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Something was amiss in the Sanctum Sanctorum.
This was a feat - the entire Sanctorum thrived on wrong. Mystical magics made the mansion far more than the four walls and roof suggested. The ever-changing layout, the hallways that would contort, the ancient artifacts from every civilization pocketed in some room that was capricious on when it wanted to be part of the house, or when it wanted to simply disappear.
Everything was unique, absurd, outlandish. So for Dr. Strange to come home and be concerned about something amiss was unusual. Clea walked beside him, watching the cloak of levitation hover away from Stephen’s shoulders, wrapping him in a quick - what could only be described as a hug - before fluttering away.
They had walked towards the study; the collection of rooms between the entrance hall and the study in the back changed every day. The route was never the same. Today it included the dining room. And today, the dining room was clean. Strange frowned.
The large baroque dining table was shaped like a pentagon, with two seats each side; the legs were golden and the top was onyx, so polished it could be mistaken for a mirror.
“Who’s here?” Strange asked. He darted his eyes back towards Clea. Only one person ever bothered to clean so studiously. “Wong hasn't been home in two days.”
“Just Illyana,” Clea said. Strange hummed.
There was only one other person regularly staying with them - Illyana Rasputin. She’d been here for a few weeks now, working with Stephen to decipher books from Limbo so ancient they weren’t written in the tongue Illyana had learned growing up there. They weren’t Belasco’s, but rather the elder gods Belasco had served. It was a task she wasn’t able to accomplish alone. Thankfully, her mentor had agreed to help his disciple.
Illyana often left her plates at the table. She was grown now, but was still steeped enough in youth that collections of dirty dishes seemed to disappear from her gaze. Wong, meaning well, often took care of the messes of others, allowing her habit to continue festering.
Strange hypothesized the X-Men had given her a similar situation, growing up - just enough people in Charles Xavier’s school that her lack of dish-doing escaped justice. The habit had managed to carry through every phase of Illyana’s life, sweet or sour.
But today, it was clean. Plates removed, wiped down properly. This was new.
“She’s learning, maybe,” Clea suggested, catching onto Strange’s pondering. “Or… she’s training demons to do un-demonlike things again.”
Strange nodded. He could see that - a dozen of the wriggling, beady eyed lesser demons from Limbo prowling around his home, Illyana throwing dish sponges at them and harping on them to rinse the bubbles off more thoroughly before setting them to dry. That would be consistent for the Sanctorum, actually.
He was curious. He had to know if there was a legion of demons in his kitchen.
Strange snapped his fingers towards the door they’d just entered through. Clea smiled and followed him - what had been the entrance hall before was now the kitchen.
It was closer to a normal kitchen than not - a stainless steel range, pots and pans hung across hooks on the wall, large wooden chopping boards stacked neatly beside a coffee machine, waiting to be pulled out and used. No demons in sight.
Wong used this space more than anyone else. He’d always had a kick for cooking - so the kitchen was laid out to his preference. As long as one didn’t look too close at the available ingredients, it was all appropriate for a generic kitchen. The fridge, the spice rack, the small purple dragon atop the counter, eating–
“Ah,” Clea said. “Who’s this? What’s your name?”
She only got a soft ‘yaw!’ in return. The dragon puffed smoke towards Clea, appraising the two new humans. He strolled protectively in front of the glass muffin stand Wong had left out yesterday. The lid had been pushed aside, and only two muffins were left. A dozen brown muffin liners were scattered around the counter.
Strange looked over to Clea, eyebrows raised. A wheezing sound interrupted him before he could make a comment.
The dragon was leaning forward on his haunches, flanks contracting, like a cat with a hairball. He laid low by the counter, huffing and puffing - no flames, thankfully. Then his jaw opened and a wrinkled muffin liner spat out from him like a cannonball.
It pattered across the countertop and fell to the floor.
Clea walked over and removed the last two wrappers from the surviving muffins. The dragon peered its yellow eyes at her - visceral, the gaze of a predator. But he cooed happily when he saw what the woman was doing before devouring the last two pastries.
“I suppose Wong won't want to hear what happened to his muffins... but he appears harmless,” Strange surmised. The man had cooked meals for far more ridiculous events than a surprise dragon visit. He would persevere.
–
Time trickled away, and the visiting dragon disappeared. He did not ransack the mansion’s food again, but late one night, Strange swore he saw a little silhouette of the beast flying outside the Sanctorum.
It was just a memory now. Once again, study presided in his thoughts. He sat at a writing desk in the library, candles and lanterns blushing the room in a comforting light that was still strong enough to read with.
The pages of the book in front of him were black with white text, and he read methodically, doubling back through paragraphs when necessary, studying images for long stints of time. The language was not easy to decipher.
“Stephen,” Wong’s voice called. “Do you recognize this book?”
Strange licked his lips. There were many books in this reality, not to mention the parts of this library that touched the fringes of other dimensions. Wong’s footsteps approached him. Strange pressed a finger onto his current spot in the ancient book so he wouldn’t lose his place.
Wong pushed a book onto the desk, the sound of the cover sliding across the wood drawing Strange’s attention towards it.
It was simply a book - a cover, and paper pages between. Nothing unusual. Stephen tilted his head to read its title. Modern Computer Architecture. He touched its surface; it wasn’t a hardback cover, but a slim, plastic-coated softback.
“It wasn’t here a few weeks ago,” Wong explained. “I’d just sorted that bookshelf, I know it.” Strange opened the book, fanning through the pages of machine instruction and diagrams.
“Everything comes here for a reason,” Stephen said, although he was curious on why it had come. Perhaps there was a meaning to it. He could find this book in a normal bookstore, so he’s not sure why the Sanctorum brought a copy to his library.
Strange fanned through it for an hour before deciding he could leave it be. There were thousands of books he’d not yet read - this one could wait on the shelf, too. Maybe Clea had become invested in science recently and neglected to share it. But, either way, he doubted this new book had come here for him.
–
There’s two used wine glasses on the table in the TV room. Stephen and Clea had heard there was news about the Fantastic Four tonight, and they wanted to watch it.
Clea walked over to grab the remote, sitting down, ignoring the dirty glasses and empty, dark wine bottle beside them. Stephen examined its label - a collector’s bottle from his cellar, an alternate dimension where Britain reigned supreme in the wine world rather than France and Italy.
Strange hummed.
When they turned the TV on, it was playing a movie – a woman in a yellow tracksuit fought another in a white kimono with samurai swords. Suspenseful music thrummed over the speakers.
“Illyana,” Strange said aloud. Who else at the Sanctorum would watch a movie about a blonde swordswoman?
Clea chuckled. “Are you upset that she took a bottle without asking?” She tapped the remote until the news channel came on. A weatherman was standing in front of a screen, pointing to little clouds and downstreams in air pressure. The broadcast had just started.
“Not… necessarily,” Stephen asked. “If it was her. I’ve never known Illyana to want anything other than vodka.” Wine wasn’t the usual palette for his student.
“Never mind that. I’ve never known Illyana to bother with pouring a glass,” Clea corrected. Illyana never measured out anything she drank. She’d drink right from the source, occasionally with something to chase it down. She’d take the liquor bottle with her or put it back on the shelf, but she’d never bother to pull out a proper glass.
“There’s two glasses,” Strange pointed out.
Clea closed her eyes and let her senses roam the Sanctorum.
“No, it’s just Illyana here,” Clea felt the other sorceress’ presence in her bedroom. It was tucked away in a pocket the Sanctorum kept for her. She did not often use it, but her work on the ancient Limbo texts with Strange meant that Illyana was a regular in their home right now.
“Oh,” Clea hummed. “There’s someone with her, actually. Someone I don’t recognize,” she said. There was a second soul next to Illyana’s - so intertwined together, Clea had almost missed that they were two separate beings.
“A guest,” Stephen decided. The weather had gone away on the TV, and another newscaster had come on, announcing the headlines for the night. One of the upcoming stories was indeed about the Fantastic Four.
The wine glasses could wait. He’d harp on Illyana to replace what she borrowed in the morning.
–
Clea walked down the halls of the Sanctorum, looking for the observatory.
It was a quiet room, overflowing with books and oddities like many others. This particular room was at the edge of the Sanctorum. It had a vaulted, slanted glass ceiling that stretched down into a glass wall. A long padded couch centered in the room faced the glass, allowing an observer to stargaze.
It was a nice place to think - a room of solace. She needed clarity tonight.
Her hands twisted the bronze doorknob, opening it slowly to preserve the serenity inside.
Clea’s eyes widened in surprise. The books were in place - so many crammed into the bookshelves with stacks of excess ones strewn beside them. The crystal Gaea Shard was in its glass display case on the shelves, too. And the starlight peered in just as normal, waves of moonlight basting the room in a cool blue.
But there, on the white chesterfield couch, Illyana was asleep, slouched against the edge of its back.
She wasn’t alone - a brunette lay against her, head tucked into Illyana’s shoulder. Her hair curled wildly like the lips of ocean waves. Her legs were tucked up so she could learn further into Illyana.
And finally, a familiar face - the purple dragon. He alerted to Clea opening the door, those eyes colored like poison, pupiless, directed right at her. He was laid across Illyana and the stranger’s lap, his feet curled under his belly.
He blinked, once, twice, tilted his head at Clea. His tail swished back and forth slowly. But then he licked his lips and rested his head back against the brunette’s lap. Clea smiled. The creature must have recognized her as a friend after she’d de-wrappered the muffins.
Clea leaned her head against the doorway, absorbing the scene. Illyana wasn’t one to be prone in the presence of others. Seeing her so deeply asleep was a rarity. It seemed the girl on her shoulder was just as out, tucked into Illyana’s arm like that. Their hands were together on their laps, next to the dragon.
She smiled. Stepped back out. Carefully shut the door, keeping the knob turned until the door was against the frame so the latch wouldn’t click when slid shut. It was not how she’d expected to find peace tonight. But, seeing Illyana of all people, so content… perhaps all would be right in the world, when it was said and done.