ourladytrees | the magician and the sorcerer

Ah.

[ Strange straightens slightly then: composed posture, shoulders back, trying to look a bit more official. So she's a hedge witch. A pejorative, but one which they often took to wearing proudly. The curiosity is there, needling just behind his eyes: he wonders about that constellation of blue stars, and he wonders how many she has. What level of practicioner he's dealing with here.

He's come across them often enough in the last few years, paths crossing whenever he wound up having to head out and help smooth over a spell gone amok. The Hedges could be reckless, ambitious. (And isn't that the pot calling the kettle black, Stephen?) They also took care of their own, though, so perhaps he wasn't summoned out to deal with them anywhere near as often as it could've been. All things considered. ]

A wise warning. Spell boundaries can work themselves into knots if the sorcerers work too closely to a safehouse, and if either of us doesn't account for thaumic surges in the vicinity.

[ And you're not trained, he thinks, but he bites back that instinctive bit of arrogance. He'd leapt into his first perilous situation half-trained and half-cocked himself, after all: everyone else at the Sanctum had been dead. ]

So what brings a hedge to my doorstep, Julia?

[ Julia notices the slight change in him immediately, a shift in the way he holds himself, something in the atmosphere sliding into a new alignment. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what caused it — she mentions the hedges and suddenly he's acting differently? She prickles at the assumed judgment, that ingrained prejudice against those without formal instruction bothering her in a way little else does. He probably doesn't have a goddamn clue what life is like for them and still, he's judging them just like everyone else.

Each word he speaks after that pushes her buttons harder, irritation and anger churning within her. Maybe she's projecting too much, remembering every time someone underestimated her and putting those emotions on him, but by the time he asks his question, she's damn close to punching him. ]

A magician came to your doorstep because magic is completely fucked. [ Her tone becomes a fraction less acerbic, but only just. ] For us, at least. It's pretty clear that whatever you tap into hasn't been affected by the Old Gods and their bullshit.

But you just said—

[ Baffled, for a second — of course he doesn't miss that flicker of white-hot rage, and it even sparks in her aura like a matchstick flare of irritated red — but then the sorcerer smooths out his own expression, and lets it go. Alright. She's allowed to say the word and he can't. That actually makes a kind of sense. So he ducks his head apologetically. ]

Sorry. Tell me more. Define "completely fucked"?

[ Well, he gets points for apologizing, at least. Most men wouldn't dream of backing down that quickly. Julia could easily list a dozen who would have dug their heels in and started a full argument over the issue, insisting they were right regardless of whatever she might say. So the fact that apologizes and gets right to business — it cools that rage in her pretty effectively. ]

I mean it's gone. Magic has been shut off in this world and all the others that we know of, and we haven't been able to find a way to turn it back on. The Old Gods are pissed at us and so magic has just ceased to function for everyone.

[ She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, looking almost nervous and a little bit... scared. ]

Except me.

[ His eyebrows practically climb into his hair. ]

It's gone?

[ he asks, incredulous, with the same tone of voice you might use for what do you mean, the sun is gone? Magic just doesn't go away. It's everywhere, in everything, in each beating heart and plants photosynthesising and cells dividing. It's the logic underpinning all the systems of the universe. It's without limit.

But not all magic is the same as the rest, he reminds himself. The multiversal energies he taps into are different from Wanda's chaos magic, which in turn are different from the Asgardians' spells. So Strange has already shot to his feet and he's crossing the room to go rifling through the drawers of a massive oaken desk at the back of the room, searching for some equipment. When Julia drops in those last two words, though, then he goes motionless. Perplexed, again. ]

Don't you use the same magic as your other magicians?

[ Okay, he definitely hadn't known about it then. That's... comforting? But also not. Something about his whole vibe had given her the impression that he's the type to have his finger on the pulse of most things magical, so if none of this has been on his radar...

Well, it means that she was right that he uses a different source of magic than she does. There's no other explanation for how he can still be doing all of this when Brakebills has practically ceased to function. Their society has started crumbling and he's just carrying on like life is still normal, because for him it is. Her opinion of him changes when he jumps into action, though — it's not his problem but for whatever reason, he's ready to get involved. That says a lot about who he is as a person. ]

Yeah, I do. [ She struggles to explain for a moment. ] I think... I can't do a lot with it, nothing like I used to, so I think it might be a smudge, some residue from a god. One of them gave me my Shade back recently and all of this went down not long after that.

[ Strange goes back to rummaging. There's so many tangential questions he already wants to ask out of sheer curiosity ("you lost your Shade? more importantly, you got your Shade back from a god?" — his own Shade is locked down and tethered to his body with uncountable arcane wards, to be on the safe side), but he can't afford the distraction. He sticks to the problem at hand, with his usual laser focus.

And he finally finds what he was looking for in the desk. He pulls out a monocle, an old subway map of New York, and a standard scrying object: a crystal on the end of a chain. He arranges them on the tabletop (all at neat angles and lines, like a surgeon setting out his tools), then beckons Julia to join him by the table. He holds up the monocle and tries to squint at her through it. ]

Try a spell for me.

[ Open your mouth, say ah. ]

[ It strikes her how similar the tools are to what magicians would use in this situation. Instead of pieces of colored glass, he squints through a monocle, but she doesn't have to ask to know that the theory behind it is the same. Observation of the inner workings and flow of magic in order to diagnose any potential problems.

Taking a deep breath, she sits up straight and perches at the edge of the chair, rubbing the tips of her fingers together as if increasing circulation might actually do anything to affect the behavior of whatever spark of magic she's still carrying. She can feel it within her, like a single thread that has the potential to become an intricate pattern but can't quite seem to figure out how.

The first spell she tries produces no results. With her attempt at creating a flame having failed, she instead reaches into her pocket and retrieves a lighter, flicking the flame into life before trying another spell. This one works, her intricate finger movements convincing the flame to dislodge from the lighter and float in front of her face. It stays there for a moment before growing slightly, unfurling into a palm-sized orange and yellow flower, and then flickering out of existence.

With a helpless shrug of her shoulders, she explains ]

Results are inconsistent.

[ Strange surveys her efforts through the monocle. He could've done it with his third eye alone, but it's just a little easier with a conduit: it makes the magic flare brighter in his vision, the colours more saturated, easier to read. And it's...

Not the same kind of magic as all the other magicians he's met before. He can't put his finger on what's different about hers, couldn't describe it to any onlooker, but it tastes different. (The smell of crisp dew on the loam of a forest floor, ancient woodsy earth, tree bark—)

And it is, indeed, sputtering feebly where it shouldn't be. A tiny spark cradled between Julia's hands, when she should be a forest fire. ]

Hm.

[ Which isn't a very illuminating comment, all things told. But he sets the monocle down, then reaches for the crystal instead: lets it sway aimless circles over the subway map on the table, circling and circling and not being tugged in any particular direction at all, while Strange's mouth purses tighter and tighter.

The crystal should be pinging all over the place. It should be drawn to the Hedge safehouses on the map like a magnet, all those loci of magical energies and talents. If the map extended further north, Brakebills should be lit up like a goddamn sun, but he wonders if it would even show. ]

And this is happening at the school too? With all the students and teachers as well?

[ Hm? For a supposed expert, that isn't very reassuring. She watches him use the crystal, not entirely sure what he's scrying for, but it's pretty plain to see he's not getting the desired results. It's his question that throws her, though, her thoughts derailing for a moment as she realizes that he really hasn't grasped the full situation yet.

With a heavy sigh, she stands and crosses her arms, an air of something almost like defeat surrounding her. Almost because she's not ready to give up yet. ]

Doctor Strange, you aren't getting it. This isn't just New York. There's no magic anywhere on this world. It's been two months and every magician everywhere has been trying to figure this out.

And it's not just this world. There's no magic on the other worlds, the Neitherlands, the Libraries. The Old Gods sent their Plumber to shut off the Wellspring and now we've been cut off completely.

[ Strange had been on the verge of cutting in, interjecting something — If this is happening, then why haven't I heard of it sooner? — but his mouth snaps shut again as Julia explains further. Which also probably explains why it hasn't landed on his doorstep until now. No magic means no messengers sent through the astral plane; no telepathic telegrams or magical messages winging their way into his dreams. Everyone in that entire ecosystem cut off, and rendered back to... well, phonecalls. Walking here and simply ringing his doorbell like a mundane civilian.

Also, Dean Fogg would probably chew off his own foot before he turned to Doctor Strange for help. Pride cometh, etc.

He's never felt more grateful for the source of his own organisation's magic, their own untouched wellspring. This so easily could've been him, if the sorcerers had followed a different academic regimen. ]

Ah. Well, that's a... greater issue than I thought. I have a few contacts I was thinking I could pursue, but I'm less able to call up the Old Gods and lodge a complaint with their manager.

Do you know why they did it? This is the nuclear option. I haven't heard of this happening before.

[ He was going to ask it eventually, she knew that when she'd decided to come here, but the guilt still slams into her like a ton of bricks. They'd done the right thing; even after going over it a thousand times, she can't see any way it could have ended differently, but that doesn't help when everyone around her is suffering. It was magic or Fillory and they'd made their choice.

She looks down at her shoes, her hair falling forward to offer her a moment to hide before she stands tall again and faces the problem head-on. Julia Wicker doesn't run from her problems, she hunts them down and forces them into a fight to the death. ]

They did it because of us. Me and my friends. We killed a god and his parents are punishing us.

[ Because gods are dicks and the Old Gods are the worst of the bunch. She has yet to meet a god who is truly good and worthy of their divine power. ]

[ He stares at her.

And then, in probably a most unexpected response: Stephen Strange bursts out laughing in sheer startled surprise. It's a bark of surprised laughter before he's able to reel it back in. ]

Whatever I was expecting to hear, it wasn't that.

[ He doesn't sound judgmental or angry. It's the phrasing of his parents are punishing us, he thinks. Like the kids have been grounded. Bad humans; bad. But if they'd killed a god, he's assuming they must have had a good reason. ]

I promise, I'm not trying to be flippant. Godkilling gets around. Well. Christ.

[ He sets the tools of his trade aside and moves back to his own chair, settles back into it with his elbows against the arm, fingers steepled. ]

To be frank, Julia, I'm not sure if I can reopen those pipes for you. I'm not a Plumber. I don't even connect to your Wellspring, so resuscitating it wouldn't be my area of expertise. I can talk to some diviners and they can try to appeal to the Old Gods for a reversal, but that doesn't sound likely either, if they're as pissed as you say. I can keep looking into it, though, and I can reach out to some older magicians of my acquaintance to hear what they've tried.

And we can take a closer look at your own magic, too, if you like. Try to discern a bit more where it's coming from. If it really is just a residue — or if perhaps it's a door, and we can kick it open wider.

[ It's true, she really hadn't been expecting that reaction. Skepticism, outrage, anything in between... but not that. And, really, it's kind of understandable. If she were anyone on the outside of this situation, she'd not entirely sure how she'd have taken it either.

Julia stays standing while he speaks, slowly walking in a small pacing circle and looking at nothing in particular. Her intentions for coming here haven't been stated, so of course, he'd assume she'd come here for help with the big Problem, but she already knows that they're going to have to deal with their fucked up circumstances on their own. They broke it so they're going to have to fix it.

But as for the other thing... ]

That's actually why I'm here. We're dealing with the shit we caused, but this— [ She gestures to herself as she drops back into her chair. ] I need to understand this. People are losing it out there, they're getting desperate and giving up. If I could give them hope, if I could get them to hang on a little longer while we fix the mess we made, then I have to try.

[ If this isn't the reason she has this spark, then what is? What could be bigger or more important than giving people a reason to wake up in the morning? Witnessing Josh's joy at her stupid smoke ring trick had been enough to convince her to push past her own reservations and seek out other types of magic users and so here she is, hoping he can help her the way no one else has been able to. ]

[ He nods, listening and agreeing. There's a kind of abstracted attentiveness and intention to Doctor Strange, she'll be realising: he turns those blue eyes and his full, razor-sharp attention onto you when you're describing a tantalising problem, one which piques his genuine interest. He could get bored and distracted and antsy, of course, if someone seemed to be wasting his time— but this isn't that. Not at all. She's brought him a doozy. ]

How much time do you have? Because this seems like a bit more than a three-pipe problem.

[ It's going to take a while. This isn't something they can probe and diagnose over the span of a single afternoon. So there's another glimmer of twinkling humour when he adds: ]

How do you feel about living at Hogwarts?

[ Julia never does things by halves, she always throws her all behind something and gives 200%, so it figures that it would be a doozy of a problem that would send her to this place and this particular sorcerer. And maybe something in the universe is finally giving her a break because she can see it in his eyes — he's going to help her, possibly because curiosity won't let him refuse.

The Sherlock Holmes reference makes her smile, a little thing that curls into the corners of her lips, but it's his invitation that leaves her grinning like a kid at Christmas. Maybe it's wrong to find a measure of joy when the rest of the world is fucked but after everything she's been through, she's damn well going to take it. ]

Well, it's not like I have classes to get to. Brakebills didn't take me.

[ They were supposed to. She was meant to be there but Jane Chatwin had made a different call. Maybe it had been the right one — Julia had certainly grown stronger as intended. Still, she wouldn't wish her journey on her worst enemy. ]

They didn't? [ Whyever not? Strange thinks, but bites back the question and mentally jots it down, saving it for later, for another day and when he hasn't already been interrogating this poor young woman about magic. They'll inevitably have time for other personal chats, between all the basic magic exercises and her probably getting frustrated enough with a sling ring to throw it across the room. So instead, he pronounces, ] Their loss.

[ And rather than get up and walk back to the desk, he gestures a flick of a hand at it, and a small charm floats over. (Yes, still showing off.) When he lands it in her hand, it turns out to be an old NYC subway token. Evidently enchanted: it sits contentedly warm in her palm as if it's been sitting in the sun for hours. ]

The doors let you in today — I'm still not sure why, I'm going to have to take a look at them too — but this will make sure they always do. Think of it as a house key. There's endless guest rooms, and I mean that literally, a new one spawns every time the townhouse takes in a new visitor, we can go find one later. As mentioned, the apprentices are away anyway, so you'll have run of the place whenever we're not working together — you've brought me quite the mystery, Julia, so I'm looking forward to figuring it out. Wong will probably stick you on laundry duty, though, sorry.

Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum.

[ Maybe it's a lot, to invite a woman to move in after fifteen minutes of talking to her. But it's more like taking in a boarder to a very mysterious, very eldritch bed-and-breakfast. A visiting resident academic, here to work on a project together. A colleague, maybe. It'll be nice to have someone around who isn't Wong, just for some variety. ]

[ Their loss. He probably doesn't have any idea how it means for him to say that. It's probably just a throwaway comment, he probably doesn't actually mean anything by it, but still.

Closing her fingers around the charmed coin, she tries not to think of how strongly it reminds her of the stone she'd worn for weeks not that long ago. A charm to hide her from a god, one she'd received just before destroying the forest of sentient trees in Fillory. She'd been Shadeless then, selfish and caring only about herself. It had taken a lot of effort to learn to live without her Shade and be a halfway decent person again. ]

Thank you. I really mean that. Even if nothing comes of this, I appreciate it.

[ Thank you for being the type of person who can't turn down a good mystery. She recognizes that trait in him; it's like looking in a mirror. Whether it's diving into stacks of books or endless hours of practice, she has a feeling that they'll work well together. And, if she's honest, she's looking forward to it. ]

So where do we start?

[ Where do they start? He wants to roll up his sleeves, dig his fingers into the mystery, pry it open. So Strange pauses to consider for a moment, fingertips still pressed thoughtfully against each other. ]

I'm curious how your talents would look trying to tap into another source of magic which isn't quite so dried-up. Ours, for example.

[ So he twists his hand, turns his palm up, and suddenly there's a two-fingered ring sitting there where it wasn't before. He tosses it to her gently, underhand. It's not his own custom sling ring — the man knows better than to hand over such an important piece of equipment to a veritable stranger — but it's a beginner's version, and he'll be able to shunt it back into a pocket dimension if it seems like she's about to try escaping with it. Still. He likes to think he has a pretty good gauge on people, and Julia feels genuine. ]

Put this on your left hand, the index finger and middle finger. Hold your hands aloft and trace your right hand in an anticlockwise circular pattern, while focusing on a destination somewhere else in the city. Visualise it. Picture it. It's like you're carving a circle out of reality.

It doesn't always work immediately, [ he adds like an olive branch, because sometimes his pride still stings remembering almost freezing to death on Mount Everest, ] but I just want to see how it feels when you're trying to tap into it.

[ It's a good idea, trying to tap into his source of magic instead of just repeating the same failed experiments she's been trying for weeks. The sling ring feels strange in her hands, stranger still when she wears it as instructed, but she tries to look past that and focus her concentration on how it makes her feel. As far as she can tell, it isn't creating magic so much as facilitating it — it's a tool rather than a power source. It's not what she's used to, but magic is magic and she's not giving up.

Moving away from the chairs, she holds her hands up, concentrating on the place she knows best in the city: her apartment. She can see the green couch and mismatched coffee and end tables, the shelves haphazardly stacked with leaning rows of books and records, the kitchen that she rarely uses for actual cooking...

Something tugs at a string in her soul, the sensation different from when she usually uses magic. It's impossible to describe, and as soon as she tries to grasp hold of it while tracing her hand through the air, it slips right through her fingers without even a spark.

Shit.

Julia takes a deep breath, shifts her stance, and tries again. Wearing a frown of concentration, she tries to cling to that strange thread, then to simply cradle it within her like a baby bird. That third attempt finally produces a few sparks reminiscent of the portal she'd seen him use earlier, but it falls far short of carving a circle out of reality. ]

I can feel it but it's— It's different. It's like when I had to retrain my brain to understand magic but worse because I've already done that once before.

[ She's frustrated, to be sure, but also determined. It's working, just not fast enough for her liking. ]

[ Strange has to bite back a smile, because he knows and recognises that frustrated impatience so, so well. That had been him, hadn't it? Rushing and skipping all the steps because he hadn't the patience to wait. Today, he's wound up back on his feet again, circling the room and watching Julia's movements as she tries to summon the portal. He nods thoughtfully, observing. ]

Consider this, however: a few sparks is better than any novice gets on their first-ever try. Normally that takes weeks.

[ Watching her manage those sparks, it does have the same magic signature as any of the other Masters of the Mystic Arts. Nothing horrifically different about it (or at least, which he can sense yet), which is interesting. He can feel the aftermath of the spell fizzing in the air, too; a faint crisp aura/smell/something, like someone sparked a match before it blew out. ]

It's like learning another language. It's going to be frustrating when the grammar doesn't work the same way as the one you already learned and knew. The words will look and sound the same, sometimes, but then be entirely different and alien other times. You'll probably fall back on muscle memory and then get annoyed.

But you'll also be faster at learning a second language, because you know how the rules work. The neural pathways in your brain, [ he gestures at her head, ] are going to be quicker at picking up a system, since you've already done this before. Did you just say you retrained your brain to understand magic?

[ Maybe that title of his was apt. Sometimes, he still sounds so much more like a doctor than a sorcerer. ]

[ Hearing that she was weeks ahead of a normal novice is only moderately comforting. Julia doesn't do slow — she dives headfirst into learning and doesn't come back out until she's mastered five things more than she'd intended. Magic is in her blood, it's who she is, so for it to be this hard again—

She shakes her hands, loosening her fingers and trying to cool her irritation with steady breathing. It helps, but only a little. ]

Our magic is as much math and science as it is wonder. We have to do complex calculations before even attempting a spell because everything can to go to shit if we factor in the wrong circumstances. The position of the moon and specific constellations, time of year, elevation... A dozen things and if even one is off, it can mess up the whole spell.

[ Running her right hand through her hair, she visibly struggles a bit with the next part. ]

Internal circumstances matter just as much. So when I lost my Shade... I had to rethink everything. Magic comes from pain and without my Shade, I wasn't in pain anymore.

[ Contemplatively: ] You know, that's one of the things I've always disagreed with Fogg and the Brakebills crew about. Magic shouldn't have to come from pain, and if it does, then I think there's something dreadfully wrong in how the whole system's been set up. It's supposed to help.

[ There's a small thread of irritation laced in all of Strange's words, getting a little agitated. His hand starts to quaver, the fingers trembling; he folds it back under his cloak, arms crossed, tucked away out of sight. Musters his composure back together. ]

But our systems can be similar. I once fucked up a spell because I tried changing too many of the parameters on the fly. [ God, that had been bad. He's been trying to be a bit more patient and cautious ever since that particular screwup. ] So I can see how something as integral as that would've thrown everything off.

[ Okay, there's the Shade thing again. He'd already decided to not ask about it and to leave his curiosity on this front for later, for when they know each other better. Don't ask her about how she lost her Shade. Don't ask the perfectly-pleasant woman how she became soulless. ]

... How did you lose your Shade?

[ It might have been her imagination, but Julia swears something was up with his hands before he hid them. The ever-curious part of her wants to ask, mostly out of concern, but hiding his hands makes it pretty clear that he doesn't want her to ask about it. So, she won't.

But she's apparently not the only one who's prone to asking questions. ]

I, uh...

[ They've only just met and she's trusting him with a lot, but the exact details of her situation are a bit too much for someone she barely knows. She's not ready to be seen as a victim, to have him think her broken. But it's a valid question that deserves some sort of explanation, given how it might be part of whatever the hell is going on with her.

Crossing her arms, she can't help but look as small as she feels in that moment. ]

I had a medical procedure that went wrong. They removed something and clipped my soul in the process.

[ An arched eyebrow, his voice droll: ] Sounds like due cause for a medical malpractice lawsuit. Magi-medical malpractice, even.

[ Doctor Strange is patently, absolutely incapable of reining in his sarcasm, his kneejerk reach for humour as a defense mechanism. But he does at least try to backtrack, softening his words, casting them back to something more somber: ]

And I'm serious about the malpractice, actually. That's a grievous thing to go wrong. I'm sorry. I'm guessing they weren't able to help you get it back, since you said a... god did so later?

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