Doctor Strange is accustomed to being able to fly over a landscape, scouting and taking it all in from above, and it’s been frustrating without his levitation: diminished to walking around, face pressed to the ground like an ant. And one of his most common haunts used to be the top floor of the Sanctum, looking pensively through the loft window at the streets below (and how discomfiting, to realise that his gnarled and twisted other self in another universe had done the same, peering out at him like some gaunt wizard in a tower, and they truly weren’t so different after all).
So as they emerge into that crisp sea-breeze, he takes in the view, a better look at the harbour and fortress and Kirkwall town sitting just out of reach. And before he can say anything or quip anything, then Gwenaëlle’s already moving into fluid, graceful movement, pulling that impossible bowstring back. That spark of frost in the air, tasting like a winter morning on the tongue — the arrow soaring through the sky in a clean shot, and Strange finds himself unconsciously leaning forward with his hands against the balcony banister, wholly absorbed in the sight even after the arrow vanishes into the sea. He exhales, impressed, while not wanting to give away exactly how impressed he is.
He had been intrigued before, of course. But the demonstration of the magic in motion sparks something else, presses all his buttons. Makes him want a goddamned magic bow of his own. Shifting slightly, leaning in with forearms now propped comfortably against the railing, he looks over at her. There’s a wry smile on his face; his first smile of the day. And he gestures a hand vaguely at her face: the aforementioned blind spot, the exaggeratedly golden eye.
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Doctor Strange is accustomed to being able to fly over a landscape, scouting and taking it all in from above, and it’s been frustrating without his levitation: diminished to walking around, face pressed to the ground like an ant. And one of his most common haunts used to be the top floor of the Sanctum, looking pensively through the loft window at the streets below (and how discomfiting, to realise that his gnarled and twisted other self in another universe had done the same, peering out at him like some gaunt wizard in a tower, and they truly weren’t so different after all).
So as they emerge into that crisp sea-breeze, he takes in the view, a better look at the harbour and fortress and Kirkwall town sitting just out of reach. And before he can say anything or quip anything, then Gwenaëlle’s already moving into fluid, graceful movement, pulling that impossible bowstring back. That spark of frost in the air, tasting like a winter morning on the tongue — the arrow soaring through the sky in a clean shot, and Strange finds himself unconsciously leaning forward with his hands against the balcony banister, wholly absorbed in the sight even after the arrow vanishes into the sea. He exhales, impressed, while not wanting to give away exactly how impressed he is.
He had been intrigued before, of course. But the demonstration of the magic in motion sparks something else, presses all his buttons. Makes him want a goddamned magic bow of his own. Shifting slightly, leaning in with forearms now propped comfortably against the railing, he looks over at her. There’s a wry smile on his face; his first smile of the day. And he gestures a hand vaguely at her face: the aforementioned blind spot, the exaggeratedly golden eye.
“So that’s a new development?”