The figure that emerged from the multi-dimensional portal three days later, was far from the carbon copy of her mother that Stephen Strange had expected.
Though similarly robed, any resemblance between the two women appeared to end there. Where Moraine of Hadeeth was stately and striking, and possessed of an unearthly sort of beauty, her daughter Teyla seemed to be plain, simple and unassuming. Pale-skinned, with light brown hair that hung limply past her shoulders, her shapeless robe appeared to hide a slight frame, and her sandaled feet were nearly as small as a child's—yet her face informed him that she was perhaps a decade older than he had anticipated.
Stephen opened his mouth, about to speak a word of welcome, but she had turned back to the portal, taking a last look at whatever—or whomever—she had left behind. She remained with her back to him, until the circle closed; in its wake, she bowed her head a moment, and then squared her shoulders, readjusting the straps of the large, cleverly woven bag that she bore upon her back. Finally facing him, Teyla gave a formal little bow, but the weight of her basket shifted, nearly upsetting her balance, so that Stephen had to lunge forward to catch a hold of her arm before she fell.
"Th…th…thank you, Sir," she managed, sounding shy and more than a little embarrassed, "I…I think I can manage it now." Her speech had a slight lilt to it, reminding him that English was not her native tongue. Teyla kept her eyes lowered as she worked to regain her composure.
Stephen released her, backing up a few steps, frowning at the unavoidable need to abruptly invade her personal space. "You're welcome, Miss…" What should he call her? Miss Teyla might sound a bit awkward—but Mistress surely didn't fit; he settled on changing the subject, helpfully suggesting, "Why don't you set that down? I can have someone collect it for you later, and leave it in your quarters."
She nodded, and murmured her thanks again, allowing the basket to slide from her shoulders, onto the ground. She took a deep breath, bracing herself to address him, and finally met his eyes. "You are Master Strange, I take it?" Teyla spoke softly, quietly contrite, "Please forgive my clumsiness. I am normally not such a…klutz."
Despite the initial awkwardness between them, Stephen smiled at her use of the Earth colloquialism. Surprise colored her soft brown eyes, as if she had expected a stern reaction to her artlessness. Though her face was rather ordinary (and so unlike her mother's, he mused again) her widened, doe-like eyes, shaded by a thick fringe of lashes, were lovely—and very expressive. At the moment, they made her seem a little sad (perhaps she is, he thought, in leaving her familiar world behind), the total effect softening what might otherwise seem plain-and stirring him to a bit of sympathy.
"No need to apologize," he told her kindly, "And you are very welcome here, in Kamar-Taj."
A little smile crept upon the corners of her mouth, "I thank you for your hospitality and kindness, Master Strange." A bit of confidence restored, she offered him her right hand, in another show of familiarity with the customs of her father. "I am Teyla of Hadeeth—but I suppose you know that already," she shrugged, diffident but clearly well-mannered.
Stephen reached to shake her hand, and as their hands met, she breathed in sharply. Though it often nettled him to see strangers' reactions to his scars, he had learned to let it pass unanswered—unless they outright gawked. Telya's grasp was light, so he guessed she might be concerned a firmer hold would cause him pain. She studied their hands together, flipping them a bit so she could see the back of his. He swore he heard her whisper, 'oh…they are yours', before she looked up to study his face, shock and curiosity evident upon her simple features.
"Pardon me." Brusquely, he withdrew his hand, having tempered his statement with a bit of latitude—as rude as her reaction seemed, he believed no ill had been intended. "An old injury," he added, "And one that brought me to Kamar-Taj. In the greater scheme of things, these scars have no bearing on the work we do here—but I would ask you, kindly, not to stare."
"Of…of course, Master Strange." Teyla bowed her head, embarrassed again at her faux pas, "I meant no disrespect, Sir."
Stephen nodded, certain of her sincerity, and ready to move along to more important things. "Well then…your mother has tasked us with furthering your education in the mystic arts." She nodded, so that he continued, "But before we proceed, we need to evaluate what skills you have mastered."
"Yes. Yes, I understand." She had visibly brightened at the change of topic. "My mother told me it would be so."
"Good. Excellent, in fact," he replied, adopting the not so welcome role as mentor, "We have several Masters in residence, and I have made arrangements for you to see them. No rush, so if you need some time to get your bearings here…"
"No, that will not be necessary, Master Strange," she told him eagerly, "I am prepared for whatever tests you have planned."
"Alright then—if you would follow me," Stephen motioned to the archway to his right, "We'll get you started right away."
Stephen had left his charge in one of the smaller practice rooms, allowing for Masters of the various disciplines to put her through her paces without unnecessary distractions. As he knew himself not to be as expert in some disciplines as his peers, he thought it best to rely on their judgement, rather than assess Teyla himself; and a variety of opinions would certainly provide a more complete appraisal of her overall skill level and potential, than that of a single teacher. Wong soon joined Strange in the Sanctuary Room, to wait for the Masters to report their findings.
The results were mixed, but at least gave Stephen a handle on where they needed to concentrate their efforts. Teyla had managed a portal, after some effort, marking her halfway between a Novice and an Adept. She handily moved-even levitated- small objects, and did so with very little effort. But she had no training in hand-to-hand combat, and no skill—or seeming interest—in conjuring weapons, let alone items she might use in self-defense. Exactly the skills her mother hoped we would foster in her, Steven concluded, and therein lies our challenge.
On the upside, Master Salma had been astounded at Teyla's ability to read people's emotional states; she reported that the young Hadeethan's skill was well beyond any that she had encountered since becoming Master of that discipline. "She doesn't even require physical contact to accurately read someone; she worked wonders just in the proximity of the test subjects," she informed Strange, visibly excited at the discovery, "And when I placed several objects on a table across the room from her, Teyla successfully read how each item had been last used, by the emotional residue left behind by the user. Allowing her to handle the objects enabled her to pick up on further details—beyond the most recent user."
"Incredible. Could you tell if her abilities were innate, or the product of some intensive training?" If the later, Stephen believed it would be worth an exchange of knowledge with the Hadeethans to develop such a program for Kamar-Taj.
Salma shook her head, "Best I can tell is she's a natural empath—and someone must have recognized it in her early on, because her skills are off the charts."
"That good, eh?"
"Frankly, her abilities far surpass anything Kamar-Taj has seen in a student or a teacher in…well, centuries," Salma grinned, "When time allows, I'd love to see what she can do reading someone from another room."
Strange took a moment, mulling over the new information. "Hmm…sounds to me like she should be teaching us, rather than us training her."
"We could see about that-eventually," Salma replied wryly, "Though I'm not ready to be replaced quite yet, Stephen. But for now, there are a few things we can do to help her foster and refine her skills."
"Such as?"
"Well, one of the pitfalls of this sort of empathy is a kind of…bleed, if you will-when reading in especially intense situations-which can influence and effect the empath's own emotional health and mental state. But that is something we can help her with," she revealed confidently, "We can show her how to screen out those things that might impair objectivity of mind—and the things that could play havoc with her heart."
Stephen nodded, satisfied with the thoroughness of her assessment. "One thing, though, Master Salma. Teyla's mother charged us with building on her daughter's raw ability for divination—or at least giving her some guidance in its practical use."
Salma shook her head, "I wish I had better to offer her, but all we can manage right now is an education in dream interpretation. Beyond that is territory that few here have any experience with." She bobbed her head in a small bow, "Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen—I've a group of Adepts awaiting my guidance this afternoon."
"Of course—and thank you, Salma. You've given us much to think about."
Strange watched her leave, considering their limited options, and then looked to Wong, "There must be something in our library, or in the Ancient One's collection, that we can use to give this young woman the instruction she needs."
"There are," Wong offered, "Dusty old scrolls, arcane texts-that seldom see the light of day. You'll have some heavy reading to do to bring yourself up to speed, Stephen."
"I hope you're joking, Wong," Strange replied, "I can't be the best man for the job."
"I'm afraid so. You're the quickest study we've got," Wong chuckled, enjoying the irony that's Strange's strengths had him cornered, "And that unbeatable memory of yours is bound to come in handy."
Stephen frowned, sighing hard as he recognized the futility of any protest he might make, "I'm not getting out of this one, am I?"
"Nope." Wong favored him with a rare smile, "I'll have those texts ready for you by the end of the day." He laughed quietly to himself, leaving Stephen behind, muttering under his breath.
Stephen looked up at the sound of gentle rapping, to see Teyla pop her head through the entryway of the Sanctuary Room. "Hello? Master Strange? You summoned me?" Patiently, she waited in place for him to acknowledge her.
"Yes," he stood and motioned her forward, "Please—have a seat." Again, her appearance was not as he'd anticipated; she had changed from her Hadeethan robe into an over-sized tee shirt and well-worn denim leggings, and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The look knocked at least a half a dozen years from her age. Now, she looked like a typical freshman from any American university—and though her alien heritage was equal to her human blood, for a few moments she was like an unexpected taste of home.
He couldn't suppress a grin as she neared him, "Blue Oyster Cult. Nice."
"Oh…yes," she replied, surprised at his reference, "Do you know of them, Master Strange?"
"I do indeed," he nodded. "In fact, they were a part of the…" Stephen chuckled at the memories, "…soundtrack of my youth."
"I have enjoyed their poetry at times, although it is often quite somber—but they were among my father's favorite performance groups." Her admission was a pleasant surprise. Teyla took a seat across from him. "This garment was my father's," her voice grew soft with sentimentality, "He made a gift of it to me, at our last parting. I do not wear it publically on Hadeeth—there are those on my home world who lack tolerance regarding my patrimony." She shrugged shyly, and smiled—though Stephen noted it did not reach her eyes.
"I take it that it's been some time since you've seen him," he prompted her, curious as to the time she'd spent on Earth.
She took a breath, seeming to do a calculation before she answered, "Why yes…it's been…hmm…nearly six Earth years. But I hope to find some time to visit him, once my training here is complete."
"Well then, we will do our best to move things along so that you can do that as soon as possible." Her smile in reply was far more sincere than her last, leaving Stephen glad to have given her the cause. "So," he continued, getting down to the most important business at hand, "Ideally, your training here will involve several disciplines; defensive spells, and the conjuring of defensive tools, as well as helping you to control and tap into your gift for divination." She looked down at the mention of the later, as though uncomfortable with the topic—and when she raised her eyes, he could swear she was looking at his hands again. He shook it off, telling himself he was being overly self-conscious due to her blunder at their initial meeting.
"And healing spells," she asked, "That way my future lies-so they would be the most welcome lesson of all."
Healing. That had been his life and his own future, once upon a time—and though he could never return to those days, Stephen would forever think of himself as Doctor, before any other title he would ever bear. He appreciated that such a vocation was her top priority.
"We will offer what we can, Teyla. Though the bulk of your time will be spent working towards proficiency in those elements that are the backbone of the mystic arts.
"As my mother wills it," she replied, resigned to the plan that Moraine had intended for her.
"Yes," he nodded, "And beginning in the morning, you will have a minimum two hours training, daily, in physical defense and combat…"
"No…wait…there is no need for that." Teyla's humble, placid expression dissolved into a stubborn mien. "My work is as a healer. I thought you understood this…"
"Yes," he replied again, holding up one hand to signal her to quiet a moment and allow for an explanation, "Please, Teyla—there are sound reasons for this…"
Though her eyes flashed defiantly, she pursed her lips into silence, ceding the moment to him. Stephen continued, calling on what skill for diplomacy was his, "I promise you will understand this necessity as you advance in your education here. Concentrating first on developing physical discipline is a stepping stone to nurturing mental discipline. Master your body, and the path is clear to master your mind." Stephen paused, watching her expression soften, pleased that he was getting his message across to her. "Once you have mastered mental discipline, you can achieve nearly anything, as long as you have the will for it."
Teyla sighed hard, and rolled her eyes (damn, that's a purely human habit, he thought, trying not to smile at how much it made her look like an impatient teenager), "As you say, Master Strange." She tilted her head, offering an apology, "Please forgive my rash words, Sir. I only just…well, you see, I feel my purpose so strongly, and any delay is a source of frustration. I promise I will do, faithfully, whatever is required of me to complete my training."
Stephen leaned across the table, seeking to put her at ease. "I understand your passion, Teyla of Hadeeth. Would you believe I've felt the same myself?" Her eyes went wide as she listened. "I was…I am…a healer myself. A doctor. My specialty was neurosurgery. I spent half my life studying, learning, training, searching for greater knowledge, because I knew without a doubt that these hands were meant precisely for that work." He held them up to her, making no effort to conceal their shaking, let alone the painful map of scars that symbolized all that he had lost, "These hands, Teyla, worked medical miracles; I helped thousands to lead better, longer lives. I know the desire to heal, and I know the sweet satisfaction of that service done well. But I never would have reached that pinnacle without the beginning baby steps. Trust me when I say, you will get there."
Teyla's soft, doe-eyes had misted up as he told his story. He hadn't meant to make her feel sorry for him—never, never did he intend that with anyone in this new life. He only needed to make his point clear. Stephen would have spoken more, but that she took his took one of his hands, studying it even more intently than when they'd shaken hands in the courtyard. "I understand…Doctor. Doctor Strange." She smiled sadly, "You have lived through much, to come to this place. But your journey has been worth the cost." She released his hand—which tingled warmly afterwards—and told him, "I will follow whatever path you deem most wise, Doctor Strange. I will put my future in your hands." She rose, and made a little bow, bidding him goodnight.
Stephen sat in silence a while longer, considering the puzzle Teyla presented. She seemed soft and unassuming, yet she spoke her mind without compunction. She had a share of unexpected wisdom for her age (although he actually wasn't even sure yet, how old she was), and she was passionate about her purpose in life. He had to respect that—and that her heart seemed bent toward service to others, made him like her even more. He found he didn't dread so much, the research he would have to put in to help her refine her divination skills; perhaps he'd even learn a thing or two that might be of use to him someday.
Wong—ever true to his word—had sent a selection of scrolls and texts to Stephen's room, so that the eager student in him couldn't resist getting a start in researching the rare art he was obliged to tutor Teyla in. He read for about an hour—until his eyes were bleary—making mental notes of key ideas he would revisit when his mind was fresher. All the while, though, his thoughts would drift back to those final moments of their conversation. How Teyla had responded so sympathetically to his story; how she had taken his hand. Under normal circumstances, he would have found that far too familiar, especially on so short of an acquaintance—yet she had breached that personal barrier so gently, he hadn't even thought to protest.
Only when he'd set his head upon his pillow and closed his eyes, winding down to sleep, did the realization hit him. Master Salma had told him the young woman was an empath of extraordinary skill—and that's exactly what she'd done to him. She'd read his feelings as casually as one might read a street sign; read his feelings and understood with a kind of quiet intimacy, his struggle. And when she touched his hand, he was willing to bet she gained some understanding of the physical cost his accident had wreaked upon him. Stephen wasn't quite sure how to feel about it; it wasn't an intentional violation of his privacy, and certainly she'd meant no harm. In fact, he wondered if that warm tingle her touch had left behind was some trace of healing magic—and if so, was it even possible that she could offer some relief to him, when he had long accepted that he and the lingering pain of his damaged hands were meant to be lifetime companions.