THE MAGICIAN ( dr. strange.. )

001. Ode to Joy..

Symphony no. 9. in D minor op. 125, Fourth movement "Ode to joy" played off a vinyl in the corner of the room, the rhythm by which steam left Stephen's toned back muscles, now in the safe embrace of heat. Droplets of water hung in the ridges defining his naked body, subjected to the magically guided brush of a white, soft towel.

Before him, the closet opened untouched and faraway, to fetch the clothes the Sorcerer Supreme had on his mind. Behind him, the bathroom cleaned itself, from wiping the walls, the floors, to even cleaning the sink after he had shaved his goatee to a precise line, to look as good as on the first day he got it.

Two steps out of the bathroom, the towel was done tapping onto the skin and it took the liberty of wrapping itself around the hips of its master. Narrow eyes of glacial judgment overlooked the silent activity of his burgundy coat being carried out of the closet and hanging gently in the air, where it would start being brushed clean of seams. Out of a black cover zipped before his eyes, Stephen appreciated the quality of the costume shown to him, perfectly preserved from a time when he attended more galas than interdimensional battles.

He gave it a brief nod of approval.

Long past the closet, Stephen finally stopped before the full body mirror, an antiquity he claimed for himself and posted in his Sanctum room as a relic of grandeur that he's been told off for clinging to. What good were all the Earth's finer things if not to please the soul?

Expressionless, he studied himself for less than a second. He had gotten used to seeing the scars, which unlike the ugly ridges on his hands, were brands of pride from battles not only had he survived, but also returned victorious. The latest scar, on his right arm, right above the elbow, was from a group of spectral cannibal trolls, trying to extract the whole arm as a consolation prize after he had settled the conflict between them and Kirashu Tribes a day before the war would commence. He confiscated the axe which got close to cutting his arm off that day.

The pride made him twitch the corners of his lips in half a grin, far too short lived for his reflection to even consider it a movement at all. An acknowledgment touch of the newest scar ended too and the left hand was now responsible for a quick snap of his fingers, putting into motion the objects floating around his room, to match the organized chaos of the orchestra playing from the vinyl.

On the high notes of the choir, he started dressing himself with minimal input of his actual body, but maximum concentration of his mind, guiding the objects with intuition and will, focused into invisible spells. Ever the critic, Stephen watched the progress in the mirror, occasionally making small adjustments like the single moment of effort in which both his palms caught a fiery glow, as if lava ran under his skin. With that accumulated power of a rather easy charm, he raised his hands to his slightly damp hair and dried it to a perfect slick back arrangement.

It was only when the final touches were represented by the buttoning of his shirt that Stephen raised his hand and stopped the help of spells. He didn't catch a rare case of guilt in using his skill set for mundane activities, but rather a glimpse of a familiar face in the mirror.

"How long has it been since I went out like this?" Though somewhere behind him the Cloak of Levitation, a constant companion of his, was hurrying to join him, Stephen asked himself. The man staring him back from the mirror was the epitome of all which he had once been, before the Sorcerer outfit became his permanent etiquette and long before he buried himself in mystical work to forget there was a life of casual elegance he could still indulge himself into.

Slowly, feeling the ghosts of pain by looking down at his hands he considered ugly, Stephen finished buttoning up his shirt. Then, at the last button, he sighed, "Too long."