"I make no promise this will work—but give me your hands please…"
Reverently, Teyla traced the scars upon the back of his right hand and along the length of each finger, then gently flipped it over, to do the same upon his palm, moving on to his left hand in her own good time. Stephen had not allowed such familiar contact with his damaged hands in ages, and his flesh seemed to spark at her soothing touch. He found himself mesmerized by the softness of her patient exploration, understanding as he watched that her fingers were memorizing the patterns of his scars, and that she was methodically building a magic he had never seen before.
"You must trust me now," she told him, as she brought his hands palm to palm, laying her own atop and underneath them, "There will be pain, but I promise it will be brief. You must not flinch or pull away, lest the charm I weave be broken." Her voice was hushed, but like her motions, held him spellbound. "Can you do this for me, Stephen? Surrender control in this moment to me, and do not fight the sensations you will feel."
"Of course," he replied, his voice a little hoarse with awe and anticipation—though he remained somewhat skeptical that she could even deliver what she had claimed.
Teyla had his hands still sandwiched between her own; she had closed her eyes and was humming softly, a pleasant run of notes which seemed to resonate in the bones of his hands. Was he actually feeling this lulling music beneath the skin, in his muscles, ligaments, joints? Her head was bent close to their hands, so that her lank brown hair curtained them; how far different, he reflected, was her plain physical appearance, from the fetching luminescence of her astral form. It seemed to him now, he could see the ghost of that unearthly beauty behind and beneath the pallid skin she inhabited; a beauty ever present but secret, except to eyes that had been opened to the astounding truth that Earth was only one among an infinite number of realities—and that she hailed from a far different reality than that which he called home.
Their hands were now wreathed in a bright blue light; an echo of the true color of her eyes, which he had glimpsed in his encounter with her astral form. His own hands grew warm and tingly as Teyla continued to work her spell. She had called her unique gift "empathetic magic", and he was at last beginning to grasp what she meant.
Moments later, Stephen understood her warning that there would be pain; his hands flared with it, an agony that felt as though his skin was crammed full with shards of glass, a flash of heat so intense it was like fire burning through his every cell. Despite his best intentions he cried out, though he managed to remain still as Teyla had instructed.
"Almost there, Stephen," she said through gritted teeth, "You're through the worst of it—but please do not let go." The mounting pain screamed for him to pull away, but still he left his hands in her care. He realized his breath was drawn in sync with hers—her own heavily labored with her efforts–and she began to moan softly.
Then, like a light switch being flicked off, the excruciating pain was completely gone. The suddenness shocked him, while the relief elated him, and he wondered if some phantom pain would reawaken before too long had passed. Stephen watched in stunned silence as a map of pale scars took shape upon Teyla's fingers and the back of the hand she rested on top of his. He had not anticipated that. She had prepared him to expect her hands to temporarily take on, to a lesser degree, the chronic pain that was his daily measure—but she had said nothing of bearing marks akin to his own; nor had his own scars faded in any way.
"It is done," she told him, just as the cerulean halo that encompassed their hands began to fade. She withdrew her hands, moving them most gingerly, as though she feared that even the smallest physical contact would bring a fresh bout of discomfort. Relieved of his own misery, he observed Teyla with a doctor's practiced eye, noting the tremor in her hands—so like that which he had suffered from the day his bandages had been removed—and that she appeared weakened. Beads of perspiration stood upon her brow, a bloom of hectic color on her cheeks, her mouth drawn tight as she acclimated to the bone-deep ache she had taken upon herself. Stephen felt an urge to tell her he'd take it all back, but knew she would deny that request. "It's bad, isn't it," he asked, moving to guide her carefully to a small divan in the corner of the relic room.
"No more than I can easily bear, I assure you." Settling on the couch, she looked up at him, covering a grimace with the gamest smile she could manage, "And this will fade quickly enough. You mustn't be concerned."
"Is there anything I can do…anything I can get you to ease you through this?" Again, the doctor in him, wanting desperately to relieve her suffering, especially knowing he was the direct cause.
Teyla smiled, more naturally this time, "I'm tired, very very tired. I should rest, perhaps sleep. That will go a long way to alleviate the effects of the spell."
"Of course," he nodded, watching as she lay back against the divan, settling onto her side. Wishing there was still more he could do to help her, he draped the light-weight afghan that was folded at the foot of the divan, across her slight form. "I'll see you're not disturbed." And then, because he knew words were sure to fail him in the wonder of the gift she had just given them, he bent low and brushed a kiss upon her hair. She gave a little sigh, before he turned to leave.
He'd reached the door before Teyla called to him. "Stephen, I just want you to remember—the effects of this magic are rarely permanent. I have given you perhaps days only, of relief from your condition; and if you're lucky, weeks, perhaps a month or two." She yawned, looking nearly ready to drift off to sleep. "I would it were more. You deserve more. But spend these days wisely, and if my bit of magic makes your tasks easier for a time, I know I have served a useful purpose for your world." With that, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she slept.
Only as he watched her breathing steady and slow as a deeper sleep o'ertook her, did he realize he hadn't even thanked her—but then what mere words could he speak to prove the measure of his gratitude for such an unselfish gift?