Stephen stood outside the grand double doors of the Kamar-Taj library, clutching the books the Ancient One had lent him. The weight of them wasn't much, physically, but the act of returning them felt heavier than he'd anticipated. His hand hovered just inches from the door, but he couldn't bring himself to push it open.
This was supposed to be simple. Step in, return the books, thank the librarian, and leave. But in his mind, it wasn't just about returning books. It was about confronting the part of himself he'd been running from—his memories of Wong.
He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the books as he took a small step back. For so long, Wong had been his anchor, his guide, his steadfast ally. To walk into the library and not see him there—it had felt wrong, like some fundamental part of his universe had been misplaced.
"You don't have to lean on me for this, Stephen," the Ancient One had said earlier, as if she'd read his thoughts. "This is something you can handle on your own."
And she was right. He couldn't keep using her as a crutch. If he was going to integrate himself into this world, he had to face the reality that some of the people he knew—people he relied on—wouldn't be the same here. Or, in some cases, wouldn't be here at all.
Taking a deep breath, he finally pushed the doors open. The familiar scent of parchment and old wood washed over him, and for a moment, he felt like he'd stepped back into his own universe.
The library was just as he remembered it: rows of ancient tomes, shelves stretching high above his head, and a faint hum of mystic energy in the air. But as his eyes scanned the room, he noticed the subtle differences. The lighting was a little dimmer, the organization slightly different, and the man standing behind the librarian's desk was... not Wong.
Stephen froze. The man was middle-aged, with a sharp, angular face and a no-nonsense expression. He wore the robes of Kamar-Taj, his posture relaxed but alert as he flipped through a thick tome.
Stephen blinked, his mind working to process the discrepancy. And then it hit him: Wong wasn't the librarian yet. In his universe, Wong had taken over sometime in 2016, just a few months before Stephen himself had joined the order.
This man—this stranger—must have been the librarian before Wong.
The realization settled over him like a chill. Kaecilius. The zealot's name echoed in his mind. This man, whoever he was, was almost certainly a victim of Kaecilius and his fanatics.
The librarian glanced up from his book, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Stephen. "May I help you?"
Stephen hesitated, forcing himself to step forward. He placed the books gently on the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. "I'm here to return these."
The librarian's gaze flicked to the books, his expression neutral. "You're not one of the usual disciples."
"I'm... visiting," Stephen said carefully, his voice steady despite the unease curling in his chest.
The librarian raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the matter. Instead, he picked up the books, inspecting their spines with a practiced eye. "These are from the Ancient One's private collection."
"She lent them to me," Stephen explained.
The man's eyes lingered on him for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then he nodded, setting the books aside. "You must be someone important, then. She doesn't lend these out lightly."
Stephen didn't respond, his gaze drifting to the shelves behind the librarian. He could almost picture Wong there, shelving books with his usual quiet efficiency.
"Is there anything else you need?" the librarian asked, his tone polite but firm.
Stephen shook his head, forcing himself to meet the man's gaze. "No. That's all."
The librarian gave a curt nod, already turning back to his own work.
As Stephen stepped out of the library, he couldn't shake the feeling of loss that clung to him. Wong wasn't here. This man—this stranger—had taken his place, and Stephen couldn't help but think about what would happen to him.
Kaecilius would come. The man would die. And Wong would eventually take his place.
For the first time, Stephen felt the weight of this universe's timeline pressing down on him. He could step in, interfere, try to save this man from his fate. But would that be right? Would that change things for the better—or only make them worse?
He didn't have an answer. And so, for now, he moved to walk away, the faint hum of the library fading into the distance as he left.
However, as Stephen stepped out of the library, his mind still preoccupied with the weight of the past and the precarious balance of this new timeline, he almost collided with someone entering.
"Apologies," Stephen murmured automatically, stepping back to let the man pass.
The man paused, looking at him curiously. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that Stephen recognized instantly. The face was familiar, painfully so, but there was something different about it. The eyes didn't carry the wild fanaticism Stephen had come to associate with Kaecilius. Instead, they were quieter, tinged with a grief that lingered like a shadow just behind his gaze.
Stephen stiffened, his breath catching in his throat as recognition dawned. Kaecilius.
But this wasn't the Kaecilius he remembered. This Kaecilius was younger, his face unlined by rage and obsession. He wore the disciples' robes of Kamar-Taj, his posture respectful yet weary.
Stephen blinked, his mind racing. Of course. Eight years before my time.
The two of them stood in silence for a moment, Kaecilius's gaze flickering over Stephen with mild curiosity. "I don't think we've met," Kaecilius said, his voice steady but softer than Stephen expected. There was no sign of the cold fury Stephen had known from the future Kaecilius, only a faint, quiet grief that lingered behind his sharp eyes.
Stephen straightened unconsciously, his instincts battling between wariness and compassion. "No," he said carefully, his tone measured, "I don't think we have."
Kaecilius's gaze sharpened, though his posture remained neutral. "You're not wearing the robes of a disciple," he noted, tilting his head slightly. "And yet… you feel like someone who belongs here."
Stephen hesitated, his cloak—currently disguised as a jacket—shifting slightly at his shoulders. He weighed his words carefully before answering, his voice steady and deliberate. "I'm… Master Strange. I've recently been given the mantle of master in this order."
For a fleeting moment, Kaecilius's expression faltered, his brow creasing faintly as he processed the information. "Master Strange?" he repeated, his tone neither dismissive nor welcoming, but curious. "You're new, then."
Stephen inclined his head. "Yes. My path has been… unconventional. But the Ancient One saw fit to grant me this role."
Kaecilius's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering briefly with something unreadable—respect? Skepticism? A mix of both? He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture straightening slightly. "The Ancient One doesn't bestow titles lightly. You must've earned it."
Stephen felt a faint tug of unease at the sincerity in Kaecilius's tone. This man, still devoted to the teachings of Kamar-Taj, still loyal, still whole, was so far removed from the disillusioned traitor he would become. It was disarming in a way Stephen hadn't anticipated.
"Let's just say," Stephen replied, his voice quieter now, "I've walked a long road to get here. Longer than most."
Kaecilius's expression softened slightly, the edges of his usual sharpness dulling. "Kamar-Taj has a way of calling to those in need," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Even when we don't realize we're seeking it."
Stephen blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the earnestness in Kaecilius's words. It was strange to see him like this, to see the man he might have been before grief and anger twisted him. This version of Kaecilius hadn't yet crossed the line into betrayal. He still carried the weight of loss, yes, but that grief hadn't hardened into the consuming rage Stephen remembered.
"Perhaps," Stephen murmured, his tone contemplative. "Or perhaps it's the other way around. Perhaps Kamar-Taj chooses who it allows to find it."
Kaecilius tilted his head at that, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "A philosophical view. I'll admit, I didn't expect that from someone new to the order."
Stephen allowed himself a small, self-deprecating smile. "I've had time to think."
Kaecilius regarded him for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on Stephen as though searching for something. "Then I hope," he said finally, his voice quiet but sincere, "that Kamar-Taj gives you what you seek, Master Strange."
The words caught Stephen off guard, a pang of guilt and unease settling in his chest. He had come into this world expecting to see Kaecilius as nothing more than the enemy he had once fought, but this man wasn't that—not yet. This Kaecilius still believed in the order, in the Ancient One, in the possibility of healing his grief through study and service.
And for just a moment, Stephen saw the man Kaecilius could have been—if the world had been kinder, if life hadn't pushed him down a path of no return.
"Thank you," Stephen said quietly, inclining his head. "And I hope you find what you seek as well."
Kaecilius's faint smirk returned, though it was tinged with something heavier, something more vulnerable. "We all come here searching for something, don't we?" he said, almost to himself. With that, he nodded once and moved past Stephen, his footsteps echoing faintly down the hall.
Stephen stood in place for a moment, staring after him. He felt a strange mix of emotions churning in his chest—pity, guilt, determination. He wanted to reach out, to warn Kaecilius of the path he was heading down, but he knew it wasn't his place—not yet.
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