A whumpy tag fic to the episode Epiphany, inspired by a discussion on the GW Shep Whump thread about how cheated we were of whump in this episode.. so much of the whump, Sheppard being "terribly injured" etc and the nice healing/comfort scenes all happened off-screen! So this is my imagining of what went on during that missing scene.
As ever, reviews and feedback gratefully received.
Teer had watched as John had fought the Beast. She had followed his progress in her mind as he left the forest and crossed the open fields, had watched as he had protected her brother, selflessly putting himself in danger to save the life of a man who was a stranger to him.
She had felt his arrival, of course. From the moment he had entered the Sanctuary she had been aware of his presence. After a lifetime of knowledge of this man, of seeing his face in her dreams, how could she not have sensed the very instant of his arrival? His passage through the portal had been painful and she had watched with bated breath as he had huddled on the floor of the cave, struggling with the pain that coursed through him. She had stayed with him, watched over him, as he had recovered, as he had sought to communicate with his friends, sought to find a way to leave the Sanctuary.
She had been patient. She had waited all these years, what were a few more days? John's coming was a sign to her, to all of them. Their journey's end approached and she rejoiced in that. So she continued to watch as, eventually, John accepted his fate and left the cave, heading out through to forest, travelling to join her and her people. She had sent Avrid to meet him, telling her brother exactly when and where he would find the stranger sent to guide them to Ascension.
She had not foreseen that the Beast would find him too. The creature's appearances had grown more frequent in recent months and it had been sighted all over the Sanctuary; only the Cloister was safe. Her breath had stuttered with fear, her hands clutching helplessly at the blankets of the bed where she had sat, safe and protected within the Cloister, her eyes tightly shut as she watched her beloved brother run from the Beast, watched John stand protectively over him. Even her belief in John, the sure and certain knowledge that he was the one who would rid them of the Beast, who would walk with them on the last steps of their path to a higher plane, had not been proof against the cold fingers of fear that had gripped her heart as she had seen him thrown through the air, seen him tumble to the ground, limp as one of Hedda's cloth dolls, and yet, with a strength and a courage that at once warmed and amazed her, climb again to his feet and fight stubbornly on.
She had watched him fight the Beast with every ounce of strength in him, had seen him suffer terrible injuries and yet battle on, seen him cry to her brother to run and save himself even as he had struggled with the Beast. All this she had seen, even as she had seen her brother return to find John unconscious and bleeding, his broken body sprawled amongst the summer grasses of the field, his blood slowly staining the virgin soil. With an aching heart she had watched as Avrid had lifted the injured man onto his shoulders and carried him across the Sanctuary. She had waited for them at the edge of the Cloister, she and Hedda, anxious to see, to really see, the man for whom she had waited for so long.
The sight that had met her eyes when Avrid staggered out from the fields had shocked and dismayed her; had brought home to her how distant, how removed, the gift of sight had made her. Safe in the Cloister, she had been able to watch but not to experience, to see but not to feel. Caught up in her joy at John's arrival, in her eagerness to have him with them, she had let herself ignore the very real danger. She had been afraid certainly, had feared for his life as the Beast had raged, but she had never truly believed that he would die. Secure in her knowledge of John's destiny, of the path he would share with them, his desperate fight with the Beast had seemed almost an abstract thing, an experience from which she knew he would recover. Seeing him in the flesh, bruised and bloody, slung limply over Avrid's back, she had felt for the first time the stirrings of real fear, had allowed herself to consider for the first time the pain and suffering this man had endured to save the life of her brother, to save them all. She had rushed to help Avrid with his burden, feeling the slick heat of John's sweat-soaked skin, the sticky warmth of drying blood, under her palm as she helped to bear his weight, the two of them carrying him carefully, gently, between them as Hedda ran ahead to prepare the room. Even amongst the confused welter of emotions that washed through her, Teer had been aware of a quiet thrill of sensation at touching him, holding him; he was real. He was here.
She was no longer distant, no longer watching from afar, in her mind where scent and sound and vivid emotion could not reach her, but was in the thick of the action, her heart pounding in her chest, her senses excruciatingly aware of the thick, mingled smells of blood and dirt and sweat, of the feel of sinew and muscle under John's skin, the slick, warm sensation of his blood on her hands, as they battled to save his life. As they sought to lower his limp body to the waiting bed, he roused suddenly, tension returning to the slack muscles under her touch. He began to struggle immediately, trying to break free of their grasp, a groan of pain and confusion on his lips. Dreadfully wounded as he was, there was still a stubborn strength to his limbs and Teer found herself gasping out his name, trying to soothe and reassure him, as his disoriented struggles threatened to make them lose their grip on his blood-slick skin, his body lurching towards the unforgiving floor as his knees buckled. He let out a cry of pain as he sagged in their grip, the motion pulling at his injuries. Teer was reminded of a trapped and wounded animal fighting ferociously for its freedom.
"You are safe, John! There is nothing to fear here!" He showed no sign of hearing her words, continuing to writhe and pull at their confining grip, and she was forced to let Avrid bear John's weight alone, dropping to her knees before John's slumped body, gripping his face between her hands and lifting his bowed head, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You are safe," she repeated firmly. "You must let us help you." His eyes were clouded with pain and confusion, his lips twisting in a grimace of pain, but her words seemed to reach him and his weakening struggles ceased, Avrid grunting with strain as John let himself relax, his dead weight almost overbalancing the both of them. Teer rose quickly, helping to support John's weight as Avrid manhandled him awkwardly towards the bed, John's head rolling loosely on his shoulders, a low moan registering his pain and discomfort.
Hedda possessed the healing gift and without that blessing Teer was certain that all would have been lost; as they finally laid John down on the bed it was clear just how grave were his wounds, the soft blankets beneath him immediately turning dark with his life's blood. He groaned wordlessly as she and Avrid rolled him carefully onto his stomach and she stifled a grimace as she caught her first proper look at the injuries on his back. Three deep gashes cut through the many layers of his clothing and deep into the flesh beneath. Blood still welled from the cuts, soaking into the torn fabric, and Teer felt nausea turn her stomach for a moment as she caught a glimpse of white amongst all the red and realised what she was seeing; the cuts had gone down to the bone. Hedda was quick to act, her young face scrunched into a frown of concentration as she held her hands over the deep wounds, her eyes squeezed shut as she focused her thoughts, her energies. John's breathing was harsh and ragged, his body sprawled limply across the bed. Teer crouched beside him and took his hand in hers, offering what small comfort she could; he blinked slowly at her, his eyelids drooping with pain and fatigue. Her gaze was drawn irresistibly back to the deadly wounds across his back and she watched as slowly, noticeably, the seep of blood began to slow and the torn flesh began to knit back together. When she turned her attention back to John's face, his eyes were closed, his brow creased with pain even in unconsciousness.
Hedda did not heal the wounds completely, for John had other injuries that needed attention and there were limits to the extent to which the child could heal before needing to rest and recuperate her energies. Though none of them had ever seen a battlefield, they had quickly adopted the concept of triage – treat the worst injuries first, enough to keep him alive a little longer, to give them more time in which to work to save him. The cuts on his back were still red and angry, dark, swollen slashes visible through the torn fabric of his clothing, but they were no longer bleeding, no longer an immediate threat to his life. They had the luxury of time now and Teer took control of the situation, fetching scissors to cut free the torn and dirty remnants of his clothing. The padded vest he wore over his garments was tougher than it looked; some kind of armour, she surmised. Certainly he had come to the Sanctuary bearing weapons and had fought the Beast as a man trained in combat. She wondered briefly at a man so accustomed to violence being the one to lead them on their path to Ascension.. but then, perhaps only a warrior could truly defeat the Beast.
The sturdy fabric of the armoured vest resisted the scissors' blades and she needed Avrid's help to carefully roll John over and to sit him up as she worked to remove the garment. The ingenious fastening was foreign to her but she finally worked it free and the vest slid easily from his shoulders. Avrid laid John down gently onto the bed and Hedda hovered impatiently as Teer carefully cut through the grass-stained black fabric of his shirt, exposing a pale chest with a fine sprinkling of hair.. and flesh already swollen and reddening from the Beast's crushing blows. As Hedda placed her hands above the bruised flesh and closed her eyes, Teer took the time to examine John more carefully. He was tall and slim, his body possessing a wiry strength that was apparent even in the relaxation of unconsciousness. His hair was thick and tousled, unruly, his cheeks shadowed with several days growth of beard. His cheek was grazed and raw and a cut on his forehead had bled profusely, the side of his face sticky with drying blood, the hair at his temple matted with it.
Hedda attention was turned inwards, a look of concentration on her face as she focused her energies on sensing and healing the damage done to John's body. Even as Teer watched, the swelling and redness marring his chest began to visibly fade, Hedda's healing power repairing the damage done to muscle and bone and organs. As her sister worked on healing John's most serious injuries, Teer took up a bowl of cool, fresh water and soaked a scrap of cloth, seating herself beside the bed as she reached over to gently press the damp cloth to his temple, carefully smoothing it over the dirt and blood streaked skin, the fabric leaking red stain into the bowl of water as she dipped it again and wrung it out. The injuries were not serious but, like most head wounds, the cut over his eyebrow had bled freely and blood, both old and drying and fresh and damp, covered the right side of his face, having trickled all the way down to his neck and spilt over his brow to smear across his eyelid and cheek.
She was absorbed in her task, her attention focused on the simple motion of cloth on skin as she cleansed the dirt and blood and sweat from John's face. She pressed the fabric against the matted tangle of hair at his temple, letting the water soak the blood free. She dabbed gingerly at the cut itself, wary of dislodging the fragile scabbing and causing the wound to reopen, and followed the trail of blood downwards, softly wiping blood from his brow.. and was startled to find his eyes open again; those same oddly-coloured eyes that she had been seeing in her mind's eye since childhood. She frowned, her hand stilling its gentle press against his brow as she asked softly, "John?"
His eyes were open but they were vague, unfocused, and she was not sure he even saw her. He did not respond to her voice, staring vacantly past her, his breathing rapid and shallow.
"Teer."
Avrid's voice drew her attention away from John to find Hedda leaning tiredly into her brother's arms, exhaustion written plainly across her face but a satisfied smile on her lips. "He will live," she stated solemnly. Teer rose quickly to her feet, her heart filled with love and pride for her sister who, though still so young, gave so generously of herself to help others. Hedda was swaying on her feet and Teer bent to hug the girl close for a moment before allowing Avrid to lead her away to rest. When she looked back at John, his eyes were closed once more, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He looked somehow young and vulnerable, laid limply atop the bedsheets, still dressed in his boots and pants, his head tilted to one side, his messy shock of hair dark against the pillow.
The worst of his injuries had been treated but John still had much healing to do. It would be hours before Hedda was able to use her healing gift again; what he needed most now was rest. Working alone, it was a struggle to get him undressed. Removing his boots was easy enough; the pants were a little harder. First she had to unfasten and remove the empty pouch that was strapped to his thigh. At first its purpose bemused her but then she remembered the terrible fight with the Beast and seeing John pull out a second, smaller weapon after the creature had thrown him to the ground. She struggled for a moment with the first of the unfamiliar clasps until it suddenly came free in her hands and she quickly unfastened the second strap and slid the pouch free. John's pants were ripped and stained with mud and grass and no small amount of blood. Whilst she did not doubt that the stains would wash out of the sturdy cloth with time, and the rips and tears could be mended, removing the pants whole, on her own, would be a struggle and she saw no need to cause extra work for herself by trying to preserve the garment. After all, the Sanctuary was John's home now. He would have no need of his warrior's garb and weapons on the path to Ascension.
She couldn't help the slight flush that came to her cheeks as she carefully cut along the side seams of the pants, the material parting slowly, falling aside to reveal long, muscled legs.. and a growing collection of bruises and abrasions from the fight. She grimaced; more for Hedda to deal with in the morning. The seams cut through on both sides, she gripped the legs of the pants and pulled with a firm but gentle pressure; John did not stir from his slumber as the remnants of the garment slid out from under the weight of his body. He wore an undergarment of striped fabric which Teer left in place as she sat once more beside the bed, returning to the bowl of water and using a fresh cloth the clean, as best she could, the numerous small scrapes and cuts that marred John's smooth skin. He was preternaturally still under her hands, his only movement the soft, too-rapid rise and fall of his chest. His stillness worried her, as did his rapid breathing. But Hedda had said he would live and her sister's gift was strong; she had never yet been proved wrong. A night of rest would do him good and come the morning Hedda would work her wonders once again. John would recover. He had to. He was the One.
She was as gentle as she could be as she rolled him carefully onto his side, arranging his limbs so that he should not roll or move whilst she cared for the wounds on his back. The cuts were still red and angry, the flesh looking raw and swollen. The injuries had been severe, the blood loss alone an immediate threat to his life, and Hedda had had no choice but to begin the healing process before they had even removed his torn clothing to better examine the wounds. There had been no time to clean the cuts and Teer could not help but think back to her vision of John being thrown to the ground by the Beast, landing upon his torn and bloody back, his head slumping back to the ground as unconsciousness claimed him, leaving him limp and bleeding in the grassy foliage of the fields. Only the Ascended knew what dirt and foreign matter had been ground into his open wounds or what infection the Beast's claws might carry. Only time would tell if their actions had been enough to prevent infection from taking hold.. or if Hedda's healing powers would be put to further test.
She took the time now to bathe and cleanse the cuts, running her damp cloth carefully over the three symmetrical lines that sliced diagonally across the width of his back. Her people had lived in the Sanctuary for a long time; they were a self-sufficient people and had not always been lucky enough to have someone with the healing gift to rely on. Though illness and injury was rare, they had their share of medicines, preparations passed down from generation to generation, and her touch was gentle as she smoothed a healing balm over the wounds before wrapping them as best she could. John did not stir or flinch as she touched the painful-looking wounds, nor as she reached over him repeatedly to push the roll of bandage under his body and wrap around and again. It was a struggle to pull the blood-stained bed clothes out from under the dead weight of John's body to pile them on the floor with the discarded remnants of his torn and dirtied clothing. When she laid him gently onto his back on the clean mattress, she found his forehead lightly beaded with sweat and his breathing still shallow and fast. With a frown she fetched fresh bed clothes from the closet and made him as comfortable as she could, plumping up the soft pillow under his head and pulling the warm covers up to his chin. The night hours would bring improvement or deterioration; only the Ascended knew which. For now, she had done all she could.
TBC...