88 Chapter 88: Search and….

Brontë liked reading, but his foray into literature stopped at books about teenage children of Zeus and Poseidon at magical summer camps. Or Manga about hardheaded Ninja's that loved yelling… in spite of their namesake.

But then again, a college degree wouldn't have helped him with anything he currently mulled over as they made their way towards the main library.

Half of it wasn't in English. The other twenty percent weren't even books. They were scrolls that made his skin itch from the magic churning inside.

"Come on in, bookworms." Wong said dryly as he pushed open to great oak wood doors that gave way to a great library. A hundred foot tall walls were lined with shelves of books.

Other standalone shelves formed a sort of literary labyrinth that had to give way to a design when viewed from above.

Objects and trinkets sat on desk and tables like museum items with real time consequences.

In the dim lighting some glowed.

Like an axe carved with unbelievably ancient language and characters. He didn't even understand how it was giving it off light. The metal was plain. Dirty. The handle was wooden. Not even polished. Even still….

Or what stood in front of him. A wand with an angry demons face at the helm.

"This is the Wand of Watoomb." Ilyana explained before Wong snatched it up. "Defensive magic item. Harmless."

Brontë nodded along as Ilyana explained random items and books she enjoyed reading to him while they followed Wong.

"So you've spent a lot of time here?" Bronte asked casually as they stopped, waiting for Wong to finish dusting off a bookshelf.

"When I first got back to this dimension I couldn't be anywhere else…. Much to many of my fellow New Mutants dismay. The lack of ambient magic in the air made me sick….. I had a lot of panic attacks— and worse. It was hard to breathe…. I…. I don't know if you would understand. I spoke about it with Dani a bit but….." Ilyana scrambled for her words.

Brontë didn't need superhuman senses to understand the topic was sensitive.

"Nahhh I get it. Not to your level obviously, but the outside world used to scare me too. The storms— I couldn't…. I just couldn't do it. So, I put on some headphones, tapped on an old beat-pad in my dad's room and the rest was history."

Ilyana thought it over seriously as Wong was on the move once again.

"I found music, you found…." Bronte trailed off as he eyed the spine of a book made out of actual spine, "A haunted magic library."

"We found useful coping methods."

"Passions." Bronte corrected.

Ilyana nodded, "Yes, passion is better."

They reached a main room of sorts with a round table covered in books and quills as if somebody was editing the literature.

Unfittingly an iPod lay over with headphone wires nearby.

Brontë could've heard the music blasting from them with normal ears.

Wong rushed over to the table and snatched them before lowering the volume as if they'd heard something they weren't supposed to.

"Beyoncé? I didn't know you had taste like that, Wong. Forgive me." Bronte passively tapped his foot to the song. Crazy in Love.

"I am merely a novice when it comes to understanding music of the modern age." Wong said quietly.

"Trust me, it gets better. Personally, I think some of Beyoncé's projects are hit or miss… but Lemonade is top three for me. Still wish she left Jay Z after. It would've made the album hit ha—"

"What happened with Jay Z?!" Wong never looked so alarmed in the…. Twenty minutes Bronte had known him.

"Bro…." Bronte pinched the bridge of his thick nose, "He cheated…. On Beyoncé!"

Wong sighed, "Perhaps I could go to another universe where this didn't happen."

"Don't trip, her sister laid him out at least." Bronte replied.

Wong ran a hand over the stubble on his face, "She has a sister…?"

Quickly— awkwardly, Wong adjusted himself, "Anyway. Let's get to work, books on curses tend to be on the left side of the room. Start there and work your way towards dark magic of earth and blood."

He rushed off to continue his own search. Whether that was in relation to Beyoncé or Vampirism, Bronte would never know. He preferred the latter, though.

Ilyana side eyed Bronte. "You're getting along with him better than I do."

"Let's get along with these books. That's all that matters, now."

With that said they hit the left side of the library and dug in.

****

Three hours passed by in a cascading blur of weirdly written letters, words he didn't know and colors bright enough to blind.

Brontë had sat at his desk and beat pad producing for literally no one, and taken hours doing so. Happily.

He'd fought Gods in the form of giant judgmental panthers. Or beautiful women in gray dresses of starlight…..

Ran with speedsters under the sweltering African sun…..

And yet, the mental taxation of reading had tested his stamina the most.

He sat at the round table with Ilyana, a stack of books on either side of them as they read. Mend joined in as well, opening an eye in Bronte's hand that hovered over the pages. The Symbiote eye moved like a struck eight ball in the silence.

Ilyana scrolled through a leather bound book on the beginnings of Dark Magic.

Brontë had a journal made out of decayed mammoth skin titled, The Chronicles of Agamotto.

He was more or less the George Washington of Sorcerer Supremes.

But that was all his attention span could take for the time being.

Brontë leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms and back as they let out a symphony of cracks.

Ilyana looked up from her books for the first time…. In three hours.

"…. I'm sorry… you don't like reading, do you?"

"Oh no I like reading— when I understand it better. I bet I'd like it as much as you with context." Bronte shrugged.

"Context… I see."

For example, "Wong isn't the Sorceror Supreme, is he?"

Ilyana shook her head causing her blonde messy bun of hair to shuffle atop her head. "No."

"Right… so where is he? Doctor Strange, I mean."

"He usually stays in his room…. Upstairs. Actually that's always where he is. He's like us…" Ilyana shifted repeatedly in her wooden seat with discomfort.

"Like us how?"

"He could not handle the regular world. He found a way to cope…. But it's not a passion." Ilyana explained, the sadness in her tone was tangible. "I assume he's asleep around now. We should let him."

Brontë nodded in understanding. They remained in silence for a while afterward before he spoke again.

"So, where's the bathroom?"

Ilyana pointed to the ceiling, indicating it was upstairs. "Follow the stairs out of the library. First room on the left. Hurry."

Brontë was out of his seat and headed for the bathroom soon after.

Some of the books were rearranged from their original spots on the way out of the library. He only knew that because of the new assortment of smells. Certain aspects came first this time. Objects and artifacts did the same.

"Weird…" He muttered before leaving the library and heading up the stairs.

The spiral steps carried him into a deep darkness— a dusty one, too. It made him sneeze as he mounted the last step and stood in a long corridor.

Winds howled curses from a cracked window in a distant room. Pipes popped in protest behind the walls. The floorboards creaked, straining under his weight like bodybuilders working for a personal record.

Maybe that was an exaggeration.

Either way his presence felt met with…. Stress?

Brontë pressed on and took a leak. With great effort…

And no, he didn't even attempt to look in the mirror when he washed his hands. He'd seen enough bloody horrors earlier in the day.

As he exited the bathroom and turned to head down the stairs his ears twitched at the sound of a voice.

"—ors? You could've just asked me."

Brontë turned around and faced the unwelcoming dark hallway once more, "What?"

"You're reading up on your ancestors. If you had questions, you could've just asked me. I have the secrets Oshtur probably wouldn't want me to tell…."

Brontë hesitated for a moment before making his way down the hall towards the door at the very end.

The knob was hot— and cold. It hummed in Bronte's hands as he turned it and opened the door.

An old man hovered at the center of the room seated like a monk in meditation. His robes fluttered like there was a wind current focused around him— spinning the smells of body odor, dirty laundry and alcohol.

He could see the many glasses collecting on his bedside table.

"You Doctor Strange?"

He kept his eyes closed— back to the round mirror Bronte first noticed outside. "To many." He replied.

"Uhm…. It's good to meet you."

"No it's not."

"It is." Bronte replied firmly, "You were part of the Avenge—"

Doctor Strange held up a single finger, "Do not…. Say that name in here."

Brontë's jaw muscles danced on the sides of his face. He exhaled, "You don't get out much, do you?"

"No. But you do…. Don't you? You travel far and wide…. Very far and wide. Wider by the day. Are you a Hero, Bronte?"

"I try to do the right thing…. Carry my weight." Bronte shrugged.

"Nepotism babies tend to have bruised ego's and rampant inferiority complexes I bet you try to save the world everyday….. no, I bet you're trying to do that right now."

Brontë crossed his arms, "I'm about as much of a Nepotism baby as you are a Sorcerer. So chill on me. And yes— I am here to save people. Because I'm one of very few who actually can. Because your superhero club— the AVENGERS, ain't here. Or would you want me to let the world rot with Vampirism to prove my ego is fine?"

Doctor Strange smiled, but his eyes remained closed. "You remind me of him."

"Here we go."

"Not Wolverine, you dolt. Agamotto…. The First Sorcerer Supreme. Your Ancestor."