The Mystic Hands of Doctor Strange
A Doomstrange headcanon/one-shot/ficlet (it sorta happened as I was writing)
Note 1: Sorry for any errors, I did it on my phone and it was not supposed to be that long T.T
Note 2: I edited some comic book panels to illustrate the story for ~reasons~
It’s just another regular day. Stephen and Victor team up for a mystic adventure, as usual. Except this time they face a succubus. And although both are attracted to her, the succubus realizes that Stephen has feelings for Victor. In the meantime, Victor always tried to deny any kind of affection towards Stephen. In fact, he never allowed himself to feel anything about his occasional partner and enemy, depending on the circumstances.
They defeat the succubus and Stephen brings the subject up. Victor is horrified and rejects him. They take separate ways, but Stephen is quite stubborn.
He keeps trying to contact Victor again and again, breaking into Castle Doom several times, until he forces Victor’s hand.
Stephen is caught off guard by Victor’s mystic bolts and gets really hurt. But Doom does not take care of him, nor he apologizes. He simply says: “Next time, it will be deadly. Consider yourself warned.”
Stephen teleports back to the Sanctum, and he’s alone and hurt. He loves Clea, but she no longer remembers him. He loves Wong, but he was already gone when Stephen realized that. He loves Zelma, but he failed as a friend. And lastly, he loves Victor. But it’s not mutual. The tears won’t stop as long as the raindrops keep hitting the Window of Worlds.
A couple of weeks later, Stephen is still on duty as the Sorcerer Supreme. Loneliness and pain are old friends, there’s nothing new about it. So he keeps fighting and living as best as he can.
Until Shuma-Gorath returns, a colossal, grotesque figure in the sky, claiming the destruction of the whole dimension.
Stephen is tired. He had a rough week fighting Dormammu, Umar and Nightmare. He hasn’t slept for days. He can’t remember what it feels like to lie down and sleep.
Yet, it’s his duty to protect Earth. No sorcerer is powerful enough to fight such entity. Maybe neither is Stephen. But he must try. And so he flies up to the skies and engages in combat, but not before casting a mystic bubble to prevent other heroes from getting inside. He wants to do it alone.
Petty bastard, Wong would say.
He doesn’t care. He’s resolute that he’s doing the right thing.
But his body is not ready. His mind is miles away. And his spirit is heavy.
He prevails. He’s Doctor fucking Strange. He will always bring hope to Earth. Children will always dream of happy thoughts while he stands.
Shuma-Gorath is gone. Banished, maybe extinguished. People do not know. All they know is that the bubble is popped and a body falls down from the sky.
The Cloak of Levitation avoids the ground and engulfs Stephen, protecting his fragile body.
The mystics all around the world feel it. It’s like a snap, an insight. They know the Sorcerer Supreme is no more. They all know.
Victor does not attend the funeral. He’s busy in the dark chambers of Castle Doom. He’s been trying to contact Stephen’s spirit for hours with no success. He’s annoyed. And perhaps worried.
Where in the seven circles of hell is his spirit? he wonders in frustration.
And there it is, the magnificent answer. Hell. He goes to all circles. He punches them all in the face: Mephisto, Belasco, Satannish, Hela and Johnny Blaze. Usually, he’s more the diplomatic type, but the frustration of not knowing Stephen’s whereabouts is getting the best of him.
Then he tries the other side, which is away more tricky for him to get through. Valhalla, Heven, the Golden City. He visits them all. Still, no sight of that cursed sorcerer.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Victor then dares to visit the timeless part of the universe, a no-place where the entities dwell.
In a white hall, he stands before a circle of five overwhelming beings: Death, Eternity, Oblivion, Infinity and the Living Tribunal.
And in the middle of the circle, a blueish, ethereal form, floating humbly in its littleness.
“Stephen?” the armored man asks. But the entities hurt him deeply, torning his soul apart and putting it together a million times in only one second.
“Hold!”, the spirit utters. “It is fortunate that a mortal is here.”
The spirit levitates toward the desolate man. Stephen holds Victor’s hands, even though he’s ethereal.
“Victor…” the spirit smiles.
“I’ve been trying to find you for days. I’m… I’m deeply sorry–”
“You’re not supposed to apologize. You’re here to witness so you can teach them.”
“The five decided my fate in the afterlife. I was granted the honor of becoming a mystic entity. People will be able to summon magic through my name, same as Vishanti, Watoomb, Valtorr and so many others. You’re my legacy, Victor. Spread my magic so the mystics can protect our dimension.”
“Go. I’ll always be with you.”
Stephen touches Victor’s armored forehead with his lips and all is blank.
Victor wakes up on his bed. Somehow, he knows what to do next.
A mystic conference in the temple of the Vishanti. Magic users around the world are once more reunited, not to challenge the trials and become the next Sorcerer Supreme, but to hear about Doctor Strange’s great sacrifice.
This place… it brings back memories, Victor recalls as he’s about to reveal himself to the others.
Many familiar faces are there. The spell holding Clea’s memories fell apart. She’s there, still mourning. Clea loved Stephen since the day they’ve met in the Dark Dimension by the first time. How could Victor reject such a passionate love? Better yet, how could he compete and be greater than her in such matter? Monsters are not allowed to love.
Jericho, once Sorcerer Supreme as well, will also retaliate. Victor nearly killed him in the past for the Eye of Agamotto.
Hellstrom will probably strike before a single word is uttered. He was a Defender and a close friend to Stephen.
Illyana, the mutant apprentice from the past, will also strike. She’s as hot-headed as the son of Satan.
And lastly, Wanda and her son. Former lover with hex powers and a future demiurge. Both close to Stephen.
Everyone there once accepted Stephen’s love. Why did Victor have to be the spokesman of such a magnificent being? Of such majestic entity? He does not deserve it. He was supposed to be the last on the line.
Yet he gives the first step. He talks of Stephen. In return, protests, mistrust, anger. He was expecting all that.
“Perhaps a visual display will ease your hearts,” he sighs as his hands waves in the air.
“I call upon his power! The Sacred Scalpels of Strange!”
A thousand surgical blades of mystic energy descend from the sky. They do not go through the sorcerers’ bodies. It’s just a demonstration, otherwise their souls would be cut open.
“Stephen left his magic to us. He was a natural healer, a brilliant sorcerer and an incredible man. He has ascended to the status of an entity so he can aid us during our mission to protect this dimension. Through his spells, he’ll always be with us. Whenever you feel dispirited, heartbroken or hopeless, call upon the Mystic Hands of Doctor Strange. He will always reach out. I’m not worthy of this privilege, but I shall endure the task.”
For you, Stephen. Only for you.
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