Stephen's mind spun as he absorbed the weight of her words, the revelation about his counterpart's death settling heavily on his chest. He wanted to be angry—angry at the betrayal, angry at the unfairness of it all. But there was something more pressing, more immediate than his frustration. Her gaze was steady, her words measured, but there was a flicker of something vulnerable there, something rare for her. Something human.
"I didn't mean for this to happen to you," she said, her voice unexpectedly soft, the weight of centuries of knowledge and experience behind the apology. "And it won't happen. Not here. Not again."
"I don't understand," he said, his voice tight as it echoed in her mind. "You brought me here, didn't you?"
"No," she answered softly, her hand stilling on his back. "I didn't summon you."
"Then who did?"
She shook her head, her expression unreadable. "I don't know, Stephen. I didn't even know you were here until I felt your presence ripple through this world. But… perhaps it's for the best."
Stephen let out a sharp hiss of disbelief, his feline instincts blending seamlessly with his rising irritation. He jumped down from her lap, his paws splashing in the mud as he paced in tight, agitated circles. "For the best? You think dragging me into another mess I didn't ask for is for the best?"
"No," she said again, and this time, there was steel in her voice. "But it gives me an opportunity to make things right."
He stopped pacing and looked up at her sharply. "What are you talking about?"
The Ancient One didn't answer right away. She stood slowly, her yellow robes streaked with mud, but her movements were still graceful, still unyielding. She clasped her hands behind her back, her gaze distant, as though she were looking at something far beyond the wet alleyway they occupied.
"When you became Sorcerer Supreme in your universe, it wasn't because you wanted the title. It was because I died, and you had no choice but to step into the role."
Stephen flinched. Her words struck a nerve, even now. "I didn't ask for any of it."
"No, you didn't," she agreed, her voice softening. "But you took it, anyway. You bore the weight of it, the responsibility of it, and you did so for centuries. And for that, I failed you. I should have prepared you better. I should have given you time. But instead, I left you to carry the burden alone."
Stephen didn't know how to respond to that. His tail twitched as he stared up at her, his thoughts tangled and his heart heavy. Part of him wanted to lash out, to throw her words back in her face. But another part of him—an exhausted, broken part—just wanted to collapse at her feet and let her take the weight off his shoulders.
"I failed you again here," she continued, her gaze dropping to meet his. "Even in this world, I couldn't protect you. The Stephen of this universe deserved better, and he didn't get it. I can't undo what happened to him. But I can do something for you."
Her voice grew firmer, more certain, as though she had made up her mind. "You're tired, Stephen. I see it in you now, just as I saw it in the other you. You've done more than your share. And so, I won't let you take this burden. Not now. Not until you're ready—if you ever want it."
His ears perked up, and he tilted his head. "What?"
She stepped closer to him, her presence as steady and grounding as it had always been, despite the weariness in her eyes. "I will not die," she said simply. "Not until you have had the time, you deserve to rest. If that takes years, so be it. If it takes centuries, then so be it. And if you decide you never want the mantle again, I will bear that weight myself."
Her words stunned him into silence. The Ancient One—this woman who had spent centuries preparing him to take her place—was now offering to shield him from that very responsibility. She was tired. He could see that. The shadows under her eyes, the faint tremble in her hands, the weight she carried in her posture—they all spoke of someone who had been fighting for far too long. And yet, she was willing to keep going for him.
It felt wrong. It felt… selfish.
"I can't let you do that," he said finally, his voice low and strained. "You're already carrying enough. I can't add to it."
Her smile was faint but warm, tinged with a sadness that seemed older than the universe itself. "You can. And you will. Because it's not a burden I bear unwillingly, Stephen. This is my choice. My apology."
He shook his head, his cat form trembling with the effort of holding back the surge of guilt and exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. "But what if I never—"
"Then I will deal with it," she said firmly, cutting him off. "You've spent long enough putting the needs of the universe before your own. Let me carry this for a while. Let me make amends, in whatever way I can."
He looked away, his tail flicking as he tried to process her words. The thought of resting—truly resting, without the specter of duty hanging over him—was almost too much to comprehend. Could he do it? Could he really let her take on this burden while he stepped away?
Stephen opened his mouth, his voice coming out hoarse, the cat's form still leaving his throat dry. "You don't owe me an apology."
The Ancient One closed her eyes for a moment, a faint sigh escaping her. "I do. I've failed you, Stephen, in ways that will never fully be atoned for. Not even with centuries of service. But I will do my best."
Stephen blinked, his chest tightening at the unexpected offer. He didn't know how to respond. "You're… you're saying you'll keep living just so I can rest?"
"Yes," she said, her voice unwavering. "I will hold this mantle. I will carry the weight. This is my apology to you for what happened to your other self."
Her words hung in the air, and for a long moment, Stephen said nothing. He wanted to argue, wanted to refuse her offer. But that part of him—the part that had carried the universe's weight for so long—knew the truth. He didn't have the strength to refuse it. Not now.
"I don't deserve your sacrifice," he murmured after a long silence, the words coming from deep inside, more a statement of guilt than an attempt at rejection. "You've already carried so much. To put that burden on you again…"
The Ancient One's gaze softened, and she knelt down before him, reaching out to gently lift his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You've carried the weight for far too long, too, Stephen. I am willing to do this, if only so you can rest, so you can have a few years—a few moments, even—without the constant pressure of the multiverse on your shoulders."
Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "You've earned the right to rest, even if it's just for a while."
Stephen swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. He didn't know how to respond. The guilt twisted inside him. He had spent so many years burying his emotions, burying his pain, that he had forgotten what it felt like to be given permission to rest. To stop for a moment. To just... exist.
But the guilt, the weight of responsibility, still lingered. It was part of him. How could he let go of it? How could he accept her offer, knowing the cost? Knowing it was because of his other self's untimely death, a death that she felt responsible for, even if he hadn't been there?
"I will not press you. I will not force you to become what you don't want to be. This world has enough burden as it is. But if, someday, you decide that you are ready, you will not have to worry about me. I will be here."
Stephen nodded slowly, his gaze shifting away as his heart squeezed in his chest. She was offering him something rare—freedom, space to breathe, time to figure out who he was beyond the Sorcerer Supreme. And yet, the weight of that offer hung heavily on his conscience.
"How long has this Stephen been gone?" he asked suddenly, needing something to ground him. Something real. He needed a way to make sense of this new, strange place. This new life that had been thrust upon him without his consent.
"A couple months." The Ancient One's expression flickered, a moment of hesitation. She stood slowly, her eyes softening with a tired understanding. "Time flows differently in every universe. But here…" She paused, her expression growing thoughtful, almost cryptic. "Here, Tony Stark has been missing for a while."
Stephen's brow furrowed. "Missing? How long?"
She didn't answer directly, her gaze distant as she considered the question. "Some time," she repeated. "I don't know when exactly, but it's been a while."
He stared at the ground, his thoughts far away. "What happened to him?"
"Terrorists," the Ancient One said, her voice low.
"Just terrorists?" asked Stephen, raising an eyebrow.
"He's not yet Iron-Man, after all. Not that it matters. For now, Stephen, you have time. Time to rest. Time to heal. Time to think."
She knelt once again. "I will stay here. I will carry my burden. And you, my dear successor, will be free to choose. Whether that means accepting the mantle or walking away entirely."
Stephen let her words settle. The wind rustled the trees above them, and in that moment, he felt the weight of everything on his shoulders—the responsibility, the apology, the strange new world around him—and yet, for the first time in a long while, he also felt something else.
He felt seen.
And maybe that was the first step toward figuring out what came next.
He stared at her, searching her face for answers, but she offered none. Instead, she reached out and ran a hand gently over his fur once more, her touch steady and reassuring.
Stephen sighed, his body relaxing despite himself. "A couple of years," he said finally, his voice quiet. "I'll take a couple of years. But after that…"
"We'll see," she finished for him, her smile faint but understanding.