Chapter Text
New York looked strange under the permanent pall of darkness. The night that had fallen was dense and thicker than walls. A blood moon hanging from cloud cover smothered the line of unseen fire below the horizon. The entire city was on pause. Holding its breath, as if it were tied to the stocks waiting for the blade to fall. Wanda only knew it to be actually night because of the clocks’ constant rhythm, the seconds still steadily ticking by with no regard for the lack of a sun to direct it.
Wanda Maximoff was the Scarlet Witch, and she held the responsibility of a rapidly crumbling world. Atop the lonesome peaks of Wundagore, she had fallen into a depressing routine. Meditate, then fix the ever growing tears in the strands of her universe until she could convince herself that it would hold together until tomorrow.
When she was not meditating, Wanda desperately sought for disciplines that could show her a way forward. For any method to beat back the mental chatter that came for her when light faded out and there’s no one else to talk to—but, come morning, she still found herself upright and empty-handed, like every day before.
No matter what she tried, her timeline marched unerringly towards annihilation. She could no more stop its motion than she could convince the tides of chaos to calm into stillness.
She was here now because of Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme of this other reality. He was currently embroiled in an argument with Reed Richards and Tony Stark. They’d arrived together at the Baxter Building through a portal from his Sanctum. He had steered Wanda here and then had quickly been caught up in a disagreement with the two men. She had waited patiently, listening quietly to their discussion as her own thoughts wandered.
Wanda was cautious when she had first met this version of Stephen Strange. His spirit had been reaching out into the multiverse for help, and the ebb and flow of magic had carried his call to her, borne on astral tides. It has been so long since someone had last called her name that she had startled terribly when she first heard his voice, faint and echoing as it was.
Her world was a messy collision of different realities. The border between it and the corridors of eternity were thin, made worse by the many roughly-made stitches that she had sewn to hold its remaining pieces together. Her broken timeline drew all kinds of dangerous things to and fro. This, she thought, was no different. A mix of curiosity and duty had made her leave her post on her mountain, and she had eventually followed him back to his world.
Caught up in the immediate crisis, they had never quite untangled themselves following their astral sojourn together. Their souls, untethered from their bodies, had travelled together through the realm between realms. There were no barriers there, in the blank slate of reality itself—no substance, area, or locality. It was a place where gods were born, and where ghosts go to die. An expanse of pure thought where they had simply existed together.
Even now, an unobtrusive but ever-present connection still lingered between them, a muffled sense of awareness somewhere in the back of her mind. Stephen had not sought to break it, though she’s sure that he could have done so without her help.
The two of them had done an admirable job of being polite, their mutual respect kept themselves to their own heads. Even so, Wanda had found herself examining the link during her meditations, caught by the curiosity in their shared state of being. His side of the link was a pool of calm. Vast, but not empty. It soothed her. It was like swimming, lying back to float, looking up at the sky. Nothing below. Just blue and air above, and everything was cool and still.
Wanda tried to ground herself inside that stillness now as the noise pressed on her ears, but it was snatched away with the shuffle of the crowd of costumed heroes and the raised voices of the three inventors.
Stephen had the Darkhold strapped to his belt, and was gesturing emphatically at it. He kept it close by ever since they’d recovered most of its pages, protected by his cloak and out of sight from any curious eyes.
The Darkhold had caught her attention as soon as she’d found the apparition of Stephen Strange stranded in the astral plane. It left an odd magical resonance that clung to his astral form. It was an irresistible aura of chaos that promised her a solution, a possible path forward. That taste of hope had led her to follow him here.
Only Stephen’s own misgivings on the topic had tempered the direction of her thoughts. The contents and history of the Darkhold frightened Stephen. Yet, despite his dire warnings, he seemed deaf to the insidious whispers of the Tome. Whatever secrets it had to share, it spoke to Wanda alone.
The Darkhold spoke in a language Wanda did not know, yet the meaning was unmistakable. It could fix everything if she wanted. They need not search for the vampiric verses. If she asked for answers, it would tell her. She could leaf through its pages and see possibility unravel before her. I can give you power, I can help you win this war, I can give you the violence that you require, I can help you reach beyond your own boundaries. There would be no more worrying or hoping. Infinity laid open to her.
She shook her head, trying to shake the thoughts away. It was unnerving to know that some sinister thing stirred the undercurrents of her own thoughts and emotions. To see the manipulation for what it was, and yet be helpless against feeling it.
Did the Wanda of this world too hear the whispers of the Darkhold, of the seductive power and destiny that it promised? What did it offer to convince her? To live in bliss, rule in wisdom, and be worshipped for eternity?
For a moment Wanda felt grateful that the Darkhold had been missing in her world for as long as anyone could remember. Thankful that she had not been exposed to its influence until now, when she was older and wiser and knew better than to listen to the things that whisper.
Her magic of late had been excessively turbulent. The anxiety of her own world’s impending demise and the endless temptations of the Darkhold gnawed at her from both ends like two dogs worrying the same bone. It frayed at her nerves and her already tenuous grasp on sanity. The noise and the press of bodies all hammered away at her mental defences until it was too much to bear.
That’s how she found herself pulling away from Stephen’s side, moving away to seek some semblance of peace and quiet. She climbed up to a balcony and opened the doors out into the night, where no voices were left to chastise her save the whispers inside her head.
Below her, the city still clung onto life. A carpet of monochromatic blue hung over everything. Painted constellations covered the sky. Someone was singing, the cheerful sound was eerie in the still night air, and Wanda could not tell how close it was or how far away.
It was on strange nights like these that Wanda’s buried dreams came back to the fullest, when she had no way to fight it. The night was so black and immense that within it she might brush against all manner of appalling things that lingered like alien shapes in her peripheral vision.
Only a scant few minutes had passed by when she sensed Stephen approaching—his magic a beacon of light in her mind's eye. She heard his footsteps climb the stairs to the landing. His robes were decorated with filigree details, giving him an aura of authority and purpose. His flowing red cape trailed down his back, the wave of fabric lined in starlight.
“Wanda.” His crooked smile greeted her. “Everything alright?”
“Stephen. Yes, I’m fine. It’s been a long few nights.”
“It really has.” Stephen sighed. “But we’re almost done with the preparations. Then we can put all our work to use.”
Stephen leaned on the balcony beside her, resting his hands on the railing. His presence was a balm. For all that was broken with the world, he offered her a quiet sense of comradery. She had forgotten how it felt like to work with a peer again. The back and forth of conversation. The satisfaction of learning from another mind who understood magic as well as herself. It had been a long time since she'd felt truly content.
Wanda tried to remember the last person she had called a friend. The last person who had visited her at all.
Pietro? Back before she’d gone to Wundagore, before—
Stephen reached his hand out to hers, covering her fingers with his. “Is there anything else you need before we go?”
Stephen’s hands were soft and gentle over her own. The back of it was scored with criss-crossing scars and the pale ridges of old pain. Wanda traced their path with her eyes, and found herself wishing she could soothe it.
She turned her palm up, weaving their fingers together. Her magic responded to her will, ready to do her bidding. She wanted to cure him. It wanted to help. It could fix this, fix him. Change him, make him better—...
She pulled her hand back sharply, ruthlessly quashing the thought. Her magic had never been tame, but it followed her desires. Chaos magic was a primordial force, and she never pretended to fully understand it. Every spell must be crafted with careful intention, lest she make a mistake she cannot reverse. She dared not try anything so potentially damaging when her magic felt so volatile.
Stephen also pulled back at her abrupt motion, taking a step away to allow her space in case of some imagined slight. Instead of meeting his eyes, she found her eyes inevitably drawn to the Darkhold strapped at his belt.
His gaze followed hers and he made a sound of realisation. With a quick arcane gesture, a smattering of golden sigils materialised in the air around them. The book on his belt vanished, stashed into some secure dimensional pocket.
The pounding in Wanda’s head cut off abruptly. She blinked, disconcerted at the sudden return of clarity. She’d not even realised the weight of the fog creeping in her head until it was gone. She took a deep breath, and then another, seeking the sea of calm she often sought in meditation.
“What was that?” Stephen questioned, wariness writ across his face. “The Darkhold, is it…”
“I—I’m not sure.” Wanda shook her head and shivered, but not from the cold. She no longer felt it if she did not wish to, her magic kept her warm even on cold nights like this one. “The Darkhold, I think it’s speaking to me. Watching me, maybe. I can hear its whispers.”
Stephen's eyes widened with alarm. “What is it saying to you?”
“Empty promises. Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem.” Wanda rushed to reassure him, meeting his concerned gaze. She did not want to disrupt the plan they had all been working on at such a critical juncture. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with. I can handle myself. We should stick to the plan.”
Stephen pressed his lips together in a grim line. “The influence of this book is not something you should have to deal with. If there were any other option, I’d rather we not be relying on the Darkhold at all.”
“I promised I wouldn’t read it. And I won’t, Stephen.”
“I trust you Wanda.” Stephen stepped forward into the space that had opened between them. He hesitantly extended a hand toward Wanda. “But that doesn’t mean you have to deal with this yourself. Let me help you.”
His hand came to rest on her shoulder, solid and warm. She felt herself smile as she leaned into it, their shoulders brushing.
“You’ve already been helping me, Stephen.” Wanda said, thinking of the long hours they’d spent together on research in the library of the Sanctum Sanctorum. It was her favourite room of the sanctum; she could spend days exploring the three stories of overflowing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all arranged by subject. The antique table at its centre was normally covered with Stephen’s neatly squared stacks of notes. He’d moved that to the side, to make space for her.
“I’ll be fine, I’ve handled plenty worse before.” Still, one thought nagged at her. “This book. Why does it only talk to me?”
“I don’t know,” Stephen said quietly, a deep furrow in his brows. “I have some theories.” Wanda waited silently, allowing him to gather his thoughts.
“A long time ago, when the world was so new nothing had a name, something woke up. It learned all about what was and what would be... but most of all it learned what couldn't be, what shouldn't be. And it gave those things names, names it wrote on indestructible pages, because a namer has mastery of the named.”
Stephen turned to her, his gaze searching. “The Darkhold I have is merely a copy of those pages. The whereabouts of the original Flesh-bound Tome is unknown, we only know that it still exists because its magic exists. It contains the first words of chaos, penned by its first wielder. The spells in it were written before men had crawled from the sea.” His voice turned solemn. “You are the most proficient user of chaos magic that I have ever encountered, it does not surprise me that the book would call to you. It called to the other Wanda too.”
“...I see.” Wanda nodded, and carefully avoided thinking about what had happened to her counterpart. “Then we must not give it what it wants. It makes the most sense for you to use the Darkhold. We can do it like we planned.”
“Are you certain you are ready for this?”
“Yes.” There was no other answer. No other choice but to be ready. They had an advantage for the first time since the eternal night had fallen. With the Darkhold in their grasp, they must take their chance while they can.
Wanda had seen more of chance and the quiet math that governed creation than anyone else, she knew there was no such thing as certainty. No way to know what the future might bring them. She has spent long enough steeped in chaos to know that a chance was never a promise.
Wanda turned around and leaned her elbows on the balustrade, looking back at where the team had assembled. Her gaze drifted across the room, thronging with people. So many had come together in the Baxter Building. Some of them wore the faces of friends she had once known, some that she had lost, and others that were strangers to her. Yet even for those that she dared to call friends once, she knew they were not the same people she remembered.
She was unknown to them as well. Many who saw her threw her uncertain glances, distrusting stares, or wide, fearful looks. Some people looked at her like she hung the stars in the sky, and others only with poorly-concealed hate. Yet none of their memories were tied to her, only to the ghost whose face she shared. It was disorienting. She'd never been among so many, and never been so alone.
For all the odd glances, no one paid her too much mind. Everyone was working though the plans for the upcoming battle. These people were brought together by a shared hope, from the most grim-faced soldier amongst them to the bright-faced youngster still growing into their costume, they had hope that their world could still be saved. After so long believing herself to be alone in that struggle, the taste of that optimism rallied her. Possibility has always been her gift, and here, under a world made static by eternal night, winning still seemed possible.
“Everyone is here. The Avengers, the Fantastic Four, the X-Men, hells, even the notorious loners like Frank Castle. We’ll all have our part to play.” Stephen said.
“Well, that part I understand at least.” Wanda had tried her whole life to embody that ideal. Be a part of something bigger than herself. First with the Brotherhood, then with the Avengers.
Stephen nodded. It was a duty both of them knew well. That was what being the Sorcerer Supreme was. An acknowledgement that being a sorcerer meant more to them than exerting their power and following their whims across the Multiverse.
Their eyes met, then she looked away and Stephen was struck once again by how complicated, how confusing, how messy his feelings could be.
They had gotten close quickly in the past few weeks. No doubt some of it is due to the pitched battles they had fought through together, forging their bond in fire. Yet, it was these moments where the light reflected off her eyes, her expression soft and pensive, that Stephen felt a painful longing tug at his heart.
There was no guarantee of them surviving today. Yet Stephen found himself caught up in the daydream of the two of them. Two Sorcerers Supreme, when in one universe there should only ever be one.
He wanted to comfort Wanda somehow. To take some of her anxiety into himself, if he could, to share the burden that Wanda was struggling to carry.
“This plan will work Wanda. We’ll succeed. No matter what happens, I’ll…” What? Get her home? He was the one who pulled her away from her home. Get her out of trouble? She was her own woman, she could do as she pleased. Keep her safe? She was a Sorceress Supreme, she needed no champion.
"...I'll stand with you." He finished. It settled between them. It felt right. Wanda smiled, her eyes brightening like a timid sunrise.
Wanda shifted closer to him, and he reflexively circled his arm around her, pulling her to him. She hummed and rested her head on his shoulder. A strand of wayward auburn hair wavered in her breath and fell across her eye. Stephen reached out and tucked it behind her ear, using the motion to turn and wrap his arms fully around her smaller body in an embrace.
It was the closest they'd ever been. Close enough that he could trace the line of her cheekbones with his eyes, and make out the details of the light smatter of freckles on her face. Her eyes were so deep. It reminded him of the lake near the old barn house of his childhood. In the summer, it would fill with water and moss would grow over it. If you fell in, you’d not touch the bottom. Here he was standing at the edge, too scared to jump.
They stood together in silence, breathing together. They had little time to indulge in such simple luxuries since this whole crisis began. These stolen moments were always weighted down by the looming threat of disaster hanging over their heads.
Wanda sighed and pulled back. Giving him a soft tug on the arm he had wrapped around her when he resisted. “We should go back to the others.”
“Yes. Of course.” Stephen reluctantly withdrew his arms back to his side, already regretting letting go. He drew in a deep breath and released it. “Let’s go and bring back the sun.”