no play. Let’s finish exterminating Central Park.”
Wong barely had time to process the slight movement at the corner of his vision. The creatures were master predators in their own ecosystem, expertly designed by nature to camouflage themselves as they stalked their prey. Perhaps the sorcerers had been slightly distracted, or perhaps this creature was especially skilled at evading both visual and magical sight. Wong turned as the thing leaped, maw opened to reveal a hundred razor-sharp needles and tentacles whipping unnaturally through the air.
“Strange, look out!”
But there was no time. Wong caught a glimpse of the other master’s stunned face before Wong’s magic flung him clear. For a moment, creature and sorcerer grappled, but Wong’s hastily raised shield was enough to repulse its attack. Raising its head to the heavens, it screamed, the sound like the scrape of a thousand nails along a chalkboard. Then, as quick as a striking snake, it wrapped its appendages around a nearby tree. The oak’s girth was massive, but the creature ripped it from the ground like a weed. Clods of earth sprayed into the air.
Then the creature hurled the tree like a javelin. Wong should have been able to evade it. What happened next was truly horrible luck, but that was the way the Multiverse turned at times. As Wong stepped to brace himself against the oncoming missile, his foot twisted in a divot in the uneven ground.
Instead of repulsing the tree-turned-projectile back towards the creature, it ricocheted upwards, sliding over Wong’s shield. And making very direct, very forceful contact with the sizable granite statue that the earlier creature had used as its perch. Wong heard a great crack echo overhead, and the clattering of stone against stone. Then there was a sharp pain in his head, and another in his side. And then he felt nothing at all.
--
When Wong woke, he realized that he was wet. Wet and, as he began to shiver, cold. On the bright side, at least he wasn’t dead. Which given his last recallable memories, seemed to be quite remarkable.
First things first. There wasn’t much to see, wherever he was. It was very dark. He did seem to be lying on grass or dirt, if touch gave any indication as to the surface beneath him. It was relatively quiet, save for the steady plunk of raindrops (ah, that explained the wetness). Conjuring a small palm-full of balefire, he got his first view of his surroundings.
Which consisted mostly of rain-slick foliage, black in the balefire’s pale glow. With a start, Wong suddenly understood. He was still trapped under the tree that the creature had thrown at him. It was promising that he had not been eaten, as he assumed the creature would have finished the job if possible. It was less promising that he was still buried beneath the oak’s branches, and that he could hear nothing from within his leafy tomb.
Well, perhaps tomb was not a good word. Temporary incarceration. Wong’s head was throbbing mercilessly, he assumed as the result of a collision with either the crumbling statue or the tree. His ankle reminded him that it was likewise not happy, as a result of the misstep that had precipitated this entire debacle. But perhaps, with the judicious application of magic, he might still be able to wriggle his way out of this mess. And then go in search of Stephen, and the remaining creatures.
Leaving the balefire to hover helpfully, Wong twisted experimentally. And promptly bit down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood, as he fought against screaming out loud. And possibly throwing up, or passing out again.
Panting shallowly against the burning wave of agony that his movements had set off, Wong reached a hand carefully along his right side. The branch was lodged just below his ribs. He didn’t really want to find out whether it had gone entirely through to the other side. Sometimes ignorance really was bliss.
“...ong, can you hear me? Wong!”
Wong realized with another start that he had missed the far-off cries. He inhaled shallowly, as he anticipated that inhaling deeply would not be advisable at this time. Stephen was looking for him; he would have known that voice anywhere. Now he just had to let the other sorcerer know where he was, as swiftly and painlessly as possible.
With a quick flick of his wrist, Wong sent the small globe of pale blue light fluttering skywards. He kept going until he felt it must certainly have cleared the oak’s leafy crown. There was a shout, and then silence. No more than a minute later, he heard Stephen’s voice again, but this time far more closely.
“Wong! Are you there?”
Wong resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Who else...do you think...would be floating magic lights around Central Park at midnight? Did you remove...the creatures?” The breathy quality of his own voice was startling.
Stephen must have noticed as well, as there was a brief pause. Then, “The creatures are taken care of. Sorry it took so long. How’re you doing? Do you think we can levitate this thing off of you?”
The fact that their task had been completed, and that no eldritch monsters would terrorize the city of New York tonight, sent a pleasant wave of relief through Wong. “Good. I’m...alright. But levitating would be poorly advised, as there’s a branch currently pinning me in place.”
Stephen’s voice was calm, almost soothingly so. “Pinning as in a mousetrap, or pinning as in an insect mounted in a display case?”
Wong winced at the imagery. “The latter.” He could almost see his colleague’s grimace.
“Alright. New plan. I’m going to come under there and find you, and we’ll get out of this together, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Unless you can open a portal?” Wong hated to destroy the hope that laced through those words.”
“Lost my sling ring.” Another pause.
“Okay. Just hang tight. If you can conjure another light, that would be helpful.”
So Wong did. It was quite a beautiful source of illumination, if he could say so himself. It flickered merrily in the darkness, making the leaves around him shimmer and reflecting within the raindrops that studded them like tiny jewels.
He lost track of time, as he lay there watching the soft glimmering of the eldritch flame. It might have been five minutes or twenty, before he became aware of a rustling to his right. Moments later, Stephen’s head and shoulders appeared through the tangle of greenery and splintered branches.
“Hey, is this treehouse invitation only, or can anyone hang out here?”
“Only...if you have the password.” Stephen’s mouth quirked in a brief grin, and he futilely wiped at the wet bangs that fell over his eyes.
“No password, but how about a way out of here?” Then his eyes grew serious, and he sent a glowing sigil flitting over Wong’s side. His face drew into a frown.
“I don’t want to lift this off of you, as the branch itself is likely helping to staunch bleeding. It would be best to just transport you out, branch and all. Any other injuries that I should know about?”
“Head. Ankle.” It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay alert, and even those few words were more effort that Wong cared to admit. Even to himself.
Stephen nodded. “Okay. I’m going to sever the branch above you, and then try to lift this mess just a little, so I can open a portal directly beneath us. If I close it quickly enough, hopefully the entire tree and these rocks won’t come tumbling through after us. Are you ready?”
Wong nodded as well, then realized that Stephen might not be able to see in the limited light cast by the conjured flame. “Yes.”
“Alright. Then here we go.”
For a moment, Wong glimpsed the surgeon that Stephen must have been, before. Face a study in concentration, he wielded the short blade of eldritch magic with careful precision, angling it to slice through the branch protruding from Wong’s side. Wong scarcely felt the branch move.
Then Stephen vanished the orange saber. Clenching his jaw, he braced both elbows against the muddy earth, and *lifted* upwards with his hands. Above them, the oak’s canopy shuddered, then raised several feet into the air. Leaves and twigs rained around them.
But it was enough. Tree still hovering bizarrely above them, Stephen quickly sketched a portal with the hand wearing his sling ring. But instead of appearing before them in the air, the ring of orange flames drew itself in a great circle around them.
And then it was snapping closed above their heads, just as Wong saw the tree succumb again to gravity and plummet downwards. There was a sudden influx of entirely novel scents and sounds, the light almost so bright as to be painful. Wong squinted, muzzily trying to make sense of his new surroundings. The floor beneath him was cool tile, and the air carried the faint odor of antiseptic.
Next to him, Stephen was scrambling to his feet, wet boots slipping slightly. Wong heard him call out, and then there was a flurry of motion. People rushing, reaching for him. The clanging of metal, and the beep of machinery.
“Forty five year old male, no past medical history, presenting with an impaled object in the upper right abdomen. No obvious thoracic involvement, but significant blood loss. Also possible head injury.” That was Stephen’s voice, although it was fading in and out like a bad record.
“Start fluid resuscitation, wide-bore…” That voice Wong didn’t know. But he was so very tired, and suddenly it didn’t particularly matter. The creatures had been contained. He was no longer trapped. He trusted that Stephen would take care of things, and surrendered again to the darkness.
--
Christine Palmer understood the concept of superstitious learning. Everyone experienced it. But for those who, like she did, worked in a profession that provided little real control over high stakes, it was an even more tempting trap to fall into. Sometimes, it was based on her brain’s unconscious interpretation of genuine data. Favorite suture patterns, favorite nurses, certain days or dates that always seemed to bring an influx of critical patients.
But one thing was certain. Superstitious or not, she was developing a very strong conditioned emotional response to the sound of one ex-neurosurgeon’s voice. And it was more a heart-racing, adrenaline pumping, fight-or-flight response than one of the sunshine, puppies, and rainbows variety.
Christine had heard the flurry of activity in the hallway begin just as she finished with a patient. She had hurried out of the room, and after that it had been the usual rush of years of training taking over. Peripherally, she had noted Stephen’s presence, and that his ridiculous (although not entirely unflattering) robes were absolutely soaked. He had given them the pertinent history and then stepped back to let them work. The last she had seen of him, as they wheeled away his companion, he had been standing somewhat forlornly amidst the scattered tree leaves and twigs and discarded medical detritus that littered the floor.
Christine couldn’t quite shake the image. And besides, it was her responsibility to update family members and friends as to the status of a patient. So once Stephen’s fellow not-a-cult member had been transferred to the operating theater and the capable hands of the trauma surgeon on call, she went in search of her former colleague.
She found him sitting in one of the smaller waiting rooms attached to the ER. Most families didn’t know about this one, seeing as how it was hidden around a corner and rather distant from the admissions desk. But then Stephen had practically lived in this hospital, once upon a time.
“Hey, stranger. It’s been a while.”
Stephen pulled a grimace as he looked up from his contemplation of the pale green and yellow floor tiles. “Ugh. Really, the name puns, Christine?”
She settled next to him, shifting in a vain effort to find a comfortable position on the hard plastic chair. “Eh, it’s 3 in the morning. I’m running out of creative juices at this time of the night. How are you holding up?”
Stephen shrugged, thoughts obviously elsewhere. His clothes were still slightly damp, as was his hair, the grey at his temples glinting silver under the hospital’s artificial lights. “I’m fine. How’s Wong?”
“He’s hanging in there. As you can imagine, there was not insignificant trauma. They’re hoping not to have to remove his spleen, but there’s some hemorrhaging from the liver. As far as they can tell, no spinal, diaphragmatic, or intestinal involvement. He was very, very lucky, all things considered.”
“No kidding. And the head injury?”
“Mild concussion, maybe. No bleeds seen on imaging, so we’ll have to wait until he wakes up to fully assess.”
“Good. That’s good news.” Stephen seemed genuinely relieved, but his reply was almost absentminded and so far from the brash arrogance that she still associated with him. It was unsettling.
“Yeah. We’ll have to see what Goodrich says once he gets out of the OR, but at least for now things are stable.” She paused, then plowed forwards. “So how’s cult life going? I’m assuming Wong is one of your fellow-”
“-not cultists!”
“-colleagues, based on your shared taste in wardrobe. Is this how you guys usually spend your Saturday nights? What exactly happened, anyways?”
Stephen sighed, unconsciously running one hand along the thick red velvet of the cape (cloak?) draped over his shoulders. Somehow, the garment seemed perfectly dry, despite the fact that it should have taken far longer for the rain to evaporate from the thick material than from the rest of Stephen’s clothes.
“Saturday, Tuesday, Wednesday...it’s all the same to monsters invading from other dimensions. They’re taken care of, no worries. Wong got in the way of a tree that one of them tossed his way. He shouldn’t have even been there. He was just visiting New York when the rift opened, and offered to lend a hand.”
“It was nice of him to help out.” Christine had learned, over the years, how to invite conversation without obviously asking. Sometimes, she wished she had known how much knowledge of human nature would be required to be a doctor.
Stephen shrugged, but one corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a small smile. “Yeah. Wong’s a tough nut to crack, but he’s not shy about getting his hands dirty. Not much for small talk, leads by example kind of guy.”
“So, basically, the opposite of you then?”
Christine couldn’t help a little ribbing; it was just too easy. Plus she couldn’t stand to see such a dour expression on her friend’s face. At least she liked to think they were still friends. Certainly, from what she had seen of this new side of her former co-worker, he seemed like a person genuinely worth being friends with.
Stephen’s protest was immediate, but his smile spread to his eyes this time. “Hey! I can lead by example! Just not with Wong’s stoic, my-glare-will-turn-you-to-stone sort of vibe.”
“Yeah, you’re more likely to talk your enemies into submission.”
Shit. Stephen flinched, and the smile she had coaxed forth so carefully vanished like the sun behind a bank of clouds. Way to put your foot in it, Christine. Although she still had no idea what she could have said to provoke such a response.
“Stephen?” Her words now were tentative, cautious. Talking with Stephen could be like trying to squeeze through a briar patch without drawing blood. It always had been, but this was different. “Hey, I’m sorry. Look, Wong’s going to be fine. He’s fortunate you got him here as quickly as you did.”
She reached out a hand slowly, letting it come to rest against his forearm, feeling the chill from his robes against her palm. “You may not have the strong, silent thing going yet, but he’s still lucky to have you as a friend.”
Stephen’s smile this time was a little forced, but at least it was back. “Maybe.” He snorted. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I met Wong? He’s a librarian--no, really--and he threatened to kill me if I tried to steal any of his precious books.”
--
Christine felt she knew quite a bit about Stephen’s new friend by the time she was pulled away from their conversation by the strident bleating of her pager. He was definitely a little scary, not much for talking, incredibly well read and competent (as both a scholar and a magician), and fortunately rather good at fishing Stephen out of trouble. Even though they’d never spoken a word to each other, Christine had a strong feeling that she’d like Wong alot.
So after she’d finished with the car accident (and then the child who ate a penny, and the older man who slipped on the stairs, and the teenager who thought he could impress his girlfriend by building a skateboard ramp in his backyard), she went in search of Stephen’s friend. The computer system informed her that he was out of surgery, stable, and in recovery. All good news.
Christine took a quick peek into the recovery room. It was pretty quiet at this hour of the night; in fact, Wong was the only patient present. She nodded at the nurse monitoring his vitals, and quickly scanned his chart. He was still intubated, but not for much longer.
As she read, she considered the man before her. He was about Stephen’s age, or very slightly older, and of a similar height. Although there the resemblance ended. Now his face was slack with chemically induced unconsciousness, but Christine imagined that he cut an imposing figure, especially dressed in the unusual attire in which he had appeared.
Whoever he was, he’d certainly made an impression on Stephen. Shaking her head slightly, Christine snapped the chart closed. She was essentially off the clock, but it wouldn’t hurt to check in on Stephen before she left. Maybe she could convince him to go home, wherever that was, now that his friend was out of danger. Heck, she’d offer him the use of her sofa if he paid her with a coffee on the way.
The hospital was still as a church, in the brief lull that preceded the arrival of the daytime shift but followed the chaos of nighttime in the ER. The overhead lights flickered dully, and Christine’s shoes squeaked quietly against the linoleum tiles.
Stephen was still where she’d left him, perched on the edge of the miserable plastic chair. His forearms were braced against his knees, as he sat with head bowed and eyes downcast. His hands, as always, shook with a fine tremor. Perhaps it was slightly more pronounced than usual, although that was scarcely surprising after a night with no sleep.
“Stephen? Hey, I wanted to let you know that Wong’s out of surgery, and in recovery. No complications. Why don’t you come home with me, and sack out on the couch? You can come back tonight, and check in on him.”
Gradually, Stephen lifted his head, and it took a moment for his eyes to focus on her face. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. He’s going to be out of it for another few hours, and he’ll probably sleep most of the day anyway. Come on, you’ve been up all night fighting boogie men. Get some rest, and then you can visit Wong.” Christine knew she was repeating herself, but she was tired, and Stephen looked exhausted. To her relief, she saw him finally nod in acquiescence.
“Okay.” He stood up, slowly. She noticed that he was careful to avoid using his hands for leverage.
For a moment, Stephen remained still, and Christine noticed the same lack of focus cross his face again. She thought she saw him sway slightly where he stood, and she moved a step towards him, arm outstretched.
“Stephen? Hey, are you alright?”
Then he paled, cheeks draining completely of color. His eyes rolled back in his head, and there was a horrendous clatter as he fell backwards onto the row of hospital chairs. Christine winced in sympathy, but she was already moving forwards.
“Shit!” Christine barely registered as both of her knees collided with the unforgiving linoleum. Her attention was already on her newest, albeit unanticipated, patient. Airway, breathing, circulation.
Stephen was clearly unconscious, but he was breathing steadily. His pulse was slightly thready, and his skin had recovered none of its color. In fact, it was cool, and slightly clammy. As she rolled him into recovery position and called for a gurney, Christine searched with both hands and eyes for any source of illness or injury.
As her hands ran gently along his back and ribs, she felt a patch of wetness on his robes. The rest of his attire seemed to have largely dried in the handful of hours that had elapsed since his and Wong’s rather dramatic arrival in the ER. Christine raised her hand. Red stained her fingers.
“God damn it, Stephen. What have you gone and done to yourself this time? And why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
--
The beeping sound was very annoying. Annoying enough to chivy him towards consciousness, although Wong would have preferred to remain floating in the lovely, warm haze that he had been occupying for some unknown amount of time.
He could tell, even before he opened his eyes, that he was not in Kamar-Taj, or the Sanctum for that matter. The air was too recycled, and there was a faint astringent odor of cleanser. Besides the irritating beeping, there was a soft mechanical hum, and the even softer sound of voices and footsteps periodically passing.
Wong prised open his eyelids begrudgingly. There was a muted ache in his right side, but he had the sense that he was feeling comparatively little thanks to the IV port taped to his left hand. Magic could not entirely heal major injuries, at least not without great cost to the healer and patient alike. But Wong certainly hoped that he would be able to speed the recovery process along, or else he guessed that he might be out of commission for quite some time.
“Oh, hello there. Wong, isn’t it?”
Wong blamed the drugs being pumped into his bloodstream for his lack of awareness. The woman stood at the bedside, medical chart in her hands. She smiled warmly at him.
“I have you at a disadvantage. Doctor Palmer, but you can call me Christine. I was your ER physician, but I used to work with Stephen.” She sent a furtive glance towards the door. “Don’t worry, I know about, err, your organization.”
Wong nodded, still trying to gather his thoughts. “It is my pleasure. But if I may ask a question: why am I here, and not...Nepal?”
“Ah.” Christine glanced at one of the monitors, adjusting one of the knobs slightly. “That I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Stephen.”
Speaking of Stephen, Wong was surprised to feel the most minute twinge of hurt--a hurt that had nothing to do with his physical injuries--that the other sorcerer was not present. Which was, quite frankly, ridiculous. Another issue might have arisen that required the Sanctum Master’s attention. Even if one had not, there was no reason for Stephen to await Wong’s waking. They were colleagues, even friends, but scarcely that close.
Either Wong’s usual control was affected by his mental state, or Stephen’s friend was a remarkable student of human character. “I think he would have been here, if he had any choice. He waited all night for you to get out of surgery. Anyone who sits in those awful chairs for that long is a true friend. You can talk to him, once he wakes up.”
Wong’s confusion lasted only as long as it took him to follow Christine’s gesture towards the bed against the far wall. Stephen was asleep, or unconscious. There was a hint of bandages peeking through the collar of his hospital gown, and his face was restful but very pale.
“What happened? He was fine.” Wong nearly growled, anger and worry making his tone a little gruffer than he intended.
“Apparently not.” Christine shrugged. “Don’t be too mad at him. I don’t think he realized, as remarkable as that is. Unfortunately, the blood loss and shock finally caught up with him. Getting soaked in the rain didn’t help either. But we sutured the wound--I swear, it looked like a giant cat took a swipe at him--on his back. The ribs will have to heal on their own.”
Suddenly, Christine turned to face him, arms akimbo and lips a thin line. Wong wished fervently that he was not on his back in a hospital bed for whatever she was about to say.
“He seems to get hurt an awful lot doing whatever it is you both do. And apparently, it’s not just him. You know, Stephen may not be able to hold a scalpel any more, but he’s still a brilliant doctor. He could do so much good, but at this rate, he’s going to end up on a morgue table before too long.”
Just as suddenly, her ire seemed to drain away. She rubbed a hand against her eyes tiredly. “I’m...I’m sorry, Wong. Mister Wong? That was uncalled for, and you’ve only just woken up. I just...well, I still care for that idiot a lot, even if we’re only friends. Him collapsing on me, again, is not one of my better memories.”
Slowly, Wong reached out a hand. Christine’s eyes were trained to the ground, and she started slightly when he gently patted her wrist. “It’s alright. He is...I care about what happens to him, as well. At first, I found Stephen somewhat abrasive, but I have learned that he has great courage and dedication.”
Wong let his hand fall back to the blankets. “As for our duties, Stephen is one of the most gifted practitioners of the mystic arts that I have ever met. Please do not tell him that, ever.” Christine stifled a laugh. “He might be able to help people as a doctor, but as a sorcerer, he has already once saved our entire world.”
Christine’s eyebrow raised, and disbelief and amazement warred on her features. Then she shook her head. “Okay, okay. And I’m glad he’s found a calling. But you guys definitely need to work on the getting stabbed less part.”
As he let the very nice drugs take him back under, Wong drowsily but wholeheartedly agreed.
—
The second time Wong woke, it was to find Stephen huddled in a chair at his bedside, looking for all the world like some great, sleepy owl with the Cloak draped around his shoulders.
“Are you supposed to be up?”
Stephen shrugged gingerly. That was probably a ‘no’ then. Wong resisted the urge to sigh.
“Well, since you are, do you think you can portal us to Kamar-Taj? The healers there should be able to speed this,” Wong gestured vaguely at both of them, “along.”
Stephen nodded, but Wong was not pleased to see the guilt that flashed across the other sorcerer’s face. “I’m sorry. I should have taken us there directly. I suppose this place is still my instinctive destination when someone is seriously injured.”
That, and Wong knew that Stephen had been remarkably reticent to explore the hall of healing, one of the few areas of learning in which he had not shown an insatiable interest. He had a suspicion that the former doctor found it too painful to revisit his former calling, albeit in a different form.
“It may have been the better choice. Even the healers would have struggled to cope with so massive a trauma.” Stephen looked somewhat less pathetic at that, which Wong counted as a success. “Thank you for saving my life, by the way. Again.”
“You’re welcome. All in a day’s work.” Wong resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Stephen’s ridiculous smirk. With the smallest of groans, the Sanctum Master managed to unfold himself from the chair. He kept one arm braced against his side. “Just hang tight. I’ll go find Christine, and let her know we’re about to pull a vanishing act.”
“Stephen.” The other man turned, only somewhat stiffly, to raise an inquiring eyebrow at Wong’s call. “Do you miss being a surgeon?”
For a moment, Stephen paused, and emotions flickered over his features too quickly for Wong to follow. But when he spoke, there was a quiet surety to his words that somehow made Wong’s chest feel a little lighter. “I don’t regret my time as a surgeon, although there are some things about it that I do. But no, I don’t miss it. I don’t spend my day wishing I was back here, performing procedures and advancing neurosurgical technique. This is my life now. Squid-horse-lion things included.”
“Although,” and now a hint of insecurity did color his words, “there are days when I wonder whether it would be better for someone else to be in charge of the Sanctum. They’d probably make fewer mistakes.”
The last words were spoken so quietly that Wong wasn’t certain if he’d been meant to hear them. It was a testament to how much Stephen perceived him as a friend, and apparently even confidante, that they’d been spoken at all. They really had come a long way since their first encounter in the Narthex, so many months ago.
Stephen had already resumed his shuffle towards the door when Wong stopped him again. “Perhaps they might. Perhaps they might not. But the Ancient One made a wise choice that day. You are needed, never doubt that.”
Stephen did not turn to face him, but Wong saw a little of the tension leave his hunched shoulders. Still, it would not do to be too maudlin. “Ah. By the way, please tell Christine I am grateful for her help. It was a great pleasure to meet her. She shared many stories of your days as a doctor. I have invited her to the Sanctum for dinner next weekend.”
It was amusing to see a grown person splutter, particularly when they attempted to look dramatic and affronted while wearing a hospital gown, scrub pants, and a large, red cloak. “Wait, what? Are you allowed to invite non-magic people to the Sanctum? Isn’t it supposed to be my Sanctum? What kind of stories?”
Wong kept his face impassive, although he was quaking with laughter on the inside. Sometimes, it was just too easy. “Oh, Christine is an excellent storyteller. I shared some stories of my own as well. She seemed particularly fond of your exploits in the dimension where one can speak only when hugging someone. I think we will be very good friends.”
FINIS