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Full turn clockwise, left to right, semicircle counterclockwise.
Numbness, detachment, a shadow of the old precise control.
Outward from the center, another half turn clockwise, top to bottom.
Tingling, prickling, something like burning.
Forward arc ninety degrees, transverse flick of the wrist--
His entire forearm twitched as the spark of pain shot from wrist to shoulder. The glittering, half-formed mandala fizzled into nothingness as he let out a frustrated hiss.
It'd been a while since the pain had felt this intense. Usually he could ignore it--this hardly compared to the early days after the accident, let alone the agony he'd endured in that small eternity he'd spent in the time loop--but physical therapy exercises had been one of many neglected pursuits in this latest stint of research.
Another such pursuit was breakfast. How long had it been since he'd eaten something?
No sooner had the thought occurred than a bagel swept into his line of sight. The Cloak hovered at his side, balancing the food on its outstretched folds. It gave the impression that it was waiting expectantly.
Stephen rubbed at his eyes with one still-trembling hand while he accepted the offering with the other. The Cloak flitted around behind him and settled gently on his shoulders.
Food was a welcome distraction. He'd been working himself too hard on this puzzle and hadn't realized how much he needed the break. A few months ago, he would never have allowed himself this moment away from the work. From the moment he'd awakened in that hospital until the day he'd found Kamar-Taj, he had lived with a single, unwavering purpose: to fix his useless hands.
He looked down at them now. The trembling had lessened to its usual level.
They weren't as useless as he'd thought back then, he supposed. Though he'd lost some skills to his injuries, he'd since gained abilities he'd never even dreamed possible. What was a shaky signature compared to portals that opened to the opposite side of the planet?
He tried to clench his right hand into a fist, and managed it--albeit weakly--without wincing. Releasing the tension, however, resulted in the whole hand shaking rather violently.
"Stop," he muttered, not totally sure if the order was directed at the limb or himself.
He'd thought about using his newfound abilities to do it. To fix them. Of course he had. He didn't know the exact method, but he understood the concept and could learn how it was done in no time at all if he were to put any effort into it.
Why hadn't he, then?
He blinked hard, arms dropping to his sides as he moved to walk toward the Sanctum's library. He didn't have time for this right now. He should get back to the spell he'd been--
The Cloak whipped around him, pinning his arms to his torso and halting his forward movement.
"The hell is--" Stephen struggled against the heavy fabric for a moment before giving up. He glowered down at it. "You're not supposed to have a mind of your own. The records all say you follow the will of your wearer."
The Cloak didn't move.
He attempted to push forward again, but the artifact refused to budge. It cinched a bit tighter as if in protest.
A huff of impatience. "I'm going to the library."
No response.
"I order you to let me go to the library."
Nothing.
He rolled his eyes. "What do you want me to do? I can't finish this spell without more study."
The hem of the garment floated lazily into view beside him, but its grip didn't falter.
"What's my alternative?" he demanded, feeling increasingly silly for speaking to the Cloak as if it were a person. "Should I just sit here quietly all day and reminisce?"
The Cloak released him with such eagerness that it nearly bowled him off his feet. He steadied himself and stared. "You're kidding."
It rose to its full height, shoulders out, collar up, in a dignified pose.
Stephen sighed, relenting. He closed his eyes and sank to the floor in his usual meditative stance. He could take a hint. It had been a while since he'd meditated with any seriousness, but if the flying throw rug insisted...
No, maybe he shouldn't be so hard on the thing. It had to have some reason for its stubborn actions. Perhaps what he'd read about its psychic connection to its master was true, and it was acting on some subconscious need or desire that he'd been trying to ignore. That was an unpleasant thought.
A deep breath and the negative feeling gradually dissolved away.
So the Cloak was looking out for him, whatever. Why force him to sit here now? It had been content to leave him to his studies all morning, and he'd eaten breakfast willingly enough, so what was the problem?
The position of his left hand became noticeably uncomfortable, but he kept still, the tingling, pins-and-needles sensation growing. Another deep breath and the discomfort subsided somewhat as he let his mind clear. It didn't recede entirely--it never did--but it was better.
I could make it stop, though. There's nothing stopping me now.
The thought flowed across his mind in a clear stream. He let it.
Why haven't I healed myself? That was the whole point of learning these skills. What's stopping me?
Was it some form of guilt? No, no, he'd never been one to agonize over his own privileges in life. It wasn't as if his talent with the mystic arts had come without effort, anyway. He'd earned these powers through months of hard work and could use them as he saw fit.
Was he afraid of things going back to the way they were before? He hated to put it in such cheesy terms, but he was no longer the same Stephen Strange. The man before Kamar-Taj had been small-minded and self-serving. He liked to believe he'd matured since then, found more meaning and purpose in his life.
Could healing the physical damage undo all of that progress? No. Of course not. Having fully functional hands wouldn't change the experiences he'd lived through. He was stuck with the new Stephen whether he wanted him or not.
Why, then?
The Ancient One's words filtered into his thoughts. Afraid of failure, she'd said.
An especially deep breath this time.
Was there a risk of failing in this situation? He supposed there was the possibility of forming the spell incorrectly. That could have any number of dangerous, unpredictable effects. But he'd performed more complicated spells before, and he'd never had a catastrophic backfire. He knew the theory, he could quickly learn the specifics of the procedure--the only uncertainty lay in the source of the energy in the first place.
The Dark Dimension.
Deep breath.
He'd seen Dormammu. Challenged him. Felt the creature's wrath. Many times. Countless times.
Breath.
He'd felt the energy thrumming throughout that strange place. It was so different from the energy he manipulated in his everyday spells. It was potent, yes, but it was also more fluid. More difficult to direct. Even with a perfectly executed spell, it was difficult to say for certain that the power from that dimension wouldn't overwhelm him, or leak into other realms of existence, or cause chaos in innumerable other ways.
Breath.
There had been risky procedures before. After the accident, he'd exhausted every option modern medicine had had to offer, from the mundane to the wildly experimental. Looking back, he was lucky to have survived that manic period at all. Why, then, should this danger be any different?
Memories of the time loop flickered across his mind, brief flashes of fear, and uncertainty, and pain.
But, through it all--that unbearable moment stretched into days, months, years--there stretched an unbroken thread of determination. A lifeline that kept him afloat and prevented him from succumbing to despair.
At the time, he hadn't devoted much thought to what had inspired such stubborn resilience. The old Stephen Strange would never have had the fortitude to stand up to such an enemy, let alone for so long and at such great personal cost.
Now, however, he wanted to use his gifts for good. Real good. The kind of good that helped others, not just for glory, but because it was the right thing to do.
A deep breath.
He'd faced Dormammu for the sake of the world. To save everyone even if it meant sacrificing himself. And now, he realized, he was afraid of letting the Dark Dimension's energy escape into this realm, where it might harm those same people.
To risk that, to gamble with the lives of others, even when the odds were massively in his favor... He agreed with the Ancient One on many topics, but right now that option seemed like the ultimate act of selfishness. His conscience wouldn't allow it.
A breath.
At least, not now.
Maybe someday, after the Dark Dimension's secrets were studied in more detail, after its power was more fully understood, he could draw on that energy with confidence. Maybe it could be tamed, used for good.
Until then, though, he was at peace knowing that that particular avenue was closed to him, and why.
Breath.
Perhaps someday he'd find another way to heal his hands.
In the meantime, he now understood where his priorities lay.
The soft brush of fabric across his shoulders caused him to open his eyes. The Cloak of Levitation had settled into its rightful place and now hung loosely, resembling an ordinary garment.
Stephen chuckled despite himself. He stood, and the Cloak offered no resistance.