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Dear God,
And no, this is not a joke at your expense, so please do not feel the need to revert my form to that of a particularly gruesome-looking toad. I say these words with the greatest exasperation.
Because my life has become one long tunnel of fucking problems- all stemming from the fact that I think, in my most recent endeavour, that I might have bitten off more than I can chew this time.
The library of the Sanctum is immense. I have yet to find the walls of this colossal room within the unholy labyrinth of bookshelves and flaking scrolls- and only yesterday I discovered a rickety spiral staircase that in all appearances seems to progress steadily DOWN with no signs of letting up any time soon.
Fuck knows what lurks at the bottom of it. Perhaps another nightmare of decaying paper and leather.
You see my problem:
I have all these old manuscripts that need to be catalogued. Sorted. Fixed. (Did you know that a Book Doctor is a legitimate profession? Well, nor did I) Except for the rather infuriating fact that it will take longer than I had first thought on account of them all being in different languages!
... and another thing! Why was it not possible for these god awful magicians (and that IS what they are- mere party tricks at their fingers if any of these old dusty novels are anything to go by) to have TESTED THEIR FUCKING SPELLS BEFORE THEY WROTE THEM DOWN? It’s as though the thought never occurred to them that anyone might want to use their creations! I say this because (and bear with me here) over the past four days, I have been seared inside and out, catapulted across the multiverse like a fallen meteor, set upon by what looked VERY MUCH like re-animated human organs, and -last but not least- almost managed to carve Wong in half from a spell that in all fairness was SUPPOSED to make him fly.
If The Ancient One had not stressed to me the importance of withholding the use of The Eye of Agomotto, then I would have already be halfway back to the dark ages with a bone (or several) to pick with the magical idiots of that decrepit and morosely lacking century.
This is why I am leaving the novels enclosed in this case for you, and you alone. Invulnerability is not, sadly, one of my strengths. And while I know it might not entirely be yours either, you cannot argue that you are by far more durable than I...
All I can ask is that you catalog the spells and enchantments within these rotting tombs and return them with the necessary notes detailing what they can do.
Your help is much appreciated.
Sincerely,
Doctor Steven Strange, Sorcerer Supreme of the New York Sanctum Sanctorum.
Dear Strange,
It sounds to me as though you might be better served merely setting the library ablaze and saving yourself the trouble: The books you have sent me are written in a tongue so old that even I cannot read most of their contents.
Save for the sleek, black bound volume, which I will warn you is a book on the art of Necromancy- and is rather an accurate one at that. I have terrorised my housemate with a spectre that announced itself (after I had recited a spell) by crawling its way out of the floorboards in the kitchen. My companion uttered a truly hellish shriek and the drooling corpse crumbled to dust soon after. (I can hardly blame it- I thought MY ears had begun to bleed at the sound he had made)
I am returning them to you with what little notes I have managed to compile, and feel the need to warn you that the large volume embossed with silver is a tomb on spells of torture. The little I could translate leads me to beg that you destroy it and all its foul, vile innards. A book such as this should not be allowed to exist.
And I do not say this merely because of the scars that I bear. I have seen first-hand what that kind of power does to a soul. And do not wish to see it again.
Should you follow this suggested course of action, I do sorely recommend that you pit a torch to the rest of the library as well.
It will save you a world of headaches.
Yours,
The God of Mischief
“Loki?”
The god looked up from where he was sanding the new floorboards, the tips of his delicate fingers red from the coarse material repeatedly scraping against his milk-pale skin. He sat back on his haunches, drawing the tasseled green and gold shawl tighter about his shoulders to keep it from slipping off. “Yes?”
The man at the counter said nothing immediate, only contemplated the cooling mug of coffee before him with the grave look of a world weary individual who could really not take any more surprises. “Are we going to be seeing any more of your charming friends oozing up into the kitchen?”
Loki stood, tossing the sandpaper into a corner, eyes vaguely amused now. His black polo shirt and pants rustled under the shawl as he wandered over to lean on the counter across from the man. “Do the dead frighten you?”
“Uh, yeah they do.” The man jabbed a finger at the god, accusingly. “Enough to give me nightmares.”
Loki reached across to ruffle the man’s short white hair. “It was a once off, Mobius.”
“Hrmph,” grunted Mobius. “That’s what you always say, you scamp.”
“I told you,” said Loki, “a fellow Sorcerer asked for assistance. Had I known the spells would work, I would have waited until you were out of the house.”
“Next time, make sure i’m not home- regardless of whether they work or not.”
Loki pecked the man on the cheek with a small smirk. “Consider it done, mother.”
Mobius aimed a swipe at him, and the god laughed, tweaking the man’s moustache. Mobius scowled at him, without any heat behind it. “Oh, fuck you!”
“I fear it is a bit early in the day for that, my dear,” teased the god, before nearly laughing himself sick as Mobius’s face flushed a bright red. The man dumped his face into his hands.
“Jesus, Loki...” he groaned. “Timing.”
Dear Chaos Incarnate...
I have not taken your advice, though I fear I regret NOT doing so every single day.
The library is not one level as I first thought, for the fucking staircase leads to yet another fucking room- although this one is marginally smaller than the one above.
Not that this is any consolation.
Among my most recent discoveries are a set of books written in what appears to be an old dialect of asgardian- they are enclosed in the chest I sent with this letter. Perhaps you can find some use for them.
I also discovered a large tomb, cracked with age, that appears to be some form of guide to what the ancient magicians knew of the multiverse. While far from accurate, it certainly helps me understand what the magical minds back in the day thought of all these intergalactic webs of worlds and dimensions.
Which is to say they all thought it was a load of horseshit.
(Perhaps not in those exact words...)
In short: if one were to mention the multiverse back then, you were generally regarded as crazy. Not to mention that if people caught you practicing magic they would then subsequently tie you to a wooden pole and set you on fire.
Wong is helping me now, so the work is crawling along less like a wounded snail and more like a snail pumped to bursting with more adrenaline than it knows what to do with. The cloak has vanished- probably to some dark corner that is devoid of dust and rotting pages. If such a place exists down here in literary hell, that is.
I have three volumes on magical warding that I would be most grateful if you could look them over. I promise there will be no risk to your companion’s health this time.
Unless he chooses to try and punch the wards, should you test them.
Sincerely,
Doctor Strange, the Weary Sorcerer Supreme of a Dusty Sanctum Sanctorum
P.S. Tell Mobius I said hello
“Why doesn’t he just torch the place?” asked Mobius, reading the letter while leaning on Loki’s shoulder. It was a comforting weight: warm, and the man smelt of sandlewood soap. The god heaved a sigh that sounded wryly amused, thin lips curling into a crooked admission as he said,
“Because, darling, Sorcerers are stubborn.”
“Hmm, you should know,” taunted the man, before he received a swat for all his trouble. “OI!“
Dear Bumbling Sorcerer,
I should in all due sense, be ignoring you and your ridiculous endeavours in that hell you call a library.
Just because one portal lead you astray, one thread broke too soon, you see some maddened need to try and fix everything. Your library sounds like a bridge that has been slowly decaying for years, only to have some stupid mortal step onto it and foolishly expect it to hold his weight.
The books you sent were indeed asgardian. They appear to be old spell tombs, and you have my thanks for choosing to share them with me. Perhaps I come across as cold, but believe me when I say that is not my intention. Mobius likes to tease me and say I am loosing my touch: becoming soft. If so, then he is the one to blame.
Your volumes on warding are certainly comprehensive. The spells are intricate and require a great deal of concentration when being cast. However, for reasons I would rather not mention, I must beg that you refrain from sending any more of them to me. Suffice that it is enough to say that the incident I speak of so carefully resulted in charred walls and raised tempers.
I do value my life, however invulnerable I might seem to you, and would prefer to live beyond the five years that I can currently expect if you continue to send me such trying material.
Yours,
Loki
P.S. Mobius agrees with me on the notion of no more literary gifts on your part.
“Is he trying to kill you?”
Loki let out a thoughtful hum, relishing the glow of the sun on his face. It might be much later in the morning that usual, but he could not be bothered to get out of bed. Not when Mobius was rubbing his aching back with a warm hand.
“Somehow, I don’t think so.” The god let out a small laugh, rife with amusement. “Now himself on the other hand...”
Mobius rolled his eyes- Loki could always tell- and said, “yeah, that library doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.”
“You don’t even drink tea, dear,” said Loki, rolling over onto his back so he could look up into Mobius’s eyes. The sunlight was doing wonders for his white hair.
The man smirked. “I rest my case.“
Dear Mischievous Paradox,
It has now been three weeks.
THREE WEEKS.
And I am no closer to finishing than I was yesterday. Perhaps you were right in your suggestion to burn the library. I have gleaned hardly anything of worth from this confounding maze of rotting knowledge, other than the fact that olden day Sorcerers were very different to the ones of today, like you and me.
I am starting to become rather allergic to dust as a side note. Perhaps I should stop before I manage to develop asthma...
I know you said no more literary gifts, but If you would care to just look this one last volume over for me, then I would be deeply in your debt.
I cannot read a word of it, nor can I figure out what language it is supposed to be. I thought that perhaps someone of your age and experience would fare better than I.
Sincerely,
An Exhausted Sorcerer
“Do I want to know what’s in that thing?”
Loki looked up from where he was standing at the reading desk, shawl hanging like an emerald waterfall down his back and shoulders. “Probably not...”
Mobius sighed deeply and pulled up a chair, leaning forward so he could inspect the arcane squiggles of language. “You know what it is?”
The god leant on his forearms, brow slightly furrowed. “No. I cannot read this. Nor have I ever seen the language before.”
“I bet you hate that,” said Mobius with a grin. “Not knowing things.”
Loki pulled his ear, and was rewarded with a squawk of indignant pain.
“Christ, Loki, OW!”
A smile, eyes twinkling, and the god did nothing to fight the hand that Mobius tangled in his shirt to tug him closer.
Dear Stubborn Magician,
“Of my age?” Are you calling me old?
No matter: I cannot read this book you have sent to me. It is no language I have ever come across.
How far are you into your library? Surely this insane task you have set yourself shall not be progressing for much longer? It has been longer than a month. With your magic and your housekeeper to aid you, surely you have made some progress?
Perhaps if you called for the aid of the rest of your magical guild, the mission you have begun to undertake would move along faster? (I assume there are more of you...)
Perhaps even your other friends would help you- to take a break from continuously saving the world. Perhaps your magic will interest them.
And NO, I am not offering my help in any manner. I have no interest in drowning in rotting pages and dust, listening to you curse and carry on when a spell turns out wrong. You may, however, continue to send me books if you find yourself unable to read them. In this capacity, at least, you have my aid should you need it.
Yours,
Loki
“‘You may continue to send me books-‘,” Mobius groaned. “Loki! Why would you say that?”
“Was it not you who said I need to offer people aid more?” The god lifted his head from where he was settled on the end of the worn sofa, legs thrown across Mobius’s thighs. He was absently sketching with a lump of charcoal on some paper, and the object in question had stained his narrow fingers black.
“Yeah, I did. But not this- not after all the trouble we’ve had thanks to those books.”
Loki rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. There were smears of black when he took them away again. “I know. But the fool needs someone to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid, dear.”
“So in steps another magical fool,” said Monius with a laugh. “Not sure that’s how it works...” His mouth quirked into a smile as the god shrugged. “What’re you drawing?”
“You.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.“
Dear Loki,
Thank you for your offer. I know it must not be easy for you, offering me assistance that will disrupt the life you have built there for yourself with Mobius.
Enclosed are three scrolls I find myself unwilling to touch- for again, I cannot read them, and if I were to try I might unwittingly bring down the Sanctum on both my and Wong’s head respectively.
The library is nowhere near half-finished.
I think I might be old and grey by the time I am finished in here.
Perhaps I shall leave it to you in my inevitable will.
Sincerely,
Steven Strange.
“He wants to wh- No. No, Loki say no!”
“Do you think I want that library anywhere near me?” Loki finished melting the sealing wax, and ground the stamp into it perhaps slightly harder than was necessary. “Do not worry, dear, I’ll make sure he understands.” A small, mischievous grin curled the corner of his lip. “...or would you like to tell him?”
Mobius considered that from across the counter before accepting the paper and quill that Loki handed him.
“Any rules on what not to say to a Sorcerer?”
Loki waved a hand, smirking. “You have me to back you on this- say whatever you please.”
Dear Doctor Steven Strange,
Loki is not keen to inherit your library. And as interesting as it sounds, neither am I interested to have HIM inherit it.
Now, he said I can say anything to you, because he’s here to protect me, but I’m not like that, you see. So I’ll try and get straight to the point...
Magical books, while an annoyance I would happily live without, are one thing. A whole two floors of bookshelves creaking with them is another.
Please choose to leave the library to another Sorcerer in your cult.
Mobius M. Mobius.
Dear Mobius,
Have no fear- it was a mere jest. I would not wish these confounding rooms of ancient hocus-pocus on anyone. Lest of all you and Loki.
However, if you could pass on the two books enclosed to said God then I would be most grateful.
Sincerely,
Strange
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Mobius scrubbed a hand through his hair. “LOKI! YOU GOT ANOTHER ONE!”