Exiles in Elseworlds

His cloak had been destroyed. His tomes vanished. The Eye? Hidden.

Some time ago (was it months? Or years?, he can't tell anymore), they tried drinking his blood. They only tried it once. From what he could understand, the unlucky imbiber still burned with the searing Flames of Faltine. Always burning, yet never consumed. Though he had been tricked into captivity, his magics remained potent before the bindings were secured and he took certain precautions to insure that his captor would be frustrated. It saved him from Vampirism to be sure and made them wary in their torments. Even in the countless 'sessions' with the damned husk of Orroro, he could tell that under her veneer of casual cruelty, there lurked an abiding fear and caution.

In the end however, Doctor Strange remained a captive. His body was bound in cold iron etched with glyphs of power (he recognized Mephisto's spider-like scrawl on his manacles...or was it Sattanish? Those details were hard to be sure of now). Torture and privation had been less effective. His mind retreated to the timeless peace of 'Mu' when he was pushed too far. The spiritual imprisonment however had been the most cunning of his bonds. Tied to the life force of Gaia itself, Strange dared not sunder those metaphysical chains lest he risk what life remained on this world. He needed someone else, someone outside the enchanted circle to undo the runes that held fast his spirit and his magic.

Long before the scourge of the undead, Death herself had 'gifted' the Master of the Mystic Arts with a limited form of immortality. Death would not take him through natural means. Age, hunger, thirst, sickness and the like would never touch him. It had seemed like a gift back then. The anhk that burned on his forehead offered him no comfort now. It's luminescence reminded him that the release of mortality was denied him.

Coughing, his throat dry and cracked, the Sorcerer Supreme forced his eyes to regain focus. The dim light was barely enough to make out the room where he was imprisoned. He had already counted the stones that made up the wall, he had even begun to consider giving them names. He chuckled bleakly to himself. His laugh sounded like a dying animal's death rattle.

"If I am to emulate a character from Dumas' fiction, then perhaps I shall be as fortunate."

Despite his morbid jest, he refrained from providing names to the silent stones. Instead he silently recited the tenth chapter of the Book of the Vishanti to himself.